The Paying Guests(140)

Abruptly, she turned away from it, saying, ‘Forgive me, Mrs Playfair.’ She left the fireplace, crossed to the window, stood gazing out at the street.

But they were all rattled now. After a minute or two of subdued chat between Mrs Playfair and her mother she heard sounds of movement, and, turning back to the room, found them both on their feet. Mrs Playfair was shrugging on her coat, fastening the chain of her fox collar. But, ‘Don’t trouble,’ she said quietly, when Frances moved forward to walk her to the door. ‘I shall see myself out. Really, I’m sorry I came, if it was only to upset you.’

Once she had gone, Frances returned to the sofa. Her mother remained standing, looking down at her as if she hardly recognised her.

‘How could you talk to Mrs Playfair like that about the War?’

‘Mrs Playfair knows what I think about the War. She called me a traitor to my country once, don’t you remember?’

‘I don’t know what’s the matter with you. I don’t know what’s the matter with anything any more. If your father could have foreseen —’

‘Oh,’ said Frances, in her automatic way, ‘Father foresaw nothing. That was his great talent.’

‘Yes,’ said her mother, with surprising bitterness, ‘and yours is —’ She struggled, and didn’t finish.

Frances looked at her. ‘Mine is what?’

But her mother turned her head and wouldn’t answer.

Frances waited, then gave it up. She tapped her thumb against her lips. ‘The idea of the police being out there thinking all this, “keeping their eye on” Charlie. The idea of people saying these things about Lilian! It’s grotesque!’ She got to her feet. ‘I’ll have to go and see her. I’ll have to warn her.’

Her mother’s head jerked back. ‘No, Frances. Let it alone.’

‘Let it alone? How can I do that?’

‘Aren’t we involved enough? The police must know their own business.’

‘The police don’t know anything.’

‘What do you mean?’

Frances took a step away from the sofa. ‘I don’t mean anything. I just —’

There was a rat-tat-tat at the front door, that made her jump as if she’d been hit. ‘Christ!’ she said, incautiously. ‘What now?’ She hesitated, her heart thumping. But it was less suspenseful, she had discovered, simply to go out and answer than to stand there dithering. If it was a newspaper man she would close the door in his face.

It wasn’t a newspaper man, it was a trim little military figure – a messenger boy, who handed over a telegram, addressed to her.

Her first idea was that something must have happened to Lilian. Lilian had broken down, told everything. Lilian was ill. Lilian was dead. She held the envelope without opening it, thinking, in a bleak, braced way, Is this it, then? Is this the moment when everything falls apart?

Finally she ungummed the flap, drew out and unfolded the salmon-coloured sheet.





SAW NEWS AGHAST


PLEASE CONFIRM ALL WELL


WAITING C.





The words made no sense, until she saw the Clipstone Street stamp.

She became aware that her mother had followed her out to the hall and was anxiously watching. ‘What is it? Who’s written? Not more bad news?’ She came and took the paper from Frances’s hand, and frowned. ‘But who’s the sender? I don’t understand. Is it your cousin, Caroline?’

Frances opened her mouth to answer, groping for one of the old untruths. But the lie seemed such a weary one suddenly. Weary, and trifling; almost quaint. She said, instead, ‘It’s from Christina.’

Her mother actually looked blank for a moment. Then her features tightened. ‘Her.’ She handed the telegram back. ‘Why on earth is she writing to you?’

‘She saw the case in the papers, she says.’

‘But how did she connect it with you? Have our names appeared now?’

‘She must have recognised the Barbers’.’

‘But —’

‘I’ve spoken about them to her.’

Frances saw her mother absorbing that, felt the further rapid chilling of her manner.

‘You’ve seen each other, then.’

‘A few times, this year, on my trips into Town. She lives near Oxford Street with a friend… I thought you might have guessed it.’

Her mother’s face twisted. ‘No, of course I didn’t! Why should I ever have thought of it?’

‘I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking, I suppose.’

‘It never occurred to me that you would be so untruthful. After giving me your word that you wouldn’t see her!’

Frances was astonished. ‘I never gave you my word.’

‘As good as, then.’

‘No, not even so much as that. We never spoke about it. You never wanted to know. And it’s down to me, isn’t it, whether I see my friends or not? Oh, what does it matter, after all!’

‘Well, evidently it does matter, since you’ve been going about it in this sneaking sort of way.’

‘Because I knew you’d react like this!’

Her mother’s tone grew even tighter. ‘I don’t wish to discuss it any further. You know my opinion of that young woman. Go ahead and see her, if you must. I don’t like your friendship with her, I don’t understand it, I don’t respect it; I never shall. But what I like and respect even less is your deceit. On top of everything that’s happened! I don’t know what to expect next! I feel I hardly know you at the moment. What else have you lied to me about?’