Algy did not answer her call. As she walked over the unkept lawn, a little girl in a red outfit ran before her and disappeared behind a lilac tree. Half in fun, Venice ran after her; the girl wriggled through a gap in the fence and stood there gazing challengingly at Venice.
“I sha’n’t hurt you,” Venice said. She suppressed an exclamation at the sight of the child’s bald head. It was not the first she had met. “Have you been playing with Algy? Where is he? I can’t see him.”
“That’s because he drowned in the river,” the girl said, clasping her hands behind her back. “If you won’t be cross, I’ll come back and show you.” She was trembling violently.
Venice held out a hand to her. “Come through quickly and show me what you’re talking about.”
The girl was back through the gap in an instant. Shyly, she took Venice’s hand, looking up to judge her reaction to the move. “My nails weren’t affected, only my head,” she said, and led the way down to a landing stage that jutted into the river along the end of the garden. Here her courage failed her, and she broke into a storm of tears. For a while she could not speak, until from the barricade of Venice’s arms she pointed a finger at the dark stream. “That’s just where Algy drowned. If you look, you can see his face looking up at you under the water.”
In alarm, Venice held the child tightly and peered down through the willow tree into the stream. Clinging round a root, half submerged and moving gently against the current, was something that did vaguely resemble a human face. It was a sheet of newspaper.
Patiently, she cajoled Martha into looking and seeing her mistake for herself. Even then, the girl continued to cry, for the shape of the paper was sinister.
“Now you run along home to tea,” Venice said. “Algy can’t be far away. I will find him — perhaps he ran round to the front garden and went indoors — and perhaps in a little while you will be able to play with him again. Would you like that?”
The girl looked into her face with immense swimming eyes, nodded, and dashed away towards the hole in the fence. As Venice straightened up and began to walk back towards the house, Patricia Timberlane came out of the back door with two men. One of the men was her husband, Arthur, a man who at forty-odd gave all the appearance of having forgotten his more youthful years. Venice, who liked him — but she was far less choosy than Patricia with her likes and dislikes, and tended to be friendly to anyone who seemed friendly to her — had to admit that Arthur cut a glum figure; he was a man saddled with troubles who had never decided to meet them either stoically or with a sense of defiance.
Patricia held her husband’s arm, but it was towards the other man that she most frequently glanced. Keith Barratt, Arthur Timberlane’s co-director, was a personable man with a too shallow jaw and tawny hair brushed back untidily. Keith was only five years younger than Arthur, but his manner — particularly his manner with Pat, Venice thought cattily — was more youthful, and he dressed more like a man about town.
As Venice went towards them, answering their greetings, she saw a glance like a bird of sweet ill-omen fly between Patricia and Keith. She saw in it — heavily, for there was pain enough — that trouble was nearer than she had thought.
“Venice likes the house, Arthur,” Patricia said.
“I’m afraid of damp with the river so close,” Arthur said to Venice. He put his hands in his trouser pockets and stared down towards the river as if expecting to see it rise and engulf them. It seemed to be with reluctance that he swung his eyes round to look at her as he asked, “Is Edgar getting back early tonight? Good. Why don’t you both come round for a drink with us? I’d like to hear what he makes of the situation in Australia. Things look very black, very black indeed.”
“Art, you old pessimist!” Keith said. He spoke in a tone of laughing reproach that pronounced his partner’s name Ah-ha-hart. “Come off it! A lovely afternoon like this and you talk like that. Wait till you get that MR report and see if things aren’t just as bad for everyone. Come Christmas, trade will improve.” In explanation, he said to Venice, “We’ve had Moxan, the market research people, in, to find out what exactly has hit our trade; their report should be with us tomorrow.” He pulled a funny face and slit his throat with a knife-edged forefinger.
“The report should have been in today,” Arthur said. He stood with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched, looking about at surroundings and sky as he spoke, as if tired of talk. “There’s a touch of autumn in the afternoons already. Where’s Algy, Pat? Let’s be getting home.”
“I want you to have a look at the boiler before we go, darling,” Patricia said.
“We’ll talk about the boiler later. Where’s Algy? The boy’s never about when you want him.”
“He’s hiding somewhere,” Venice said. “He’s been playing games with the little girl from next door. Why don’t you two look for him? I really ought to be getting along, or I’ll never be ready for Edgar. Keith, be a darling and give me a lift home, will you? It’s not much off your route.”
“But enchanted,” Keith said, and made an effort to look as though he meant it. They said their farewells and went round to the front drive. Keith’s car had brought him and Arthur over from the factory, as Patricia had the Timberlane car. When Venice settled in beside him, Keith drove away in silence; though far from being a sensitive man, he lost some of his assurance with her, knowing that she did not greatly approve of him.
Between Arthur and Patricia a silence also fell, which he covered by saying, “Well, let’s look for the child, if we must. Perhaps he’s down in the summer-house. Why didn’t you keep an eye on him?”
Ignoring this opening for a quarrel — of all her tricks, that one annoyed him most — Patricia said, as they turned towards the bottom of the garden, “The last owners let this place become a wilderness. There’s more work here than you will be able to tackle alone; we shall have to have a gardener. We must have this row of bushes out and perhaps just leave that peony where it is.”
“We haven’t bought the place yet,” Arthur said morosely. His reluctance to disappoint her made him speak more grudgingly than he intended. She did not seem to be able to understand that their business slipped nearer disaster every day.
What Arthur most resented was that this trouble, into which his firm slipped more deeply even as he spoke, should come as a barrier between Pat and him. He had seen clearly, a while ago, that they failed to make a very united couple; at first he had almost welcomed the financial crisis, hoping it would bring them more closely together, for Patricia had listened sympathetically enough to his woes before they married. Instead, there seemed something deliberate in her lack of understanding.
Of course, the miserable business with the boys had upset her. But after all, she knew Sofftoys and its workings. She had been a secretary in the firm before Arthur married her, a little irresponsible slip of a thing with a good figure and twinkling eyes. Even now, he could recall his surprise when she agreed to marry him. He told himself he was not like most men: he did not forget the good or the bad things in his past life.
It was the good things that sharpened his present miseries. Plodding through the grass, he shook his head and repeated, “We haven’t bought the place yet.”
They reached the summer-house, and he pushed the door open. The summer-house was a tiny semi-rustic affair with an ornamental barge-board hanging low enough to catch a tall man’s head, and one window set in its riverside wall. It contained two folded garden chairs leaning across one corner, a rotted awning of some kind, and an empty oil drum. Arthur glanced round it in distaste, closed the door again, and leant against it, looking at Patricia.
Yes, for him she was attractive still, even after her illness and the death of Frank and eleven years of marriage to him. He felt an awful complex thing rise in his breast, and wanted to tell her all in one breath that she was too good for him, that he was doing his best, that she ought to see that ever since those bloody bombs were let off the world was going to hell in a bucket, and that he knew she was a bit sweet on Keith and was glad for her sake if it made her happy provided she didn’t just leave him.
“I hope Algy hasn’t fallen in the river and drowned,” she said, dropping her eyes before his gaze. “But perhaps he’s gone back to the house. Let’s go back and see.”
“Pat, never mind about the boy. Look, I’m sorry about all this — I mean about life and things being difficult lately. I love you very much, darling. I know I’m a bit of a duffer, but the times we live in—”
She had heard him use that phrase “I know I’m a bit of a duffer” in apology before, as if apology was the same as reform. She lost track of what he was saying under a memory of the Christmas before last, when she had induced him to give a party for some of their friends and business acquaintances. It had not been a success. Arthur had sensed it was not succeeding, and — to her dismay — had produced a pack of cards and said to a knot of his junior employees and their wives, with a host’s hollow geniality, “Look, I can see the party’s not going too well — perhaps you’d like to see a few card tricks.”
Standing there in the cool afternoon, she blushed dull red again at her embarrassment and his. There were
