The Secret House of Death Read Free Page A

age. Julian used to say she reminded him of the girl in some picture by Millais.
    All that had made no difference. She had done her best to be a good wife but that had made no difference either. Probably Bob was a good husband, a handsome man with a pleasing personality any woman might be proud of. She turned away from the mirror, aware that she was beginning to bracket herself and her next-door neighbour. It made her uneasy and she tried to dismiss him from her mind.

2
    Susan had just left Paul and Richard at the school gates when Bob North’s car passed her. That was usual, a commonplace daily happening. This morning, however, instead of joining the High Street stream that queued to enter the North Circular, the car pulled into the kerb a dozen yards ahead of her and Bob, sticking his head out of the window, went through the unmistakable dumbshow of the driver offering someone a lift.
    She went up to the car, feeling a slight trepidation at this sudden show of friendship. ‘I was going shopping in Harrow,’ she said, certain it would be out of his way. But he smiled easily.
    â€˜Fine,’ he said. ‘As it happens, I have to go into Harrow. I’m leaving the car for a big service. I’ll have to go in by train tomorrow, so let’s hope the weather cheers up.’
    For once Susan was glad to embark upon this dreary and perennial topic. She got into the car beside him, remembering an editorial of Julian’s in which he had remarked that the English, although partakers in the most variable and quixotic climate in the world, never become used to its vagaries, but comment upon them with shock and resentment as if all their lives had been spent in the predictable monsoon. And despite Julian’s scornful admonitions, Susan now took up Bob’s cue. Yesterday had been mild, today was damp with an icy wind. Spring was certainly going to be late in coming. He listened to it all, replying in kind, until she felt his embarrassment must be as great as her own. Was he already regretting having said a little too much the night before? Perhaps he had offered her the lift in recompense; perhaps he was anxious not to return to their old footing of casual indifference but attempting to create an easier neighbourly friendship. She must try to keep the conversation on this level. She mustn’t mention Louise.
    They entered the North Circular where the traffic was heavy and Susan racked her brains for something to say.
    â€˜I’m going to buy a present for Paul, one of those electrically operated motorways. It’s his birthday on Thursday.’
    â€˜Thursday, is it?’ he said, and she wondered why, taking his eyes briefly from the busy road, he gave her a quick indecipherable glance. Perhaps she had been as indiscreet in mentioning her son as in talking of Louise. Last night he had spoken of his sorrow at his childlessness. ‘Thursday,’ he said again, but not interrogatively this time. His hands tightened a little on the wheel and the bones showed white.
    â€˜He’ll be six.’
    She knew he was going to speak then, that the moment had come. His whole body seemed to grow tense beside her and she perceived in him that curious holding of the breath and almost superhuman effort to conquer inhibition that precedes the outpouring of confession or confidence.
    The Harrow bus was moving towards its stop and she was on the point of telling him, of saying that she could easily get out here and bus the rest of the way, when he said with an abruptness that didn’t fit his words, ‘Have you been very lonely?’
    That was unexpected, the last question she had been prepared for. ‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ she said hesitantly.
    â€˜I said, have you been lonely? I meant since your divorce.’
    â€˜Well, I . . .’ Her cheeks burned and she looked down into her lap, at the black leather gloves that lay limply like empty useless hands. Her own