by Tommy Dakar
of her grandchildren. It was in the nature of things, like a love of babies or a fear of rats. She could not have conceived a situation wherein her position was not taken with the respect it deserved, it would have upset her notion of the world and its presumed order. The others seemed to perceive this intuitively, and acted accordingly.
Pet and Bro were the others. As newcomers, as latecomers, as the underlings, theirs was to keep a low profile and follow the leader. Over the years they too would gain a certain amount of respect, affection even, but they were never to forget their place or step out of line, at least not too far out of line, or Stein would throw them a steely glance, and Luz would straighten her back or tighten her lips. Then it would be time for confession. Pet was an old hand at this sort of social bartering, and managed the situation with ease and a certain jollity, but her brother often needed prompting, as he sometimes appeared to be in a world of his own, totally unaware of the nuances of such mature interaction. She would nudge him in the ribs, or jerk her head at him. He would stare back blankly. So she would speak for him. 'What Ambrose meant was …..', to which he would nod his agreement and bow his head in repentance.
That left Brendan the gardener, and his son Brendan, the gardener. But they lived off premises, only working three days a week most of the year, and were seen as outsiders, mavericks, a law unto themselves. They were allowed to air revolutionary views, swear, contradict both Stein and Luz, and get away with it. Because, not being lodged at Haute House, they didn't have to follow the same code of conduct as the inmates. They were free to come and go as they pleased, and therefore to think freely too, as long as they did a decent job and behaved civilly, which they did. Ambrose had admired them so much.
He crossed the kitchen, avoiding the temptation to see if there was anything to eat or drink, as Spotty had instructed him, and took the narrow stairs up to his old room.
He was surprised to find it totally empty. Why would that be? He tried to imagine a chain of events that might have led to his room being vacated, who the last tenant had been, where the furniture was being stored, but he had never been very imaginative, not in a logical sequence one thing leading to another way, so he dropped it. It was empty, and that was that. Without the wardrobe, the bed, the writing desk, it looked absurdly tiny, no bigger than his prison cell, or at least the one at Queens II. His footprints rang out hollowly as he passed over to the window. There was not much to see – the wall and roof of the boiler house, the kitchen windows if you strained your head a little, a slice of lawn. He tried to remember when he had last contemplated that view, but was unable to choose from a number of tense occasions. Either way it had been a nightmare.
Quarter past four. Plenty of time.
One of Petunia's lovers had overheard a conversation one day and given her the tip off. According to him, Bob or something, a pear-shaped man with a baby face and a tattoo on his wrist that resembled a bracelet but was in fact something special, and had to do with the Chinese, an amulet of sorts, Pet would remember. According to him, (Bill, yes it had been Bill Corsair, the taxi driver), the old couple who had been at Haute House for years were finally retiring, and Mrs. Haute would soon be looking for a replacement. Apparently she was not keen on a modern married couple, as they posed the threat of children, infidelity and divorce. A brother and sister would be so much easier to handle. Perhaps for a few favours Bill could have a word with Stein? Petunia loved giving favours, so the interview had been settled there and then, in the tool shed.
Pet had known the jobs were theirs from the start. Apart from the gut feeling, something she had learnt to revere, she'd spread the playing cards on the table and there had been no doubt. If he remembered rightly it had been something about houses and knights and a run of numbers. Anyway, as she had pointed out triumphantly, they had an appointment for the 7th, which was the seventh of the seventh. Ambrose didn't understand about numbers or tides or women, so he had just left it all in his sister's fleshy hands.
It couldn't have come at a better time. It had been over a year since they had been evicted from the family home. The small town house that their parents had taken a lifetime to pay off and had been their only inheritance had been stolen from them by the bank. Just because Pet and Ambrose had used the property as a guarantee. Not even for themselves, but for the Wiggins, so they could start up the bakery. It had all started innocently enough. Jack and Sally Wiggins had come up with a brilliant plan that would definitely make everyone money. The idea was to open a bakery, not any old bakery, but one specialising in organic breads and cakes. They would start with one, but soon the business would blossom into a franchise. Pet and Ambrose were to be offered a stake in one if they would just sign a piece of paper. It was that simple. No money needed, no outlay, just a signature, and their futures would be resolved. Ambrose had urged his sister to take that fatal step, and under pressure from both her brother and the Wiggins, especially Jack, who was a bit of a charmer, she had accepted. What harm could a signature do? If only she had listened to her guts back then. But she had had a soft spot for Jack Wiggins, literally, and that had muddied her instincts. She would try not to let it happen again.
The Wiggins never opened a bakery. Rumour had it they went to Italy on the proceeds; nobody had heard of them since. The bailiffs had come, but The Orks had refused to budge – it was not their debt, so it was not fair to evict them, especially as they had nowhere to go. For months they avoided all post, never answered phone calls, kept the doors well-locked, and tried to hold on like a castle under siege. The police were eventually called in to do the dirty work, and the Orks found themselves on the pavement with no more than a couple of suitcases and a wad of official papers.
Bad times. He had heard that most people forget the bad times and only recall the good times. If so, then he must be an exception, either that or the good times were too few and far between.
So the job at Haute House had been a godsend. At the time Ambrose had been unloading ships at the dock, not every day, but enough to keep them both in rent and food. He had worked hard, terribly hard. Being a bit slow off the mark meant that he had nearly always landed the most demanding tasks, the filthiest, worst paid jobs. He would stand at the back, not confident enough to shove to the front like so many others did every morning, and wait for the foreman to get round to him. At first he had been sent back home with the last few stragglers, mainly older men, or sickly looking types who smoked and coughed and spat a lot. But later, once they saw how he uncomplainingly accepted the jobs nobody else was desperate enough to take on, he became a fixture. He was strong, and young and healthy, and that made up for his doziness. For what he was expected to do it was better not to think too much, anyway. Petunia for her part had supplemented his income by cleaning apartment blocks, office blocks, private homes, anything that would give her a wage, no matter how small.
‘Today our luck will change,’
she had said. Now Ambrose didn't believe in luck.
He lit another cigarette, a habit he'd picked up behind bars. It was smelly, and would maybe even kill him one day, not that that mattered much now, but it helped calm the nerves and gave him something to look forward to. As he smoked he stared out the bedroom window at the blue, blue sky, and thought of nothing whatsoever, a mental trick that more than one would give a fortune to command. When he had finished he stubbed it out on his heel and popped the butt into his pocket with the others. He had quite a collection by now.
Back downstairs he once again passed by the service dining room. They had spent many a long evening here, eating and drinking and laughing with Señora Luz and Brendan and Stein, but it was the memory of Mrs Haute, white as a ghost, that came back to him now.
They had cleared away the evening meal and were sitting around, as usual, having a nightcap, camomile for the ladies, brandy for the men, the final ritual before they each went off to their private rooms. Maybe they’d been watching TV, or perhaps there had been conversation, no doubt about recent sports events, or
the next day's menu, or an anecdote of some kind, any topic that could be trusted to steer well clear of politics, religion or sexual preferences. They had all been together for years now, and the pecking order had not only been established, it had become so intimately understood, so comfortable to live with, that it was virtually adored. Ambrose couldn't remember the exact details now, but he would never forget the way she had wandered in as if she had mislaid something. No, more like she'd taken an overdose, or drunk too much sherry. All this was extremely strange, as Mrs. Haute rarely if ever visited them in the staff quarters, and never unannounced. Pet told him later that she had felt it as soon as the poor woman had entered. They fell silent as soon as they realised who it was, and waited for the lady of the house to speak. Still dressed in her overcoat she had gazed at the ceiling as she had said in a rehearsed voice
‘Sydney has had a terrible accident. Tonight, at around nine thirty. He was rushed to hospital where doctors.... could do nothing.... to reanimate him. I'm sorry.’
She had left in a hurry before the staff could muster up so much as a 'my condolences'.