‘You’ll be losing customers.’
‘On a day like this?’ said Avery. Hailstones were bouncing off the window. When the coffee arrived he mused aloud on the possibility of there being any choccies. Tim produced a dish of Godiva Manon Blanc and Avery said, ‘Ooohh - I shouldn’t.’
‘Why ask then, you ninny?’
The conversation reverted to the tragedy. Tim told Laura she knew where they were and if there was anything they could do, anything at all . . . Avery said she must come to dinner at the flat very soon, then asked what Max Jennings was really like. Tim spoke again and wondered if she’d thought about moving.
‘Moving? You mean the shop?’
‘No, no. From the village. You seem to have been terribly unhappy there,’ he continued, ‘since you fell for this chap. And if you stay you’ll just be endlessly reminded.’
And that was how Laura came to be sitting on her pretty little turquoise love seat five hours later surrounded by bumf from Causton’s many estate agents, one of whom was coming at ten in the morning to value her house. The speed with which she had accepted Tim’s suggestion left Laura with the feeling that she must have, eventually, come to just such a conclusion by herself.
She felt - not light-hearted, that would be going too far - but as if some sort of corner had been turned. Now that Gerald was no longer present, would never be present again, she would try to love him in a less tormented way. Grieve cleanly, as if for an old friend. And perhaps, eventually, resignation at her loss would transform itself into release.
As Brian approached the rusty railings encircling 13 Quarry Cottages he found a moment, even in the midst of extreme physical and emotional turmoil, to wonder at their nomenclature, for they were not only a mere two in number, but a hell of a stone’s throw from the nearest quarry.
He stood motionless beneath the sugary laden branches of a slender tree, doubly drained of colour by ice and moonlight. Frost nibbled at his vitals. He kept swallowing very fast in a futile attempt to slow down his heart rate and remain calm. He had stood precisely thus many times, including the night of Gerald’s murder, but never before by appointment.
To pass the time he ran through the three scenes he had, after much rewriting, finally completed. They were not entirely satisfactory. Rather like blancmange their outline was tremulous and their content hard to define.
The problem was that Brian, having been compelled to weigh freedom of expression - the ripe invention of his actors’ movement and dialogue - against his own future as a schoolmaster, had come down, quite unequivocally, in favour of the latter. Of course he was well aware that all his cuts could be reinstated ‘on the night’ or even (he fainted at the thought) improved upon. Nothing he could do about that but trust to luck.
It would be all right. Basically, at the end of the day, they were good kids. On his side. Like all ignored, neglected youngsters - and grown-ups too come to that - they only wanted admiration and respect. To be somebody. He understood that, oh yes. With all his heart and soul.
Brian pushed back his cuff and consulted his Kronograff Cosmopolitan. Numerals the colour of phosporescent mushy peas glowed up at him. It showed the time in London, Paris and New York and was water resistant to a hundred metres. Brian rubbed the glass admiringly with the back of his glove and, boldly risking radon poisoning, peered closely at the dial. It was good to know that whatever the occasion, whether strolling down the Boulevard Haussman or snorkelling in the Hudson, should a casual passer-by happen to be in need of the hour they would not ask in vain.
Brian became aware that the tip of his nose was frozen. Without a doubt the shirt he had finally decided on was not warm enough, even under his mother’s hand-knitted Aran cardie. He had decided to abandon his string vest. His baseball cap, through the back slot of which his plait had been pulled, did not really keep the warm in.
Edie had said nine o’clock. One minute to go. Trained up into precise punctuality since babyhood he could not bring himself to knock on the door a second earlier.
When she had come back after rehearsal to ask for help with her script his pleasure had been tempered by a certain sceptism. In fact he had gone so far as to check the corridor, half expecting to discover the rest of them snorting and giggling behind the swing doors. But it had been quite empty. And his suspicions had been completely vanquished when, as they were parting, she had said, ‘Don’t tell the others.’
At this remark an upsetting little thrill had rippled through Brian’s slender frame. Agreeable yet alarming. For the words seemed to him to add a definitely clandestine gloss to Edie’s request. Hoiked it out of the simple teacher/pupil category into something quite different. He had been both relieved and disappointed when she had added,‘They’d only laugh.’