Frank. May. Berenice.
When he left the cafe he walked, through the town, up the hill behind it, down on the other side, back along the road past the mill, down into the town again. An hour of walking did not help to clear hismind, did not help to order his swirling thoughts, did not help him to decide what he should do. He did not know if he should go to the shop now and tell Berenice or wait until she got home that evening, or whether he should tell her at all. No, he must tell her before someone else did, someone outside the family, or someone made an unpleasant remark, dropped a hint, head to one side, pitying. Perhaps May would telephone her, or Colin; they would tell her and spare him. Perhaps she already knew?
No, he was certain that she did not. There was no way she could have kept this to herself. She did not know.
He sat on a low wall outside the post office, took the paper out and read the page again.
The Cupboard Under the Stairs
.
Berenice could not have kept all this to herself either, so it could not be true. Perhaps a little of it was true?
He refolded the paper. He went back to the cafe. Another mug of tea and he would fetch Berenice out of the shop, take her home and tell her there, break it to her in his own words first then show her the paper.
The cafe was full now and he had to sit at a table with a couple of women. One of them glanced at him. Glanced away.
It wasn’t the girl, Tina, who brought his tea over, itwas Vic the owner. Vic didn’t serve tables but he was serving now, bending down to him as he set the mug on the table.
‘On the house, this,’ he said.
Shame surged up like bile into Joe Jory’s mouth. This was the start then, the first thing Frank Prime had done to them. People knew. People would talk and blame, or talk and pity, talk and wonder, talk and stare. Talk.
He sat in front of the tea, not drinking, turning over what he should do. He did not want Berenice to see the paper before he had prepared her. Had Colin seen it or May? Bertha, he knew, was not likely to do so and it could be kept from her without too much trouble. He thought of telephoning Colin, but what if Colin had not seen it, did not take the paper and so he was the first to – to what? Break the news. Better he did it than a stranger.
In the end, he decided that it was not up to him to tell anyone but Berenice. She could talk to the others, let them decide what to do between them. If there was anything at all that could be done.
He walked slowly along to the florist’s shop. Outside on the grey pavement the buckets of bright flowers had been freshly watered. The sun had come out and caught the drops of it here and there and made tiny rainbows. Joe Jory stood looking at them.He should call Berenice out and show them to her, so that she could enjoy them before what he had to say changed everything.
But she saw him through the window. She was wrapping some long-stemmed roses in white tissue. He watched her. She was concentrating but she glanced at him a couple of times, bright-faced, smiling. So no one else had been in before him. She did not know yet.
He waited, looking at the drops of water on the bright flowers until the customer had left and the shop was empty and then he went inside.
12
A FTER B ERENICE left home, May found a job, though only in the village, working at the convent which was hidden out of sight at the bottom of the wooded valley.
Water came flowing down the steep and stony track through the trees and fell without ceasing into a stream which flowed on, widening to a river as it ran past the convent and away between steep banks. May answered an advertisement in the window of the village shop. She cycled along the path that skirted the wood and wound down, more gently than the rushing water, towards the convent buildings. She had never been here before. She pushed her cycle the last yards and then stood, looking at the bowl of sky and the water falling and the flat stretch of gravel
When he left the cafe he walked, through the town, up the hill behind it, down on the other side, back along the road past the mill, down into the town again. An hour of walking did not help to clear hismind, did not help to order his swirling thoughts, did not help him to decide what he should do. He did not know if he should go to the shop now and tell Berenice or wait until she got home that evening, or whether he should tell her at all. No, he must tell her before someone else did, someone outside the family, or someone made an unpleasant remark, dropped a hint, head to one side, pitying. Perhaps May would telephone her, or Colin; they would tell her and spare him. Perhaps she already knew?
No, he was certain that she did not. There was no way she could have kept this to herself. She did not know.
He sat on a low wall outside the post office, took the paper out and read the page again.
The Cupboard Under the Stairs
.
Berenice could not have kept all this to herself either, so it could not be true. Perhaps a little of it was true?
He refolded the paper. He went back to the cafe. Another mug of tea and he would fetch Berenice out of the shop, take her home and tell her there, break it to her in his own words first then show her the paper.
The cafe was full now and he had to sit at a table with a couple of women. One of them glanced at him. Glanced away.
It wasn’t the girl, Tina, who brought his tea over, itwas Vic the owner. Vic didn’t serve tables but he was serving now, bending down to him as he set the mug on the table.
‘On the house, this,’ he said.
Shame surged up like bile into Joe Jory’s mouth. This was the start then, the first thing Frank Prime had done to them. People knew. People would talk and blame, or talk and pity, talk and wonder, talk and stare. Talk.
He sat in front of the tea, not drinking, turning over what he should do. He did not want Berenice to see the paper before he had prepared her. Had Colin seen it or May? Bertha, he knew, was not likely to do so and it could be kept from her without too much trouble. He thought of telephoning Colin, but what if Colin had not seen it, did not take the paper and so he was the first to – to what? Break the news. Better he did it than a stranger.
In the end, he decided that it was not up to him to tell anyone but Berenice. She could talk to the others, let them decide what to do between them. If there was anything at all that could be done.
He walked slowly along to the florist’s shop. Outside on the grey pavement the buckets of bright flowers had been freshly watered. The sun had come out and caught the drops of it here and there and made tiny rainbows. Joe Jory stood looking at them.He should call Berenice out and show them to her, so that she could enjoy them before what he had to say changed everything.
But she saw him through the window. She was wrapping some long-stemmed roses in white tissue. He watched her. She was concentrating but she glanced at him a couple of times, bright-faced, smiling. So no one else had been in before him. She did not know yet.
He waited, looking at the drops of water on the bright flowers until the customer had left and the shop was empty and then he went inside.
12
A FTER B ERENICE left home, May found a job, though only in the village, working at the convent which was hidden out of sight at the bottom of the wooded valley.
Water came flowing down the steep and stony track through the trees and fell without ceasing into a stream which flowed on, widening to a river as it ran past the convent and away between steep banks. May answered an advertisement in the window of the village shop. She cycled along the path that skirted the wood and wound down, more gently than the rushing water, towards the convent buildings. She had never been here before. She pushed her cycle the last yards and then stood, looking at the bowl of sky and the water falling and the flat stretch of gravel
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