Dangerous to Know, page 6
8
Things were getting worse at home, except that Walter seemed to be returning later and later; now he was rarely on his normal train and even if he came back at a reasonable hour, and had no meeting, he often went out after dinner, sometimes in the car but sometimes simply walking. Hermione had no idea where he went and she did not ask. She found his silent hostility very frightening, but she forced herself to forget about it when they were not together. She had her own diversions now, her two days a week when she was occupied and earning.
At Orchard House she was alone, though after her brief meetings with Jeremy she kept expecting him to appear and rather wished he would. After his children’s visits the girl’s room was chaotic, but the boy’s was very tidy, as though he did not want to leave his imprint on the place. Hermione wondered how well they accepted the arrangement with Theresa. Where did their mother live? Was it all amicable and happy? It must be disconcerting to have two homes, two loyalties. Were they fond of Theresa or did they resent her as, perhaps, usurping their mother’s role? There were all sorts of questions to which she would have liked the answers.
She mentioned the family to Emily Fisher, who had never seen any of them.
‘I don’t know what Jeremy does,’ said Hermione. ‘He came in one day when I was there, but he wouldn’t tell me about his job. Perhaps it’s something weird.’
‘He’s probably an accountant or a bank manager,’ said Emily.
‘Maybe, but I think he’s more likely to be a musician or a landscape gardener,’ said Hermione. ‘Though he doesn’t exactly look like either and there aren’t any violins or clarinets about the place. But then not all musicians have long hair and dress untidily.’
‘Are you fond of music?’
‘I was, but so long ago it’s as if it wasn’t me,’ said Hermione. ‘I played the piano at school, but not really since then. The girls never learned. Walter thought it a waste of time and money.’ The piano that had been in her old home was sold before their first move.
‘Do you play records – listen to concerts on the wireless?’ Mrs Fisher had not learned to talk about the radio.
‘No. I don’t know why,’ said Hermione, and added, sheepishly, ‘Yes, I do. Classical music – orchestral music – opera – doesn’t soothe me.’ She paused, and then confessed, ‘It makes me unhappy.’
‘It makes you long for things you scarcely know you’ve missed,’ said Emily, nodding.
‘Sort of – uncomfortable, somehow,’ said Hermione, now embarrassed. ‘Silly, isn’t it, when the radio’s there and it’s free. I listen to talks and things and watch television instead.’
‘During the war cheerful music and comedy programmes were relayed in factories to keep people’s spirits up,’ said Emily. ‘And military bands have a purpose.’ She decided not to mention the lunchtime concerts of classical music in London. ‘I can understand why people listen to so much pop. It takes their minds off their own troubles. People don’t want to be uplifted all the time, just diverted.’ She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘You must go, my dear. ‘You’ll be late.’
‘Hermione’s looking very well these days,’ said Robert Mountford, chairman of the parish council, before a meeting at which fouling of the pavements by dogs, the introduction of more street lighting, the problems of increasing acts of vandalism such as graffiti in the bus shelter and on other walls, and a break-in at the village hall were on the agenda. ‘Nice to see her blooming,’ he added. He and his wife had discussed Hermione’s brighter looks, noticed by them in church.
‘What? Oh, she’s always very well,’ said Walter impatiently. ‘She’s never ill. Now, about this business at the village hall – I intend to propose that we should patrol the village ourselves, since the police seem unable to do it – catch the hooligans in the act. I often walk about myself, hoping to apprehend them, but so far without success.’
‘Who’ll form this vigilante force?’ asked Robert Mountford drily. ‘The parish council?’
‘Volunteers. Two men a night should be sufficient,’ said Walter.
‘All night?’
‘Well – till one or two at least,’ said Walter. ‘I’ve walked round as late as eleven or twelve.’
‘But you’ve caught no one.’
‘No.’
‘Perhaps they’ve seen you coming,’ Robert said.
‘Well, then, if it’s made them desist, it’s been a useful exercise,’ said Walter.
‘Would you patrol till two and still go up to town next day?’ asked Robert.
‘Certainly,’ said Walter. ‘On a rota system.’
‘I’m not sure you’ll find many takers on a permanent basis,’ said Robert, who, since he was retired, could foresee an obligation to be a volunteer at least once a week and did not care for the prospect.
‘We could float the idea at the meeting,’ said Walter. ‘Toss it about a bit. See what people think. Safeguarding property is a public duty.’
Robert could see that Walter was longing to command the troops thus raised. The man was full of energy, fizzing with it.
He determined to suggest, instead of Walter’s scheme, an approach to the police with a request for more of a presence, particularly after the pubs closed, and this was the action eventually approved. In order to forestall Walter’s evident intention to undertake dealing with the police, Robert said that he would mention it to the local inspector without delay. Walter could not be relied on to deal tactfully with such a matter.
Walking home after the meeting, irritated by the failure of his plan, Walter flashed his torch around. Piles of dead leaves caught up in the shrivelled growth of valerian and aubretia at the base of a wall beside the churchyard gave out a noxious smell: dog droppings, caught in the withered vegetation. Gone were the days when a man with a barrow patrolled such village areas keeping nuisances of this kind under control; now, occasionally, a road-sweeping vehicle came round, but nothing was done about the footpaths. People didn’t care, that was the trouble. It was left to individuals like himself and Robert Mountford to deal with problems others ignored.
Walter resolved to handle this one himself, on Saturday, when people would be sure to witness his act of public service.
When he reached home Hermione was in bed, her back turned towards him. By the light of his bedside lamp he could see the hump of her body beneath the bedclothes, the top of her head just visible. He needed comforting for the failure of his plans and he reached out to turn her over, claim what it was her duty to supply.
‘No,’ she said, loudly and firmly, when his hand, heavy and strong, caught her by the shoulder and pulled her over.
She had never said no before, though she had lain resistant, needed storming. He was much stronger than she was; he had always prevailed before.
But not this time. Somehow she writhed away from his grasp and got out of bed, standing there in her long-sleeved blue cotton nightdress, her arms crossed over her breast.
‘No, Walter,’ she said again. She was trembling. She wanted to say, ‘I’m not going to let you rape me,’ but she could not utter the words. Instead, she made for the door, but Walter was before her.
‘Get back into bed,’ he said, and hit her several times across the face.
Since the girls had left home, he had often hit her, but she had never before defied him like this. Usually he hit her after he had subjected her to the dreaded physical invasion, or if he had failed because of his own inadequacy. She often cried at such times and he liked to give her real cause for tears.
Tears came into her eyes now, but she stood her ground.
‘You don’t frighten me,’ she said, untruthfully. ‘You’re nothing but a bully.’
She was standing between him and the door, and although she was shaking with fear, she managed to open it and get out of the room before Walter, briefly frozen in surprise at her defiance, could prevent her. He grabbed her nightdress and it ripped as she tried to bang the door behind her, but when he, his power of movement restored, seized it in his turn, he stubbed his toe and the sudden pain made him pause again, allowing her just enough time to escape to safety. She went into Jane’s room and locked the door; earlier, she had bought a good strong bolt and fitted it. She had planned this move for days but so far had lacked the courage to carry it out. Now, provoked once too often, suddenly she found it.
He banged on the door for a while, turning the handle, rattling it, cursing and threatening revenge, and she knew that ultimately there would be a heavy price to pay, but not yet. Eventually, Walter gave up and went away.
She had felt a great a sense of achievement when she managed to fit the bolt, making holes for the screws by banging in nails because she did not know how to use Walter’s drill and was afraid of breaking it. They had held, and she was safe, if only for a while.
That night, neither of them slept for long.
* * *
The next morning Walter cut himself shaving, and when he came downstairs he had a piece of tissue still attached to his cheek. He was in a very bad temper.
Hermione had risen early, but her clothes were still in the main bedroom. She put on some of Jane’s – a pair of frayed, patched jeans and a shapeless sweater which Jane had left behind when she went away. The jeans were too tight but the baggy sweater covered the gaping zip. She found a safety pin in her sewing-box downstairs and fastened them with that.
There was a comb in the downstairs cloakroom. She tugged it through her hair, which needed washing. Would Walter pull all her clothes out of the cupboards and throw them round the room? He often did this, sometimes telling her that everything was so untidy that it must be sorted out, and sometimes without giving her a reason. Her handbag was in the bedroom and he might turn that out, but her savings were not in it; she had put the money in an envelope between the pages of a cookery book on the kitchen shelf. It was a very safe place; Walter was not interested in cookery, but as he had bought the books for her early in their marriage he would not damage them. Apart from her, he never harmed things he had paid for, though he complained about anything that did not fulfil his expectations; he claimed that he had bought her by housing her and feeding her through all these years.
When he came downstairs she poured boiling water into the kettle for their tea as she had done every day for the greater part of her life. Walter did not approve of coffee; it was bad for the nerves, and what he had at the office was enough in any day. He did not approve of women in trousers, either, but had had to endure the sight of his daughters in jeans, like their peers. Not Hermione, however: it would have been impossible for her to buy them since she had to account for her expenditure, and she was sure she would look dreadful in them because she was so plump.
She was ready for war to break out over breakfast. She told herself that if Walter hit her, she would pour boiling tea over him.
Walter was still too angry even to speak, and when he saw her in the shabby sweater, the faded jeans, her face white, with hollows beneath the huge eyes and round one of them dark bruising, his fury grew. He was trembling with rage as he took his place at the table in the dining-room, seeking for damaging words with which to berate her and almost afraid of his own anger, for which Hermione was entirely responsible, in his view. She was to blame for everything, even the rebuff from the woman on the train.
Hermione sat facing him in silence, and when the tea had stood for long enough, she poured him out a cup, concentrating hard because she was shaking and she did not want to spill a drop. To do so would invite further trouble, even another blow.
Walter ate his boiled eggs, his two slices of Hovis bread toasted just enough, with marmalade and low-fat spread. He was in some ways a modern food faddist but was inconsistent, with his liking for steamed pudding and rich cake. Once, Hermione had dared to point this out to him, to be sharply told that if he wanted her opinion he would ask for it.
She waited for his first remark of the day, but none came. In silence Walter ate his meal. Her senses hyper-acute with nerves, Hermione could hear the scrunching of his toast, even, she felt, the swallowing of his tea. Without speaking, he left the table.
She sat there, not daring to move until he left the house and she felt safe.
In the train, Walter recalled Robert Mountford’s remark about Hermione looking well – blooming, he had said. She hadn’t looked well this morning, he thought with sour satisfaction. If she hadn’t been so quick getting out of the bedroom last night, he would have taught her a lesson she would not forget. How dare she defy him in that bold and brazen manner! What had got into her? Had Robert Mountford paid her a compliment direct? Surely not.
Walter had taught her many lessons throughout the years but she had failed to learn; still she denied her duty, though she had promised in church to honour and obey him. Walter conveniently forgot that he had made reciprocal promises about cherishing her.
The bruise was an unfortunate result of last night’s incident, however. He hoped she’d put some concealing stuff on it before she left the house. She was going to a coffee morning today in aid of church funds. He had remembered it without being reminded, and before leaving the house had placed two pounds on the card advertising the event, which he put before her as she sat at the table nursing a cup of tea. This would take care of her entry and a modest purchase. Walter had no need to say a word; she understood the purpose of his action.
Tonight, when he came home, he would apply the next instalment of the new lessons she must be taught, but he must not leave marks where they would show. There were other places where she could be struck, spots where bruises would be hidden.
Hermione had no intention of going to the coffee morning. She had already said she could not help that day, for it was Thursday and she was off to Downs Farm. She put the two pounds in her purse; she had earned them.
She was astounded at herself for harbouring this thought, then even more astonished that she had not thought like that before. Why had she not stood up to him years ago? She had told him he was a bully. Didn’t bullies crumple when outfaced?
Not always.
After he had gone, she made herself a cup of strong coffee; they had to have it in the house for visitors; even Walter accepted that. It might help to pull her round; she felt dreadful, and knew she looked a wreck.
She had found it difficult to swallow, not just because Walter’s blows had hurt her jaw, which they had, though her teeth were unaffected. She had cried for what seemed hours last night, stifling her sobs so that he could not hear them; as a result her throat still ached. She soaked some toast in the coffee and nibbled it. All through breakfast she had been conscious of the fast beating of her heart, and she knew that Walter was as full of scarcely contained fire as a smouldering volcano. At any moment she expected him to explode. She had put a big knife under the cushion of her chair, where she could reach it quickly if he attacked her again.
I wouldn’t use it, she had told herself, putting it away after he had gone, I couldn’t. You hear about such things, but they don’t happen to people like us.
But all this is happening to me, she thought bleakly, and it’s always been the same. She wondered about Jane and Felix. Had he behaved like this and was that why they parted? Of course not: she was answered in a second. Felix was a gentle, weak man, with whom Jane would not have stayed unless he treated her properly. Perhaps he was too weak, she thought, with sudden perception. Jane needed to lean on someone. It would be nice to go and see her; she had enough money for her fare but she couldn’t go today, and anyway would not want Jane to see the bruising round her eye. Some tale of banging into a door would satisfy Nigel Wilson, if he noticed it, but not Jane; she would want the details.
Sarah’s departure had coincided with Walter’s intermittent impotence. Hermione had read advice columns about this problem, which in many ways she welcomed since it reprieved her, but Walter’s anger was now expressed not mainly in sarcastic taunts or destructive criticism but in open rage. Frustration, she supposed, feeling guilty because she was the cause of it.
From novels and magazine articles that she had read, Hermione knew that there had to be another side to sex than her experience of it, but there were frigid women, and she was one of them. Walter’s misfortune was to be tied to her. It did not occur to her that a different partner might have drawn from her a different response.
She put cream and powder on her bruised face and brushed her hair forward before wheeling out her bicycle.
She had been right in suspecting that Walter might tip out all her clothes. The contents of her drawers were strewn on the bedroom floor and her few skirts and dresses were flung on the unmade bed. She didn’t touch them before she left for work. Walter had done her a good turn, she told herself, as she was going to move everything into Jane’s room. She’d put them away when she came home.
She changed into her working skirt and her fawn sweater. Jane’s jeans hadn’t been all that small; she might buy herself a pair of trousers. By the time she had pushed her cycle up the hill and was pedalling along the main road towards the turning for Prendsmere, she was feeling better. It was a clear, bright day and the sun made the cold seem less. She had pulled on a woollen hat and wore gloves; last week her ears had stung with cold as she rode along. Nigel had not given her a lift back again; each time she left Downs Farm he had been hard at work in his study.
Laura, unlike Theresa, left her no instructions and she had developed a routine, doing what seemed most urgent and fitting in extra tasks when there was time. Nigel expected her to put her head round the study door to say that she had arrived, and would leave her to get on with it, but he always made their coffee, and when it was ready would tell her to knock off for ten minutes. Then they would chat. He would stroll about the big kitchen, saying he grew stiff sitting at his desk for hours. She would ask him what he was working on and would listen intently as he described what he was trying to put across, and he was eager to hear tales of life in Merbury. She related how a woman who had made soft toys for years – teddy bears, ducks, rabbits – and sold them at modest prices in the village shop, had had to cease because of new strict rules about the materials used, although they were not flammable, nor were the eyes dangerous. Thus a useful and enjoyable occupation for an elderly person, which earned her a small income, had been curtailed at the same time as a local source of inexpensive presents for new babies and small children was lost. This gave Nigel an idea for one of his articles, and when he showed it to Hermione she was amazed at how he had elaborated on her simple theme, declaring that the active pensioner was now depressed and the would-be shoppers angry. He always asked her for her news, and she told him all she knew about village events. It seemed clear that he would disguise anything he learned from her, exaggerating and enlarging what to her had seemed a simple theme.
