Хилари Боннер - A Deep Deceit

I might have guessed that, one way or another, something was going to break soon. Although Carl did not have nightmares, he seemed possibly to be more disturbed by the anonymous campaign against us than I was. He insisted that he was upset only because he knew what it was doing to me, that he wasn’t worried himself, but I knew very well just how on edge he was all the time.

We shrugged off our wet coats and propped our umbrellas in a corner among a pile of them, which were already steaming gently. Predictably enough, Fenella Austen was at the bar holding court. She did the rounds of all the pubs in St Ives, but recently seemed to have been using the Sloop more than any other, much to the irritation of Carl and me who had a big soft spot for the place. Equally predictably, she was already well oiled even though it was only just one o’clock. As Carl approached the bar to buy our first round of drinks she paused in mid flow, took a deep draught from her glass, which was filled almost to the brim with a substance that looked suspiciously like only very slightly diluted whisky, and put her free arm round his waist.

‘Ah, my favourite boy wonder,’ she drawled, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

At first Carl did quite well. He gave her a small, icy smile. ‘Some boy,’ he said mildly.

Then, as ever, her hand slipped down to his backside, which she squeezed in her customary familiar manner. The bloody woman seemed to have a fixation with Carl’s bottom and I suspected he was not in the mood to put up with it. I was right. There was a brief moment of calm before the storm and I found myself wondering if it was much the same kind of thing as Mariette and her waiter’s bum. Just as I was deciding that there really was no comparison all hell broke loose.

‘You are a p-poisonous old woman and if you d-don’t take your hand away from my a-arse I’ll stuff it up your own,’ I heard Carl say.

I could hardly miss it. He shouted at the top of his voice. Carl hardly ever raised his voice, hardly ever swore and was never crude or uncouth. I had never even heard him say ‘arse’ before. The stammer, which occurred only very rarely by then and under extreme stress, somehow made his outburst all the more devastating. I was flabbergasted. The silence was suddenly deafening. All eyes were on Carl and Fenella. Apart from anything else, taking on Fenella was unheard of. She had not achieved her almost legendary status in St Ives without good reason.

Slowly she put her drink down on the bar and turned to face Carl directly, quite deliberately keeping her left hand on his bottom, so that her face was just inches from his although a little above. Fenella was exceptionally tall, particularly for a woman of her age. She was well over six foot and on that Sunday morning was wearing high-heeled shoes. Carl had to peer up to look her in the eye. ‘You silly little man,’ she said eventually and for her quite quietly, and certainly very calmly.

Then and only then did she remove her hand from Carl’s bum, swing back round on her heels and return her attention to her glass of whisky. Not a bad performance for someone who was definitely at least half cut, I remember thinking.

There was a strangled giggle or two here and there but conversation had started to begin again when it became apparent that Carl was not going to be dismissed so lightly. ‘I said you were a p-poisonous old woman,’ he yelled and this time there was almost a note of hysteria in his voice. ‘Poisonous, as in p-poison pen.’

With a weary sigh Fenella turned towards him again. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ she asked, her voice only very slightly slurred.

‘You know d-damned well what I’m talking about,’ said Carl, still yelling.

‘Really,’ countered Fenella, who sounded dangerously calm. ‘Well, then, why not at least enlighten the rest of the bar. I’m sure everyone else is bewildered even if I, allegedly, am not.’

‘She’s been sending poison pen letters to me and my wife,’ shouted Carl.

Fenella raised her eyebrows. ‘And what did I say in these letters, pray?’ she asked.

‘You know what you s-said,’ he told her.

‘Now let me think,’ replied Fenella and tapped a finger against her pursed lips as if she were musing. ‘I know. Perhaps it was something devastatingly truthful like how you are a no-talent no-hoper married to a silly bitch with no personality?’

The words were devastating. Her voice was one of polite enquiry. I tried to stop Carl taking this any further, but it was too late. He rose to the bait. ‘You’re a vicious old has-been,’ he bellowed at her. ‘You’re jealous of me and Suzanne, that’s why you’re doing this to us...’

A collective gasp echoed around the bar. I knew that Carl had gone too far.

The barman, hearing the danger signals, came belting round from the lounge bar just in time to see Fenella throw her whisky in Carl’s face. She was not even pretending to be calm now. ‘Don’t you ever speak to me like that,’ she stormed. ‘This is my bar in my town and I want you out of it.’

Carl began to wipe whisky from his face with the back of one hand. God knows what might have happened next but I didn’t wait to find out. I knew I had to be decisive for once in my life. I grabbed Carl by both hands and, pulling with all my strength, dragged him towards the door.

His legs started to move in the right direction before he became aware of what was happening. Nonetheless he opened his mouth to protest.

‘Don’t argue; for once do as I say,’ I commanded. ‘We’re leaving.’

Suddenly overcome by the scene, perhaps, he complied almost meekly.

When I got him outside I realised, or rather the driving rain made us both realise, that we had left our coats and umbrellas in the bar. Cornish weather is not always as benign as summer visitors think. The weeks since Christmas had been bleak. On this occasion the wind and rain were blowing directly inshore, carrying with them an icy saltiness that chilled to the bone. A particularly vicious gust caught us full in the face, quite taking my breath away. ‘Just don’t move,’ I managed to gasp to Carl, as I dashed inside to fetch protection from the foul weather.

By the time we had pulled on our coats and abandoned even the thought of trying to erect our umbrellas, I had gone off the idea of a lunchtime drink completely.

Unfortunately, Carl had not.

‘Let’s go up to the Union,’ he said, brushing aside my protests.

‘Just don’t go accusing anybody else, will you?’

‘I’m not a c-complete damned fool, Suzanne,’ he snapped, still stammering slightly.

‘Then why are you behaving like one?’ I heard myself counter before I had time to think.

It was about as near as we had ever got to a quarrel. Certainly my sharp answer, every bit as uncharacteristic as Carl’s outburst in the pub, had stopped him dead in his tracks. ‘Is that what you think?’ he asked.

I turned to look at him directly, his shoulders hunched against the wind and rain, his hair sodden, droplets of water running off his nose and chin, the expression in his eyes full of concern. Everything Carl did was governed by his huge capacity for love and loyalty. I knew that, and adored him for it, but I decided not to capitulate. I had gone this far, I would have to see it through. ‘Yes, I do,’ I said. ‘You’re not a fool, Carl, anything but. You have just behaved like one, though.’

He stared at me for a second or two, then his face broke into a grin. ‘You’re right, of course. It’s just that I am so worried and we had to meet that goddamned woman, didn’t we. She really gets under my skin.’

‘I noticed,’ I said with feeling.

We had reached the Union by then, a comfortable little pub away from the sea front. Carl managed a smile in answer to my slightly acid response as he stepped to one side and quite flamboyantly ushered me into the bar.