Authors: Winston Graham
I could see Mark wasn’t giving way, so I turned and went out into the garden.
For once Forio wouldn’t come to me. It was so out of character I could hardly believe it. He’d let me get nearly to touching distance and then he’d toss his head and trot off.
It had been wet practically all week, so I suppose he hadn’t had enough exercise. After four or five times I gave up and walked back to the house. A piece of apple would fetch him.
As I got in I heard Mrs Leonard call out: ‘I don’t know where they are, Mr Rutland, not this week. I was out, and Mrs Rutland must have put them away.’
‘What is it?’ I said.
‘My new shirts,’ Mark said.
‘Oh, I put them in your wardrobe. Wait a minute.’ I ran upstairs and into his room. He was standing there in front of the mirror with a handkerchief in his hand. He was wearing a
pair of old grey flannel trousers but he hadn’t anything on above that.
He said: ‘Sorry, I thought you’d gone.’
‘I had but I came back. I took the shirts out of the box and put them with your others.’ I went to the wardrobe. ‘Here they are.’
‘Thanks. I thought I’d just try one.’
I lifted the top one out and pulled the various clips and things out. On the table were his keys and his pocketbook and a diary and some loose change. He always put them there each night when he
undressed. ‘I never knew before people ever did buy six shirts at a time.’
He laughed. ‘It’s not a sign of extravagance. They wear longer.’
When you saw him without his clothes you could see he wasn’t delicate, or even thin. His skin was pale and smooth, but the muscles lay under it; there when need be.
I said: ‘Forio’s being tiresome. I came in for some bait.’
He took the handkerchief away from his face. ‘As you’re here, d’you think you could get this eyelash out of my eye? I think I shoved it in with the towel.’
I went to him and he bent his head. I honestly believe this was the nearest we’d been to each other since we came home. And taking an eyelash out is very much of a close-up project. Your
own eyes stare into the other eyes at nearer than love-making range. You see the pinkness under the lid and the tiny blood vessels; but even that doesn’t matter so much as the pupil, because
that seems to stand for about the closest you can ever expect to get to the personality. It was harder still for me this time because I had to put my other hand somewhere when now and then it
wasn’t wanted, so I had to put it on his warm shoulder, and of course my body was touching his.
I saw the eyelash and edged it towards the corner. Then with me standing there like this against him it was just as if my own body hadn’t any clothes on either. I got the feeling just like
it was really happening.
Just about in time I got the eyelash out and shifted away, feeling sick and short of breath.
‘There you are. No charge at all.’
He took the handkerchief from me. ‘Oh, heaven, that there were but a mote in yours.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Only a quotation.’
I went to the door.
‘Marnie.’
‘Yes?’
He smiled at me. ‘Thanks.’
I went out and ran downstairs and went into the kitchen for a minute or two to try and get the thing out of my system. When I went to fetch Forio I realized I’d come out without his bit of
apple. But it didn’t matter because this time he came to me like a lamb.
I rode till lunch-time and was late back for lunch, but I felt frightful all day. I felt so depressed I could have howled. I was becoming a melancholic. That’d be something fresh for Roman
to unscramble.
I was depressed all week, and had dreams enough to keep all the psychiatrists in London on time and a half.
On the Wednesday I went down to see Mother. I found I could do it well enough in a day, so I made the excuse I had to settle up something with the Garrods.
Mother was looking much better. She was mixing in nicer company here, she said, and the house quite suited her. For once she jarred; I suppose because I was still feeling depressed. I thought,
here she is having a good time on my money and not really caring where it comes from. Then I remembered how she’d been four years ago and what a difference the money had made.
She went into a sulk when I said I couldn’t even stay one night, but she only asked casually about Mr Pemberton and seemed to take it for granted things were going on as usual. Just after
tea, while Lucy was washing up, I said: ‘Mam, when did Dad die?’
‘Die? He was killed, drowned. Nineteen-forty-three. Why?’
‘I was only wondering. I was thinking of it the other day. I don’t remember it. I mean I don’t remember who told me or what they said to break the news.’
‘Why should you indeed? You were only six at the time. Why should you remember anything about it?’
‘Well, I remember other things. After all six isn’t all that young. I remember Uncle Stephen coming when I was five and bringing me a pair of fur-lined gloves. I remember the girl
next door—’
‘All right, you remember one thing and forget another. That’s the way of it. If you want the truth, I didn’t tell you for months after. I thought it’d upset you, like. I
thought, Marnie mustn’t know. So in the end it just didn’t make an impression on you at all.’
I edged around on my seat. ‘What part of nineteen-forty-three was it? We were at Sangerford then, weren’t we? Did he visit us in Sangerford? I mean earlier. I mean one Christmas. I
seem to remember he did. Didn’t he bring me a present of a box of chocolates? And some sugared almonds. I remember the sugared almonds . . .’
She said: ‘Wait,’ and got up with her stick and limped to this old stool we’ve had since the year one and lifted the top and took out her black bag. ‘I’ll show
you,’ she said, and began to fumble among some papers. ‘I keep it here. I keep everything here.’ She passed me a yellow news-clipping.
It was from the
Western Morning News
, 14th June, 1943, under ‘Deaths on Active Service’: ‘Frank William Elmer, H.M.S.
Cranbrook
, on June 10th: Aged 41, late of
12, Mulberry Street, Keyham. Beloved husband of Edith and father of Margaret.’
I gave it back. ‘I don’t remember seeing it before. Thanks.’
Mother dabbed her nose. ‘It was Whit Monday that came out. It was a lovely day. People was on holiday, even in the wartime. I cut it out to keep. That’s all I had left.’
‘It’s years since I saw a photo of him,’ I said. ‘There used to be one in Plymouth on the mantelpiece. You know.’
‘There’s one here. Same one but not framed.’
I looked at that face. I’d come from that face. A stranger he was, because I only knew the photograph. Somehow I’d come from him. He wasn’t a bit like what I’d told
Roman. His hair was fair and thick and cut short, his face was round, his eyes blue or light grey, small, and I should think twinkling. The oddest thing was he looked
young
. Mother had got
older and he’d stayed young.
‘How old was he here?’
‘About thirty.’
‘Can I have this or is it the only one?’
‘You can have it if you take care of it.’
Old Lucy came in with some dishes then, so I put the photo in my bag before she saw. But later when she went out again I said: ‘Mam, what was the name of the doctor – you know, the
one that let you down with the baby?’
‘Why?’ she said. ‘What’s it all about? Gascoigne was his name – may God have mercy upon him, for I can’t.’
‘Was I all right?’ I said. ‘I mean when I was born. No trouble then?’
‘Of course not! But that was before the war. You – why, you never gave me a minute’s worry. Not till you were ten, that was. And that was all because of the common company you
had to mix with. What’s the matter with you today, Marnie? All these
questions
.’
‘I don’t know. I sometimes think I’m a bit queer.’
‘
Queer
. Well, be thankful you’re not like other girls. Trollops and flying after men. Painting their toe-nails. You’re worth three of any ordinary girl, Marnie, and
don’t let anyone tell you different. You’re so clever – and so good.’
‘Were you a bit out of the ordinary when you were young?’
‘I was always one to want to get on – a wee bit proud perhaps – kept myself to myself. Your father used to say I was too good for him. But I was never as clever as you,
dear.’
‘I’m not sure it’s wise to be too clever,’ I said. ‘Sometimes you overreach yourself.’
That Sunday at breakfast Mark said: ‘Are you never going to tire of your poker parties?’
I swallowed something that wasn’t food and said:
‘My what?’
‘The poker parties you go to at Terry’s.’
‘Have you been having me – followed?’
‘Not really. No.’
‘Then how did you . . .’
‘A few weeks ago I asked Dawn Witherbie how her mother was and she told me she hadn’t been ill. After that it wasn’t hard to find out the rest.’
I broke a piece of toast. ‘Why shouldn’t I go if I want to?’
‘Is that the point? Surely the main question is, why lie to me in the first place?’
‘Because I thought you’d disapprove.’
‘So I do. But only because it’s Terry. Otherwise I try to let you live your own life.’
I was feeling scared. Supposing he’d had me followed to Torquay!
‘Well, it’s Terry. Why shouldn’t I go out with Terry if I want to?’
‘Two reasons. Perhaps they’re both personal and you won’t think they affect you. I think Terry is one of the misfits of this life. I spend one-third of the time feeling sorry
for him and two-thirds hating his guts. I feel he’s utterly misplaced and out of his true element as a printer. But there’s no job on earth that I can think of that would
be
his
true element. Can you? He’s – to me – a jumble of ambitions and frustrations that don’t quite add up to a real person. He wants to be a first-rate business man, but he never
will be. He wants to be a great lover, and is always trying to be, but I don’t think he is. He teeters around on the edge of things, dressing beautifully, picking up the latest fads and
phrases, running his little poker parties and his jam sessions. You see, Marnie, if he was a really tough bad character, perhaps I could make something of that, but he isn’t even big enough
to be really bad. And what’s worse, along with his failures – perhaps as a result of them – there’s a sort of slyness that gets under my skin. He has the sort of ingenuity
that turns sour everything that it touches.’
‘Perhaps it’s because he’s a misfit that I – get along with him.’
‘Don’t underrate yourself. Look at this business of the Glastonbury Investment Trust – and it’s you I’ve to thank for putting me on to it. I haven’t tackled
him yet, but it seems to me perfectly typical of the man. I don’t resent his enmity but I resent his back-door way of showing it.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know. That’s reason number two for your not going to these parties. Just at the moment I don’t think you, as my wife, can possibly, decently, have a foot in both
camps. It would be less impossible if the blood-letting were above ground. But it isn’t yet.’
I began to put one or two of the things together on the table.
He said: ‘I hate unpleasantness. And the feeling that all this is going on underneath all the time poisons every day as soon as I get to the works. I told Rex about the Glastonbury Trust,
and he has some weird idea of having the Holbrooks and ourselves over to dinner one night to see if they’ll make the friendly move and come out in the open. I’ve told him he’s
crazy, but he says it’s a pity if an old family firm is going to have to come to a split for lack of an effort on his part.’
‘When does he want us to go?’
‘I don’t know. I think the week after next. Anyway you see how it is. You see how impossible it is for you to be out until all hours with Terry, don’t you?’
I piled the dirty plates on the dinner wagon. If something was put to me rationally I nearly always saw the point. But I was feeling mulish. I expect I looked mulish, because after watching me
he said:
‘Ours is about the oddest sort of life anyone could live, isn’t it. That’s if it can be called a life at all.’
‘I didn’t suggest it.’
‘No, but to some extent you acquiesced.’
‘You know the reason for that.’
He came over and stood beside me. His eyes were very dark. ‘I’ve done what I can to leave you alone, Marnie. It hasn’t been much fun, I can tell you. Sometimes it gets me down.
That’s another form of unpleasantness, to feel that you’re being treated as a jailer by your own wife. That, and all the other pressures involved . . . It puts me off balance at my job,
it comes between me and my sleep. I’m irritable and short-tempered with things. Sometimes I feel I could kill you. But I don’t. I leave you alone. Except for Roman, you do whatever you
want. You go your own way. I hope for better things. I keep on hoping. It’s the only thing that makes the present set-up tolerable at all. But if you start playing fast and loose with Terry I
shall have to think again.’
‘I don’t play fast and loose with him! I can’t bear him to touch me!’
‘I know he wouldn’t be Terry if he didn’t try.’
‘I really believe you’re jealous of him.’
He took me by the shoulders and tried to bring me round to face him. I wouldn’t move. He pulled me round.
‘You’re hurting me, Mark.’
He didn’t let go. ‘So I’m jealous, Marnie. I’m jealous of the men you speak to, of the people you go out with, of the hours you spend here alone while I’m at the
works. I even have to be jealous of my miserable backdoor sham-smart wise-cracking cousin. More than ever jealous of him because he seems to be the only man you favour. The whole damned feeling is
something I’ve never felt before and never need to have felt, because with any sort of proper relationship between us it wouldn’t have arisen.’
‘You’re hurting me.’
He let me go, shrugged. ‘I don’t want to start getting melodramatic . . . I’ve made my own present – and yours too. And for the time being at any rate we’ve got to
live in it. I’m trying to let you go your own way and at your own pace. That’s fine – we’ve agreed to it, and if it’s wearing on me that’s my funeral. But the
bargain doesn’t include your going out and staying out with Terry. I’m sorry if you thought it did, but it doesn’t. It just doesn’t, Marnie.’