A man who cried (17 page)

here for life. Well, why not... ? He turned, and the words became an audible mutter now as he

repeated, ”Why not? With what’s looming up, why not?” He wasn’t blind, he wasn’t a fool of a

man. No? Wasn’t he? Why not indeed? There was just one reason why not and he knew it only

too well, as he also knew he’d better get rid of any thoughts regarding an alternative, because

Mrs Hilda Maxwell wasn’t that kind of a woman. Now if it had been Florrie. . . .

He dragged on his overcoat, picked up his soft felt hat, and went downstairs. As he opened the

bottom door the wind wrenched it from his hand and as he went to grab it with one hand he flung

out his other arm and caught hold of Florrie, where she was staggering back from the impact of

the door. Only in time he caught her and prevented her from falling, and as he held her he

shouted above the wind. ”I’m sorry; the door sprang out of my hand.”

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”It’s all right. It’s all right” - she was laughing as she pulled her hat straight on her head - ”it was my fault; I was hugging the wall.”

He was still steadying her when he shouted, ”She’s out. . . Hilda. She’s at the cemetery. But let

yourself in. She leaves the key on top of the wooden stanchion of the door.” He pointed, then

added on a laugh, ”First place a burglar would look.”

He didn’t loosen his hold on her but led her towards the door, and it was he who took the key

from its hiding place and opened the door, and not until he was inside and the door closed did his

hand leave her arm.

Both hands free now, she lifted them upwards and took off her hat, saying, ”I must look a right

mess. And trust me to wear a hat with a brim as big as this, on a day like this an’ all.” She

fluttered the hat in her hand as she added, ”But it goes with the suit.”

He stood a little way back from her now and looked her up and down before saying, ”It’s a lovely

suit, a lovely rig-out altogether. With your taste you couldn’t have gone in for anything else but

clothes; no, you couldn’t.”

He had discovered some weeks ago that she dealt in clothes, and not just ordinary clothes, club

clothes, or those to be found hanging in lines in the big stores. Hers were the exclusive Yvonne

models, sold in a small exclusive shop in a side street at the bottom of Brampton Hill.

He was taking a short cut one day when bringing in a car for repairs and he had drawn the car up

sharply on the sight of her locking the shop door - it was natural to offer her a lift home and

when she was seated beside him he said, ”So you work there ?”

”Yes, you could say that.”

”That sounds like a yes and no answer.”

”Well, I do work there, but it’s my shop.”

”Yours!”

”Yes. Look where you’re going!” she had said quickly as he turned towards her. ”Why be so

surprised? Why shouldn’t I have a shop like that ?”

”No ... no reason whatever I suppose, only I’ve heard it referred to as the most exclusive shop in

Fellburn. I’ve often wondered how it kept going, who the people are who have the money to

buy . . . well, your kind of clothes.”

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f

”You’d be surprised.” .

”Yes, I suppose I would.” : :

He said now, ”What is the material, corduroy?”

”Corduroy velvet.”

”It’s beautiful”

He was looking into her face. She was beautiful too. He had imagined her face as being just

interesting but now it was beautiful; her skin had picked up a glow from the reddish brown of the

material.

He blinked rapidly now as he asked, ”How is your father getting along?”

”Oh, he’s much better. He’s on his feet again and bawling like a bull, so he’s all right. I got him

into a new suit yesterday. Aw” she turned her head to the side - ”Aw, you never saw anything

like it. The poor man in the shop, it’s a good job he knew me else he would have thrown him out.

Dad said he’d come round here with me today just to show Hilda.” She poked her head forward

ntid made a moue with her lips. ”You know what he yelled out in the shop?”

He shook his head as he smiled widely at her.

” ’The next bloody thing you’ll have me in is nancy knickers, bloody plus-fours.’ I know I have a

tough hide but oh, was I glad when I got him outside.” She was bending towards him now, her

hand on her mouth as she laughed and his laugh was joining hers, deep and free, as he pictured

the old fellow being true to type, when the door burst open, seemingly they thought with the

wind, because they both turned swiftly and their shoulders touched; but there, her face

expressing her feelings, stood Hilda.

”How did you get in here ?” She was leaning against the door now staring at her sister, but it was

Abel who answered her, saying quickly, ”I told her where the key was, I opened the door.”

”Then you had no right to. What right have you anyway to come in here when I’m not about?

And you!” She pulled herself from the door and it looked for a moment as if she were going to

extend her arm either to strike or to punch Florrie, but instead she pointed at her. ”You knowl go

to the cemetery every Sunday. You picked your time, didn’t you? Oh, I know what you’re after.”

Florrie didn’t answer, but for a moment she seemed to grow taller; her face from being pink-hued

was now deathly white; and it was she who thrust out her arm now and, pushing her sister

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from the door, opened it and walked slowly out.

As Abel stood looking down into Hilda’s tight-drawn face he thought for the moment he was in

the cottage facing Lena again in the throes of one of their frequent battles, and his voice sounded

as if he was really dealing with his wife when he cried, ”You want to be careful, you can go so

far. . . .”

”Don’t tell me how far I can go, Mr Gray.” She walked round ’ him, then sidewards to the table,

keeping her eyes on him all the time, and there she tore off her black velour hat and flung it on to a chair as she used his very words:
”You
want to be careful,j/«w’// go too far.” Then leaning across the table towards him, she cried, ”You know nothing about it; you know nothing about

her. She’s bad, she’s man mad. Always has been. She breaks up homes. You think she’s nice,

funny, amusing to be with; the wives of the men she takes don’t think that, let me tell you. The

one who’s running her now is married with four children, and he’s lasted the longest, six years.

Just think, Mr Gray, just think what the wives must feel. And you say
I
go too far. Oh, I know what she’s up to, and if you had any sense you’d see it an’ all. Oooh!” She let out a long- ”

drawn sigh and her fury seemed to seep away with her escaping breath as she sank down into a

chair and dropped her head into her hand. She was quiet for a moment; then more to herself than

to him she said, ’ ’All my life I’ve been plagued with her, plagued that’s the word, and he’s taken

her part against me. But then, of course, he would, she’s a kept woman and she keeps him mostly

out of it, so of course he would take her part. It’s natural, isn’t it ?”

She seemed to have forgotten his presence until he said quietly, ”I’m going for a walk.” He had

opened the door and had one foot in the yard when she called softly, ”Abel. Abel, don’t go.”

He took no heed of the plea in her voice but closed the door before going quickly across the yard,

out into the road, past the gates, and into the open country.

He must have walked for two hours, by which time he had circled the outskirts of the town, come

through Bog’s End, through the deserted market place, up by the equally deserted park, and was

now approaching Brampton Hill itself.

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As he struggled up the incline, the force of the wind caused him to lower his head into his chest.

If anything, the wind had increased and he knew it wouldn’t let up until the rain started, and the

low, dark sky promised this at any moment. He was within ten minutes’ walk of the house but he

didn’t want to go back there, at least not until there was a chance of his getting up to his rooms

without her spotting him, and the light was good for another hour yet.

When he came to a stop at the big iron gates of number 46 he questioned himself if it had been

his intention from the beginning to make for here, and the answer gabbled in his mind, God no !

for he’d had enough for one day. He didn’t want to hear anything more from either of them.

Why did he get himself entangled in these situations ? Ever since first setting out on the road it

had been the same. No, no ; he had to be honest about it, the entanglement had started with Alice;

before that he had been just a married man, a bored, frustrated, unhappy man. But he was still a

married man, he must remember that, the only difference now was he was no longer bored or

frustrated. . . . Aw, hold your hand a minute. He jerked his shoulders and nodded his head at the

thought that had taken on shape, and he answered it, If I’m not frustrated then what is it that’s

eating me ? Why am I here ? Come on, why am I here ? The reply was a little while in coming, it

came as he was walking along the gravel drive: If she’s had so many one more won’t make much

difference.

As he walked around the side of the house towards the french windows the wind met him with

renewed force and, as he approached the windows, it seemed to be filled with voices. It was these

voices which brought him to a stop before he actually reached the door. The drawing-room he

saw was lighted and she was standwith her back to him ; and not a yard from the door and to the

side, holding on to one of the partially open french windows with both hands, was her father, and

he was yelling at her, ”You tell her an’ as God’s me judge I’ll never speak to you again as long as

I live. Do you hear? I’ll never open me lips to you. You breathe one word of it, one word . . .I’m

warnin’ you!”

”You can warn me all you like” - Florrie’s voice was as high as his now - ”you can threaten all

you like. You’ve done it since I can remember anything. Well, I’m telling you, Dad, and I mean

it, just one more insulting remark from her and she’ll get it, in one

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mouthful she’ll get it. You’re a bastard! I’ll say.
ïnfyery
sense of the word you’re a bastard.”

There was a pause during which only the voice of the gusting wind came to him; then he could

just make out Mr Donnelly’s words as he said, ”You wouldn’t, Florrie, you wouldn’t do that.”

”I would, Dad. Get this into your head, I would, and I will. I’ve stood enough. You’ve always

said yourself there’s nobody either black or white, but all shades of grey. Well, she’s made me

out to be deep black, pitch black. She tells people I’m bad, rotten. I know what I am, nobody

better, but I’m not what she makes me out to be. And that man today was given the impression I

was the lowest of the low. And you know why ?”

He saw her now thrust her hand out and place it above her father’s and bang the door closed, and

he strained his ears to listen but no sound came from the room. He could see her face now, her

profile contorted with anger; and her father’s face, his eyebrows raised, his hand napping as if

dismissing what she was saying.

He was actually hesitating whether to step forward or to go back when the decision was made for

him by a slate hurtling down from the roof and missing him by inches before crashing on to the

terrace to the side of him.

The french window was now open; Fred Donnelly was standing on the step looking at him and

shouting, ”What the hell do you want here?”

”Nothing.” The answer sounded inane even to himself.

”Well, I hope you bloody well find it. It’s a pity it missed you,” he said, looking down on the

splintered slate; then he marched away along by the side of the house.

”Come in; I want to close the door.” She was gasping as if she had been fighting against the

wind.

He paused a moment before stepping into the room, and when she closed the doors behind her

the peace, the warmth and the silence enveloped him so quickly and to such an extent that for the

moment he felt weak and slightly stupid as if the tile actually had hit him.

That was until she demanded, ”How long have you been standing there ?”

”I ... I couldn’t say.”

She turned from him, then put her doubled fist to her mouth and closed her eyes before walking

towards the fire. There she

no

thrust out her hands towards it as if she were seeking warmth, and now she asked flatly, ”Why

had you to come here at this time?”

”I don’t know.”

She swung round and faced him, shouting at him now, ”Don’t say that! That’s what they . . .”

She stopped abruptly and once more her doubled fist was pressed against her mouth. Nor did he

move from where he was as he said, ”Why don’t you finish, that’s what they all say?”

But his face screwed up in protest as she screamed at him. ”Yes ! that’s what they all say, all

three of them.”

Her voice had been so loud and so high that he looked quickly towards the door, then upwards.

”Don’t worry,” she cried; ”this is an old house, the walls are thick, and this flat is detached,

there’s only a cellar below. I can shout as much as I like. In any case if we were right in the

middle of the hall I’d still shout. And now I’m going to tell you something so we can get it

straight. I am thirtytwo years old; there have been three men in my life; the last one has lasted for six years.
I am not a prostitute,”