For Love or Money (8 page)

He got up off the sofa and snatched up the letters. Slowly he walked down the stairs, across the quad, out of the
archway
into the street and then towards the post office. The last post for Devonshire didn’t leave till ten. As he heard the letters hit the bottom of the box he suddenly wondered whether he did really dislike George. If he’d been in his shoes and offered an opportunity like that … but
speculation
always complicates. He dismissed the issue and with it the possibility that George possessed a grain of humanity.

If people behave like caricatures, like caricatures they must be treated. Steven had made up his mind.

Later that evening he left a note for Sarah in the college messenger box: ‘Meant what I said.’

 *

The following day David got Steven’s letter. He read it eagerly; really Steven could be most helpful when he chose.

I
T
was Saturday at Trelawn.

George was carrying a small suitcase out to the car. Ruth watched him from the dining-room window. He had looked so nice at breakfast in his dark-grey suit, and the olive-green tie against a white shirt had been just right somehow. It really was awfully sentimental but he hadn’t changed much since she first met him … after all those years too … just like yesterday. His teeth were no longer perfect but after all her’s hadn’t been either even at thirty-seven … that couldn’t have been ten years ago … but it was. How strange time is … Through the window she could see him coming back towards the house, his shoes crunching on the gravel. So this was to be good-bye till Monday. Ruth hated these moments, it was so silly too … there he’d be again on Monday afternoon … but the house was terribly lonely without him. She turned absently towards the breakfast table and put the top on the marmalade. She could hear him in the hall. She was watching the door as it started to open. George smiled at her. He seemed to hate these
moments
too, he always tried to be so cheerful, but she knew.

‘Well, I suppose I must be on my way now, Ruth darling.’

‘I suppose so … but George I do hate it when you’re away.’

‘Don’t much care for it myself … still, really must go and see the old mother, haven’t seen her for nearly a month and I don’t think she’s got much longer to go.’ He looked at the carpet. She might last another ten years.

‘Do you know we’ll have known each other fifteen years next Thursday?’

‘No … no … it doesn’t seem that long does it?’

‘I was thinking that too just a moment ago … funny that you …’

George started to move his weight from one foot to the other. Once she got on to this sort of track she could go on for hours.

‘I really must be getting along now. You know what the traffic’s like these days.’ He slapped his pockets and made as if to turn towards the door. She probably
didn’t
know what it was like, he reflected, not having been further than Exeter in the past ten years.

‘Mm,’ she said vaguely, as though she had not heard what he had said. ‘You know sometimes when you’re away I wake up in the night … turn over and expect to …’

He came up to her and put his arms round her neck. Her dress was too low cut. If you’re not the right shape it’s no good pretending.

‘It isn’t for long; anybody might think we’d only known each other a week.’

‘But darling, that’s just how it feels. They say there’s a one for everybody … I’ve just been lucky …’

George felt that this would be a good note to part on. He broke away and blew her a kiss from the door. These scenes of young love were quite intolerable. If she could only see herself doing it. He shut the hall door behind him.

Soon the gates of Trelawn were behind him and he was driving through the countryside towards the London road.

 *

Ruth had gone back to the window and watched till the car disappeared round a bend in the drive behind a group of beech-trees. If he ever left me I think I’d die, she thought mournfully. There would be the children to comfort her, but it wouldn’t be the same.

Perhaps, to take her mind off things, she’d tell cook to go home to the village for the week-end. She’d prepare him something special for dinner on Monday evening when he got back. But there’d be no point in starting till tomorrow. She glanced round the room … what was that mark on the
ceiling? There was a little black spot just above the window … was it a slug … or could it be a piece of fallen plaster? Some of the ceilings did need doing rather. She moved a chair over to the window and got up on to it … yes, it was a small hole, there were also one or two cracks not so
noticeable
from the ground. It was time the place was redecorated. She’d have the banisters revarnished too and perhaps a new stair-carpet. She got down from the chair and shook her head. One gets so used to everything that one tends not to notice. She took out her handkerchief from her sleeve and dusted along the windowsill. Mrs. Hocking and her daughter really weren’t very efficient cleaners. But what could one expect … they didn’t live in.

Ruth had made a point of having as few people as
possible
coming in to do domestic chores. Just George, herself and the children had been the idea. Of course the cook came in every day but she went back to the village after supper.

What else could she have redone? It was time they had some new loose covers in the drawing-room. She wouldn’t tell George but would keep it all a surprise. It would be horrid with all those strange men tramping all over the place but it would be worth it.

She heard a knock at the door … the post. The only letter was for her. She looked at it with a frightful feeling of
constriction
in her chest. It was from her bank. She had had a letter at the end of the previous year telling her that she would soon have to sell more shares to clear her overdraft. How many years had she been living outside her income? A number of shares had gone already. The letter was worse than she had expected. Unless she cut down her annual spending, at the present rate there would be less than ten thousand left at the end of three years. The roof had been done at the end of the year before and that had cost
£
5,000. The house was far too big, a lot of the rooms weren’t used … but it was home. The place where they had all been so happy. Perhaps she really would have to sell it … but not yet. Besides if she did that George would know the situation and he must never know … he would blame himself so
terribly
… and the thought of him having to take a job was
too awful. She looked at the letter for several minutes and then tore it into tiny fragments. Carefully she dropped them into a tea cup.

Suddenly she knew what she would do; she’d go for a walk and try and forget about it for the moment. It was such a lovely day for the time of year … even so she’d wrap up well … find her Wellingtons … and go for a good long walk like a little girl, and come back red-cheeked and hungry to eat something nice and hot for lunch. Perhaps she’d have a little drink as well. She felt better already. Bank managers are always such pessimists. It must be living with all that money round them all day.

Perhaps if George and she had nothing they would buy a tiny cottage somewhere. She’d always rather liked Wales. They would be able to live on almost nothing, make their own bread, and perhaps George could make money with his needlework. After all money isn’t everything. Perhaps if she had been poorer they would all have been just as happy … even happier. She smiled to herself and went to find the Wellingtons. And on Sunday she would go to the village church for evensong. They had candles for evensong.
Sometimes
I feel I don’t deserve to be so happy, God, she said quietly to herself, as she slipped on a pair of socks over her stockings before putting on the boots.

 *

At half past twelve George had reached a small village between Okehampton and Exeter and was feeling hungry. He saw a quiet-looking pub and stopped. He’d have a drink and perhaps they would have some home-made
pâté
.
As it happened they didn’t. On the bar a lighthouse made of pennies was nearing completion. He turned out his pockets and added another five. These sort of things tended to make service better. He asked for a pint of beer … hadn’t had beer for ages … when was it now? He couldn’t remember.

How nice it was to be able to sit back and eat lunch by oneself in a charming wayside inn, alone with one’s
thoughts. He ordered steak, tomatoes and new potatoes. After that he would have apple pie with crumbling
homemade
pastry. Of course he would be able to pour on the cream himself. The steak was beautifully tender and the knife pleasantly sharp. He sank it effortlessly into the meat, slightly charred on the outside but succulently tender within.

After he had thanked the pub keeper he asked him if there was a bridle-path near by. He thought he might find time for a short stroll before starting again. Days like this in late February were so rare. Yes, there was a path. Through his jacket he could just feel the warmth of the sun. On the naked twigs of the hedgerow drops of water shone in the sunshine, tiny crystal circles of glass. Underfoot the ground still felt hard with the frost and his shoes crunched
satisfyingly
at each step. He reached the top of a rise and looked down into the valley he had left; the ribbed furrows of a ploughed field, the clear grey of a slate roof, and the smudges of dried bracken all merged in this perfect scene. Not long till spring, he thought. Already the sap would be rising.

He patted his stomach and let out a slight burp of
contentment,
then he started back towards the car. He breathed in deeply and almost felt the sharp freshness of the air
cleansing
his lungs. He turned and took one last look at the view.

In five hours he would be in London. Back in the car he started the engine and let off the handbrake. He felt like a song: it would help to pass the journey. Fifteen years since he had met Ruth, he really did not feel that much older
today
. In an uncertain baritone, he began singing
She’s 
Won
derful
.
His thoughts drifted along the ribbon of road before him towards London and Sally. He put his foot down a little harder and went on singing. Spring was definitely coming.

 *

Miss Price had packed David a sandwich lunch and as nobody else had been available Mrs. Crofts had driven him into Exeter to catch his train.

‘And when you get there, no nonsense, we don’t want you
late for your appointment … I know what boys are … dilly dally … just get straight into a taxi when you arrive. Mr. Crofts has given you the money. And after your
appointment
go straight over to your uncle’s flat. I might even ring up this evening.’

Her hands looked alarmingly large, clutching the wheel. She was wearing a thick green sweater with the sleeves pulled up slightly, revealing strong-looking arms covered with a soft dark fuzz. David felt suddenly sorry for Crofts.

Once in the train he opened a thriller out of the
sick-room
library. He thought of Hotson and Chadwick, they’d just be coming out of maths. A wonderful sense of freedom welled up inside him as the sun streamed through the
compartment
window. George was bound to be pleased to see him. Besides he had been ill and illness is an excuse for anything. They’d almost certainly see a play or at least a film. He settled down to his book again.

 *

‘Miss White, for God’s sake, there are six mistakes in this letter. Is anything the matter? … I’m only asking for you to concentrate a bit harder.’

Sally looked over the table at her employer. These young directors really were a pain. Now Mr. Thorn had been so much more considerate and of course so much older and more experienced in matters of human understanding.

‘No, nothing’s the matter.’

The dictating went on. Through the slats of the venetian blind the bars of sunlight were getting weaker. The noise of a calculating-machine in the next-door office was just audible.

‘… with regard to the large poster for … we should be most …’

Sally hammered on viciously. She’d just had an extremely annoying telephone call from her sister. Slipping a disk today of all days. Unless somebody could be found to look after her baby niece, she would have to give up her evening with George. Everything had been such hell recently and he
was so sympathetic. He would be able to sort everything out. She’d simply have to find a baby-sitter. In the next letter she put in ten mistakes.

‘I’m afraid I don’t feel very well … rather a headache …’

Five minutes later Sally was in the tube on her way home.

 *

Dr. Everett had made even less efforts with his
waiting-room
than most doctors or specialists. David was sitting apprehensively on a tubular chair under a huge abstract collage. His eyes strayed over the spotless parquet floor. There were a few old copies of
Queen
on a low modern table. He was getting up to take one to read when the door opened.

‘David Lifton? … will you come this way, please?’

The weary and polite formula. How many times a day …

Dr. Everett was sitting behind a large marble-topped desk. A desk calendar with red lettering and numerals showed the date: ‘February 27th, 1960. He picked up an
expensive-looking
fountain-pen and, poising it over a small note pad, said,

‘Now when did the trouble start …?’

A quarter of an hour later he was writing out
prescriptions
and letters to the matron and the school doctor.

‘If it doesn’t go, you’ll have to come back, but I hope that won’t be necessary.’ He handed David a small bottle of red pills. ‘In the meantime if the pain continues take one of these every three hours.’

David had nearly reached the door of the doctor’s flat when he remembered his coat in the waiting-room. An elderly man was sitting hunched on a chair in the corner; a woman, evidently his wife, was sitting next to him holding his hand. David apologetically walked across the room to where his coat was resting on the back of a chair. His shoes sounded loudly on the parquet floor. The man didn’t look up. Perhaps he was wishing his wife wasn’t there. David noticed that her other hand was shaking. How terrible that personal suffering had to be shared by others. How
frightening
that a single freak of chance—like a car turning out of a side-street—could change so many lives; how much simpler it would be if everyone’s lives were not so closely interwoven, if single threads didn’t affect the whole fabric. He sighed.

In the street it was almost dark. Dr. Everett’s flat was in a large block of flats on the north side of the park between Notting Hill Gate and Marble Arch. There didn’t seem much point in catching a bus down Church Street to George’s flat, which was just off High Street, Kensington. He might as well walk through the park. If it was shut, the railings weren’t very high. After all there was no point in hurrying, George was just as likely to be there at seven as at six.