A Touch Of Love Part 8

'No, it was just a lunch, that's all.'

'So why mention it? Why is this the most pressing thing you have to tell me at one o'clock in the morning when we haven't spoken all day?'

Mark disentangled himself from the embrace, which had become more and more distant, and sat up.

'For G.o.d's sake Emma, I was making conversation. I was telling you something about my day, like husbands and wives are supposed to do. That's reasonable, isn't it? I mean, it would even be nice if you did it occasionally. Tell me something. Tell me about your day. Where did you have lunch?'

'It was nothing special. I took some sandwiches to Memorial Park,' said Emma, after a slightly too obvious hesitation. Fearing the silence which immediately threatened to descend, she explained: 'I wanted to think.'

'Think? What about?'

'Oh, just a case.'

'I see. Anything interesting?'

'Yes. Yes, it is interesting.'

At that particular moment, Emma had never felt less interested in the whole business of Robin and the allegations which surrounded him. And this feeling persisted until the morning, so that she read Ted's letter, which arrived during breakfast, with a tired absence of surprise and disappointment which only a few days earlier would have been unthinkable.

'The Beeches',

34 Bellevue Rise,

Wokingham,

Surrey.

Dear Mrs Fitzpatrick, I must first of all apologize for my delay in writing this letter. Rest a.s.sured that this has been due, and due only, to the seriousness with which I have been considering your request for information.

The news concerning Robin has come to me, as you can hardly fail to be aware, as a terrible shock. I still s.h.i.+ver to think that we had been drinking together that he had been sitting, worse still, in the pa.s.senger seat of my car only hours, minutes before he committed this atrocious deed (though one must remember, of course, that a man is innocent until proved guilty). Perhaps this seems ungenerous of me, ungenerous to someone whom I thought, in naivety, that I knew well: but the explanation is simple, you see I have a son of my own.

Almost without realizing it, I think I have already set out my reasons for declining to testify on Robin's behalf. (And I should perhaps tell you that I will be making a similar reply to Mr Barnes, who, as you might possibly know, is acting for the prosecution.) I feel too closely implicated in the events of that horrific day; I do not feel, yet, that I can achieve the necessary detachment. My wife agrees with me, and I feel sure that you too, as a woman, will understand.

Finally, if I wish you luck in your conduct of Robin's case, I must also express the hope, as a lifelong believer in honesty and fair play, that justice comes to be done.

Yours faithfully, Edward Parrish.

By the time of Emma's next visit to Port's, a small revolution had taken place, beginning with the failure of that embrace in her bedroom in the small dark hours of the previous Sat.u.r.day morning.

Very little had been said, between Mark and herself; neither of them felt that the subject was yet ready for discussion. But she knew, now, that he loved another woman, and she had allowed it to be shown that she knew. Conversation between them had in fact all but ceased, on any topic. All week he had been finding excuses for working late, for eating out at night, and on Wednesday he had not come home at all. On Thursday evening they had had a short but conclusive argument: Mark had announced, with a clear knowledge of the significance of what he was saying, that he would not be coming to the wedding of Emma's old college friend Helen at the weekend. She would have to go on her own.

Meanwhile Emma found, at work, that she was pressing on with a kind of mechanical energy, and actually getting things done more quickly than usual; but at the same time she was aware that she was not bringing sufficient intelligence, sufficient thoroughness, sufficient engagement to bear on her work. By Friday, she was past caring. She had almost forgotten that she was meant to meet Alun at lunchtime and was nearly a quarter of an hour late. He made his annoyance very obvious.

'If you don't mind me saying so,' he said, pus.h.i.+ng towards her the white wine and soda which he had, without asking, already ordered, 'you don't look too good. I'd say you'd been losing out on sleep. Am I right?'

She shrugged her shoulders. 'I wasn't aware of feeling tired.'

'Got a lot on at the moment?'

'No, not much. We've been getting through it all quite steadily.'

'And ' he shot her an intrusive glance ' how are things at home?'

'So-so,' she said defiantly.

'I see, you don't want to talk about it. Fair enough. We've got other things to talk about, I suppose. Did you bring the story back?'

'Yes, I've got it here.'

She took the notebook out of her case, and it lay on the table between them. Emma realized that she could remember very little about the story and secretly scanned the first page, like a child about to be tested on the contents of an essay.

'You see what I mean about this, then, do you? You see why it throws a totally new light on the kind of man you're defending?'

'Not really. It's just a story.'

'No it isn't, though. That's precisely what it isn't. For a start, the hero bears a great deal of similarity to Grant himself. The same occupation, the same lifestyle, the same h.o.m.os.e.xual tendencies.'

'Now wait a moment '

'Just let me have my say, Emma, let me have my say.' She sipped her drink, shocked by the readiness of his impatience. 'Not only that, but it puts forward a system, a philosophy of life, which many ordinary people would find offensive and irresponsible. The hero of this story abdicates all responsibility for his actions and even for his s.e.xual behaviour. Furthermore he is rewarded for it, since no harm comes to him and he ends up in the arms of a woman who loves him. The police are treated as laughable and no effort is made to argue that one should face up to the consequences of the way in which one treats other people. The story accepts a perverse s.e.xuality as being normal and even goes so far as to celebrate the confusion and unpleasantness which it brings about. On top of that, it projects a cavalier att.i.tude towards terrorism.'

Emma fingered her gla.s.s and tried to think hard before speaking.

'There are things about it I don't understand,' she said, 'but I don't think you're giving it a chance. I think it's meant as a bit of a joke.'

She was going to have to try harder than this, she knew.

'Does he strike you as someone who has much to joke about at the moment?' Alun asked.

'Of course he hasn't, at the moment. But I thought this was written some time ago, wasn't it? Anyway, when I say it's a joke... I don't just mean that he's trying to be funny. I mean some of it's serious. Isn't there a bit about halfway through, where somebody says... I mean, there are these two people talking, aren't there? And one of them says well, I can't quite remember what, it's somewhere in the middle, though...'

She began to flick through the notebook, panic having frozen her voice; but Alun took it firmly from her hands.

'Why should we argue about the story, anyway, especially if you can't remember it very well? There's no point in quibbling over details. The point is this what does it tell us about the person who wrote it? Is it written by a person who seems trustworthy, or attractive, or well balanced, or... normal? Are those words you would use about the writer of this story?'

Emma admitted, reluctantly, 'Not the first words, no.'

'Quite. And yet you trust him.'

'Yes,' said Emma, 'I do.'

'I don't understand you, sometimes. I really don't.'

'You still want me to get him to plead guilty, don't you?'

'You know the advantages.'

'Yes, I know the advantages.'

'But you won't do it?'

'Don't think you can scare me, Alun. I like to make up my own mind about these things.'

'You mean you haven't made up your mind?'

'I didn't say that.'

And yet she knew that when Alun excused himself and left after only another five minutes, it was because he had already begun to sense victory. She could not understand why she was starting to give in, why Robin now seemed so unimportant, why she had come so badly out of an argument with a lawyer who she knew (or would have known, until recently) was no match for her. For a while she felt angry with herself; and from within this anger a thought, a forbidden thought, arose and, before she was able to suppress it again, had made itself very clear: she wished that she had never agreed to take Robin's case on, in the first place.

A small Anglican church in suburban Birmingham; Sat.u.r.day morning, getting on for noon; drizzle; the blazing July weather nothing but a memory.

Emma, who did not see Helen nearly as often as she would have liked, had been looking forward to the wedding for some weeks. She had bought a new hat and a new dress especially for the occasion, but as soon as she stepped inside the church (wondering, from the complete absence of people outside the porch, whether she had come to the right one) she realized that she was overdressed. She had forgotten that Helen was not popular with her own family, most of whom now lived in Wales and could not be bothered to make the journey down. As for the groom's relatives, they were a sorry-looking bunch; some were clearly sulking at the fact that they were having to wear suits and ties on a Sat.u.r.day morning and were looking crumpled and hung-over. So far less than twenty people had turned up. Emma ignored the attentions of the usher and went to sit by the first familiar figure she could see, a great-aunt of Helen's whom she had once met at a birthday party. They said h.e.l.lo to one another but she could tell that the aunt did not remember who she was, and they had no further conversation. At least this way, not knowing anyone, she did not have to apologize for Mark's non-appearance.

As she sat there waiting for Helen to arrive, Emma became aware of increasing depression. Partly, she knew, it was to do with the poverty of the occasion itself. She recognized the pieces the organist was playing, and could tell that Helen had chosen them: subtle, melancholy music which she remembered from their days at law school together. But she was also in a position to catch glimpses of the organist, up and to the right of the choir stalls, and she could see that he was a frail and very old man whose fingers were slipping clumsily on the keys. Emma knew that when the hymn-singing started it would be ragged and thin. Also, there was no escaping it, she could never attend a wedding without being reminded of her own, which had taken place six years before that summer. Helen had been there, too. Emma had felt very smug at the time; yet perhaps her friend had done the smart thing by leaving it so late to get married. She realized, now, that she was going to find it hard to congratulate her.

When she turned to watch Helen come up the aisle, she found her pale and nervous: but their eyes met and they exchanged a quivering smile.

As the service progressed, she felt her strength slowly leave her. She wished that she had an arm to cling onto, even her husband's. Fortunately the aunt sitting next to her was letting slip the occasional tear, so Emma felt less bad about having to keep dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief; but finally, just when she thought she was going to make it safely through the entire ceremony, something gave way, and she broke. It was during the last hymn, which happened to have been, once (in the days when she used to go to church), one of her favourites. She liked the tune, apart from anything else, but it had a special significance for her because it had been sung at her wedding, too. Now, after only the first two lines, the rhythm dragging beneath the organist's ancient hands, the notes shrill and unsteady, a terrifying sorrow rose within her: Dear Lord and father of mankind

Forgive our foolish ways

Suddenly she was sobbing loudly, louder than anyone was singing, and then people were turning to look at her, and she sank to her knees, and the aunt was laying a bony hand on her arm; smiling sweetly in wrong-headed sympathy.

At the reception, which was held at Helen's parents' house, the first thing Emma said to her old friend was: 'Helen, I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened. I spoiled everything for you.'

'Of course you didn't. Don't be silly.' She was still wearing her wedding dress. 'Look, shall we go away and talk somewhere? I haven't seen you in ages.'

They went out into the garden and threaded their way through those guests who were prepared to put up with the grey skies and the threat of rain. These included the groom, Tony, and a group of his friends.

'h.e.l.lo, Emma,' he said. 'You're looking good.'

'Thank you.'

'Mark not with you today?'

'No, not today. He couldn't make it.'

Tony kissed his wife, and the two women moved on. As they left, Emma heard one of the group asking, 'Who's Mark?', and Tony answered, 'Her husband.' His friend shook his head, and said, wistfully, 'Lucky man.'

The garden backed on to Edgbaston reservoir, and by pa.s.sing through a little wicket gate they could get out onto the footpath and sit almost by the water. The ground was very damp, but they didn't mind.

'Emmy,' said Helen, 'tell me what's wrong.'

Emma cried in her friend's arms for a while and the she started to talk.

'Oh Helen, what am I going to do?' she said, when she had told her everything. 'What can I do?'

'Well, what do you feel like doing?'

'I don't know. I hate being with him. I hate being in the house.'

'Have you anywhere else to go?'

'No. I don't know. Home, I suppose.'

'Perhaps you should do that, just for a while. Take a holiday. Can you afford to? Are things very busy at work?'

Emma sat up and began to dry her eyes.

'Not very. There's only really one case that needs much doing on it at the moment.'

'What's that?'

She told her the story of Robin, and explained about how she was being advised to change his plea.

'Well, why don't you? Are you so sure that he didn't do it?'

'I was fairly sure, yes.'