Out of the Blackout (19 page)

‘So you don't deny she was murdered?'

‘Oh, murder,' said Connie dismissively. ‘I'm no friend to Len, but I wouldn't call it that. And I don't think the law would either. What's that other word? Manslaughter. I should have thought that even the police, if they'd ever been involved, would have called it manslaughter. And, not wishing to say a good word for Len (which I've had no cause to do for many years) still, I do understand how it happened. I was always very fond of Mary, but I do think there are some women who actually invite violence. The submissive type, you know.'

She said it complacently, in a way that angered Simon.

‘They only invite violence if they come up against someone who's inclined to violence. Like Len.'

‘Like Len. Well, that's as maybe. There's a bit of violence in all of us, isn't there? I know
I
could have slapped her silly face now and then, when she used to look at me dumbly, trying to tell me what my duty was. The funny thing is, I believe in the first years of their marriage they were reasonably happy. Not unhappy, anyway. I left home soon after they got spliced, and I didn't go back till 'thirty-nine, but from what I saw on visits they jogged along perfectly comfortably. Len was pleasant enough, as long as she did what he told her. But I'd not deny Len's got a lot of violence bottled up there.'

‘Which he mostly got rid of in these rallies and demonstrations, I suppose.'

‘Oh—you know about all that, do you? What I call Len's comic opera side. Well, I suppose you would, of course. The Spurlings never did approve of that. It was all Church with your family, and the Mosleyites were never what you'd call respectable. Len took up with them soon after the marriage, and I think old man Spurling (your granddad) bitterly regretted arranging the marriage. Len became a lot too notorious locally for his liking. When you go in for that sort of politics you can't be tactful about it, or keep quiet. Len thought he was part of the wave of the future—poor bugger!—and he proclaimed it from the roof-tops every chance he got. Yes, I suppose you could say he got rid of most of his violence that way.'

‘Only when war came, that outlet was stopped.'

‘You know, I'd never thought of it in that light, but perhaps you're right. Mary copped it because Len couldn't go goose-stepping through the streets of Paddington.'

To Simon, standing over her, the cool-blooded acquiescence of Connie Simmeter in Mary's fate was almost painful. A smile had been playing around her face since she sat down, and it had now expanded into a richly reminiscent, cat-like expression, wreathing her face in what might be mistaken for good humour.

‘Watching Len when the war broke out was a real treat. It was the best revenge I could have had. Half the time he'd be rubbing his hands—you know how he does—and I knew he was thinking that within weeks the Germans would be here. Only
he never said so, of course. Just hugged to himself his little vision of what he would be then—the glorious position his faith and loyalty would win for him. But then the rest of the time . . . '

‘He was scared stiff?' hazarded Simon.

‘Right. Because there was the here and now, wasn't there? Len was the sort who'd never be able to decide to have an operation to save himself pain in the future. When he wasn't thinking of the glorious prospect of Gauleiter Simmeter, he was off his head with fear about what the authorities might do to him
before
the liberating Boche arrived. Oh, it was comic! It was rich!'

She giggled, quite unconscious of the effect her relish was having on her audience.

‘It sounds really nasty,' said Simon.

‘Not to me. I fuelled it. I just liked sitting there watching him. I'd say: “I see the
Mail
says they should round up all the Fascists as well as the aliens.” Len would jump half a foot, and say: “That's rich. Rothermere was always one of our best supporters.” And I'd say: “That's why he's so keen to make it hot for you, I suppose.” '

‘What was it he was afraid of?'

‘I don't suppose he exactly knew. Some pretty nasty things happened to suspected German sympathizers in the first war. Internment was the immediate fear. They rounded up all sorts—refugees from Hitler, Jews and that, ordinary Germans who'd been here for years, Nazi sympathizers—and they cooped them all up together . . . And sometimes they shipped them off: Canada, Australia, God knows where. One of the boats was sunk. That terrified Len.'

‘I believe Len was taken in for questioning.'

‘That's right. You
have
done your homework. The authorities were on to all the right-wing groups from quite early in the war. It was just questioning then. Len was taken in, and of course he told them that, like his Leader, he was praying for an English victory; that as soon as the chips were down he was an Englishman before all else; that the Mosleyites were in fact
super-
patriots, and no one could touch them for enthusiasm for the war. That was their line, I believe.'

‘But it wasn't true?'

‘As far as Len was concerned it was one big laugh. He'd tried to stop Teddy enlisting, as you heard. You'd only got to watch him reading the papers. As soon as the phoney war ended and they started going into Holland, Belgium, Norway, Len used to sit there reading the news, and snuffling to himself with the pleasure of it.'

Simon glanced at his watch. After midnight. Before long Len might come to investigate, and he wanted to hear Connie's version before that, the view of a comparative outsider.

‘What happened between Len and Mary?' he asked.

‘Well, not much really . . . not anything you could really pin down, not at first . . . It was all a consequence of him getting more and more jittery. They'd take him in for questioning and that'd scare the pants off him for a few weeks. Hardly a peep out of our Len. Then he'd start getting uppitty again. It wasn't so much what he
said.
That was hardly more than “Won't be long now.” It was the way he carried on: throwing his weight around in the house, laying down the law about little things, playing the big boss. Even Mother couldn't do anything with him. She was looking forward to Hitler marching down Whitehall as much as Len was, but she didn't like to see her son getting above himself in her house. She was the boss there, and always had been.'

‘She was tarred with the same brush, I gather.'

‘Politically? Oh yes, it all went back to Ma. I think that what she loved was power, and she never got enough of it. Dad submitted too easily and died too early. People like Mary just lay down in her path and let her drive over them. It was too easy; there was no relish in it. She loved the Nazis because you could
see
the power, see it being exercised. Oh yes, it was Ma behind Len . . . So, as I say, those early years of the war were all up and down with Len—no sooner had he decided the Germans would be here in a couple of weeks than he'd be hauled in for questioning, or the boss of the Paddington Mosleyites would be interned. That happened early in 1941. I remember Len panicked—scared bleeding stiff. “I don't think you're the stuff dictators are made of,” I said. “Not even the tinpot kind.” He hit me then—but I kicked him in the groin. He wasn't often violent towards me, because he knew I'd hit back, and where it'd hurt.'

‘Unlike Mary.'

‘Unlike Mary.' The smile of complacent superiority mantled
her face again. ‘Silly cow. She had only to let him have it once and he'd have given over.'

‘What went wrong between them?'

‘Oh, a lot of things. Sort of combination of circumstances. She never went along with him politically, of course. She'd do what he told her—even take little Davey along to meetings if Len really made an issue of it—but there was always this silent disagreement. She'd say, “I don't meddle with politics,” but Len knew what that meant, and so did Ma. Then, when the raids started, she wanted to take Davey out of London, for his own sake. She wanted to go with him. I don't think it was just the raids. I think she wanted to get him away from Len. Give Mary her due, she was a good mother: if you like the doting parent line you had to admit she was good with the boy.'

‘Why wouldn't he let her go? He always says how fond he was of the boy.'

‘Your guess is as good as mine. Thousands were going into the country every day, and he said he wanted Davey out of the raids. Because London was hell—for months on end it was pure hell. If you want my guess as to why he wouldn't let her go—'

‘Yes?'

‘It was pure jealousy. He was jealous of her with Davey. It wasn't that he wanted Mary in Paddington (though he did need someone there to bully), it was that he didn't want her in Sussex with the boy. You know Len—suspicious as hell. He thought she'd turn Davey against him. Thought that even if she didn't (and she wouldn't have, she wasn't the type at all), she'd become everything to him, and he, Len, nothing. Davey was the apple of his eye; he never could have borne that. So things got worse between them. Mary never put herself up openly in opposition to him, but there was that dumb resistance—all silent, passive, and doubly aggravating. Len got riled! His own wife! Len was always bloody primeval in his attitudes.'

‘So there was . . . violence.'

‘Now and then. You don't want to hear details, do you? He roughed her up a bit. First the isolated blow—you didn't need more than that with Mary . . . But then he rather got a taste for it . . .'

‘Until he murdered her.'

Connie drank down the last of her whisky, and swivelled
round in her chair to face the sad-eyed young man who was standing over her.

‘That's your word. I never used that word.'

‘You suggested manslaughter.'

‘Well, I might go along with that. If you listened to Len you'd think it was nothing more than an accident—pure bad luck. That's nonsense, of course, but you know she was a sickly little thing. Didn't your mother ever mention that? One endless series of complications, her pregnancy. I wouldn't mind betting she had a brittle skull. Of course, if the police had known what happened, they would certainly have charged Len with something—especially as they were so interested in him anyway. It would have given them a handle, and the authorities a propaganda point. But I never entirely blamed him, because he never intended more than roughing her up a bit, and I know I'd have found Mary infuriating if I'd been married to her.'

‘You take it very lightly,' said Simon bitterly. Connie shrugged.

‘Just being honest. Of course, I
pretended
to blame him . . .'

‘To get him worked up? Scared out of his wits?'

‘It didn't need me for that. He knocked her to the floor, and when she just lay there and didn't move, he started shouting at her. It was the third or fourth time he'd hit her that night, and he thought he might have gone too far. When she went on just lying there, he was absolutely pissing himself.'

‘So you moved the body—'

Connie had pricked up her ears. She had heard something from outside the room. Once again that expression of self-hugging delight appeared on her face.

‘Ah well—now you can have the pleasure of telling
him
what you think we did next. Len! In here, Len . . . I knew you'd come back. Guess what Simon here's been doing, Len.'

‘What?'

‘Looking for evidence to convict you of murder.'

Len's face had been haggard when he came in. At Connie's words he flinched as from an expected blow, and his eyes became wild with fear. Connie had got up, and had said her piece rather as if introducing the two men for the first time. Now she sat on the table, jiggling her foot up and down as if in time to some unheard Beatles song, forgetting even to pour herself a
drink. Her mouth was curved into a cat-like smile of anticipated pleasure, and she watched Len's every reaction, every symptom of his panic, with the relish of a connoisseur. Len and his mother were not the only members of the family who enjoyed the exercise of power, who fed greedily on the terrified twistings and turnings of the cornered weak.

‘Murder?' said Len, his voice suddenly rising to a squeak, after which he swallowed convulsively two or three times. ‘What are you talking about? She's not even dead yet.'

‘Who isn't?' asked Simon.

‘Mother. She's still alive. They say she'll pull through, with luck. You must be out of your mind to talk of murder. I was over by the table when she fell. Yards away from her.'

‘I know you were,' said Simon. He was in command of the room now, with Len stealing covert glances at him and trying not to catch his eye. Please God let me not get enjoyment from this, said Simon to himself. Aloud he went on: ‘I could see you by the table when she cried out. You were nowhere near her. I'm not accusing you of murdering your mother.'

‘Well, then,' said Len. His sigh of relief was audible. Suddenly he turned on his sister. ‘What the hell do you mean by saying he was? You'll be sorry for this, you bitch.'

‘What interested me,' said Simon, breaking in on him, ‘was what you said
after
your mother fell.'

Len swung back, his panic renewed.

‘Why? What did I say?'

‘You said: “Bear witness I was nowhere near her.” '

‘Well, no more I was. You saw me. You can bear witness.'

‘I can,' said Simon, still looking straight at him. ‘But that wasn't the reaction of an innocent man, was it? Why should you think you needed anyone to bear witness? Innocent of
this
—but guilty of what? You'd been afraid, for years, of being accused of killing somebody. Who was that somebody?'

‘That's nonsense! I was just confused.'

Connie smiled with feline solicitude at her writhing brother.