CONTENTS
INJURY TIME
Beryl Bainbridge
Hachette Digital
www.littlebrown.co.uk
Also by Beryl Bainbridge
F ICTION
According to Queeney
An Awfully Big Adventure
Another Part of the Wood
The Birthday Boys
The Bottle Factory Outing
Collected Stories
The Dressmaker
Every Man for Himself
Filthy Lucre
Harriet Said
Master Georgie
Mum and Mr Armitage
Northern Stories (ed. with David Pownall)
A Quiet Life
Sweet William
Watsons Apology
A Weekend with Claude
Winter Garden
Young Adolf
N ON - FICTION
English Journey, or the Road to Milton Keynes
Forever England: North and South
Something Happened Yesterday
About the Author
Beryl Bainbridge is the author of seventeen novels, two travel books and five plays for stage and television. The Dressmaker, The Bottle Factory Outing, An Awfully Big Adventure, Every Man for Himself and Master Georgie (which won the James Tait Black Memorial Prize) were all shortlisted for the Booker Prize, and Every Man for Himself was awarded the Whitbread Novel of the Year Prize. She won the Guardian Fiction Prize with The Dressmaker and the Whitbread Prize with Injury Time. The Bottle Factory Outing, Sweet William and The Dressmaker have been adapted for film, as was An Awfully Big Adventure, which starred Hugh Grant and Alan Rickman. Beryl Bainbridge died in July 2010.
Published by Hachette Digital 2010
First published in Great Britain by Duckworth in 1977
Published by Penguin Books in 1991
Copyright Beryl Bainbridge 1997
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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For Psiche and Philip Hughes with love
D uring the partners lunch, old Gifford talked indistinctly about the Rawlinson account: something to do with the new man on the board not having a first-class brain he didnt come up to scratch. From time to time Giffords shoulder dipped below the level of the tablecloth; he seemed to have dropped something. Hatters, from the Overseas department, told a story involving a doctor and a woman patient who heard pop music whenever her husband made love to her. Edward Freeman, who was seated opposite, missed the punch line. The fellow appeared to be muttering, or perhaps his own hearing was at fault. Alarmed by this new defect lately he had been forced to wear spectacles when attempting the crossword he stuck his finger in his ear and waggled it vigorously back and forth. Hatters, flourishing his fork in the air, was saying quite clearly that the engine of his car needed tuning. Edward allowed Mrs Chalmers to serve him with a second helping of lamb; he wasnt hungry but he contributed twenty pounds a month toward the cost of the office lunches and was damned if he was letting a penny of it go to waste. Binny said it was killing him, all that meat stewed in wine and all those puddings consumed every day of the week. Men of your age, she constantly warned him, are at risk. Youll have a heart attack. At this moment, with less than six hours to go before the dinner party, he felt that a small coronary might do him the world of good. He didnt think Binny would visit him in hospital she wasnt malicious. He could just lie there for several days, undergoing tests, doing a spot of reading, trying to sort himself out.
Even so, when lunch was over he took the lift to his office and denied himself the exertion of climbing three flights of stairs. The telephone rang as he came through the door. It was his wife Helen.
Are you going to be very late tonight? she asked. Or just late?
Oh, I shant be late, he said. I mean, Ill try to get away early.
You usually try, she said.
There was a slight pause. Edward looked at the photograph of her, framed in leather, on the windowsill. She was holding a baby. On his desk was a snapshot of the same baby, several years older, crouched in a blurred garden cradling a rabbit in his arms.
You see, she said, if I leave my meeting early and you dont get back for hours, its a bit of a waste of effort... on my part. Do you see what I mean?
Yes, he said. But I shouldnt think old Simpson will want to hang on too long. Not with his leg.
Thats true enough.
Look here, he said desperately. Better be on the safe side. One can never tell with old Simpson. I suppose I could be late... I dont want to spoil your meeting. I dont want you to scamper away only to find Ive got caught up.
All right then, dear, she said. I wont.
When shed rung off he felt aggrieved. He wasnt always late, not every night. Tuesday for instance he never visited Binny, and hardly ever on a Thursday. That was the night her youngest daughter went to Brownies and was inclined to be boisterous afterwards. And what about those numerous occasions when hed made a special effort to get home early, left his evening post unsigned, faced the frightful rush-hour traffic and arrived in time to catch Helen backing down the path in the Mini, gadding off to yet another meeting? She wasnt the only one who could imply there was cause for complaint, not by any means.
The telephone rang again. He knew at once it was Binny, because when he said Hello there was no reply, merely a sort of offended breathing. There had evidently been some deficiency of feeling in his voice when he first greeted her, a degree of casualness that she hadnt liked. Hello, Hello, he persisted. He kept his eyes fixed on the snapshot of the rabbit struggling in his sons arms. He couldnt remember what theyd called the animal... Tiger?... Twinkle? The beastly thing had turned the garden into a waste land before dying of old age and being shovelled under the damson tree.
Look here, he lied. Im frightfully busy. May I ring you back?
Dont bother, said Binny, and put down the receiver.
He dialled her number immediately. She made him wait at least half a minute before answering. Look, dont be angry, he pleaded. I had somebody in my room.
Oh yes.
You dont seem to realise Im a very busy man. I had poor old Woodford with me.
Whats poor about him?
Theyre leaving him with nothing, Edward said. The Inland Revenue are bleeding him white.
What do you call nothing? demanded Binny.
He knew he shouldnt get involved in this sort of discussion he always came off the worse for wear and was apt to be indiscreet about clients accounts. Theyre taking eighty-three pence in the pound, he confided, voice thin with outrage.
