The Paying Guests(103)

So Frances hauled herself up and went back to the little kitchen for a bowl of water, soap and a towel. She returned to find Lilian with her legs bare, unfastening the soiled napkin from a narrow linen belt around her hips. ‘Oh, don’t look!’ she cried, as she’d been crying all day; but she moved so wearily, and fumbled the pins so badly, that Frances set down the bowl and stepped to assist her.

The napkin, heavy with blood, resembled a piece of raw meat. Frances did her best to fold it, and then, for want of anywhere else to put it, she placed it among the cinders on the hearthstone. Lilian lowered herself with a wobble over the bowl, and soaped and rinsed between her legs. The water grew pink, then distinctly crimson: her pose had brought on another gush. Frances, alarmed, could see it falling from her; it was like a glistening dark thread. She helped her to rise and dab at her thighs with the towel. They quickly put the new napkin in place and attached it to the belt. Lilian stepped back into her skirt, then sat heavily down again, blowing out her breath with the effort of it all, letting herself sag sideways until her cheek met the arm of the sofa.

She watched from under heavy eyelids as Frances collected her cast-off clothes, the blood-smeared petticoat and stockings. And when Frances had lifted the bowl of grisly water and was carrying it across to the door, she said, ‘I’m so sorry, Frances. It’s all been so horrible, and you’ve been so good. I’d have died to have anybody but you see me like this.’

Frances answered after a hesitation. ‘You said you weren’t brave.’

Lilian looked back at her, not understanding.

‘You said you weren’t brave. Look how brave you’ve been today.’

Lilian’s eyes filled with tears. She shook her head and couldn’t answer. Her dark hair fell lankly. Her face was still doughy, and her lips were dry. But Frances, gazing across at her, felt that she had never in her life loved anyone so much, nor so purely.

She adjusted her grip on the bowl of water and got hold of the knob of the door. Hooking the door open with her foot, moving awkwardly around it, she stepped out to the landing.

There, at the turn of the stairs, just coming up them – just undoing the buttons of his overcoat – was Leonard.

She gave such a start at the sight of him that the bowl jumped in her hands and the water almost slopped. But after that she stood still, in a paralysis of confusion and fear. He came on towards her in an ordinary evening way, perhaps not quite thrilled to see her, but raising his hand in tired greeting. Then he began to take in the strangeness of her manner. Once he’d mounted the last of the steps and could see what she was holding – the bloodstained clothing, and the bowl, which there was absolutely no way of concealing – his gaze sharpened.

‘What’s going on?’

She answered absurdly, ‘It’s nothing.’

‘Is it Lily?’

He stuck his hat on the newel post and pushed past her into the sitting-room. ‘Lily?’ she heard him say. ‘What the hell’s the matter?’

All she could think of was to get rid of the blood. She went hastily into the kitchen and tipped the bowl into the sink, running the tap until the water lost its rustiness, then roughly wiping down the spattered porcelain. The petticoat and stockings she tried to rinse – but that simply made more rust, more spatters. At last she threw them into the empty bowl and carried them over to her own room, dumping them on the floor and closing the door on them.

Then, with a racing heart, wiping her wet hands on her skirt as she went, she returned to the sitting-room.

Leonard was seated at the front of the sofa with his back to her, still in his overcoat. He had one of Lilian’s hands in his and she was trying to pull it away. ‘I’m all right,’ she was saying. She had pushed herself up, and was smiling. The smile looked terrible on her strained white face. The flesh around her eyes suddenly seemed dark as a bruise. When she caught sight of Frances she gazed up at her, helpless, frightened.

Leonard twisted around to Frances too. ‘How long has she been like this?’

Lilian spoke before she could answer. She said, as Frances had before, ‘It’s nothing, Len.’

He twisted back to her. ‘Nothing? Jesus Christ, you look awful! I just saw Frances carrying off about a bucketful of blood. And – God Almighty, what’s that?’ He had spotted the bunched-up napkin on the hearthstone.

Lilian’s smile grew more terrible still. ‘I’ve been bleeding, that’s all. It’s been a bad one, I can’t think why. Frances has been helping. What are you looking at? Oh, don’t look at that! It’s just a napkin. Don’t look at it! It isn’t a thing for husbands to see!’ She put up her hand, drew his face back to hers. ‘Why are you home? Why are you here? Why aren’t you with Charlie?’

He said, ‘Charlie had to leave early. We only had time for a couple of beers.’

‘We didn’t hear you come in.’

‘No, I got the bus to Camberwell, so I came the garden way. You look shocking, Lily. It isn’t usually like this, is it?’

‘No, it’s a bad one this time.’

‘When I saw that bowl —’

‘It was just water.’

‘It didn’t look like water to me.’ He twisted round to Frances again. She was standing just inside the room with her hand on the doorknob; her legs would simply not carry her any further forward. ‘Has she been like this all day?’ he asked her.