The BRIGHT DAY Page 3

  Hannah thought about this as she ate her veal marsala. It was not easy, however, to gloat over Mario Vicente’s misfortunes. He seemed so unassuming sitting there at ease, his body, almost as wide as it was long, over-spreading the small chair. His features were harsh; the thick, broad nose was blunted at the tip as though in the making of it the sculptor’s chisel had slipped; the lips had received the same rough treatment, they were used to abuse and knew how to handle it. But, as snow will soften the rugged contour, so the heavy powdering of grey in the thick, curly hair had a mellowing effect. Although she could be very perceptive, there was a romantic vein in Hannah which insisted that a man who looks harsh is really gentle as a lamb. In her favour, in this case, were Mario’s eyes. As he stared out towards the harbour with an expression of deep melancholy, he seemed to be contemplating the whole of his past life: the eyes said he had had no option but to be what he was, they asked your forgiveness. A difficult man to dislike.

  One or two of the tables by the window had filled up. The restaurant was still empty down Hannah’s end of the room when the woman came in. The waiter prised his shoulders from the wall. The woman looked at him and shook her head. She walked across to the table occupied by the Italians, no one of whom, man or woman, happened to have noticed either her entry or her approach.

  ‘Is Geoffrey coming here?’ She gave an irritable twitch of her head as she spoke; it was not clear whom she might be addressing, the waiter, Hannah, or one of the party at the table. ‘I’ve locked myself out of the house.’ She caught Hannah’s eye and made a clownish grimace of despair.

  She wore an ice-blue trouser suit which had probably looked good before she took to sleeping in it. She had no handbag, perhaps that was locked in the house; but in her right hand she carried car keys which she jingled all the while, like a leper ringing a bell. The people at the table certainly behaved as if she had some kind of disease, they weren’t anxious to breathe the same air. The women had stopped talking; the older ones seemed to have become suddenly rather massive, looming at the head of the table like affronted deities. The girl sat with her knees together, toes pointed out, and examined her shoes as if they pinched. Mario’s companion contemplated the table, thumb and forefinger pressed to the tip of his nose the better to aid meditation. Only Mario acknowledged the woman’s remark. He moved his wide shoulders very leisurely and turned his head; slowly his eyes scanned the room, resting indifferently on the people in the window, Hannah in her corner, the waiter who had suddenly become engrossed in his order pad. When the circuit was complete, he made a slight, throwaway gesture with one hand; it was the kind of gesture he might have made if he had been asked whether he had found a piece of trashy jewellery left behind by a customer.

  ‘But don’t you know where he is?’ The woman’s voice was strident; she meant to have his attention.

  He rewarded her with the faintest shrug of the shoulders. His indifference was humiliating; the woman had to scratch away at it, trying to draw a response. Hannah sympathised with her. The woman had got herself into a situation from which it was difficult to withdraw. Nevertheless, Hannah wished she would withdraw. There was something menacing about the scene, a feeling that violence was not far beneath the surface and might break out at any moment. Hannah wished she had sat by the window.

  The woman began to shout. ‘Sweet Jesus! Can’t you say something? You’re not a zombie, are you?’

  The remark gave grave offence to the women, even the girl raised her head, fascinated in a cringing way.

  ‘For God’s sake! Geoffrey hasn’t been home for two days. I don’t claim many rights, but if I’ve been deserted I’ve a right to know. He is my husband.’

  ‘But he is nothing to me.’ Mario placed his hand on the table in front of him and studied it as though to assure himself it had the usual complement of fingers. There was a dark ruby ring on the third finger and a plain gold ring on the little finger. For some reason, the rings made Hannah realise more than anything else that she was in a situation quite alien to her. Mario said, ‘I do not even remember your husband very well.’

  ‘You remembered him well enough when he was useful to you.’ She turned to the Italian women. Hannah, knowing instinctively that this was a mistake, held her breath. ‘Can’t you say something to him, can’t you make him understand?’

  Very slowly, with an air of one rousing himself with the utmost reluctance from a delicious lassitude, Mario got to his feet. The woman took a step back. Her manner changed. She put one hand to her hair, drawing it back from her forehead in a nervous, tentative gesture that was not unpleasing and had perhaps served her well in days when she was more sure of her attraction. She wheedled, ‘I must see him. Really, I must. Do please help me, Mario.’ His face was quite expressionless. He made a light flick of his hand in the direction of the door and said, ‘Go.’

  The woman turned away. ‘I’ll have a coffee,’ she said defiantly. She moved jerkily towards Hannah’s table. Perhaps the ridiculousness of her position flashed across her mind, for she made another wry grimace; her wrinkled face had momentarily a monkeyish charm, as she said, ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Hannah moved her handbag from the vacant chair.

  ‘No.’ Mario came and stood by the table. ‘Madame does not wish to be disturbed.’

  ‘What the hell! She’s drinking coffee, isn’t she? I can have coffee, too. It’s a restaurant. You can bloody well serve me. And since I can’t pay for it, you can take it out of the allowance you pay Geoffrey!’

  Mario’s face was impassive, the eyes were black and still as though something, patience perhaps, had died within him. Then he raised his hand and at the same moment Hannah upset her coffee in her lap. She jumped to her feet, wailing loudly, and overturned her chair. She laughed about the incident afterwards, but at the time she was convinced that if she didn’t spill her coffee, blood would be spilt. This was no doubt an exaggeration; Mario would probably have done no more than take the woman by the arm and turn her in the direction of the door. As it was, Hannah’s action rendered even this gesture unnecessary. While Mario offered his handkerchief to Hannah, the woman turned and marched down the room, swinging the hand in which she carried the car keys in an exaggerated circular motion.

  ‘How will she manage about getting into her house?’ Hannah asked weakly.

  ‘Oh, the police will let her in. They do it before, I believe. Now! Enrico! Another coffee for Madame. And you will have a brandy. Yes, yes, I insist!’ As he walked away with Enrico, he said, just loud enough for Hannah to hear him, ‘And no bill, you understand? This has been embarrassing for Madame.’

  Hannah needed the coffee, but she did not enjoy the brandy and she would have preferred to pay for the meal. She looked across at Mario Vicente and wondered whether she should argue about it. He was stabbing a finger towards the harbour, perhaps he was drawing his companion’s attention to one of the boats; the women were talking among themselves again, not busily going over the recent incident, but talking about something quite unconnected with it as though the woman had never been. Hannah decided it might be wiser for her to follow their example. Nevertheless, when the waiter passed her table, she said to him quietly, ‘Was that Mrs. Ormerod?’

  He nodded and went away quickly, plainly not wishing to be drawn into conversation on the subject.

  Hannah had felt that the woman’s face was familiar, but she had not realised that it was Mrs. Ormerod until she made the reference to the payment of an allowance to Geoffrey. Mrs. Ormerod had not supported her husband during the campaign and Hannah had never seen them together. So where had she seen Mrs. Ormerod? This bothered her for a while. But later, at evening service, as she sat half-listening to the sermon, she suddenly had a clear picture of Mrs. Ormerod in a happier mood, laughing in the early morning at the cottage near Picton’s Quay, with Rodney Cope. Hannah was relieved. She had liked the woman, and was no less inclined to like her now; but she no longer felt quite so troubled at the though
t of Mrs. Ormerod, deserted by her husband, and locked out of her house.

  The minister said heavily, ‘And there are those whose ears are tuned to the world’s distractions, who never really listen. . .’ Hannah gave her attention to the minister for a few minutes, and then began to wonder if she had any change for the collection.

  Chapter Four

  I’ve had Lomax on the telephone,’ Major Brophy told Moray. He and Moray were in the bar at The Cod and Lobster. ‘Wife turfs me out on a Sunday evening,’ Major Brophy said. ‘Says I fidget during that serial they’ve got on BBC 2. Henry James. I liked the Forsyte Saga, and I didn’t mind the Pallisers, either. They were real people; I knew what they were about. . .’ His voice trailed away and he looked unhappily into his beer. Life made less and less sense to him. ‘I am an Edwardian’ was one of his favourite statements, always uttered as though this was something peculiar to himself and had nothing to do with date of birth.

  Moray had just returned to Scotney after a week-end away. Victory seemed to have caught him unprepared; he was tired and rather apprehensive about the future. He did not consider that a telephone call from Lomax was sufficient reason for the Major to intrude on his time. He suspected the man simply wanted a drinking companion. Moray hated intrusion and he was beginning to realise the extent to which he would now be subject to it. ‘What did Lomax want?’ he asked.

  ‘An article introducing the new MP to his people, I suppose. That sort of thing.’ The Major hadn’t much idea of the way journalists thought, least of all Lomax who seemed to him as inscrutable as the grey sea beyond the window. He knew, however, that journalists as a breed were unreliable and therefore to be handled with care. ‘Probably important to see him,’ he said. ‘But I told him, no sensational stuff. We want to ease up on all that now. Get back to normal.’

  An extraordinary attitude! Moray thought. They had campaigned against vice and corruption, energetic action had been promised; and that, as far as the Major was concerned, was an end to it. The declaration of intent was in itself sufficient. Only a troublemaker would want to take the matter further. Troublemakers were more sinister than the property speculator, the dope pedlar, the men who ran the protection rackets, all of whom operated within the system; whereas the troublemaker aimed at destroying the system. Moray had become aware, in the few days that had elapsed since the election, that there were others who shared this view. He began to see that this deep suspicion of the persistent troublemaker was probably the one thing which could unite the warring elements; the disgruntled policemen, Ormerod’s followers, the councilors – good and bad, even Moray’s own followers, they had all had enough of trouble. It made him feel very depressed.

  ‘We need to be constructive,’ the Major said. ‘This is a good town to live in. Got to make the people believe that. The trouble with newspapers is they only print the bad stuff.’ It was Lomax whom he saw as the troublemaker. ‘A nice enough fellow, but you’ve got to watch him. Not as mild as he looks. He’s upset a lot of people in this town, influential people. I told him that once, and he said “I’ll settle for that as a testimonial” – or some such piece of bravado. Of course, it was a shock for him, his wife going off like that. Made him bitter, I daresay; inclined to believe the worst of people.’

  Moray made no comment. He had a rather better understanding of Lomax, but he did not like him. Lomax regarded most men, Moray included, as a bundle of endless possibilities, some good, some bad. Moray did not regard himself as being as other men; he did not think of himself as better, or worse, but as different – Neil Moray, someone set a little apart. He was piqued by Lomax’s attitude. Nevertheless, he supposed he would have to see the man.

  ‘I’d better telephone him.’ It was an excuse to get away from the Major. He wanted what was left of the evening to himself; he had things to think about which were not connected with politics.

  His flat was on the outskirts of the town. He drove slowly. To his right, across the flat fields, the Downs rose dramatically; a view that was dear to the hearts of the natives of Sussex. Neil Moray was not a native and the view seemed to him unduly challenging.

  The week-end had not been a success. He had hoped that by the end of it he would have reached a decision about his relationship with his mistress, Lucy Jameson, but in fact he was more undecided than ever. Had she not been West Indian things would have been simpler. Suppose he decided not to marry her because they did not have enough in common? Could he be sure that it was not the different colour of their skins, rather than emotional and intellectual differences, that really bothered him? This was a difficult question to answer since the thing which had first drawn his attention to her had been the colour of her skin. He had been faithful to her for a long time, he had considered her feelings with great sensitivity; at every stage of their relationship he had been very aware of her as a West Indian. But this week-end, overwhelmed by victory, he had seen her simply as a woman and it had to be admitted that she had lost as a result. It wasn’t that she was any worse than other women, only that she wasn’t any better. A woman who was no better than the next was not the woman for Neil Moray to take to wife.

  When he got back to his flat thoughts of Lucy were driven from his mind. He could scarcely open the door for the clutter of mail; as bad as Christmas, except that his Christmases had never been like that, his family’s attitude to Christmas having been restrained in the extreme. He gathered up the letters and took them into the sitting-room. He would ask Hannah to deal with the bulk of them, but there was always a chance that one or two personal letters were hidden away in the heap. He kept his personal life very much to himself. It was not that he had anything of which to be ashamed, but rather that he regarded it as a possession; material possessions were not important to him, but his personality and everything which pertained to it was very important and closely guarded. An inspection of the mail revealed nothing more interesting than a letter from a Quaker aunt noting his election and exhorting the virtues of integrity and self-denial.

  Self was reluctant to be denied. Moray telephoned Rodney Cope and told him about his conversation with Brophy. ‘I can’t have him making appointments for me like this,’ he said fretfully.

  ‘Of course you can’t. Just the same, I think you should see Lomax.’

  Cope dismissed the subject and went on to talk about something else. Obviously he assumed that Moray would accept his advice without question. It occurred to Moray that Cope had made a great success of organising the campaign and might now imagine he could organise the member of parliament.

  Cope was giving more advice. ‘ . . . must keep the dear girl happy. Good secretaries are hard to come by.’ He went on to make suggestions as to how Hannah might be kept happy.

  Hannah had worked hard during the campaign, and once or twice Moray had dined at her flat after a particularly gruelling evening’s work. On these occasions she had been warmly sympathetic to him. Cope had wanted to know whether Moray had slept with her. Moray, who had not slept with Hannah (although he was sure that this was what she had wanted) had refused to be drawn. He was usually reserved about his affairs, but was capable of surprising his friends by suddenly recounting Rabelaisian anecdotes which gained in their effect by being so out of character. He was not unaware of the delight this occasioned. The moment, however, must be of his own choosing. Now, he interrupted Cope impatiently, ‘First things first. I must telephone Lomax.’

  He had meant to make amends to Hannah and had intended suggesting a celebration dinner; but Cope’s intervention had made him feel that he had lost the initiative. It was because he was irritated with Cope, that on his way to the office the next day he decided to buy flowers for Hannah.

  Hannah was opening the post when Moray came into the room. There was a large box of chocolates on her table and a bottle of wine.

  ‘Is it your birthday?’ he asked, rather taken aback.

  ‘No. The chocolates are from Mrs. Brophy and the wine is from the Major.’ She ripped open an envelop
e. ‘Isn’t it sweet of them?’

  Moray wished he had thought of wine. ‘As soon as I can see my way ahead we must have a real celebration.’ He made room for the flowers on the table. ‘In the meantime. . .’

  She gave the flowers a brief glance and said, ‘Oh, thank you, Neil. You shouldn’t have bothered. Don’t forget you have a meeting with the Town Clerk at a quarter to ten, will you?’

  It was apparent that as far as she was concerned the time for making amends had passed; the fact that she was pleasant about it only made the situation more uncomfortable for Moray. He went through the post quickly and left the office.

  Cope arrived a few minutes later. ‘Looks like a funeral parlour,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘Yes,’ Hannah agreed. ‘Carnations always make me think of funerals. Something about the smell.’

  ‘From Neil?’ Cope plucked a flower. ‘Not the chocolates and the wine as well, surely?’

  ‘Just the flowers.’

  ‘Insensitive brute!’

  He sat down on a packing case and arranged the flower in his buttonhole while Hannah cleared the table. ‘Would now be the time for me to ask you out to lunch?’ he said when she had finished.

  ‘Would you mind if I said no? I really have so much to do this week.’

  He sighed. ‘Ah, Hannah the breaker of hearts! How cruel you are to us poor men!’

  She inserted paper in the typewriter and regarded him in much the same way as she might scan a draft, looking for spelling mistakes and split infinitives. He had a high forehead from which the thick fair hair was receding in crisp waves; the areas of skin left bare were unmarked, remarkably so for a man in his mid-thirties. He had a straight nose, a wide but not particularly sensual mouth, a long chin; it could have been the face of a comic, a visionary, or an antique Greek. The vivid blue eyes seemed unrelated to the rest of the face, as though they might break free of the sockets at any minute.