Blue Bedroom and Other Stories (24 page)

When Ian was upset, he always talked too much. After a little Jill said, “Do we
have
to? I wanted so much to go to the country.”

“I know. But if I explain to Delphine, I know she'll understand, give us a rain check.”

“It's just that…” She was near to tears. “It's just that nothing nice or exciting ever happens to us nowadays. And when it does, we can't do it because of somebody like Edwin. Why should it be us? Why can't somebody else look after him?”

“I suppose it's because he doesn't have that number of friends.”

Jill looked up at him, and saw her own disappointment and indecision mirrored in his face.

She said, knowing what the outcome would inevitably be, “Do you want him to come?”

Ian shrugged, miserably. “He's my godfather.”

“It would be bad enough if he was a jolly old man, but he's so gloomy.”

“He's old. And lonely.”

“He's dull.”

“He's sad. His best friend's just died.”

“Did you tell your mother we were meant to be going to Wiltshire?”

“Yes. And she said that we had to talk it over. I said I'd ring Edwin this evening.”

“We can't tell him
not
to come.”

“That's what I thought you'd say.” They gazed at each other, knowing that the decision was made; behind them. No country weekend. No strawberries to be picked. No garden for Robbie. Just Edwin.

She said, “I wish it wasn't so hard to do good deeds. I wish they just happened, without one having to do anything about them.”

“They wouldn't be good deeds if they happened that way. But you know something? I do love you. More, all the time, if possible.” He stooped and kissed her. “Well…” He turned and opened the door again. “I'd better go down and tell Delphine.”

“There's cold chicken for supper.”

“In that case I'll see if I can rustle up enough loose change for a bottle of wine. We both need cheering up.”

*   *   *

Once the dreadful disappointment had been conquered, Jill decided to follow her own mother's philosophy—if a thing is worth doing, it's worth doing well. So what, if it was only dreary old Edwin Makepeace, fresh from a funeral; it was still a dinner party. She made a cassoulet of chicken and herbs, scrubbed new potatoes, concocted a sauce for the broccoli. For dessert there was fresh fruit salad, and then a creamy wedge of Brie.

She polished the gate-leg table in the dining room, laid it with the best mats, arranged flowers (bought late yesterday from the stall in the market), plumped up the patchwork cushions in the first-floor sitting room.

Ian had gone to fetch Edwin. He had said, his voice sounding shaky over the telephone, that he would take a taxi, but Ian knew that it would cost him ten pounds or more and had insisted on making the journey himself. Jill bathed Robbie and dressed him in his new pyjamas, and then changed herself into the freshly ironed sundress that had been intended for Wiltshire. (She put out of her mind the image of Delphine, setting off in her car with no one for company but her easel and her weekend bags. The sun would go on shining; the heatwave would continue. They would be invited again, for another weekend.)

Now, all was ready. Jill and Robbie knelt on the sofa that stood in the living-room bay window, and watched for Edwin's arrival. When the car drew up, she gathered Robbie into her arms and went downstairs to open the door. Edwin was coming up the steps from the street, with Ian behind him. Jill had not seen him since last Christmas and thought that he had aged considerably. She did not remember that he had had to walk with a cane. He wore a black tie and a relentless dark suit. He carried no small gift, no flowers, no bottle of wine. He looked like an undertaker.

“Edwin.”

“Well, my dear, here we are. This is very good of you.”

He came into the house, and she gave him a kiss. His old skin felt rough and dry and he smelt, vaguely, of disinfectant, like an old-fashioned doctor. He was a very thin man; his eyes, which had once been a cold blue, were now faded and rheumy. There was high colour on his cheekbones, but otherwise he looked bloodless, monochrome. His stiff collar seemed a good size too large, and his neck was stringy as a turkey's.

“I was so sorry to hear about your friend.” She felt that it was important to get this said at once.

“Oh, well, it comes to all of us, yerknow. Three score years and ten, that's our alloted span, and Edgar was seventy-three. I'm seventy-one. Now, where shall I put my stick?”

There wasn't anywhere, so she took it from him and hung it on the end of the bannister.

He looked about him. He had probably never before seen an open-plan house.

“Well, look at this. And this”—he leaned forward, his beak of a nose pointing straight into Robbie's face—“is your son.”

Jill wondered if Robbie would let her down and burst into tears of fright. He did not, however, simply stared back into Edwin's face with unblinking eyes.

“I … I kept him up. I thought you'd like to meet each other. But he's rather sleepy.” Ian now came through the door and shut it behind him. “Would you like to come upstairs?”

She led the way, and he followed her, a step at a time, and she heard his laboured breathing. In the sitting room she set the little boy down, and pulled up a chair for Edwin. “Why don't you sit here?”

He sat, cautiously. Ian offered him a glass of sherry, and Jill left them, and took Robbie upstairs to put him into his cot.

He said, just before he put his thumb into his mouth, “Nose,” and she was filled with love for him for making her want to laugh.

“I know,” she whispered. “He
has
got a big nose, hasn't he?”

He smiled back, his eyes drooped. She put up the side of the cot and went downstairs. Edwin was still on about his old friend. “We were in the Army together during the war. Army Pay Corps. After the war, he went back to Insurance, but we always kept in touch. Went on holiday once together, Gladys and Edgar and myself. He never married. Went to Budleigh Salterton.” He eyes Ian over his sherry glass. “Ever been to Budleigh Salterton?”

Ian said that no, he had never been to Budleigh Salterton.

“Pretty place. Good golf course. Of course, Edgar was never much of a man for golf. Tennis when we were younger, and then he took up bowls. Ever played bowls, Ian?”

Ian said that no, he had never played bowls.

“No,” said Edwin. “You wouldn't have. Cricket's yer game, isn't it?”

“When I can get the chance.”

“Yer probably pretty busy.”

“Yes, pretty busy.”

“Play at weekends, I expect.”

“Sometimes.”

“I watched the Test Match on my television set.” He took another cautious sip at his Tio Pepe, his lips puckered. “Didn't think much of the Pakistanis.”

Jill, discreetly, got to her feet and went downstairs to the kitchen. When she called to them that dinner was ready, Edwin was still talking about cricket, recalling some match in 1956 that he had particularly enjoyed. The drone of this long story was stilled by her interruption. Presently the two men came down the stairs. Jill was at the table, lighting the candles.

“Never been in a house like this,” observed Edwin, sitting down and unfolding his napkin. “How much did yer pay for it?”

Ian, after a tiny hesitation, told him.

“When did yer buy it?”

“When we were married. Three years ago.”

“Yer didn't do too badly.”

“It was in rotten shape. It's still not great shakes, but we'll get it straight in time.”

Jill found Edwin's disconcerting stare directed at herself. “Yer mother-in-law tells me yer having another baby.”

“Oh. Well … yes, I am.”

“Not meant to be a secret, is it?”

“No. No, of course not.” She picked up the cassoulet in oven-gloved hands and pushed it at him. “It's chicken.”

“Always fond of chicken. We used to have chicken in India during the war…” He was off again. “Funny thing, how good the Indians were at cooking chicken. Suppose they had a lot of practice. Yer weren't allowed to eat the cows. Sacred, you see…”

Ian opened the wine, and after that things got a little easier. Edwin refused the fruit salad, but ate most of the Brie. And all the time he talked, seeming to need no sort of response, merely a nod of the head or an attentive smile. He talked about India, about a friend he had made in Bombay; about a tennis match he had once played in Camberley; about Gladys's aunt, who had taken up loomweaving and had won a prize at the County Show.

The long, hot evening wore on. The sun slid out of the hazed city sky, and left it stained with pink. Edwin was now complaining of his daily help's inability to fry eggs properly, and all at once Ian excused himself, got to his feet, and took himself off to the kitchen to make coffee.

Edwin, interrupted in his free flow, watched him go. “That yer kitchen?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Let's have a look at it.” And before she could stop him, he had hauled himself to his feet and was headed after Ian. She followed him, but he would not be diverted upstairs.

“Not much room, have you?”

“It's all right,” said Ian. Edwin went to the French windows and peered out through the grimy glass.

“What's this?”

“It's…” Jill joined him, gazing in an agonised fashion at the familiar horror below. “It's the garden. Only we don't use it because it's rather nasty. The cats come and make messes. And anyway, we can't get to it. As you can see,” she finished tamely.

“What about the basement?”

“The basement's let. To a friend. Called Delphine.”

“Doesn't she mind living cheek-by-jowl with a tip like that?”

“She's—she's not here very often. She's usually in the country.”

“Hmm.” There was a long, disconcerting silence. Edwin looked at the tree, his eyes travelling from its grubby roots to the topmost branches. His nose was like a pointer and all the sinews in his neck stood out like ropes.

“Why don't yer cut the tree down?”

Jill sent an agonised glance in Ian's direction. Behind Edwin's back, he threw his eyes to heaven, but he said, reasonably enough, “It would be rather difficult. As you can see, it's very large.”

“Horrible, having a tree like that in yer garden.”

“Yes,” agreed Jill. “It's not very convenient.”

“Why don't yer do something about it?”

Ian said quickly, “Coffee's ready. Let's go upstairs.”

Edwin turned on him. “I said, why don't yer do something about it?”

“I will,” said Ian. “One day.”

“No good waiting for one day. One day yer'll be as old as me and the tree will still be there.”

“Coffee?” said Ian.

“And the cats are unhealthy. Unhealthy when children are about the place.”

“I don't let Robbie out in the garden,” Jill told him. “I couldn't even if I wanted to, because there is no way we can get to it. I think there used to be a balcony and steps down to the garden, but they'd gone before we bought the house, and somehow … well, we've never got around to doing anything about replacing them.” She was determined that she would not make it sound as though she and Ian were penniless and pathetic. “I mean, there's been so much else to do.”

Edwin said “Hmm” again. He stood, his hands in his pockets, gazing through the window, and after a bit Jill wondered if he was drifting off into some sort of a coma. But then he became brisk, took his hands out of his pockets, turned to Ian and said, testily, “I thought you were making us coffee, Ian. How long do we have to wait for it?”

He stayed for another hour, and his endless flow of deadly anecdote never ceased. At last the clock from a neighbouring church began to chime eleven o'clock, and Edwin set down his coffee cup, glanced at his own watch, and announced that it was time for Ian to drive him back to his hotel. They all went downstairs. Ian found his car keys and opened the door. Jill gave Edwin his stick.

“Been a pleasant evening. Liked seeing yer house.”

She kissed him again. He went out and down the steps and crossed the pavement. Ian, trying not to look too eager, stood with the door of the car open. The old man cautiously got in, stowed his legs and his stick. Ian shut the door and went around to the driving seat. Jill, smiling still, waved them off. When the car disappeared around the corner at the end of the street, and not before, she let the smile drop, and went inside, exhausted, to start in on the washing up.

*   *   *

In bed that night, “He wasn't too bad,” said Jill.

“I suppose not. But he takes everything so for granted, as though we all owed him something. He could at least have brought you a single red rose, or a bar of chocolate.”

“He's just not that sort of a person.”

“And his stories! Poor old Edwin, I think he was born a bore. He's so terribly good at it. He probably Bored for his school, and went onto Bore for England. Probably captained the team.”

“At least we didn't have to think of things to say.”

“It was a delicious dinner, and you were sweet to him.” He yawned enormously and heaved himself over, longing for sleep. “Anyway, we did it. That's the last of it.”

*   *   *

But in that Ian was wrong. That was not the last of it, although two weeks passed by before anything happened. A Friday again, and as usual Jill was in the kitchen, getting supper ready, when Ian returned home from the office.

“Hello, darling.”

He shut the door, dumped his briefcase, came to kiss her. He pulled out a chair and sat down, and they faced each other across the table. He said, “The most extraordinary thing has happened.”

Jill was instantly apprehensive. “Nice extraordinary or horrid extraordinary?”