Injury Time - Beryl Bainbridge [19]
‘My wife,’ said Simpson. ‘She’s still out there.’ He tore himself from Edward’s embrace and hobbled down the steps.
‘What on earth happened to you?’ asked Muriel. ‘Why are you being so silly?’
‘I was stabbed,’ said Simpson, gritting his teeth and locking the car.
Muriel took no notice. He was always complaining of aches and pains; he had no stamina. She stood on the pavement in the rain, trying to protect her hair with her arms. The privet hedge, she noted, illuminated by the block of flats across the street, was festooned with egg shells, strewn among the dripping leaves like Christmas baubles on a tree.
‘Aren’t they stopping after all?’ asked Binny, confused by the comings and goings. She stood at the table, rearranging the flowers in the white vase.
‘They’re on their way,’ said Edward. ‘Simpson forgot his wife. He’s gone to fetch her.’ And he ran out again to wait for them behind the door.
Simpson, followed by Muriel, re-entered the house with caution. In the gloom he saw the outline of a bicycle leaning against the wall.
‘Such weather,’ murmured Muriel, peering downwards for somewhere to wipe her feet.
Edward led them into the front room. ‘This is George Simpson,’ he said, speaking to Binny.
Simpson saw a small woman with a pale face, dressed in mourning. She was holding a pink carnation in her hand.
‘And his wife, Miriam—’
‘Muriel,’ corrected Simpson. He bent and rubbed at his ankle. He felt sure he was bleeding.
‘We weren’t certain of the house,’ Muriel said. ‘It was in darkness.’
‘Edward made me draw the shutters,’ explained Binny. ‘He doesn’t like being overlooked.’
‘It’s cosier, don’t you think?’ cried Edward. ‘Keeps the place warm. I felt rather chilly myself, though I did turn up the thermostat.’ He looked anxiously at Muriel, fearing he’d sounded too familiar with the central heating system.
Simpson said shutters were splendid. It was just like France. So much better than curtains.
They all gazed at the windows and nodded in agreement. The metal bar that kept the shutters in place, once fixed, was difficult to unclasp. The children, impatient to let in daylight at breakfast-time, were in the habit of jabbing at the bar with a poker to release it; most of the paintwork and portions of the wood panelling were severely damaged.
‘We did have curtains,’ said Binny. ‘But they fell down.’ She knew Edward was observing her critically – watching her face, her movements, noticing the way she spoke. Often, when she felt particularly rested and well, he would tell her she looked tired.
‘I’d better take that upstairs,’ she said, admiring the expensive fur about Muriel’s shoulders. She would have taken Simpson’s coat too, but he kept bending down and fiddling with his sock.
‘Please don’t trouble,’ Muriel said, looking round for somewhere safe to lodge the cape. ‘Any old place will do.’
But Binny insisted. When she held the fur in her arms it felt like some animal drowned in a pond. She ran upstairs stroking it tenderly, and laid it across the ping-pong table.
Simpson remembered he’d left a bottle of wine in the car. He would fetch it at once.
‘Don’t bother, old boy,’ said Edward. ‘We’ve plenty to drink, believe you me.’
‘Nonsense,’ Simpson said. ‘I won’t be a jiffy.’
Limping painfully down the steps, he turned left at the hedge and began to run as fast as his injured ankle would allow, along the street in the direction of the garage. Earlier, when he’d been looking for the house, he’d observed a telephone box through the rear window of the car. Stumbling down the alleyway, he saw a man running from the opposite end of the lane towards him. They reached the kiosk at the same time.
‘Do you mind?’ said the man. ‘I’ve a taxi waiting. The wife’s just had a baby.’ He pulled open the door and went inside.
Simpson fumed. He had tried unsuccessfully all afternoon to make a telephone call. When Muriel was in the bedroom dressing for dinner he’d tried again, but just as he was getting through he’d thought he heard her on the stairs.