The Paying Guests(72)
Her stomach gave another leap. She drew up her knees and rolled on to her side. Outside, church bells were noisy, but the house itself was still. She was almost afraid to rise, to set the day in motion.
When she finally went downstairs, she found her mother already in the kitchen. And at the sight of her pale face and fretful expression, her heart seemed to hold its breath.
‘What’s the matter, Mother?’
Her mother frowned. ‘Well, I barely slept. Did you? After last night?’
‘Last night?’
‘I wonder how poor Mr Barber is.’
‘Oh —’ Frances’s heart beat naturally again. She remembered that, of course, as far as her mother was concerned – as far as Leonard was concerned, too – the assault was the thing that had happened to set the world on its head. It was only for herself and for Lilian that this other more astonishing event had taken place.
Her mother had gone to the kitchen passage and was listening for sounds of movement upstairs.
‘Ought we to go up there, do you think? I should so like to know that Mr Barber is all right. One can never be too careful with blows to the head. Why don’t you go, Frances, and just tap at their door?’
‘Their bedroom door? No, no. Let’s not disturb them. If they want our help, they’ll ask for it. Sit down, and I’ll see to breakfast. You don’t want to be late for church.’
‘Oh, I don’t think I’ve the strength for church today. Mr Garnish will understand. Perhaps I’ll run myself a bath.’ She began to make for the scullery.
Nimbly, Frances got there ahead of her. ‘I’ll have the water when you’ve finished with it. I’ll run it for both of us.’
She couldn’t believe that she and Lilian hadn’t left some mark or trace behind them. But the room seemed quite unchanged. Holding a match to the geyser, she looked over at the sink, where she had pushed with a slippery hand between Lilian’s legs; and at the bath-tub, where she had said, I’ve fallen in love with you.
With a pop, the flame found the gas, and she snatched back her scorched fingers.
The next hour or so passed in a stew of frustration. She saw to the stove, made breakfast, every moment expecting to hear Lilian’s step on the stairs. She took the bath after her mother but couldn’t relax in the cooling water for fear that Lilian would come down while she was in there. But Lilian did not come. Her bedroom door remained closed, and Frances simply had no idea what was going on behind it. Was Lilian longing for her, as she was longing for Lilian? Had she lain in bed, as Frances had, unable to sleep for excitement?
At last there were definite sounds of movement in the rooms above, and her mother rose from her chair. ‘There’s Mr Barber’s voice, isn’t it? I think I’ll go up, just for a moment. Just to put my mind at rest.’
‘I’ll come too, then,’ said Frances, unable to stand the suspense.
They found Leonard on the sitting-room sofa in his pyjamas and dressing-gown, his nostrils crusty, his nose swollen and both of his eyes with dark shadows beneath. But the injury, Frances thought, looked rather mild for something that had produced such gallons of blood, and perhaps he was thinking the same, for he greeted her and her mother in a hang-dog, rueful way, and seemed to want to make light, now, of the entire affair. He’d slept like a dead man, he said, and had woken with the whopper of a headache, but aside from that he was perfectly all right. He’d enjoy spending the day with his feet up. No, Mrs Wray needn’t worry. He was only sorry that he’d given her such a time of it last night! He was afraid he hadn’t been very gentlemanly. He’d been thinking over some of the things he’d said, and wondered if he hadn’t had a touch of concussion. Yes, he’d certainly speak to the police. He’d do it on his way home from work tomorrow.
‘Oh, but you surely won’t think of going to your office tomorrow, Mr Barber?’
‘What, and miss the chance to parade these shiners!’
He caught Frances’s eye as he said this; she was just about able to return his smile. For Lilian was there, right there, sitting next to him, rigid with embarrassment, her eyelids fluttering, her expression so unnatural that it might have meant anything. Frances thought back to the way they had parted the night before: Oh, Frances. In the over-bright kitchen she had taken the words for an exclamation of tenderness, of wonder. Now she wasn’t so sure. She looked at the flushed exposed flesh of Lilian’s throat, and remembered kissing it. She remembered undoing those three pearl buttons, the give of the cloth as they pushed through.
As if Lilian knew what she was thinking, she raised a hand to the lapels of her blouse and, blushing harder, pulled them closed.
Frances touched her mother’s arm. ‘We oughtn’t to tire Leonard, Mother.’
‘No, indeed not.’ They rose and said their goodbyes.
And after that, unbelievably, the week-end began to be like any other, as Sunday, that dull, dull tyrant, stamped its foot. There was beef to be put in the oven, potatoes to be peeled, carrots and green beans to be washed and trimmed, pastry to be rolled, apples to be sliced, eggs, sugar and milk to be whisked into a custard… Frances saw to it all with an eye on the clock, over-conscious of the minutes ticking by. Surely now, she thought, her mother would settle down with a book or a paper. Surely Leonard, up on the sofa, would yawn and start to doze. Surely there’d be a way for her and Lilian to meet.