No Laughing Matter (26 page)

‘Tell her to give you the books. I’ll look them over.’

‘Oh, I’ve done that. They’re all right. No, it’s her. I just don’t believe she’s steady. I think she may let the thing run down hill suddenly. I haven’t time for salvage operations, now that I’ve got the Clapham office as well. I wish you’d meet her. Say, just for a cocktail. I trust your judgement so much.’

He stopped and, pausing, she had time to look round her – some of the trees were such a dark red, they seemed almost black. People said they had every plant and tree in existence at Kew.

‘I’m sorry, darling, I can’t. We’ve taken some calculated risks, but we did promise ourselves firmly that we wouldn’t meet other people together. No matter who or how much we wanted it.’

‘Yes, but that was friends and family. Mrs L doesn’t know anybody you could possibly know.’

‘I can’t take any risks with Doris’s ignorance. It’s not only that she’s an invalid. But, well, I’ve said it a hundred times, Marriage is marriage. And then I’ve all my past with her before she was ill. I owe her a lot for that. You’ve had such a dragging up, darling, that quite reasonably you don’t understand how the past can hold people.’

From her grunt he knew what to expect. Already he was thinking of their return to her flat – of the upward curves each side of her firm white belly taking him on to the stiff upturned nipple stalks of the full pears of her breasts – and on up by the lines of her ample throat to kiss her upward-turning wide mouth set between her plump cheeks; but if he did not arrest her mood he would turn to find downward pouting lips, leading – it was always his superstitious fear – to sagging, hanging gourds and a swollen dropped belly.

‘The Colman thing’s going through.
I
was right in thinking that the shares would come on to the market. But
you
were right about Master Norton. He’s a wrong’un.’

‘I felt it as soon as you told me about him.’

‘Woman’s intuition!’

‘Well,
you
have intuitions, why shouldn’t
I
?’

‘Yes, but I
trust
my own.’

She took his hand and swung it as she always did when she revealed that she had been teasing him.

‘Oh, but my intuition was based on information. One of my girls worked as a private secretary to him for over a year. And …’

‘You mean she told you his affairs?’

‘Oh no! Don’t be alarmed. Good secretaries are discreet. Or most of them. No, I read between the lines of what she said. He made advances to her. As she said, “Father of a family!’”

‘I’m not surprised,’ was Alfred’s comment.

‘Well perhaps you’ll believe a little more now in woman’s
intuition
.’

She laughed and every curve was upward now. He could tell that just from her voice.

‘You’re a shocking leg-puller.’

She immediately found herself thinking of the strength of his thighs, of the black curled hair on their flanks. Looking at him, she could guess
his
thoughts. But now the people they had been following had thinned to a line and ahead of them was the door to the great glasshouse.

‘Oh, Alfred, I don’t think we want to go in …’

He looked back at the queue behind them.

‘We can’t turn back now, Gladys, not without a fuss.’

‘But we might meet …’

‘Nonsense. In point of fact it’s probably a short cut through,’ he said decisively.

Inside it was difficult to walk comfortably for the press of people and the plants that swung above them, to the side of them, all around them.

‘They haven’t planted these things with much thought for the public, have they?’ she said.

Even high above she could only faintly see the glass roof for the tangle of great leaves and for a sort of rope plant that hung from tree to tree with ferns and even sometimes flowers growing on it.

‘Exotic plants,’ he explained.

But the heat was stifling.

‘The heat, Alfred!’

‘It’s a glasshouse, darling.’

‘I know that. Granny had a conservatory. But it wasn’t like this.’

‘Well I daresay it’s a bit up with today’s sun.’

A plant with great pink trumpet flowers and long yellow spikes hit Alfred on the nose. Gladys read the label.

‘
Hibiscus
rosa
sinensis
– what a name to go to bed with.’

Above them towered the endless spiral of an iron staircase. The noise of people clattering up the stairs was deafening. They looked up and saw some girls, frillies, suspenders and all.

‘Ere! Eyes front. We’d better get you out of ere, my lad, before you’re in trouble.’

Her cockney as usual set him laughing. Perhaps it was the heat, perhaps it was happiness, but soon they were in convulsions of laughter. Seeing a path to the side, they turned to get out of the queue’s pressure.

And there straight ahead of them was this awful sweet-smiling hag’s dial.

‘Good heavens! Alfred Pritchard, of all people.’

Gladys tried to turn back, but the way was too narrow, and the people behind who had followed their example, too many. When she looked round again, Alfred said, ‘Miss Matthews’ and immediately the sweet toothy smile froze to a ‘what’s that the cat’s brought in’ disdain.

‘Please don’t insult me Alfred,’ she said, then red in the face, she turned to Gladys, ‘I’m an old friend of Doris Pritchard. Everyone who knows her loves her. It’s women like you who make one
disgusted
with one’s own sex.’

‘That’s quite enough of that, Mrs Armytage. You seem …’

‘It is indeed.’

Pushing her way through the crowd with the ferrule of her parasol, the awful female left them.

With sweat pouring down her neck, her cheeks dryly burning, Gladys followed behind Alfred’s broad grey tweed back as he bore down upon the crowd in front of them and clove a way out. She longed to call to him to take her into his arms, on his knee, to kiss and to fondle her, to tell her she was forgiven, to ask her forgiveness, to make up a bawdy song about the hag or, best of all, some phrase from, a serial she’d read in the
Daily
Mail,
‘It’s all as if it had never happened’ – why couldn’t he say that? By the time they had got out of the glass inferno tears had begun to ooze up under her eyelids. Fat tears from a fat girl. That’s what she’d have said in the old days at home – laughed it all away. But she wasn’t a fat girl now; she was a well-turned out, fine young woman who couldn’t be taken into the arms of the well groomed, florid, big man in front of her. Not in public. People of their kind shouldn’t need such things at such times. What price, then, diet and Marcel waves and always the best stockings and gloves? She felt ashamed of her own bitter egotism. It was he who was hurt, despite the firm, strong set of his shoulders ahead of her. She hurried after him and took his hand.

‘It doesn’t matter a bit, old boy. We’ve always got them beat.’

But the comfort didn’t appear to reach him. He walked on
disregarding
. Suddenly, if not fat, she felt completely whacked. She sat down on a bench.

‘Collapse of stout party,’ she said.

*

Up
stage
left
at
the
writing
desk,
young
Freddie
Manningtree
begins
to
write
a
letter,
then
tears
it
in
two
and
throws
the
pieces
on
to
the
desk.
Begins
a
second
letter,
this
time
rolls
it
into
a
ball
and
throws
it
on
the
floor.
Begins
third
letter,
then
unrolls
second
letter,
and
pieces
together
the
first,
compares
all
three.
Finally
rejects
all
three.
Sits
facing
light
pouring
in
through
French
window
–
man
in
attitude
of
dejection.
Takes
cigarette
case
and
matches
from
dressing
gown
pockets,
lights
a
cigarette.
Mother’s
voice
from
garden,
‘Getting
along
all
right,
Freddie?
’
[
Some
laughter
as
usual
from
the
audience
here,
but
quickly
suppressed
when
with
bitter,
angry
gesture
he
batters
out his
cigarette
in
the
ashtray
and
with
fierce
jerky
gestures
writes
and
completes
a
new
letter.
]

Enter
L
ADY
M
ANNINGTREE
through
the
French
windows,
carrying
a
flat
raffia
basket
containing
freshly
cut
roses
and
delphiniums.
She
goes
to
down
right,
places
basket
on
table.