‘please.’
Clodagh May frowned. ‘Oh well, to cut a long story, some years later I broke my leg. I needed help in the house. I have a daily but we needed someone living in, and nurses cost the earth when you can get them. So Giles suggested—’
‘Giles? How did—’
‘He was living here, did I not say? He was working on his book.’
‘I did not know he wrote.’
‘Of course, brilliant, to think of that talent cut down so young—’
Maurice said, ‘Terrible, absolutely terrible,’ and wished she would offer him another drink.
She said, ‘Shall I go on?’
‘Please.’
‘Refill my glass. This is bringing it all back, I’m not sure it’s good for me. Get yourself a refill, too.’
Maurice said, ‘Thank you,’ and took both glasses to the drinks table, where he measured an inch into each. ‘Do go on,’ he said. ‘It’s cathartic.’
Clodagh took the glass from him. ‘So I wrote,’ she said, ‘told her to come. She came. She did the work. Giles looked after me, of course, but she did the rest and—’ Clodagh May sipped her drink.
‘And?’
‘She behaved like the skivvy she was. God! When I think of it!’
‘And?’
‘She got him into trouble, didn’t she? Got herself pregnant, had the cheek to say he raped her. But she would say that, wouldn’t she?’
‘And Giles?’ I’m beginning to think I knew this fellow, Maurice thought, enjoying himself. ‘And Giles?’
‘Darling Giles explained it, I can hear his voice: “Little bit tiddly, that sort of thing? Rather like you and Daniel”—that was naughty of him—“Could happen to anybody.” It had. “So what,” he said. “You and I will have a baby.” And that’s what we did, we had Christy.’
‘I thought Giles married—I thought—’
‘Of course they married; I could not have Christy illegitimate. Bad enough that the mother was a servant.’
I am not hearing this. Maurice hugged himself. I love it, I must make her go on; it’s beautiful. ‘So?’ he said.
‘So she buggered everything up,’ snapped Clodagh May. ‘Took Giles off on a honeymoon to Paris. People would have gossiped if they had not, but then, would you believe, she takes Giles off to some squalid flat in London and, when my grandson is born, he only comes to his home on visits.’
Maurice ventured, ‘Tough,’ and then, ‘Surprise.’
‘Surprise?’ Clodagh May, who had kept her voice low, shouted, ‘Surprise, you say! The next surprise is she divorces him. What do you say to that?’
Maurice said, ‘On what grounds?’ hoping for the indictment of smelly feet and parts, or better still adultery, and if adultery who with and in whose bed? He held his breath, guessing.
Clodagh May drew her legs up, to sit contained in her chair. Distancing herself, she said, ‘What does it matter?’ She stared past her visitor. ‘Now I have nothing,’ she murmured, ‘nothing.’
Maurice glanced uneasily at the toys sitting in their malevolent row. ‘You have their grave,’ he said.
She said, ‘Would you have expected me to have Giles and Christy freeze-dried?’ And presently she said, ‘Have you far to go?’
Dismissed, Maurice Benson headed for the main road but, level with the pub and reading an enticing notice, Open all day, he stopped and went in. The landlord with whom he had chatted earlier was gone, the customers too. A bored woman polished glasses to the rhythm of piped muzak. Maurice leaned against the bar. She said, ‘Whatalyahav?’
‘I’d better have something soft, I’m driving.’
‘A non-alcoholic beer?’
‘That will do, thanks.’
She said, ‘You have been drinking shorts with May and Brownlow,’ and poured his drink.
Maurice said, ‘Somebody been watching me?’
She said, ‘This is a small village. You a friend, then?’
Maurice said, ‘You could say that.’
‘Didn’t see you at the funeral.’
Maurice said, ‘Couldn’t make it,’ and sipped his non-alcoholic beer. Then he said, ‘Tell me about
Clodagh May frowned. ‘Oh well, to cut a long story, some years later I broke my leg. I needed help in the house. I have a daily but we needed someone living in, and nurses cost the earth when you can get them. So Giles suggested—’
‘Giles? How did—’
‘He was living here, did I not say? He was working on his book.’
‘I did not know he wrote.’
‘Of course, brilliant, to think of that talent cut down so young—’
Maurice said, ‘Terrible, absolutely terrible,’ and wished she would offer him another drink.
She said, ‘Shall I go on?’
‘Please.’
‘Refill my glass. This is bringing it all back, I’m not sure it’s good for me. Get yourself a refill, too.’
Maurice said, ‘Thank you,’ and took both glasses to the drinks table, where he measured an inch into each. ‘Do go on,’ he said. ‘It’s cathartic.’
Clodagh took the glass from him. ‘So I wrote,’ she said, ‘told her to come. She came. She did the work. Giles looked after me, of course, but she did the rest and—’ Clodagh May sipped her drink.
‘And?’
‘She behaved like the skivvy she was. God! When I think of it!’
‘And?’
‘She got him into trouble, didn’t she? Got herself pregnant, had the cheek to say he raped her. But she would say that, wouldn’t she?’
‘And Giles?’ I’m beginning to think I knew this fellow, Maurice thought, enjoying himself. ‘And Giles?’
‘Darling Giles explained it, I can hear his voice: “Little bit tiddly, that sort of thing? Rather like you and Daniel”—that was naughty of him—“Could happen to anybody.” It had. “So what,” he said. “You and I will have a baby.” And that’s what we did, we had Christy.’
‘I thought Giles married—I thought—’
‘Of course they married; I could not have Christy illegitimate. Bad enough that the mother was a servant.’
I am not hearing this. Maurice hugged himself. I love it, I must make her go on; it’s beautiful. ‘So?’ he said.
‘So she buggered everything up,’ snapped Clodagh May. ‘Took Giles off on a honeymoon to Paris. People would have gossiped if they had not, but then, would you believe, she takes Giles off to some squalid flat in London and, when my grandson is born, he only comes to his home on visits.’
Maurice ventured, ‘Tough,’ and then, ‘Surprise.’
‘Surprise?’ Clodagh May, who had kept her voice low, shouted, ‘Surprise, you say! The next surprise is she divorces him. What do you say to that?’
Maurice said, ‘On what grounds?’ hoping for the indictment of smelly feet and parts, or better still adultery, and if adultery who with and in whose bed? He held his breath, guessing.
Clodagh May drew her legs up, to sit contained in her chair. Distancing herself, she said, ‘What does it matter?’ She stared past her visitor. ‘Now I have nothing,’ she murmured, ‘nothing.’
Maurice glanced uneasily at the toys sitting in their malevolent row. ‘You have their grave,’ he said.
She said, ‘Would you have expected me to have Giles and Christy freeze-dried?’ And presently she said, ‘Have you far to go?’
Dismissed, Maurice Benson headed for the main road but, level with the pub and reading an enticing notice, Open all day, he stopped and went in. The landlord with whom he had chatted earlier was gone, the customers too. A bored woman polished glasses to the rhythm of piped muzak. Maurice leaned against the bar. She said, ‘Whatalyahav?’
‘I’d better have something soft, I’m driving.’
‘A non-alcoholic beer?’
‘That will do, thanks.’
She said, ‘You have been drinking shorts with May and Brownlow,’ and poured his drink.
Maurice said, ‘Somebody been watching me?’
She said, ‘This is a small village. You a friend, then?’
Maurice said, ‘You could say that.’
‘Didn’t see you at the funeral.’
Maurice said, ‘Couldn’t make it,’ and sipped his non-alcoholic beer. Then he said, ‘Tell me about
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