The Husband's Story (31 page)

In the result, it was touch and go whether or not the replica Edwardian ball-dress would be ready in time. But Madame Desmonde, reliable as her old, desperate Mrs Desmond days had taught her to be, came up on the deadline. It was getting on for three o'clock on the afternoon of the dance when Madame Desmonde herself, in one of the Station taxis, delivered the three distinctive boxes; one for the dress, one for the foundation garment, and one for the accessories. Caught up
by Beryl's inevitable enthusiasm, Madame Desmonde had volunteered to make the hair ornament herself. Fan-shaped and mounted on a comb, it stood nearly three inches high, and bobbed up and down most engagingly with every movement of the head.

Being so short on time, Beryl had arranged everything strictly on schedule. By four-thirty, Marleen had been parked with the Ebbutts next door to be picked up the following morning before breakfast so that they wouldn't feel that they were being expected to support the child; and by four-thirty-five Beryl was in her bath wearing her transparent plastic head-shield that was more diving-helmet than merely bathing cap. It was while lying back, letting the foamy bubbles drift over her body, that it was suddenly borne upon her how fond she was of Stan. Not fond, of course, in the way she was fond of Cliff; not excitingly fond, that is. More sorry fond. But fond enough to recognize how pathetically faithful it was of him to try to make up for all those wasted years – her awful time, as she thought of it – when he had kept her so pitifully short of money. Nothing, she knew in her heart, could ever quite make up for that; but it was touching all the same that Stan should now seem so desperately to be trying.

By seven-thirty precisely she was ready. She had intended to be sitting downstairs in the lounge in the Parker-Knoll chair over by the television set so that Stan could get the whole effect as soon as he came in. But the bustle had clearly not been designed with sitting down in mind; and, after the second attempt, she decided to remain standing, her arm on the corner of the mantelshelf – rather in the posture of the Edwardian lady in the illustration, in fact.

Outside it had come on to rain. Not ordinary rain, either. Real, automatic-car-wash stuff. Even from indoors, she could hear it lashing down into the gnomes' fishing pool, battering against the heavily speckled toadstool.

When he finally reached Crocketts Green, Stan saw that he would have to make a dash for it. And tonight of all nights he was in no condition for dashing. A slight headache early on and a touch of huskiness had developed into a steady nagging pain in both temples and a real sore throat. Also, throughout the day Mr Parker had been at his most impossible; arrogant, carping, contemptuous. He had even questioned Stan's knowledge of the new filing system and had then failed to apologize when he himself had been shown to be wrong. By
the time the office had closed, Stan felt that he'd had enough of it; enough of everything, in fact. Going home, propped up in his corner seat on the six-forty-two, and swallowing hard because his throat kept hurting him, he had wondered more than once whether he could pluck up the courage to ask Beryl if she would be prepared to call the whole thing off.

By the time he reached Kendal Terrace the rain seemed, if anything, to be coming down even harder. Even sheltered as it was under the overhanging canopy of the porch, the illuminated bell-push had a stream of little droplets running down from it. Stan shuddered. He recognized this for one of those nights when Beryl would expect him to take his shoes off while standing on the door-mat so as to avoid leaving a trail of dirty footprints across the Wilton. He had just got the left shoe off, and had bent forward, balancing himself on one leg to remove the other, when he caught sight of Beryl.

Remember that Stan was ill and tired as well as wet through. Otherwise he could not have behaved so badly. But the sight of her with the bustle and the puff sleeves and the revealingly low-cut corsage was too much for him. Or perhaps it was the bobbing-up-and-down hair ornament that did it. Whatever it was, he temporarily lost control of himself. For a moment he stood there simply staring. Then he spoke.

‘You're not going to wear that thing tonight, are you?' he asked.

In his voice there was a mixture of fear, anxiety, pleading and sheer incredulity.

It is to Beryl's credit that she, too, did not lose control. Not that she was by any means wholly unprepared. Standing in front of the cheval-glass in her bedroom she had thought that perhaps it was all a bit much herself.

‘Now you go upstairs and get changed,' was all she said. ‘What you need's a hot bath. We don't want you with one of your chests, do we?'

Because sitting down was impossible, she remained standing over by the mantelshelf even after she had got rid of him. Then a happy idea came to her. With the weather the way it was, Stan would have to agree to the hire-car to get them there. And, using her other voice – the carefully-modulated one – she went over to the side-table and rang up the Reliance Garage in the Parade.

It may have been because they didn't know each other or, because from Beryl's accent the night manager assumed that this was some kind of a high-class emergency, that he sent the wrong car. The choice lay
between a Morris 1100 and the big Daimler; and he sent the big Daimler. It was not a new car. It had done its share of weddings and funerals in its time. But never a dance date; that is, not unless a whole party of revellers had all been setting off together somewhere.

By then, however, it was already nearly half past seven. There was nothing that Stan or anybody else could do about it. The thing was there, like a berthed liner, making all the other parked cars in Kendal Terrace look like so many abandoned dinghies. Holding his umbrella over Beryl, Stan stumbled into it, too stunned to say anything. It was everything that Mr Karlin had warned him against; and more. Sitting silent beside Beryl, one hand upon the wide central armrest, the other toying with the let-in cigarette lighter, he wondered how they could slip quietly in, and then out again, secretly and unnoticed.

After a moment, Stan became aware that every time they passed a street lamp, Beryl turned to take a look at him. Then, after a bit of twiddling, she found the switch that turned on the roof light.

‘That dinner jacket's terrible,' she said. ‘And that tie. I don't know what you look like. I don't really.'

The Maybury Rooms in Earls Court where the Frobisher House dances were held was part of the West London Establishment. You could live North or East or South, in places like Barnet or Ilford or Beckenham without necessarily ever having heard of it. But in the western quarter all the way from Paddington to Richmond, it was where everything of any importance went on. The Frobisher House dances had been taking place there for years; ever since Frobisher House had been built way back in the twenties, in fact.

One of the special features of the place was the car park in front. Mr Parker, in his own little Fiat, was just turning into it when the big Daimler made him brake hard while it cut in ahead of him. But the Daimler wasn't making for the car park. The Daimler was making for the main door under the flood-lit canopy. And this was unfortunate because, having discovered how the roof light in the Daimler went on, Beryl had left it that way. In consequence, when Stan and Beryl swept past Mr Parker practically at arm's length they could not have been more conspicuous if they had been in a display case.

For her part, Beryl was rather pleased with the driver. He had made the whole journey in under forty minutes and, once there, that gave her nice time in which to tidy up inside the door marked ‘Powder Room'.
As the minutes ticked by one by one on the Maybury Rooms clock above his head, Stan stood there rocking backwards and forwards on his heels, wearing the deliberately blank, unworldly expression of all husbands waiting for their wives outside Ladies' Cloakrooms. And, when she emerged, it was even worse than Stan had feared. She was carrying a long, silver-looking evening bag. He had noticed it in the car, and had wondered gloomily how much it had cost. But what he had not known was what it was that it contained. And, as he looked, she produced a tortoiseshell fan and shook it open with a loud and challenging
frou-frou.

It was entirely Beryl's idea that she and Stan should take up their places just inside the door ready to receive the guests. When Stan objected, she smiled that same superior smile of hers and told him not to be silly. Now that he'd been promoted it was, she reminded him, only what would be expected of them.

The person who was most surprised was the Honorary Secretary. But with him it was the other way round. Only last year he had complained to his wife that she wasn't taking sufficient advantage of his position. But, at the back of his mind, he had known all the time that it was quite hopeless. Neither he nor his wife had presence or charisma. Even if he had stationed himself in the very centre of the doorway with his spouse beside him, the couples would have walked straight past without even noticing either of them.

Whereas, with Beryl that was impossible: she did not merely welcome, she loomed. The handshakes were compulsory; and a bit intimidating. There was something about the way she came forward – long white gloves, bosom, smile, mobile hair ornament and all – that tended to alarm people. From sheer nervousness some of the juniors actually giggled. As for Stan, he stood as far back as possible; as nearly out of sight as he could make it, but still close enough to be able to warn Beryl when necessary. One such warning was just coming up. He had observed Mr Parker on the stairway, and he edged forward immediately.

‘Just say “good evening”,' he told her, keeping his voice low and speaking through clenched teeth like a ventriloquist. ‘Just say “good evening” and nothing else. Don't make a thing of it.'

But it was too late. Mr Parker made a point of keeping himself in training. He took the hallway steps at the double and made straight for the dance floor. In that instant, Beryl was upon him. She was inescapable.

‘Aim so gled you could come,' Stan heard her saying. ‘Such a frateful nate, isn't it?'

Because he had got drenched coming in from the car park, all that Mr Parker wanted was to find a place somewhere over by the radiator where he could dry off the bottoms of his trousers. It was only after he had shaken hands and gone inside that he wondered who on earth the large woman with the fan could possibly be, and why Stanley Pitts, his Number Two, should be hanging round her in that way.

By then, Beryl was in her full rhythm. No one got past her. One and all, male and female alike, received the handshake, the smile, the remark about the weather. Even the drinks waiter, who had seen a lot of receiving done in his time, had to admit that he had never seen it done better. He summed up the situation and came across and whispered in Beryl's ear. In case she needed it, there was a gin-and-tonic, he told her, tucked in beside the vase of flowers on the side-table. From long experience, he knew that his tip at the end of the evening depended very largely on little remembered courtesies like that.

For her part, Beryl did not flinch. She stood at the top of the empty stairway until nearly nine-thirty in case there were any late-comers to be greeted. Then, and only then, was she ready to mingle and relax. She left her post and came forward, fan fluttering, to make the complete round of the Maybury Rooms.

Stan followed half a pace behind; too far behind, it seemed, for Beryl's liking. She turned towards him.

‘Well, you might at least behave as though we were together,' she said. ‘I don't know what's the matter with you. Really I don't. You've been like it all the evening. I'm only doing it for your sake, remember. Don't imagine I…'

She was interrupted by the approach of Mr Hunter-Smith. White-haired and courtly – he might, it seemed, have been supplied along with her dress – he advanced towards her, and asked if she would dance with him.

The invitation had come so early on her round – practically as soon as she had left the reception position – that naturally Beryl felt flattered. But sad, too, at the same time. It was, indeed, what she had always dreaded: it must mean, she realized, that though she was still as attractive as ever, in a mature, sophisticated way, only distinctly elderly men could nowadays pluck up the courage to approach her.

All the same, she liked the style of his dancing. It was dreamy. After
so much standing about and so many of those gins-and-tonic that the wine waiter had kept putting down on the side-table at her elbow, she felt strangely relaxed and unanxious. If, then and there, she were to fall asleep in Mr Hunter-Smith's arms, she had every confidence that somehow or other he would be able to steer her through the maze of dancing couples and onto a safe seat on one of the settees.

By the time he did so, however, she was fully recovered; quite wideawake and talkative, in fact. She invited him to tell her all about himself and, when he said that he was in charge of Appointments, she reminded him with a laugh that in that case he must know all about that husband of hers. Mr Hunter-Smith said he did, and let the matter rest there.

Stan, meanwhile, had been talking to no one. All by himself at the end of the Tudor Bar he was drinking a small whisky-and-water and staring down glumly at his feet. Even if someone had addressed him he would have been unaware of it.

‘Stan, my boy, you're finished,' he was telling himself. ‘Done for, washed-up and good as buried. You might just as well pack it in now, and call it a day. After this, they'll be on to you. They'll be watching. You're a marked man, Stanley Pitts. You're a Number One suspect…'

He broke off because he was suddenly aware that the band had stopped playing. Under the terms of their engagement they were allowing themselves the tea-break to which they were entitled, and already the Tudor Bar was beginning to fill up. Even at the far end where he was standing there was someone who wanted Stan's place so that he could catch the barman's eye and order the vodka-and-pineapple-juice for the young lady whom he had brought along with him.