Injury Time by Beryl Bainbridge Page A

fell down.’ She knew Edward was observing her critically – watching her face, her movements, noticing the way she spoke. Often, when she felt particularly rested and well, he would tell her she looked tired.
    ‘I’d better take that upstairs,’ she said, admiring the expensive fur about Muriel’s shoulders. She would have taken Simpson’s coat too, but he kept bending down and fiddling with his sock.
    ‘Please don’t trouble,’ Muriel said, looking round for somewhere safe to lodge the cape. ‘Any old place will do.’
    But Binny insisted. When she held the fur in her arms it felt like some animal drowned in a pond. She ran upstairs stroking it tenderly, and laid it across the ping-pong table.
    Simpson remembered he’d left a bottle of wine in the car. He would fetch it at once.
    ‘Don’t bother, old boy,’ said Edward. ‘We’ve plenty to drink, believe you me.’
    ‘Nonsense,’ Simpson said. ‘I won’t be a jiffy.’
    Limping painfully down the steps, he turned left at the hedge and began to run as fast as his injured ankle would allow, along the street in the direction of the garage. Earlier, when he’d been looking for the house, he’d observed a telephone box through the rear window of the car. Stumbling down the alleyway, he saw a man running from the opposite end of the lane towards him. They reached the kiosk at the same time.
    ‘Do you mind?’ said the man. ‘I’ve a taxi waiting. The wife’s just had a baby.’ He pulled open the door and went inside.
    Simpson fumed. He had tried unsuccessfully all afternoon to make a telephone call. When Muriel was in the bedroom dressing for dinner he’d tried again, but just as he was getting through he’d thought he heard her on the stairs. He strolled up and down, struggling for breath. There was a taxi with its engine running parked in the main street at the end of the alley.
    He heard the man say, ‘Yes . . . no complications . . . about half an hour ago.’ When he came out of the box he was smiling.
    ‘Congratulations,’ Simpson said grudgingly.
    ‘Ta,’ said the man.
    Simpson dialled the number. ‘Hello . . . is that Marcia?’
    ‘No, it isn’t, I’m afraid,’ said a masculine voice. ‘Hold on, I’ll get her.’
    Marcia came to the phone and asked who it was.
    ‘It’s me . . . George. Was that the candidate fellow I just spoke to?’
    ‘He’s out,’ she said.
    ‘Oh. It was Lloyd, was it?’
    ‘No it wasn’t, sweetie. Just a friend. Why are you ringing?’
    ‘We were out for dinner and I thought I’d say Hello.’ He’d always impressed on Marcia that he wasn’t the sort of chap to run around behind his wife’s back. That wasn’t his style at all. He and his wife, he had told her, went their own separate ways. Within certain limits, he was a free agent. ‘We’re in a very nice house in the park,’ he said.
    ‘With a call box?’
    ‘There’s an office in the house. The fellow’s a merchant banker. I wondered if you’re free tomorrow night?’
    ‘Oh, sweetie . . . what a shame. I’m not.’
    ‘Well, what about lunch then?’
    He thought he heard someone whispering at the other end of the line.
    ‘Look here, sweetie,’ Marcia said. ‘Give me a tinkle at the office in the morning. I’ll let you know then.’
    ‘All right,’ he said.
    Hobbling, he scurried back up the road.
    Edward gave the guests a little sherry to sip before dinner. He didn’t offer any to Binny. The Simpsons wanted to sit on the sofa, but Edward forestalled them. ‘It’s a shade uncomfortable,’ he said, and laughed. He had made love to Binny many times on the sofa, though it was too short for him to lie full length upon it. His left knee, exposed to constant friction on the hair-cord covering of the floor, was permanently scarred. When he was in the car sometimes, driving to work, or in the office talking to a client, he would gently touch this proof of passion with his fingertips and wince with happiness. He was