The BRIGHT DAY Page 4

  ‘Sure you’re not the one who is cruel?’ she asked.

  ‘What a wounding thing to say.’

  ‘Come now, Rodney! I wouldn’t pierce your heart, would I?’ She leant her elbows on the table, her chin nudging the top of the typewriter. Her eyes were bright with mischief. ‘That’s not something that’s ever happened to you, is it?’

  Normally, she tended to be sensitive where other people’s feelings were concerned, even to the point of failing to protect her own interests. But Moray had upset her, and she was not disposed to be kind at this moment. The surprising thing about her, Cope thought, was that at such times she revealed a much shrewder mind than one would have imagined her to possess. The female of the species is always dangerous when roused; but this is often demonstrated by a spontaneous lashing out with the first weapon to hand. Hannah was selective. She chose her tools as a surgeon might, and she knew where to make the incision.

  ‘You are something of a student of human nature, Hannah,’ he said. ‘I suspect you know more about Neil and myself than we would care to imagine.’

  ‘You wouldn’t care twopence!’ she retorted.

  ‘You must tell me why you think I am so unfeeling, so that I may mend my wicked ways.’

  ‘You like to stir things up and see what happens.’

  ‘Does that frighten you? Are you afraid of what might happen to you if I stirred things up?’ Idly, on the whim of the moment, he decided to see to what extent he could disturb her. He had always felt that her emotional balance was rather precarious. ‘I think people should be grateful to those who “stir things up”. It’s all experience. Perhaps you, too, have unplumbed depths of cruelty, dear Hannah. One should never retreat from experience. Do you retreat from experience?’

  She made no reply.

  ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘I see you do.’

  He leant back, studying her with arms folded. Her chestnut hair was its natural colour, or near enough – perhaps she used a rinse occasionally, but there were grey hairs here and there to indicate that she had decided in favour of growing old gracefully. She would make a joke of it and repeat it too often, but despite a few backward glances, she would do it. She had a trim figure and good clothes sense. She knew what suited her, although an occasional reluctance to leave youth behind betrayed itself in a too-short skirt or a frivolous blouse. Her make-up was sometimes a little too heavy- this was so today, but that was a defence not an indulgence. All fairly predictable. But there was a restlessness in the eyes, something unsatisfied about the mouth, that was slightly at variance with the rest of the picture.

  ‘You know, Hannah,’ he said, ‘your trouble is that you are two people: an ardent, impulsive little woman that any sensible man would want to take to wife. . . .’

  ‘Sensible? What a reward for ardour!’ She managed to sound amused, but her colour was high. ‘Tell me about the other half, Sigmund.’

  ‘But there she speaks! Needle-sharp. Men don’t like it, dear.’

  ‘I should worry?’ she asked, smiling but not with her eyes. ‘Don’t you, though? Not even a little in the long watches of the night.’

  Intermittently, she had been typing. Now she took a buff form out of the typewriter and handed it to him.

  ‘Could you sign your name in full, please. How did the Angevin creep in, by the way? I’ve always wanted to ask.’

  ‘I come from a long and ancient line,’ he said lightly.

  ‘Ah well,’ she said as he handed the form back. ‘We all fantasise a little, don’t we?’

  Cope laughed. ‘A nice touch, Hannah.’ His interest in this skirmish was beginning to wane; for it to become really exciting there must be a risk to himself as well as to Hannah and he could not see that developing. He might as well get down to the morning’s work.

  He took a pile of letters from the ‘in’ tray. ‘You’re not doing your stuff this morning, woman. You’ve not sorted the wheat from the chaff.’ He read through one or two notes and said, ‘I see Neil is lunching with Lomax tomorrow. We’d better get something out for him, I don’t suppose he’s had much time to work on anything himself. His first words to the citizenry will be important and Lomax is sharp as a tack.’

  ‘I always think he’s such a gentle man,’ she protested.

  ‘Gentleman! His father kept a tobacconist’s shop.’

  She looked genuinely startled for a moment, and then laughed. ‘You really meant that, didn’t you? I don’t care if his father was a road-sweeper. It was disposition I was referring to, not breeding.’

  ‘And quite apart from his parentage,’ Cope was a little nettled, ‘he isn’t a particularly outstanding journalist. No enterprise, otherwise he wouldn’t still be editing a local paper.’

  ‘But it’s a good one, and it sells.’

  ‘Oh, he manages well enough. Not top rank, but well enough. For one thing, he gives bright boys their head. And then, he’s never allowed himself to be owned by any particular faction.’

  ‘Have we finished his obituary?’ She was still making fun of him.

  He looked at her angrily, and then laughed. ‘We’re back where all this started, aren’t we? Talking about funerals. I must say I feel rather as though someone had died. Must be the election hangover. Let’s get through this stuff quickly.’

  The correspondence was varied and almost each letter called for a different approach. Cope made the necessary adjustments smoothly, striking exactly the right note in each case, selecting the information to be given, the points to be stressed, as though once he read a letter something clicked in his brain and everything was there at his disposal, words, tone, content. Hannah had never come across anyone whose brain worked so quickly or who could sustain mental effort for so long. Towards the end of this long session, however, she frowned over a letter to the local branch of the Transport and General Workers’ Union.

  ‘You don’t think that sounds too accomplished?’

  ‘Can one be too accomplished?’

  ‘It’s not quite the appeal Neil has had for people, I would think.’

  ‘Read it back to me.’

  He sat looking at the table, beating a tattoo with the fingers of his right hand while he listened. ‘You’re right,’ he said eventually. He looked at her curiously. ‘How much of all this do you believe, Hannah?’ He waved a hand over the pile of letters.

  She was confused, not having expected the question, indeed, not having asked it of herself. ‘I’ve been a secretary for years,’ she extemporised. ‘One can’t put one’s heart and soul into each letter.’

  ‘Somewhere, wriggling away at the back of your mind, Hannah, is a little worm of scepticism.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have worked the hours I have, and for so little pay, if that was true!’ she protested. ‘I think Neil is absolutely genuine in everything he says and does.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘Someone has to attend to the business side of things.’

  ‘Integrity is not enough, in other words.’

  ‘If you want this before the end of the afternoon,’ she dismissed the question of integrity, ‘you had better leave me to get on with it. What about this last letter?’

  ‘Just tone it down, or rough it up, or whatever you think it needs.’ He looked at his watch. Ten past one. ‘I shan’t be back until about half-past four.’

  After Cope had gone, Hannah decided to type one or two letters before eating her sandwiches; she had started on the second letter when the door opened and William Lomax came in.

  ‘I’m supposed to be lunching with Moray,’ he said, in answer to her surprised glance.

  ‘Not today. Tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ He sat on one of the packing cases. ‘How silly of me. Yes, now I come to think of it, I do recall. . . .’ His eyes swerved away from her and he gazed round the room. ‘You haven’t got much space, have you? I think we’ve got a little more space.’ Space seemed to interest him; he got up and began to pace the room.

  Hannah watched him. She was aware
that he was never entirely at ease in her company. When she met him on the seafront he would greet her with lively enthusiasm, but this could quite suddenly, for no apparent reason, be replaced by nervous abruptness. At times, he was almost rude. Yet he continued to seek her company. This erratic behaviour had surprised Hannah, but at first she had not been disturbed by it. Lately, however, it seemed to have infected her, and as she walked through the town, or attended functions, she found herself looking out for him, eager, yet apprehensive in case he came upon her unawares. At the moment, perhaps because her encounter with Cope had put her on her guard, she was the calmer of the two.

  Lomax said, ‘Ten by fifteen.’

  ‘You’ve just missed Rodney,’ Hannah told him. ‘He won’t be back until half-past four and Neil won’t be in again today.’

  ‘Cope still with you, is he?’ Lomax gazed up at the ceiling and down again, as though fascinated by the height – or lack of it – of the room. ‘Man of enormous energy, he always seems to me. Not at all the type an independent candidate can usually hope to recruit for his campaign manager.’

  ‘I think he enjoys the challenge.’

  ‘Ah, maybe.’ He nodded his head absently. ‘But I suppose there won’t be much for him to do now.’

  ‘You have to be joking!’ She grimaced wryly at the pile of letters on her desk.

  ‘Lucky Mr. Moray! To be able to afford Rodney Cope and Hannah Mason.’

  Hannah looked at him with a shade more reserve in her manner. He had a thin, rather bony face and a habit of holding his head a little to one side; the eyes were deeply sunk in the sockets and she had the impression that one was a little higher than the other. She realised, what she had lately overlooked, that in spite of the vague, unfinished way he left his sentences and his general air of not having quite got the gist of any conversation, he was very perceptive.

  ‘Perhaps money doesn’t matter to Rodney Cope,’ she suggested. ‘It can’t do,’ he agreed.

  It would have been better to have left the conversation here, but she had to develop the theme. ‘Perhaps it’s power that fascinates him. He may like to feel he can influence events.’

  Lomax pursed his lips and tilted his head even farther to one side as he appeared to consider this not very original suggestion. ‘By persuading Moray to back Heffernan’s scheme for the development of the West Front?’

  ‘Neil didn’t back Heffernan’s scheme!’ Hannah looked at Lomax angrily. ‘If the editor of the Gazette can’t get the picture straight, no wonder there has been so much misunderstanding.’

  ‘Refresh my memory,’ Lomax said meekly.

  ‘Ormerod wanted Heffernan’s scheme thrown out before it had ever been considered. Neil felt it should be considered objectively in relation to the needs of the town as a whole, not the needs of a few interested parties who stand to lose if it is adopted.’

  Lomax gave her a sudden, unexpectedly sweet smile, as though, for some reason she could not understand, she had gladdened his heart. ‘It’s a wicked world, isn’t it?’ he said.

  She responded to the smile, although she was not entirely mollified.

  He looked round the room again, this time appearing fascinated by the low, sliding window. ‘Do you find it difficult to get a window cleaner?’ he asked. ‘We have an awful job.’ He peered down from the window. ‘You get a good view of The Warren, don’t you?’

  ‘By the time Neil has finished with it, it will be called The Honeycomb.’

  ‘That’s rather good.’ He looked at her as though she had surprised him. Had she betrayed that scepticism of which Cope had accused her? While she was thinking about this, he said, ‘By the way, do you know if Cope is friendly with Mrs. Ormerod?’

  Hannah concentrated for a moment on the typewriter, realigning the paper, her tongue between her lips, her eyes intent. When she had done this to her satisfaction, she said, ‘You would have to ask Rodney that. I’ve enough to do typing his correspondence, I don’t concern myself with his friends.’

  Lomax said, ‘Ah, yes. . . .’ He looked at his watch. ‘Good gracious! Nearly two o’clock. Have you lunched?’

  ‘I’m having a working lunch.’

  ‘Ah well, another time. One day next week, perhaps?’ Hannah smiled.

  Lomax stood staring gloomily at the window as though brooding on the cleaning problem; then he turned on his heel and went out of the room.

  Hannah went on typing, her fingers moving very fast, her eyes flicking automatically from the pad to the typewriter. She kept this up for some twelve minutes, whisking paper rapidly in and out of the typewriter. Then she went to the window to eat her sandwiches. She slid the window back as far as it would go. It was ten past two. The narrow footways of The Warren ran off to the left and to the right. In the distance, between gaps in the low roofs opposite, she could see the plane trees in Scotney Square, where people would be eating sandwiches on the grass and admiring the elegant façade of the Victorian houses. It was surprisingly quiet, the pubs were still open, business in the shops was slack. The walls of the pub opposite. The North Star, had recently been painted a brilliant carnation; it made the Chinese restaurant next door, its windows covered by a net curtain which had not been washed since the day it was put up, look more dingy than ever. There was a jewellers’ next to the Chinese restaurant, its windows protected by iron bars which must have been provided by a previous owner, since the array of second-hand junk in the window scarcely warranted such elaborate precautions. Farther on, Hannah could see The Lantern Shop, its window crammed with light shades of every kind, the lights themselves looking wan as electric light does in daytime. Hannah liked the way the sordid and the elegant rubbed shoulders in Scotney. Scotney was an exciting place to be.

  Chapter Five

  Water was sluicing down, the gutter must be blocked. It had been raining for several hours, if not all day; Pauline Ormerod had heard it when she woke in the morning, and again at midday. Now she could not hear the raindrops because of this cascade which had recently started. She sat up, resting her weight on one elbow. The light was bad, the room was full of shadow, and beyond the window the sky was a darker grey; she could just see the tops of trees moving, nothing else. If she sat upright, she would probably see the roofs of the houses on the far side of the London Road. That would be exciting! Instead, she turned over on her stomach and lay with her head hanging down the side of the bed. She had put her travelling clock on the floor, because she kept knocking it off the bedside table; now it stared up at her, eyeball to eyeball. Half-past five! A day gone. But not so far gone that she could just turn over and sleep through to the next day. She stared at the carpet; she was gradually sliding off the bed and she had a good view of the carpet, but it didn’t present her with any answer to her problems. She put out a hand to stop herself falling, and lay for a moment or two meditating, her body supported by the one hand pressed on the floor. ‘I can’t stay like this for ever,’ she thought drearily. She hauled herself back onto the bed, and sat huddled up, staring at the blurred windows. Her head was heavy and the room smelt stale. In the long mirror she could see her reflection, she raised a hand and made a rude gesture. It didn’t solve anything. She looked around; there were her clothes strewn across the floor, a half-empty bottle of gin and an overturned glass under the dressing-table, the telephone directory for the Scotney area on Geoffrey’s bureau (why did no one ever ask to have the telephone directory with them on their desert island? All those interesting people. . .)

  Geoffrey hadn’t answered the telephone. He never answered the telephone now, in case it was her ringing. Perhaps he never went out in case he met her. Perhaps they were both living cooped up in bedrooms, sleeping the time away.

  She got up and went very slowly into the bathroom. Any quick movement was painful. She did not wash or brush her teeth, that film of dirt was all she had left, her last protection. She went back to the bedroom and looked out of the window. She hadn’t missed much of a day. Beyond the green – beg its pardon. The G
reen, God knew they had paid enough for a house fronting The Green . . . Beyond The Green, the London Road was jammed with cars and buses in between which sleek black motor-cyclists wormed their way. There was a long queue at the bus stop, people huddled in raincoats, poking one another’s eyes with umbrellas. What did they do it for? she wondered. Why didn’t they all stay in bed on a day like this? Farther away, in the direction of Scotney Square, lights had come on in shops and office blocks. But by the time she had dressed it would be too late for visiting either shops or offices. She had meant to visit Geoffrey’s solicitor. The first small grain of resolution stirred within her. When she had woken this morning, and thought how she must bathe to remove all odour, dress to make herself acceptable, take a taxi so that she didn’t spoil the effect on the way, arrive at Slater and Wilberforce after ten in the hope that Mr. Slater would by that time have arrived, but would not yet be engaged with another client . . . she had turned over and gone to sleep again. Even at her best, she had never been good at observing the customary patterns of behaviour; other people did that kind of thing so much better than she did. But she would go to endless trouble, risk ridicule and humiliation, and even, on occasions, jeopardise her personal safety, simply in order to do something the wrong way. In the days when he had found her an irresistible madcap, Geoffrey had said she was one of those people who thought that ‘No Entry’ stood for ‘Short-Cut’. Resolution hardened into action. She had to see Mr. Slater. It was ludicrous to imagine that any convention about hours of business, any nonsense about professional etiquette, any social niceties about not calling on people unannounced, should stand in the way of her seeing Mr. Slater on a matter which affected her husband’s future. She was now unwaveringly set upon her purpose. She dressed with little care for Mr. Slater’s predilection for a well-turned out woman, but taking just as long as if sartorial elegance had been her object. By the time she emerged in long-sleeved, torn black sweater, out-of¬date tartan mini-skirt and Cossack boots, a lot of thought had been expended, but the matter under consideration had been the clothes to suit her own mood and Mr. Slater was almost forgotten. She had to return to the house to look up his private address in the telephone directory. She and Geoffrey had dined at his house once, but it was an occasion which she had erased from her memory.