“I don’t want a drink.”
“I do,” he said. “All right, cry away. Cry as much as you like.” He kept his eyes on Maurice.
“Life can’t be the same, after this.”
“Who wants life to be the same?” he asked. “I hate that man there.” He jerked his head at Maurice. “But if he hadn’t taken my mother’s money I’d have lived a softer life: I wouldn’t have been forced to turn out at sixteen and fight for a living.”
She went on crying hopelessly.
“Why are women always so soft?” he demanded angrily.
“I’m not soft. It’s just you have no imagination and no human feelings and I hate you.”
“I thought English girls were quiet and reserved. I thought you wouldn’t stay in the same room with anyone who hated anyone else. If you’re going to hate me, you’re building up a problem for yourself.”
She put her head in her hands, trying to hide her tears.
“I apologise. I certainly don’t know what I’ve done wrong, but I apologise. If you’d stop crying, we could talk like human beings,” he said.
She didn’t answer him.
“You look absolutely terrible when you cry. All women do,” Marryatt said deliberately.
Maurice moved and groaned, and Hester stopped crying instantly.
“What are we to do? How can we explain to him?” she asked.
“Look, what’s your name, Hester, get out of this apologetic attitude. It’s that rat who’s got to do the apologising.” He walked across to Maurice, who was turning his head uneasily.
“Get up!” he said.
Maurice opened his eyes, stared at the face above him, and closed his eyes again.
“Get up!”
“Let me help you, Maurice,” Hester said. She ran forward and put an arm under his head. “Are you all right, Maurice?” she asked anxiously.
“I – what – I don’t know,” he sighed.
“Help me to lift him. Quick!” she said in a peremptory voice to Marryatt. He jerked her out of the way, and dragged Maurice on to a chair.
“You can open your eyes,” he said. “Time to wake up. You’ve been having a little instalment of what you’re going to get. Life’s turning against you, Maurice. You’re moving into hard times. Don’t look so frightened. I’m going to take you home now.”
Maurice moaned. “My head.”
“Shall I get a doctor?” Hester asked.
“He doesn’t need a doctor. I’ll take him home. You don’t want him here, do you?”
“I can’t move,” Maurice groaned. “What happened?”
“Well, what do you think happened?” Marryatt asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe you never will. When a man’s been hit on the head, he sometimes forgets what happened before. Perhaps I hit you. Do you know? I might hit harder next time.”
“Hester, I want to stay here,” Maurice whispered.
Marryatt looked at her, and then back at Maurice. The gun she had taken from Maurice’s pocket lay in the fireplace, she saw him bend and pick it up.
“Please, Hester,” Maurice repeated.
“I’m taking you home.”
“Hester, he’s a murderer. He wants to kill me.”
The Australian flicked Maurice on the cheek with the back of his hand. “Get moving!” he said.
“How dare you, how dare you hit him when he’s like this. Of course you can stay, Maurice,” Hester cried.
“I’m taking him home,” the Australian said. “You needn’t worry. All I want is a chance to moralise. I’m picking the habit up from you,” he said insolently.
“Please go away.”
“Not without him.”
“You’re not a civilised being.”
“I give up,” Marryatt said violently. “I give up the whole damned business. Keep your rotten little swindler. Bathe his head and stroke his hair and give him breakfast in bed. Let him fill his pockets with your father’s money until the whole family’s bankrupt. So long as you do it politely in the English manner, you’ll be able to admire yourself at the end of it. I don’t understand how your father forgot his social position long enough to let him knock the little rat down.”
“It was because – because of something he said.” Hester stopped, looking at Maurice, remembering, while both the men watched her. “If he’s strong enough to move, I wish you’d take him home,” she said to Marryatt. “You can’t stay here,” she said to Maurice. “You can’t come here again.”
“I’m not well, I want a doctor,” Maurice said. His eyes were closed. He seemed to be making a brave effort to speak. “Sorry to be a nuisance,” he said, whispering.
“You’d be wasting your time, seeing a doctor,” Marryatt said. “He’d tell you to spend a couple of days in bed. But I’m telling you to get out of this country by tomorrow. The two things don’t match.”
“It’s my head,” Maurice explained. “If I could go to sleep now, if only I could go to sleep. I’m going to Ireland tomorrow, sleep…”
Hester looked at him uncertainly.
“You can sleep at home,” Marryatt said quickly. “I’ll take you there. I’ve a few things I’d like to say to you on the way. Now get going.”
“Be quiet,” Hester said furiously. “I won’t have you in this house giving orders.”
The Australian turned away from Maurice and looked at her. “Good night!” he shouted. “If you can look after yourself so well, get on with it!”
He went out of the room in a rush, and she waited until he had slammed the door. Then she turned to Maurice.
“You must leave early in the morning. I needn’t see you. I don’t want to see you again, ever.”
She left him quickly, and went upstairs.
She stopped outside her father’s room. She could hear no sound: she didn’t want to disturb him, so she went on to her own room, and undressed, and lay down. The grinding anxieties that filled her mind destroyed all sense of time; she didn’t know how much later it was when she heard the car. Perhaps Maurice was leaving? It was safe now, the Australian had gone away. Someone was moving in the house; it was easy to imagine these things. She listened in terror, but there was no one moving. It must be nearly dawn. If Maurice had escaped, there was still the question of the cheque. She should go down and ask him, but she had heard the car. A grey light was coming now, and the birds were singing hoarsely as though their voices were breaking. The stairs creaked again, it was cowardly not to get up, not to shout ‘Who’s there?’ It might only be Morgan. She was sure that someone passed her door. It was nearly daylight, and then everything was black as she fell into sleep at last.
FRIDAY (1)
PRUDENCE woke at eight in the morning. She lay still for a few minutes, thinking of the tennis dance, and luxuriating in the memory of her partners, how some of them had been enthralled by her conversation, and how Peter, who was already up at Cambridge and very experienced, had asked her for a second dance. She remembered Neville, and his oafish looks of adoration, and began to giggle. Rosemary knew all about Neville; she must telephone Rosemary, or was it too early? She began to dress, but when she had washed and brushed her hair, life seemed too dreary to be endured. The truth was, she simply couldn’t tango properly: Marion had noticed, even if Neville hadn’t: Marion had looked at her in a very bitchy way, and said, “You are learning quickly, considering.” Marion was coming to the dance next week. If she couldn’t tango perfectly by next week she would die. She threw the brush on the floor, and looked in the mirror. Her frock was too short, good enough for the house, Hester would say, but it wasn’t good enough for anything. If she bought some material she could make herself a new frock over the week-end and the family could starve. She remembered that Jackie was there to do the cooking; she was suddenly very hungry. She ran downstairs.