the 22nd. The machine ought to work some time that afternoon, though I can’t tell you correct to the nearest hour. We want you to come and see the exhibition.
I had no doubt that Martin did not know of the letter; it would have seemed to him tempting fate. For myself, I felt the same kind of superstition, even a misgiving about going down to watch. If I were not there, all would happen according to plan, Luke triumph, Martin get some fame. If I sat by and watched – yet, of course, I should have to go.
15: Sister-in-Law
The twenty-second was only a week away when, one evening just as I was leaving the office, Martin rang me up. He was at Barford; he sounded elaborate, round-about, as though he had something to ask.
‘I suppose you don’t happen to be free tonight?’
But I could not help interrupting: ‘Nothing wrong with the pile?’
(Although, over the telephone, I used a code word.)
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Everything fixed for next week?’
‘I hope so.’
For the first time, I was letting myself wonder what Martin would do with his success.
‘Shall you be in your flat tonight?’ He had come round to his question.
‘I could be,’ I said.
‘I wish you’d look after Irene a bit, if she comes in.’
‘Why should she?’
‘I think she will.’ He went on: ‘She’s in rather a state.’
I said I would do anything I could. I asked: ‘Is it serious?’
‘I’d rather you formed your own opinion.’
I had heard little emotion in his voice – maybe he was past it, I thought. But he apologized for inflicting this on me, and he was relieved to have someone to look after her.
Later that night, I was reading in my sitting-room when the bell rang. I went to open the door, and out of the darkness, into the blue-lit hall, came Irene.
‘I’m not popular, am I?’ she said, but the laugh was put on.
Without speaking, I led her in.
‘This room makes an enemy of me,’ she said, still trying to brazen it out. Then she said, not with her childish make-believe but without any pretence: ‘I couldn’t come to anyone but you. Martin knows about it.’
For a few moments I thought she had left him; as she went on speaking I realized it was not so simple. First she asked, as though the prosaic question drove out all others: ‘Have you got a telephone?’
She looked round the room, her pupils dilated, her eyes taking in nothing but the telephone she could not see.
‘Yes,’ I said, trying to soothe her.
It stood in the passage.
‘Can I use it?’
I said, of course.
Immediately, her eyes still blind, she went out, leaving the door open. I heard her dial, slowly because in the wartime glimmer she could hardly make out the figures. Then her voice: ‘Mrs Whelan, it’s me again. Is Mr Hankins back yet?’
A mutter from the instrument.
‘Not yet?’ Irene’s voice was high.
Another mutter.
‘Listen,’ said Irene, ‘I’ve got a telephone number where he can get me now.’
I heard her strike a match and give the Victoria number on my telephone.
Another mutter.
‘I’ll be here a couple of hours at least,’ replied Irene into the telephone. ‘Even if he’s late, tell him I’ll be here till one.
She came back into my room.
‘Is that all right?’ she asked, her eyes brighter now, focused on me.
I said yes.
‘It’s for him,’ she said. ‘It’s not for me. He wants to speak to me urgently, and there’s nowhere else I can safely wait.’
She stared at me.
‘I think he wants me back.’
I tried to steady her: ‘What can you tell him?’
‘What can I tell him?’ she cried, and added, half crying, half hysterical: ‘Can I tell him I’m defeated ?’
The phrase sounded strange, I was mystified: and yet it was at this point I knew that she was not leaving Martin out of hand.
On the other hand, I knew also that she was reading in Hankins’ intentions just what she wanted to read. Did he truly want her back? Above all, she would like to believe
I had no doubt that Martin did not know of the letter; it would have seemed to him tempting fate. For myself, I felt the same kind of superstition, even a misgiving about going down to watch. If I were not there, all would happen according to plan, Luke triumph, Martin get some fame. If I sat by and watched – yet, of course, I should have to go.
15: Sister-in-Law
The twenty-second was only a week away when, one evening just as I was leaving the office, Martin rang me up. He was at Barford; he sounded elaborate, round-about, as though he had something to ask.
‘I suppose you don’t happen to be free tonight?’
But I could not help interrupting: ‘Nothing wrong with the pile?’
(Although, over the telephone, I used a code word.)
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Everything fixed for next week?’
‘I hope so.’
For the first time, I was letting myself wonder what Martin would do with his success.
‘Shall you be in your flat tonight?’ He had come round to his question.
‘I could be,’ I said.
‘I wish you’d look after Irene a bit, if she comes in.’
‘Why should she?’
‘I think she will.’ He went on: ‘She’s in rather a state.’
I said I would do anything I could. I asked: ‘Is it serious?’
‘I’d rather you formed your own opinion.’
I had heard little emotion in his voice – maybe he was past it, I thought. But he apologized for inflicting this on me, and he was relieved to have someone to look after her.
Later that night, I was reading in my sitting-room when the bell rang. I went to open the door, and out of the darkness, into the blue-lit hall, came Irene.
‘I’m not popular, am I?’ she said, but the laugh was put on.
Without speaking, I led her in.
‘This room makes an enemy of me,’ she said, still trying to brazen it out. Then she said, not with her childish make-believe but without any pretence: ‘I couldn’t come to anyone but you. Martin knows about it.’
For a few moments I thought she had left him; as she went on speaking I realized it was not so simple. First she asked, as though the prosaic question drove out all others: ‘Have you got a telephone?’
She looked round the room, her pupils dilated, her eyes taking in nothing but the telephone she could not see.
‘Yes,’ I said, trying to soothe her.
It stood in the passage.
‘Can I use it?’
I said, of course.
Immediately, her eyes still blind, she went out, leaving the door open. I heard her dial, slowly because in the wartime glimmer she could hardly make out the figures. Then her voice: ‘Mrs Whelan, it’s me again. Is Mr Hankins back yet?’
A mutter from the instrument.
‘Not yet?’ Irene’s voice was high.
Another mutter.
‘Listen,’ said Irene, ‘I’ve got a telephone number where he can get me now.’
I heard her strike a match and give the Victoria number on my telephone.
Another mutter.
‘I’ll be here a couple of hours at least,’ replied Irene into the telephone. ‘Even if he’s late, tell him I’ll be here till one.
She came back into my room.
‘Is that all right?’ she asked, her eyes brighter now, focused on me.
I said yes.
‘It’s for him,’ she said. ‘It’s not for me. He wants to speak to me urgently, and there’s nowhere else I can safely wait.’
She stared at me.
‘I think he wants me back.’
I tried to steady her: ‘What can you tell him?’
‘What can I tell him?’ she cried, and added, half crying, half hysterical: ‘Can I tell him I’m defeated ?’
The phrase sounded strange, I was mystified: and yet it was at this point I knew that she was not leaving Martin out of hand.
On the other hand, I knew also that she was reading in Hankins’ intentions just what she wanted to read. Did he truly want her back? Above all, she would like to believe
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