The Husband's Story (51 page)

And in less than four months now, as Beryl kept reminding herself, the brand-new little room would have its brand-new little occupant.

The one person who did not in the least mind about the loss of Marleen's room was Marleen. She was down in Berkshire at a training establishment doing stable-lad duties and loving every moment of it, even the mucking-out part.

By now she had entirely given up all thought of exhibition dancing; and this was just as well perhaps because she was no longer the right shape for it. The transformation had occurred some time during her sixteenth year. From then on she had slowly and progressively thickened. By the time she reached Berkshire she was a well-set, even muscular, young woman with strong hands. The old elfin air had mysteriously evaporated.

Her hair, too, had darkened. The silver-gilt sheen was there no longer and, in its place, had come a rich, dark tint of demerara. Not that there was much of it to be seen anyway. She had got rid of the curls as soon as she had left home, and mostly wore a cloth cap nowadays.

The only time she came up to town was to see Stan. The second Sunday of every month was set aside for it. By now, the prison staff greeted her like a friend even if they happened to meet her in the roadway outside.

They meant a great deal to Stan, these visits of Marleen. Instead of playing ping-pong with the others in the prison recreation room, he now made a point of reading the racing pages in the daily papers simply to learn the names of the winners, the trainers, the jockeys. Before going to sleep at night, he used to say them over and over to himself until he was word perfect; and, as the Sunday for Marleen's visit approached, it gave him a nice, warm feeling inside to know that they would both have plenty to talk about.

As for Beryl, she never came into the conversation at all. At one time Stan had always begun by asking after her. But it had proved unrewarding. Marleen had been quite unable to tell him; it was over a year now since she had even seen her mother.

In any case, Stan didn't want to probe too deeply into Beryl's private affairs. Unresentful as he was, he could not help feeling that, in a way, he had been cheated. It was for Cliff, and for Cliff alone, that he had stood aside and made way. Mr Cheevers still seemed to him an interloper. That, however, wasn't why he hadn't sent Beryl a note of good wishes on her second wedding day. He hadn't sent it because he thought that it might upset her.

Beryl's bedroom in Flat No. 10 was the best room in the whole apartment. The window opened onto nothing but gardens and, in springtime, the whole place was full of bird-song. In the ordinary way she shared the room with Cyril. But not at the moment. She was far too restless and on edge for that. Any time now, the doctor had told her; and, propped up against rather a lot of cushions, she counted the hours and tried to remember what it had felt like while she had been waiting for little Marleen to come.

Not that she was in the least panicky or frightened. Just not able to settle down to anything. And this was strange because, underneath it all, she had a deep-down feeling of peace and contentment. Everything was
working out exactly as she had wanted it. Or would do as soon as she had put just one thing right.

‘Cyril,' she called out to him.

‘Coming, love.'

The reply was instantaneous, and from very close at hand. Ever since the doctor had warned them to be on the alert, Mr Cheevers had slept on the long settee in the adjoining drawing-room.

Tonight, however, he had not even been asleep. He was lying, with his chin propped up on his hand, thinking; very pleasant thoughts they were, too. The three-hundred-page manuscript, entitled
Natural History of a Crime
and containing the life-story of Stanley Pitts, Civil Servant Grade B2, had eventually been delivered and the proofs were at last within his hands.

The publisher was certainly enthusiastic about it. In his opinion it would immediately become recognized as a classic of its kind, and could not fail to soar triumphantly into the best-seller lists.

Arrived at Beryl's bedside, Mr Cheevers was already more than half-dressed. Ever since a midnight scare nearly three weeks ago, he had made a point of being ready.

‘You all right, pet?' he asked anxiously.

But he could tell at once that this was not an emergency call. Beryl was sitting, propped up against the pillows, polishing her nails, and seemed strangely calm and self-possessed.

‘I've been thinking…' she began.

Mr Cheevers moved over to sit down on the end of her bed to listen to her, but Beryl waved him away again.

‘Too hot,' she said briefly.

Then she gave a little cough. It was the kind of cough that he had heard a hundred times before when interviewing people. Experience warned him that it meant that she was about to say something that he wasn't going to like very much.

‘I've been thinking,' she resumed. ‘It's about the book. About Stan, I mean. I don't think it's very nice, not now it's over, bringing it all up again. Not now that it's by me. I think it's best just forgotten. Like it had never happened like.' She paused and, for a moment, rubbed away hard at her thumbnail. ‘In any case,' she went on, ‘it's different now I'm going to have a baby, isn't it? I wouldn't want baby to think that Mummy would ever have married a man who would do that kind of thing, would I? It wouldn't seem right like. Not thinking of the baby, I
mean. Not when baby grows up and begins to meet people.'

Mr Cheevers tried hard to soothe her.

‘But I tell you, darling, it's all printed by now,' he reminded her, speaking ever so gently. ‘The publisher's all ready to send it to the bookshops.'

Beryl did not answer immediately. She was sobbing by now.

‘Then tell him you've changed your mind like,' she said jerkily. ‘Tell him he'll have to publish something different.'

‘But…'

Beryl smiled the very sweetest of her smiles, the one which over the years had won first Clifford Hamson, then Stanley Pitts and now Cyril Cheevers himself.

‘You know I mustn't let anything happen that may disturb me,' she said. ‘So promise. Please promise. Just for baby's sake, promise. You will, won't you?'

There was a long pause. Then Mr Cheevers took a slow, deep breath.

‘I promise,' he said faintly.

And what about Stan?

While Beryl and Mr Cheevers were still talking, Stan was fast asleep in his old cell in D Block. The light in the ceiling was full on, but he had long since grown accustomed to it; by facing the wall and rolling over on his side he could still get a perfectly good night's rest.

In any case, he was unaware of his surroundings. He was dreaming: dreaming about a night long, long ago when he had just won the Departmental Photographic Competition and, out of his winnings he had bought a silk scarf with views of Old London for Beryl, a chunky, leather shoulder-bag for little Marleen, and a bottle of Beaujolais just so that the family could celebrate. And, in anticipation of his homecoming, he was smiling.

At this moment, Stan was one of the happiest men in London.

This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London
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Copyright © Norman Collins 1978
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ISBN: 9781448206612
eISBN: 9781448206254
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