Cushing's Crusade Page 3

  During the morning, to try to take his mind off his wife, Derek retreated to the basement archive room. Having locked himself in, he went behind the stacks containing the Institute’s Far Eastern Missionary Correspondence and opened a carefully concealed tin chest. Inside was the private correspondence of the Imperial British East Africa Company for the years 1879 to 1901. Since the donation of these documents, by an elderly Scottish widow, at the beginning of March, Derek had known that he would be able to write a far more comprehensive account of the British intervention in East Africa than Professor Elkin, who was writing a book on the same subject. All Derek had to do was to refrain from cataloguing the chest’s contents till the professor’s finished manuscript was with his publisher. Normally, reading these previously unpublished letters, written by Lugard, Mackinnon and Kirk, banished all other thoughts from Derek’s mind, but this morning their usual magic failed. His thoughts repeatedly returned to Diana.

  For some reason he kept on imagining himself in his bedroom at the flat; but the room had changed dramatically. Gone from the dressing table was the clutter of pots of cosmetics, scraps of cotton wool, spilt powder and hair-rollers, usually left by Diana; gone too were her clothes and the two Indian rugs on the floor. No trace of her remained. The emptiness of the room struck him so forcibly that for a moment he had to hold on to the tin chest to remind himself where he was. A sudden stab of panic under the diaphragm made it hard for him to breathe for several seconds. This was not grief, not self-pity, but naked fear. Fourteen years suddenly dismissed; the safety net of habit gone, his assumptions and expectations splintering like glass. When he had recovered sufficiently he returned to the manuscript room, where he was immediately accosted by a scholarly Asian wishing to know about population figures for Perak in the 1790s.

  Only when most of the readers had gone out to lunch was Derek able to think about his panic in the archives. Any decent man would surely not have trembled in such circumstances. Rage, jealousy, sorrow, reproach would have been more appropriate than fear. Would a normal red-blooded male sit helplessly on a tin chest and suffer without disgust or distress the idea of a strange tongue stroking his wife’s nipples? Would he not roar out in savage abandonment: ‘Some scheming bastard has besmirched my wife!’? Yet no biblical denunciations had formed in his brain; instead, under his diaphragm, tremors of panic still quivered. What really puzzled and distressed him was the certainty that although he thought he loved Diana, separation from her did not in itself terrify him. His fear had been far more personal and overwhelming. He had not been so much afraid for his marriage as afraid for himself.

  Early in the afternoon Derek went home, leaving the Institute in the hands of his assistant Miss Prideaux. An hour later he was sitting in the bedroom which he had imagined stripped of all traces of Diana; around him the evidence of her continued residence was plentiful and reassuringly real. Yet he was far from happy. His panic had shaken him so badly that he felt impelled to discover the precise reasons for his fear or, if that were impossible, at least find some formula that made it seem less frighteningly irrational. Certainly the simple loss of having her around was not in itself alarming; the real change would be the absence of her decision-making. He tried to envisage a life with no Diana to organize his social life, no Diana to choose his clothes, decide about holidays, or about new chair covers, or a room to be painted, a meal to be bought, a present to be given, a film to be seen. She always knew what she wanted, but did he? Again slight tremors of panic troubled him. For so long he had persuaded himself that his acquiescence was a defence, a way to protect himself from her disappointment in him; an infallible method to stave off quarrels and stop real clashes; a protective wall around the real Derek. Yet what if the wall had enclosed nothing? What if he had deferred to her wishes for so long that he no longer had any wishes and preferences of his own? If that had happened, her desires had defined and even constituted his existence, and without her all orientation would disappear. He fought against the idea, accusing himself of crass amateur psychology. Every married person had to defer to the wishes of his partner almost every day. Nothing extraordinary in that. He had just taken surrender a bit further. Nothing to be alarmed about. In any case he wasn’t really sure that she was having an affair. Her fit of clothes-buying earlier in the year, her lies about the dentist and the furniture course, were not in themselves proof of anything. Her long period of inactivity in the flat and her refusal to go out hardly indicated the existence of a lover, although it was just possible that he had jilted her before her decline and then taken her back, thus causing her recovery. But even if there was a lover, this didn’t mean that she would leave her husband. Derek got up from the bed and walked over to the window. An ordinary summer day. The radio told of no disasters, natural or otherwise; cars passed and people went about their business as usual. There were leaves on the trees, clouds in the sky, glass in the window frames. Everywhere he looked, normality. Traffic lights functioning normally; the Thames, although he could not see it, was doubtless flowing calmly along its usual course. All was well. He tried a laugh, and when that sounded rather hollow he smiled to himself. Then he felt the panic again; not overwhelmingly, but fluttering disconcertingly in his stomach; a slight but unmistakable reminder that it might take a lot more than logic to solve his problem.

  *

  A scene of tranquil amity and calm repose. Midnight and the Cushings are in bed. She is reading, and he stares thoughtfully at the ceiling, as his mind unwinds after a rich and varied day. Her face is glistening with moisture cream, which, according to the advertisers, will keep her skin younger longer and help build new cells during the night. His face is solemn and a little strained, as though he needed some relaxing evening beverage to pave the way for a profound and untroubled sleep.

  Diana had put down her book and was reaching for the light-switch when Derek said, unexpectedly, ‘Tell me about your furniture course.’

  ‘Now?’ She turned round to make sure he was being serious. ‘You’ve never shown the least interest before.’

  ‘What sort of things do you learn?’ he asked innocently.

  ‘How to tell a Sheraton chest from a Victorian copy, when a Hepplewhite tallboy isn’t what one thinks it is. Satisfied?’ She reached for the switch again.

  Derek said hastily, ‘How does one tell a Sheraton chest from a copy?’

  ‘I want to go to sleep.’

  Derek’s heart was thumping. She was trying to get out of it because she didn’t know; because the whole course was an invention. ‘Tell me,’ he murmured.

  Diana sighed and shut her eyes. Then she opened them reluctantly and replied in a distinct emphatic voice, as though he were deaf or cretinous, ‘The keyholes will be different, the back will have been hacked about, and the curved front will have been cut through in the middle. All right?’ She snapped off the light and curled up with her back to him. Of course she could have read it all in a book, or might even have invented it on the spur of the moment.

  ‘What got you interested in antique furniture?’

  ‘Boredom,’ she came back at once. ‘Now go to sleep.’

  ‘That new dentist of yours,’ whispered Derek, after a short silence. A loud sigh from Diana. ‘I think I’ve got a loose filling. Do you think he’d suit me?’

  She jerked into a sitting position and turned on the light. ‘Do you have to settle your dental problems in the middle of the night?’

  Her exasperation could be genuine, or again she could be trying to put him off.

  ‘I want to change my dentist,’ Derek said.

  ‘Are Gilchrist’s eyes getting you down too?’ she asked with feigned incredulity.

  ‘He’s too far from my work. Where’s your Indian bloke?’

  ‘South Ken,’ she replied without hesitation.

  ‘Would you make me an appointment?’

  ‘I’ll ring him tomorrow.’

  ‘You won’t need to,’ he came back quietly. ‘You’re seeing him tomorrow.’


  ‘Thank God you reminded me. That bloody hygienist. I’ll ask him in person.’ She reached out for the switch. ‘Can I?’ she asked imploringly. Derek nodded assent. Darkness again. Diana said, ‘Of course he may not be able to take on any more National Health patients. I was lucky he took me on.’

  It was then that Derek was finally convinced that the Indian dentist did not exist. A little later he knew that he would have to follow her in the morning; wherever she was planning to go, it would certainly have nothing to do with her teeth.

  Chapter 3

  Derek left the flat shortly after half-past nine and made his way to the telephone box on the opposite side of Fitzsimmons Avenue. After his early departure from the Institute the previous afternoon, his assistant was not surprised to hear that he felt unwell, and did not intend coming in to work that day. After finishing his call, Derek stayed in the phone box for a further quarter of an hour, holding the receiver and pretending to talk. In this way he felt less conspicuous observing the entrance of the flats; but the arrival of two women, both eager to use the phone, forced him from his concealment. Later he might be able to go back but in the meantime somewhere else had to be found. It was not very likely that Diana would see him from the window but it was just possible, and Derek was unwilling to take any chances.

  Fifty yards to the right of the phone box was a group of shops and beyond them a couple of plane trees with a seat under them. On his way to this new vantage point Derek went into a newsagent and bought a paper as quickly as he could. The seat, placed almost opposite Abercorn Mansions by a considerate council, was black with dirt and haphazardly patterned with bird droppings. Derek dropped a page from his paper onto the bench and sat down, holding the rest of the paper up in front of him. Every few seconds he glanced over the top of the paper, but, a little later, feeling that this was overdoing caution, he laid the paper on his lap. Her appointment was likely to be between ten-thirty and noon. It might be a long wait. The sun was climbing in a cloudless sky and already it was hot. A slight breeze stirred the dust and the paper in the gutter.

  Derek had already given some thought to the method he would use in following Diana, but he had only solved the problems posed if she should take the tube. At the opposite end of a long platform she would be unlikely to see him, but if she chose to go by bus things would be very different. He would not be able to wait in the queue with her, and if he jumped on after her she might very well see him. In films there would be a conveniently placed taxi with an obliging driver quite willing to ‘follow that bus’ without questions. Derek imagined himself perfectly disguised with a false beard and a wig. Would anything fool her? Certainly not dark glasses. He had a vision of Diana sweeping along the gangway of the bus and, to the amazement of the other passengers, snatching off his dark glasses. Any sensible man would have let well alone or gone to a private detective. She might go shopping on her way to South Kensington and that would mean every kind of difficulty; he would have to dart in and out of shop doorways, stop abruptly, pretend to look at pairs of shoes, watches, second-hand books or travel posters. Very possibly he might lose her. If she went into a department store and got into a lift, he wouldn’t have a hope.

  A hundred yards away Derek could see a policeman coming towards him. Nothing wrong with sitting on a bench; people sat on benches every day. But if the policeman saw him on the same bench an hour later mightn’t he suspect something? Suspect that Derek was watching the movements of residents of the flats with a view to burglary. If the policeman saw him farther along the street later on in the day, he might be accused of loitering with intent, which in a sense was a very apt description of what he was doing. At least there was no school so he wouldn’t be suspected of trying to molest minors. The policeman passed by.

  Shortly after ten-thirty Derek left the bench and walked along the street to a bus shelter. Nothing strange about a man waiting there. Four buses called at this particular stop, so he would be able to remain there for at least half-an-hour without drawing attention to himself. If Diana was going to come out, she would probably do so fairly soon. Derek smiled to himself. This idea that he was conspicuous was madness. In London one could wander about in one’s underwear without getting a glance. Nobody would notice if he spent the whole day at the bus-stop. There had been a piece in the papers several days before about a man who had fallen in a river and drowned. His corpse had floated twenty miles downstream, past people fishing, past picknicking families and couples walking along the banks. Several had seen the body but had thought nothing of it. One woman had supposed the drowned man to be a swimmer who liked letting the current do the work for him. He had only been found to be dead when his corpse had floated into a lock.

  Two buses called at the stop within ten minutes: the 158 followed by the 42. Derek was feeling considerably more relaxed when he saw a potentially alarming situation developing. On the other side of the street Mrs Harvey, who lived in a flat on the second floor of Abercorn Mansions, was heading straight for the bus-stop.

  Mrs Harvey and Derek talked about the beauty of the day and the unpredictability of the bus service. Then came the question Derek was dreading. ‘Which bus are you catching, Mr Cushing?’

  Derek hedged. ‘Which bus are you catching?’ he asked archly and then added, ‘Perhaps we’ll be getting the same bus.’

  Mrs Harvey said the 42 was her bus and in return Derek told her his was the 158. Although Derek had survived the danger of a journey on the same bus as Mrs Harvey he was still extremely worried. If the buses were running to schedule it was more than likely that the 158 would come before the next 42; Derek was trapped and knew it. The 27 came and then the 158. As it approached Derek went through a pantomime of fumbling in his pockets. He swore aloud and, after a few inarticulate words about having forgotten his money, dashed across the road to Abercorn Mansions.

  Please God don’t let Diana come out now. Derek stopped in the hall of the flats and tried to think quickly. Since it was possible that another 158 might come before Mrs Harvey’s 42, there was no question of returning to the stop while she was still there. But since the woman had just missed a 42, she might have to wait for fifteen minutes. Derek realized that he could not stay in the hall for that length of time.

  In front of Abercorn Mansions was a low privet hedge. Derek made up his mind what he had to do. He would slip out of the entrance and hide behind the hedge. There was a chance that Major Smythe in the front ground-floor flat might see him but there seemed no alternative course of action. The hedge was too low for him to stand behind, so he had to squat; a casual observer, who failed to notice that his trousers were up, would certainly think he was opening his bowels. Through the hedge it was impossible to see whether Mrs Harvey was still at the bus-stop. Derek felt that he would not be safe until another four buses had passed. If Major Smythe did see him what could he say? That he had dropped his car keys from the balcony? It wasn’t very likely but would have to do if necessary. Derek remained squatting behind the hedge; already his thighs were aching. Sweat was running down his back.

  There was a gap in the hedge near the doors of the flats and through it Derek watched for Diana. The gap was large enough for Diana to see him, if she should happen to look round. Derek imagined her saying: ‘You’re insane, completely off your trolley. You’ll have to be committed.’ He would leap over the hedge followed by Diana, Major Smythe, Mrs Harvey and the policeman armed with a strait-jacket. Enthusiastic passers-by would join in the chase with howls of derision. A cuckold and a lunatic would be an ideal subject for mockery. The hedge smelled of dogs’ excrement. Gardens worthy of mansions. In my father’s house are many mansions. The person who first decided to call second-rate blocks of flats ‘mansions’ must have had an extravagantly warped sense of humour. Behind Derek was a row of laurels, their leaves grey with dirt; these dismal-looking shrubs were all that had been thought necessary for the thin strip of garden.

  Derek came out of his hiding-place a few minutes after eleven
and headed for the phone box. He had no intention of making a call. Inside, it was as hot as a small greenhouse. Just above the phone two messages had been written: ‘For a suck and a fuck ring 401-8871’ and ‘Mary likes being buggered 223-9364’. Most of the directories had been ripped out. When the heat got the better of him, Derek went back to his bench. Heat haze was shimmering on the road; in the distance cars seemed to float into view. How long ought he to sit on the bench? Mrs Harvey might see him on her return. ‘Still there, Mr Cushing?’ ‘As a matter of fact I am conducting a survey on traffic flow in Fitszimmons Avenue.’ ‘Saw you hiding behind that hedge. Funny place to keep your money.’ ‘I buried it there for safe-keeping.’

  By noon Derek had realized that the assumption on which he had based his vigil had been far from cast-iron. If, as he had supposed, she had no appointment, there was no reason why she should go anywhere. Only his overdramatic imagination had led him to suppose that she would pretend to go to her non-existent dentist. In fact it was far more likely that she would content herself with a straightforward lie when he came home in the evening. But that would prove the case against her just as surely as a successful pursuit. No sooner than he had begun to see the matter as a foregone conclusion, tremors of the now familiar panic returned. A few moments before, he had been sitting quite calmly on his bench, but now he could not keep still. He had to get up and pace up and down for a while to relieve his nervousness. If there was no point in waiting any longer, what ought he to do? This question had terrified him before but then he had dismissed it with phrases like ‘cross your bridges when you come to them’, ‘find out first and then decide’, ‘no point in making decisions before you know the facts’. Suddenly Derek stopped dead in the middle of his pacing. He had told himself that as soon as he knew one way or the other, his panic would go. But it hadn’t gone at all. Once again he found his chest tightening and his breathing laboured. He also felt slightly sick; his mouth was uncomfortably dry.