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  ‘It’s super,’ his brother said, ‘at Maurice’s. He lets us drive his car.’

  ‘In the road?’

  ‘In the driveway.’

  ‘If Mum didn’t live there would you want to live at Maurice’s?’ his brother asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind.’ Keith flushed.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to.’

  ‘I want to come back home, Dad.’ Lorna kicked her legs against Attercliffe’s stomach: her shoes dug into his thighs. ‘So does Mummy,’ she added.

  ‘When Maurice talks to her she cries.’ Bryan, after finishing his food, got up from the table.

  ‘I don’t want to hear any more about it,’ Attercliffe said. ‘If Sheila wanted me to know she’d tell me.’

  ‘She asks us things about you,’ he said.

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Who rings up. Who you see. How often you go out.’

  His brother ate more quickly.

  Lorna kicked her feet more briskly.

  ‘She always mopes around Maurice,’ Keith announced.

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘Lorna. She hangs around his neck. He’s pretty sick of her, I reckon.’

  ‘I don’t like him,’ Lorna said.

  ‘Why go after him, in that case?’ her brother asked.

  Lorna bowed her head; her arm tightened around Attercliffe’s neck: he drew her head towards him.

  ‘Don’t you want your food?’

  She moaned.

  ‘She’s like that all the time with Mum,’ Keith said. ‘She’s never very happy.’

  ‘I am.’ The confirmation came from within Attercliffe’s chest, a half-tortured exclamation: she raised her head; her tiny hand picked up a fork and, her body racked by spasms, she began to eat.

  The first mouthful was followed by a second: the fork was lowered.

  Having finished their food, the boys rushed out, calling, ‘Is Janet coming over?’ and disappeared, without waiting for an answer, to the drive, their voices echoing between the houses and joined by the shouts of several others from the road itself.

  ‘I’m not very hungry,’ Lorna said.

  ‘You don’t have to eat it,’ Attercliffe said.

  ‘They haven’t washed up.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Maurice always makes them.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘He won’t let them go until they have.’

  ‘It sounds a good idea,’ he said.

  He took her through to the living-room; they looked at a book: he read a story.

  ‘Are you going out?’ she asked.

  ‘This afternoon,’ he said.

  ‘Mummy says you never spend any time with us.’

  ‘I have to work at weekends,’ Attercliffe said.

  ‘Why don’t we stay here in the week, and go and see Mummy at the weekend?’

  ‘It was,’ he said, ‘your mother’s choice.’

  She kicked her heels against his legs.

  ‘I don’t like Janet coming.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She shouts.’

  ‘I shall come back especially early,’ he said. ‘As soon as the match is over, and I’ve phoned in my report.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to go out Sunday.’

  ‘Only in the afternoon.’

  ‘Then Mummy comes and picks us up.’

  ‘It’s my work,’ Attercliffe said. ‘We couldn’t live without the money.’

  ‘Maurice is always there,’ she said.

  ‘Not always.’

  ‘Nearly always.’

  Through the window they watched the heads of Keith and Bryan as they dashed to and fro in the road outside: their voices, together with those of several other boys, echoed amongst the houses.

  ‘Don’t you want to play out with Audrey?’ He mentioned a friend in a neighbouring house.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Where’s Cathy and Elise?’ she asked.

  ‘They’re out,’ he said, and added, ‘Shopping.’

  ‘What are they buying?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘I don’t feel very happy,’ she said.

  ‘I want you to be happy,’ he said. ‘I love you very much.’

  ‘If you love me,’ she said, ‘why are you never there?’

  ‘I am here, Lorna,’ Attercliffe said.

  ‘You’re always out at work.’

  ‘Not always.’

  ‘Mostly,’ she said, a word, he assumed, she had learnt from her brothers.

  ‘Your mother also loves you, as I’m sure does Maurice, and she, and he, want to spend their time with you as well. When you’re older you can come and stay with Elise and Cathy.’

  ‘Mummy could have Elise and Cathy, and me and Keith and Bryan can come and live with you.’

  ‘If that,’ he said, ‘is what your mother wants.’

  ‘We’ll be coming here in any case,’ she said.

  ‘It hasn’t been decided.’

  ‘Aren’t you and Mummy friends?’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘Why are you always quarrelling?’

  ‘We aren’t.’

  ‘Maurice says you are.’

  ‘How does he know?’

  ‘He says to Mummy, “You’re always quarrelling with me the same way that you quarrelled with your husband.”’ She added, ‘That’s you.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘It is.’

  A car went past; the boys in the road stood back.

  ‘Your mother and I wouldn’t like to live together,’ Attercliffe added. ‘Which doesn’t mean,’ he went on, ‘we don’t love you very much.’

  ‘Do you love me as much as Mummy does?’

  ‘Just as much.’

  ‘As much as Maurice does?’

  ‘More.’

  ‘Why more?’

  ‘I’m your father.’

  She turned her gaze to the window.

  ‘Why are you my father?’

  ‘Because I married your mother.’

  ‘Audrey’s mother and father have always been married.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Why aren’t you?’

  ‘Your mother and I decided we didn’t want to be,’ Attercliffe said.

  She kicked her legs, glanced at the wall, then returned her gaze to the window: a group of boys came into the garden, retrieved a football, and went out again.

  Footsteps thundered down the drive; the back door was opened: the cold tap ran. The door was slammed: footsteps ran back along the drive.

  ‘Bryan and Keith like coming back.’

  ‘They do.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘When Mummy comes back, we can all come back for ever.’

  She picked a scab on her knee; then, when he distracted her, she picked at a scab on the other.

  ‘How did you fall down?’

  ‘Someone pushed me.’

  She got down from his knee and added, ‘I’m going to the lavatory.’

  She started upstairs; he went back to the kitchen and began to clear up: by the time he’d washed the pots and she hadn’t returned he went out to the hall and called, ‘Are you all right?’ and, getting no answer, still carrying the tea-cloth, went upstairs.

  She was sitting on the floor of Catherine’s room gazing at a book of drawings.

  ‘Have you been to the toilet?’

  ‘I’m just going.’

  She put the book down, got up and, after glancing back at it, and then at him, went out to the landing, opened the bathroom door, climbed up on the toilet, climbed down, came out, went back in, pulled the chain, came out again and said, ‘Can I bring Audrey?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She ran swiftly down the stairs, across the hall and out of the door: her voice called from the road outside.

  Attercliffe went in to his ‘study’; removing the drawers from his desk he carried them one by one to his bedroom and placed them by his bed: returni
ng to the back-bedroom he carried the shell of the desk along the landing and, having set it in position beneath the window, reinserted the drawers and for a while gazed down at the group of boys who, no longer playing football, were sitting on the wall, listening to what Bryan and Keith, alternately, had to tell them.

  Further along the road Lorna appeared with her diminutive friend and, hand in hand, ran along to the house.

  The back door slammed; footsteps thundered up the stairs: a moment later Lorna called, ‘What’s happened to the desk?’

  The tea-towel in his hand, Attercliffe returned along the landing.

  ‘I’ve moved it to my bedroom.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It gives you more room.’

  Now the back bedroom was occupied only by a bed and a chest of drawers and a chair.

  Audrey, a pigtailed, dark-eyed child, wearing a tartan dress, white stockings and a pair of sandals, was already busy on the floor amidst a collection of Lorna’s toys which, before her arrival, Attercliffe had set out for her.

  ‘Can it stay like this for good?’

  ‘It can.’

  She clapped her hands, jumped up and down, noticed the effect this had on the floor, and jumped again.

  Her friend, springing to her feet, jumped also.

  ‘If you want the house to stay up,’ he said, returning downstairs, ‘you’d better play quietly.’

  A short while later, whistling, he was standing at the kitchen table, peeling potatoes, and preparing the Saturday lunch.

  10

  ‘What’s new?’ Morgan unfastened the lid of his typewriter case, rolled in a sheet of paper, typed out the date, examined his watch, set his stop-watch, licked his lips, pulled down the brim of his trilby hat, glanced to the pitch and, adjusting the binoculars suspended around his neck, announced, ‘I saw your piece. Branching out. A new line of country,’ he added, ‘entirely.’

  The box at Garrilston had central heating, a fitted carpet, upholstered chairs and, for those who got there early, individual desks; the roof, however, was characterised by an overhanging cornice which, while directing the eye to the pitch below, threw up a glare from the stand: it was for this reason, perhaps, that Morgan was wearing a pair of dark glasses.

  ‘Dougie must be pleased.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Not to mention,’ Morgan removed his glasses and glanced along the row at Davidson-Smith, ‘Phyllis.’

  ‘Phyllis must be pleased,’ Davidson-Smith responded. ‘Also’ – he, too, glanced along the row of attentive heads – ‘I should think, very, very grateful.’

  ‘Freddie not with you?’ Morgan inquired.

  ‘That’s right.’ Attercliffe got out his notes, placed them on the desk, unscrewed his pen and waited to write.

  ‘“Actress of Our Time”,’ Davidson-Smith continued.

  ‘I like the “our”,’ Morgan said. ‘Gi’s us all a bloody chance.’

  Davidson-Smith remarked along the bench, ‘I gather Freddie’s got cancer.’

  ‘You’d better ask him,’ Attercliffe said.

  ‘No need to get bolshie,’ Morgan said. ‘Theatrical correspondent on the Northern Post. We all,’ he glanced once more along the row of heads, ‘have to bloody well start somewhere.’

  Davidson-Smith took out a hip-flask, unscrewed the top, poured out a measure, drank, coughed, screwed the top back on, and announced, ‘Colder today than it was last week.’

  Attercliffe examined his programme; players ran out on to the pitch: several did exercises, others ran up and down.

  A ball was passed, another kicked.

  A figure subsided on to the bench beside him, wheezed, and said, ‘Ought for me to do this week?’

  Fredericks’s cheeks were blotched, his eyes red, his short-cropped hair covered in dust: he smelled not only of drink but perspiration.

  ‘You’d better get off home,’ Attercliffe said.

  ‘I’ve just paid off the taxi, Atty.’

  ‘Get another one,’ he said.

  ‘Can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The bloody bar’s still o’ppen.’

  Two figures came together at the centre of the pitch: a coin was tossed; the fanfare changed to a pop-tune.

  Fredericks’s hands shook as he endeavoured to light a cigarette.

  ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ Attercliffe said.

  The cigarette dropped into Fredericks’s lap.

  Attercliffe added, ‘Let’s go down and have another.’

  ‘Say when.’ Fredericks struggled to his feet.

  Someone else stood up: the roar of the crowd intensified; a whistle sounded on the pitch below.

  ‘Do you want a hand?’ Davidson-Smith inquired.

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ Attercliffe said.

  ‘Since when,’ Fredericks said, ‘have I needed a hand from Wichita-Jones?’ He reeled, staggered through the press-box door and, defying any attempt by Attercliffe to hold him – his arms outstretched, his legs flung out – landed at the bottom of the steps outside.

  When Attercliffe reached him he was endeavouring to rise, feeling with his hands at the floor: his shoulders hunched, his head stooped, he said, ‘I’ve lost my matches,’ and, inconsequentially, as Attercliffe dragged him to his feet, ‘My cigarette, an’ all.’

  ‘How are you, Freddie? Do you want a lift?’ Morgan stooped by Attercliffe’s shoulder.

  ‘I dropped my matches,’ Fredericks said and, ignoring Morgan, added, ‘Did I tell you, wi’ nought to lose, I’ve decided to gi’e up smoking?’

  ‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ Attercliffe said, and as a roar went up from the crowd and Morgan looked up, dark-glassed, to where his typewriter could be seen on the desk, several feet above his head, he added, ‘There might be one waiting. I shan’t be a minute.’

  The curtains were drawn; no lights showed at the windows: only when he tried to open the back door and found it locked did he hear a stirring in the living-room and a moment later a figure appeared behind the two glazed panels and Sheila’s voice inquired, ‘Who is it?’

  He went round to the front: there, too, Sheila’s figure materialised behind the frosted panels.

  The bolt was drawn: the door swung back.

  ‘Is anything wrong?’ he asked her.

  ‘I’ve come back home.’

  She smiled.

  ‘Where are the children?’

  ‘The boys are in bed. So is Lorna. Cathy and Elise are out.’

  Having switched on the light in the hall, she switched it off.

  When he followed her into the living-room she was yawning and stretching, the light on.

  On the settee, the shape of her body was outlined in the cushions.

  ‘You’ll have to leave,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve every right to come back,’ she said.

  ‘The law,’ Attercliffe said, ‘is on my side.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Frank,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to lump it. I’ve come back now and I mean to stay. All my things,’ she added, ‘are in the bedroom.’

  ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘they’ll have to come out.’

  ‘No doubt,’ she said, ‘being a man, you can put them in the street. I shall only shout and scream.’ She smiled, touched her hair, and added, ‘I can’t see that it will do the children a lot of good. Particularly Lorna.’

  Attercliffe sat down.

  ‘You left of your own free will,’ he said.

  ‘Our relationship,’ she said, ‘had broken down.’

  ‘You made no mention of it,’ he said, ‘until the night you left.’ He added, ‘You made a new life. A better life. “Infinitely better”. You wrote it, I remember, at the top of the page.’

  ‘Do you still have the letter?’

  ‘I’ve given it to my lawyer,’ he said.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea or coffee?’

  ‘I don’t want anything,’ Attercliffe said.

  He went upstairs to look at the room. Two suitca
ses were standing on the floor: two further suitcases were lying on the bed, unpacked.

  He went through to the boys’ room; they were both asleep. In Lorna’s room a night-light burned: he removed her thumb from her mouth and turned off the light.

  ‘I’ve made myself some tea. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some?’ she said when he went back down.

  ‘I’ll pack your things,’ Attercliffe said. ‘Ring up Maurice and tell him you’re coming.’

  ‘I’m not going back,’ she said. ‘I’ve made that clear not only to Maurice but to Gavin. I’ve also made it clear,’ she added, ‘to the children. They know,’ she concluded, ‘that I’m back for good.’

  He returned upstairs; he had already repacked one case and had started on the second when he heard her bring the telephone into the hall.

  ‘Is that the police?’ she asked, and added, her voice directed to the stairs, ‘I wonder if someone could come and help me. I’ve no one here except my very young children. My husband has attacked me.’ She gave a maundering cry. A moment later, more soberly, she gave her name and address.

  He completed the packing of her clothes and took two of the suitcases down to the hall. He returned upstairs and, lifting the two remaining suitcases, was halfway down the stairs when – her hair dishevelled, her blouse torn – she came out of the living-room and started to scream.

  Her screaming reverberated inside the narrow hall. Attercliffe put the suitcases down at the foot of the stairs and Sheila, uncertain of his intentions, opened the front door and stepped out to the drive.

  Attercliffe closed the door and locked it.

  Her screams intensified; doors opened; a voice called out.

  Amidst her screams came the cry, ‘Don’t hurt me,’ then, more specifically, ‘Don’t beat me! Don’t!’

  The glass in the living-room window broke: fragments fell behind the curtain.

  He went out to the hall, picked up the phone and, with her screaming through the broken glass, called the doctor. A muffled voice answered the other end; he held the telephone in the direction of the window: the doctor, after suggesting he should call an ambulance, inquired, ‘Her usual, would you say, or something worse?’

  ‘Worse,’ Attercliffe said. ‘She’s off her head.’

  ‘I’ll call the ambulance myself,’ the doctor said. ‘I’ll be there inside ten minutes.’

  Glass broke in the kitchen.

  He unlocked the front door and went out to the garden.