“Pat, never mind about the boy. Look, I’m sorry about all this – I mean about life and things being difficult lately. I love you very much, darling. I know I’m a bit of a duffer, but the times we live in -”
She had heard him use that phrase “I know I’m a bit of a duffer” in apology before, as if apology was the same as reform. She lost track of what he was saying under a memory of the Christmas before last, when she had induced him to give a party for some of their friends and business acquaintances. It had not been a success. Arthur had sensed it was not succeeding, and – to her dismay – had produced a pack of cards and said to a knot of his junior employees and their wives, with a host’s hollow geniality, “Look, I can see the party’s not going too well – perhaps you’d like to see a few card tricks.”
Standing there in the cool afternoon, she blushed dull red again at her embarrassment and his. There were no shames like social shames, suffered before people who would always try to smile. He was pathetic to think that naming the truth altered it in any way.
“Are you listening, Pat?” Arthur said. He still leant against the door, as if trying to keep something trapped inside. “You don’t seem to listen to me these days. You know I love you. What I’m trying to say is this – we can’t buy Mayburn, not at present. Business is too bad. It would be unwise. I saw my bank manager today, and he said it wouldn’t be wise. You know we have an overdraft already. He said times were going to be worse before they were better. Very much worse.”
“But it was all arranged! You promised!”
“The bank manager explained -”
“Damn the bank manager, and damn you! What did you do, show him a new card trick? You promised me when Frank died that we -”
“Patty, dear, I know I promised, but I just can’t. We’re not children. Don’t you understand, we haven’t got the money?”
“What about one of your life insurances -” she began, then checked herself. He had moved towards her and then stopped, afraid he would be repulsed if he came nearer. His suit looked shabby and needed pressing. The set of his face was unfamiliar to her. Her anger left her. “Are you telling me we’re bankrupt?”
He wetted his lips.
“It’s not as bad as that, of course. You know we have Moxan looking into matters. But last month’s figures are very poor indeed.”
At this she looked angry.
“Well, are things bad or aren’t they, Arthur? Why not come out with it and tell me the truth? You treat me like a child.”
He looked painfully at her, his face puffy, wondering which of half a dozen things would be best to say to her. That he loved her for her streak of childishness? That although he wanted her to share his troubles, he did not want her hurt? That he needed her understanding? That it made him miserable to quarrel in this ugly strange garden?
As always, he had a sense of missing in what he said the complexity he felt.
“I’m just saying, Pat, last month’s figures are very bad – very bad indeed.”
“Do you mean nobody is buying Sofftoys any more?”
“That’s about it, yes.”
“Not even Jock Bear?”
“No, my dear, not even little Jock Bear.”
She took his arm, and they walked together towards the empty house without speaking.
When they found Algy was not in the house, other troubles were temporarily forgotten as they began to worry about the boy. They called continuously through the bare and echoing rooms. No answer came back.
Patricia ran out from the house, still calling, running through the bushes, down towards the river, full of a fright she dared not name. She was level with the summer-house when a voice called, “Mummy!” As she swerved towards it, Algy was standing there in the gloom with the door half open; like a small projectile, he came flying to her, weeping.