The Figure in the Dusk Read Free

isn’t any need to worry. You know I always get savage when I think about him. You and I could—”
    â€œDon’t let’s talk about that now, I can’t help being worried. Peter can’t get to sleep because of it, and I—well, I always fly to you when I’m in trouble.”
    â€œThen keep on doing it,” said Ralph. “Like me to come round?”
    â€œYou’d better not,” she said; “he might be back at any time.”
    â€œThat proves you really needn’t worry, and you know it yourself.”
    â€œI wondered if—”
    â€œWondered what?”
    â€œI wondered if I ought to call the police.”
    â€œMy darling, why on earth raise a scare because he’s a couple of hours late? Hasn’t he ever been late before?”
    â€œNever, without sending me a message.”
    â€œThere’s one thing,” said Ralph, in a bitter voice, “you can always depend on him, and set your watch by his coming and going. How I detest that man! I—sorry, my sweet. Feelings got the better of me. Look here, I’ll call you in half an hour. If he hasn’t turned up, we’ll think about it again.”
    â€œNo, I’ll call you,” said Muriel.
    He laughed.
    â€œBecause you know he’ll probably be back by then, and wonder who’s calling! You’re not really worried, darling; you just wanted to talk to me.”
    â€œI always want to talk to you,” said Muriel. “Goodbye, my darling.”
    â€œGive yourself a good strong gin,” said Ralph. “’Bye, precious.”
    She put down the receiver, but didn’t move from the table. Fancied faces appeared in the fire: Wilfred’s and Ralph’s. She glanced up to the photographs, seeking Peter’s. The girls were older: twins of seventeen. They were old enough to understand, and from little things they had said she knew that they were sometimes puzzled by their father, and easily became impatient with him. Peter was different; and Peter’s heart wasn’t sound. But for Peter, she would have left Wilfred years ago. The irony of it was that she’d conceived Peter, hoping desperately that it would give Wilfred what he most wanted and turn him into a human being instead of a kind of automaton.
    She was as much a creature of habit as he; she normally wouldn’t drink until he was home, but she now went across and poured herself out a drink; it didn’t help. It was getting on for ten.
    Ralph was quite right, the police would probably laugh at her. ‘Really, madam? Two hours late? An hour and three-quarters? Well, it isn’t really serious, is it? If you will keep us informed.’
    She lit a cigarette.
    In the mornings she was never really happy until Wilfred had left and she had a day of freedom ahead. She began to withdraw within herself when he was due home, and from the moment his car sounded outside she became frozen – a shell, talking, smiling, pretending, doing everything mechanically – and satisfying him, because that was all he needed to make him satisfied. Yet she could worry like this because some trifling accident or hold-up had delayed him.
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    â€œRalph, it’s nearly eleven, and he’s not back yet.”
    â€œGood Lord! As you didn’t ring before, I thought he’d shown up.”
    â€œSomething must have happened.”
    â€œNot necessarily serious. You know, sweet, you’ve always regarded Wilfred as a paragon, but he might have a little blonde tucked away somewhere, and—”
    â€œIf he had, he’d leave her in time to be home, or send a message,” Muriel said. “Don’t be flippant about it.”
    â€œSorry, darling. Shall I come round?”
    â€œIt wouldn’t be wise, but I wish you could.”
    â€œCome and see me, then.”
    â€œYou know I can’t, tonight. It’s Wednesday, the servants are still out. Ralph, ought I to telephone