Free The Trouble-Makers by Celia Fremlin Page A

then you really ought to contribute something—some complaint, some grievance—for the others’ delectation. To come merely as a listener like this might be loyal, but it was also mean—like coming empty-handed to a bottle-party.
    It was past eleven when Mary reappeared, and by then Katharine was just leaving. Mary said goodbye to her quietly, and with a lack of warmth which yet somehow was not hurtful; on the contrary, it seemed to hold some secret, intimate message which Katharine could not read.
    So she was not really surprised when, a few minutes later, as she set off down the road, she heard quick, awkward footsteps behind her; awkward because Mary’s supple figure was crippled by a tight skirt and high heels, but quick with a despairing, pattering urgency.
    “Wait, Katharine!” panted Mary, like a small child left behind. “Wait! Wait for me!” She drew level; and now Katharine noticed that her face was childishly streaked with tears. “Katharine I must talk to you— now !You’re the only person who will understand.”
    Few people can resist the flattery of this sort of appeal; but all the same, Katharine had to catch her bus.
    “Mary—of course!” she said warmly. “But I’ve got to go to work now. Could I come in this evening, on my way home?”
    “No, I must tell you— now !”insisted Mary with a little gasp. “I’ll walk along with you—I’ll get on the bus wherever you’re going— anything. You see, Katharine, I’ve been telling lies the whole morning. At least—not quite. That is, actually, I haven’t been telling lies at all—Alan did say it was a dark man in a raincoat who stabbed him. He told the doctors—the police—everybody. But it wasn’t, Katharine. It was me.”

CHAPTER VII
    K ATHARINE TOOK HER friend’s arm, and continued to walk at a steady pace.
    “I thought so,” she said, quietly, untruthfully, and with absolute certainty that this was the right thing to say. “You mustn’t be too upset about it, Mary; after all, anybody can lose their self-control for a moment, and it isn’t as if you’d hurt him badly. How did it happen?”
    Mary’s head was bent, as though she fought her way against a great wind. Her high heels clattered painfully along by Katharine’s side; she seemed confused, beaten, unable to find where in her story to begin. Katharine tried to help her.
    “You said you’d had a row yesterday,” she prompted. “You remember—when I caught you up. You were walking slowly so as not to get home while Alan was still there. Was he there after all?”
    Mary’s head lifted a little, gratefully.
    “Yes—yes, he was. That’s how it all started. You see, after you’d gone in, I still waited about—walking around, you know—for quite a long time. But at last I had to go in….” Her steps dragged slower, as if she was reliving all over again her reluctant entry into her home last night. “And then, the moment I came into the hall I knew—I could feel—that Alan was still there, in his study. As I stood there, wondering whether to slip out again and come back later, the study door opened and he came out and looked at me. Just that. Looked at me. And then he looked at the clock—it was ten past six by then—and didn’t say a word. Oh, Katharine, I know this sounds silly, but you don’t know how Alan’s eyes are when he just looks ! Everything he is thinking is right there in them, shining, and I can read it, like some awful language that he has forced me tolearn. I was reading it then—how I had been out all day, neglecting the house, neglecting him—how I hadn’t lit the sitting-room fire, or got tea ready, or made the beds properly or anything—and I couldn’t explain, or argue, or answer back, because he hadn’t said anything—do you understand, Katharine? You can’t contradict someone who hasn’t said anything, that’s what’s so awful about it. So awful. So awful….
    Her voice trailed into a sort of moan, her foot tripped on