by P. D. James
He had questioned Rupert with the detached persistence of a trained investigator, needing to force the truth out of him, desperate to know. ‘How can you be sure that Etienne knew Eric was ill?’
‘James, don’t cross-examine me. You sound like a prosecuting counsel. And you do love euphemisms don’t you? He knew because Eric told him. Etienne asked him when he could expect another book. The Peverell Press had done rather well with his first travel book. Etienne had got it cheap and probably hoped for the next one on the same terms. Eric told him there wouldn’t be one. He hadn’t the energy or the inclination. He had other plans for the rest of his life.’
‘And those included you.’
‘Eventually. It was two weeks after that conversation that Etienne arranged the river trip. Suspicious in itself, wouldn’t you say? Not Etienne’s kind of jolly at all. Chug chug down dear Old Father Thames to inspect the flood barrier, chug chug back again with smoked salmon sandwiches and champagne. How did you manage to avoid it, by the way?’
‘I was in France.’
‘So you were. Your second home. Odd that old Etienne has been so content to spend all these years away from his native land. Gerard and Claudia don’t go there either, do they? You’d think they might occasionally like to see the place where Papa and his mates had such a jolly time popping away at Germans from behind the rocks. They never go and you can’t keep away. What do you do there, check up on him?’
‘Why should I do that?’
‘It was only a remark, I meant nothing. Anyway, you’ll never pin anything on old Etienne. He’s been authenticated; there’s no doubt there, the genuine hero.’
‘Go on about the river trip.’
‘Oh, it was the usual thing. Giggling typists, Miss Blackett a little tipsy, red puffy face, that awful virginal archness. She’d brought that draught-excluder snake with her. Hissing Sid they call it. Extraordinary woman. Absolutely no humour, I would have said, except about that snake. Some of the girls hung it over the side threatening to drown it, and one of them pretended to feed it champagne. In the end they wound it round Eric’s neck and he wore it all the way home. But that was later. On the way up-river I took refuge in the bow. Eric was standing there alone, perfectly still, like a figurehead. He turned and looked at me.’ Rupert paused, and then said almost in a whisper: ‘He turned round and looked at me. James, what I’ve just told you, better forget.’
‘No, I shan’t do that. Are you telling me the truth?’
‘Of course, don’t I always?’
‘No, Rupert, not always.’
Suddenly his reverie was broken. The kitchen door was flung open and Rupert’s buddy thrust out his head. ‘I thought I heard the front door. We’re just off. Rupert was asking if you were back. You usually go straight up.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I usually go straight up.’
‘So what are you doing out here?’
He asked it with little curiosity, but James replied: ‘Musing on the third chapter of Ecclesiastes.’
‘I think Rupert wants you.’
‘I’m coming now,’ and he mounted, painfully as an old man, to the disorder, the warmth, the exotic overcrowded muddle that was now his sitting-room.
8
It was nine o’clock and on the top floor of a terraced house off Westbourne Grove Claudia Etienne lay in bed with her lover.
She said: ‘I wonder why one always feels randy after a funeral. The potent conjunction of death and sex, I suppose. Did you know that Victorian prostitutes used to service their clients in graveyards on the flat tops of the tombs?’
‘Hard, cold and sinister. I hope they got piles. It wouldn’t turn me on. I’d keep thinking of the rotting body underneath and all those bloated worms creeping in and out of the orifices. Darling, what extraordinary facts you do know. Being with you is an education.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know it is.’ She was wondering whether he, like her, had more than historical facts in mind. ‘Being with you’, he had said, not ‘loving you’.
He turned towards her, propping his head on his hand. ‘Was the funeral ghastly?’
‘It managed to be tedious and grim at the same time, canned music, a coffin which looked as if it had been recycled, a liturgy revised to offend no one, including God, and a parson who did his best to give the impression that we were engaged in something that had meaning.’
He said: ‘When my turn comes I’d like to be burnt on a funeral pyre by the sea like Keats.’
‘Shelley.’
‘That poet, whoever he was. A hot windy night, no coffin, lots of booze and all one’s mates swimming naked then dancing round the fire, all being happily warmed by me. And the ashes could be washed away by the next tide. Do you think if I left instructions in my will someone would arrange it?’
‘I shouldn’t rely on it. You’ll probably end up at Golders Green like the rest of us.’
His bedroom was small and the floor space almost entirely occupied by a five-foot-wide Victorian bed in ornamental brass, the high bedposts crowned with knobs. From these Declan had suspended a Victorian patchwork quilt, in part badly tattered. It hung above them as they made love, lit by the bedside lamp, a rich patterned canopy of gleaming silk and satin. Some shreds of the silk hung down and she had an impulse now to pick at them. The scraps were, she saw, lined with old letters, the black spider-marks of the long-dead hand plainly visible. A family’s history, a family’s troubles and triumphs pressed down upon them.
His kingdom, and it seemed to her a kingdom, lay beneath them. The shop, the whole property, was owned by Mr Simon – she had never learned his forename – and he rented the top two floors to Declan at a ridiculous sum and paid him with equal frugality for managing the shop. He himself was always there in his black skullcap to greet favoured customers, sitting at a Dickensian desk just inside the door, but otherwise he took little part in buying and selling although he controlled the flow of cash. The front of the house was arranged under his personal supervision, the pick of the furniture, pictures and artefacts displayed to advantage. It was the back of the ground floor which Declan had made his domain. It was a long conservatory of strengthened glass with at each end two palm trees, the slender trunks of iron, and the fronds, which trembled as the hand brushed against them, sheets of tin painted a bright green. This touch of Mediterranean sun contrasted with the conservatory’s faintly ecclesiastical air. Some of the original lower panes of glass had been replaced by oddly shaped pieces of stained glass from demolished churches; a jigsaw of yellow-haired angels and haloed saints, lugubrious apostles, fragments of a nativity scene or of the last supper, domestic vignettes of hands pouring wine into pitchers or lifting loaves of bread. Placed in happy disorder on a variety of tables, piled up on chairs, were the objects acquired by Declan and it was here that his personal customers rummaged, exclaimed, admired and made their discoveries.
And there were discoveries to be made. Declan, as Claudia admitted, had an eye. He loved beauty, variety, oddity. He was extraordinarily knowledgeable in fields of which she knew little. She was as amazed by the things he knew as by the things he didn’t know. Occasionally his findings would be promoted to the front of the shop when he would immediately lose interest in them, but his love for all his acquisitions was fickle. ‘You do see, Claudia darling, how I had to have it? You do see how I couldn’t not buy?’ He would stroke, admire, research, gloat over every acquisition, give it pride of place. But three months later it would have mysteriously disappeared to be replaced by the new enthusiasm. There was no attempt at display; objects were jumbled together, the worthless and the good. A Staffordshire commemorative figure of Garibaldi on a horse, a cracked Bloor Derby sauce tureen, coins and medals, stuffed birds under domed glass, sentimental Victorian watercolours, bronze busts of Disraeli and Gladstone, a heavy Victorian commode, a pair of art deco gilt wood chairs, a stuffed bear, a heavily encrusted German air force officer’s cap.
She had said, examining the latter: ‘What are y
ou selling this as, property of the late Field Marshal Hermann Goering?’
She knew nothing about his past. Once he had said in a broad and unconvincing Irish accent, ‘Sure, aren’t I just a poor Tipperary boy, my ma dead and my pa off God knows where,’ but she didn’t believe it. There was no hint to background or family in his light, carefully cultivated voice. When they were married – if they were married – she supposed that he would tell her something about himself, and if not she would probably ask. At present an instinct warned her that it was unwise and kept her silent. It was difficult to imagine him with an orthodox past life, parents and siblings, school, a first job. It sometimes seemed to her that he was an exotic changeling who had spontaneously materialized in that crowded back room, reaching out acquisitive fingers to the objects of past centuries, but himself having no reality except in the present moment.
They had met six months earlier, sitting in adjacent seats in the tube on a day when there had been a major breakdown on the Central Line. During the seemingly interminable wait before they were instructed to leave the train and make their way along the track, he had glanced at her copy of the Independent and, when their eyes had met, had smiled apologetically and said: ‘I’m sorry, it’s rude I know, but I’m slightly claustrophobic. I always find it easier to cope with these delays when I have something to read. Usually I have.’
She had replied, ‘I’ve finished with it. Do have it. Anyway I’ve got a book in my briefcase.’
So they had sat together, both reading, neither speaking, but she had been very aware of him. She told herself that this was a result of tension and of a touch of fear. When the instructions to leave the train had at last come there was no panic, but it had been a disagreeable experience and for some very frightening. One or two comedians had reacted to the tension with attempts at crude humour and loud laughter, but most had endured in silence. There had been an elderly woman sitting close to them in obvious distress and they had half-carried her between them, helping her along the track. She told them that she had a heart condition and was asthmatic and was afraid that the dust in the tunnel might cause an attack.
When they reached the station and had left her in the care of one of the nurses on duty, he had turned to Claudia and said: ‘I think we deserve a drink. I need one anyway. Shall we find a pub?’
She had told herself that there was nothing like a common peril followed by a shared benevolence to promote intimacy and knew that it would be wiser now to say goodbye and be on her way. Instead she had agreed. By the time they finally parted she knew where it would end. But she had taken her time. She had never begun a love affair without the private assurance that she was in control, more loved than loving, more likely to cause pain than to be hurt herself. She couldn’t be sure of that now.
About a month after they had become lovers he had said: ‘Why don’t we get married?’
The suggestion – she hardly regarded it as a proposal – was so surprising that for a moment she was silent. He went on: ‘Don’t you think it would be a good idea?’
She found that she was treating the suggestion seriously without knowing whether to him it was just one more of the ideas he occasionally put forward without expecting her to believe them, and apparently not much caring whether she did or not.
She said slowly: ‘If you’re serious then the answer is that it would be a very bad idea.’
‘All right, let’s get engaged. I like the idea of a permanent engagement.’
‘That’s an illogicality.’
‘Why? Old Simon would like it. I could say, “I’m expecting my fiancée.” He’d be less shocked when you stay the night.’
‘He’s never shown the slightest sign of being shocked. I doubt whether he would care if we fornicated in the front room provided we didn’t frighten the customers or damage the stock.’
But he did occasionally speak of her to old Simon as ‘my fiancée’, and she felt she could hardly deny the description without making both of them seem foolish or giving the whole thing an importance which it didn’t merit. He didn’t again mention marriage but she was disconcerted to realize that, with part of her mind, the idea was beginning to take hold.
When she had arrived that evening from the crematorium she had greeted Mr Simon then gone straight into the back room. Declan had been peering at a miniature. She enjoyed watching him with the object with which, however transitory the affection, he was momentarily enthused. It was a picture of an eighteenth-century lady, her décolleté bodice and frilled chemisette painted with great delicacy, the face under the high powdered wig perhaps too sweetly pretty.
He had said: ‘Paid for, I imagine, by a wealthy lover. She looks more like a tart than a wife, doesn’t she? I think it could be by Richard Corey. If so, it’s a find. You do see, darling, how I had to have it?’
‘Where did you get it?’
‘A woman who had advertised some drawings she thought were originals. They weren’t. This is.’
‘How much did you pay?’
‘Three fifty. She would have taken less. She was pretty desperate. I like to spread a little happiness by paying slightly more than is expected.’
‘And it’s worth about three times as much, I suppose.’
‘About that. Lovely, isn’t it? The thing itself I mean. There’s a strand of her hair curled in the back. I don’t think this should go into the front room, it could be nicked in a second. Old Simon’s eyes aren’t what they were.’
She said: ‘He’s looking pretty ill to me. Shouldn’t you encourage him to see a doctor?’
‘No point, I’ve tried. He hates doctors. He’s terrified they’ll send him into hospital and he hates hospitals even more. For him hospitals are places where people die and he doesn’t like to think about dying. Not surprising when the rest of your family have been wiped out in Auschwitz.’
Now, turning away from her on to his back and staring up at the patterned silk on which the bedside lamp shed a soft glow, he said: ‘Have you spoken to Gerard yet?’
‘No, not yet. I’ll do that after the next board meeting.’
‘Look, Claudia, I want this shop. I need it. I’ve made it. Everything that’s different about it is because of me. Old Simon can’t sell it to someone else.’
‘I know. We’ll have to see that he doesn’t.’
How strange it was, she thought, this urge to give, to satisfy the lover’s every desire as if propitiating him for the burden of being loved. Or was there a deeper irrational belief that he deserved to get what he wanted when he wanted it simply by virtue of being lovable? And when Declan wanted something he wanted it with the insistence of a spoilt child, without reserve, without dignity, without patience. But she told herself that this particular want was adult and rational. The freehold comprising the two flats and all the shop would be a snip at £350,000. Simon wanted to sell, and wanted to sell to him, but he couldn’t wait much longer.
She said: ‘Has he spoken to you recently? How much longer can we have?’
‘He wants a decision by the end of October, but the sooner the better. He yearns to go and lay his old bones in the sun.’
‘But he wouldn’t find another purchaser in a hurry.’
‘No, but he wants to put it on the market if we don’t give him a definite answer by then. He’ll ask more, of course, than he’s asking from me.’
Claudia said slowly: ‘I’m going to suggest to Gerard that he buys me out.’
‘You mean all your shares in the Peverell Press? Can he afford to?’
‘Not without difficulty, but if he agrees he’ll find the money.’
‘And there’s no other way you can get it?’
She thought, I could sell the Barbican flat and move in here, but what sort of solution would that be to anything? She said: ‘I haven’t got £350,000 sitting on deposit in the bank, if that’s what you mean.’
He persisted again: ‘Gerard’s your brother. Surely he’ll help.’
‘We aren’t close. How could
we be? After our mother died we were sent away separately to school. We hardly saw each other until we both started work at Innocent House. He’ll buy my shares if he thinks it’s to his advantage. Otherwise he won’t.’
‘When will you ask him?’
‘After the board meeting on October the 14th.’
‘Why wait until then?’
‘Because then will be the best time.’
They lay for minutes in silence.
Suddenly she said: ‘Look, Declan, let’s go on the river on the 14th. Why don’t you call for me at six-thirty and we’ll take the launch down to the Thames Barrier. You’ve never seen it after dark.’
‘I haven’t seen it at all. Won’t it be cold?’
‘Not particularly. Wear something warm. I’ll bring a thermos of soup and the wine. It really is worth seeing, Declan, those great hoods rising out of the dark river towering over you. Do come. We could put in at Greenwich for a pub meal.’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Why not? I’ll come. I don’t see why you have to fix it now, but I’ll come as long as I don’t have to meet your brother.’
‘I can promise you that.’
‘Six-thirty then at Innocent House. We could make it earlier if you like.’
‘Six-thirty is the earliest. The launch won’t be free until then.’
He said: ‘You make it sound important.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, it is important, important for both of us.’
9
Gabriel left Frances as soon as the game was finished, a game he easily won. She saw with compunction that he looked very tired and wondered if he had come up out of compassion for her rather than from his own need for company. The funeral must have been worse for him than for the other partners. He was after all the only member of staff for whom Sonia had appeared to have any affection. Her own tentative attempts at friendship had been subtly rebuffed by Sonia, almost as if being a Peverell disqualified her from intimacy. Perhaps alone among the partners he was feeling a personal grief.