The Breaking Point (3 page)

A semblance of a smile passed across her face. ‘Oh, Johnnie is quiet enough,’ she said. ‘He sits there for hours, he wouldn’t interfere.’ Then the smile wavered, the doubt returned. ‘I don’t know what to say . . . We live in the kitchen, with the bedroom next to it. There
is
a room behind, where I have a few bits of furniture stored, but I don’t think you would like it. You see, it depends what you want to do . . .’

Her voice trailed away. Her apathy was just what he needed. He wondered if she slept very heavily, or was even drugged. Those dark shadows under the eyes suggested drugs. So much the better. And a foreigner too. There were too many of them in the country.

‘If you would only show me the room, I should know at once,’ he said.

Surprisingly she turned, and led the way down the narrow, dingy hall. Switching on a light above a basement stair, murmuring a continual apology the while, she took Fenton below. This had been, of course, the original servants’ quarters of the Victorian villa. The kitchen, scullery and pantry had now become the woman’s living-room, kitchenette and bedroom, and in their transformation had increased in squalor.The ugly pipes, the useless boiler, the old range, might once have had some pretension to efficiency, with fresh white paint on the pipes and the range polished. Even the dresser, still in position and stretching nearly the full width of one wall, would have been in keeping some fifty years ago, with polished brass saucepans and a patterned dinner-service, while an overalled cook, bustling about with arms befloured, called orders to a minion in the scullery. Now the dirty cream paint hung in flakes, the worn linoleum was torn, and the dresser was bare save for odds and ends bearing no relation to its original purpose - a battered wireless set with trailing aerial, piles of discarded magazines and newspapers, unfinished knitting, broken toys, pieces of cake, a toothbrush, and several pairs of shoes. The woman looked about her helplessly.

‘It’s not easy,’ she said, ‘with a child. One clears up all the time.’

It was evident that she never cleared, that she had given in, that the shambles he observed was her answer to life’s problems, but Fenton said nothing, only nodded politely, and smiled. He caught a glimpse of an unmade bed through a half-open door, bearing out his theory of the heavy sleeper - his ring at the bell must have disturbed her - but seeing his glance she shut the door hurriedly, and in a half-conscious effort to bring herself to order buttoned her cardigan and combed her hair with her fingers.

‘And the room you do not use?’ he asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ she replied, ‘yes, of course . . .’ vague and uncertain, as if she had forgotten her purpose in bringing him to the basement. She led the way back across the passage, past a coal cellar - useful, this, he thought - a lavatory with a child’s pot set in the open door and a torn
Daily Mirror
beside it, and so to a further room, the door of which was closed.

‘I don’t think it will do,’ she said sighing, already defeated. Indeed, it would not have done for anyone but himself, so full of power and purpose; for as she flung open the creaking door, and crossed the room to pull aside the strip of curtain made out of old wartime blackout material, the smell of damp hit him as forcibly as a sudden patch of fog beside the river, and with it the unmistakable odour of escaping gas. They sniffed in unison.

‘Yes, it’s bad,’ she said. ‘The men are supposed to come, but they never do.’

As she pulled the curtain to let in air the rod broke, the strip of material fell, and through a broken pane of the window jumped the black cat with the wounded paw which Fenton had noticed beneath the plane tree in front of the house. The woman shooed it ineffectually. The cat, used to its surroundings, slunk into a far corner, jumped on a packing-case and composed itself to sleep. Fenton and the woman looked about them.

‘This would do me very well,’ he said, hardly considering the dark walls, the odd L-shape of the room and the low ceiling. ‘Why, there’s even a garden,’ and he went to the window and looked out upon the patch of earth and stones - level with his head as he stood in the basement room - which had once been a strip of paved garden.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, there’s a garden,’ and she came beside him to stare at the desolation to which they both gave so false a name. Then with a little shrug she went on, ‘It’s quiet, as you see, but it doesn’t get much sun. It faces north.’

‘I like a room to face north,’ he said abstractedly, already seeing in his mind’s eye the narrow trench he would be able to dig for her body - no need to make it deep. Turning towards her, measuring the size of her, reckoning the length and breadth, he saw a glimmer of understanding come into her eye, and he quickly smiled to give her confidence.

‘Are you an artist?’ she said. ‘They like a north light, don’t they?’

His relief was tremendous. An artist. But of course. Here was the excuse he needed. Here was a way out of all difficulty.

‘I see you’ve guessed my secret,’ he answered slyly, and his laugh rang so true that it surprised even himself. He began to speak very rapidly. ‘Part-time only,’ he said. ‘That’s the reason I can only get away for certain hours. My mornings are tied down to business, but later in the day I’m a free man. Then my real work begins. It’s not just a casual hobby, it’s a passion. I intend to hold my own exhibition later in the year. So you understand how essential it is for me to find somewhere . . . like this.’

He waved his hand at the surroundings, which could offer no inducement to anyone but the cat. His confidence was infectious and disarmed the still doubtful, puzzled inquiry in her eyes.

‘Chelsea’s full of artists, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘At least they say so, I don’t know. But I thought studios had to be high up for getting the light?’

‘Not necessarily,’ he answered. ‘Those fads don’t affect me. And late in the day the light will have gone anyway. I suppose there is electricity?’

‘Yes . . .’ She moved to the door and touched a switch. A naked bulb from the ceiling glared through its dust.

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘That’s all I shall need.’

He smiled down at the blank, unhappy face. The poor soul would be so much happier asleep. Like the cat. A kindness, really, to put her out of her misery.

‘Can I move in tomorrow?’ he asked.

Again the look of hope that he had noticed when he first stood at the front door inquiring for rooms, and then - was it embarrassment, just the faintest trace of discomfort, in her expression?

‘You haven’t asked about . . . the cost of the room,’ she said.

‘Whatever you care to charge,’ he replied, and waved his hand again to show that money was no object. She swallowed, evidently at a loss to know what to say, and then, a flush creeping into the pallid face, ventured, ‘It would be best if I said nothing to the landlord. I will say you are a friend. You could give me a pound or two in cash every week, what you think fair.’

She watched him anxiously. Certainly, he decided, there must be no third party interfering in any arrangement. It might defeat his plan.

‘I’ll give you five pounds in notes each week, starting today,’ he said.

He felt for his wallet and drew out the crisp, new notes. She put out a timid hand, and her eyes never left the notes as he counted them.

‘Not a word to the landlord,’ he said, ‘and if any questions are asked about your lodger say your cousin, an artist, has arrived for a visit.’

She looked up and for the first time smiled, as though his joking words, with the giving of the notes, somehow sealed a bond between them.

‘You don’t look like my cousin,’ she said, ‘nor much like the artists I have seen, either. What is your name?’

‘Sims,’ he said instantly, ‘Marcus Sims,’ and wondered why he had instinctively uttered the name of his wife’s father, a solicitor dead these many years, whom he had heartily disliked.

‘Thank you, Mr Sims,’ she said. ‘I’ll give your room a clean-up in the morning.’Then, as a first gesture towards this intention, she lifted the cat from the packing-case and shooed it through the window.

‘You will bring your things tomorrow afternoon?’ she asked.

‘My things?’ he repeated.

‘What you need for your work,’ she said. ‘Don’t you have paints and so on?’

‘Oh, yes . . . yes, naturally,’ he said, ‘yes, I must bring my gear.’ He glanced round the room again. But there was to be no question of butchery. No blood. No mess. The answer would be to stifle them both in sleep, the woman and her child. It was much the kindest way.

‘You won’t have far to go when you need tubes of paint,’ she said. ‘There are shops for artists in the King’s Road. I have passed them shopping. They have boards and easels in the window.’

He put his hand over his mouth to hide his smile. It was really touching how she had accepted him. It showed such trust, such confidence.

She led the way back into the passage, and so up the basement stair to the hall once more.

‘I’m so delighted,’ he said, ‘that we have come to this arrangement. To tell you the truth, I was getting desperate.’

She turned and smiled at him again over her shoulder. ‘So was I,’ she said. ‘If you hadn’t appeared . . . I don’t know what I might not have done.’

They stood together at the top of the basement stair. What an amazing thing. It was an act of God that he had suddenly arrived. He stared at her, shocked.

‘You’ve been in some trouble, then?’ he asked.

‘Trouble?’ She gestured with her hands, and the look of apathy, of despair, returned to her face. ‘It’s trouble enough to be a stranger in this country, and for the father of my little boy to go off and leave me without any money, and not to know where to turn. I tell you, Mr Sims, if you had not come today . . .’ she did not finish her sentence, but glanced towards the child tied to the foot-scraper and shrugged her shoulders.‘Poor Johnnie . . .’ she said, ‘it’s not your fault.’

‘Poor Johnnie indeed,’ echoed Fenton, ‘and poor you. Well, I’ll do my part to put an end to your troubles, I assure you.’

‘You’re very good. Truly, I thank you.’

‘On the contrary, I thank
you
.’ He made her a little bow and, bending down, touched the top of the child’s head. ‘Good-bye, Johnnie, see you tomorrow.’ His victim gazed back at him without expression.

‘Good-bye, Mrs . . . Mrs . . . ?’

‘Kaufman is the name. Anna Kaufman.’

She watched him down the steps and through the gate. The banished cat slunk past his legs on a return journey to the broken window. Fenton waved his hat with a flourish to the woman, to the boy, to the cat, to the whole fabric of the mute, drab villa.

‘See you tomorrow,’ he called, and set off down Boulting Street with the jaunty step of someone at the start of a great adventure. His high spirits did not even desert him when he arrived at his own front-door. He let himself in with his latchkey and went up the stairs humming some old song of thirty years ago. Edna, as usual, was on the telephone - he could hear the interminable conversation of one woman to another. The drinks were set out on the small table in the drawing-room. The cocktail biscuits were laid ready, and the dish of salted almonds. The extra glasses meant that visitors were expected. Edna put her hand over the mouthpiece of the receiver and said, ‘The Alhusons will be coming. I’ve asked them to stay on for cold supper.’

Her husband smiled and nodded. Long before his usual time he poured himself a thimbleful of sherry to round off the conspiracy, the perfection, of the past hour. The conversation on the telephone ceased.

‘You look better,’ said Edna. ‘The walk did you good.’

Her innocence amused him so much that he nearly choked.

It was a lucky thing that the woman had mentioned an artist’s props. He would have looked a fool arriving the following afternoon with nothing. As it was, it meant leaving the office early, and an expedition to fit himself up with the necessary paraphernalia. He let himself go. Easel, canvases, tube after tube of paint, brushes, turpentine - what had been intended as a few parcels became bulky packages impossible to transport except in a taxi. It all added to the excitement, though. He must play his part thoroughly. The assistant in the shop, fired by his customer’s ardour, kept adding to the list of paints; and, as Fenton handled the tubes of colour and read the names, there was something intensely satisfying about the purchase, and he allowed himself to be reckless, the very words chrome and sienna and terre-verte going to his head like wine. Finally he tore himself away from temptation, and climbed into a taxi with his wares. No. 8, Boulting Street, the unaccustomed address instead of his own familiar square added spice to the adventure.

It was strange, but as the taxi drew up at its destination the row of villas no longer appeared so drab. It was true that yesterday’s wind had dropped, the sun was shining fitfully, and there was a hint in the air of April and longer days to come; but that was not the point. The point was that No. 8 had something of expectancy about it. As he paid his driver and carried the packages from the taxi, he saw that the dark blinds in the basement had been removed and makeshift curtains, tangerine-coloured and a shock to the eye, hung in their place. Even as he noted this the curtains were pulled back and the woman, the child in her arms, its face smeared with jam, waved up at him. The cat leapt from the sill and came towards him purring, rubbing an arched back against his trouser leg. The taxi drove away, and the woman came down the steps to greet him.

‘Johnnie and I have been watching for you the whole afternoon,’ she said. ‘Is that all you’ve brought?’

‘All? Isn’t it enough?’ he laughed.

She helped him carry the things down the basement stair, and as he glanced into the kitchen he saw that an attempt had been made to tidy it, besides the hanging of the curtains. The row of shoes had been banished underneath the dresser, along with the child’s toys, and a cloth, laid for tea, had been spread on the table.