by Isla Dewar
Anna shook her head. ‘She was my best friend. But at that time I was away at university. I never visited the flat.’
‘She was learning to be a poet,’ Swagger Boy said.
Gordon looked interested. ‘I’ve never met a poet before. How many poems have you written?’
‘I haven’t written a poem for a while, years and years. What do you do?’
‘I was an accountant before I retired. But I did inventories for Willis and Cobb. The receptionist there is my daughter. I was checking if she wanted me to babysit Saturday night. She does.’
Richard raised his glass. ‘Good.’
Anna said, ‘Inventories?’
‘Yes. I did that flat. Went in and recorded every single item in there. Took me a long time. Never seen so much stuff. After I’d recorded it all, Willis got in experts. Some of it was rubbish. Some worth a fortune.’
Anna said, ‘What about the kitchen?’
‘Cobb took that. His wife was a cook. I mean, she was more than keen. She was fanatical about it. He brought her to see the kitchen and she wanted it. Didn’t want it copied. She wanted the one she saw. They took it apart piece by piece and put it back together again in her house. Big mansion, back of Corstorphine Hill.’
‘Do you think it’s still there?’
Gordon shrugged. ‘Who knows? It was special, though. I’d have loved to have a room like that. One wall was floor-toceiling pictures of food – plates of food and restaurants and cooks and steaming pies and tarts and slices of fruit with cheese. Then there was a huge oak table with candlesticks on and chairs round it and a long bar where the chopping and such went on. Pendant lights over it. Old sinks, one was dark green ceramic. Where had that come from? Huge range cooker and old American fridge. There was an American wall phone and drawers full of fancy knives, original Sabatier. Shelves of cookbooks and plates and other crockery. Copper pots hanging on hooks. And the whole place glittered. Shone. It smelled of classy cooking. You just wanted to sit at that table and eat.’ He sank the last of his pint.
Richard went to the bar to buy him another. Anna asked, ‘What happened to the rest of the stuff?’
Gordon said, ‘You went into that flat and there were pictures all the way down the hall to the living room. There, the walls were crammed with pictures. Bookshelves at one end of the room full of books and records. Some of the books were rare first editions; there were small tables with things on them – little ceramic boxes with a pebble or a ring inside. In the bedroom were racks of suits and shirts, and she had velvet jeans and skirts and silks and satins. God knows how much Willis and Cobb made from it all. And everybody, absolutely everybody, took something. A mate of mine took a little picture, then a couple of years ago had it valued. It was worth three grand.’
‘What did you take?’ asked Anna.
‘Nothing. It all felt wrong to me. I thought it was okay for the landlords to take enough to cover the unpaid rent. But they took everything.’
‘Where did the couple get the money?’ said Richard.
‘I don’t think they had money. I think the things were stolen.’
‘My friend would not have done that. Never.’
Gordon shrugged and finished his beer. ‘Well, my conscience is clear. It was a free-for-all. People dismantling the kitchen, people valuing things, me trying to catalogue it all, and over a week everything gone. I’d never seen anything like it and I always knew someday someone would come asking about it.’ He stood up; it was time to go. ‘I’ll tell you one thing. Standing in that flat, surrounded by all the things, breathing in the atmosphere – it was like I was intruding on a love affair. I felt that a great romance had gone on and I was recording the remnants in a big ledger. ’Course he died, and she ran away with the baby and never came back to claim any of it. I never understood why.’
Anna said, ‘For her, it was never about the stuff.’
28
Here’s to Baby Lola
George took Anna to a posh restaurant for lunch. ‘Wear something clean, since you don’t have anything expensive,’ she said. ‘We’re celebrating.’
‘What?’
‘Life. Romance. Yesterday I opened the fridge, looked in and remembered what I wanted. There’s an amazing thing.’
‘It’s certainly something to celebrate. It’s been a while since I’ve done that.’
‘Top of Victoria Street one o’clock tomorrow, we’re going to Ondine’s.’
They ate lobster and drank Chablis. Anna wore her velvet pants and a dark blue top she’d found in a charity shop years ago and had rarely worn. ‘It’s too posh for ordinary.’
They clinked glasses, said cheers and sipped, this place being too refined for swigging.
‘I have decided to relax,’ said George. ‘I’m not going to worry any more about anything. To hell with five-a-day and to hell with not drinking two days a week and to hell with walking fifteen million or whatever it is steps a day. I’m going to do what I want and when I die my last words will be “That was a blast!” and not “What was that all about?”’
Anna said she liked that.
‘How’s your love life going?’ said George.
‘Not a lot of progress. He made me a bookcase.’
‘An act of love,’ said George and refilled their glasses. ‘You should reveal yourself to him. Tell him how you feel.’
Anna didn’t think so. She amused herself briefly, imagining what she’d say. Richard, I have to be honest with you. I have to say something I think is important. I love you. I dream about you. There is barely an hour in every day I live when I do not think about you. She was sure his reaction would be to run. The panic and clumsiness of his speedy departure might be funny. But that would only last for a minute or so and then there she’d be with that old familiar pain in her heart. She was beginning to think that unrequited love was the best love. At least you knew where you were with it.
George sipped some more. ‘I had a wonderful day yesterday. The successful visit to the fridge. So I thought I’d try and give you a wonderful day today. Sharing is my new creed.’
Anna said, ‘Well, if you can afford it.’
‘Obviously I can’t. But Matthew can and he doesn’t mind.’
Anna raised her glass. ‘Thank you, Matthew.’
George leaned towards her and asked, ‘Did you love Leonard Cohen?’
‘Of course. Who didn’t?’ She quietly hummed a small ‘Suzanne’ solo.
‘I cried when he died.’
‘You always were a softie.’
‘I went to see him here in town. It was lovely. A whole theatre enraptured and in love with him. Men and women, but mostly women.’
She remembered that evening well. She’d communed with strangers. She’d smiled and smiled. After the songs were sung, and the encore played and cheered, she’d gone to the loo. There was a queue. Of course there was a queue. Who would leave an auditorium when that man was wooing them with long-loved melodies? But what a queue this was. Someone in one of the cubicles started it. Entranced and probably dewy-eyed, she’d given a chorus of ‘Hey, That’s No Way To Say Goodbye’. The other cubicles and the queue had joined in. She’d found it magical and wished Leonard had been there to enjoy it. She was sure he would.
‘What else happened in your wonderful day?’ Anna asked.
‘We went to visit a friend of Matthew’s up a glen about three hours away. We stayed for supper so it was about nine or ten when we left to come home. But it was warm and the sunroof and windows were all open. It was a little narrow road, pine trees on one side, heather too. Matthew put on a music station and Leonard Cohen came on. Perfect on a summer night, “Sisters Of Mercy”. It’s lyrical. He stopped the car. Invited me out and we danced, waltzed in the heather by the road. Stars were out and a deer stopped to watch, ears pricked ready to run. And the music played. It’s not a long song. But there was love.’ She poured more wine. ‘That’s it. No need for a bucket list, I can die now.’ She did a seated demonstration wal
tz and Anna laughed. Anna rarely danced. She was sure her brain and her feet didn’t communicate, or at least her feet never did what her brain told them to do.
‘What did you do yesterday?’ George asked.
‘I went to a pub with Richard and drank a half-pint. I didn’t tell him I drank pints. Not that I don’t want him to know that. I just accepted what he bought me and smiled. I’m growing up. I’m learning.’
She didn’t mention the others present. It would have led to having to tell George why they were there, and what had happened to all the treasures collected in the High Street flat. Right now George was happy. Why break her heart with tales to ruin her memories?
‘It was a good pub,’ Anna said. ‘Old-fashioned, like the ones that used to be in Rose Street. The first time I went to a pub it was in Rose Street. Later I went with a couple of poets. I was so excited. I thought we’d talk about life and literature and magical things. But they drank whisky and discussed why they loved Marks and Spencer apple pies. Talk about disappointing. Anyway, after the pub with Richard I went home and played with my new bookcase. I had fun.’
‘Heroes often disappoint. I mean your apple-pie poets,’ said George.
‘Did yours?’
‘Alistair was my hero. I wonder if he would have disappointed if he’d lived? Then again, I might have disappointed him. I am quite ordinary really.’ Elbow on table, chin cupped in palm, she looked towards the window and wrestled a moment with this revelation. Watching her, Anna realised how beautiful she was. Not that this was a new observation. She’d always known George was stunning – the cheekbones, the full lips, the slightly hooded blue eyes – she just knew George so well, she forgot the face so familiar was also fabulous. But it was no wonder the woman attracted so many men.
Anna remembered when George was working in A&E she had gone to meet her at the end of her shift. They’d planned a few G&Ts before George had to go home to her children. Anna had been early and sat by the door waiting for George to finish. It was Saturday and busy. George appeared and everyone waiting to be seen looked up. ‘Brian Peters,’ George called. Nothing happened. Nobody moved. George called again. ‘Brian Peters.’ An old man in a battered raincoat and thick glasses shifted in his seat, gazing at her longingly. ‘Is she calling me? Really?’
‘Yes,’ said George. ‘Are you Brian Peters?’
‘I think so.’
George had signalled him to follow her.
Beaming, he shuffled after her. ‘Can’t believe it. A woman like that calling me.’
A passing porter jerked his head at the scene. ‘Happens all the time. They call her Nurse Stonker.’
Anna was pulled from her reverie by George touching her arm. ‘You want pudding?’
‘Of course,’ said Anna. ‘I never say no to a pudding. Did Alistair do puddings to die for in the fabulous kitchen?’
‘Yes. I ate crème brûlée and gazed at our wall of pictures. They were fabulous pictures. It was a wonderful time. It was all about being young. Being young was our main preoccupation. The affair started to fizzle out when Lola came along. I didn’t know what to do about him. He hated not being the centre of my attention. But first baby wipes you out. Feeding, nappies, worrying. And the guilt – oh God, the guilt. Mother and guilt complex doing fine. He hated the kitchen being used to wash nappies and sterilise bottles. He hated nappies and baby clothes hanging up to dry. He hated the crying and me walking the floor with her. It took a while for me to get my figure back and I smelled milky and of vomit. Not sexy. A baby is a very effective contraceptive. You’re too knackered to do anything in bed but sleep. What the hell were we thinking? I mean, all that sex we had, what did we think was going to happen?’ She thanked the waitress for her double espresso. Lifted the cup. ‘Here’s to baby Lola. She made a woman of me. A smelly, sweaty, unsexy woman, but a woman.’
‘Still,’ said Anna, ‘Alistair couldn’t have totally minded Lola. He bought all the stuff – clothes, bottles, nappies and God knows what else.’
‘Ah well,’ George squirmed in her seat, ‘I always thought that. He must really care, I thought. But no. My parents bought all the baby stuff – changing mat, yellow bath, nappies, bottles, carrying basket, cot. Everything. They had it delivered to the flat. They knew all along what was happening. I only found out about it later. I never properly thanked them.’ She put her hand to her mouth, shook her head and looked at Anna. Her eyes glazed and fat tears ran down her cheeks. ‘Shame on me. Shame on me.’
29
Love’s Rubbish
It struck Anna that yesterday’s lunch hadn’t ended well. And it had been so jolly at the beginning. This was her fault. She should never have ruined a delightful lunch by asking questions about George’s young life.
George had given in to full-face crumpling sobs. Anna had reached over and taken her hand. ‘Oh, please don’t cry.’ She’d rummaged in her bag for a tissue. ‘As you know, we sluts always have tissues.’ Hoping to make her friend smile. People at tables nearby stopped eating and chatting to watch the goings-on. Two old ladies causing a scene in a restaurant after one recalls a guilt too far, she’d thought when she got home.
A waitress had come to their table and asked if anything was wrong. Had there been a problem with the meal? Dabbing her eyes on a napkin, George said that the meal had been delicious. ‘I’m crying because I’ve had a memory rush and it wasn’t very nice. I’m old. This happens sometimes.’ They’d left soon after that and George had taken a taxi home. ‘Guilt is getting to me. I need to lie down. Actually, I get tired a lot these days.’
This show of sorrow made Anna reluctant to pursue the kitchen. She imagined finding it and bringing George to see it and there being not just a fit of sobbing but a total breakdown. The past, she decided, was best behind us where we left it. So she spent the next day filling her new bookcase. She came across many old friends as she moved piles of books to their new home on the shelves. ‘Oh, Doctor Zhivago, how are you? Haven’t read you in years, and I do like a bit of poetry and revolution and snow in a book. I’ll put you aside.’ She delighted in coming across her pal Siegfried Sassoon. ‘Why, hello. Let’s burst out singing together.’ Van Morrison was playing on her old turntable, so she danced Siegfried up and down the hall. He’d have enjoyed that, she thought.
*
Later she picked up Marlon from school and they dropped by Richard’s workshop on the way home. Marlon thought his spice rack was ready, and magnificent. He wanted to take it home and present it to Marla. Richard thought not. ‘It needs final touches. I like perfection.’
Anna enjoyed visiting the workshop these days. She sat in the car seat, drank tea and chatted about ordinary things – what she’d watch on television, her neighbours, the weather and what she might have for tea tonight. The weather was too warm for the wood stove to be on and Anna missed watching the flames.
‘I’m a winter person,’ she told Richard. ‘I like open fires and wood stoves and thick jumpers. I hate to think what that says about me.’
‘You like to keep warm? You like a layer of wool between you and the weather?’
‘There’s that. I just wondered if it said something about my personality that I prefer to be protected from the world by a cosy jumper.’
‘See,’ said Richard, ‘that’s the difference between you and me. I just put on a jumper. You analyse your chill and the need to fix it. That’ll be the poet in you.’ He handed her a mug of tea. ‘Fancy some music on Friday?’
‘Yes. What sort of music?’
‘People playing in a small hall. A quartet. We could get a bite to eat after. Not before.’
‘Yes, after is better. Though if we’re hungry, rumbling stomachs might annoy audience members close by.’
‘We’ll wear thick jumpers to muffle the noise.’
Anna smiled. She was aware she did this often these days.
Richard glanced at Marlon, checking he wasn’t listening. ‘I’ve found the house,’ he said, lowering his voice.
‘The one where Cobb lived. Where he put the kitchen.’
‘How did you do that?’
‘Computer.’
‘I failed at doing them.’
‘I just started. Amazing and addictive. We’ll talk about what to do on Friday.’
The rest of the visit was spent listening to Marlon complaining about not being allowed to take the spice rack home to his mother and Richard saying he expected perfection even in spice racks. Anna was glad to get away.
Walking home, Marlon continued to complain. ‘I just want to give it to Mum. She won’t mind if it isn’t perfect.’
Anna said, ‘That’s the trouble with a master craftsman.’
Marlon walked slowly, scraping his shoes on the pavement. ‘It’s not fair.’ He kicked a small stone. ‘Richard used to say it was time to take the spice rack home. Then you started coming and then he said I had to make it perfect.’ He stopped and stared at the ground, scowling. He was thinking. It was obviously hard. Wrestling with observations and opinions that were battering round his head. He looked, still scowling, at Anna. ‘It’s you. He bought a cushion for your seat and he bought a mug for your tea.’
‘I’m sure he had more than one mug,’ said Anna. She was aware of feeling uncomfortable about this conversation.
‘He didn’t have a nice one like he gives you. He only had cracked ones.’ He resumed scowling. ‘He doesn’t want you to stop coming. That’s why he won’t let me finish.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Anna. But she was impressed by Marlon’s reasoning.
Marlon’s expression changed. His eyes lit up. The truth had hit him. He pointed at Anna, arm at full stretch, finger with chewed nail rigid. ‘Richard loves you. That’s why he won’t let me have the spice rack. He wants you to keep coming. He loves you.’
Anna more than reddened. Her face turned full-blush scarlet. ‘Nonsense. Complete nonsense. I’ve never heard anything so silly in my life.’