Remedy is None (8 page)

‘Jane! Have you gone to bed or something?’

She started guiltily at Peter’s voice. She hastily checked her appearance again in the mirror, as if afraid her mental disarray might have a physical extension. Putting out the bedroom light, she went through to the living-room, donning a smile at the door.

‘I seem to have seen your face before,’ Raymond said. ‘We were nearly sending out a search-party for you there, Jane. You’d better take a compass next time.’

‘Were you developing the photographs?’ Peter’s voice was just this side of annoyance and no more.

‘Oh, the photographs!’ Her hands went up in surrender to his reproach.

‘Well, that was only what you went for, after all.’

‘You’d better check that room through there, Peter,’ Raymond said. ‘And make sure there’s not a lodger you don’t know about.’

She went back through to the bedroom, mingling her laughter with that of the others to cover the furtive sense of guilt she felt. She tried to gear herself to their mood. This was where she belonged, she told herself again. She was going to enjoy this evening. But she couldn’t overcome a vague feeling of strangeness as she re-entered the living-room.

‘These had better be good after the time we’ve waited,’ Raymond said. ‘Malta, The Millionaire’s Playground. A Pictorial Account of a Holiday on the George Cross Island. Golden beaches . . . Dusky maidens . . .’

‘Here’s one of Peter when his skin was just beginning to peel,’ Mrs Whitmore said, passing the photograph to Eleanor.

‘Ooh. Frying tonight.’ Eleanor giggled. ‘Mind you, Peter, you really suit blisters.’

‘You mean blisters suit him,’ Raymond emended.

‘I mean exactly what I said,’ Eleanor persisted.

‘You can say it how you like. It’s no skin off my nose.’

‘It’s not until the skin begins to peel that you get the full savour of your sunburn,’ Peter continued, like a lecturer ignoring hecklers. ‘The blisters are only a sort of apprenticeship
in agony. But once you get down to doing a striptease with your skin, you become a real veteran. It’s like a Gipsy Rose Lee that doesn’t know where to stop. You scratch and you scratch. And then you scratch. I could hardly wait for meals to finish so that I could go up to the room for my next performance. I used to invite Jane up to see my itchings.’

‘This is one of the harbour at Valletta,’ Mrs Whitmore said.

They settled down to a relay of snapshots, with Mrs Whitmore providing explanatory captions and Peter using the incidents they recalled as launching pads for sardonic commentary on Malta.

‘It’s lovely scenery,’ Eleanor commented after some thought.

‘God, I wish I had said that,’ Raymond said, as he took the photograph from her. And went on at once, outrunning riposte, ‘Especially in the foreground there. Wow! Where do you book for this place? I thought Maltese women were supposed to be very prim. Concealing the tempting flesh and all that.’

‘Only the ones who’ve nothing to show,’ Peter said. ‘You do see some of them wearing long black dresses to go swimming right enough. Actually, they’re a lot worse than bathing-suits once they’ve been in the water. The way they sag and cling. Typical Maltese Irishness. It’s like the way you have to cover your upper arms in churches, isn’t it, Jane? No sleeveless dresses allowed. But it doesn’t matter how low the neckline is. Or how high you have the hemline.’

‘This was taken just coming into Gozo,’ Mrs Whitmore explained. ‘That’s the sister-island to Malta. It’s only half-an-hour in the boat. We spent two days there.’

‘Which was just about a day-and-a-half too much,’ Peter said. ‘It’s strictly a poor relation. They play up everything, show you round any old bit of rubble they’ve got handy. They just about give you guided tours of the public conveniences. Remember the prehistoric temple? A ring of boulders with weeds . . .’

Mrs Whitmore was content to let him do the talking. It was all she could manage to take even a neutral factual part in the conversation. She found herself wondering what it had to do with Raymond and Eleanor. It was obvious that their interest was only token. They were more concerned with finding opportunities for needling each other. Why were they always like that? It wasn’t the first time she had been at a loss to understand why they were still together. Surely it would have been more honest for them just to separate. Yet she couldn’t help asking herself what right they had to inflict themselves on other people like this. On her. She felt a revulsion from them. What did she have in common with them? What was she doing sitting in their company?

‘You see, I was trying to get him to tell us the price of the taxi before I got in. But he just kept saying, “Rambla beach, sor. Lovely for swim. I take you Rambla. No bother money. Later. Later”.’

She was aware of Raymond’s eyes on her legs. Like limpets. She didn’t bother trying to distract them or to cover her legs more effectively, nor to stare him into emabrrassment. He would probably have taken any acknowledgement of his attention, no matter what form it was in, as a secret victory. He was always furtively intruding on her in this way. Sometimes when he was speaking to her he would stare very deliberately at her breasts as if it were with them that he was communicating. At other times he would engineer careful accidents and casual collisions. Sitting in at table, he would unavoidably brush against her thigh, pressing hard with his hand just as he touched her. Looking at something over her shoulder, he would lean on a little, his hand imprinting itself on her back. He always seemed to position his chair in such a way that when he faced towards her, his face was averted from Peter’s. He didn’t seem to mind about Eleanor. He probably wanted her to notice. Mrs Whitmore had mentioned his behaviour to Peter, but because of Peter’s flippancy, she had not mentioned the subject to him again, for it hurt her too deeply. She was insulted that Raymond thought he could
take these trivial and casual liberties with her, and she was ashamed when it occurred to her what grounds he might have for thinking so. That was something else left over from the past. The present was riddled with the past. How did she think she could get over it? It had left her on the defensive about herself, inclined to sift the most trivial attitudes and remarks for concealed implications. The sort of perfunctory masculine examination that most women would construe as a personal compliment, she would distort into a personal insult, while it was nearly always no more than an impersonal instinct.

‘And they were in process of building another one. They seemed to look on it as a sort of stake in heaven. And they had more churches than they knew what to do with already. Ludicrous. They’d rather have the sacrament than a bite of bread on the table. Building elaborate churches and some of them living in houses the size of outside toilets.’

She wondered how Peter could be so content in their company. He seemed to be enjoying himself, relating his traveller’s tales. But then he liked an audience of any kind. He tended to adopt this cynical worldly-wise attitude to things when he was with them. They always seemed to bring out the worst in him. Listening to him, she could barely recognize the holiday. It was as if he had been with someone else. You would have thought it had been a penance to him. But it hadn’t been like that at all. The things he mentioned were true to a degree. But he was taking them out of their context, distorting perspective. He was presenting them with isolated fragments, taken from angles that exaggerated their dimensions, and were jaundiced with cynicism. She felt betrayed in some small way that alienated her even further from the others. It made her realize again with a sudden familiar hollow feeling just how loosely she was anchored to her present life even after all this time. It only took one of these distant supercilious moods of Peter’s to make her sense of security break its moorings and cast her adrift.

‘It took me some time to realize what was missing in all the
rooms. Then it eventually got through to me. Fires. There wasn’t a fireplace in any of the houses we saw.’

‘That would suit Raymond,’ Eleanor said. ‘He hasn’t quite mastered the art of getting one started yet. He uses newspapers, firelighters, and enough sticks for a Guy Fawkes bonfire. And he’s still down on his knees blowing like a bellows.’

‘How would you know about that?’ Raymond spoke in the same pseudo-jocular tone that Eleanor was using. ‘You’re never out your bed till it’s roaring up the chimney.’

‘Well, it gives me an excuse for having a long lie.’

‘You don’t need any excuse for that. Talking of fires, though. Have you heard the one about the minister with the four sons? I heard it in the office yesterday.’

‘All right, I’ll buy it,’ Peter said.

‘Minister has four sons. David, Peter, Paul and James. Are you sure you haven’t heard it now?’

‘Let’s all get down on our knees and plead with him,’ Eleanor exclaimed brightly.

‘No, but I hate getting told half-way through a joke that you’ve heard it. Or getting the punch-line stolen. Anyway. This minister has four sons. David, Peter, James and Paul. Three good ones. Follow in his footsteps. Become ministers. One prodigal. James. A right tearaway. Wine, women and song. Well, at breakfast this morning, the minister’s down first. So he’s standing in front of the fire. Warming his chorus and verse. Peter comes down next. “Good morning, Peter.” “Good morning, Father.” So Peter joins him, standing by the fire. Next one down is Paul. “Good morning, Paul.” “Good morning, Father.” And he joins the other two at the fire. That’s three ministers standing in front of the fire. Right? The next one to come is the fourth minister. James. So –’

‘James!’ Eleanor struck like a cobra. ‘You said James was the bad one. The black sheep.’

‘Black sheep?’ Raymond sparred for time, trying to gather his thoughts. ‘Who the hell mentioned sheep? James. That’s the third son that’s a minister.’

‘No. That’s not what you said.’ Eleanor mounted righteousness and went into battle. ‘You said James was the womanizer. I can remember
exactly
what you said, Smart Alec. You said the three sons who were ministers were Peter and Paul and . . .’ she said, and slid indecorously from the saddle.

Raymond let her squirm in silence for a moment before he went on with devastating contempt, ‘Thank you, Lesley Welsh. The Memory Woman. Well. As I was saying . . .

‘So the father says, “Good morning,
James.”
“Good morning, Father. Good morning, Peter. Good morning, David.” ’

‘David?’ Eleanor asked the ceiling, as if appealing for Jove’s thunderbolt of justice.

‘
David!
’ Raymond ground out the name on a mill-wheel of determination that crushed all opposition, ‘ “Good morning,
David
.” So that’s the four ministers standing in front of the fire. They’re all standing there. The four of them. In a line.’ Raymond was playing for time, obviously rattled. His eyes had a hunted look. But he had to go on. ‘They’re all there. When Andrew comes in. “Good ’

‘God!’ Eleanor exchanged martyrdom for denunciation. ‘Andrew! Are you sure it wasn’t Bathsheba? Or Uriah? Uriah the Heep.’

‘Look!’ Raymond threw words at her blindly, like stones from the rubble of his thoughts. ‘Damnit. To hell. Who’s telling the joke? What difference does it make? I’ll call him what the hell I like. Admiral bloody Nelson if it suits me.’

‘Fine, fine, that’s right,’ Eleanor soothed, like a nurse dealing with a fractious mental patient, rubbing him very gently the wrong way. ‘That’s a clever attitude. Keep that up and they’ll give you a little padded cell where you can tell yourself jokes for the rest of your life. Because you’ll be the only one who knows what they’re all about. What’s the point of telling a joke if you can’t make sense of it? Why do you bother?’

‘God knows why I bother!’ Raymond’s anger was more orderly now, having found a familiar flag under which to rally. ‘When
you’re
in the company, God knows why. Because
when did I ever get to finishing a bloody story? When? Smart Alexis has to butt in. Always has to throw a spanner in the works.’

‘It’s not a spanner I’m throwing. It’s a life-belt.’

‘Life-belt? You always manage to kill them, anyway.’

‘It’s what’s called euthanasia.’

‘It’s a pity your mother didn’t know about it.’

Peter got to his feet suddenly and pretended to do a soft-shoe shuffle.

‘There will be a short intermission,’ he announced. ‘During which I will endeavour to entertain the company. Patrons are asked not to leave their seats. We are getting the fire under control.’

The sprinkling of forced laughter Peter elicited managed to dampen tempers down a little. He took the opportunity to pass round cigarettes like toys to soothe unruly children. There was an awkward pause, broken at last by Eleanor, who managed, by her air of saving a situation single-handed, to convey the impression that Raymond was alone responsible, although she was the one who bravely made amends.

‘It must be wonderful, though,’ she said in a false, determined voice, very deliberately ignoring Raymond, and leaving him to smoulder in the ruins of his self-esteem. ‘I mean to be able just to go abroad like that. For a long holiday. That’s where you’re so fortunate, Jane. But then you don’t have any children to worry about.’

Neither did she, as it happened. But every holiday-time, she acted as what she called ‘foster-aunt’ to a family of children from an orphanage. Just for a few days. To give them a taste of home-life, she said. Presumably to let them see that they weren’t missing much. She had never had any children of her own. She compensated by playing at being maternal once or twice a year, but not long enough for it to become a nuisance. She made a great deal of it. Mrs Whitmore had wondered before if she only did it in order to give herself a certain conversational status. Certainly, she managed to get round to it at some point of every evening, and
always with a remark that was directed at Mrs Whitmore. Mrs Whitmore felt that it might be a deliberate attempt to bait her, but she couldn’t be sure. She had grown so touchy on that subject too that she could not be certain her own assiduity was not translating unthinking remarks into predetermined insults. Either way, it wasn’t the kind of remark calculated to make her feel any more at home with them. She had a depressing vision of growing old among people like this, with whom she had no real contact, for whom she had no real concern, strangers acquainted only with the surface of herself. It was a very sad and a very lonely feeling, from which the future seemed to stretch away like an empty echoing corridor, with only casual meetings to interrupt her progress towards the door at the end of it.