Injury Time - Beryl Bainbridge [22]
‘You mustn’t lift that,’ he said, stricken, as Binny gripped the blue plate in both hands. He took it from her, thinking she was far too fragile to carry such a load.
Edward was speaking in low tones to Muriel. He champed on the stem of his pipe and nodded his head emphatically. Binny, bringing the roast potatoes to the table, imagined he was saying that there was nothing between them, that he just felt sorry for her.
At the arrival of the meat, Edward jumped to his feet and removed his jacket. He flung it carelessly on the sofa. A comb and a fountain pen slid from his pocket and fell to the carpet. Because of his belly, which was large, he was obliged to wear braces to keep up his trousers. Finding the elastic too uncomfortable on his shoulders, he jerked the braces free and let them dangle about his thighs.
‘What on earth are you doing?’ said Binny. He looked a sight, with his rumpled shirt and those striped lengths of elastic hanging like two large catapults from his waist.
‘It’s damned hot in here,’ he said, forgetting that earlier he had used the coldness of the room as an excuse to close the shutters. He scooped up his belongings from the floor, lost his balance, and careered against the table. Spluttering with laughter and red in the face, he collapsed heavily on to his chair. ‘Aren’t there any greens?’ he asked.
‘Salad only,’ Binny told him.
‘Rabbit fodder,’ he said sadly, and undid the top button of his shirt.
Simpson couldn’t help admiring the man. He was definitely an eccentric. Of course he could afford to be, on his salary, but still. He asked if anybody minded if he too removed his coat.
‘Do as you please,’ said Muriel. She found the food plentiful and well cooked; the salad had the right amount of garlic in the dressing and the roast potatoes were crisp. It was obvious to her that Edward Freeman was in no danger from Binny. It was just the reverse. He was evidently using her. Some women liked that sort of thing, she knew. Binny was the right size and weight to be submissive; perhaps she had a father complex and liked some big rough man treating her in a patronising fashion and ticking her off about the vegetables. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if Edward didn’t slap her now and then.
He, for his part, found Muriel very pleasant to talk to. Simpson must have been over-reacting when he’d implied she might be standoffish this evening. After all, any woman who had been involved in that X, Y and Z business must be jolly approachable; he couldn’t imagine anyone asking Helen if they could borrow the spare room. Muriel cared about gardening too, he could tell. She wasn’t lyrical over it, but she seemed knowledgeable about insecticides.
‘Of course, I was brought up in the country,’ he said. ‘So I suppose it’s in the blood. This feeling for the land. My father inherited an estate in Norfolk and I learned early to have a healthy respect for the soil. Just a small estate,’ he added hastily, hoping Binny hadn’t overheard. Whenever he’d mentioned his father’s property before, she’d doffed an imaginary cap and talked about tugging his forelock. ‘My earliest memories,’ he told Simpson’s wife, ‘are of being woken by father at dawn, and going out with the guns to shoot.’
‘How lovely,’ murmured Muriel.
‘I had to stand up to my waist in icy water for hours, waiting for the duck to fly. Couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years of age.’
‘How ghastly,’ said Muriel.
‘You’ve no idea what pleasure it gives me to see Helen in the garden, sitting in the deckchair by the fence, shelling peas that I’ve grown myself. It’s the sense of achievement. Nothing like it. Have some more wine.’
Muriel said thank you and held out her glass for him to fill.
She was a pretty woman, he realised, and fond of her food. She wore