The Breaking Point Page 3

  They stood together at the top of the basement stair. What an amazing thing. It was an act of God that he had suddenly arrived. He stared at her, shocked.

  ‘You’ve been in some trouble, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Trouble?’ She gestured with her hands, and the look of apathy, of despair, returned to her face. ‘It’s trouble enough to be a stranger in this country, and for the father of my little boy to go off and leave me without any money, and not to know where to turn. I tell you, Mr Sims, if you had not come today . . .’ she did not finish her sentence, but glanced towards the child tied to the foot-scraper and shrugged her shoulders.‘Poor Johnnie . . .’ she said, ‘it’s not your fault.’

  ‘Poor Johnnie indeed,’ echoed Fenton, ‘and poor you. Well, I’ll do my part to put an end to your troubles, I assure you.’

  ‘You’re very good. Truly, I thank you.’

  ‘On the contrary, I thank you.’ He made her a little bow and, bending down, touched the top of the child’s head. ‘Good-bye, Johnnie, see you tomorrow.’ His victim gazed back at him without expression.

  ‘Good-bye, Mrs . . . Mrs . . . ?’

  ‘Kaufman is the name. Anna Kaufman.’

  She watched him down the steps and through the gate. The banished cat slunk past his legs on a return journey to the broken window. Fenton waved his hat with a flourish to the woman, to the boy, to the cat, to the whole fabric of the mute, drab villa.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ he called, and set off down Boulting Street with the jaunty step of someone at the start of a great adventure. His high spirits did not even desert him when he arrived at his own front-door. He let himself in with his latchkey and went up the stairs humming some old song of thirty years ago. Edna, as usual, was on the telephone - he could hear the interminable conversation of one woman to another. The drinks were set out on the small table in the drawing-room. The cocktail biscuits were laid ready, and the dish of salted almonds. The extra glasses meant that visitors were expected. Edna put her hand over the mouthpiece of the receiver and said, ‘The Alhusons will be coming. I’ve asked them to stay on for cold supper.’

  Her husband smiled and nodded. Long before his usual time he poured himself a thimbleful of sherry to round off the conspiracy, the perfection, of the past hour. The conversation on the telephone ceased.

  ‘You look better,’ said Edna. ‘The walk did you good.’

  Her innocence amused him so much that he nearly choked.

  2

  It was a lucky thing that the woman had mentioned an artist’s props. He would have looked a fool arriving the following afternoon with nothing. As it was, it meant leaving the office early, and an expedition to fit himself up with the necessary paraphernalia. He let himself go. Easel, canvases, tube after tube of paint, brushes, turpentine - what had been intended as a few parcels became bulky packages impossible to transport except in a taxi. It all added to the excitement, though. He must play his part thoroughly. The assistant in the shop, fired by his customer’s ardour, kept adding to the list of paints; and, as Fenton handled the tubes of colour and read the names, there was something intensely satisfying about the purchase, and he allowed himself to be reckless, the very words chrome and sienna and terre-verte going to his head like wine. Finally he tore himself away from temptation, and climbed into a taxi with his wares. No. 8, Boulting Street, the unaccustomed address instead of his own familiar square added spice to the adventure.

  It was strange, but as the taxi drew up at its destination the row of villas no longer appeared so drab. It was true that yesterday’s wind had dropped, the sun was shining fitfully, and there was a hint in the air of April and longer days to come; but that was not the point. The point was that No. 8 had something of expectancy about it. As he paid his driver and carried the packages from the taxi, he saw that the dark blinds in the basement had been removed and makeshift curtains, tangerine-coloured and a shock to the eye, hung in their place. Even as he noted this the curtains were pulled back and the woman, the child in her arms, its face smeared with jam, waved up at him. The cat leapt from the sill and came towards him purring, rubbing an arched back against his trouser leg. The taxi drove away, and the woman came down the steps to greet him.

  ‘Johnnie and I have been watching for you the whole afternoon,’ she said. ‘Is that all you’ve brought?’

  ‘All? Isn’t it enough?’ he laughed.

  She helped him carry the things down the basement stair, and as he glanced into the kitchen he saw that an attempt had been made to tidy it, besides the hanging of the curtains. The row of shoes had been banished underneath the dresser, along with the child’s toys, and a cloth, laid for tea, had been spread on the table.

  ‘You’ll never believe the dust there was in your room,’ she said. ‘I was working there till nearly midnight.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ he told her. ‘It’s not worth it, for the time.’

  She stopped before the door and looked at him, the blank look returning to her face. ‘It’s not for long, then?’ she faltered. ‘I somehow thought, from what you said yesterday, it would be for some weeks?’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean that,’ he said swiftly. ‘I meant that I shall make such a devil of a mess anyway, with these paints, there was no need to dust.’

  Relief was plain. She summoned a smile and opened the door. ‘Welcome, Mr Sims,’ she said.

  He had to give her her due. She had worked. The room did look different. Smelt different, too. No more leaking gas, but carbolic instead - or was it Jeyes? Disinfectant, anyway. The blackout strip had vanished from the window. She had even got someone in to repair the broken glass. The cat’s bed - the packing-case - had gone.There was a table now against the wall, and two little rickety chairs, and an armchair also, covered with the same fearful tangerine material he had observed in the kitchen windows. Above the mantelpiece, bare yesterday, she had hung a large, brightly-coloured reproduction of a Madonna and Child, with an almanac beneath. The eyes of the Madonna, ingratiating, demure, smiled at Fenton.

  ‘Well . . .’ he began, ‘well, bless me . . .’ and to conceal his emotion, because it was really very touching that the wretched woman had taken so much trouble on what was probably one of her last days on this earth, he turned away and began untying his packages.

  ‘Let me help you, Mr Sims,’ she said, and before he could protest she was down on her knees struggling with the knots, unwrapping the paper and fixing the easel for him.Then together they emptied the boxes of all the tubes of colour, laid them out in rows on the table, and stacked the canvases against the wall. It was amusing, like playing some absurd game, and curiously she entered into the spirit of it although remaining perfectly serious at the same time.

  ‘What are you going to paint first?’ she asked, when all was fixed and even a canvas set up upon the easel. ‘You have some subject in mind, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘I’ve a subject in mind.’ He began to smile, her faith in him was so supreme, and suddenly she smiled too and said, ‘I’ve guessed your subject.’

  He felt himself go pale. How had she guessed? What was she driving at?

  ‘What do you mean, you’ve guessed?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘It’s Johnnie, isn’t it?’

  He could not possibly kill the child before the mother - what an appalling suggestion. And why was she trying to push him into it like this? There was time enough, and anyway his plan was not yet formed . . .

  She was nodding her head wisely, and he brought himself back to reality with an effort. She was talking of painting, of course.

  ‘You’re a clever woman,’ he said. ‘Yes. Johnnie’s my subject.’

  ‘He’ll be good, he won’t move,’ she said. ‘If I tie him up he’ll sit for hours. Do you want him now?’

  ‘No, no,’ Fenton replied testily. ‘I’m in no hurry at all. I’ve got to think it all out.’

  Her face fell. She seemed disappointed. She glanced round the room once more, converted
so suddenly and so surprisingly into what she hoped was an artist’s studio.

  ‘Then let me give you a cup of tea,’ she said, and to save argument he followed her into the kitchen. There he sat himself down on the chair she drew forward for him, and drank tea and ate Bovril sandwiches, watched by the unflinching eyes of the grubby little boy.

  ‘Da . . .’ uttered the child suddenly, and put out its hand.

  ‘He calls all men Da,’ said his mother, ‘though his own father took no notice of him. Don’t worry Mr Sims, Johnnie.’

  Fenton forced a polite smile. Children embarrassed him. He went on eating his Bovril sandwiches and sipping his tea.

  The woman sat down and joined him, stirring her tea in an absent way until it must have been cold and unfit to drink.

  ‘It’s nice to have someone to talk to,’ she said. ‘Do you know, until you came, Mr Sims, I was so alone . . . The empty house above, no workmen even passing in and out. And this is not a good neighbourhood - I have no friends at all.’

  Better and better, he thought. There’ll be nobody to miss her when she’s gone. It would have been a tricky thing to get away with had the rest of the house been inhabited. As it was, it could be done at any time of the day and no one the wiser. Poor kid, she could not be more than twenty-six or seven; what a life she must have led.

  ‘. . . he just went off without a word,’ she was saying. ‘Three years only we had been in this country, and we moved from place to place with no settled job.We were in Manchester at one time, Johnnie was born in Manchester.’

  ‘Awful spot,’ he sympathized, ‘never stops raining.’

  ‘I told him, “You’ve got to get work,” ’ she continued, banging her fist on the table, acting the moment over again. ‘I said, “We can’t go on like this. It’s no life for me, or for your child.” And, Mr Sims, there was no money for the rent. What was I to say to the landlord when he called? And then, being aliens here, there is always some fuss with the police.’

  ‘Police?’ said Fenton, startled.

  ‘The papers,’ she explained, ‘there is such trouble with our papers. You know how it is, we have to register. Mr Sims, my life has not been a happy one, not for many years. In Austria I was a servant for a time to a bad man. I had to run away. I was only sixteen then, and when I met my husband, who was not my husband then, it seemed at last that there might be some hope if we got to England . . .’

  She droned on, watching him and stirring her tea the while, and her voice with its slow German accent, rather pleasing and lilting to the ear, was somehow soothing and a pleasant accompaniment to his thoughts, mingling with the ticking of the alarm clock on the dresser and the thumping of the little boy’s spoon upon his plate. It was delightful to remind himself that he was not in the office, and not at home either, but was Marcus Sims the artist, surely a great artist, if not in colour at least in premeditated crime; and here was his victim putting her life into his hands, looking upon him, in fact, almost as her saviour - as indeed he was.

  ‘It’s queer,’ she said slowly, ‘yesterday I did not know you. Today I tell you my life. You are my friend.’

  ‘Your sincere friend,’ he said, patting her hand. ‘I assure you it’s the truth.’ He smiled, and pushed back his chair.

  She reached for his cup and saucer and put them in the sink, then wiped the child’s mouth with the sleeve of her jumper. ‘And now, Mr Sims,’ she said, ‘which would you prefer to do first? Come to bed, or paint Johnnie?’

  He stared at her. Come to bed? Had he heard correctly?

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.

  She stood patiently, waiting for him to move.

  ‘It’s for you to say, Mr Sims,’ she said. ‘It makes no difference to me. I’m at your disposal.’

  He felt his neck turn slowly red, and the colour mount to his face and forehead. There was no doubt about it, no misunderstanding the half-smile she now attempted, and the jerk of her head towards the bedroom. The poor wretched girl was making him some sort of offer, she must believe that he actually expected . . . wanted . . . It was appalling.

  ‘My dear Madame Kaufman,’ he began - somehow the Madame sounded better than Mrs, and it was in keeping with her alien nationality - ‘I am afraid there is some error.You have misunderstood me.’

  ‘Please?’ she said, puzzled, and then summoned a smile again. ‘You don’t have to be afraid. No one will come. And I will tie up Johnnie.’

  It was preposterous. Tie up that little boy . . . Nothing he had said to her could possibly have made her misconstrue the situation.Yet to show his natural anger and leave the house would mean the ruin of all his plans, his perfect plans, and he would have to begin all over again elsewhere.

  ‘It’s . . . it’s extremely kind of you, Madame Kaufman,’ he said. ‘I do appreciate your offer. It’s most generous. The fact is, unfortunately, I’ve been totally incapacitated for many years . . . an old war wound . . . I’ve had to put all that sort of thing out of my life long ago. Indeed, all my efforts go into my art, my painting, I concentrate entirely upon that. Hence my deep pleasure in finding this little retreat, which will make all the difference to my world. And if we are to be friends . . .’

  He searched for further words to extricate himself. She shrugged her shoulders. There was neither relief nor disappointment in her face. What was to be, would be.

  ‘That’s all right, Mr Sims,’ she said. ‘I thought perhaps you were lonely. I know what loneliness can be. And you are so kind. If at any time you feel you would like . . .’

  ‘Oh, I’ll tell you immediately,’ he interrupted swiftly. ‘No question of that. But alas, I’m afraid . . . Well now, to work, to work.’ And he smiled again, making some show of bustle, and opened the door of the kitchen. Thank heaven she had buttoned up the cardigan which she had so disastrously started to undo. She lifted the child from his chair and proceeded to follow him.

  ‘I have always wanted to see a real artist at work,’ she said to him, ‘and now, lo and behold, my chance has come. Johnnie will appreciate this when he is older. Now, where would you like me to put him, Mr Sims? Shall he stand or sit? What pose would be best?’

  It was too much. From the frying-pan into the fire. Fenton was exasperated. The woman was trying to bully him. He could not possibly have her hanging about like this. If that horrid little boy had to be disposed of, then his mother must be out of the way.

  ‘Never mind the pose,’ he said testily. ‘I’m not a photographer. And if there is one thing I cannot bear, it’s being watched when I work. Put Johnnie there, on the chair. I suppose he’ll sit still?’

  ‘I’ll fetch the strap,’ she said, and while she went back to the kitchen he stared moodily at the canvas on the easel. He must do something about it, that was evident. Fatal to leave it blank. She would not understand. She would begin to suspect that something was wrong. She might even repeat her fearful offer of five minutes ago . . .

  He lifted one or two tubes of paint, and squeezed out blobs of colour on to the palette. Raw sienna. . . . Naples yellow. . . . Good names they gave these things. He and Edna had been to Siena once, years ago, when they were first married. He remembered the rose-rust brickwork, and that square - what was the name of the square? - where they held a famous horse-race. Naples yellow. They had never got as far as Naples. See Naples and die. Pity they had not travelled more. They had fallen into a rut, always going up to Scotland, but Edna did not care for the heat. Azure blue . . . made you think of the deepest, or was it the clearest, blue? Lagoons in the South Seas, and flying-fish. How jolly the blobs of colour looked upon the palette . . .

  ‘So . . . be good, Johnnie.’ Fenton looked up.The woman had secured the child to the chair, and was patting the top of his head. ‘If there is anything you want you have only to call, Mr Sims.’

  ‘Thank you, Madame Kaufman.’

  She crept out of the room, closing the door softly. The artist must not be disturbed. The artist must be left alone with his creation.
/>   ‘Da,’ said Johnnie suddenly.

  ‘Be quiet,’ said Fenton sharply. He was breaking a piece of charcoal in two. He had read somewhere that artists drew in the head first with charcoal. He adjusted the broken end between his fingers, and pursing his lips drew a circle, the shape of a full moon, upon the canvas. Then he stepped back and half-closed his eyes. The odd thing was that it did look like the rounded shape of a face without the features . . . Johnnie was watching him, his eyes large. Fenton realized that he needed a much larger canvas. The one on the easel would only take the child’s head. It would look much more effective to have the whole head and shoulders on the canvas, because he could then use some of the azure blue to paint the child’s blue jersey.

  He replaced the first canvas with a larger one. Yes, that was a far better size. Now for the outline of the face again . . . the eyes . . . two little dots for the nose, and a small slit for the mouth . . . two lines for the neck, and two more, rather squared like a coat-hanger, for the shoulders. It was a face all right, a human face, not exactly that of Johnnie at the moment, but given time . . . The essential thing was to get some paint on to that canvas. He simply must use some of the paint. Feverishly he chose a brush, dipped it in turpentine and oil, and then, with little furtive dabs at the azure blue and the flake white to mix them, he stabbed the result on to the canvas. The bright colour, gleaming and glistening with excess of oil, seemed to stare back at him from the canvas, demanding more. It was not the same blue as the blue of Johnnie’s jersey, but what of that?

  Becoming bolder, he sloshed on further colour, and now the blue was all over the lower part of the canvas in vivid streaks, making a strange excitement, contrasting with the charcoal face. The face now looked like a real face, and the patch of wall behind the child’s head, which had been nothing but a wall when he first entered the room, surely had colour to it after all, a pinkish-green. He snatched up tube after tube and squeezed out blobs; he chose another brush so as not to spoil the brush with blue on it . . . damn it, that burnt sienna was not like the Siena he had visited at all, but more like mud. He must wipe it off, he must have rags, something that wouldn’t spoil . . . He crossed quickly to the door.