the platform and waved as the train pulled away, and then drove slowly back to Spitalfields through the Sunday blackness of the City.
All the way back to Grafton Nina willed the train to go faster, like a schoolgirl longing for the hour of a crucial party.
Jimmy Rose held up the television remote control, aiming it at the screen as if he wanted to shoot and kill. He made the circuit of the channels and discovered what he already knew, that there was nothing he wanted to watch. He depressed the volume control and watched Harry Secombe’s face swell to fill the screen, silently mouthing.
Stella was upstairs somewhere. The Roses lived in a small modern house and without the noise from the television Jimmy could hear the creaks that she made, crossing the bedroom floor to open a cupboard, and then the metallic rasp as she set up the ironing board.
Jimmy stretched his legs in front of him and drank the remains of a beer from the can. It was dark outside, but he had not yet drawn the curtains across the big window that looked into the garden. He could see himself fishily reflected in the black glass.
Usually Jimmy enjoyed Sundays. He made it a rule not to do any work, nor even to think about work if that was feasible, and to concentrate on pleasing himself. It was a matter of satisfaction to him that he and Star had long ago come to a comfortable agreement about this. Star liked to garden on Sundays, or to sit quietly and read, whereas Jimmy was not interested in the garden and he read only occasional thrillers or sports biographies. Jimmy’s preference was to stay late in bed, to go off to play squash or golf with one or more of the Grafton men, and afterwards to drink with them in the bar or the clubhouse. Sometimes Star and the other wives would join them for the drinking part, although he preferred it when they did not. Sunday evenings, if they were not entertaining or invited out anywhere, were a pleasantly hazy slide towards bedtime and the jolt of Monday morning.
This Sunday, however, had not been one of the best. Darcy Clegg was Jimmy’s usual golf partner, but today Darcy had proposed a swap. Darcy himself had partnered a regular golfer called Francis Kelly, and Jimmy had ended up with Michael Wickham. Michael had hardly spoken to Jimmy or anyone else throughout the round, and he seemed to take a grim satisfaction in playing extremely badly. He had hooked most of his drives into the rough halfway along the fairway, and putted as if he were using a yard broom.
Through Jimmy’s efforts they had managed to hold level as far as the short fifteenth hole, but they lost that one and the next three in succession. By the time they reached the clubhouse bar Jimmy was in as bad a mood as Michael himself. He did not like to lose at any game, and he particularly disliked losing to Darcy.
The clubroom was crowded with golfers, most of them men, although not many of the members had braved the wintry fairways beforehand. The bar was a popular Sunday drinking place for the prosperous and established Grafton set who considered the Eagle on the cathedral green to cater only for tourists, and the other city pubs to be spoiled by kids and electronic games and loud music. Francis and Jimmy edged through the knots of convivial drinkers, with Michael frowning in their wake.
‘A man could die of thirst,’ Jimmy said, eyeing the press at the bar.
The other three had had to shoulder their way forward, but Darcy did not. A way opened into the groups in front of him as heads turned and hands reached out in greeting. Satisfaction was perceptible, as if the drinkers were now reassured that they were in the right and proper place because Darcy had arrived.
‘Darcy Clegg, the man himself.’
‘You haven’t been out there this morning, Darcy? It’s much more comfortable in here with a glass in your hand, I can tell you.’
Darcy nodded his big head, smiling a faint but amiable smile and bestowing a word here and there. He reached the bar, and held up a finger to the sweating barman.
‘Morning, Mr Clegg. What’ll it be?’
‘Four pints, Gerry, and whatever you are having.’
Darcy did not ask his companions what they were drinking, nor did anyone question his right to buy the first round. He handled the exchange adroitly, as he did everything else, but his expression indicated that he was part of this only so far as he wanted to be, and also somewhat above it.
The clubroom was unusually crowded, and once their drinks were served they had to perch on stools around one of the low tables in the main body of the room because there was no space at the bar.
‘What’s up, Michael?’ Jimmy drank, and tiny wings of froth were left at the corners of his mouth. He added, ‘Apart from your golf, that is.’
Michael shrugged. ‘Nothing’s up. Sorry to lose you the game.’
He turned his glass on the table. He was a dark, lean man with crisp hair turning grey. He had doctorly hands, faintly reddened and with prominent wristbones. He was never forthcoming, but his moroseness this morning was beginning to affect everyone.
Jimmy felt almost physically pained that this precious and pleasant Sunday time should be spoiled. Darcy’s big frame seemed uncomfortable on the small stool, and he was already glancing over Francis Kelly’s shoulder to the noisy crowd at the bar. In a minute, Jimmy knew, he would get up and go to join them. Jimmy’s response to this, for which he disliked himself, was to talk too much, clowning for the benefit of the three other men. He told a story about events at a recent conference his small company had organized, but he did it too hurriedly and with too much false comic emphasis. Darcy looked at him with his eyebrows slightly lifted, and only Francis laughed.
When Jimmy saw Hannah Clegg in the doorway he was relieved. Normally he would not have been pleased to have this Sunday session disrupted, although in most other circumstances he liked Hannah as well as admiring her appearance. But today she was welcome. Now, at least, Darcy would not stroll away in search of better company.
Hannah came across to their table trailing appreciative glances. She was wearing a sleeveless suede jerkin over a cream sweater, and cream knitted trousers that showed the vee between her thighs. She kissed the four of them in turn, Darcy last.
‘I thought I’d catch you in here,’ she said gaily. ‘Just a small gin and tonic for me, Darcy. I’m on my way to pick up Freddie.’
‘Is he all right now?’ Michael asked, looking up from his beer.
‘Yes, thanks, Michael, he’s fine. A lot of fuss about nothing, as it turned out.’
Freddie was the Cleggs’ six-year-old. Hannah explained to Francis and Jimmy that the little boy had developed a startlingly high temperature a few days before, when Darcy was away on business, and their GP had been slow to arrive. In a panic Hannah had telephoned Michael, who was at least a doctor although his field was orthopaedic surgery not paediatrics. Michael had driven round to the Cleggs’ mansion to examine the boy and reassure Hannah.
Jimmy and Francis listened to this recital without much interest. Hannah was inclined to talk at length about her children. She put her hand out and touched Michael’s shoulder. Her fingers with elongated pale pink nails rested lightly for a moment.
‘Thank you,’ she said again.
Michael’s body skewed sideways as he tried unobtrusively to lean away from her, but his manner lost some of its stiffness.
‘It was nothing. I said so at the time. I was glad to do what I could, which was not much.’
‘Just the same, thank you.’
