Pat Barker - Life Class

‘When did this happen?’

He sounded overbearing, bullying. He was angry with her because he hadn’t been there to protect her.

‘The other night, after you’d gone. You left your cigarettes behind, I thought you’d come back for them.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Oh, to tell me what a bitch I am. And how much he loves me. He was drunk, for God’s sake.’

‘Did he…?’ He glanced at the bed. An old, brown bloodstain, the shape of Africa, took up the centre of the mattress. He’d lain on that, night after night, and never known it was there. ‘Don’t go.’

‘No choice.’

‘You’re not going back to him?’

‘What do you think?’

He sat down on the bed, heavily. She tugged a blouse sleeve from underneath him, angry with him for being there and being useless. He didn’t blame her. ‘When were you going to tell me?’

‘Now. This evening.’ But she wouldn’t meet his eye.

‘Do you know where he’s staying?’

‘No.’ She was crumpling newspaper and stuffing it into shoes. And I wouldn’t tell you if I did.’ She squeezed a pair of shoes down the side of the case.

‘What train are you catching?’

‘The eight o’clock.’

She closed the suitcase and snapped the locks shut.

‘You were just going to leave, weren’t you?’

‘No, of course not. You know I wouldn’t do that.’

They stood and faced each other. She came into his arms and he held her, stroking her hair, but his thoughts were all of Halliday, the bright, black buttons of his eyes, the sweating bulk of him. ‘I’ll find him.’

‘If you’ve got any sense you’ll keep out of his way.’

She made to lift the suitcase from the bed, but he got there first and did it for her.

‘How are you getting to the station?’

‘Elinor’s coming for me in a cab.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘No, better not. Honestly. Let’s say goodbye here.’

‘You are coming back?’

‘Of course, I always do. I just need to let him calm down a bit.’

A knock on the door. Teresa went to answer it, slipping on the chain before she opened it. Elinor’s voice. She came into the bedroom, wearing a small, rather elegant black hat, braced for conflict.

‘Paul. I’ve been trying to find you all day.’

‘I’ve been at the hospital. Took ages.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Cracked ribs. Nothing that won’t mend.’

‘I warned you, I told you what he was like.’

‘I don’t mind what he did to me.’

They began a final search of the flat while he stood, helpless, watching them open and close drawers, check cupboards, peer under sofa and chairs. Both women were, at some level, enjoying this, Elinor more than Teresa. Finally, Teresa lay face down and looked under the bed.

‘Can’t see anything.’

The whole flat seemed to have been demolished, though in fact comparatively little had been taken away. The glow he remembered had always been an illusion, created by lamps and a few brightly coloured shawls and rugs. All the time, underneath, there’d been this cold squalor. For the first time, he noticed a smell of rancid fat from the kitchen.

‘You don’t have to go on your own,’ he said. ‘We can go together.’

‘No, Paul. He mightn’t bother tracking me down if he knows I’m not with you.’

Elinor went to the door to see if the cab had arrived, leaving them alone for a few minutes. Teresa was looking in the wardrobe mirror, adjusting her hat. She paused, pin in hand, meeting his reflected gaze. ‘You’ll get over it, you know. Quite quickly.’

‘I love you.’

She turned to face him. ‘You don’t love me. If you love anybody, you love Elinor, and you only love her because you know she won’t have you.’

He was starting to be angry, not just with Halliday but with her as well. How dare she tell him what he felt?

Elinor said from the hall, ‘The cab’s here.’

Paul could hear the cab horse stamping its feet, snorting, jingling its harness. The time they had left was measured in seconds; there was nothing he could do to stop her going. He lugged one of the three cases up the basement steps and went back for the other two, but the women were already carrying them. He brought the shawls and rugs. The cabman was strapping the suitcases on to the back. Elinor got into the cab.

Paul stood on the pavement with Teresa. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the cab rock as the driver climbed into his seat. ‘Well. Goodbye, then.’

‘Elinor’s got the address.’

‘I’ll come to see you, shall I? When you’ve settled in.’

‘No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.’ She was scanning the street, obviously still frightened. ‘Oh, God, the keys. I meant to take them back. Would you be an angel and drop them through the letter box?’

Somehow that phrase ‘be an angel’ summed everything up. He kissed her dry mouth. She smiled and stroked the side of his face, then got into the cab. The cabbie clicked his tongue and the horse ambled forward. Paul watched them to the end of the street, the black, shiny cab lurching and swaying over the greasy cobbles. It was like the day they came and took his mother away, though he hadn’t witnessed that. Auntie Ethel had made a great fuss about needing a particular brand of pickled onions and he’d been sent all the way into town to buy a jar. When he came back his mother was gone.

The cab turned the corner. He went and stood in the empty living room, looking around him at all the bare spaces. He said, ‘Teresa?

The hum of silence answered him, broken by the persistent dripping of a tap. He walked from empty room to empty room, until at last he accepted defeat, closed and locked the door, and slipped the keys through the letter box. He heard a chink as they hit the lino and then he had to turn and walk away.

Floating on her back, Elinor watched the treetops wave against the blue sky. Minnows darted all around her. When she closed her eyes she could feel thousands of tiny mouths rasping on her skin. This was the last hour of peace she’d have for some time. Kit Neville and Paul Tarrant were due to arrive on the ten o’clock train. She’d invited Kit first, weeks ago, but then he’d taken her home from the Café Royal and kissed her goodnight and she’d let him because she supposed she ought to want to, but immediately — the taste of his dinner on her tongue — she’d known it was a mistake. ‘Look —’ she’d started to say, but he’d put his hand gently over her mouth. ‘Your eyes aren’t for looking,’ he’d said solemnly. ‘They’re for being looked at.’ She stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. She was an artist, for God’s sake. If her eyes weren’t for looking, what was she going to paint?

After she’d finally managed to persuade Kit to leave, she’d sat down and drawn a caricature of him on his motorbike, which made her feel better for a time. But the next day she’d got a letter from him containing a proposal of marriage. She’d expected another of his jokey, self-pitying apologies — and when she finally took in what the letter was saying she’d stuffed it in a drawer and tried to forget about it. She thought if she ignored it he’d soon realize what a fool he’d been and then it need never be mentioned again, but there was the weekend coming up. In a panic she’d invited Paul Tarrant as well. And then, knowing Mother would disapprove of her inviting two men, she’d asked Catherine to come along as well, only she’d had to cancel because her father was ill.

The whole thing was a mess. The thought of Kit and his constant, clumsy efforts to manoeuvre her into bed had spoiled the morning. Even before he arrived.