Pandora

by Jilly Cooper

  He had now been sleeping rough for three weeks. All his dole money went on food for Visitor and in bunging other tramps to pose for him. Too proud to beg, he was stockpiling drawings he hoped he would sell.

  Matters were not helped by his last pair of spectacles being smashed in a punch-up and his sight having deteriorated so badly that he could only see faint shapes. He was in addition plagued by murderous headaches. He had suffered terrible humiliations, wandering by mistake into the Ladies near Tottenham Court Road, falling down the escalator with Visitor in his arms. Scared to risk the tube any more he walked everywhere and rationed himself to one shower in the public baths a week.

  On the second Wednesday evening in January the temperature dropped to seven degrees below zero. Overhead Alizarin could just distinguish a fuzzy little crescent moon, lounging on an eiderdown of fluffy black cloud. He could have used that eiderdown, his hand was too frozen to hold a pencil. He had wrapped Visitor, whose fur had grown so thick he looked like a yellow husky, in his ancient greatcoat and taken temporary refuge in a doorway at the bottom of Charlotte Street.

  Just up the road were the head offices of Saatchi & Saatchi, whose founder had never bought any of his pictures, and Channel 4, who had often employed his father. Tantalizing smells of wine, garlic and herbs kept drifting towards him from the Charlotte Street Hotel and from one of Raymond’s favourite haunts, the fish restaurant Pescatori.

  It was like looking out of a basement window, as a blurred tangle of black fishnet legs, velvet cloaks, silver sequinned skirts, pinstripe creases, shining brogues, jeans and trainers passed before his eyes. Alizarin breathed in sweet wafts of scent, newly applied to encourage kisses on the way home.

  ‘Tax-aaaaay,’ bellowed the Hoorays.

  Alizarin had already seen three people he was at school with and two ex-girlfriends of Jupiter. But none of them noticed him as, with a stream of merry chat, they stepped over and round him. Don’t ruin our lovely evening with your embarrassing poverty.

  It was gone midnight. Coughing racked his body as the rumble of the last tube shook the pavement. Alizarin eased onto his other hip. He was so thin, a bomber jacket and an old sweater were no protection against the vicious cold.

  Before the soup vans went home, he had wangled a bowl of turkey broth for Visitor. Later, as they lurked in a McDonald’s doorway for warmth, a departing customer had chucked a half-eaten hamburger into the gutter. For a second Visitor held back, wagging his tail in case Alizarin’s need was greater, then, at a nod, gobbled it up. Alizarin could never sleep if Visitor hadn’t eaten.

  When he’d applied for a bed in a hostel, the counsellors had advised him to take his old friend to Battersea.

  ‘You don’t stand a chance of accommodation with a dog.’

  And Alizarin had shouted that it was the only thing he did stand a chance with. He’d have walked into the Thames if it hadn’t been for Visitor.

  Taking refuge in a side alley near the Middlesex Hospital, Alizarin crept into his sleeping bag. It was getting colder. He’d pawned his watch but he could read the hours of the night like Braille. People were still coming out of clubs, being sick in the gutter, swearing because taxis very sensibly refused to take them. Alizarin could hear the dull thump of Visitor’s tail as other tramps put their sleeping bags beside his, particularly if there were dusty mince pies on offer.

  Because Alizarin was large, the rest of the homeless community hadn’t messed with him. He also had a dignity, a kindness and an ability to listen which had inspired a similar love in his students. He had made friends since he had been on the streets, not with work-shy scroungers, but quietly desperate people who, like himself, had lost their way in life.

  Alizarin adjusted the greatcoat around Visitor, always so cheerful and uncomplaining, and, drawing together the strings of his own sleeping bag, waited to be warmed by his own breath. His thoughts strayed wistfully to Foxes Court and the dry leaves flying out of the hedgerows laying a warm blanket over the tender green shoots of the winter barley. Then he dreamed of Sophy, and falling asleep beside her sweet softness.

  He was woken by a din. Tramps were always getting drunk or stoned, and picking fights. Best not to get involved. But the screaming was getting louder. Alizarin shoved his head out, gasping at the cold. In the street light, he could see shadowy forms in frenzied movement and just make out a woman bent back over a dustbin, her skirt up over her breasts. A man was fucking her. She must have been having a period; blood, black in the moonlight, was streaming down her white legs, awakening some terrible distant memory. Alizarin found himself screaming, yelling, sobbing for them to stop. Visitor staggered onto his arthritic legs, barking. The man swore, pulled out of the woman, lurched over and viciously began kicking Alizarin.

  He must have passed out. He woke to even more excruciating pain in his head and Visitor licking his face – sweet Visitor always there for him. A drunk was kicking a tin in the distance; Alizarin could hear the hiss of the dustman’s lorry, banging bins, a clatter of bottles like the emptying of a fisherman’s net.

  Then, gradually, as consciousness reasserted itself, he groped round in panic. Not only had the case containing his dole book, his sketchpad, Etienne’s drawing of Galena and her palette been stolen from inside his sleeping bag, but he couldn’t see a thing. Perhaps it was still dark, but there was the first tube shaking the pavements. He could hear the whirring bristles of the cleaning machine sucking dirt up from the gutter, the thud of newspapers being sorted: it must be nearly morning.

  Every so often as the hours passed, last night’s horror returned and he trembled with terror. It must be the kick on the head. Oh dear God, bring back my sight. If he were blind how could he feed Visitor? He could hear cars going in and out of the Middlesex Hospital and footsteps approaching. As an ultimate humiliation because he couldn’t find his cap to lay upside down in front of him, he was forced to thrust out shaking hands.

  ‘Please help me, I’m blind,’ he stammered.

  ‘Another of those scroungers from Kosovo,’ said a voice disapprovingly. ‘Why don’t you stay in your own country?’

  ‘I’m fucking English,’ Alizarin heard himself shouting.

  He was drenched in icy sweat which made him even colder.

  The next couple, women, judging from the click of their heels, also clicked their tongues, muttering how disgusting it was for work-shy folk to use poor old doggies for begging, then spend the money on themselves.

  ‘It’s my dog I’m trying to feed,’ yelled Alizarin. Then, as their heels clicked hastily away, remembering other tramps telling him people sometimes came back if you were polite, he added: ‘Have a good day.’

  Tubes rumbled, the pavement was filling up with footsteps, buses roared, ambulances jangled into the Middlesex. Alizarin breathed in cigarette smoke as the next passer-by quickened his pace, not wanting to be caught. The next approached tentatively, pausing, smelling faintly of eau-de-Cologne like an aunt.

  ‘Please, please, help me feed my dog,’ begged Alizarin.

  There was a long silence. Then a desperately embarrassed female voice with a soft Scottish accent murmured, ‘I think your wee doggie’s passed away.’

  How could he have forgotten to check Visitor? He had been so distraught about not being able to see. Frantically Alizarin reached out, hugging Visitor’s shaggy body, calling his name, waiting for the familiar thud of his tail, realizing how cold and stiff he was.

  ‘Don’t be dead, please don’t, Visitor.’

  Crouched over him, parting his matted hair, Alizarin listened desperately for the faintest heartbeat – nothing. ‘Oh, please, God.’ His howl of desolation must have wakened the dead in Limesbridge churchyard.

  The kind Scottish lady burst into tears and was joined by the two secretaries, who, feeling guilty at muttering about ‘work-shy folk’, had returned with a tin of Pedigree Chum. One tried to comfort Alizarin, the other fetched a policeman.

  Gordon Pritchard, a heart specialist so revered that
God was rumoured to walk six paces behind him when he toured the wards, was on his way to hospital when his Rolls was halted by the traffic. Seeing a crowd gathered round some kind of accident, he lowered the window.

  ‘Can I help?’

  For a second, the man slumped over a shaggy yellow dog looked up. Tears streamed down his grey face. Like Munch’s Scream, his wide-open mouth was a hollow of agonized outrage.

  ‘Alizarin?’ called out Gordon Pritchard in horror. ‘Alizarin Belvedon?’

  Pritchard had often stayed at Foxes Court and bought Old Masters from Raymond, who in turn he’d looked after when Raymond had had a heart murmur, five years ago.

  ‘Alizarin, it’s me.’ Pritchard jumped out of the Rolls.

  Only when Alizarin totally failed to recognize him did Pritchard realize he was blind. When he tried to get him admitted to Casualty, the main stumbling block was that Alizarin wouldn’t part with Visitor. Such was his colossal strength, no-one could prise his dog away from him. Racked by coughing and tears, he kept crying out for Sophy.

  Getting no answer from the flat in Duke Street, St James’s, Pritchard grimly rang the gallery. Sophy, who was opening the post, handed the receiver to Jupiter.

  ‘I see, I see, I’m terribly sorry. We’ll be over at once.’

  As he put down the receiver, Jupiter was trembling violently.

  ‘Hanna?’ whispered Sophy.

  ‘No, Alizarin, he’s been sleeping rough’ – Jupiter’s voice broke – ‘and he seems to be blind, and Visitor’s just died. Oh my God, how could we have done this to him?’

  Then, pulling himself together: ‘I must go to him.’

  ‘Can I come too?’

  Forgetting to lock up, forgetting the stock sale, they ran up Cork Street, up Regent Street, across Oxford Street.

  It was rush hour, the sales were on, but not an orange ‘For Hire’ sign appeared anywhere. Shoving shoppers and commuters out of the way, they passed All Souls and the BBC on their left and raced along Mortimer Street. Jupiter was ten times fitter. Sophy thought her lungs would burst as she pounded after him.

  There was still a crowd around Alizarin. Two policemen, a couple of nurses, an ambulance man and Gordon Pritchard were trying to reason with him. Seeing him sitting like a child clinging to a giant teddy bear, Visitor in his arms, the picture of despair, Sophy fought back the tears. She mustn’t add to his misery.

  ‘Alizarin, it’s me.’ Jupiter patted his brother’s shoulder.

  Sophy fell to her knees. ‘Alizarin, it’s Sophy,’ she panted. Putting a hand round his agonizingly aching head, she pressed it to her heaving breast. ‘I’m so terribly sorry. Thank God we’ve found you.’

  ‘Sophy?’ Alizarin looked round in bewilderment. ‘It is really you. Oh, Sophy.’

  ‘Really me. There, darling, it’s going to be OK. You must come inside and get something warm inside you.’

  ‘I can’t leave Visitor. He took care of me. If they take him away, I’ll never see him again.’ Helplessly Alizarin ran his hand over Visitor’s face, smoothing his fur, stroking his velvet ears.

  ‘He looks really peaceful.’ Sophy’s voice was choked with tears. ‘His eyes are closed, and his tail looks as though it’s about to wag as he arrives in heaven.’

  ‘Promise he’s dead, it’s not just a trick to take him to Battersea?’

  ‘I promise. We’ll take care of his body. Feel.’ She took a blanket from the ambulance man and rubbed the rough wool against Alizarin’s hollowed cheek. ‘We’ve got this to wrap him in.’

  ‘I’ll take him straight down to Limesbridge’ – Jupiter’s voice was choked too – ‘and bury him beside Maud.’

  Only then did Sophy manage to remove Visitor from Alizarin’s clutches.

  He was admitted to hospital with pleurisy and pneumonia. There was no flesh on his body to protect him from the cold. Only his colossal strength had saved him. Clutching on to Sophy’s hand, he raved on and on about Galena pouring with blood.

  ‘I couldn’t save her and I couldn’t save Visitor. He froze to death because I couldn’t afford to feed him. Oh, Sophy.’

  ‘He was fifteen, he died of old age, darling.’

  As the morphine kicked in, Alizarin lost consciousness.

  Jupiter was in shock, wondering how on earth to get Visitor home, when his mobile rang.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ demanded Rupert Campbell-Black. ‘I’ve just rolled up at your gallery after a cheap bargain for Ricky France-Lynch’s birthday, place deserted, door open, pictures on the walls. Tempted to help myself.’

  When Jupiter told him, Rupert was very sympathetic, and offered his helicopter. Visitor had been, after all, the great-great-grandson of Rupert’s revered black Labrador, Badger.

  Gordon Pritchard, however, hadn’t finished with the Belvedons. Having handed Alizarin over to the top eye specialist, who’d promptly admitted him to Intensive Care, he proceeded to give Jupiter a very nasty five minutes.

  ‘What the fuck happened?’

  ‘There was a row over the Raphael.’ Jupiter flushed slightly. ‘I thought Al was having an affair with Hanna. Anthea wanted the Lodge for holiday lets. Together we chucked him out.’

  ‘Anthea was always a bitch,’ said Pritchard. ‘He knew in June he was going blind. Told no-one.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘We’ll run some tests, but it doesn’t look good.’

  ‘I’d better ring Dad,’ said Jupiter.

  Raymond, in bed with flu and a persistent cough, was devastated not least by the death of Visitor, whom he, Grenville and all the family had loved so much.

  ‘Jupiter’s bringing his body down later,’ Raymond told Anthea. ‘Pritchard found Alizarin sleeping rough in Mortimer Street, in seven degrees below. Pritchard claims you and Jupiter slung him out. It can’t be true.’

  ‘Course it wasn’t. You know how paranoid and shirty Alizarin is. Jupiter and I reproached him mildly for tipping Zac off about Pandora. Al went into a sulk and stormed out.’

  Raymond’s eyes fell first.

  ‘Poor old boy, poor darling Visitor. I must go to him.’

  ‘You can’t, you’ve got a temperature. I’ll go’ – Anthea sighed to indicate huge sacrifice – ‘and bring him back. We’ll get a nurse in, he can sleep in Dicky’s room till half-term.’

  Anthea caught the next train. Alizarin must be made to come home before such a damaging story reached the press. She and Jupiter must also get their stories straight – but Jupiter wasn’t answering his mobile. After all, she kept telling herself as the train rumbled past grey frozen fields, Alizarin had been the one to walk out.

  Arriving at the Middlesex, having redone her face and drenched herself in Shalimar in the taxi (she had always thought Gordon Pritchard most attractive), Anthea was horrified to find Emerald’s fat sister in situ, looking quite awful. Sophy’s eyes were swollen, her hair unbrushed, and she was bound to sneak to the Cartwrights.

  ‘Where’s Jupiter?’ demanded Anthea.

  ‘Taking Visitor’s body back to Foxes Court. He should be home by now. Rupert Campbell-Black gave them a lift in his helicopter.’

  Anthea was hopping. No opportunity to get her story straight, and to miss a chance of receiving Rupert Campbell-Black! Alizarin seemed to have tubes coming out of everywhere. He had the dreadful pallor and sunken features of Christ just down from the cross, and Sophy that sanctimonious stricken bustle of all those Marys who hung round him.

  ‘How is he?’ demanded Anthea.

  ‘Asleep.’ Sophy put her finger to her lips. ‘He’s had a massive dose of morphine.’

  ‘I’ve come to take him home.’

  ‘Well, you can’t.’ Sophy lost her temper. ‘You chucked him out, and as a result he’s got pneumonia, and isn’t going anywhere. Why don’t you bugger off?’

  Anthea would have stood her ground if Gordon Pritchard hadn’t rolled up, whisked her into a side room, and subjected her to an even more unpleasant five minutes than he’d given Jupiter
.

  After all I’ve done for that family, thought Anthea as she flounced out. And she couldn’t even ring David for sympathy.

  Jupiter was back at the Middlesex by evening. He looked utterly exhausted, his face drained of colour except for huge purply crimson shadows beneath his eyes, but he was calmer. They had buried Visitor in the orchard beside Maud. Raymond had insisted on staggering out in his dressing gown.

  ‘I didn’t tell him Al was blind. He couldn’t handle it at the moment. Have you had anything to eat?’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Nor am I, but I could murder a large whisky. Let’s go and have dinner.’ Then, when Sophy looked doubtfully at a sleeping Alizarin: ‘He won’t wake for ages.’

  Jupiter took her to his local: Mulligans in Cork Street. They sat side by side on a banquette, which made conversation easier. Sophy chose leek soup because it was the cheapest thing on the menu and she’d heard from Emerald that the Belvedons were broke. Jupiter told her not to be silly, so they both had Irish stew and pickled red cabbage and a lot of red wine.

  Sophy kept crying; Jupiter held her hand.

  ‘I know I should ring Sienna and Jonathan, but I just feel it’s better if the old boy’s kept quiet at the moment,’ he said, then, taking a deep breath: ‘Look, I’ve had an idea. Casey Andrews’s exhibition was scheduled for the second half of February. But he’s walked out, so I’m going to show Alizarin instead.’

  ‘That’s wonderful!’ squeaked Sophy, flinging her arms round Jupiter, then recoiling in horror. She hadn’t washed since six that morning and she’d sweated so much with worry and pounding across London, she must pong worse than a skunk on a fun run.

  But as she wriggled away, Jupiter clung to her.

  ‘Tamzin, Dad’s dimbo assistant, is showing no signs of coming back from Gstaad.’ He begged: ‘I can only do Al justice if you help me.’

  ‘Oh God, I’d love that. It’s half-term on the sixteenth of Feb so I’ll be free.’

  Jupiter ordered a couple of large brandies.

  ‘You’ve got school tomorrow, I ought to take you home.’

  ‘The hospital says I can stay the night.’ Sophy’s voice trembled: ‘It’d be so awful if he woke up and there was no Visitor, and he didn’t know where he was.’