Appointment with Yesterday (17 page)

*

It was only after she had been travelling round on the tube for quite a while that Milly’s heart began to slow down, and she gradually took in that she was safe. Gilbert must be dead by now, or so deep in coma that nothing would ever rouse him. And it was not until later still that the implications of this began, gradually, to force themselves upon her slowly clearing consciousness. When they found him—when the police came to investigate—they would find the door locked and bolted on the outside: they would learn the cause of death, and that the dead man’s wife had suddenly and mysteriously disappeared. In the face of all this evidence, how could she ever convince them that she hadn’t murdered him?

She had, of course. That was the trouble.

By sitting watching while he ate the drugged meal: by locking him in the room so that he could not go for help: by taking no steps herself to inform doctor or police: by all these omissions and commissions, she had killed her husband as surely as if she had done it with her bare hands.

M
ILLY REACHED UP
and touched her hair. It was damp with the sea-wind, and her face was stinging from the blown spray. From these things, and from her icy hands, she knew that she must have been walking home from Mrs Day’s
along the sea front: but she remembered nothing of it, so totally had she been reliving the awful weeks that had brought her former life to an end. Looking about her now, she saw that she was nearly home. Already it must be quite late, for the little lighted shops on the corner of Leinster Terrace were just beginning to close, and at the sight of these familiar landmarks, the black memories fell away, like an illness when recovery has set in.

She was here! She was safe in the present! These were the lights of Seacliffe, and this salty wind that whipped at her scarf and through her hair was the wind of now! The past was gone, she had escaped from it for ever: and that night, her dreams, for the first time, were all of Seacliffe. Strangely, they were not very happy dreams, a thread of stress and anxiety ran through them all. She dreamed that she had lent Kevin Mrs Graham’s typewriter, and somehow could not return it in time, she was hurrying with it towards a bus stop, and the driver would not wait, though she shouted at him, and waved the typewriter as she ran, trying to explain to him about Mrs Graham’s degree in Sociology, and how angry she would be. Next she dreamed that she had lost a parcel of clothes, and Mrs Mumford would not let her leave the house till she had found them. “But I never even groped them!” she seemed to be protesting, with the
meaningless
intensity of dreams—and woke to the sound of
torrential
rain beating against her window, and the grey, half-light of the winter morning warning her that it must already be nearly nine.

It was bad enough getting to Mrs Graham’s in weather like this, but walking from there to Mrs Lane’s was worse still. She had no mackintosh, or umbrella, the way was almost all uphill, and by the time she arrived her scarf clung like a bit of limp washing round her soaked hair. As she slopped through the puddles at the side of the house, and pushed open the side door, she prayed that there would be some heating on somewhere. She had had enough of all those bright open fires that would be glowing in every room once Phyllis had “got things organised”.

A housewife who is still trying to get things organised after
eighteen years is unlikely to spring many dramatic
improvements
on you between Monday and Wednesday; and so Milly was unsurprised to find the heating arrangements unchanged—small, bronchial oil-heaters muttering and scolding in odd corners of the high, draughty rooms. The kitchen was a nice surprise, though: all the burners of the gas cooker had been turned full on, including the oven, and the dry, airless heat wrapped itself round Milly’s chilled body like a warmed blanket the moment she stepped into the room.

Lovely! As she stood right up against the open oven door, the heat puffing gloriously against her soaked skirt, Milly hastily forgave Mrs Lane—Phyllis, that is—for all that imaginary driftwood, and for the undelivered loads of coal.

But where
was
Phyllis—Milly was training herself to think of her employer by her Christian name, as requested, but it was difficult, particularly since Phyllis still persisted in addressing her, Milly, as “Mrs Barnes”. It was the sort of inverted snobbery you had to expect, Milly supposed, from people rich enough to own a draughty great house like this, with cobwebs all over its ornate, inaccessible ceilings, and an acre of neglected garden. Such indifference to the opinions of the neighbours argued money on quite a big scale … and it was at this point in her musings that Milly heard the unmistakeable sound of a row going on. Voices, suddenly raised, came from somewhere across the hall—from Mr Lane’s study, it must be…. Squelching cautiously across the kitchen in her still-soaked shoes, Milly pushed open the door into the hall and listened, agog with curiosity.

Alas: the proverb about eavesdroppers is usually all too true: rarely indeed do they hear any good of themselves.

“I said the
filter
!” Mr Lane (it could only be him) was yelling. “What the hell’s happened to the filter? Can’t you tell that bloody woman to leave my things alone?”

Milly stiffened, and raked her conscience. What filter? What did it look like? Was it made of tin? Or paper? Or plastic? Could she have thrown it away as rubbish? Or added it to Michael’s electric train set? Or put it away in the knife-drawer with all
those apple-coring gadgets and the cake-icing outfit? None of these suggestions were quite the right kind of oil to pour on the troubled waters behind that study door, so she just kept very quiet, glad to be where she was. When a man is carrying on like this, it is good to be the one who is not married to him.

She could hear a soft pitter-patter of words from Phyllis now, evidently meant to be conciliatory: and then Mr Lane’s voice bellowed forth again:

“Well, get rid of her, then! Why can’t you ever get a decent, capable cleaner who understands her job?
Other
women don’t have all this trouble with their servants!”

It might have been Julian himself speaking!
Other
women can do this…. other women can do that … other women seem to manage…. Milly, lurking out in the hall, shivered with sheer thankfulness that, on this occasion, she was merely the erring domestic, and not the hapless wife. Some one else, this time, had to smooth it all down, calm the raging husband, and get the matter put right without offending the char, or the cook, or whoever. Look, Mary/Doris/Maureen, I wonder if you could possibly … if you wouldn’t awfully mind … you see my
husband
is rather particular about his … and so if you
could
possibly do it this way and not that way…. Placating,
groveling
, abasing herself before them, and all the while aware of Julian in the background, despising her, maddened by her devious timidity (“Why don’t you
tell
them what you want done? Are you mistress in your own house, or aren’t you?”).

“Are you mistress in your own house or aren’t you …?” Mr Lane was shouting, and Milly’s heart twisted with pity for poor Phyllis, knowing exactly what she was going through. She longed to burst into the study crying: “It’s all right, it’s all right! I shan’t be offended if he shouts at me, I shan’t give notice! I daresay it
is
my fault about the filter, just tell me what the wretched thing
is,
and then I might remember what I did with it … and anyway, it’ll probably turn out that he lost it himself, and then that’ll be your fault, too …!”

“… how the hell you can expect me to remember what I put in which drawer!” Mr Lane was blustering defensively: and
from the way the drawer slammed shut, Milly knew that the filter had turned up in it, exactly where he had put it himself. “It’s impossible ever to find anything in this bloody house! The whole place is like a pigsty! What does that damned woman do with herself all those hours you pay her for?”

“Hush, Eric! She’ll hear you!” Phyllis was trying to speak in an undertone, but her voice was squeaky with dismay. “I think I heard her come in …!”

“You ‘think you heard her come in’! Well, that’s just great, isn’t it? Is
this
what she calls half past two? You let her come swanning along at ten minutes to three, and—”

“
Quarter
to, dear,” Phyllis interposed nervily: and Milly could almost have shouted at her. It would only make him angrier; and it wasn’t as if a matter of five minutes this way or that affected the principle of the thing.

“… tell her you’re not standing for it! Tell her that if it happens again, she can bloody well look for another job!”—and if Milly had only realised that this was the parting shot, she would have been able to leap out of sight in time. But as it was, she miscalculated the timing entirely. She had assumed that still to come was the bit about being ashamed to bring this friends home, and about his shirts never having any buttons on … and so when he burst from the study like a charging bull, he was only just able to skid to a halt in time to avoid colliding with her.

He was not a big man. The red, engorged face and the small bloodshot eyes were barely on a level with her own, and the first thought that flashed through her mind was: He’s not like Julian after all! Not a bit like Julian!

“Ah! Er! G-good afternoon, Mrs Barnes,” he stammered: and giving one hunted glance into the study behind him he turned and fled up the stairs as fast as—or perhaps even faster than—his dignity as master of the house would allow.

Milly shrugged. The husbands were all like this—terrified to a man. At the beginning of her career in domestic service, she had sometimes indulged vague, Jane Eyre-ish daydreams, in which the unhappily married husband of one of her employers
found himself watching her as she worked … felt himself soothed by her quiet efficiency … and increasingly aware of the wordless sympathy in her modestly downcast eyes. But she knew by now that you could keep your eyes modestly downcast for ever, and radiate enough wordless sympathy to power the whole of the Marriage Guidance Council, and not one of these husbands would notice a thing. How could they, when at the first tremor of Daily-Helping in any part of the house, they would be off like mountain deer, dodging from ledge to ledge until the danger was over? Milly amused herself for the first part of the afternoon by studying Mr Lane’s itinerary as he slunk from room to room, alerted by Milly’s dread footfalls approaching, or by the menacing hum of the vacuum cleaner, moving in for the kill.

Milly wondered how Phyllis was going to tackle this business of her lateness. “Tell her she can bloody well look for another job,” had been Mr Lane’s suggestion, from the safe distance at which he had been at pains to put himself: but Milly knew very well that whatever else Phyllis said, it wouldn’t be
that.
The charge of unpunctuality was not unjustified, Milly well knew. It was impossible, sometimes, to get away from Mrs Graham’s on time, what with lunch so often being delayed, either because Professor Graham was late, thus keeping them all waiting, or else because he wasn’t, thus interrupting his wife’s train of thought just as she was about to type her final sentence. Milly couldn’t go until she had cleared up lunch, and naturally she couldn’t clear up lunch until it had been eaten. And then there were Alison’s vitamins, often trodden deep into the carpet, and needing ten minutes’ hard scrubbing to remove them. They again couldn’t be cleaned off the floor until Alison had finished throwing them there. So, one way and another, Milly rarely got to the Cedars before twenty or quarter to three, and so far there had been no fuss about it at all. Now, of course, there would have to be one.

“Er! Mrs Barnes!” Phyllis gave a bright little laugh and edged further round the kitchen door, clutching the doorknob
with hands that Milly knew were sweating. The poor woman looked as if she were going to her own execution.

“
What
a wet day!” she gasped out, with a ghastly, fixed smile on her face, and not looking at Milly. “Oh, dear, yes!
What
a stinker! The rain, I mean. Doesn’t it? Oh, Mrs Barnes, how
clever
of you! Doing all those! Oh, you
are
making them look nice!”

It was true, actually: and if only Phyllis hadn’t always said this about everything, Milly would have glowed with pride. All this blackened Edwardian silver had been quite a find, really. In her afternoon jobs, Milly was always on the look-out for tasks which would get her off her feet for half an hour or so, and so when she came across this lot on a top shelf of the icy great room called the library, she had pounced on them and borne them off in triumph to the nice warm kitchen. And so now, half an hour later, here she was, sitting happily at the kitchen table, rubbing the beauty back into one blackened teapot or sauce-boat after another, while lovely warmth puffed against her back from the oven, and her aching legs rested surreptitiously on the bars of a chair under the table.

“Oh, it
will
be nice to have them done!” Phyllis jabbered nervously. “Oh, Eric
will
be pleased! He’s always saying….”

I bet he is, thought Milly: and wondered at the same time if this was the lead-in? If so, how was it going to go? How was the unfortunate Phyllis going to work round from Mr Lane’s alleged delight in the polished silver to Milly’s shortcomings in the matter of punctuality?

“Eric
does
so like to see things looking …” Phyllis went on, her words gathering speed as the crunch drew nearer. “Well, a man does, doesn’t he, when he’s fond of? I mean, so much of it has been in his family since. He was only saying today how nice the house looks since you’ve been coming, Mrs Barnes.”

Having overheard the actual tenor of the conversation to which Phyllis was presumably referring, Milly found it hard to suppress a slight start: but Phyllis seemed to notice nothing, and continued: “And so we were wondering. It’s only a suggestion, Mrs Barnes. I mean, it’s not as if. We. I. Eric
thinks. From
our
point of view, I mean, if you were here as long as possible? So we thought, I thought, if you
could,
by
any
chance, get here by quarter past two instead of half past …?”

Then, when the wretched woman is a quarter of an hour late, it’ll still only be half past, and Eric won’t know a thing about it: Milly could have finished the unspoken part of the sentence for her. It was a shame—it really was—that all this conglomeration of lies was to achieve nothing.

“I’m terribly sorry,” began Milly—and she meant it—“But it’s my other job, you see. I can’t leave there until after two, and so….”

“Yes, yes! Of course, of course! I quite understand! Don’t worry about it for one moment …!”

Poor Phyllis! This panic-stricken servility—Milly saw it clearly now—was largely forced on her by the fact of being rich. Moralists have been saying for thousands of years that riches are a burden: and now, in the twentieth century, it has suddenly become true, in a perfectly straightforward and practical sense. In the old days, Milly mused, anyone who could afford to own all this real silver would also have been able to afford someone to stop it getting tarnished like this. Anyone rich enough to live in a large house like this, with its vast fireplaces and high, ornate ceilings, would also have been rich enough to employ a team of living-in servants. Sturdy young girls in aprons and print dresses would have lit the fires, polished the grates, and brushed the cobwebs off the ceilings. The coal-man would have come of his own accord, and there would have been someone working full time in the garden. Service on that sort of scale was what money used to buy: now it can only buy things. And so the rich
do
buy things—what else can they do?—and as their possessions pile up, and there are still no extra hands to polish them, or send them to the cleaners, or get them repaired, or even to put them away—so, inevitably, does a special kind of plushy squalor begin to invade the homes of the great—a squalor that grows, like mould, on cheques and dividends, and multiplies, at an
accelerating rate, with every increment of income. No wonder wealthy husbands become so irascible—the more money they bring home, the more messy and disorganised their homes become and the more distracted their wives (“I can’t
understand
her, she’s got
everything
!”—never realising that just as
something
inevitably takes up
some
of your time, so
everything
is liable to take up all of it). No wonder that the less efficient of the wives (like Phyllis) were tending more and more to turn their backs on the whole thing, and to pretend to be poor. This way, they hoped, gracious living would no longer be demanded of them, nor an elegant appearance; and while this did not eliminate the problem entirely, it certainly lightened it. A problem tackled in a torn jersey is a problem halved.