The Face That Must Die

Chapter XV

As Peter and Cathy emerged from the van two women strolled by, humming tunelessly. Everyone around here in Childwall hummed defensively as they passed you, Cathy had noticed. They glanced at Peter, then at her. They resembled birds: brightly feathered heads, sharp intolerant faces. They seemed to be thinking: what did this young couple mean by cluttering this street of snugly paired houses with their tatty van, with Peter’s cartoon on the side like a faded bloom of flower power left over from the sixties? What right had they to invade this tidy garden, with its family of gnomes, its viny trellises, its carriage-lamp beside the front door?

Peter rang the bell and leaned against the lamplit wall. He looked as though he were waiting on a stage set, bored with the part he was to play. Cathy was thinking that perhaps his parents hadn’t heard about Craig’s death. If they had, surely they would know not to seem too anxious; it would only harden Peter’s stubbornness.

His father opened the door. She could see that he’d heard: he looked both determined and faintly embarrassed, like someone bearing his urine specimen through a hospital. He said only “Some of your mother’s friends are here.”

He took Cathy’s coat, but Peter kept on his old denim jacket. A delicately painted plaster saint watched over the hall table from a shelf. “Has the paper come?” Peter’s mother called.

“ No,” his father said, adding to Cathy “You used to be able to rely on people.”

“ Is that Peter?”

“ Yes,” Cathy called. It wasn’t worth feeling annoyed.

In the living-room, Peter’s mother and an elderly couple sat neatly as a window display in their trim suits. His father took his place on the sofa beside his mother, symmetrically. Their conversation seemed light and fragile as the best china, from which they were sipping. They were discussing the Royal Family. “Didn’t Princess Anne look lovely?” the elderly woman said to Cathy.

On television, or in a newspaper? “Oh yes,” Cathy said agreeably. You shouldn’t attack other people’s beliefs without good reason. About her only thought on royalty was that, in being constantly surrounded by a false environment – royal toilets that were built for their coming and then, once they’d used them, torn down – they had something in common with schizophrenics.

The discussion petered out. To Cathy it sounded like chat about characters in a television series. The elderly woman set down her teacup delicately and said “So this is Peter and his wife. Hasn’t he grown, Gerald?”

“ He has,” said her husband.

“ Tell Mr and Mrs Dutton what you’re studying, Peter,” his mother said.

“ Conspiracy Theory and Applied Paranoia.”

Cathy’s toes curled up; her nails slid within her shoes. But Mrs Dutton said “Are you? You must need to be clever for that. Mustn’t he, Gerald?”

“ He must. Very nice.”

Peter’s father was silent. Clearly he wanted the elderly couple to leave so that he could come to the point. Peter was on edge with the careful politeness that limited the conversation. Both tensions worried her nerves.

God, no! She grabbed Peter’s wrist, but Mrs Dutton said “That’s a funny-looking cigarette. Is it a new brand?”

“ I roll my own. Herbal tobacco. Not addictive like cancer sticks.”

“ Oh, why do you want to smoke?” his mother complained. “You never used to. Please don’t smoke now, at any rate. Your father’s getting a cold.”

Reluctantly he put it away. Cathy dug her nails into his wrist. The four were too deep in a new discussion to notice. “Mrs Wright said she thought a jumble sale was a good idea,” Mrs Dutton said. “But do you know what she said? She said she didn’t want any old books. I said some old books are very good books. We shouldn’t sniff at books that are going to take a child to Lourdes, I said.”

“ I had to sit through that film once, with Jennifer Jones,” Peter muttered. “I had to go with the school. It was supposed to be a treat.”

“ Jennifer Jones?” his father said, cupping his ear. “I saw it during the war. Lovely.”

At last the Duttons left. Peter’s parents marched back into the room. At once his father said “What’s this we hear about someone’s being murdered in your road?”

Don’t correct him! Cathy pleaded with Peter. But he seemed determined to liven up the conversation, for he said “In our house, you mean.”

“ Oh no,” his mother said. Her anguish sounded close to hysteria.

His father held up one hand, to hear all the evidence. “Exactly what happened?”

“ He was queer. Someone caught him in the hall and cut him up. Zz-it! Skatch! Ss-kack!” he said like one of his comics, and brandished an invisible razor. “Well, you did say exactly.”

His parents frowned at him, as though someone had made him up or perhaps as though they were imagining his excesses, which would fade away for lack of attention.

“ We weren’t aware you were living among homosexuals,” his father said.

“ Oh, he was a very warm and wonderful human being.”

“ If they weren’t making everything legal these days there’d be less trouble.”

“ You reckon if you make something illegal people don’t do it?”

Peter was reaching in his pocket. Cathy made to grab his wrist. His mother said plaintively “You’re going to move, Peter, aren’t you?”

His hand emerged empty, since the argument had changed. “What for? It’s a good flat, and the rent’s low. We wouldn’t get another like that.”

“ Yes, and now we can see why the rent’s low,” his mother said.

“ You could live here until you found somewhere decent, if money’s the problem. We’d look after you.”

Was it an accident of words, or was she criticising Cathy? Peter glanced at Cathy as he said “We’re all right where we are.”

“ You do what you think best,” his father said. (Rather than consulting Cathy?)

“ But it can’t be doing you any good to live there, among all these drug-takers that we read about.”

Peter stood up. His grimace might have been a suppressed grin. “Where are you off?” his mother said mechanically.

His footsteps clumped upstairs. “You can see we’re right, can’t you,” his mother told Cathy. Not that Cathy disagreed – but if she had, they would have blamed her for his obstinacy. She was beginning to glimpse their view of her.

His mother took framed photographs from the sideboard, where they interrupted ranks of plates. “That’s Peter when he was little.” Cathy hadn’t seen these before; his mother must have a large stock, so as to be able to change the display. She was treating Cathy as she might have treated any visitor – in order to avoid hearing her thoughts about the argument?

Peter’s childish face beamed smugly out of its frame. Did his parents cling to this image of him so as not to see what he’d become? Perhaps they still saw this image in him – perhaps they ignored the rest of him, as they’d ignored his living with Cathy before they were married. If they suspected anything about him, no doubt they blamed her for it.

Peter reappeared, and saw the photographs. “Oh Jesus, put that stuff away.”

Cathy tugged his beard playfully. “We’re just delving into your guilty past.” His mother frowned as though that were an insult.

“ Well, don’t,” he snapped, and turned to his father. “Anyway, what’s wrong with people taking drugs? Just because they aren’t legal yet – ”

“ Subject closed,” his father said: refusing to be distracted, or determined not to have an argument disturb his home? “I think we’ve made our feelings plain about your living there,” he said. “I hope you’ll take them to heart. In time you’ll see we’re right. I only hope it won’t be too late.”

Silence filled the room, oppressive as humidity. It made Cathy nervous, and she rose. “Where are you off?” said Peter’s mother.

She dawdled in the bathroom, surrounded by the scent of air freshener. A pink fluffy cover disguised the toilet as a large stumpy flower or a toy with a soft head. The room seemed almost intolerably polite.

She trudged downstairs, past miniatures like windows on a better world. Below her in the hall, something fell with a thud. Momentarily the stairs were steep and dizzying. Then she saw it was the newspaper, delivered at last. She hurried down and grabbed it; it might help break the awkward silence. “Here’s the paper,” she called.