The Merciless Ladies (32 page)

II

Two months to the day from this conversation Olive issued a new Summons for Variation. She had learned of the sale of the pictures in America and wanted her fair share.

III

I decided to go and see little Olive. I owed her a call. I had no idea whether she was still living in her expensive flat, but I found she was. I wondered how it happened that she was.

I thought of ringing and decided against it. If she was in she was in.

I had a meal nearby, drinking enough to settle my thoughts, no more. I walked up the stairs to her flat, which was on the first floor, pressed the bell. If Maud opened the door I should be sure of a sour welcome.

But it was Olive herself.

She was in a peach silk dressing-gown, with a bandanna of the same colour about her bright hair. I was startled at the change in her. She was still pretty, but thinner, and her eyes were deep set, preoccupied.

I said: ‘I was passing and I saw your light. It's been ages.'

‘I was just going to bed.' It was not an invitation. But she stood aside to let me enter.

‘You're early tonight.'

‘One of my headaches.'

‘D'you get them much?'

‘Enough. Go on in.'

I went into that large white living-room I knew so well but which was no longer so white, having undergone the redecoration Maud had told me about. A feature of the room tonight was that all the drawers of the writing bureau were open and their contents disturbed.

‘Burglars?' I asked.

She untied the bandanna and shook out her hair. ‘That's what I'm trying to find out.'

‘Meaning?'

‘Meaning Maud. It's her night out. I've missed, a few things. Now I've laid traps for her so if she takes anything more I shall know.'

‘Maud's been with you for
years. Would
she take anything?'

‘It remains to be seen, doesn't it?'

‘She's so devoted. You'd have a job ever to find anyone as … good.' I hesitated at the adjective, uncertain how to label without offence the peculiar dog-like attention of the sullen spotty Maud.

Olive sat down and crossed her legs, adjusting the dressing-gown carefully to cover them.

‘I haven't seen you since you pulled down this new job. In fact, we've hardly spoken since my dear husband remarried.
That
was a shambles, wasn't it? Have you been cutting me?'

‘Hardly. But you
were
a bit naughty over the divorce.'

‘The divine justice of it! And Diana got it in the neck too.
Could
it have been better arranged?'

‘Or more bitchily?'

She carefully licked her lips. ‘ If you've come here to read the lesson I have to tell you I've sold the lectern to pay my grocery bill.'

I didn't come here for any specific purpose other than to see you. I was nearby and thought I'd like to. Do we always have this effect on each other?'

‘What effect? Sort of flint and tinder?'

‘If you like – At least they often share the same box.'

‘Well, from our one experience I don't think we should be too happy sharing the same bed. Do you?'

‘I don't remember it with distaste.'

‘Oh, no', she said. ‘Oh, no. But not to be repeated. In case you came here for that purpose.'

‘No … I've told you why I came. Though the memory came back soon enough when I saw you. What's
wrong
, Olive?'

‘Wrong?'

‘Yes. Wrong.'

She considered me. ‘ Because I choose not to fall down on my back before you? This unbearable arrogance—'

‘Not
me
, Olive. Any man. Because there isn't any other man, is there?'

‘What the hell business is it of yours?'

‘None, obviously.'

After a moment she said: ‘There's a drink on the table.'

‘Thanks, I'm OK. You're not in a company mood tonight. I think I'll push off.'

‘If I'd been in a company mood tonight I wouldn't have been at home when you called. I cancelled a theatre.
And
with a man, for your interest.'

‘Will
you
have a drink?'

‘A couple of fingers of brandy. If I take more it makes my head worse …'

‘Seriously, Olive, why don't you remarry? There are plenty of other fish in the sea besides Paul and the Sharble fellow.'

‘You want me to get off Paul's back? Is that the purpose of the visit?'

‘That's the second or third guess you've made about my purpose. Can't you accept the truth – that I just wanted to see you?'

She laughed shortly. ‘ No. Don't you know your reputation – that you only call when you want something.'

I refused to rise to the taunt. ‘ Who doesn't?'

‘Were you thinking of proposing marriage to me yourself?'

‘As I've said before, I'm not a marrying man.'

‘Where was the accent on that?'

‘But since you raise the question of Paul …'

‘Ah …'

‘What's the point of this new summons?'

‘You've heard of it, then … Simply to have money to pay the rent of this flat. My parents paid it for six months, but now my father has just died.'

‘I'm sorry, I didn't know … But, Olive, anything you get out of Paul – whatever it is – will be swallowed up in legal costs. What are
you
really getting out of it? Surely revenge is pretty sour by now? Because some other woman has made a success where you failed? Dead Sea fruit, isn't it?'

‘What other sort of fruit would you like me to pick?'

‘Something with life and flavour in it. We've all only so many hours to enjoy the decent, warm things of the world. Why shrivel up your soul before its time?'

‘My soul's well able to take care of itself.'

‘Believe me, if it were only your own soul you were poisoning I'd let it rot in peace.'

‘I know', she said. ‘That's what amuses me.'

I could have struck her then, because she had made me lose my temper.

I sat down. ‘All right. All right. Since we're talking about Paul, let's level on that. Have you seen any of his recent work?'

‘I saw one in the Ludwig window. I thought it pretty much of a daub.'

‘At least you must admit he's trying to do something new. You're an artist, Olive. If you create something yourself you must surely respect the efforts of a fellow artist. Gauguin and Van Gogh were laughed at not so very long ago. Who can be certain that Paul isn't doing the same sort of thing today? Why then go out of your way to stultify his efforts and to make his life inrolerable?'

She lit a cigarette, snapped out her lighter, leaned her head back. ‘Gauguin, did you say? Van Gogh?'

‘Well?'

‘You're mentioning them in the same breath as my ex-husband? Oh, dear! Paul, the pretty portrait painter, turned genius. Did I once say you were a poor journalist?'

‘What he was painting in London is gone and forgotten. He's working now on the raw stuff of life. Of
course
I can't prove to you he's a genius. Of
course
I'm not certain that his present work is going to be this, that or the other. He's only just beginning to find himself. But it's supremely
honest
. There's not a trace of the fake or the meretricious about it. And in the time he's been in Cumberland he's made big strides … Supposing, just supposing he
is
good – so good that he'll have a biography writren about him someday. D'you want the biographer to write: ‘The greed and malice of his first wife were responsible for the short duration of his most brilliant period. Her conduct would have been less inexcusable in a woman of mean intelligence, but having some artistic ability herself …'' '

She drew in her cheeks over the cigarette. Her eyes looked sunken.

‘He's really got you fooled, hasn't he! You don't think of my feelings! Paul, the oppressed genius. What a ramp!'

‘I'm only suggesting you should give him a chance by dropping out of his life.'

‘Why should I drop out? To help create a phoney legend—'

‘I'm not trying to create anything. I
know
there's your side to the case. But it's time it was all forgotten, put aside. You can't go on having vendettas for ever.'

She looked me over, coolly, politely, her lips firm.

‘Because you've caught me at home, you suppose I'm sitting here eating my heart out for Paul? What damned stupid nonsense! I live a good life! I live it as I please, not at the beck and call of some man who supposes he's God's gift to the world! I'm
free
, and I'm going to stay free. All I want is that Paul should earn enough to keep
me
, as well as that timid one-legged bespectacled creature who's got him in tow now. Let him come back to London and earn what he's capable of earning and pay me a fair maintenance! When he does that there'll be no further quarrel between us.'

‘He won't do that. He'll stay up there if it kills him.'

‘Then let it kill him! D'you think I care? He emerges from some dirty shop in Lancashire, climbs as far as he can on a trick talent for portrait painting. He battens on to Diana for what he can get out of her. But he can't marry her, so he throws her over for me. Olive will introduce him here and there. Olive has social connections and will bring him the type of client he wants! Then when he's firmly established with them Olive can go to hell! She can rot on any convenient slag-heap!' She twisted her body and stared at me with cold anger.

‘Is that how you
really
see him?'

‘Has he ever had a thought in his life except for himself? Name me one!'

‘There's other—'

‘Why should I bother to underwrite his daubs and experiments? Look at this place! Now my father's died my mother loses part of his pension and can afford little enough for me. So unless Paul does the right thing I'm going to have to give it up!'

‘Why dont you work?'

‘What
at
? My paintings don't sell, as you damned well know! What else am I useful for? Assistant in a ladies' dress shop? Teach the Theory of Art at a local day school? Design Christmas cards? Go and live with my mother and nurse her headaches as well as my own? … Not while Paul is alive, dear! Not while he's quietly putting money away and pretending to starve—'

‘He's not putting money away. I can assure you of that.'

She got up and stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Oh, you can throw dust in the judge's eyes, but don't try it on me! What
about
the clinging Holly? She has money of her own, and everything he makes now goes into her name. Don't think I don't know how these things can be worked!'

‘They've sold practically everything to pay you', I said.

‘
They
did. Oh, I'm sure
they
did. Can you imagine dear little Holly saying in her fluty tones: ‘‘Paul, dear, we can't afford a new car this year because we have the alimony to find.'' Can you imagine a normal woman, let alone a scarecrow with a tubercular hip? …'

She stopped at the look on my face. With an effort she took control of herself.

‘I've told you to go once.'

‘You're dying', I said. ‘You're dying of malice and envy and hate. It's killing you. For God's sake try to come alive again.'

I went then without looking at her again. I went out into the little box hall and ran down the stairs into the street.

There was no more to be done.

In a café in Fleet Street hard by the entrance to Chancery Lane I met the discreet Mr Rosse and took tea with him. He ate three large muffins specially plastered with butter, and while we talked he delicately licked a finger-tip.

‘I'm beginning to believe you, my dear Mr Grant', he said. ‘The first Mrs Stafford has a combative side to her nature which will be hard to overcome.'

‘This maintenance business', I said. ‘There must be some remedy to the complaint, surely. A man like Mr Stafford may have an income which fluctuates between very wide margins year by year. One year he may earn two thousand, the next he may not make two hundred, especially during this transition period. What's to prevent the woman from bringing a summons every time his income goes up, thereby forcing him to bring one every time it goes down?'

‘In principle, simply nothing at all.'

‘But in practice?'

‘In practice? Well …' Mr Rosse stirred his tea with the little finger of the right hand raised. ‘In practice it wouldn't be worth her while. In practice the – lawyers concerned do their best to save the money of their respective clients by coming to a compromise agreement which is as nearly fair as possible to both parties.'

‘Yes', I said. ‘That seems very reasonable. And in this case—'

‘Three weeks ago I proposed to the lawyers acting for Mrs Stafford that I would be pleased to submit to my client any reasonable compromise proposal they cared to send me. Their answer was that, acting on the instructions of their client, they were not prepared to submit or consider a compromise proposal. And I have since heard, strictly
inter nos
of course, that Mrs Stafford threatened to change her solicitors if they persisted in advising her to settle.'

I bit at a piece of toast with none of Mr Rosse's refinement. ‘That means, practically speaking, a court case every year. The woman's beside herself with jealousy. You can't reason with her and you can't bribe her. You can't get
at
her at all. We're kicking against a brick wall, Mr Rosse.'

The solicitor nodded. ‘I have only met Mr Stafford at the High Court hearing. He strikes me as a difficult man to prescribe for. One can only
offer
advice.'

‘And I can only pass it on.'