Nuns and Soldiers (49 page)

‘How do we know? Is he a friend of Tim’s?’

‘Yes, but Ed thought more like a sort of pub acquaintance. He knows both Tim and the girl.’

‘The girl - who is she?’

‘She’s a girl called Daisy Barrett, she’s a painter. Apparently she and Tim have been living together for years and years.’

‘And he never told Gertrude this?’

‘Manfred is pretty sure he didn’t, but of course we can’t be certain, and anyway he can’t have told her about - about the plot -’

‘And he’s been back with this girl since he’s been with Gertrude? ’

‘Yes. So it’s said.’

Anne thought, if Tim had told Gertrude of a long-standing liaison, Gertrude would certainly, out of a self-defensive prudence, have said something about it at some point to Anne, especially since she was so sensitive about Anne’s sceptical view of Tim. She would have said, ‘Of course Tim has had a girl friend for some time, but that was over before he began to love me.’ Since Gertrude had said nothing of this kind it was quite probable that Gertrude did not know of any such girl.

‘It’s pretty shadowy,’ said Anne. But already her swift mind had set it out. Tim and Daisy, Gertrude and Peter. No wonder Peter looked so guiltily excited.

He came now abruptly away from the window and sat down on the sofa, almost disappearing behind his knees.

‘Anne, could I have a drink, please? I feel so shocked.’

Anne moved slowly to the cupboard and poured out sherry. She gave him the glass, their hands not touching. She was always careful not to touch him. She said, ‘It’s very possible that he’s had a long-standing mistress and kept quiet about it. But I can’t believe he’s been with her since his marriage, and as for this idea of a plot to have a rich wife so as to keep his mistress, that’s
impossible
; that would be wicked, and Tim’s not wicked. I think he’sa-I’ve never said this to you before -’

‘What?’ The Count looked at her eagerly.

Oh he’s so
pleased
, she thought in despair. ‘Only impressions - I think Tim’s just a sort of natural liar, he wants everything to be easy and nice and he wouldn’t tell any unpleasant truth unless he had to - he’d always have some way of convincing himself that it didn’t matter. Of course I may be quite wrong -’

Peter, more soberly, said, ‘I’ve always liked Tim and I’ve never - made any
estimate
of him - morally. Why should I? It’s not for me to judge -’

Anne watched his scrupulous gentle puzzled look and groaned to herself. ‘Only now perhaps one has to. But what on earth can we do? It’s just a wild story. We’ll have to ignore it. It really isn’t our business.’ But already Anne could see before her the absolute necessity of pursuing the matter, of sifting it, of finding out the truth - the truth which could be her ruin. And to which she must
run
as if to her beloved.

‘You mean leave it and forget it - and let it blow over?’

Anne could see in Peter’s face, could read clearly in his mind, the counterpart of her own scrupulous calculation. Peter would not pursue his own advantage any more than she could pursue hers. Now that, after the first excitement, he saw the situation and where he stood, how to gain and how to lose, he would have to say: leave it, do not disturb them, do not do anything, anything in the world, that might divide those two. The sharp necessity of action rested with Anne.

The light had died out of Peter’s eyes. ‘You are right, Anne. We have no business to do anything. I’ll tell Manfred. As you say, it’s so shadowy.’

‘But as you say, how can we not consider it and go into it?’

‘Yes, butI-now that I think about it-I see that it’s not proper. A wild story, it’s not evidence - We can’t possibly interfere -’

‘We ought at least to make some sort of discreet inquiry if we can, try to find out if - if it’s even partly true.’

‘Yes, but I see now that it can’t be true.’

‘What does Manfred think that we ought to do?’

‘He doesn’t know. He’d like to consult with you. He thought that maybe we could find out a little more.’

‘Has Manfred told anyone else?’

‘No. But he couldn’t see how we could find out without - and it would be so awful if -’

‘The Roland man has disappeared, but what about the girl, Daisy Barrett? Does anyone know where she is?’

‘No - at least there’s some pub where she and Tim used to go and it was in that pub that Jimmy Roland heard them making this plan -’

‘Oh
no
, it’s too disgusting, Peter, I can’t believe it.’

‘Neither can I. I wish I hadn’t told you. Let’s leave it alone.’

‘We
can’t.
Where’s this pub?’

‘It’s called the Prince of Denmark, near Fitzroy Square.’

 

 

Anne rang the bell.

‘Hello,’ said a voice from the speaker beside the door.

‘Is that Miss Barrett?’

‘Yes. What do you want?’

‘I’m a friend of Tim Reede, can I come in for a moment?’

There was a pause. ‘Are you female?’

‘Yes.’

There was a buzz and the door opened. Anne went in.

The hall was dark and smelly. Miss Barrett’s name was in the slot marked
Second Floor.
Anne mounted the stairs and knocked.

‘Come in.’

Daisy had not been difficult to find. Anne herself had gone to the Prince of Denmark. When it had become so dreadfully clear to her that she must uncover the truth, however awful, she was possessed of a ferocious urgent energy. The task was hers and hers alone. Manfred was full of scrupulous worries and doubts. He asked Anne, via the Count whom she saw again on the day following his disclosure, to come and discuss the matter, but she said this was unnecessary. It appeared that, in spite of vows of discretion, Ed Roper had already told the rumour to some of his friends, and that Moses Greenberg had heard it somehow, and had telephoned Manfred. It seemed clear, at any rate Anne announced that it was clear, that someone should investigate, that she would do it, and at once. She explained her plan to the Count. It was the simplest possible. She would find and talk to Daisy Barrett; and if she decided there was ‘nothing in it’ would depart without revealing her purpose. She decided against inventing any elaborate falsehood. She felt sure that she would soon discover what was necessary, and that it was better to speak impromptu and without any previous scheming. The Count was understandably paralysed. He said in his quaint old-fashioned way that surely he should escort Anne to the pub. Anne replied with unusual brusqueness, ‘Peter, I am not a nun.’

In fact she had felt shy and nervous when, at six o’clock the previous evening, she entered the Prince of Denmark. She particularly dreaded an immediate public confrontation with Daisy Barrett, the necessity of requesting a private talk. And suppose Tim were actually there with her . . .? She wanted to find out where Daisy lived. Suppose people questioned her, asked her why, told her to mind her own business? No such difficulties arose. She asked the publican who asked a man sitting at the counter who asked someone else (who happened to be Piglet) who produced the address.

‘Friend of Daisy’s?’ ‘Yes, I’ve just come to London.’ ‘She may be in later.’ ‘Thanks.’ Anne had postponed her visit till the next morning.

It was about midday. It had been raining earlier. Now the sun shone upon wet roofs and pavements, bringing out a blue glare. Daisy’s little room was bright with reflected light and Anne blinked as she entered. Although the window was open the room smelt of alcohol.

At first there seemed to be no one there. Then, behind a lattice screen in a corner to her right, she saw a tall thin woman in jeans and a khaki shirt, fiddling at a gas stove.

‘Just making lunch,’ said Daisy Barrett. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘My name’s Anne Cavidge. Please forgive me -’

Anne had deliberately arrived without an idea in her head. Now she felt suddenly at a loss, as if she were making an embarrassing social call; and indeed in a way that was just what she was doing.

‘Have a drink,’ said Daisy.

She emerged from behind the screen and Anne saw her more clearly. She was tall, a little taller than Anne, and very thin and gaunt. Her hair, a greyish-darkish mixture, was rather tangled, cut short and swept back behind her ears. Her face was weary. It was not markedly wrinkled but was moulded by anxiety and exasperation, eaten by time, although she looked still young, even handsome. Remnants of bright powdery-blue make-up surrounded the large dark brown eyes, and dry faded flaky lipstick spotted the long mouth whose corners drooped into long pencil-thin lines. Anne felt sudden pity, and at the same time a sense of something formidable in this shabby unkempt figure. Daisy was not at all what she had expected; and she realized now how naïve she had been to imagine that ‘the mistress’ would turn out to be something small and pert and fluffy.

Anne was about to refuse the drink but then thought she had better accept it. ‘Thanks.’

Daisy gave her a large glass of
vin rosé
from a flagon and sat down at the table and poured out one for herself. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

‘Is it raining?’

‘No.’

‘Well, I suppose it can’t be, that stuff looks like sunshine out there. What did you say your name was?’

‘Anne Cavidge.’

‘Never heard of you. Do you paint?’

‘No.’

‘I can’t make head or tail of you then. Heigh ho. Would you like some lunch? There’s nothing but beans today. Today, I say, as if there was fillet steak other days. Are you a vegetarian?’

‘No.’

‘You look like a vegetarian.’

‘I won’t have any lunch,’ said Anne.

‘Just as well, there ain’t enough for two, I wasn’t serious anyway. Drink up. You haven’t said what you want. How did you find me anyway?’

‘I asked at the Prince of Denmark.’

‘I’ve never seen you at the Prince. How did you know I knew Tim? Silly question, everybody knows.’

‘Of course I knew about you and Tim,’ said Anne. ‘I know you’ve been together for years and -’

‘OK, OK. You’re a funny piece. How do you know Tim, were you at infant school together? Are you looking for a long-lost friend?’

‘No -’

‘What’s it in aid of then? Are you from the police? You could be a policewoman now I come to think of it.’

‘No. What makes you think of the police?’

‘I’m always thinking of the police. And Tim is
capable de tout.
He’s not in trouble, well he’s always in trouble, he’s not in any special trouble is he?’

‘No.’

‘We don’t seem to be getting anywhere. Let’s not talk about Tim, I’m not in the mood. Let’s talk about you. How old are you?’

Anne blushed at the direct question. ‘Thirty-eight.’

‘What do you do for a living? Your mac is quite expensive, though not new. Do take it off by the way and sit down.’

Anne took off her black convent mackintosh and sat down on a rickety kitchen chair. She was wearing a white Liberty summer dress closely covered with a pink cherry-blossom design, a present from Gertrude. She nervously tucked in the skirt behind her knees. She sipped her wine.

‘I seem to be making all the conversation. Don’t look so frightened. I’m not going to eat you. I’m glad of a mystery visitor, I don’t have many visitors, mystery or otherwise. I like the way you do your hair, it’s like mine. Are you married?’

‘No.’

‘Gay?’

‘What?’

‘Queer?’

‘No.’

‘What do you get up to then? Are you a writer?’

‘No.’

‘I am. Have another drink. You’re not drinking up.’

‘I thought you were a painter,’ said Anne.

‘No - used to paint - gave it up - I’m a novelist. Writing’s hell though. But what do you do if you’re not a writer or a painter or a homosexual or a housewife?’

‘Until lately I’ve been a nun,’ said Anne. The conversation which was not going at all as she had intended, was confusing her and she could not invent a lie. Nor did she want to. She found herself unable to help rather liking Daisy. But it was time to take control of the interrogation and find out exactly what she needed to know. There might be no other chance. In fact a vague acquaintance leading to another meeting was unthinkably out of the question.

‘A
nun
? Oh
Jesus
! Not the kind that’s all shut up and looked at through bars?’

‘Yes, that kind.’

‘It must be awful. There’s something rather attractive about it though, sort of exciting. You ought to write a novel about it, could be a best seller. It’s the sort of morbid stuff people want to know about. I wish I had your experience, it might get my stuff moving. Why not write a novel? Nun tells all. I bet there were goings-on in your convent, weren’t there?’

‘No.’

‘You’re blushing! Why did you leave, chucked out?’

‘No, I lost my faith.’

‘RCI suppose? I went to a ghastly convent school in France until I ran away. I never had any faith. Shitty sort of childhood. What are you doing now?’

‘I’m trying to get a teaching job, but -’

‘No luck? Unemployed like me. It’s a lousy society for creative people. Where do you live?’

‘Camden.’

‘What’s your local? I mean your local pub, God can’t you understand English?’

‘I haven’t got one.’

‘Haven’t got one? Oh well, it’s understandable. I’ll find you one. What’s your poison? Sorry, I mean what do you drink? I mean, like some people only drink Young’s beer or something.’

‘I drink wine -’

‘Ah, a wino! I love winos. Wine bars, I know hundreds. We might go on a wine crawl sometime. Anyway since you go to the Prince of Denmark we could meet there.’

‘I don’t go actually -’

‘Well, yer better make a start, hadden yer? We’re all on social security these days, got to stick together. Why not let’s meet at the old Prince this evening and I’ll take you to a dinkum wine bar in Hanway Street?’