“But Isabel—”
“I’m grateful. But it doesn’t change anything.”
I have to keep her talking, he thought, before I lose her altogether. “There’s just one thing—of course I’ve not read the file, but I noticed the name, and the odd part about it is that I know the Axons, known them for years. Would you believe it, they live next to my sister, round the corner. The daughter’s a bit backward, isn’t she?”
“Yes.” He heard tension creep into her voice; she wanted to be rid of him, he thought, she found him a nuisance.
“Will you be making a home visit to them now?”
“I’m in court tomorrow. A child battering case. Tuesday’s all spoken for.”
“But you ought to go, oughtn’t you, after such a long gap?”
“Maybe Wednesday. I’ve got the file. That’s the main thing. There’s no reason for you to worry about it, it’s for me to sort out.”
“You know, I’ve been piecing things together, and I realise you might have mentioned them once, and I just didn’t make the connection. We were in the pub, you see, talking—you said you didn’t like the case, you couldn’t come to grips with it.”
“I can’t discuss my clients with you. You know that. The fact that they’re your sister’s neighbours makes no difference to anything.”
“It’s funny, though, isn’t it?”
“These things happen. We live in the same town. It’s not such a coincidence, really.”
“But I lived in the same town as you,” he burst out, “and I never knew.”
“Yes, well, now you do. Thank you for getting the file back. Goodbye.”
“Is that all?”
“What else is there to say? The situation hasn’t changed.”
“But could I see you, just once?”
“You made your choice, I thought.”
“Shan’t I ever see you again, then?”
“I expect you will, sooner or later. After all, as you say, we live in the same town.” A moment’s pause, and she put the phone down. Colin came out of the box, and stood blowing his nose. As he tramped towards his car, it began to rain, little grey tears running off his anorak and trickling in his wake.
Evelyn sat in the kitchen staring into her teacup. It seemed absurd that she had suddenly become an invalid, but she felt she had hardly the strength to put out her hand, pick up the cup, and carry it to her mouth. The tea was going cold, her hand shook, the cup rattled in the saucer. The sleepless night had left her drained and muddle- headed.
The baby, which was born before dawn, had been very small. She could not bring herself to look too closely at it. At first it would not breathe. Muriel’s eyes signalled something to her. Leave it, she was saying. Shocked, Evelyn gripped the slippery thing and shook it. A thin hopeless bleating came out. A fine idea of Muriel’s, the ghost under their feet for years, learning in the parallel world to crawl, walk, and talk; and perhaps blaming them for its demise. She ventured downstairs, her flesh crawling, and brought Muriel some mixed biscuits on a plate.
Yesterday Muriel had been bothering her about a pram. As if she could push it about the streets, with her bad chest; as if Muriel was fit to be let out with it.
It was all as complicated as it could be. Muriel didn’t seem to have the knack of feeding it. Her milk hadn’t come, or the baby wouldn’t suck; it would have to have powdered milk out of a bottle, she supposed, but where was she to get such a thing on a Sunday?
“You realise,” she said to Muriel, “that if I go to the Parade asking for baby’s milk, they’ll probably ring up the Welfare? I’ll have to go where nobody knows my face. It’s a lot of trouble. Have another try with it.”
But Muriel yawned and rolled over onto her side and closed her eyes.
All that morning there were rappings and banging at the front door. The screams and laughter of spiteful children rang in Evelyn’s ears. She went down the hall at last, and threw the door open; but no one was there.
Florence will be furious with me, Colin thought. He sat in the car outside Isabel’s house; his sister had been expecting him for the last hour and more. He pictured his hand reaching out for the ignition key, turning it, engaging gear, moving off down the street. His real hands lay loosely inert, one at his side, one draped over the steering wheel. Driving about and driving about, that is all the last months have been, lying, driving from one set of hostile eyes to another. This is the last time I will have any business on Isabel’s street.
The eyes were not really hostile, of course. Just the bored indifferent eyes of strangers, slow to be roused to curiosity, slow to notice anything. Strangers in public houses, strangers by the roadside. He had long ago given up the writing class; he had got nothing from it, no pleasure, no profit.
He was angry; angry that she could now seem so immature, so callous. And she had been trained, he thought, trained to be in charge of other people’s lives, selected for it. It seemed that she had set out in their last conversation to demolish the picture he had built of her in his mind. It was not a reasonable picture. But reason has grown tired of its own successes.
Mr. Field came to the door. Without his spectacles, he blinked at Colin.
“I think you are expecting me, Mr. Field.” He held out the file. “This is for Isabel.”
“Ah, yes. Yes, thank you.” Mr. Field took the file from him and held it carefully in both hands. “Thank you so much. I hope it has been no trouble to you. Goodbye. Drive carefully.”
Have I failed her, let her down? Did she expect too much? I am too tired to think about it any more. Colin
