Death of a Hussy

∨ Death of a Hussy ∧

4

I’d be a butterfly, living like a rover,

Dying when fair things are fading away.

—T. H. BAYLY

Spring comes late to the Highlands, turning Sutherland into a blue and misty landscape; light blue rain-washed skies, far away mountains of a darker blue, cobalt blue sea.

And always through the glory of the awakening world drove Alison Kerr, propelled by her obsession with the car. She kept away from Hamish Macbeth, being of the timid nature which prefers love long distance. It was all too easy to understand he was not interested in her when she was with him; but easy to dream that he really was in love with her after all when he was absent.

So Alison was happier than she had ever been in her life. There was the magnificent stark beauty of Sutherland, the car, the cosy, practical mothering of Mrs. Todd, the car, Hamish Macbeth, the car, no Maggie, and the car, which she had come to regard as her own.

She privately called the car “Rover,” imagining it to be like a faithful and affectionate dog.

And then as spring gave way to early summer and great splashes of bell heather coloured the mountains and the nights were long and light, those northern nights where it hardly ever gets really dark, back into this paradise came Maggie Baird, although no one, not even Alison, recognised her at first.

She was svelte and beautiful with golden hair in a soft, clever style and a wardrobe of clothes by Jean Muir. She had high cheekbones and her eyes were large and very blue. She walked into the kitchen where Alison was having coffee with Mrs. Todd and stood for a moment, relishing the dawning surprise on both faces.

“Yes, it’s me,” she said triumphantly, if ungrammatically,

“It can’t be,” breathed Alison. “I wouldn’t have known you. What have you done to yourself?”

“Best health farm and best plastic surgeon,” said Maggie, who had also acquired a new husky voice. “Gosh, it’s good to be back in Peasantville. Take my coat, Mrs. Todd. I’m expecting four guests tomorrow so I want you to get the beds ready. Hang that coat up and come back and I’ll tell you about it.”

Alison looked at the beautiful Maggie in a dazed way. Maggie, she reflected, was like a highly coloured butterfly that had emerged from a chrysalis of fat. Then sharp anguish struck Alison around the region of the midriff. The car! What would happen to her driving?

“Who are these four guests?” she asked instead.

“They are four fellows I used to know,” said Maggie, stretching and yawning. “I’ve decided the single state doesn’t suit me so I went through my old lists and came up with four who are likely to propose. There’s Peter Jenkins, he’s an advertising executive, Crispin Witherington who owns a car salesroom in Finchley, James Frame who runs a gambling club, and that pop singer, Steel Ironside.”

“I thought he was dead,” said Alison.

“Who?”

“Steel Ironside. He hasn’t made a record in years.”

“He’s alive, all right.”

“And you expect one of them to propose to you just like that?”

Maggie smiled slowly while Alison studied her aunt’s new face for wrinkles and couldn’t find one. “I expect all of them to propose. Oh, I don’t rate my charms all that much. They all need money and whichever one marries me will get it and so I’ll tell ‘em. Cuts you out, of course.”

“How does it cut me out?” asked Alison.

“Oh, I’d made my will out in your favour but I’ll change it as soon as I’ve made my choice.”

“How’s your heart?” asked Alison and then blushed.

“Hoping I’ll pop off before I change my will? Hard luck, sweetie.”

Mrs. Todd came back and Maggie began to tell her briskly what to do about preparing for the guests. If only Maggie would drop dead, thought Alison fiercely, it would all be mine, the house and the car and Mrs. Todd.

She longed for Hamish. In fact the only thing to lighten her misery at Maggie’s return was that it gave her a good excuse to visit Hamish. But, oh, that dreadfully long, long walk along the coast now that she could not use the car.

“Have you finished typing that manuscript for me?” Alison suddenly realised Maggie was speaking to her.

“Yes, it’s all typed up,” said Alison, quickly averting her eyes so that Maggie should not see the disgust in them. The manuscript had become increasingly pornographic as it went along. Until she had read Maggie’s book, Alison, who read a great deal, had thought that she knew every sexual kink and aberration there was, but Maggie’s writing had introduced her to a whole new and disgusting world of sleaze. Then Alison decided to take the plunge. Better to ask Maggie about the car, this new and relaxed Maggie, and to ask her while Mrs. Todd was present.

“I’ve a surprise for you, Maggie,” she said in a breathless rush. “I passed my driving test while you were away.” The words began to tumble out. It wasn’t Mrs. Todd’s fault. She, Alison, had told her that she had had Maggie’s permission to use the car, but Alison knew that dear Maggie wouldn’t really mind because…

Her voice trailed away before the glacial expression in Maggie’s now beautiful and large blue eyes.

“That is my car,” said Maggie, “and you are not to touch it again, d’ye hear? Now I am going down to the village to stun them all with my new appearance. I may even drop in and try my hand with that copper, and while I’m gone, I suggest you start earning your keep by helping Mrs. Todd with the preparations.”

She strode out, tottering slightly on her very high heels.

A few minutes later, there came the harsh sound of revving from the garage. Alison crossed to the kitchen window and looked out.

Maggie drove out of the garage. The entrance to the bungalow garden was narrow and flanked by two gateposts. As Alison watched, Maggie scraped the car along one of the gateposts on her way out. Alison let out a whimper of pain as if the car were a pet dog which was being tormented.

Mrs. Todd’s calm Scottish voice sounded behind her. “I think we’d better be getting on with our work, Miss Kerr. I do not need the help but it would be as well to keep herself happy on her first day back.”

Alison moved through the housework, feeling as though she were one mass of pain. That precious car that she had polished and waxed and oiled! Tears began to run down her face. She prayed to all the gods to strike Maggie Baird down.

“Come on now, lassie,” said Mrs. Todd. “If I was you, I would be getting the local papers and looking for a wee job. Take ye out o’ the house until you get on your feet.”

“How can I take a local job when I haven’t a car?” sobbed Alison.

“If ye’re that desperate,” said Mrs. Todd grimly, “ye’ll walk. It’s only fifteen miles to the village.”

But fifteen miles to town-bred Alison seemed impossible. She had done it once to go to ask Hamish about driving lessons. But to do it every day!

♦

It comes as quite a shock to the respectable female to find that quite ordinary and decent-looking men frequent tarts. When Alison first met Maggie’s four guests she was surprised to find that, with the exception of the failed pop singer, they all looked normal and ordinary. The fact that Maggie, in the old days, had been what would have been called a high flyer or good-time girl did not cut any ice with Alison. She had read Maggie’s manuscript and knew what she had got up to between the sheets – or in the woods, or up against walls, or on yachts – and did not realise that Maggie’s less-exotic liaisons had all been pretty normal and regular.

Crispin Witherington, the owner of the car sales room, was middle-aged, like the others. He had that glossy artificial look which comes from a lot of gin and saunas. He was slightly balding, with black restless eyes, a small button of a nose, and a prim little mouth. He was expensively if tastelessly dressed, his double-breasted blazer with some impossible crest draped across his stomach and the flowered handkerchief in his breast pocket matching his flowered tie.

James Frame, from the gambling club, was tall and willowy and rabbity looking. He had a strangulated voice and appeared to cultivate a ‘silly ass’ manner which he fondly imagined to be upper class. He had patent leather hair and smelled strongly of expensive aftershave.

The pop singer remained frozen in the age of Sergeant Pepper. He had grey shoulder-length hair, small half-moon glasses, a denim jacket and jeans, a flowered waistcoat with watch chain, and red leather shoes. He spoke with a strong Liverpudlian accent, nasal and irritating to the ear and somehow slightly phony as if he had adopted it during the Beatles era.

Finally, the advertising man, Peter Jenkins, was tall and fair with a thin, clever, rather weak face and a drawling voice. In normal circumstances, Alison would have been impressed by him, but as it was, Maggie’s bedroom antics came between her and her assessment of the four men although not one of them had featured in the memoirs.

The men all talked about their surprise at getting Maggie’s invitation and how marvellous she looked, while Maggie fluted and cajoled and flattered, exuding that air of maternal warmth that she seemed able to turn on at will. They all, with the exception of Maggie who had a salad and Alison who was too distressed to feel hungry, ate their way through an enormous meal.

It was when they were sitting over coffee after dinner that Maggie casually announced that she wanted to get married again and that any husband of hers would find himself a very rich man, “and probably sooner than he thinks,” said Maggie, one hand fluttering to her bosom. “Got this terrible dicky heart.”

It was all very neat, thought Alison, sensing the sudden stillness in the room. Maggie had said it all. She was rich and she hadn’t long to live. Then the conversation became general as the men began to reminisce about old friends and acquaintances.

Maggie was the centre of attention. She was wearing a clinging dinner gown in a soft material. It was smoky blue and she was wearing a fine sapphire and diamond necklace. The skirt of the gown was folded over so that when she sat, she revealed one long leg encased in a gossamer fine stocking. Her breasts, expertly reduced in size, were displayed to advantage by the low neck of the gown. She was playful, she was amusing, she was teasing, and she threw only a few barbed remarks in Alison’s direction. But she did order Alison around. “Fetch Peter a drink,” or, “Move that ashtray nearer Crispin.”

But as the evening wore on, the tension in the air grew, and the men, with the exception of Peter Jenkins, the advertising executive, began to vie for Maggie’s attention. Maggie persuaded Steel to get his guitar and perform. The pop singer returned with an electric guitar. While he was singing what seemed to be a protest song, Maggie began to tear up little pieces of paper napkin and pass them around to the other three men to use as earplugs. Fortunately for Steel, he was too absorbed in his performance to notice his audience was sniggering. Alison found it all very unpleasant. Her head ached. She mourned her lost days of freedom. She hadn’t been able to bear to look at the car when Maggie had brought it home, a Maggie full of stories about how Hamish Macbeth had called her “a miracle.”

The guests, fortunately, were tired after their journeys and an early night was proposed. Fully dressed, Alison lay in bed, waiting until she heard the large bungalow settling into silence. Then she rose and put on her coat and went downstairs and out to the garage. She opened the small side door, switched on the light and stood looking at the little red car. There was a vicious scrape along the right side. Alison began to cry in a dreary, hopeless sort of way. She had to get away from Maggie, but how could she find the strength to make the first move?

She heard steps crunch on the gravel and switched off the light and walked outside. A tall dark figure stood outside the house, watching her.

“Who is it?” asked Alison, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Peter Jenkins.”

“What do you want?”

“Just need to get some air.” He moved closer, sensing rather than seeing her distress. “You upset about something?”

“It’s the car,” whimpered Alison. “She scraped the car.”

“Maggie did? I don’t understand. Is it your car?”

“No.”

There was a long silence.

Then Peter let out a faint sigh. “I don’t want to go back’ in there yet. I may as well hear your troubles. Come and sit in my car and tell me all about it.”

“I’ll bore you,” said Alison.

“More than likely. But come along anyway.”

His car turned out to be the latest model of Jaguar. It was parked with the others in a bit of open space outside the gateposts. He turned on the engine and switched on the heater. “It’ll get warm pretty quickly,” he said. “Cigarette?”

“I can’t,” said Alison. “I’ve had cancer.” She began to sob and hiccup again.

He handed her a handkerchief and waited for her to stop, then gently urged her to tell her story. Bit by bit it all came out. “If only she would die,” said Alison. “She’s going to change her will as soon as she chooses one of you as a husband.”

“She can’t choose me,” said Peter. “I don’t want her.”

“Why was she so sure of you, then?”

The end of Peter’s cigarette glowed red in the darkness as he dragged on it. Then he said, “She’s changed. I had a fling with her, oh, let me see, I’m forty-eight now, say, about twenty years ago.”

“How did it start?” asked Alison, curious despite her misery. “I mean, did you just say, I will pay you ‘X’ amount to go to bed with me?”

“No, no, that’s not how the Maggies of this world operate. We went out on dates, I fell in love, she appeared to. At first it was expensive restaurants and expensive holidays, then she needed help with her mortgage, then she needed some bills paid, then it seemed logical to besotted me to give her a weekly allowance. But on my part, it was all for love.”

“And then you got wise to her?”

“Oh, no, she ditched me, for an Arab sheik, and left for the south of France with him. It took me a long time to get over it. There’s something cruel and, well…unbalanced about her now. I couldn’t believe my luck when I got her letter. I didn’t know she had invited the other fellows. She used to be so funny and warm and scatty and affectionate. You couldn’t help forgiving her. That’s why I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been carrying a torch for her for years. Never married. What a waste!”

But Alison couldn’t imagine a loveable Maggie and thought Peter a fool.

“I wish I could speak to Hamish,” she said in a small voice.

“Who’s Hamish?”

“The village policeman.”

“But, look here, you can’t report Maggie for scraping her own car!”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just that Hamish seems to make things all right.”

“Well, as I can’t sleep, I’ll take you there.”

“But it’s after midnight!”

“If he’s a conscientious bobby, he won’t mind being woken up.”

“All right,” said Alison shyly, suddenly elated at the idea of seeing Hamish while being accompanied by this handsome man. And Peter did seem handsome to Alison, who did not notice the weakness in his face, having a pretty weak character herself.

Hamish Macbeth, opening the kitchen door – Alison had quickly learned that friends and locals never used the front door – thought wearily as he looked at the two faces, God help us all if the meek do inherit the earth. He rucked his shirttail into his trousers. He had been undressing for bed when he had heard the knock at the door “Come in,” he said. “I am sure it must be something awfy important to get me out o’ bed.” Towser stood beside his master, blinking sleepily in the light. He let out a low growl, sensing Hamish’s dislike of Alison.

“Oh, Hamish,” Alison wailed and threw herself against his chest.

Peter noticed the way the policeman quickly put Alison away from him. Fat lot of sympathy she’s going to get from him, he thought, feeling suddenly protective of Alison.

“Sit down,” said Hamish, “and I’ll fetch us a dram.”

Hamish, when he drank, preferred warm bottled beer. His sideboard contained only a bottle of twelve-year-old malt whisky, a Christmas present he had never broached. It seemed such a waste to open it now, but hospitality was hospitality and Alison, tiresome though she might be, might cheer up with a little whisky inside her.

He went back into the kitchen, carrying bottle and glasses, and poured three measures. “Now,” said Hamish, “begin at the beginning and go on to the end. I have had a visit from herself today. My! Isn’t plastic surgery and bleach the wondrous thing? She was like one of thae film stars, ye know, she looked like beauty preserved rather than beauty reclaimed.”

Clutching her glass, Alison told the whole dismal story, of Maggie’s will, of her plans to marry, of her damaging the car, and ended up with, “I can’t have any respect for her, Hamish, not after having read her book.”

“What book?” asked Peter Jenkins sharply.

“She’s written a book about her affairs and a nasty bit of pornography it is too,” said Alison. “So what am I to do, Hamish?”

“I’ve told you before,” said Hamish quietly. “Get away from her. You’re a grown woman. You can earn your own money.”

“But…but…I’m still weak and what if the cancer comes back?”

“It’s got more chance of coming back if you stay on with her and keep getting yourself into a state,” said Hamish.

Peter Jenkins eyed the policeman coldly. What sort of help and comfort was this? In fact, what sort of policeman was this? In Peter’s mind, policemen should always be on duty and always be in uniform. Hamish was wearing a tartan shirt, an old pair of cavalry twill trousers, and had thrust his bare feet into carpet slippers. His red hair was tousled and his eyelashes were ridiculously long.

“That sort of advice,” said Peter, “is very easy to dole out, but very hard to take.”

“But the lassie’s in such misery, anything else would be better,” said Hamish patiently. “What would you suggest?”

“I would suggest, Officer, that you have a word with Mrs. Baird and tell her to be nicer to Alison.”

“For heffen’s sake.” Hamish stifled a yawn. “If Mrs. Baird wants to play the wicked stepmother and Alison here is hellbent on playing Cinderella, I can’t do anything about it.”

“Come along, Alison,” said Peter Jenkins sternly. “There’s no point in your staying here. If you ask me, it’s all a great waste of time.”

“I couldnae agree wi’ you more,” said Hamish sweetly. His hazel eyes mocked Peter. “Och, if you ask me, this lassie’s got nothing to complain about. You’ve got to pull yourself together, Alison, you’ve become a right wee moaning Minnie.”

Shocked and hurt, Alison stumbled to her feet. Peter put an arm about her shoulders.

“You despicable pillock,” he raged at Hamish. “Don’t you see she’s had more than enough to bear?”

“Aw, go and boil your heid,” said Hamish with lazy insolence.

Peter almost dragged Alison from the police station. As he slammed the door behind them, Hamish leapt from his chair and stood with his ear pressed against the kitchen door. “In future, Alison,” he heard Peter say firmly, “you’d be better off coming to me for help.”

Hamish grinned. Well, let’s hope that got Sir Galahad up on his high horse, he said to himself, nothing like a bit o’ knight errantry to stiffen the weakest spine.

Perhaps because of Hamish’s remarks, Alison tried again on the following morning to get Maggie’s permission to use the car, and the resultant row sounded around the house. If Alison wanted a car that much, she could damn well buy one, said Maggie, ending up by calling her “a useless drip.”

Alison was shuffling about the garden later that day, kicking the weeds, when Crispin Witherington approached. “Couldn’t help hearing the row,” he said.

He was dressed in what he fondly imagined suitable gear for the Highlands – lovat green cord breeches with green socks and brogues, tweed jacket, checked shirt, and a paisley cravat held in place by a large gold horseshoe. He had a rasping, rather hectoring voice, but Alison wanted sympathy.

“I hate Maggie,” she muttered.

“Oh, it’s just her fun. I’ll bet she’s fond of you. Tell you what, I’ll let you drive my roller.”

“I’m only used to the small car,” said Alison, looking longingly to where Crispin’s white Rolls Royce was parked.

“Oh, come on, have a go.”

“All right,” said Alison, suddenly feeling like no end of a femme fatale. Peter had shown an interest in her and now here was Crispin.

“Better drive it out onto the road for you,” said Crispin. “I’ll look up the map first and pick a place to go.”

“I know practically all the places ‘round here,” said Ali-son, but Crispin crackled open an ordinance survey map as if she had not spoken.

“Ah, let’s try this place, Fern Bay, sounds pretty.”

“I know the road there,” said Alison eagerly.

“Now, then, girlie, just you drive and I’ll navigate. Always go by the map, that’s my motto.”

Alison drove off, nervously at first but then slowly gaining confidence. But it was to be her first experience of a backseat driver, or rather, a front-seat one. “Too fast,” he snapped. “Slow down a bit.”

Alison dutifully slowed down to thirty miles per hour.

“We’ll never get anywhere if you’re going to crawl along,” he said after a few minutes. “Turn off next left.”

“But that’s not the road to – ”

“I said, turn off,” he growled.

Alison reduced speed at the turn with a great crash of gears. “No wonder Maggie won’t let you drive,” jeered Crispin.

She slowed the big car to a halt, switched off the engine and carefully put on the handbrake, and turned to him. Enough was enough! “Why did you want me to come out with you?” she demanded in a thin, shaky voice. “I know all the roads around here and I don’t care what your map says, this is a dead end.”

He let out a hearty laugh although his eyes were humourless. “You ladies are always touchy about your driving. So, I’m wrong. There! I apologise. Friends?”

“Yes,” said Alison weakly.

“You see, we could be of great help to each other.”

“I don’t see how…”

“Maggie’s fond of you.” He took out a thin gold cigarette case and extracted a cigarette. “I know she bitches at you like hell but she must like you or she wouldn’t have made out her will in your favour.”

“But that was before you…”

“Before we all turned up? I think she’s playing games. I think she don’t want any of us. She’s changed.”

“When did you…erm…meet her?”

“Ten years ago just after my marriage broke up. She came in to buy a car, a Jag, and I ended up paying for it and when our affair broke up, she sold it and bought that heap of trash she’s driving around at the moment.”

“That was a very good car,” said Alison furiously, “before she started mangling it.”

“Well, have it your way. Anyway, then she was fun. It cost me a bomb but it was a barrel of laughs while it lasted.” He put a pudgy hand on Alison’s knee and squeezed it. “We could get along fine, girlie. Looks to me as if you haven’t had much of a life. I could show you a good time.”

“I would like to go home now,” said Alison, her voice coming out in a squeak.

“Not yet. It’s a fine afternoon. Let’s find this Fern Bay and have a few noggins.”

Alison hadn’t the courage to stand up to him. But he had stopped navigating and criticising her driving. Alison pulled up outside Fern Bay’s one pub, which was more of a shack. It was a dingy bar ornamented with posters warning crofters of the penalties to be incurred if they did not dip their sheep, an announcement of a Girl Guide rally of a few years back, and a notice saying that drink would not be served to minors. A row of small men in cloth caps leaned over the bar.

Alison felt herself beginning to blush. There were still pubs in the Highlands where the presence of a female was frowned on and she felt this was one of them.

A jukebox in the corner was grinding out a seventies pop record, the sort of music which might sound catchy to someone stoned on pot, but to the clearheaded appeared a series of rhythmic thumps overtopped by a harsh voice yelling out unintelligible sounds.

Crispin approached the bar and squeezed his way in between two of the locals. “Hey, mine host,” he cried. “A little service here.”

“Aye, whit dae ye want?” said the barman, wiping his hands on a greasy apron. He was a great hairy man with an untrimmed red beard.

“I’ll have a scotch and water,” said Crispin.

“Aye, and whit aboot yer daughter?”

“I’ll have the same,” said Alison.

“My friend will have the same,” said Crispin, who wondered at the same time why barmen the length and breadth of the British Isles usually referred to his female companion as his daughter, no matter what age the lady was, not knowing his offensive manner always prompted the time-honoured insult.

They sat down at a rickety plastic table by the window with their drinks.

“This is fun,” said Crispin. “I like these quaint old places. It’s amazing when you look about places like this and realise that Britain still does have a peasantry.”

One of the small men turned from the bar and approached their table. He went straight up to Crispin who smiled at him weakly and then before Crispin or Alison could guess what the man was about to do, he whipped off his cap and butted Crispin on the forehead.

Crispin groaned and clutched his head.

“You assaulted him!” screamed Alison. “I’ll call the police.”

But the word police seemed to have an amazingly restorative effect on Crispin. “I’m fine,” he said. “Let’s get out of this smelly place.”

When they got outside, Alison noticed he looked white and shaken and there was a lump beginning to form on his forehead.

“I’d best get you back,” said Alison. “Are you sure you’re all right? I mean, I could call the police.” Fern Bay was probably on Hamish’s beat, thought Alison, and then remembered Hamish’s cruelty of the previous evening.

“No, no, I’ll be all right in a tick. That little bastard. Did you see the way he just put his cap back on and went back to his drink as if nothing had happened?”

“It’s because you’re English,” said Alison soothingly. “They don’t like the English and I don’t suppose they like being called peasants either.”

Maggie was waiting for them when they got back. She was holding a pile of typed manuscript.

“I’ve made some changes,” she said nastily to Alison, “so you better get in there and start typing.”

“Alison said you were writing a book. Are we all in it?” asked Peter Jenkins.

“Wait and see,” said Maggie with a husky laugh. The four men who were in the living room exchanged uneasy looks. Maggie rounded on Alison. “Well, stop standing there like a drip and get to work!”

“I’d like a word with you in private, Maggie, now!” said Peter.

“Very well. Come outside.”

Alison went into the study, feeling a little glow of warmth. Peter was going to give Maggie a telling off about her harsh treatment of her. The study window overlooked the garden. Alison longed to hear what Peter was saying. She pushed open the window and listened hard.

Peter’s well-modulated drawl reached her ears quite clearly.

“This advertising business of mine has been going through some hard tunes, Maggie,” she heard him say. “But I’ve got some new top clients and the money will be coming through soon. If you could see your way to lending me a few thousand, I can pay you back at the end of six months and at a good rate of interest, too.”

“So you want my money without having to marry me to get it?” said Maggie.

“Oh, love, come here and give me a kiss. If I thought I had a hope in hell of getting you, I wouldn’t have asked…”

Alison closed the window and sat down, feeling miserable. No one loved her; Hamish was fed up with her and Peter and Crispin were only making up to her because they thought she had an in with Maggie.

The study door opened and James Frame sidled in. “I say…” he began tentatively.

“If you’ve come to ask me to put in a word with Maggie, forget it!” said Alison bitterly. “She hates me and I hate her and I wish I were dead but I’d like to see her in her grave first!”

“Gosh, you are in a tizzy,” said James, smoothing down his patent leather hair with a nervous hand. “I only came to ask you…well, don’t you see, it’s that damn book that’s worrying me. Be a good chap and tell me if she’s got me in it.”

Alison looked at him with loathing. She hated them all. “You’re all in it,” she said spitefully, “and highly pornographic it is, too. Do be an angel and tell the rest, won’t you? I’m sick of being pestered and I’ve got work to do.”

The study door opened again and this time Maggie walked in. She stopped short at the sight of James. If Alison had listened at the window a little bit longer, she would have heard Peter defending her. That and the fact that her niece had been out driving with Crispin had put Maggie in a towering rage. The sight of James bending over Alison was the last straw.

“When you’ve finished typing that book,” said Maggie to Alison, “you can pack your things and leave.”

“But I’ve got nowhere to go,” said Alison weakly.

“Listen, Alison,” said Maggie, “you’ve got your health and strength so I suggest you stop sponging off me and start working for a living. That whey face of yours makes me sick. I expect you to be out by the end of the week.”

“Could I have a word with you, beautiful?” oiled James.

Maggie went in for one of her lightning changes of mood. “Of course,” she murmured seductively. “Come up to my bedroom.”

Alison sat, numb with misery, but somewhere at the bottom of her misery was a tiny feeling of relief. The door opened again and she heard Steel Ironside’s Liverpudlian accents. “Well, that’s that. She’s taken that gaming club creep up to her room. He’s probably getting his leg over right now.”

Alison sat, rigid and silent.

The pop singer began to pace up and down the room. He was wearing a black cotton shirt open to the waist, revealing a thick that of grey chest hair in which nestled a large gold medallion. “God, I could do with a bit of her money,” he said. “I know I’ve got a hit. But I need the money for a backing group and then the hire of a studio.”

Alison began to cry. She had been crying such a lot lately that the tears came easily, splashing onto the typewriter.

“Hey, what’s up, luv?” The pop singer sat down on a chair beside Alison and peered at her through his half-moon glasses.

“Maggie’s throwing me out at the end of the w-week,” hiccupped Alison.

“Haven’t you any place to go?”

Alison dumbly shook her head.

“Here. Give me a piece of paper. There’s these bods in a squat down in Liverpool who’ll take you in. Give them this note.”

“You’re very kind,” said Alison when she could, although she thought she would rather die than move in with a lot of Liverpudlian squatters who were probably all high on dope.

“Fact is, the four of us were talking about you this morning. Maggie’s gone on so much about her bad heart, in the event of her dying soon, we was saying it might be better for one of us to marry you and then divvy up the takings.”

“If Maggie died,” said Alison, “I would take the money, keep it, and throw you all out. I hate Maggie and I hate you.”

But he merely laughed and patted her head. “Maggie’s turned out a right bitch,” he said. “She’s enough to turn the milk. When I think what a smasher she was, warm and beautiful. Right bloody cow she is now. Don’t take it out on me. With any luck, she’ll drop dead. I’ll survive somehow.”

“I’m sorry if I was rotten to you,” said Alison, “but you all seem so mercenary. Not one of you seems to like Mag-gie.”

“It’s all very well to live in slums and eat baked beans when you’re young,” said Steel, half to himself, “but one day you wake up old and broke and the thought of going back and starting all over is scary. Know what I mean?”

“I’m going to have a cup of coffee,” said Alison, getting to her feet. “Coming?”

“Sure. Lead the way.”

Mrs. Todd was in the kitchen and looked anxiously at Alison’s tearstained face. “Whit’s the matter, bairnie?” she said.

Alison told her of Maggie’s throwing her out.

“Maybe she’s worried about something,” said Mrs. Todd. “Mrs. Baird’s a fine decent woman and – ”

“Decent!” Alison’s laugh was shrill. “I never told you, Mrs. Todd, but she was and still is a tart. You should read that book of hers.…”

“Don’t be saying nasty things about herself,” said Mrs. Todd soothingly.

“S’right, all the same,” said Steel, slouching around the kitchen with his hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans. “Real old whore is our Maggie.”

“I will not be having that language in my kitchen!” Mrs. Todd was quite pink with outrage. The pop singer grinned and strolled out.

“Don’t worry your head at the moment,” said Mrs. Todd. “I have a wee bit cottage in the village and I can put you up there until you get on your feet.”

“Thank you,” said Alison weakly. But inside her head another prison door seemed to slam. She only half realised that she would probably accept Mrs. Todd’s invitation and therefore say goodbye to any hope of independence. “I’d better get back to work,” said Alison, picking up the cup of coffee Mrs. Todd had poured for her.

The bungalow had gone suddenly quiet. In her misery, she vaguely wondered where everyone was.

She sat down at the desk and forced herself to begin typing, trying to divorce her mind from the words. She heard a noisy chattering and clattering as they all met for lunch but could not bring herself to join them. She typed steadily on.

And then in the afternoon, Maggie came in. She sat down in a chair beside the desk.

“Look here, Alison,” she said in her new husky voice. “You mustn’t take me too seriously these days. Fact is, my nerves are screaming and I take it out on you.”

Alison sat very still, her fingers resting on the keys.

“I don’t know what’s up with me,” Maggie went on. “Half the time I seem to hate the world and I think if I see another bowl of salad, I’ll puke.”

“You weren’t very nice to me when you were fat either,” said Alison in a low voice.

“It’s your own fault. There’s something kickable about that cringing air of yours, sweetie. You can stay. I wish I’d never invited this lot. But I want to get married again and all men are much the same.”

“But why these four?” asked Alison, curious despite her distrust of Maggie’s sudden friendliness.

“They are the ones who were actually in love with me once,” said Maggie. “I got a private detective onto them and found out they all need money. I don’t rate my charms that high. Stuff Women’s Lib. It’s still rotten trying to get the maìtre d’ in a restaurant if you’re a single woman. And when it comes to business, men only want to deal with men. Other women pity you if you’re on your own. I like a man about the place, God knows why. Anyway, it’s no use looking for romance. In a marriage it all comes down to the same thing in the end: “Why do you keep losing my socks?” But I’ve never settled down long enough with any man to find out what it’s all about. The minute one of them got difficult, I’d give him his marching orders. Cheer up, sweetie, you’re still in my will.”

“I’m not interested in your money,” said Alison untruthfully.

Maggie studied her for a moment and her face softened. “I think you mean that. God! I’m a bitch. Try not to take any of my moods personally. So you’ll stay?”

Alison looked up into Maggie’s blue eyes and received the full force of that lady’s considerable personality.

“Yes,” she said weakly.

“Good girl.” Maggie gave her a hug, the Maggie of old, the Maggie who had swept into the hospital, the warm, maternal Maggie.

For the rest of the day, Alison felt happier than she had since Maggie’s return. Maggie’s change of mood permeated the house. Tomorrow, thought Alison, I’ll ask her about the car.

Peter Jenkins went out of his way to be particularly nice to Alison, and Maggie did not seem to mind.

Alison slept late and awoke to the sound of the garage doors being opened.

The car!

Maggie must be about to drive it.

All at once Alison felt she just had to ask her about that car.

She threw on a dressing gown and ran downstairs and out onto the drive. The engine was coughing and choking. Maggie did not seem to be able to start it. She walked forward and stood in front of the car just as Maggie wrenched the key once more in the ignition.

One minute Alison saw Maggie’s beautiful face quite clearly through the windscreen. The next, it had vanished behind a sheet of flame.