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Authors: Beryl Bainbridge
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to a ginger cat slurping liquid from a soup bowl. A woman sat on the stairs, rocking backwards and forwards; she was either humming or sobbing and wore menâs pyjamas. The big toes of her bare feet were painted scarlet. Harold made a move towards her, from politeness, but her eyes, outlined in smeared mascara, were full of hostility.
Webster didnât bother to introduce her, just came out with the usual remarks: pleasant journey, changeable weather, how they were all getting older. Looking at him, Harold could see little truth in that last observation. Websterâs hair was as dark as it had always been, his gaze as penetrating. He showed no signs of unease at this sudden, if forewarned, visitation. When he sat down, his bathrobe didnât quite cover the bulge of his testicles. A man so sure of himself, reasoned Harold, was incapable of feeling exposed.
From day one, Webster had known what Wheeler was up to, had lied on his behalf. Once, coming out of a bar in downtown Washington the worse for drink, heâd gone halfway to spelling out what was happening. But then, despite prodding, heâd clammed up. Later, it became obvious that heâd been a willing go-between, had even allowed his address to be used for letters. Worse, when that final act of abandonment was attempted, it was Webster who was informed of its awful conclusion.
Webster and Rose hit it off immediately. He told her to help herself to food; twice, stepping over the humming woman, he went upstairs, first to fetch a bottle of wine, then a bottleopener. He mustnât have been concentrating because there was a corkscrew next to the bread.
Rose hacked at the meat and tugged clumps from the loaf as though she was starving. They had stopped an hour before in order to eat, but sheâd insisted the piece of fried bread sheâd consumed earlier was quite sufficient. When sheâd gobbled herself to a halt she took one of Websterâs cigarettes and they both sat there, blowing smoke at the stained ceiling. The cat had taken a fancy to her; it curled round her shoulder, one paw against her throat. Once again, as in days gone by, Harold felt he was invisible.
Webster asked Rose if sheâd found the journey across the state exciting, stimulating. She didnât lie. She said she wasnât interested in landscapes or towns, that she hadnât noticed where she was, only paid attention to what was going on in her head. Sheâd been trying to recall a piece of poetry sheâd once learned, about a coloured man who was having a dream of the life heâd led before becoming a slave; Webster grimaced, but she didnât notice. She did remember passing through a place with houses outlined in fairy lights, like it was Christmas, and hadnât seen the point of that, seeing it was summer. Webster thumped the table with his fist and shouted she was right . . . she was right. He struck so violently that the cat leapt off Rose and fled in terror. Suddenly the woman on the stairs laughed, shrill as glass breaking.
For a moment no one spoke, then Webster got up from the table and hauling the woman to her feet propelled her up the stairs.
âTrouble at mill,â whispered Rose obtusely.
Harold studied the photograph within the faded flowers. It portrayed Bud Holland, Webster, Bob Maitland and Jesse Shaefer kneeling, youthfully grinning, on a baseball pitch. He himself, as always, stood in the background, face bereft of expression.
âAre you in that?â Rose asked.
âNot that youâd notice,â he said, and walked out onto the porch. Ahead of him, across a wooden fence, a small boy encased in diamond sunlight knelt beside a toy truck. A little girl skipped towards him carrying a bucket and, tripping, sloshed water over the boyâs knees. He jumped up and shoved her to the ground; face crumpled, she let out a wail of despair.
Hearing voices behind him Harold went indoors. Suddenly he knew it wouldnât
Webster didnât bother to introduce her, just came out with the usual remarks: pleasant journey, changeable weather, how they were all getting older. Looking at him, Harold could see little truth in that last observation. Websterâs hair was as dark as it had always been, his gaze as penetrating. He showed no signs of unease at this sudden, if forewarned, visitation. When he sat down, his bathrobe didnât quite cover the bulge of his testicles. A man so sure of himself, reasoned Harold, was incapable of feeling exposed.
From day one, Webster had known what Wheeler was up to, had lied on his behalf. Once, coming out of a bar in downtown Washington the worse for drink, heâd gone halfway to spelling out what was happening. But then, despite prodding, heâd clammed up. Later, it became obvious that heâd been a willing go-between, had even allowed his address to be used for letters. Worse, when that final act of abandonment was attempted, it was Webster who was informed of its awful conclusion.
Webster and Rose hit it off immediately. He told her to help herself to food; twice, stepping over the humming woman, he went upstairs, first to fetch a bottle of wine, then a bottleopener. He mustnât have been concentrating because there was a corkscrew next to the bread.
Rose hacked at the meat and tugged clumps from the loaf as though she was starving. They had stopped an hour before in order to eat, but sheâd insisted the piece of fried bread sheâd consumed earlier was quite sufficient. When sheâd gobbled herself to a halt she took one of Websterâs cigarettes and they both sat there, blowing smoke at the stained ceiling. The cat had taken a fancy to her; it curled round her shoulder, one paw against her throat. Once again, as in days gone by, Harold felt he was invisible.
Webster asked Rose if sheâd found the journey across the state exciting, stimulating. She didnât lie. She said she wasnât interested in landscapes or towns, that she hadnât noticed where she was, only paid attention to what was going on in her head. Sheâd been trying to recall a piece of poetry sheâd once learned, about a coloured man who was having a dream of the life heâd led before becoming a slave; Webster grimaced, but she didnât notice. She did remember passing through a place with houses outlined in fairy lights, like it was Christmas, and hadnât seen the point of that, seeing it was summer. Webster thumped the table with his fist and shouted she was right . . . she was right. He struck so violently that the cat leapt off Rose and fled in terror. Suddenly the woman on the stairs laughed, shrill as glass breaking.
For a moment no one spoke, then Webster got up from the table and hauling the woman to her feet propelled her up the stairs.
âTrouble at mill,â whispered Rose obtusely.
Harold studied the photograph within the faded flowers. It portrayed Bud Holland, Webster, Bob Maitland and Jesse Shaefer kneeling, youthfully grinning, on a baseball pitch. He himself, as always, stood in the background, face bereft of expression.
âAre you in that?â Rose asked.
âNot that youâd notice,â he said, and walked out onto the porch. Ahead of him, across a wooden fence, a small boy encased in diamond sunlight knelt beside a toy truck. A little girl skipped towards him carrying a bucket and, tripping, sloshed water over the boyâs knees. He jumped up and shoved her to the ground; face crumpled, she let out a wail of despair.
Hearing voices behind him Harold went indoors. Suddenly he knew it wouldnât
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