The Fountain Page 9

While he was gone, she sat looking about her, seeing the bright clothes of the young people about her, the flash of their legs and upraised arms as they twinkled to a waltz tune on the little patch of clear floor, hearing their raised voices as they struggled to be heard over the sound of the music. She tried to imagine what George would have made of them and gave up when the vision she created was one of disharmony. He didn’t fit. But did she? It was gratifying to be paid compliments, to be lightly flirted with, to feel glamorous for once, but half of her was wondering if Elizabeth had managed to get Alison to sleep and if George had found the dinner she had left for him to heat through.

  Simon returned with brimming glasses. He handed her one and sat down beside her, casually putting his free arm along the back of the sofa behind her. ‘Now, tell me all about your life in the country.’

  ‘It’s very little different from life in the city, these days,’ she said, sipping her drink, conscious of his arm behind her. ‘We do have the motor car, you know, and electricity and some of us even have a telephone.’

  ‘My, that was a little sharp, wasn’t it? Why so defensive?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps I don’t like being taken for a country bumpkin.’

  ‘Is that how you feel?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ she lied. ‘You made it sound like that.’

  ‘Did I? Then I am sorry. You’re every bit as gorgeous as anyone else here. More, in fact.’ He paused and his arm left the back of the sofa and found its way across her shoulders. She knew she ought to remove it, but she didn’t like to make a scene. Besides, it was a long time since she had enjoyed a little harmless flirting. ‘Let’s start again, shall we?’

  She turned towards him, wondering for a moment exactly what he meant. They could not start again, not from when they first met, she a student and he a soldier; they were both different people, had moved on, grown more mature, and in so doing had moved apart. He was smiling at her, almost as if he understood her thoughts and she felt herself colouring. ‘My life in the country is uneventful…’

  ‘But you have recently had a daughter. Surely that was not uneventful.’

  ‘No, of course not. She is beautiful and good and fills my days.’

  ‘I bet you haven’t picked up a paintbrush since she was born.’

  She laughed. ‘And there you would be wrong.’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it. What have you done?’

  ‘Lots of things. A few watercolours…’

  ‘Have you exhibited them?’

  ‘Of course not. I’m not that good…’

  ‘Whose fault is that?’ he asked softly. ‘You could have been. You cut yourself off from all your old friends, deserted us for another way of life altogether.’ He paused, while she remained silent and contemplated the bubbles in her glass. ‘I do hope it was worth it.’

  She ignored his last comment. ‘I didn’t desert anyone. Penny is still my friend.’

  ‘And me? What about me?’

  ‘What about you?’ she asked.

  ‘Do you need to ask?’ His voice was soft. ‘You shook me, you know, getting married like that. I thought we had something going, something special…’

  She stared at him in surprise. Why had he not said anything to her at the time? Would it have made any difference? ‘I didn’t know. I thought we were just good friends.’

  ‘That wasn’t how I saw it. I was looking forward to something more. One minute we were going along nicely and I was trying, ever so gently, to prise you away from Daddy, then out of the blue, there’s this great wrestler with hands like dinner plates…’

  ‘Oh, Simon, he isn’t like that.’

  ‘No? What is he like, then?’

  ‘He’s generous and kind and… You don’t really want to hear about him, do you?’

  ‘No, you’re right, I don’t.’ He stood up, pulling on her hand. ‘Come on, let’s dance.’

  They found a small space on the floor, not big enough to do more than shuffle on the spot. It was simply a way to stand very close to each other, he with both hands round her waist, she with her arms about his neck. He was very little taller than she was and their cheeks touched. His was cool and smelt of cologne and she was aware of a little shiver of anticipation, of daring and, to her own astonishment, of desire. Her limbs were quivering with it. He turned his head and brushed her lips lightly with his own. Bemused, she heard him whisper, ‘Shall we get out of here?’

  Without waiting for a reply, he took her hand and led her from the room into the hall, where it was cooler. ‘That’s better,’ he murmured, pulling her into his arms and holding her so close she could feel his heart pumping against her own. He lowered his lips to hers, setting up such a tumult inside her, she was lost to all reasonable thought. She lifted her arms and put them round his neck, so that he was able to pull her body even closer to his own. She felt the curve of his thigh against hers… Suddenly she pulled herself away. ‘God, what am I doing?’

  He smiled, reluctant to let her go. ‘Enjoying yourself, I hope. Let’s find somewhere more comfortable.’ He started down the hall, pulling her with him.

  ‘No! Oh, no! I’m sorry, Simon, I must go.’ She ran from him, grabbed her coat from the hallstand, picked up her overnight case from where she had left it just inside the door and fled into the night.

  She could hear him calling her to wait, but she ignored him. At the end of the street she found a cab to take her to Liverpool Street station. Only then did she realise the last train had gone and she had the rest of the night to spend on the platform, a prospect which filled her with alarm: there were some very unsavoury characters dossing down in odd corners. What a fool she’d been, first to allow the encounter to get out of hand and secondly not being able to cope with it when it did. But most of all, it was her own libidinous reaction which shocked and mortified her. She was a married woman and a mother; she had no right to lust after other men.

  She arrived home next morning, bleary-eyed, just as George was leaving for work. The remains of his breakfast lay on the kitchen table, some uneaten toast, a marmalade-daubed plate, a coffee cup with the dregs still in it, several opened envelopes and a copy of the Daily Sketch.

  ‘You’re early,’ he said. ‘I didn’t expect to see you until I knocked off tonight.’

  ‘I decided to come home early.’

  ‘Good.’ He appeared not to notice her exhaustion. ‘I’m off.’ And with that he kissed her cheek, picked up his briefcase and left the house without a word about the party, not a single enquiry whether she had enjoyed it or how she had managed to arrive home at breakfast time. She went to bed to catch up on lost sleep.

  She was so tired she thought she would fall asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, but it was not to be. The sounds of the morning penetrated the bedroom: traffic, people’s voices, a wireless playing next door, a child crying. But most of all, her own confused thoughts buzzed louder than any external sound and kept her awake. I thought we had something going, something worthwhile… Had he really meant that? Was there something there, a spark which only needed one small incident to create a fire? It nearly had, oh, it so nearly had!

  She should never have gone to that party, should never have allowed him to kiss her. It only served to highlight how far removed she was from the heart-free ambitious student she had once been, how much her life had changed. And however much she tossed and turned and insisted that she regretted nothing, that she loved George and was devoted to Alison, there remained a small part of her which refused to knuckle down. It was as if the person who had been Barbara Bosgrove had been snuffed out with her wedding vows and a new, alien being called Barbara Kennett had taken her place. And she rebelled against it. She lay there thinking of all the ways she could assert her independence, but every one of them she dismissed as hurtful to those she loved: her husband, her daughter, her father.

  Sighing, she got up and went to fetch her daughter from her mother-in-law.

  She spent her evenings painting, but the h
orse she was working on wouldn’t go right: the head was lopsided and the jawline was wrong. It wasn’t only the failure of the painting that made her angry – given time she could work at it and maybe get it right – it was everything. It was boredom and frustration and loneliness.

  She sighed, washed out her brush, checked that Alison was asleep and had not thrown off her covers, then went downstairs just as George came home. She reached up to kiss his cheek. ‘You look tired.’

  ‘I am a bit.’ He sank into one of the armchairs and picked up the newspaper.

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘Yes. I had a bite at the Conservative Club before the meeting. Good God!’ He sat up suddenly and pointed to a photograph in the local paper. ‘That’s Colin Younger.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘One of my workers, picketing with farmhands. He’s supposed to be off sick. I’ll have his guts for garters.’ He got up to pour himself a whisky from a bottle he took from the cupboard in the fireplace recess. ‘I’ll have to get rid of him.’

  ‘Why? Has he done anything you could sack him for? Ethically, I mean.’

  ‘You think doing that is ethical? He isn’t a farm worker. If he brings his Commie ways back to my yard, he’ll ruin everything. I can’t afford unrest among my workers.’

  Although the trees had long gone and the bypass was nearing completion, the contract for the industrial site had yet to be awarded and the delay was making George tetchy. He could not persuade those who held the purse strings that now was the time to move, and waiting for the economy to improve would not help it to do so. Time after time the project had come up on the council agenda, time after time the meeting had been adjourned with nothing resolved. But today, after intensive lobbying, the council had agreed to buy the land from him, pinning him down to a figure that was less than he had hoped, but enough to pay off the bank and finance building the first unit. The profit from that would pay for the second. The logistics were ticklish, but once the cash started to flow, he’d manage the lot. He had to find a way of neutralising Younger. He couldn’t simply sack him, because the man would be sure to cause a public furore and he couldn’t afford adverse publicity. The contract was not that secure. Old Gosport was bidding for it and he was a popular figure in the town.

  Colin swaggered into the yard the following Monday morning, prepared to brazen it out if anyone mentioned seeing his picture in the papers. He hadn’t known the cameras had been pointing at him until he had seen the newspaper. Rita had been furious that he had put his job at risk, had gone on and on, yak, yak, yak, until, in exasperation, he had given her a clip. It wasn’t a hard blow but she had gone for him like a witch, slapping, clawing, kicking. He’d had to hit her again to stop her. This morning she was a mess; he couldn’t bear to look at her. He didn’t care if he did get the sack. He’d clear off again, find something else.

  The foreman met him as he crossed the yard. ‘Colin, Mr Kennett wants you in his office.’

  Shrugging, he set off for the outside stairs of the building which housed the stores on the ground floor and the office above. Kennett was at his desk, reading his post. ‘Shut the door, Mr Younger.’

  Colin obeyed and approached the desk. ‘You wanted to see me?’

  ‘Yes.’ George put down the letter he was reading and looked up at the man facing him. He was a big man and towered over the desk. ‘Sit down.’

  Colin sat and George got up and went to the window, where he stood looking down into the yard. The men were busy loading two vans, copper pipes, cans of paint, tools, ready to go out on site. No unrest there. Yet. He turned back but he did not sit down again. ‘I know you are the union rep, Mr Younger, and I have to accept that, but I won’t have the work on my yard disrupted. I want your assurance that you have no plans in that direction.’

  ‘That depends. If the farm workers persuade the other unions out, then I would have to consider my duty—’

  ‘Your duty is to those who pay your wages, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Only so far. I owe the men—’

  ‘Your responsibility to the men is to do nothing to put their jobs at risk. They won’t thank you if you do.’ He paused, wondering how to go on, though he felt fairly sure of his ground. ‘It would be easy for me to find your work unsatisfactory. Your timekeeping is not good—’

  ‘Are you trying to sack me, Mr Kennett?’

  ‘No, I don’t think sacking you is the answer, do you?’ He was smiling now and Colin wondered what was coming next. ‘You do understand my problem?’

  Colin grinned. ‘Course I do. What do you want from me?’

  ‘I think perhaps a little secondary picketing, but not with the agricultural labourers. Closer to home. I am told the workforce at Gosport’s is unsettled: they’ve not had the bonus they were promised. Do you follow me?’

  ‘Yes, but I’d have to promise them something.’

  ‘A job at Kennett’s and bigger bonuses if we get the contract for the industrial site. But don’t be too open about it. It’s your promise, not mine, I only hinted. Otherwise do whatever is necessary to bring them out. You understand?’

  ‘I understand you need that bloody contract. What’s in it for me?’

  ‘Two hundred, if I get the contract.’

  ‘Make it four and promotion to foreman and it’s a deal.’ He stood up and held out his hand.

  Reluctantly George took it and then went back to the window to watch him clattering down the stairs and crossing the yard. He could hear his tuneless whistle fading as he went.

  The story of the fire made front-page news in the Melsham Gazette, alongside the report that the government had stepped in and made the farmers back down. George registered relief, before moving on to look at a picture of a warehouse burning fiercely, with fire fighters silhouetted against the flames. It wasn’t until he turned to the text he realised that it was Gosport’s business premises. A man had been seen running away and was being sought in connection with it. There was a description of him, but not a very good one; the witness had been more concerned with calling the fire brigade. Mr Gosport Senior had been taken to hospital with severe shock; his son was busy assessing the damage. First signs indicated that it would run into thousands: flammable building materials, timber, paints, oils had all been totally destroyed; even the stacks of bricks had been scorched and cracked by the heat and were unusable. Only the twisted metal of the building itself remained.

  George, at home for once, read the report with a sickening sense of shock. He had sent Colin Younger to sabotage Gosport’s ability to take the contract, not destroy him. It had been Younger, hadn’t it? Or was it a terrible, but fortuitous coincidence? Even in shock, George could appreciate the consequences. The old man would have been insured, but the assessors would take a long time settling the claim, especially if the fire chief confirmed it was arson. Even if they paid up promptly, it would take ages to replace the ruined stock. Gosport had been pre-empting the contract, getting into a position to make an early start, just as George himself had been doing.

  He felt a sudden surge of elation. As long as no one suspected he had any involvement, he was home and dry. And he hadn’t been involved, had he? He hadn’t asked that crazy fool to set fire to the place; if Colin Younger had done it, it had been his own idea. All the same he must tread carefully, react appropriately. He would speak to Gosport, tell him how shocked he was, offer assistance, though not actually give any. And a word in the right ear would ensure Younger was put out of circulation for some time.

  ‘Look at this,’ he said to Barbara, handing her the folded paper. ‘Poor old Gosport.’

  She was in the middle of reading it when the doorbell rang. He went to answer it and came back with a tall man in a scruffy tweed suit. ‘Barbara, Mr Younger and I have some union business to discuss. Do you mind?’

  She put the paper down and stood up. ‘No, of course not. Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Younger?’

  ‘No,’ George put in before Colin could answer. �
��He’s not stopping. Just give us a couple of minutes, would you?’

  She left the room and closed the door softly behind her, but not before she heard George say, ‘What the devil do you mean by coming here? I don’t want to be involved.’

  She stood still, listening. The house was no more solidly built than its council neighbours and the door was nothing more than two layers of thin board over a frame.

  ‘You are involved. Do what you have to, that’s what you said.’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t mean you to…’

  The man chuckled. ‘It did the trick, though, didn’t it? Worth a miserly five hundred.’

  ‘Five hundred? Are you mad?’

  ‘The price has gone up.’

  ‘If you think I’ll answer to blackmail…’

  ‘Dear, dear, who said anything about blackmail? That’s a nasty word. But I’ve been thinking of moving on, pastures new and all that, and a little going-away present wouldn’t come amiss. Best thing all round, don’t you think?’

  ‘You’re a fool if you think I keep that much in the house. Come to the office tomorrow at midday, give me time to go to the bank.’

  Barbara moved away and went into the kitchen where she sat at the table and stared with unseeing eyes at the kitchen clock which hung on the wall. Her heart was thumping and her hands were shaking. George had been oiling wheels again, that was obvious, and this time it seemed he’d laid himself wide open. What had he done? And why bring in a man like Younger? Even she could see he was a dodgy character and George himself had said he was a troublemaker.

  She heard the man leave and a few moments later George came into the kitchen. ‘Any chance of a cup of coffee?’

  She put the kettle on the gas stove. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Nothing. A bit of union business.’

  ‘Is he causing trouble?’

  ‘Nothing I can’t handle.’

  What to do? What to say? Should she admit she had been listening outside the door, ask him what was going on? It would provoke the most awful row. No, it wouldn’t, because he refused to row. He’d tell her it was nothing for her to worry about, he knew what he was doing. They were unable to communicate on anything but a very superficial level and Barbara began to think Penny had been right: she was in danger of vegetating, becoming a cabbage, staying home alone night after night.