The Watchers on the Shore (24 page)

'I'm going to bed . . . Are you coming?'

'In a minute. I want to think about this for a bit.'

'Why don't you just burn it?'

'Oh no, it's evidence. I'm hanging on to it.'

'All right... What time are you going back tomorrow?'

'The usual time.'

She hangs about for another minute then goes through into the bedroom without saying anything else.

Go after her, you nit, a part of me's saying. Make love to her.
No need for words. Get cracking. Sweep her away. Reassure her.

I sit there with the letter in my hands, thinking who? Who? They say that when you're burgled, apart from the loss of your
property, there's a strange feeling of shock that someone's actually been inside your house and made free with it. An anonymous letter
is from someone who's made free with your private life, who's
watched you and planned damage. Because, make no mistake
about it, there's nothing 'friendly' about one of these things.
It's meant to do harm and the worst thing about it is to try to
imagine the feelings of whoever's written it when they're putting
it on paper and then slipping it into the letter box, and realize
you're the one who's inspired it all. You flinch from the shock
of knowing somebody can hate you like that. It's like a spat of
pure malice from a complete stranger.

But no stranger wrote this ...

Who? I think again. Who? There's only one obvious answer
and it sickens me even to think of it.

Sunday morning isn't very nice with this thing between us and Ingrid needing big words of undying affection which I'm not able
to give her. If I read her right, what she's thinking, it's not so much what's in the letter as the getting of it which has made her stop and take stock. Knowing the way she got me in the first place- that by
marrying her I was doing 'the right thing' rather than what I
wanted to do - she's been content to jog along, making a marriage
that's as good as a lot and better than some, without the big
romantic declarations some young couples might well go in for. But
what's the state of the nation now? That's what the letter makes
her stop and ask. And with every excuse to go out of my way to
show her that I've no regrets, maybe even that getting her pregnant
was a glorious blessing in disguise, I'm making no move; acting towards her with no more and no less affection than I've always
done. And if the four years have worked no miracle beyond habit
and custom and a lack of active animosity and resentment, then
why shouldn't there just be something in what the letter is suggest
ing? And where's her power to fight it?

It makes her sad, and it's her sadness that taps some tender
feeling I have for her so that I'm moved to lay a soft hand on her
shoulder, its touch bringing her round to face me, her eyes
searching mine. No words. I bring her close and kiss her, wonder
ing as I do if her reaction to it won't make it a lie. What does she
read into it? That there's no truth in the letter? That even if there
is she's got nothing to worry about? That I'm simply playing it smart and covering up as best I can? And for me? It's simply an
expression of what I feel at this moment. With no strings.

But I know as we break and I look at her that it was a right thing to do. And better when I make no move to carry it on to something
else; destroy its value by making it a preliminary to a quick session on the couch, which is probably what she'd like as much as I would
now, but which I can't make the play for.

We're invited to Chris's for Sunday dinner and that and a walk round to the pub beforehand with David takes care of the rest of the day.

I can see it on her mind again as I shove my gear into my bag
prior to going for the train.

'Well, back to the grindstone.'

'Yes
...
I expect you're a bit fed-up of that journey.'

'It is a bit of a bind. Still, it's only once a fortnight.'

'Do you want me to come out to the bus with you?'

'No, you stay inside where it's warm. Will you go round to your mother's when I've gone?'

'In a while, when I've tidied up here. Have you got your scarf?
There's a terrible cold wind blowing.'

Don't worry, I keep well wrapped up. Longford's not the warmest spot I know.'

'I'll see you in a fortnight, then.'

'All being well . .. Look, though, why don't you come down
instead? It'll be a change for you and it's really time you had a look.'

'Do you really want me to?'

'Well, yes. We can't really talk about anything till you've been.'

'Could I stay with you?'

'I should think Mrs Witherspoon'd let you share my bed for a
couple of nights. It's only a single, but we'd manage.'

'It's Mother, you see. She's liable to be called into hospital any
time.'

'Well look, if she hasn't gone in by the week-end after next
what about coming?'

'I'll see what I can do. I'll drop you a line nearer the time and
let you know.'

'I can meet you at King's Cross. You wouldn't have to find your
way out there on your own.'

'No, all right.'

'You'll do your best, then?'

'Yes ... What have you done with that letter?'

'It's in my pocket.'

'You won't show it to anybody, will you?'

'It's not a thing I'm likely to flash around.'

'What will you do about it?'

'I'll keep my eyes and ears open. Have a think.'

I wish you weren't going back. I wish you'd never gone. I knew it wasn't the right thing for us.'

'Ingrid ... You can't let somebody writing anonymous letters
rule your life... Come on, now, bear up. And don't worry.'

I find myself hoping I can get away before she starts to cry.
Don't worry. Glib words of small comfort. I carry away with me
the image of her standing there, small and forlorn. I wonder if
technically I'll be a bigger bastard if I do what she's half afraid I'm doing already- which I haven't
done yet but know I will do if I get
the chance - just because she
is
half afraid I'm doing it already...

13

Poison-pen letters ... Well named. They are poisonous, both in
the direct harm they do and the way they pollute your mind with
foul suspicions about anybody who could possibly be responsible.

There's the sound of music coming from behind Conroy's door as I go up the stairs. I carry straight on up to my room, dump my
case, and go back down to him. He waves me in as I tap then look round the door at him lolling back in his chair with one leg up, the
foot jerking to the rhythm of Mozart by Beecham. I sit down
without speaking and wait for the record to finish, watching him as
he lies back with his eyes shut, looking at his bulk, the square
hands, bis heavy head and low forehead under his hair that used to
be a shaggy mop in the old days but's now neatly trimmed in a
cut his old back-and-sides merchant wouldn't have thought value
for money, working as those boys did on the basis of how near the
bone they could get in the neck and over the ears.

Looking at him, my mind turning over, thinking that he's given
me a few surprises in his time and wondering if the worst is yet to come. If while I've been growing genuinely fond of him he's been nursing a dislike of me that's been turned into black malice by his
lack of progress with Fleur and my interest in Donna. Oh, no
...
Could I sit like that with my eyes closed listening to music in the
company of somebody I'd done a thing like that to? Could I, when
the music stopped, open my eyes as he's doing now and say as
though it was the only thought in my mind:

Lovely! Smashing!' and look at me and carry on:

But I keep forgetting, you're not really a Mozart man, are you?' No...

Oh, I can listen to him, but I wouldn't miss him if his music suddenly stopped being played.'

'Aye. You mean you like him better than those nits like Rawly
who find easy tunes and profess a liking on the strength of it.'

'I saw Rawly last night.'

'That's a treat. Where was he?'

'In a pub in Cressley. Had a bird with him, the usual Rawly type,
blonde, snotty-looking.'

'Aye, Rawly always did go for the white-glove type. "Well, I
suppose I shall have to handle the beastly thing." '

He looks at me and we both burst out laughing.

'He's got a tash these days an' all.'

'What had he to say for himself?'

'I managed to avoid talking to him.'

'Pity. You might have found out if he wanted another job.'

'Christ, we'd be landed if we got that bugger down here.'

'Poor old Rawly ...' Conroy shakes his head. 'He's some
mother's pride and joy.'

And I think yes, poor old Rawly. He can't really help it. He
doesn't know what he's doing. And he's not a bad-hearted bastard.
I don't think he'd ever write an anonymous letter ...

'Have we time for a pint?' Albert asks.

'Half an hour.'

'Fancy one?'

'Always willing.'

'I can't play any more music or I shall have Madam Wither-spoon up on a visit.'

'Let's just pop round the corner, then. It's far enough tonight.'

Conroy reaches for his jacket.

In the saloon bar of the King's Jester, down on the main road,
there's a coal fire that's like a prize after the still, breathtaking
cold outside. There's going to be some more snow and with Conroy
bothered about it and the effect it's going to have on the jobs we
talk shop over the first pint. Franklyn's apparently laid off ten
men on Friday.

'He had to,' Albert says.' The job's under four feet of snow with
more coming all the time. And there's not enough work for 'em inside. Not that most of them would want it, anyway.'

'It's hard lines for 'em, isn't it?'

Conroy shrugs. 'One of the hazards of the business. They make
good money while they are working. It's to be hoped they've put
a bit on one side for a rainy day. Or a snowy one, in their case.'

Look, Albert, how much can the firm stand? I mean, this is one of the worst winters anybody can remember. It's going to knock 'em back a bit.'

'I don't think they'll fold up, if that's what you mean.'

'It's a bit unsettling, that's all. Ingrid's coming down here in a
couple of weeks to look round. I don't want to get her all adjusted
to the idea of moving and then find myself out of a job.'

'Oh, that won't happen,' Conroy reassures me. 'Don't let that
worry you. And if the worst did happen you'd soon get fixed up
somewhere else.'