Prisoner's Base (4 page)

“So there she was, working away in the kitchen, not thinking about anything except getting the food all set out and ready; and after a bit there was another ring at the door, and there were a pair of members—ordinary, old members, I mean, that she knew quite well. About ten past eight it would be by then, she says. Well, she told them about this new man while they took their coats off upstairs, and then they all came down and she threw open the sitting-room door and began her speech of introduction—she was in a fluster about that, as she still hadn’t got out of him what his name was. And only then did she
observe
that he wasn’t there any more.”

“Not there?” exclaimed Margaret and Mavis, both together.
This ill-assorted pair had somehow combined to form a perfect audience, and Claudia beamed.

“Gone! Vanished! Not a sign of him. They even searched the house, because by then, of course, Daphne had begun feeling a bit nervy, wondering what he really
had
come for—whether he was anything to do with the Poetry Group at all, or if he’d just used it as an excuse to get into the house. And the trouble was, of course, she didn’t know how long he’d stayed in the sitting-room after she’d left him. He could have been roaming all round the house for the best part of half an hour, and she’d never have known, in there in the kitchen with the door shut.”

“Roaming round the house? You mean he might have been a
burglar
?”
said Mavis, narrowing her eyes shrewdly, as she often did when drawing attention to the quickness with which she could grasp a situation.

“Something like that. Well, naturally it crossed their minds. But nothing was missing, Daphne says. Though there was plenty he could have laid hands on quite easily—a watch, jewellery, a camera, her handbag with fourteen pounds in it. He’d had heaps of time to find the lot and get away.”

“But he didn’t; so he couldn’t have been a burglar after all,” declared Margaret. “So what is Daphne worrying about? It sounds as if she’s being rather silly.”

A tiny frown crossed the narrator’s face. Daphne’s silliness had been, in fact, the conclusion she had been leading up to herself, but she did not like having it whipped away from her like this by Margaret. Rather testily, she proceeded to build up the drama again.

“Well, yes. In a way,” she answered her mother grudgingly. “But after all, burglary isn’t the
only
crime, is it?”

Claudia allowed this rather cryptic suggestion to have its full effect, and then went on: “After all, you must see it from Daphne’s point of view. She’s all alone in the house; and if he didn’t come to steal, what
did
he come for? And what’s to stop him coming again? Suppose he comes again tonight, early like that, before any of the others arrive? I shouldn’t think he would, of course. I shouldn’t think they’ll ever see him again (having built up the drama again to suitable point, Claudia was now ready to knock it down in her own way). I expect that’s the last they’ll hear of him; it was probably some kind of muddle, he thought it was a different meeting, or something.
Still, you know what Daphne is, she works herself up; and since she seemed to be so jittery, I promised I’d come and hold her hand; and Mavis is nobly coming too, aren’t you, Mavis? We’re to get there well before the meeting starts, so that even if this fellow does come early again, he’ll find Daphne already surrounded by her body-guard! He won’t, of course; he won’t come at all. As I say, it was probably all some quite boring kind of mistake.”

But Claudia’s eyes were bright, her body taut and expectant. It was clear to Margaret that she
did
think the mysterious stranger would come; that there would arise some sort of
situation
in which everyone would turn to her, Claudia, for a lead. For if this man
did
turn out to be peculiar in any way, surely it would be Claudia’s gifts above all others that would be in demand? Courage — unflappability — broad-mindedness — tolerance — out-goingness — sympathy — surely at least some of these Claudia-specialities would be called into service? And could be deployed to tremendous effect in front of the whole of the Poetry Group, as well as of Mavis, who was being taken along, Margaret realised now, for this very purpose—to provide extra audience for this edifying spectacle.

Stop showing off, dear, Margaret used to say, when Claudia was seven and at a children’s party. What could you say now that she was grown up? Not that it had ever made any
difference
, even then.

B
Y A QUARTER
to eight Mavis still wasn’t ready, and Claudia glanced at her watch impatiently. The meeting didn’t start till eight thirty, but Mavis knew they had promised to arrive half an hour early. Did she understand how very
important
it was, Claudia wondered? Had she had second thoughts about coming at all—or had Mother perhaps upset her in some way? This had been happening more and more of late, and Claudia was beginning to worry about it. It seemed impossible to get Mother to understand how near Mavis had been to a nervous breakdown when she had first come here, and how much understanding and sympathy were needed to coax her back to health. “She should pull herself together” had been
Mother’s tart response to all this; typical, of course, of her generation, but all the same Claudia had been disappointed. No doubt in her own mind Mother had classed Mavis as a ‘Fallen Woman’, after the quaint nomenclature of her day and age; but even so, surely daily contact for all these months should have softened her intolerance? Surely by now she should be able to see Mavis as a
person,
and not merely as an example of the genus Fallen Woman? During all these months Mavis had been company for Mother during the long, empty days while the rest of the family were out; had helped her with the housework, had shared her otherwise solitary meals—and
still
Mother remained resentful, distant, ungracious. Making full allowance for the prejudices of the elderly—and Claudia was perfectly willing to do this—it was still hard to understand how anyone could be so self-righteous. Even if Mavis’
unmarried
motherhood
had
been a crime—which of course Claudia could not accept for one moment—even then Mother’s unremitting animosity was inexcusable. It was cruel. No
ordinary
, kindly person could have condoned it. And to Claudia who counted nothing—but
nothing
—as a crime, and who attributed all evil whatsoever to weakness, not wickedness, her mother’s attitude was utterly incomprehensible.

Had
Mother been more than usually disagreeable to Mavis today? It seemed to Claudia all too likely; after that row about the selling of the field, what more probable than that Mother, baffled and knowing herself in the wrong, would have taken it out on Mavis? The whole business of the field had really been most unfortunate. It had been a mistake, really, to ask Mr Marvin to come this morning, without making sure first that Mother would be out at the time; but on the other hand there had been too much delay already, and it was particularly
important
to get the whole thing settled before Derek came back from his congress in Oslo. Derek could be very weak and
vacillating
, especially where Mother was concerned; the less that either of them had to do with the present transaction, the better for all concerned.

Of course, Mother couldn’t be kept out of the business entirely. As she had so truculently pointed out this morning, the property was in her name, and her signature would be needed on the documents, But Claudia had hoped to have the whole thing so nearly cut and dried before Mother got wind of
it that the battle would be short and sharp, quickly over. For Mother must surely see, once it came to the point, that Claudia was right. The fact that she was right had been Claudia’s strong point all along; it was that which had made the temporary deception of her mother so perfectly legitimate.

Eight thousand pounds! Eight
thousand
! No one—not even someone as obstinate as Mother—could look that sum squarely in the face and refuse to sell. Think of all the things one could do with eight thousand pounds! Diplomatically, and in rehearsal for the battle to come, Claudia forced her mind away from the things that Claudia could do with it and on to the things that her mother could; for, of course, the money would be her mother’s during her lifetime. That’s what made it so generous of Claudia and Derek to be going to all this trouble about it all; it was all for Mother’s own sake, really; and now, instead of being grateful, all she could do was make trouble—deliberately, perversely, creating a family row out of nothing!

“I’m so sorry I’ve been so long, Claudia. I haven’t made us late, have I?”

Mavis was looking really very much better tonight, Claudia thought. Her hair was piled on top of her head, her face
carefully
made up, and she was wearing a clean, crisp cotton dress. It’s really doing her good, staying here with us, thought Claudia with satisfaction—and that in spite of Mother’s non-co-
operation
. Aloud she said:

“Oh no. Not a bit. It won’t take us five minutes in the car.”

It would take ten, actually, and they
would
be rather late, but Claudia did not want to upset Mavis by pointing it out; nor did she want to spoil Mavis’ picture of her as a person who never flapped, never fussed; a person strong enough to take other people’s weaknesses in her stride. Poor Mavis had a lot of weaknesses, of which unpunctuality was only one, and it must give her a great sense of security to watch them all being taken in Claudia’s stride, day in and day out.

“Sure you’re quite ready? Then we’ll go,” ordained Claudia; and she felt a tiny spark of disappointment as Mavis scuttled straight out of the room and through the hall without waiting to observe how unhurriedly Claudia got up from her chair, in spite of their lateness and the length of time she had been kept waiting.

“I do hope you’re going to enjoy it,” she said to Mavis, as they drove through the quiet streets. “I’ve just
no
idea what
it’s going to be like. It may be a bunch of absolute
cows
for all I know. Still, it might be quite fun. Good for a laugh, anyhow.”

“Yes. Oh yes.” Mavis paused uncomfortably; and then, in a little shy voice continued: “Claudia, I hope it’s all right? I brought a poem to read.”

Claudia was taken aback, though she could not have
explained
why. Because it was out of character for Mavis to be writing poetry? Well, yes, it was; but that wasn’t quite it. No, there was something disconcerting about the way Mavis, by bringing this poem, was subtly allying herself, in advance, with the Poetry Group, without waiting for Claudia to decide whether they were old cows or not. For a moment Claudia felt obscurely snubbed. Then she reminded herself that such little spurts of independence in Mavis were entirely a good sign, welcome evidence that she was growing better and better. Under Claudia’s sympathetic encouragement she was rapidly becoming a person in her own right; this poem was indisputable evidence of it. Why, it was almost as if Claudia had written the poem herself.

Claudia smiled. “Of course it’s all right,” she assured Mavis warmly. “They’ll be delighted to hear it—and so will I. Here we are now—Number 67. I only hope the mystery man hasn’t beaten us to it.”

He hadn’t; but to Claudia’s dismay it seemed as if almost everyone else had. Although the meeting was not due to start for another twenty minutes, there were already half a dozen people in Daphne’s big sitting-room, and after a single glance at them Claudia made her diagnosis: Old Cows. All
middle-aged
, all women, and all talking at once; Claudia watched them pityingly, and nudged Mavis surreptitiously: what did I tell you, the bone in her elbow was saying.

But the thing that hurt—or, rather, the thing that was so futile, Claudia corrected herself—was that Daphne must have rung up the whole lot and asked them
all
to come early! She hadn’t specially chosen Claudia as a moral support after all! And that raised the further doubt—had Daphne ever really been frightened at all? All this publicity smacked of showing off rather than of fear. Daphne must have invited all this crowd not as body-guard but as audience—admiring witnesses to the pathetic little spark of danger that was flickering—or might possibly flicker—on the fringes of her boring life!

For a second Claudia wondered how it was that she recognised
Daphne’s motives with such certainty, and also why it was that the pathetic little ruse should annoy her so much. Really one should laugh—feel sorry for her. Yet Claudia felt her annoyance growing, moment by moment, as she realised that all these people had not only been invited to come early, but also seemed to know much more about the situation than she did herself:

“… such strange eyes …”

“… told me he’s a real poet. He’s
published
something …”

“… says she’s sure she’s seen him before somewhere …”

“… as if he was deaf and dumb …”

“… couldn’t get a word in edgeways, I don’t suppose … you can’t wonder …” (shrill laughter).

The gabble went on. It could have been fascinating if only there had been some way of joining in, something that Claudia could contribute that the others didn’t know. But there was nothing, and soon the silliness of it all began to make Claudia feel quite sick—the more so because poor Mavis seemed quite hypnotised by the ill-informed chatter. Her light blue eyes darted from one speaker to another continuously. Touching her arm lightly, Claudia drew her to one side. “I’m so sorry, Mavis. I never guessed it would be a bunch like this, or I’d never have brought you. Just look at them! Did you ever see such a circus?”

Mavis laughed, a trifle uncertainly. “Yes. I suppose so. But mightn’t they be all right really? I mean, they might write good poetry, or something? And a different lot might come in when it’s properly time for the meeting, mightn’t they?” she hazarded, watching Claudia anxiously.

“What a hope! No, I’ve been to these do’s of Daphne’s before, and it’s always the same. I don’t know why I ever thought that this might be different. She ran the Drama Guild once, you know, and after that the Literary Circle; and, my dear, you should have
seen
them! I don’t know how she does it! When she advertises the meetings, she doesn’t actually
say
‘Ladies Only’ or ‘Under-fifties not Welcome.’ She doesn’t put placards up saying: ‘Happy, well-adjusted People Keep Out!’ But really you’d think she did, because that’s exactly the effect it seems to have! Just listen to them! At the mere thought that a Man might turn up! No wonder he took to his heels after one look!”

Claudia laughed as she spoke. She was feeling much better now, sharing these witticisms with Mavis; and it was only
then that she noticed that something was going wrong with the sharing. Mavis wasn’t laughing properly, wasn’t gazing up at Claudia, stimulating her to further sallies. What on earth was the matter with the girl?

“My poem?” whispered Mavis in a small, hurt voice. “Aren’t these people—I mean, isn’t there any point in my
reading
it to them, then?”

Claudia stared. Mavis’ wretched poem! Why drag
that
into it, just when they were beginning to have such fun quizzing everybody! Mavis could be very insensitive, sometimes, to the mood of the moment. The trouble was that she hadn’t really got a sense of humour, and Claudia, for all her understanding and sympathy, couldn’t instil one into her. A sense of humour was something you were either born with or you weren’t. Those who were, must simply bear with the others, and remember that it was in no way their fault. Claudia smiled tolerantly.

“Why—of course you can read it. If you want to. Though I wouldn’t have thought that, with an audience like this … I mean, it won’t be exactly like having Keats, Wordsworth, Shelley and T. S. Eliot to judge it for you, now will it?”

“No,” agreed Mavis in a small voice; and at this moment the quality of the clamour changed. A preparatory upheaval was beginning; chairs scraped across the floor; someone clapped their hands; handbags and folders shuffled on and off various surfaces; the sustained blur of conversation broke up into polite little ejaculations: “Plenty of room here, dear”… “No, no, you have it, I prefer a hard chair” … “Wouldn’t you rather have the cushion?”…

The meeting had begun.

Claudia steeled herself for an hour and a half of total
boredom
. The mysterious stranger, the white hope of the evening, hadn’t come; and now there was to be nothing but slab after slab of puerile doggerel interspersed with inane comments from a bunch of old women who understood nothing about poetry and cared less.

Claudia did not understand much about poetry either—this she would readily have admitted—but at least she understood enough to know that everything that was going to be read out this evening was going to be bad. She allowed her eyelids to droop wearily, so that she need be only partially conscious of what was going on around her.

“This is the third canto,” a slightly cracked voice was
beginning
to explain—anxious, self-deprecatory, yet determined—God, how determined! They had a will of iron, these people who wanted to read things aloud,
nothing
would stop them. “On the surface, of course,” the voice went on, “it’s just a fairy story, and I want you all to tell me whether the symbolism comes across, I want you to tell me
honestly
….”

What lies! What rubbish! She’d have a fit if you told her honestly! And just look at that loony of an old maid, Miss Fergusson, leaning forward in her chair, eyes bright and
expectant
, as if she was expecting to hear Shakespeare himself reading his early sonnets! Or something. Claudia had never read Shakespeare’s early sonnets, but naturally she knew that they were good, which was more than Miss Fergusson did; you could tell by the intent way she was listening to this rubbish that she couldn’t tell one line of poetry from another.

The Canto went on, and on, and was followed by a love lyric.
Love,
if you please, and the author sixty if she was a day, with straight grey hair and lace-up shoes! It rhymed, too, Claudia noted vaguely, eyes and skies, something like that. Rhyming, she knew, set the final seal of worthlessness on a poem, and the subsequent twitter of approval from the company sickened her. They were all buttering each other up, of course, because they wanted nice things said when it came to
their
turn. The futility and boredom of it all began to be more than Claudia could go on contemplating, and by the time it came to Miss Fergusson’s turn to read she had almost managed to close her ears as well as her eyes. This was really going to be the last straw; a poem written by Miss Fergusson! Claudia did not even hear the title, so completely had she withdrawn her attention: she just sat back, eyes closed, and waited for the jingling, jog-trot lines to end.