The Squire Quartet. Brian AldissЧитать онлайн книгу.
put an arm round her waist. ‘You’re rotten at geography, incredible at everything else.’
‘You’ll always be my lovely man.’ She rubbed her face against his jacket. ‘My standard. Let me give you a last cup of coffee. Instant. And there will always be “Frankenstein”… Something worthwhile we did together.’
‘And your lovely photograph in the book. I’ll send you a copy before it’s published. Lasciviously inscribed.’
‘To hell with Peter. Bring it round in person.’
‘I’ll see about that. No, no coffee – I’d better go, my love.’
‘My love.’ Her beautiful gaze engaging his.
‘Oh, dearest Laura …’ They clung tightly to each other for the last time.
It was autumn. He felt the chill as he blundered down the garden path, the chill a younger man would not have noticed. He thought, as he went blindly into the street, ‘From now on, there’s only autumn. Then winter. Fifty next birthday. Old age. I was lucky to have a Laura in my life, bloody lucky. Just that short while – not so short, either …
‘Well, somehow I’ve done what I said I would, at last. Now I must go back and make amends. The great renunciation … I hope it counts for something …
‘Oh, Laura …’
He unlocked the secret compartment in the nursery cupboard. Only a few treasures there these days. A little framed pencil sketch his father had made of him when he was a child of four, just after Adrian was born. Not very good, when considered dispassionately. A school magazine dating from only a few years back, in which was his son John’s article, then considered both daring and amusing, on why the monarchy should be abolished. A couple of letters from Laura – notes, really. He smelt the envelopes, but enclosure in the cupboard had made them fusty. Two letters dating from last winter from Tess, and a rough copy of his response.
Grantham
6th Nov.
Dear Tom,
Thanks for your letter. There’s a reason why I have not returned to Pippet Hall as you request.
I do not have to do as you say. Honestly, what you think or say is not so important to me as it was once. You know that even a worm will turn. You did not keep your promise about leaving that girl at the end of August, did you? Have you really left her as you say, or do you still pine for all the things she gave you …
I am doing well here. I have my own flat and workplace and my company is now exporting to the USA. You don’t have to feel sorry for me, and the girls are fine. So is Nellie.
They send love.
Teresa
Travellers’ Club
Pall Mall
15 November
My dear Tess,
Matilda forwarded your letter to me. I’m in London, being unable to tolerate the Hall on my own. I am not, as you may imagine, ‘having fun’ here, although there are one or two old male friends to support me, so I am not utterly desolate. I’ve also seen John on two occasions; he’s much as always.
I am delighted to hear that your company is flourishing. I’ve encouraged the idea from the start, you may recall. When I asked you to return to Pippet Hall, it was not an order, but a simple hope that you would come back to me. I still have that hope. Do so, and we can convert the barn into a studio for you.
As I told you in my last letter, I have renounced Laura Nye. That I did as soon as ‘Frankenstein’ was completed, as promised. In fact, on the very day of the farewell party at Claridge’s. I admit to feeling lonely; I need your dear love and comfort. There are two schools of thought about how a wife behaves towards an erring husband, but you must let yourself be guided by your feelings, rather than fashion or friends. May I suggest you don’t treat me according to my deserts but according to your capacity for sweetness.
Thanks largely to Grahame Ash, the series looks extremely handsome – I think you’ll approve, especially the design side. It is to be shown at 8.10, prime viewing time, every Friday evening, starting on February 23rd next. Ron Broadwell will publish the book as his great New Year title, and is planning a signing tour, round the country, on which I hope you’ll be able to accompany me; it should be fun and easy to do. VIP treatment guaranteed.
Christmas is approaching, as the meretricious glitter of the shops in the West End painfully reminds me. I hope that this angst can be quelled soon, and that we can all spend Christmas happily together at the Hall as usual. It’s almost a year since mother died – how fast this hectic year has gone. I hope you and your mother have fully recovered from the shock of your father’s death.
Your loving
Tom
Grantham
2nd December
Dear Tom,
In your latest piece of optimism you outdo yourself. What makes you think I wish to tramp round England as part of your menagerie, promoting your book? What makes you think I want even to hear about it, or the series, knowing your fancy woman is in them both?
Can’t you realize how you hurt me? I’ve got feelings too you know.
As for Christmas, I’m sorry but I’m making my own arrangements. I’m going somewhere where I can find some sun and peace. Worry is making me ill. Once I thought I could trust you, but disillusion has crept in. Burst in.
I’m writing this in bed. Unwell.
Teresa
Under the letters lay a little red book bearing the impressive word ‘Memoranda’. In it, in his eight-year-old hand, he had inscribed the bare fact of his father’s death. He did not open the book.
There was also an official letter in an envelope with a Belgrade postmark, congratulating him on his services to Anglo–Yugoslav understanding. Enclosed with it was a message scrawled in pencil from a man called Slobodan. He did not open the envelope.
Under the envelope and red book lay a little folder with covers made from wallpaper. Inside were three stories, each under a page long, written in a childish hand and illustrated with pictures done in crayon. They were by Rachel Normbaum, and had been presented to him almost forty years ago. He did not open the folder.
He cleared the secret compartment of all but the pencil sketch, and stood with its contents in his hand. Time went by.
Outside it was growing dull.
He locked the cupboard and went downstairs to the kitchen.
There, an unpleasant smell distracted him from his purpose. He set the documents of his past down on the table and went over to the tall windows, opening a shutter to let in a ray of evening light. For a while he stood peering out.
The room appeared sombre and dead. It smelt as if it had been closed for a long while. The large red enamel Aga, which he had had installed in place of the old range when he and Teresa were married, was cold for the first time since its installation. He walked round the room, familiar since childhood, today chill, unfriendly. In one corner were mouse droppings, in another by the scullery door, a damp patch along the floor, where the wallpaper was peeling; the damp had always been there, and looked no worse than before. In the scullery, a tap dripped intermittently. Squire went through to turn it off.
Back in the kitchen, he prepared a small fire in the Aga. He stuffed some old newspaper and cardboard into the grate and set light to them. He piled the letters and ‘Memoranda’ book on top of the flames. The past no longer meant anything. It had died. He was free, whether he desired to be, or not. ‘I’ll be happier, once this is over,’ he promised himself.
‘All I really want is your silence now.’
As he waited there dumbly, gazing at the blue flames, a key grated in the scullery door. He stood alert, with the door of the Aga open and