The Paying Guests(68)

‘Knocked you down? What do you mean? At your dinner?’

‘No, of course not at the dinner! Just here, just down the hill. Someone came at me on the street.’

‘Just a few hundred yards away!’ said Frances’s mother. She had followed them into the kitchen.

Frances looked from her white, shocked face back to Leonard’s bloody one. She couldn’t take it in. She’d barely given him a thought all evening. A minute before, she and his wife had been together in the darkness, the space between them drawing itself shut. Now —

‘But who was it?’ she said. ‘Who hit you?’

He scowled at her. ‘I wish I knew. He came out of nowhere. I didn’t even have a chance to put up my fists.’

‘But when did you leave your supper? I thought —’

‘What’s the supper got to do with it? The supper —’ He lowered his gaze. ‘Oh, the supper was a wash-out. A load of snobs. Charlie and I were out of there by half-past ten. I very nearly went on to Netta’s. I wish I had, now!’

Frances stared at him, still unnerved, still trying to make sense of it all. Just where, she asked, had the assault taken place? Not right outside? He scowled again. No, further down the hill. Near the park? Yes, near the park. He’d only just got off his tram, he said. He had been walking along, minding his own business, when he’d heard running footsteps behind him: he had turned, and in the moment of turning he had caught a blow to the face that had sent him flying. Perhaps he’d passed out for a second or two, he wasn’t quite sure. But when he’d clambered to his feet his attacker was nowhere in sight. Dazed and bleeding, he’d got himself up the rest of the hill to the house – frightening the life out of Frances’s mother, of course, who was just on her way to bed. She’d brought him out to the kitchen, given him brandy, tried to clean his wounds. His hands had grazes on them, but they were all right. The worst thing was his nose, which wouldn’t stop bleeding.

He risked lifting the tea-towel. The nose, and the moustache beneath it, were gummy with drying blood. Even as Frances and Lilian watched, fresh blood appeared at one of his nostrils, expanded into a bubble, and popped.

‘Oh, Lenny,’ said Lilian.

He hastily replaced the towel and tilted back his head. ‘Well, don’t say it like that! It hurts like hell.’

‘Look at all this blood.’

‘It isn’t my fault. I can’t make it stop.’

‘It’s got all over you. It’s everywhere!’ She was gazing at the floor. There was a trail of grisly splashes stretching right across the kitchen.

Frances picked her way around the splashes in her suede shoes, to stand with her back to one of the counters. The room felt horribly crowded and wrong to her: too small for all the alarm and confusion. She was still wearing her hat; she still had her evening bag dangling from her wrist. Putting them both on the counter, she said, ‘But I don’t understand. Who was the man, and why did he do this?’

Leonard was dabbing at his nostrils, squinting at his fingertips in distaste. ‘I’ve told you, haven’t I? I don’t know who he was.’

‘Well, what kind of man was he?’

‘I hardly saw him! He was one of these wasters you see hanging about, I suppose. Wanting money, and all that.’

‘An ex-service man?’

‘I don’t know. Yes.’

‘Did he want your money?’

‘I don’t know! He didn’t give me a chance to find out – just came at me, then flew off again. He must have lost his nerve, or seen somebody coming. Not that anyone did come. I had to get myself home on my own. I thought he’d broken my nose! Perhaps he has. It damn well feels like it.’

Frances’s mother drew out a chair with a scrape of its legs. ‘Isn’t it frightful, Frances? I wanted to send for a policeman. I thought of running across to Mr Dawson —’

‘No, I don’t want a policeman,’ Leonard said, as she sat. He sounded moody again. ‘What’s the point?’

‘But say he attacks someone else, Mr Barber? And it might be a lady next time. Or an elderly person. Frances, an ex-service man accosted you. Do you remember, a few weeks ago? He spoke most uncivilly to you. Do you think it could be the same man?’

But, ‘No, no,’ said Leonard irritably, before Frances could respond. ‘It could have been one of ten thousand. London’s full of them. I knew blokes like them in the army. They can’t stand to think that someone else is doing all right for himself. He saw me in my smart clothes and thought he’d have some fun with me, that’s all. A nice bit of sport on a Saturday night! Kicking fellows into the gutter on Champion Hill.’ He touched the bridge of his nose. ‘God, this hurts.’ He looked up at his wife. ‘Do you think it’s supposed to hurt this much? It feels like there’s a red-hot poker shoved up it.’

Lilian went gingerly across to him and he raised the tea-towel again. But when the sight of the blood made her draw back, he gave a tut of impatience and appealed, instead, to Frances.

‘Have a look at it for me, will you? Tell me what you think?’

So Frances approached him and made him tilt his head to the light. His nose was still bleeding pretty freely. Could it be broken? She had no idea. She had been to a few Home Nursing classes at the start of the War, but she’d forgotten most of that now. The pupils of his eyes seemed their ordinary sizes… She supposed they ought to go for the doctor. When she suggested it, however, he was as perversely reluctant to bring in a medical man as he was to involve the police. ‘No, I don’t need someone poking me about and then sending me a bill for it afterwards. I went through worse than this in France, for God’s sake. Just stop the damn thing up, can’t you? Jam something into it?’