Through The Wall Read online

  As his voice ceased, she began to be aware of sounds which had not come to her before. They must have been there, but they had not reached her-movement, voices, the scrape of metal on metal, a heavy thudding, a sound of groaning, a sound of someone crying, and once, high-pitched and terrible, a scream. It all seemed to be a long way off, not in distance but-removed. The sensation of being withdrawn from her surroundings had not been broken by the accident but intensified. What she thought and felt seemed to come to her from the other side of a misty barrier which made everything unreal.

  She drew a long breath. Whether it was heard or felt she did not know. She was still holding to the stuff of his coat. His left hand came over now and took her wrist, feeling for the pulse. Then, releasing that, he took her hand.

  “You’re all right. We’ve just got to pass the time. Take your hand away if you want to-but you’re a bit cold-I thought perhaps something to hold on to-”

  She said, “Yes,” and, after a long pause, “Thank you.”

  It didn’t do to think what it would have been like to be there alone. She was glad when he spoke again.

  “Well, we’ve got the time to put in. By the bye, they know we’re here, so you needn’t worry about that. I was calling out, and a man came and spoke to me just before you woke up. They can’t get this stuff off till the breakdown gang rolls up. Fortunately there’s lots of air. What would you like to talk about? My name is Richard Cunningham, and I write- novels, plays, verse, belles lettres.”

  He heard her take another of those long breaths, but this time it was quicker.

  “You wrote The Whispering Tree.”

  “Yes.”

  “I read when I can-there’s so little time. My sister reads a lot. She isn’t strong-she can’t take a job. I’ve always tried to manage a library subscription for her. She runs through the books so quickly that I can’t keep up-there’s no time. But I did read The Whispering Tree. I loved it.”

  “Why isn’t there time? What do you do?”

  “I work in a house-agent’s office in Norwood. We live there.”

  “Who is we?”

  “My sister and I, and her husband-when he’s there.”

  He repeated the last words.

  “When he’s there. Why isn’t he there?”

  “He’s an actor. He gets a part in a touring company-now and then.”

  “Like that?”

  “Yes. They oughtn’t to have married. She was eighteen and he was twenty. He was in a bank, but it bored him. He thought he was going to do wonders on the stage. He has a light tenor voice, and he’s quite nice-looking. He got small parts easily at first-and then not so easily. Ina isn’t strong. There’s nothing actually the matter, but she cracks up.”

  There was a odd inflection in his voice as he said,

  “And you are the bread-winner?”

  “There isn’t anyone else.”

  There was a curious dream quality about their talk. They lay in the dark-strangers, with clasped hands. Shock and terror had broken down the barrier which convention builds. It was as if their thoughts spoke. It was as if anything could be asked and anything said with a naked truthfulness which needed no excuse. Even looking back upon it afterwards, it all seemed natural to Marian Brand. They had never met before, and they would never meet again.They were on the edge of terror. They lay in the dark and held hands. She said things that she had never said to anyone before. Sometimes there were long pauses. Once or twice there was a faintness, but it cleared. If they were silent for too long, the darkness came too close. Sometimes he asked a question. Whenever that happened she had the feeling that the answer mattered.

  When she said in a surprised voice, “But it’s all very dull,” he laughed a little.

  “People aren’t dull. They’re my trade. What they do and why they do it-it may be horrifying, or humiliating, or surprising, but it’s never dull. If it is, it’s because you’re dull yourself-one of those whose touch turns all to dust brigade.” Then, quite abruptly, “So you’ve got everything on your shoulders. Haven’t you any family?”

  “We hadn’t. My father quarrelled with his people. I suppose you would call him a rolling stone. We went all over the world- France, Italy, Africa, the Argentine, California, New York. Sometimes there was plenty of money, and sometimes there wasn’t any at all. We came back to England when I was ten, and my mother died. Ina and I were put in a school at Norwood, and my father went off again.”

  It didn’t come out all at once. There would be a whole sentence, and then three or four words, and then two or three more. The gaps between did not seem to have any relation to the sense, they just happened. The voice would stop, and go on for a bit, and stop again. It was rather like listening to someone talking in her sleep.

  It was, perhaps, with some idea of wakening a sleeper that he asked abruptly,

  “How old are you now?”

  “Twenty-seven. Ina is a year younger.”

  “I thought you would be about that when I saw you in the train.”

  She said in that expressionless way,

  “Did you-see me?”

  “Oh, yes. You were sitting next to the door into the corridor. I saw you, but you didn’t see me-you were about a million miles away.”

  The tone of her voice changed for the first time. It had been grave and level. Now it was touched by a faint shade of something which might have been surprise. She said,

  “Not quite so far as that.”

  “Go on-I interrupted. You and Ina went to school. Were you happy?”

  “Ina was. I should have been. But it was the same thing all over again-the money part of it, you know. Sometimes it came, and sometimes it didn’t. Just before I was eighteen my father came to England and died. There wasn’t any money. I learned to type, and Miss Fisher got me a job. Ina had one too, but-I told you-she married Cyril Felton. There was a lot of worry, and she can’t stand worry-it knocks her over. We’ve just managed to carry on.”

  “And why were you a million miles away? Something happened. What?”

  She said, “How did you know? Yes, something did happen.”

  “Go on.”

  She laughed.

  “I don’t really believe in it, you know-not yet. I haven’t told anyone-there hasn’t been time. Perhaps if I tell you, it will make it feel real.”

  “You can always try.”

  Her hand moved in his, not withdrawing itself, just turning a little. When she spoke there were not quite so many of those pauses.

  “It began about six months ago, only I didn’t know there was anything in it then. A Mr. Brook came into the office and asked about houses. He was oldish-rather sharp in his manner. He took a long time, going through the particulars of everything we had on our books. He asked a lot of questions-about the neighbourhood-about shops, social things-where did I shop myself-did I belong to a tennis club, a dramatic society. I thought he was asking on account of his own family. Actually, I can see now that he wanted to know how I lived, what I did. I had to tell him about Ina, to explain why I didn’t do any of the things he asked about. Of course he must have made other enquiries too-in fact I know he did. He went away without doing anything about a house, and I put him down as one of those people who just go round wasting time.”

  “And what was he really?”

  She said, “You’re quick.” And then, “He was my father’s brother-my uncle, Martin Brand.”

  “And? What happened next?”

  “Nothing for six months. Then yesterday I got a letter from a firm of solicitors-Ashton & Fenwick, Lawton Street. They’re big people, quite well known.”

  “Yes.”

  “They said to come up and see them-there was something to my advantage. You know, just a stiff lawyer’s letter. It didn’t tell me anything. I didn’t say anything to Ina and Cyril, but I showed it to Mr. Morton where I work, and he was very kind. He gave me the day off, and I went up-today.”

  “And was there something to your advantage?”
r />   “Yes, there was. Mr. Ashton told me about Mr. Brook being my uncle. He said he was dead and he hadn’t wished me to be told until after the funeral. Then he said that he had left me all his money. That’s the part that keeps on floating away. I just can’t get it to feel real. When I think of it-I don’t feel- quite real either.”

  The hand that was holding hers closed firmly.

  “You’ll get used to it. It’s surprising how soon you can get used to having money. It’s much easier than getting used to not having it.”

  There was a long pause, after which she said rather faintly,

  “It’s such a lot-”

  He wondered what she would call a lot. What had she been managing on? Five pounds a week? With the delicate sister thrown in, to say nothing of Cyril who almost certainly didn’t earn his keep, let alone come anywhere near supporting his wife! He would have liked to know what Martin Brand’s pile amounted to, but even at this moment he did not feel quite equal to putting the question. Instead he laughed, found that it hurt him sharply, and wondered if he had a broken a rib, or ribs. Hideously inconvenient if he had.

  The train of thought set up by this induced his next remark.

  “I’m supposed to be flying to America in ten days’ time.”

  She said in an abstracted voice,

  “I liked being there. I’d like to go back. Are you going to stay?”

  “Only a month. Business. My mother was an American, and I have a sister married over there-about the only relation I’ve got.”

  Her hand moved. He thought the movement was involuntary.

  “I’ve come in for a lot of relations as well as the money. It’s rather frightening. My uncle didn’t like them. He wrote me-an odd letter. I don’t know why he went on living with them if he felt like that.”

  He began to be quite sure about the rib. It just didn’t do to laugh. He said,

  “Perhaps they lived with him.”

  “Oh, yes, they did. There’s a house-it sounds big-and they must have expected-they must have thought it would come to them-and the money too. I haven’t had time to think about it yet, but I shall have to.”

  His hand was steady on hers.

  “These things have a way of settling themselves. I shouldn’t worry about it now.”

  After a very long silence she said,

  “If I’d been killed, Ina would have got some of it, and the relations would have had the rest. It would have saved a lot of trouble. If we don’t get out-”

  He said quite loudly and firmly,

  “Oh, but we’re going to get out.”

  Chapter 3

  Lying in hospital with a couple of broken ribs, Richard Cunningham was aware of a zest for life which recalled his early twenties. The morning papers had informed him of just how lucky his escape had been-his and Marian Brand’s. The smallest of the papers naturally had the largest headlines. TRAPPED UNDER TRAIN-WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE BURIED ALIVE-EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH RICHARD CUNNINGHAM. That made him laugh, and you really can’t afford to laugh with your ribs strapped up. He recalled a reporter buzzing round when first Marian, and then he, had been dragged out from under the partially shifted wreckage. To the best of his recollection, he had replied to a spate of questions as to what it felt like to be buried alive with the single word, “Damnable!” After which he had tried to get on to his own feet instead of being carried like a carcase, and had promptly covered himself with shame by passing out.

  He perused the exclusive interview with enjoyment. It was packed with high-toned drama, and it would make a magnificent advertisement for his new book.

  He looked across at the long window which framed a view of low cloud and sheeting rain, and found it exceedingly good to be alive and-practically-undamaged. Daylight, even of this suffused and teeming kind, was an uplifting sight. He might have been lying on a mortuary slab, instead of which here he was, in a clean bed, and quite comfortable so long as he didn’t move too suddenly. Everything was pretty good.

  He began to think about Marian Brand. She hadn’t been taken to hospital-a stubborn line of enquiry had elicited that. She had said she was all right and would rather go home. She had been saying that quite perseveringly just before he went tumbling down into his swoon. An idiotic performance on both their parts. If he hadn’t been fool enough to faint he would have put it across her. Something on the lines of “Of course I know what it’s all about-you think Ina will be frightened. But if you want to terrify her into fits you have only got to loom up looking like death, with your hat stove in, your hair full of cinders and your face smothered in dust and blood.”

  He frowned when he remembered the blood. Someone had turned a powerful electric torch on her, and she was a messy sight. Of course a little blood goes a long way on a face. He thought it came from a cut somewhere up on the edge of the scalp. He supposed the first-aid people would have cleaned her up before they let her go. Because she had gone. Quite definitely they hadn’t managed to get her to the hospital. She had just faded away. Rather an intriguing end to the whole curious experience. Too commonplace really, to meet in this cool antiseptic light of day and compare bandages. He had an idea that she would have one round her head-or perhaps only a bit of strapping. It came to him with a feeling of shock that he wouldn’t find her commonplace if they were to meet emptying garbage cans-that being the least romantic occupation he could think of offhand. He called his last view of her to mind. If a feeling of romance can survive a battered hat sliding from dishevelled hair, garments suggestive of the dustbin which his fancy had just called up, a face rendered ghastly by blood and sweat and dirt, its roots must run down deep to the hidden springs of life. The picture came and stayed. Her eyes looked at him out of the reddened grime with which her face was smeared. The feeling of romance survived. He began to wonder what was happening to him.

  On the second day he rang up the house-agents and got her address. He remembered that she had said Mr. Morton when she was speaking of her employer. “Mr. Morton was kind-he gave me the day off.” The telephone directory did the rest. He persevered until he achieved Mr. Morton himself, and was informed that Miss Brand was not in the office- Miss Brand had been in a railway accident.

  Richard Cunningham said,

  “Yes, I know. I was in it too. I wanted to be sure that Miss Brand was all right.”

  Mr. Morton blew his nose and opined that it had been a providential escape. He didn’t sound like a live wire, but he did sound kind and concerned. Miss Brand was taking a few days off. The experience had naturally been a shock. He was sorry to say they would be losing her services shortly-a change in her circumstances. “Her address? Well-I really don’t know-”

  Richard Cunningham said,

  “Yes, she told me. We were fellow travellers. My name is Richard Cunningham. I’m in hospital with a couple of broken ribs. I thought I should just like to send Miss Brand some flowers. I don’t think she would consider it intrusive.”

  Mr. Morton read the papers. He knew all about Richard Cunningham. He had even read the exclusive interview. He made no further difficulty about giving the address.

  Chapter 4

  In spite of having been cleaned up by an ambulance party, Marian Brand was not able to avoid arousing a good deal of alarm at No. 52 Sandringham Road, where she and Ina and Cyril inhabited two bedrooms and a sitting-room. The house belonged to Mrs. Deane, who was the widow of a deceased partner in the firm of Morton and Fenwick. She was a nice woman but not characterized by any degree of optimism.

  By the time that Ina had begun to wonder what on earth was keeping Marian so late Mrs. Deane was able to supply a number of possible reasons, none of which were calculated to restore cheerfulness and calm. They ranged from an encounter with a lunatic in a railway carriage experienced by the friend of a sister-in-law’s aunt, to the really moving tale of a cousin’s mother-in-law who had been stuck in a lavatory on the Underground and unable to extricate herself until the inspector came round.

  “I won’t
say she wasn’t a sharp-tongued woman, and I won’t say she wasn’t a good deal worked-up after six hours and wondering what her husband was going to say if she wasn’t there to cook his supper, and I daresay she said more than she ought. Anyhow he took a high tone with her. Said there wasn’t anything wrong with the lock that he could see, and if she’d done the right thing it would have opened easily enough. Well, you can just imagine what she said to that! And he came back with, ‘All right, I’ll show you.’ My dear Mrs. Felton, you won’t believe it, but she went back in with him, and when he went to show her-there was the door stuck like glue again and the pair of them trapped, and there they were till the morning!”

  Ina stared in horror.

  “Oh, Mrs. Deane, why did she go back?”

  Mrs. Deane shook a large and rather untidy head. She had a passion for trying new hair styles culled from a page in a weekly paper headed “Why be dowdy?”, and they were not always very successful. Her faded hair, well streaked with grey, was at the moment disintegrating from the curls in which it had been set. She gave it a casual pat as she said,

  “You may well ask! You wouldn’t think anyone would, or him either! But the fact is they’d got each other’s backs up, and neither of them thinking anything in the world except proving they were right and the other one wrong.”

  “How grim! What did they do?”

  Mrs. Deane gave the hair another pat.

  “Stayed there till morning. Mrs. Pratt said she thought she knew something about swearing-her husband had been at sea, and you know what sailors are-but the language that inspector used was beyond anything she’d ever heard in her life. And you can’t really wonder! And after that they had the inspectors go round a lot oftener so it shouldn’t happen again-locking the door after the horse was stolen-because once was enough, I’m sure, and not at all the sort of thing you’d expect to have cropping up constantly, though you never can tell.”