Injury Time - Beryl Bainbridge [25]
He must break with Binny – the strain was becoming too much for him. He had enough to do as it was, answering phone calls, coping with clients, studying the latest changes in the tax laws. After a tiring day in the office and a visit to Binny in the evening, it was a miracle he didn’t drop dead from sheer exhaustion. Sometimes when he returned home, dark rings under the eyes and clothing sprinkled with cat hairs, his wife – allowing her cheek to be brushed by his lips – would suggest that he was doing too much.
Binny had threatened to part with him often enough. Separated from her, he would be like a ship wrenched from its moorings; rudderless, he would be engulfed by enormous waves of grief. He’d have his heart torn out in the process. Binny said No, it wouldn’t be like that at all: more like a rowing boat rocking a bit when somebody stood up too quickly. After a couple of seconds the boat would right itself and sit perfectly still: not even a ripple on the water. Of course she was arguing with him at the time – foolishly he’d mentioned some client of his who was having a rough time on twenty thousand a year – and only saying it to hurt him.
For a moment longer he stood staring out at the dripping trees. Then he stepped back inside the bathroom. He rubbed his head vigorously with a towel and, unable to find a comb, raked his hair into place with his fingers. He felt better now, less emotional, restored by the night air. He would take Simpson on one side and suggest they start making excuses about leaving. Perhaps Simpson’s back could play him up. He wanted to eavesdrop outside the kitchen door, in case Binny was discussing him, but the house was old and the floor boards creaked at his approach, so he walked straight in.
Alma Waterhouse was lying on the sofa in a deplorable condition.
7
To be fair to Alma, she hadn’t wanted to come into the house once she knew Binny had company. She only desired to look at a familiar face and then lie upon the step, quietly weeping.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Binny. ‘I can’t let you stay outside in this state.’
‘No, no, darling,’ cried Alma selflessly. ‘You go back to your party.’ She leant against the railings and slid slowly downwards.
Vexed at this dilemma and not sure what to do for the best, Binny was suddenly aware that they were not alone; she peered into the shadows of the hedge. Mrs Montague was behind the bins again with a friend.
‘No, you mustn’t,’ called Binny. ‘Go away at once.’ She seized Alma by the front of her coat and with difficulty pulled her upright. Supporting her round the waist she hauled her up the steps. Mrs Montague lived further along the street with another friend, who drank a lot; at night he fell unconscious rather than asleep. Mrs Montague was forced, as she confided to Binny, to take her pleasures where she could, and there wasn’t a hedge outside her house. As she was over sixty and far from sprightly, Binny was shocked by her behaviour.
‘I don’t want to be a burden to you,’ said Alma, once inside the hall. ‘A smile would have been enough.’
‘Don’t make a noise,’ whispered Binny. ‘These people won’t like it.’
Sniffing, but more composed, Alma entered the kitchen. The warm room, a captive audience, the sight of wine bottles on the table revived her spirits. On being introduced to the Simpsons she smiled indulgently and said, as though pacifying two small children, ‘Now, darlings. Isn’t this nice?’
‘She ought to take that coat off,’ Muriel advised. The woman looked as if she’d been dredged up out of the river.
‘I was just passing,’ Alma said, ‘And I thought, why not pop in on poor little Binny?’ She turned to Simpson. ‘I’ve been terribly worried about her, darling.’
‘Where else have you popped?’ asked Binny. Everything depended on the mood Alma had been in before she started drinking. If she’d felt initially cheerful, and vomiting could be avoided, then she wouldn’t prove too difficult to manage.