The Flame of Life

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Saying goodbye to Maricarmen, in the cool and early morning, was like making his farewell to a woman at the end of a fiery sexual affair. She had, after all, taken a hard line on killing him, and two people couldn’t get closer to actually enlacing than that. He thought she must feel it too, when they shook hands and looked at each other. She smiled, as if to mark this closeness, but it quickly died on reaching the point when there seemed to be almost no barrier between their intimacy.

Through the frigid cant of departure Dawley knew that what they meant to each other could never die, no matter where she went — even though they might not meet again. The Rambler slid through the front gate. He watched it go up the village street and out of sight.

It was a green day, when the mind swung neither one way nor the other but simply followed any event that turned up. He sensed that the community would not now get back into its routine because Cuthbert and Maricarmen had taken whatever impetus it had. There was a heap of mail on the kitchen sideboard, but nothing for him. He poured a mug of coffee, then cut a thick slice of bread and put a lump of butter on his plate. ‘So they’ve gone.’

‘I’m fond of them both,’ Myra said, ‘but Maricarmen was like ice, as if she hardly knew what she was doing.’

He wolfed his breakfast. ‘She’ll wake up. Everyone does.’

She thought of herself: ‘I wonder if they do?’

‘That’s the way it usually goes. It’s a fair system.’

Ralph came in, hands rough as if he’d been shifting earth. He stood by the mail, and slipped a long envelope into his pocket. ‘I’ll see to him,’ he offered, taking the dish of porridge to feed Mark. She was glad to let him, and sat opposite Frank.

‘Been digging somebody’s grave?’

‘Filling one in,’ Ralph smiled. ‘Somebody else dug it. I’m keeping fit, really. Cuthbert advised me to do more physical work. He said it was good for me. It would teach me how to think.’

Dean came into the kitchen. ‘I can smell coffee.’ He looked refreshed, but worried, as if he’d already been awake for an hour. ‘Cuthbert’s gone?’

‘You didn’t say goodbye,’ Frank said, reaching for the honey.

Lines creased the skin of his low forehead. ‘I’m sorry. Do you think Cuth’s off for good?’

‘It’s hard to imagine,’ Dawley said.

He took the coffee pot from the Aga, and poured two mugs: ‘One’s for Enid,’ and went back upstairs with them.

‘He’s asking for trouble,’ Frank said.

Myra refilled their cups. ‘He is fond of Enid.’

‘I’ll say.’

The letter in Ralph’s pocket called out to be read as he went upstairs, so he opened it at the first landing. There was no sun to see by and light was dim, but as he looked at the clear typed lines, his left hand began to tremble, then the right. He leaned against the window to re-read the first paragraph, for he had gone no further. The words assaulted his senses, and his legs shook so that he was forced to sit down. He grew dizzy, and held the letter away. Then he became positively tired, as if he hadn’t been to bed all night.

With forceful tightening of the sinews and eyes, he read it from start to finish, till every word was plain, and the meaning had shot right through to his marrow. He wanted brandy, but laughed at the idea. There would be no justification any more in stealing Handley’s. The end of the world sat in his lap, coolly written on two sheets of stiff lawyer’s paper.

His lips were as dry as leaves that had been in the sun for a month, about to disintegrate at the next breath of wind. Mandy wouldn’t like to be brought out of her warm dreams and back into the disturbing world. She would want to know, of course, that they were rich, and could now grow up to any age they would like to be. Reading the letter a third time he saw that his proper upbringing had geared him for this event, but he still wondered how Mandy would take it.

He went into their room, and sat calmly on the end of the bed, folding the letter into an inside pocket. The pressure of his body disturbed the mattress under her. Or perhaps she heard the click of the door, for she drew the bedclothes over her face.

‘What time is it?’ Her voice, though normal, shocked him so that his whole body jumped.

Beginning to shake slightly, he controlled himself. ‘Time to get out of bed.’

‘It’s never time for that.’

He nudged the rise of her haunches. ‘It is now.’

No one else could have caught the alarm in his voice. She swept the clothes free, and sat up, a violent move which unsettled him, though his heart stayed quiet. ‘What’s the bloody matter now?’

‘Nothing,’ he said.

‘There is. Tell me.’

‘You look adorable. I love to see you wake in the morning.’

‘Don’t keep me in suspense.’

‘I have a letter.’

She pulled the fine blonde hair from her face. ‘I’m dying for some coffee.’

He stood. ‘I’ll get you some.’

‘What letter?’

‘I’ll tell you over coffee,’ he smiled.

‘Tell me now. Don’t torment me.’ The familiar look of disturbance was in his eyes, the sheen of blight preceding a fit that could last for weeks. Her dream had been nondescript and pleasant, part of a wide contentment that had come after making love last night. But she had noticed before how such deep sexual delight between them contributed to his imbalance next day. The same bleak feeling of waking up to its first signs were on her. ‘What is it?’ she whispered.

‘An aunt died, and she’s left me her house, a lot of land, and two hundred and ninety thousand pounds.’

An awful despair tore at her heart. Tears poured down. After his last long melancholy stretch she told herself that if he had another she’d be fit only for the loony-bin. Her control was snapping at this latest flight of his mad fancy. She leapt out of bed and put on her dressing gown. ‘Don’t say any more, please. Let’s just go down and have a big breakfast, then you’ll feel better.’

‘It’s true, my love.’

‘Leave me alone,’ she screamed. ‘You’re trying to kill me. You want to send me crackers! I know you do.’

It was difficult to stay calm, but the knowledge of the money made him more sure of himself than he’d ever been. Yet at the same time the sight of her weeping was the strongest assault on his self-assurance. Seeing at last what he’d done, he held her, and kissed her cheeks, taking away the salt of bitterness.

She sobbed against him, and when he was about to speak broke in: ‘Don’t say anything else about this story, please.’

His voice was quiet when he retold what was in the letter, but the cooler his voice, and the more convincing his tone, the more she knew he was lying. His worst madnesses had begun with such a sane and realistic display. He took the letter out, wondering why he hadn’t done so at first. ‘Do me the favour of looking at this, before you go off again.’

If only she hadn’t come to. It was bad enough waking up, without having such problems. He noticed how she was afraid to take the letter for fear it was just another trick, but maybe most of all in case it turned out to be true. It was difficult to hold himself into the new life of firm control, but he had to get used to it, for it was certainly here to stay.

She read the first sheet, then the second, her face turning white as she went from one to the other. She looked at Ralph, her eyes rolling with panic. They closed and she fainted clean away, bumping on to the floor like a newborn child, the letter fluttering.

Ralph felt like a hero. When your wife fainted it was something definite. Life was real. You could do something about it. The power of money was marvellous. He took a bottle of eau-de-Cologne from the dressing-table and rubbed it on her forehead, then over her nose.

Her head moved. She opened her eyes when he got her on to the bed. He went quickly downstairs, pressing through the crush of the kitchen to fill a tray with bread, butter and coffee.