Питер Ловси - On the Edge

Rose stirred under the bedclothes.

‘What is it now?’

‘Come and see.’

‘It’s too cold.’

His voice took on an odd, shrill note. ‘I won’t stand for this. It’s enough to turn your stomach. I’ll get on to the council. See if I don’t. Bloody liberty. As if we haven’t got enough to put up with.’

When Barry had gone out to the bathroom, Rose slipped out of bed and went to the window. She, too, was profoundly disturbed by what she saw. She had heard some workmen hammering the day before and she had assumed they were fencing off the bomb site to keep the children from playing there.

They had erected a vast hoarding filled with the white face of a woman, a face unmistakably stricken with grief. Her pallor was set against the black hat with drapes and veil and the black high-necked dress that she wore. The lips were bloodless and the grey eyes stared upwards, focusing on nothing. The slogan under the face was ‘KEEP DEATH OFF THE ROAD’. Under it, in smaller lettering, ‘Carelessness Kills’.

The next Friday afternoon about half past five Rose opened the door to a man with a bicycle pump tucked under his arm like a swagger stick. He raised his hat. The horrid poster behind him was gleaming in the lamplight, throwing him into silhouette.

‘Mrs Bell?’

‘Yes.’

‘Smart.’ As if no more was needed to be said he stooped to remove his cycle clips.

Rose held on to the door. The metal plate on their door-post to discourage hawkers and circulars had gone in the bombing, and she was wary of being pestered. It was a nuisance having a front door that opened directly on to the street.

He stood up straight and stepped closer. ‘Arnold Smart. Don’t you remember?’

Faintly she did. There was something about the nasal twang in the voice.

‘I call once a month to collect the premium. Your husband usually comes to the door.’

‘Oh, insurance.’

‘Obviously I’ve come at an awkward moment, but as your husband mentioned some urgency in the matter...’

‘Is that so?’

‘... I thought I’d drop the form in now. Isn’t he at home?’

‘He’s always late on Fridays. I’ll give him the form if you like. What is it exactly?’

He fingered his necktie. ‘Might I step inside and wait? I don’t wish to be a nuisance but I’d like to offer him some professional advice if I may.’

‘I don’t expect him until ten at the earliest.’

‘Ten? That is rather late. I’d better come back another day. I do think a word in confidence might be advisable.’

She lost her patience. ‘For heaven’s sake, what’s all the mystery for? I’m his wife. He doesn’t do anything without consulting me.’

‘You’ve discussed this with him?’

‘Frequently.’

‘Forgive me, then. I wasn’t aware of that. It’s entirely up to Wing Commander Bell, of course, but I’d weigh the advantages very carefully before surrendering a policy as valuable as his.’

Alarm bells sounded in her head, but she managed to give the impression she’d heard nothing new. ‘You mean cashing it in? What’s wrong with that?’

‘It’s a lot to sacrifice for a short-term gain. You’d get only a fraction of the five thousand you would realize on maturity — or if anything should happen to him. Far be it from me to frighten you, but I’m constantly hearing of good men struck down in their prime. None of us knows what fate has in store for us.’

‘I’ll mention it. Perhaps we ought to think again.’

‘I strongly recommend that you do. If it’s a temporary difficulty you have, we could talk about a loan of equivalent value.’

‘Yes, why don’t you come back and talk to my husband another evening?’

‘The earliest I could manage is next Thursday.’

‘That would be much more convenient. Why don’t you keep the surrender form until then?’

He lifted his hat again and returned to his bicycle, propped against the kerb. He fastened the pump in place, put on the clips and pedalled away, past the great, pale face of the widow.

Rose returned to the kitchen, pulled a chair from the table and said aloud, ‘You bastard, Barry. You stinking rotten bastard.’

He’d meant what he said. He was about to sell off her security. If he dropped dead and she was uninsured, she would be left with nothing but his debts.

Their marriage had become a mockery long before Barry had disclosed the existence of his second family. He’d said a number of times that Rose could have a divorce, knowing, of course, that it would break the hearts of the two dear people she had left in the world to love. For her parents’ sake she’d resolved to endure a loveless marriage to a faithless man. She’d made that decision when Barry had finally admitted to picking up women for sex. She’d lived with that humiliation long enough.

Now he had discovered that he couldn’t keep two homes, two women and a child on his pathetic income. He proposed to surrender the insurance to pay off the overdraft. Deluded idiot. What would that achieve? The demands would only increase. The boy was growing up, starting school soon. Obviously it suited Stella Paxton to pester Barry relentlessly, destroy the marriage and take him as her husband.

Rose wanted to say, take the swine, you’re welcome to him, yet there remained the sticking point. Because she would not consider a divorce whilst her parents were alive, she faced not only humiliation and hurt, but insolvency.

Since the war ended she’d suffered a steep drop in her standard of living to satisfy Barry’s pride that he could support a wife. She’d made do with shapeless Utility clothes. Hadn’t been to a hairdresser’s. Hadn’t been taken to the pictures or a dance. Her sacrifices had helped to pay the premiums on that insurance. She would have enjoyed going out to work if he hadn’t made such an issue about it shaming a man. Too late now. Any money she made would go the same way as the rest.

Realistically, nothing short of Barry being killed could make any difference. Antonia had the solution — if she was serious.

An accident.

Rose admitted no inconsistency in her thinking. She had been brought up by loving parents who lived by the Ten Commandments. Any breach of Holy Law that she had committed as a child had so manifestly upset them that she had taken it to be a sin against her parents, rather than against God. She had found it very easy to forget about the God who was in Heaven. The only way to survive as a vicar’s daughter was to treat your father as God. You could do anything at all so long as you kept him in blissful ignorance.

Barry had forced her hand. She had until Thursday evening if she was to get a penny of the insurance.

She was studying the calendar when she heard the key turn in the front door. She looked at the clock. It wasn’t even eight yet.

Barry thrust open the kitchen door. ‘Surprised you?’ ‘Well, yes.’

‘What’s up? You look peeved.’ ‘My eyes are sore, that’s all.’ ‘See if these help.’

He handed her a bunch of red roses.

‘Believe it or not, he expected the works.’

Antonia’s eyes widened unusually. She hardly ever registered surprise. She had a way of treating everything as if she were hearing it for the second time. ‘And did you let him?’

‘Of course not. As if one bunch of flowers cancelled out all the women he’s had.’

‘The red roses must have cost him a packet.’

‘I’m not one of his Friday night tarts and I told him so. I told him to take a cold bath.’

Antonia almost purred in approval. ‘Nice work! Did he get nasty?’

‘He went down to the pub until closing time. When he came in he made a clumsy effort to paw me so I bit his ear.’