1951 - But a Short Time to Live (12 page)

"I'm very sorry," Harry said. "I'm Harry Ricks, Ron's friend."

"Oh!" The hard little face with its painted eyebrows and smeared lipstick broke into a smile, and when she smiled she looked much younger and prettier, and Harry could understand why Ron had fallen in love with her. I've heard about you. You'd better come in."

He followed her down a passage into a back room.

"It's in a mess, but I don't suppose you care," she said, going over to an armchair and sitting down.

She yawned, and ran her fingers through her ruffled, blonde hair.

The room was in a mess. There were saucers full of cigarette butts and ash dotted all over the room.

Dirty glasses, a couple of empty bottles of gin and a half-empty bottle of whisky stood on the table. Silk stockings and underwear lay scattered over the floor. A dirty suspender belt was under the table. Dust lay over everything, and the empty fireplace was choked with a fall of soot. On the floor by a gramophone was a pile of records, some of them broken.

"Had a party last night," she explained, rubbing her eyes. "I feel like death this morning."

Harry looked around the room for a chair to sit in, but the only other armchair was so smothered with cigarette ash he decided to stand.

"I'm afraid I have bad news for you," he said, hoping the disgust he felt for her didn't show on his face.

"Oh?" She looked sharply at him. "What?"

"Ron's met with an accident."

The doll-like face hardened.

"You mean — he's dead?"

Harry was shocked to see no sign of consternation on the hard little face, only a look of inquiry and suspicion.

"No, he's not dead," he said quietly, "but he is very bad. It may be weeks before he even regains consciousness."

"Oh." She got up and poured a stiff whisky into a dirty glass. "Have some?" she asked, glancing at him.

"No, thank you."

"Was he run over or something?"

"No. Someone hit him over the head with a bicycle chain."

She drank some of the whisky, gave a sudden giggle, and spluttered over her drink.

"That's rich! He was so respectable too. What did they do that for?"

"I don't know," Harry said, suddenly furious with her. "Does it matter to you?"

She looked at him, surprised, pouted and sat down again.

"I suppose not. What's going to happen to my money?"

"I don't know, and I don't care," Harry said. "He's in Charing Cross hospital if you want to see him, but it's no good going for several weeks yet."

"Oh, I don't want to see him," she said, shrugging. "It's all very well for you to say you don't care about my money, but something's got to be done. I can't live on air. When do you think he'll start work again?"

"Not for a long time," Harry said. "He's very ill. I don't want to frighten you, but he may die."

She grimaced.

"Oh, hell! That's just like Ron. You needn't look so shocked. It isn't as if we meant anything to each other. We've been separated for four years now — thank God! Only the money did come in handy."

She slipped her hand inside her dressing gown to scratch. "Oh, well, I dare say I'll manage. If he pops off it'll let me out of a hole. I want to get married again."

Harry stared at her, disgusted.

"I should have thought you would have had a little feeling for him. After all he is your husband."

She gaped at him as if she couldn't believe her ears, then burst out laughing.

"That's rich! Why, he means no more to me than you do. What's he ever done for me?" Then a shrewd, calculating expression came into her eyes, and she smiled at Harry. "I tell you what," she said, "I'm damned hard up at the moment. I don't suppose you could lend me a fiver?"

Harry felt the colour rush to his face.

"I'm afraid I can't," he said. "I'm hard up myself."

She got out of the chair and sidled over to him.

"Well, a couple of quid then. I wouldn't mind giving you a good time. I like you. Come on, be a sport. I'm a sport too. Let's go into the other room and have fun."

Harry backed away, feeling sick.

"I'm sorry . . ."

She stared at him.

"Don't be a fool," she said. "Ron won't know. Make it a quid, then."

She was between him and the door, but pushing her roughly aside Harry crossed the room and jerked the door open.

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

"Then tell him to hurry up and get well," she said angrily. "If he doesn't send me some money soon I'll take him to court. He can't walk out and leave me without a thing. You tell him that. I'll give him a month, and if he hasn't sent me anything by then I'll give him something to think about."

Harry was so disgusted and angry that he wait out of the room without a word. As he reached the front door, she shouted after him, "And don't give yourself airs, you little twerp. You're nobody from the look of you. Just like all his wet friends . . ."

He hastily shut the door behind him and ran down the steps into the street.

"What a ghastly woman!" he thought as he walked quickly towards the Underground station. No wonder poor Ron had been so bitter about women. He wouldn't have believed such women existed.

He paused outside a telephone box, hesitated, then entered and dialled Clair's number.

There was a long pause as the bell rang, and just when he had decided she was out, he heard a click on the line and Clair's voice.

"Hallo? Who is it?"

There was a sharp note in her voice that startled him.

"This is Harry."

A pause, then she said, "Oh, hallo, Harry. Darling, you woke me up."

"Did I?" Harry looked at his wrist watch. It was nearly noon. "Well, I'm sorry. I thought you would be up by now."

He heard her yawn, and for a moment the vision of Sheila's crumpled, painted face came to his mind.

"I went to a party last night," she said. "It was hectic. I have a hangover you could lean against."

"I'm sorry. Will it be all right if I come tonight? Will you be feeling like it?"

"Of course, darling. I'll be fine then. Come about eight."

"Yes." A sudden feeling of tenderness came over him. "It seems ages since I've seen you, Clair —"

"I know. Well, come and see me at eight. I'm going back to sleep now." She yawned again. "I feel ghastly. Good-bye, darling," and the line went dead.

Harry came out into the sunshine and stood thinking. He was suddenly depressed. Every time his mind dwelt on Clair he saw, instead of her, the yawning, untidy, blowsy Sheila.

He gave a grimace of disgust and wait down the steps to the trains.

chapter fifteen

B
ut there was nothing about Clair to remind Harry of Sheila when she opened the front door of her flat that night. She was very spruce and wide awake, and looked attractive in a pair of black slacks and magenta coloured sweater.

"Hallo, darling," she said, taking his arm and leading him into the big luxurious room which was as neat and clean as Sheila's room had been untidy and dirty. "Oh, what a long time it seems since Sunday, doesn't it?" She slipped her arms round his neck and kissed him, her lips soft and yielding against his.

“Have you missed me?"

Harry held her to him.

"Yes, I missed you," he said, thinking how beautiful she was. "I've thought so much about you. Sunday was the most wonderful day I've ever known."

She smiled up at him.

"Well, I don't have to go out tonight. So you can stay as long as you like. If you want to you can stay the night.”

Harry immediately forgot about Ron, Inspector Parkins and the Red Circle cafe, and when she pushed him into an armchair and sat on his lap, her face against his, nothing mattered except his hunger for her.

But later, when she was preparing supper, he came to the kitchen door, ready to talk to her. Before he could begin, she looked at him, smiling, and said, "Oh, Harry, I have something for you. I clean forgot about it. It's over there in that drawer. No, not that one . . . that one."

He opened the drawer and found a small parcel done up in tissue paper.

"Is this for me? What is it?"

"Open it and see."

He unwrapped the paper and inside found three neckties. He had never seen such ties: ties that must have cost the earth, he thought, startled.

"Why, Clair! You can't mean these for me?"

"Of course they're for you. Like them?"

"They're marvellous. But, Clair, they must have cost an awful lot of money. I don't know if I should accept them."

"Don't be silly." She came over to him and stood by his side. They didn't cost me anything. I used to work for the makers, and I thought you could use a few decent ties so I wrote to them and asked them to send me some samples. They sent these. Are you sure you like them? I know how fussy men are about ties."

"Do you mean firms give their stuff away like this?" Harry asked, bewildered.

"Well, not all of them, of course. A lot of them do, especially if the advertising manager has an eye for a pretty girl."

"Oh, that's how it's done, is it?" Harry said. "Anyway, I think they're marvellous, and I can't thank you enough. I'm going to put one on right away."

They spent some minutes choosing the one he was to wear, then when he had adjusted the knot in the mirror, he turned for her approval.

"You do look smart," she said. "You know, Harry, you're quite good looking. I'd like to give you a suit. I think I could get you one from another firm I've worked for. Would you like me to try?"

"A suit?" Harry said blankly. "It's nice of you, Clair, but I couldn't accept a suit from you." He moved uneasily, shifting from one foot to the other. "It's time I gave you something. Up to now you've done all the giving."

"What does it matter?"

"Oh, but it does."

"But look, darling, let's be sensible. You need a good suit. If I can get you one why not have it? It's not as if it'll cost me anything."

"No, I'm sorry," Harry said firmly. "I can't accept any more presents."

She sat on the arm of a chair and studied him thoughtfully.

"Why not?"

"Well, it's not done," Harry said, reddening. "Men don't accept presents from girls. You know it's not done."

"Who says so?" Clair asked sharply. "Don't be so conventional, Harry. Who cares what's done and what isn't done? And besides, I love you. I want to make you happy. It so happens I have more money than you. I have more useful friends than you. Why shouldn't you share with me? Why shouldn't I have some pleasure? I want to give you what you need."

"But can't you see, Clair, it'd make me feel like a gigolo. I know these things don't cost you anything, but that's not the point. It's not as if I can give you anything in return."

Colour swept into her face and her eyes hardened.

"What a narrow mind you have!" she said impatiently. "All right, if that's how you feel about it, don't take anything from me. I'm not going to beg you to. And don't come here if you feel like a gigolo. You'll be saying I'm keeping you next." She got up and went into the kitchen, her back stiff with anger.

Harry looked after her in dismay. He hadn't expected her to fly off like this, and the thought he might lose her frightened him. He followed her into the kitchen.

"Clair . . . please . . ."

She swung round and he was startled to see tears in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Clair. Please don't be unhappy."

He went to her, but she pushed him away and turned her back on him, and began preparing a salad, bending over the sink so her dark tresses hid her face.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Harry said miserably.

"It's all right," she said in a curt, hard voice. "Forget it. I was just being soft. Look, the tray's over there. Will you lay the table?"

He turned her.

"I love you, Clair. I didn't mean to hurt you, and I'll do anything you wish."

"That's what you say." She tried to pull away, but he held her, and suddenly she put her arms round his neck. "Oh, Harry! I love you so." The desperate urgency in her voice startled him. "I want to do things for you. I've never been able to help anyone before. I've never wanted to."

"And I want to do things for you too. And I will when I get some money."

She pushed away from him so she could see him.

"I keep telling you, Harry: I don't want your money. I want you. If only you'd get that idea into your dear, silly head. I have everything I want except you. Can't you forget your pride? That's all it is. We can have a lovely time together if you'll only share things with me. What does it matter who has the money so long as one of us has it? Can't you see that? What does it matter?"

"It matters to me. I want to be the one to give you things."

"But how can you until you earn more money?" she asked, impatience creeping into her voice again. "When you have enough money I'll share it with you. I won't be too proud to take your presents. Harry, please let me help you for the time being, and when you begin to make more money — as I'm sure you will — then you can do all the paying."

As Harry began to protest, she interrupted him sharply.

"If you can't do this for me, then I don't believe you love me!"

"Of course I do," Harry said helplessly. "Well, all right, but it won't be for long. I'm making plans to do something better. All right, I'll share things with you." He kissed her. "I won't make a fuss if you want me to have things, but don't overdo it, will you?"

"Do you mean that?" she asked, brightening. "Honest?"

"Yes; honest."

"Then I have a surprise for you."

She ran out of the kitchen and into her bedroom.

It's quite fantastic, Harry thought. If only Ron could know about this. He always said women took and never gave. In spite of his reluctance to accept presents from Clair, he couldn't help being elated. She had taken the trouble to write for those ties, and she wanted him to share everything with her. That must mean she loved him.

She returned with another small parcel done up in tissue paper.

"I was going to give you this on your birthday, but I'm not going to wait. I want you to have it now. It used to belong to my father."