Rich Deceiver: A Novel by Gillian White | eBook

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Rich Deceiver

A Novel

By Gillian White

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

CHAPTER 1

Another dawn comes to Nelson Street. See how it drifts off the gentle green domes of the glass Arcade, giving it the look of a ghostly mosque, before dropping with a flop and spiking itself on the aerialed chimneys. It slinks to the door of number nine, it rests on the step, it wets one edge of the Mirror with an amber tongue.

Habit tugs Ellie Freeman from room to room, drawing back curtains. She is a woman with dishevelled hair, wrapped in a dressing-gown the colour of a cornflake. Everything in her humble home has kept to its shape and form in the night: every picture is straight, every piece of furniture in position, no matter that she's been to sleep and abandoned it for the last seven hours.

She picks up yesterday's paper with the crossword puzzle half-done and puts it beside the bin, wincing slightly at the sticky mess on the lino. Doesn't matter, she tells herself, she can sort that out later. Today is her day off and she will clean the house because she always cleans the house on a Wednesday.

The gurgle of the sink upstairs reminds her of a straw sucking lazily in the dregs of a carton. That's all right, he's up then. She plods past the letterbox three times, not even eyeing the paper lest she be tempted, and the buff envelopes crammed in beside it stick out, rear up where they bend and crease and touch the hem of Malc's raincoat. They are the same colour exactly, apart from the stamps which are crisscrossed and old-looking, like the lining. She is deliberately leaving the paper as a treat for later. She'll start the crossword and Malc will finish it this evening.

'Anything worth having?' The sound of the lavatory chain wafts out behind him, and she hears the flump of the towel on the landing. Wednesday ... washday ... even Malc knows that.

So she moves to collect the mail and the paper, glancing at it casually as she heads for the kettle in the kitchen. Without really thinking she slits the only envelope addressed to her; without really reading she reads it.

And then she knows what people mean about being dead and floating high in one corner, observing themselves, because the same thing is happening to her. She is watching herself from behind. It is her—Ellie Freeman—she knows because she's seen herself from that angle only just last week on video. Surprised at her own rear view, she had told the Dixons man, who blinked up at her without interest, 'Think of all those people going through life only knowing about half of themselves.'

'Well, there's not an awful lot you can do about the back,' the Dixons man said, bored. 'And nobody takes any notice of people's backs, anyway.'

Ellie does. Ellie takes notice of people's backs, since she is often not brave enough to stare at their fronts. No, backs are important ... yet ignored.

So she watches her own head come up from the letter, tight as a cork in a bottle neck, and sees it going down again to check. She is even able to look out of the kitchen window at the strip of back yard, the wall at the end and the scuffed old sunflower beside the dustbin. She watches her neck stretch and her shoulders sag—the tension before the explosion—how she moves her weight from one leg to the other and how her dressing-gown cord is twisted and misses one of the waist loops so that the heavy towelling drags down at one side.

From behind, with her blue dress on, she'd looked like a Domestos bottle, that's what had shocked her in Dixons.

And then she is suddenly back inside her own body again, and her brain is screaming, 'How much? How much?' And here she is, shaking the paper because it refuses to tell her ... either that, or she is refusing to believe it!

The road to riches is laid out before her.

'One million, five hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds.' And the letter says quite a lot else, only she hasn't time to read it all, about somebody calling this morning, investment advice, very many sincere congratulations ... It reads like a birthday card, or one to someone who has come through a dangerous operation and she knows that flowers will inevitably follow. It also asks if she would like to change her mind and accept the publicity, and says that they would have telephoned but were unable to get through.

That is polite of them, because she doesn't have a telephone. They sound excited, as if they might well do something silly. She'll have to ring them and stop them coming—she'll have to convince them to leave her alone.

She doesn't have a telephone and she hasn't got a car.

She flaps round the kitchen in a perfect oval, following the edge of the old rush that.

She hasn't even got a bank account. 'It's never worth it for what we've got and those bastards just want to get you in trouble for the sake of the interest,' Malc says. Malcolm stopped doing the pools last New Year after twenty years at it. 'Bloody waste of time, and they say here they reckon you're more likely to get struck by lightning than win. That's what they reckon and that's what it says here.'

But Malc tells lies easily. Ellie knows he tells lies because of the one he lays on her constantly, the one that says that their lives are finished. He tells her flatly as if there's no arguing about it, 'We've had all the chances we're going to get and we've missed them.' The way he says it makes it sound as if she is to blame. But Ellie looks forward to every day just as she always did, hoping that something nice will happen, and the suspicion that it won't makes no difference ... she isn't being silly, it's just that she cannot continue to live without pleasurable expectations of some sort. So Ellie carried on doing the pools, secretly, in her own name, a forecast by postal order, while Malc watched the football from deep in his chair, angrily, and checked the results automatically. Since he'd thrown in his hand Ellie had lived in dread that one day Malc's numbers might come up. It would finish him. She'd changed the numbers. She'd never dreamed that she'd win, but still, she'd changed the numbers on her coupon.

Funny really, because she isn't normally a secretive person. Well, there is nothing about her to hide. Thoughts don't count.

She stuffs the letter and cheque deep in her dressing-gown pocket, beneath a wad of tissues as though it is a dirty little packet, a shameful, personal thing that will have to be carried away and burnt afterwards.

'Dear God, what have I gone and done now?'

And why isn't she leaping up the stairs, shouting her head off and telling Malc the news, proving to him that they're not finished, that it is only just beginning?

Well, she doesn't do that because she just can't bear to hear him saying, 'You bloody fool, it's a trick or some sales promotion. Read the small print, you soft sod. You get caught every time, don't you, you and all the other idiots like you.' She knows he'll say that. She knows she'll stand and watch his hope garnering fright, so like a child fearing the worst, begging for contradiction. Oh, she understands why he's so angry and she knows why he's hurt, why he has turned into a sullen man, and frightened, why his sole preoccupation in life is himself. Life, as he tells her again and again, has not been fair. Well, she's contradicted him for his own sake so many times now that she is tired of it. He is not a child.

And then the moment for action is gone, and her behaviour is secretive, and the fact that she is being so sly soon explodes into a massive act of betrayal. She lays the kitchen table for breakfast, trying not to shake.

'One million, five hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds.' It is no good whispering it, either. It sounds just as unreal as it looks. Maybe Malc's cynicism is apt ... maybe it is some trick. She stifles the urge to closet herself away with the letter, she makes herself wait.

When she hears the plodding, socky sound of his feet on the stairs Ellie realises with amazement that she is gasping, and that this is nothing to do with the letter, that she always gasps when he first comes down—before she knows what mood he'll be in. She lowers two eggs into boiling water with her stomach firmly pulled in, and her breath is still doing more of a gasp than a hold. The two eggs float down into the water leaving uneasy streaks of white behind them.

Ellie Freeman twists her head round to look at her husband. It is a long time since she's really seen him, taken any notice of what he looks like, not what he feels like. To a stranger, she supposes, Malc would look like a man with a bad hangover, but that is just the way he comes down with his hair unbrushed and the way his eyes bag underneath first thing in the morning giving him the dull, challenging stare of the drinker. The tie drooping low round his open-neck shirt does not help. He is a forty year old warehouseman and overweight, trying to be all brave in front, with nothing behind except sagging. The clout has gone out of his smile: it's still there sometimes, but shy, and his hair is the same as it always was, curly-tight and crinkled to his head. Some of the handsomeness of him remains too, firming him up, if you look hard. She feels a brief flash of love for what he has been, and for mornings, years ago, which she has forgotten now.

'I'm not going to have time to eat those, not if you're only just putting them in.'

The toast is fringing on burning. She reaches into the fridge for the orange juice and puts it down in front of him. He is reading the headlines and feeling his way across the table to the tea, pouring it. She watches his hand. He only pours out one cup, although her empty one is set right beside it.

'Will you be late back, Malc?'

As he doesn't answer she has to repeat the question, and then he grunts, and says impatiently, 'It's only Wednesday,' and so she knows he will not be late. On a Wednesday, he is home by five, if not five-thirty. He is lucky to have a job at all, with unemployment round here as it is, although the job that he's had for twenty years is constantly under threat. Oh yes, she knows why he's bitter and frightened. So many men round here have become like that lately.

He rustles the paper and says of the rattling eggs, 'I'll not have time for those.' Then he asks, 'Was there anything?'

What is her lie going to sound like? 'No post, other than the usual.'

He rustles again. 'Bills, I suppose,' as if she's sent them.

She wants to rest her hand on his arm and ask, 'Malc, when did you start hating me?'

Ellie spoons the eggs into a double-armed eggcup, a white, porcelain thing which makes her think of a hospital feeder, before sitting down opposite him. She thinks she hears her letter crinkle, she thinks she blushes. She will not remind him that the eggs are there, for if she mentions them at all he will not eat them. If he discovers them by accident, of his own accord, there is a chance that he might.

Sulphurous eggs and a million pounds for breakfast this morning. Oh Malc, when did we die? Was there one, specific moment when we closed our eyes? And who died first, you or me?

What does she care if he eats the eggs or not? But she does care. She cares very badly. And so a game is happening between them, with two contestants playing it, only up until this morning she hasn't quite realised how long it's been going on.

He always leaves home before she does, for on the days Ellie works she has to be at the Arcade to open the shop by nine. Malc has further to go, a twenty-minute bus ride, and he starts at eight. If she tells him about her pools win he will not go to work. For the first time in twenty years, apart from the few days of illness, she knows that he would not go to work.

And what would they do instead? How would they share the great news together? She tries to imagine as she stares out of the window and watches him disappear off down the street in his mac. Her heart sinks—even now she could call him back and take that shuffle out of his step, straighten his back for him, light up his eyes. Her hands grip the windowsill and the ends of her fingers are white with the pressure. They'd go down to the pub and make the announcement ... drinks for the boys all round. And then what? Go round the garages looking for THE CAR—the convertible Merc, oh yes, he has his dreams—with Malc getting louder and louder? He would want the whole world to know. For him, Ellie knew, it would be part of the winning. He would want to take advantage of the special weekend in London, the celebrity celebration at the posh hotel, the theatre trip and all those sequinned models posing.

That's what he thinks enjoyment is now. He gets it from the papers he reads, he gets it off the telly.

And who does she think she is to deprive him of any of that? Doesn't she owe him that much?

They could even live in London now, she supposes, if they wanted to, and move south.

Ellie draws the cheque out of her pocket and spreads it on the kitchen table before her. It is real, it is every bit as real as the remains of her husband's breakfast. Malc has eaten his eggs and now just the broken shells, the smell, and the smokey toast crumbs remain.

She plays the old game of turning the eggshell over so that it doesn't look broken. She smashes it with a teaspoon. The excitement of winning is bursting inside her. She longs to tell someone, even climb to the rooftops, cling to the chimney and shout out the news to the world, swinging Malc's football rattle. 'Poor people don't win the pools,' she remembers Malc telling her. Well, she is poor and she's won. It is just another of his lies. She'd felt like this when Mandy was born ... she'd pushed the new pram up the street and expected everyone to look in it. They had, and with great pride she'd pulled the bunny rabbit cover down to show them. It was that sort of neighbourhood. In those days women were at home, cleaning and looking after children, but now everyone works. Now, after half-past nine, almost every house in the street is empty.

She has made a secret, and if she isn't going to tell Malc then she mustn't tell anyone. If he finds out she has not shared this with him, she knows he will never forgive her, never begin to understand. He'd be hurt and bewildered. So she can't tell Mandy and she can't tell Kev, but can she do it? Is she good at keeping secrets? Ellie doesn't know. This is the first proper secret she's ever had—and she wonders why she didn't consider this when she first decided to go ahead with filling in the pools. The thought that she might react like this had never crossed her mind. All she'd imagined—when she'd given it any thought—was champagne, party-poppers and paper hats. And THE CAR, she supposes, oh yes, the car. And sending for those holiday brochures she used to get so that Mandy and Kev could cut them out, but this time with a view to actually going somewhere!

The furthest she and Malc had ever travelled was to a caravan site by the sea near Harlech.

'One million ...'

She supposes, with her money, she'll attract men now ... men of a particular type who want that kind of life-style and who use silver cigarette cases and wear brogues. Ellie Freeman gets up and, after pushing her hair back from her face, tightens her dressing-gown around her, needing the warmth and the bulk of it, wanting protection. She'll be forty next March, a forty year old millionairess who wants a pee, who works in a gift shop in the Arcade and whose husband has lost his pride. She shakes her head wonderingly. The truth is so simple really that it comes like a pain, and the pain is sweet though it cuts her chest sharply. She doesn't want to be rich and free with Malc like he is. She doesn't want to sit and sip rum and cokes on some soulless beach in Majorca with her toenails painted orange, her body wrinkled with that awful, freckly brown of middle age. She doesn't want Malc's plastic palms, his dyspepsia, his lethargic, grunting sex, his oblique kind of blind fury, nor the loud-voiced friends he would choose. He'd make friends with some drunk old barman, a loser like himself, and they'd swop losers' jokes about sex and mother-in-laws, being comical together. It was not because he wanted to be like that, it didn't come naturally to him, but that was the way all his friends behaved and so Malc thought he had to, too. But Ellie doesn't want him to be comical in that tragic, self-destructive, old man's way, and she doesn't want to be rich without him, either.

Well, she loves him, of course she does. She knows him better than anyone else in the world and she can't be bothered to start knowing anyone else. She'd looked, and as far as Ellie could see, no one else could hold a candle to him ... that's the expression, isn't it?

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Rich Deceiver by Gillian White. Copyright © 1992 Gillian White. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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Rich Deceiver: A Novel

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