Eye of the Needle(92)

She opened her eyes and saw Jo. My God…she’d overslept.

He was standing beside the bed in his rumpled pajamas, hair tousled, a battered rag doll under his arm, sucking his thumb and staring wide-eyed at his mummy and the strange man cuddling each other in bed. Lucy could not read his expression, for at this time of day he stared wide-eyed at most things, as if all the world was new and marvelous every morning. She stared back at him in silence, not knowing what to say.

Then Henry’s deep voice said, “Good morning.”

Jo took his thumb out of his mouth, said, “Good morning,” turned around and went out of the bedroom.

“Damn, damn,” Lucy said.

Henry slid down in the bed until his face was level with hers, and kissed her. His hand went between her thighs and held her possessively.

She pushed him away. “For God’s sake, stop.”

“Why?”

“Jo’s seen us.”

“So what?”

“He can talk, you know. Sooner or later he’ll say something to David. What am I going to do?”

“Do nothing. Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters.”

“I don’t see why, the way he is. You shouldn’t feel guilty.”

Lucy suddenly realized that Henry simply had no conception of the complex tangle of loyalties and obligations that constituted a marriage. Any marriage, but especially hers. “It’s not that simple,” she said.

She got out of bed and crossed the landing to her own bedroom. She slipped into panties, trousers and a sweater, then remembered she had destroyed all Henry’s clothes and had to lend him some of David’s. She found underwear and socks, a knitted shirt and a V-necked pullover, and finally—right at the bottom of a trunk—one pair of trousers that were not cut off at the knee and sewn up. All the while Jo watched her in silence.

She took the clothes into the other bedroom. Henry had gone into the bathroom to shave. She called through the door, “Your clothes are on the bed.”

She went downstairs, lit the stove in the kitchen and put a saucepan of water on to heat. She decided to have boiled eggs for breakfast. She washed Jo’s face at the kitchen sink, combed his hair and dressed him quickly. “You’re very quiet this morning,” she said brightly. He made no reply.

Henry came down and sat at the table, as naturally as if he had been doing it every morning for years. Lucy felt very weird, seeing him there in David’s clothes, handing him a breakfast egg, putting a rack of toast on the table in front of him.

Jo said suddenly, “Is my daddy dead?”

Henry gave the boy a look and said nothing.

Lucy said, “Don’t be silly. He’s at Tom’s house.”

Jo ignored her and spoke to Henry. “You’ve got my daddy’s clothes, and you’ve got mummy. Are you going to be my daddy now?”

Lucy muttered, “Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings…”

“Didn’t you see my clothes last night?” Henry said.

Jo nodded.

“Well, then, you know why I had to borrow some of your daddy’s clothes. I’ll give them back to him when I get some more of my own.”

“Will you give my mummy back?”

“Of course.”

Lucy said, “Eat your egg, Jo.”

The child went at his breakfast, apparently satisfied. Lucy was gazing out of the kitchen window. “The boat won’t come today,” she said.

“Are you glad?” Henry asked her.

She looked at him. “I don’t know.”

Lucy didn’t feel hungry. She drank a cup of tea while Jo and Henry ate. Afterward Jo went upstairs to play and Henry cleared the table. As he stacked crockery in the sink he said, “Are you afraid David will hurt you? Physically?”

She shook her head no.

“You should forget him,” Henry went on. “You were planning to leave him anyway. Why should it concern you whether he knows or not?”

“He’s my husband. That counts for something. The kind of husband he’s been…all that…doesn’t give me the right to humiliate him.”

“I think it gives you the right not to care whether he’s humiliated or not.”

“It’s not a question that can be settled logically. It’s just the way I feel.”

He made a giving-up gesture with his arms. “I’d better drive over to Tom’s and find out whether your husband wants to come back. Where are my boots?”

“In the living room. I’ll get you a jacket.” She went upstairs and got David’s old hacking jacket out of the wardrobe. It was a fine grey-green tweed, very elegant with a nipped-in waist and slanted pocket flaps. Lucy had put leather patches on the elbows to preserve it; you couldn’t buy clothes like this anymore. She took it down to the living room, where Henry was putting his boots on. He had laced the left one and was gingerly inserting his injured right foot into the other. Lucy knelt to help him.

“The swelling has gone down,” she said.

“The damned thing still hurts.”

They got the boot on but left it untied and took the lace out. Henry stood up experimentally.

“It’s okay,” he said.

Lucy helped him into the jacket. It was a bit tight across the shoulders. “We haven’t got another oilskin,” she said.