The Nightingale's Nest

by Sarah Harrison

  It was one of the charms of Seven Crompton Terrace that when I was there I could be a different person, or at least that version of myself I chose to present. The Jarvises knew very little about me, so there was no need for deception.

  On my return to work, the Monday after the funeral, it was a relief to assume once more the uncomplicated status of valued employee, and to escape my mother’s all-seeing eye. My admiration for her, though, was boundless – when I left on Sunday evening she could not have made my departure easier. She waved me off as matter-of-factly as if I’d been down there for the usual Sunday dinner, though both of us knew that would never happen again.

  Not only at my parents’ house would things never be quite the same. My telephone conversation with Amanda Jarvis, and the subsequent letter from her and her husband, had created between the two worlds a connection, however slight, which had not existed before. And then there was the prospect of seeing Alan Mayes again some time soon, not in his professional capacity but as a friend.

  Most tellingly perhaps, the mention of John Ashe and his approval of me had hovered on the edge of my consciousness for days, like a cat in the long grass. I despised the warped vanity that allowed it to do so. I had not liked Ashe, and intended to avoid him in the future, so his opinion of me, good or otherwise, could be of no possible consequence.

  I was disappointed to find both the Jarvises out on the morning of my return; in fact to begin with I was even a little insulted that at least one of them hadn’t thought to be there to receive me back.

  But naturally there was a charming note of explanation on my desk.

  Dear Pamela,

  I’m so sorry we have to be out today. We would have liked to be there to welcome you back, but duty calls in the form of lunch with an American painter at the house where he is staying in Kent. Let’s hope it will prove to be a worthwhile jaunt, and that we’ll soon be exhibiting his work at the Sumpter – he would be quite a catch! I’m leaving a very short list of calls and letters for your attention, but none of them are urgent – I’m sure you won’t be averse to a quiet day after the difficult time you’ve been through. Amanda and I hope your mother is continuing to bear up, and we look forward to seeing you tomorrow.

  Yours,

  Christopher J.

  Mollified, I went through to the kitchen to say good morning to Dorothy (and, if I’m honest, to catch up on the happenings of the past week) and almost bumped into her coming the other way.

  ‘Hello!’ she said. ‘I’m sorry about your father. That’s horrible.’

  I agreed. ‘It was so completely unexpected. But he didn’t suffer, he went in his sleep.’

  ‘Best way. Chef’s off today – cup of tea?’

  ‘I was thinking of some coffee.’

  ‘Coffee it is, then. How’s your mother?’ she asked as we went into the kitchen.

  ‘Wonderful, considering. She wasn’t well herself, you know. That was why I went down there.’

  Dorothy paused, her hand on the cupboard door, an expression of appalled fascination on her face. ‘You mean she was ill, but he died?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Blimey . . .’ she breathed. ‘That’s awful. What was it then, heart attack?’

  ‘Probably.’ I didn’t mind her robust interrogation, in fact her directness was invigorating, like a rough towel. ‘That’s what’s on the death certificate.’

  ‘Broken heart?’ she suggested.

  ‘No, she was over the worst, she was going to be all right . . .’ I considered the proposition. ‘Broken spirit, perhaps.’

  She shook her head sympathetically as she stirred the grounds. ‘Shame, isn’t it?’

  ‘A great shame, yes.’ At that moment I could have hugged Dorothy. In her own way she was a sophisticate: the simplicity of her approach made everything else simpler.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘Nice cup of coffee. Think I’ll join you.’

  I didn’t even think of dissuading her. We both knew that, for now, normal rules did not apply. We were employees, and friends, who found ourselves on our own and who had much to discuss.

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘has anything been happening that I should know about?’

  ‘Hm, let’s see. Mr Rintoul’s picture’s nearly finished, and he’s gone to France for a week, so today it’s only you and me and her upstairs. Haven’t seen her yet this morning, but then it’s early.’ She took a sip for dramatic effect before adding: ‘Our Mr Ashe was round again last week.’ She raised her eyebrows pointedly over the edge of the cup.

  ‘Oh yes?’ I asked cautiously.

  ‘Oh, yes. I don’t know, of course, but I think he took a shine to her.’

  ‘Who? Suzannah?’

  ‘Mrs J went and fetched her and they were chatting in the drawing room on their own for half an hour or more.’

  It was on the tip of my tongue to ask what they’d been talking about – I was sure Dorothy would have made a point of cleaning the hall at the time – but I managed to stop myself, and said instead: ‘Did they only meet for the first time at the lunch party?’

  She laughed, eyes wide. ‘I don’t know, do I?’

  ‘You might have done. You know most things around here.’

  ‘That’s true,’ she conceded. ‘Put it this way, I never saw them together here before. Anyway, they’re thick as thieves now.’

  I thought about this when I was back at my desk. I was aware of an unexpected and unwelcome pang of something awfully like jealousy. Surely, I reflected, it was I who had made an impression on John Ashe? Amanda Jarvis had made a point of telling me as much. Suzannah Murchie’s name had not been so much as mentioned, and yet here was Dorothy telling me that she and Ashe were ‘thick as thieves’. I despised myself for this reaction, but there was no denying it.

  At about midday Dorothy tapped on the door and put her head round.

  ‘Nothing else doing here, so I’m off. They said I could, but thought I’d better tell you.’

  ‘Thanks, Dorothy.’

  ‘It’s the two of you, then.’ She pulled a face that stopped just short of a wink. ‘Be good.’

  I heard her leave by the front door, something she would not have done had the Jarvises been at home. It was a tiny demonstration of independence: she did it because she could.

  By a quarter to one I’d completed the list of tasks, and done a little discreet tidying. I decided to go up to the village as I usually did, buy a sandwich and an apple, and perhaps walk along to the edge of Hampstead Heath and have my lunch there.

  Since the storm had ended the long spell of oppressive heat the weather had settled into a more typically English pattern of sunshine and cloud. Not that it made much difference to me – my head had been down and my nose to the grindstone, although I’d been glad of the blessing of sunshine at my father’s funeral. Today it was lovely to be high up, above London and my cares, and I sat with my back against a tree and ate my picnic in a mood of slightly melancholy contentment. Afterwards, though I had nothing in particular to do, and knew the Jarvises wouldn’t mind if I left, I decided to go back. I told myself that this was because I should be there to answer the telephone, but in truth I was reluctant to leave. The house in Crompton Terrace was where I felt most alive, and I was glad to be back. Before clambering to my feet I closed my eyes for a second and begged forgiveness of whoever was listening for my treachery.

  There were very few cars in Crompton Terrace at the best of times, so I noticed that someone in the road had a new one, or had visitors. A sleek, black monster, capacious as a hearse, was parked near the gate of Number Seven. A uniformed chauffeur leaned back in the driving seat, his cap over his eyes. On the end of the bonnet perched a golden bird. Perhaps one day, I told myself fancifully, I would have a car like that . . . I was reminded of Alan Mayes and his dilapidated jalopy. All that seemed very far away and long ago, but I hoped I’d hear from him.

  As I went in, I looked up at the swallows’ nest. It was empty, and a tiny spider had slung its web a
cross the angle between it and the beam, a sure sign that the occupants had flown. I supposed that demonstrated the cyclical nature of these things, but I was sad the birds were gone. It seemed to mark the end of something not just for them, but for all of us.

  The house was quiet, with that air of suspended animation peculiar to empty places that are normally busy. Even the small sounds of my own movements made me self-conscious. I stayed in the office for a while but became fidgety in the unnatural silence and decided to go out and see if there was anything I could do in the garden. I left the study and garden doors wide open so that I could hear the telephone if it rang, and went outside.

  Not surprisingly, there was plenty that needed attention. Nobody had done anything since I’d last been out here, but that suited me fine. I fetched the small fork and the clippers from the lean-to and busied myself with weeding. I was completely happy grubbing about, and seeing the effects of my labours growing in my wake. Once or twice I glanced up at the attic window; it was open but I didn’t see anyone, and I had by now become used to Suzannah’s reclusive habits. There was even something companionable in the sensation that we both belonged here and were going about our respective business, she up above, painting her mural, and I down here, pulling up weeds. While in the garden I went up to the end and stood in the deep shade beneath the trees. The nest was still there, but I saw no sign of the nightingale. But she wasn’t a bird of passage like the swallows; this was her territory and I felt sure she was in the branches somewhere, silently watching me.

  I must have been at it for an hour when I stood up, about to go in to the kitchen to get myself a cold drink. But at the same moment someone came down the stairs, and walked swiftly along the hall to the front door. He opened the door and for a brief moment I saw, silhouetted against the afternoon light, the unmistakable figure of John Ashe. The door closed. He had come and gone so quickly I almost rubbed my eyes, unsure whether I’d really seen him. I forgot about the cold drink, ran into the office and peered out through the window, just in time to see him climbing into the back seat of the shiny black car I’d admired earlier.

  I watched the car pull away. When it was gone I found that I’d been holding my breath. I took a great gulp of air. My legs were trembling as though I’d been running. Now, I needed the drink. I went to the kitchen and ran myself a pint of cold water from the tap, drinking it down in one and pouring myself some more.

  Of course I couldn’t be sure where Ashe had come from, but after what Dorothy had told me it seemed almost certain he had been at the top of the house, with Suzannah Rose Murchie. The thought made me shiver. I had thought I was alone, but for her, and now . . . Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to get out of the house. I put the garden tools away hurriedly, stuffed the weeds into the dustbin, washed my hands at the sink and collected my things from the office. As I opened the front door I thought I heard something – and as I closed it I glimpsed a figure at the foot of the stairs. I heard my name spoken softly. Only Suzannah, surely, and yet my heart was in my mouth as I ran to the garden gate.

  The woman from the house opposite called ‘Good afternoon!’ but I don’t believe I answered her, and her surprised expression told me how strange and wild I must have appeared.

  At the top of the hill I spotted a cab and hailed it – an unheard-of extravagance, but the privacy it afforded was worth every penny. Even the cab driver gave me a curious look after I blurted out my address.

  I sat back and closed my eyes, trying to regulate my breathing. I knew my panic was completely unfounded. There was no reason on earth why John Ashe should not visit a young artist in whom he had an interest. Even if that interest were not purely professional, he and Suzannah were both adults and it was no business of mine what they chose to do, or where. The house wasn’t mine, I had no responsibility for it, or for them. But my skin continued to creep at the realisation that while I had been busy in the garden, they had been together up there . . . And so quiet, so very, very quiet.

  I was still spooked when I got back. When Louise popped out of her door she made me jump, and my hand flew to my mouth.

  ‘Did I give you a fright? I’ve got no make-up on yet, but I didn’t know it was that bad!’

  ‘No, it wasn’t that . . . Of course it wasn’t!’ I laughed nervously. ‘I was in a world of my own.’

  ‘You’re early. Want to come in for a bit?’

  ‘All right – why not.’

  Her cluttered room felt womanly and comforting. I sank down gratefully in the chair.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘You’re a bit pale. But then you’ve been having a lousy time.’

  ‘I think I’m just tired,’ I agreed. I didn’t want to go over past events again, so rather than enlarge on them I batted a question back to her. ‘You said you had a new job – how’s it going?’

  ‘Wonderful!’ she said, fumbling for cigarettes in the pocket of her kimono. ‘I can’t tell you. A bit tiring, being up most of the night and doing the other job too, but it’s such fun and the money’s so good I may give up Maison Ricard altogether.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Well.’ She took a drag and swung her legs up on to the bed.

  ‘The club is called the Apache – have you heard of it?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘You will,’ she assured me. ‘Everyone knows about it, but not everyone can get in. It was a stroke of genius on Piggy’s part to make it exclusive right from the start.’

  ‘Piggy?’

  ‘The manager. Charles Swynford-Hayes. That’s what he’s known as among friends and in the press – we lowly employees wouldn’t use it to his face.’

  ‘So who is allowed in?’ I asked, more to keep her talking than out of any real curiosity – my interest in and acquaintance with nightclubs was nil. ‘Only the very rich?’

  ‘No – that’s the great thing. It could be anyone – you, me, the candlestick-maker. Piggy decides. But nobody boring.’

  ‘Not me then,’ I said. ‘That’s a relief.’

  ‘Pamela, you are not boring! Anyway, the result is the most fabulously exciting and unexpected clientele. It’s like the most exotic party you can think of every night. And no one’s allowed to pull rank. No one!’ She made a face to indicate the extreme importance of those she was referring to. ‘Piggy calls it the most exclusive democracy in London.’

  Her enthusiasm was infectious. ‘It sounds absolutely petrifying.’

  ‘I don’t know about petrifying – pretty humiliating though, if you’re Lady Vere de Vere and you’re refused entry!’

  ‘It must be. What about you – what do you do?’

  ‘I’m a hostess.’ She held up her hand. ‘And before you say a single thing there is absolutely nothing shady about it.’

  ‘I didn’t think for a moment that there was.’

  ‘You don’t fool me, darling. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. There isn’t. I’m a cocktail waitress, really, with extra responsibilities. Looking after people generally – bringing them their orders, making them feel at home, dancing with gentlemen when required, being decorative . . .’ She wriggled her toes. ‘All things I’ve trained for.’

  ‘Piggy must be thrilled to have you,’ I said. ‘And you say he’s paying you well?’

  ‘Pretty well, but the tips are the thing – just for doing what any girl with an ounce of sense would do at a party.’

  ‘You underestimate yourself,’ I said, laughing to show there was no offence taken. ‘I’ve got a couple of ounces of sense but I could no sooner do that job than fly!’

  ‘No,’ she agreed, ‘and you wouldn’t want to. You’d be a fish out of water, you’d hate it. But it’s right up my alley, I can tell you.’

  I was truly pleased for her, and the conversation went a long way towards calming me down. And then, just as I was leaving, she clapped her hand to her head.

  ‘Oh God, I nearly forgot, I meant to say it to begin with – you’ve got a message.’ She went to the mante
lpiece and took a small piece of paper from beneath an ashtray. She smiled as she handed it to me. ‘He sounded nice.’

  The smile invited confidences, but there were none I chose to give. Instead I thanked her, and went upstairs before reading it.

  Alan Mayes – call him before 6 or after 9. There followed a number. I glanced at my watch: it was five thirty. Taking the piece of paper and coins from the tin on the chest of drawers I went down to the hall, tiptoeing past Louise’s room so as not to attract further attention.

  As the phone rang the other end I pictured the senior partner with whom Alan lodged – large, waistcoated, slightly intimidating, not particularly keen that his young assistant engage in too much social activity – and prepared myself accordingly.

  So it was a surprise when Alan himself answered.

  ‘Alan? It’s Pamela.’

  ‘I was hoping it would be – I ran to pick it up. Hello. Listen, I can’t talk for long because of evening surgery. But I’m free on Thursday evening, and I wondered whether I could see you?’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a pity we’re on opposite sides of town, but shall we meet in the middle – say under the clock at Fortnum’s at about six? Then we can go for a walk in the park, or the pictures – or anything really, depending on the weather. I shan’t inflict my car on you first time in case it puts you off.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it. But I might not be there dead on six.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I will, and I’ll wait for you.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Look, Pamela, I’d better dash. Thanks so much for calling back, see you soon.’

  ‘ ’Bye.’

  On the way back up I encountered Louise crossing the landing from the bathroom, her head swathed in a towel.

  ‘Did you get hold of him?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I don’t know, you disappear for a week to attend your ailing parents and come back with a beau – it’s outrageous! Whatever were you doing down there when you should have been playing the dutiful daughter?’

  ‘He’s a doctor,’ I explained.