The Watchers on the Shore (26 page)

'Well, I'll be there, then.'

'It'd perhaps be better if you weren't. Could you meet me somewhere else after the show?'

'Yes, 'course I can. But this is -'

Suppose we said the railway station forecourt at twenty past ten? I could get away by that time and pick you up.'

'All right. I must say this is all very mysterious. Shall I wear my wig and false moustache?'

'It might be as well if you did, actually. I'm sorry I can't explain over the phone. I'll tell you all about it tonight. You will be there?'

'With bells on.'

'I'll try not to keep you waiting.'

I'm just opening my mouth to ask her why we can't meet in a warm pub when she rings off and the line goes dead. 'How shall I know you?' I'm thinking. 'I'll be pushing a wheelbarrow containing a full set of the
Encyclopaedia Britannica.'
All very rum. I glance at my watch. And I've got about
eleven hours to wait to find out what's going on.

I look round at the people in the office as I go back to my board.
Conroy, Jimmy, Martin, Cynthia; a charge hand from the works
talking over a job with Conroy, a bird coming in with some papers for Cynthia as Franklyn opens the door of his office and comes out
with his sheepskin coat on bound for the shops. Busy. People doing their work and minding their own business. Apparently.
Under the feeling of excitement at the prospect of seeing Donna again there's one of niggling unease left by the odd nature of her call and the knowledge that somebody, somewhere - and not far away - is watching me.

The day passes, as even the long ones do. As it happens I don't
have to explain anything to Conroy, or act mysterious with him, because during the afternoon he goes off on a trip that will keep
him away for one night, if not two. In the evening I decide that the
pictures will be the best way of passing a couple of hours. It's a
Doris Day comedy; not my usual cup of tea, but enjoyable enough;
and I'm out just in time for the ten-minute walk across to the
station.

She arrives at twenty-three minutes past, swinging the A40
round on to the cobbled forecourt and opening the passenger door
as I step out of the shelter of the station entrance and walk across
to her.

'I hope I haven't kept you waiting,' she says over her shoulder,
looking behind her for traffic and easing the car back on to the road as soon as I'm in.

'Only a couple of minutes.'

'They've gone to the Mitre. You know, the usual crowd. I pleaded a headache and said I wanted an early night.'

We pick up speed, Donna sitting upright and driving expertly, one hand on the gear lever, the other one on the wheel.

I say, 'Look, seeing you again is fine; but I wish you'd tell me
what this is all about.'

'I'm sorry I was so mysterious on the phone.'

'And where are we going, anyway?' I say as the car bats on surely up the main street and through the middle of town.

'I thought my place would be best,' she says, and glances sideways at me. 'Do you mind?'

'No, but-'

'Even though it could be more compromising than a pub.'

It's surprising sometimes how long it takes for the penny to drop.
Even now I'm not sure I'm on the right lines but just a glimmer of
light begins to break through.

We'll be there in a minute,' she says, and I think,' Right, I'll say no more.'

Except: 'You know, if our positions were reversed you'd be
wondering what you were letting yourself in for and thinking you
had a damn' good idea.'

She smiles. 'Yes ... But I expect you can take care of yourself.'

'Chance is a fine thing,' I say, and she turns her head and looks
at me for a fraction longer than's wise when you're driving, but
says nothing.

In the flat she switches on the electric fire and we take our coats
off.

'Would you like a drink? I think there's still some left from the
party.'

I say okay and she goes into the kitchen and fetches a pint bottle
of light ale (one that we brought and Albert missed taking away,
by the looks of it) and a tumbler, handing both to me along with a
bottle-opener.

'You'd better pour your own. I'm not very good at it.'

'Aren't you having any?'

'Not just now. I'll make some coffee in a minute.'

I make with the bottle and glass then lean back on the sofa.

'Right, I'm sitting comfortably. You can begin.'

She smiles. 'Yes. I'm sorry about the mystery; but I thought it was necessary.' She takes a letter off the mantelshelf and passes it to me. 'I thought you ought to see this.'

'Oh, no,' I think. But what the hell. ..?

The letter, typewritten like the other one, and on the same paper, says:

'Dear Miss Pennyman, you would be well advised to keep away
from that Victor Brown. He is a married man and no good. A Friend.'

'Oh God.'

'Somebody round here doesn't like you,' Donna says. 'That's
why I acted so mysteriously. So we wouldn't be seen together. I
didn't want to phone you but it was the only way to get in touch.'

Oh God, the filth, I'm thinking. The dirty filth, soiling everything.

'I'm sorry, Donna.'

'Oh, you don't have to be sorry on my account. I'm quite used
to nasty-minded people who write anonymous letters and make
phone calls.'

'What d'you mean?'

It happens all the time to actresses. You do a couple of television programmes and men ring you up.'

"You mean they ask to meet you?'

'No, that's not so bad. It's the sick ones who ask you if you've
got any pants on at the moment and tell you in detail what they'd
like to do to your lily-white body.'

'Christ! What do you do about it?'

Tell the police, have your phone number made ex-directory... In this case it looks as though you've got an enemy somewhere and I thought it only fair that you should know about it without letting whoever it is see us together in public again.'

'It's very nice of you to go to so much trouble.'

She slips off her shoes and sits down on the sheepskin rug in front of the fire with her legs curled under her. Her frock is an oatmeal knitted one with a high neck. Again I think, what is it gets me about birds in wool? What is it gets me about this bird in anything?

'It's no trouble,' she says. 'I just wondered what harm they hoped to do writing to me. They'd do better writing to your wife.'

I take the envelope out of my pocket, slip the letter out and hand
it to her. She gives me a quick
questioning look as I don't speak, then reads the note.

'I see. Now I know why you weren't as surprised as I thought you ought to be. When did this arrive?'

'The middle of last week.'

Mine came on Saturday morning. It must have been an afterthought. Spread it as far as possible. What did she say?'

'What could she say? She believed me when I said there was no
reason for anybody to write it. But there's no smoke without fire,
you know.'

Oh, surely...' Donna says, a touch of impatience in her voice.

'I'm not saying she
really
believes there's anything in it. But still, who could have written these things and why? As I said to Albert, there's -'

'Albert knows about the other one, does he?'

'Yes. I told him last night. I even partly suspected
him at one point.'

'Surely not Albert

'No, of course not. It was just that he was the only one I could
think of who knew I knew you and had my home address as well.'

'But what could his motive be?'

'Oh, some kind of vague jealousy. You know, that little bit of bad feeling at the party; him having some kind of tiff with Fleur.'

'I don't see what that's got to do with you, though.'

'No, except he could have thought we knew each other better than we do. Or that we might get to be more friendly. Spite.'

She shakes her head. 'I don't see that at all.'

Neither do I. But there's a kind of vicious madness about these things that's catching. You think all kinds of things.'

Donna sighs. 'Well at least they don't malign me in the other letter. I suppose they think that saying I'm an actress is enough.'

I grunt. 'If it comes to that, saying you're a woman's enough. The actress touch is a nice little refinement. A bit extra to add spice.'

'Yes... But all we've done is have drinks together; and always in other people's company until the other night.'

Oh yes, but that doesn't matter to whoever's written the letters. They just want to do damage and seeing us together has given them a way.'

'Your wife must surely understand that.'

Oh, I told her. Except... I didn't tell her about that particular night.'

'Why not?'

'Well, you see ...' I hesitate, thinking don't be a complete nit,
you'll only make yourself look an idiot. But also: here's a perfect
chance to give her an idea of how you feel. Find out how she takes
it
while you're on your own together. Do you think she'll laugh in
your face or something?

'The trouble is,' I start again, speaking slowly, 'what the letter
... well, implies, is partly true. On my side, I mean.'

There's a pause which my heartbeats seem to pound through
like a drum. Then she says, her face half-turned from me and
looking at the twin bars of the fire:
- 'I see.' Just that, very quietly. 'I see.'

Nothing else until I crash in again with:

'You can sling me out now if you want to.'

'No,' she says in a moment. 'No ... I'll make some coffee.
Would you like some?'

'Please.'

Mix me some arsenic, if you like, love, I'm thinking. Anything
that'll let me stay here a while longer.

She gets up and, slipping into her shoes again, goes into the kitchen without looking at me.

I wonder whether to follow her, then decide against it and light a fag and lean forward on the sofa, my arms on my knees, and glance round the room, remembering the party, how noisy and smoky it was then, how quiet it is now. The electric fire's doing its best to warm things up but the air's still a bit thin, which isn't surprising considering what it's like outside. I get up and stand near the fire, warming myself and drinking my beer, my eyes now on a level with the fried-egg painting which looks from this close range as if it's been done with somebody's thumb, the paint scraped on thick and lumpy. On one side of the fireplace is a three-shelf bookcase with a portable wireless, a travelling-clock, an ashtray and one or two knick-knacks on top and books, mostly paperbacks, on the other shelves.
Anger and After,
by John Russell Taylor, Penguins by Iris Murdoch and Muriel Spark, some Penguin New Dramatists ...

On the other side, under the standard lamp, a record-player sits on a square table with long-playing records underneath. There are only half a dozen and I pull them out and sit down on the sofa again, looking at the covers as Donna comes in again with a small tray with two cups of coffee, a bowl of sugar and a plate of biscuits.