Jane Gardam - The Man in the Wooden Hat

Filth was still upstairs, fighting with cufflinks, Betty, ready in the hall, sitting in the red chair, and the hall table beside her was piled up with tulip bulbs in green nets. They had smothered the telephone and Filth’s bowler hat. There’d be a roar about that in a minute. (“Where the hell—?”) She fingered the tulip bulbs through their netting, thinking how sexy they felt, when the telephone began to ring. She burrowed about under the bulbs to find the receiver and said, “Yes? Betty here,” knowing it would be from a nervy sort of woman at her Reading Group that afternoon. Betty had of course sent apologies weeks ago.

“Yes? Chloë?”

“Betty?” It was a man.

“Yes?”

“I’m in Orange Tree Road. Where are you?”

“Well, here.”

“ Exactly where?”

“Sitting in the hall by the phone. On the satin throne.”

“What are you wearing?”

“Wearing?”

“I need to see you.”

“But you’re in Hong Kong.”

“No. Singapore. I need to see your face. I’ve lost it. I have to be able to see you. In the red chair.”

“Well, I’m — we’re just setting off for London. Filth’s putting on his black shoes upstairs. He’ll be down in a minute, I’m dressed for London.”

“Are you wearing the pearls?”

“Yes.”

“Touch them. Are they warm? Are they mine? Or his? Would he know?”

“Yours. No, he wouldn’t notice. Are you drunk? It must be after dinner.”

“No. Well, yes. Maybe. Did you get my note?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t tell you in it that Harry was given a medal. Twice mentioned in despatches last year. ‘Exceptional bravery.’ Northern Ireland.”

“No!”

“Hush-hush stuff. Secret service. Underground sort of stuff.”

“Should you be telling me this?”

“No. He never told us at the time. Very, very brave. I want to make it absolutely clear.”

“I believe it. I hated your letter. I saw him about a month ago and he was miserable. He said you thought he was rubbish. He didn’t ask me for money. Terry? Terry, where’ve you gone?”

A silence.

“Nowhere. Nowhere to go. Betty, Harry’s dead. My boy.”

Filth came down the stairs, looking for his bowler hat.

In the London train Filth thought: She’s looking old. An old woman. The first time. Poor old Betty, old.

“You all right, Betty?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes seemed huge. Strange and swimmy. He thought, She must watch that blood-pressure.

He saw how she looked affectionately at the young Tamil ticket inspector who was intent on moving them to a cleaner carriage in the first class. She was thanking the boy very sweetly. “Perfectly all right here,” said Filth, but Betty was off down the aisle and into the next carriage. Silly woman. Could be her grandson. Still attractive. You could see the bloke liked her.

At Waterloo they parted, Filth to lunch in his Inn at the Temple, Betty he wasn’t sure where. The University Women’s Club right across towards Hyde Park? Whoever with? And why was she making off towards Waterloo Bridge? The solicitor’s office was in Holborn. He watched her almost running down the flight of steps, under the arches and over the maze of roads towards the National Theatre. Still has good legs, bless her. He stepped into a taxi.

Betty, at the National Theatre, made a pretence of eating lunch, pushing a tray along in a queue of people excited to have tickets for Electra in an hour’s time. She headed for the foyer (Harry is dead) and got the lift up to the open-air terrace where there were fire-eaters and mummers and people being statues and loud canned music played. (My boy Harry.) Beside her on the seat two young lovers sat mute, chewing on long bread rolls with flaps of ham and salad hanging out. When they had finished eating they wiped their hands on squares of paper and threw the paper down. Then in one simple movement they turned to face each other and merged into each other’s arms.

She decided to go at once to Bantry Street. If she walked all the way she would arrive just about on time. On Waterloo Bridge, once she had climbed the steep concrete stairs the crowds came down on her like the Battle itself. She kept near the bridge’s side, sometimes going almost hand over hand. People in London move so fast! (Harry is dead.) Some of them looked her over quickly as they passed, noticed her pearls, her matching coat and skirt. The silk blouse. The gloves. I’m antique. They think I’m out of Agatha Christie. (Is dead!) My hair is tidy and well cut, like the woman. . the woman in. . the woman like my mother in the hairdresser in Hong Kong. The day the crowds of shadows were to pass me in the night towards the house in the trees. He is dead .

At the Aldwych she felt dizzy and found a pill in her handbag and swallowed it, looking round to see if by any chance Filth was anywhere about. He’d be in a fury if he couldn’t find a taxi. He’d never get a bus. He wouldn’t much care to walk. No sign.

Oh, but why worry? He always could find taxis. He was so tall. Taller still when he brandished the rolled umbrella. He’d forgotten the bowler hat, thank goodness. It was still under the tulips. The last bowler hat in London and my boy is dead.

Here was Bantry Street and there, thank God, was Filth getting out of a taxi and smiling. The driver had got out and was holding open the door for him. Filth looked somebody. His delightful smile!

But it was the last smile of the day. On the next train back to Tisbury they sat opposite one another across a table in a determinedly second-class carriage. Betty was pale and Filth sat purple in choleric silence.

The solicitor had not been there! She had children ill at home and either had not remembered or the firm had forgotten to cancel the appointment. And at the reception desk — and the place looked like an hotel now, with palms in pots — they had not even seemed apologetic.

“ Salisbury ,” he said, after an hour. “We’ll take the damn things into Salisbury to sign. Perfectly good solicitors there and half the price.”

“I always said so.” Betty closed her eyes. (Harry.)

“It is a positive outrage. I shall write to the Law Society.”

(My boy, Harry.)

“We are, after all, no longer young.”

“No.”

“Nor are we exactly nobodies. They’ve been our solicitors for forty years, that firm.”

“Yes.”

She opened her eyes and watched Wiltshire going by. On the way out she had thought that she’d seen a hoopoe in a hedge. Filth would have been enchanted but she had not told him. Very brave . Despatches. Northern Ireland. Harry. No, no. He is not dead. My Harry.

And, seeing the first of the chalk in the rippling hills she knew that she would leave Filth. She had to go to Veneering.

Filth now closed his eyes and, opposite him, she examined his face. He looked like a fine portrait of himself, each line of his face magnificently drawn. Oh, such conceit! Such self-centredness! Such silliness and triviality! I’ll tell him when we get home. And a wonderful lightness of heart flooded over her, a squirm of ancient sexual pleasure.

It will probably kill him, she thought. But I shall go. I may tell him at once. Now.

The train had begun to slow down for Tisbury Station. It usually stopped just outside for several minutes, for the platform was short and they had to wait to let the fast London-to-Plymouth train through. Betty looked out of the window and on the tapering end of the platform, way beyond the signal and just as they were sliding to a halt, she saw Albert Ross. He was looking directly at her.

Filth was standing up, ready to get out. He came round to her and shook her shoulder. “Betty. Come along. We’re here. Whatever’s wrong now?”