The Nightingale's Nest

by Sarah Harrison

  This was just as well, because the house was busy with party preparation and I had almost nothing to do in the office, so I spent most of the day helping Amanda Jarvis with the flowers and furniture-moving, and tidying up the front garden, none of them activities designed to improve a soignée appearance.

  While I was trimming the hedge (Christopher Jarvis had acquired a few more tools to encourage me) Dorothy came out to polish the door knocker and letter box.

  ‘You going this evening?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘not this time.’

  ‘Lucky you, I’ve got to stay. Did they ask you?’

  ‘They did, and it was very kind of them, but I can’t go.’

  ‘Mmm . . .’ She flicked at a cobweb with her duster. ‘Now why would that be?’

  I didn’t answer, stooping to assess the level of the top of the hedge with a frown of deep concentration.

  ‘You could go home, you know,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing doing here. I would, if I had a date. They won’t mind.’

  ‘Probably not,’ I replied, ‘but I might as well make myself useful.’ I straightened up and stretched my back. ‘You must be pleased the swallows have flown, Dorothy. No more mess to clean up in the porch.’

  ‘I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies . . .’ She folded her arms and looked up at the deserted nest with its shroud of cobwebs. ‘Poor little blighters. One look at old ugly-mug and they were off.’ The party was due to begin at six. I came in from the garden at half past four, washed my hands and combed my hair, and sat at my desk nervously pretending to work. I could hear people’s voices: Georgina’s piping tones, Amanda’s cooing, Edward Rintoul’s staccato growl, Christopher’s calm drawl. Dorothy’s muttering and humming as she went about her business. No Suzannah – she was probably staying in her eyrie till the last moment, and who could blame her?

  At five fifteen the doorbell rang. I heard Christopher Jarvis say, ‘I’ll answer that!’ and then there was a brief exchange in the hall before he opened the door.

  ‘Pamela, Mr Ashe is here.’ He stood back and Ashe entered.

  I got to my feet.

  ‘Hello again,’ said Ashe. I remember a curious handshake, firm but not fully engaged. My own hand was not gripped, but encircled – elegantly trapped, like a bird in a cage.

  ‘I think,’ said Jarvis, ‘that the best place for the two of you is in here. The other rooms have been taken over, rather.’

  ‘The ideal setting for a business discussion,’ said Ashe, glancing around. As he did so, his unmarked profile was towards me, and his scarred side reflected in the mirror opposite. For a split second there seemed to be a third person in the room, and my skin crept.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it then,’ said Jarvis. ‘Would you like Dorothy to bring some tea?’

  ‘Not for me, thank you,’ I said.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Ashe. ‘But if you had any of that exceptional malt . . .’

  Jarvis nodded and withdrew. Ashe sat down on the sofa, but did not invite me to take an easy chair, for which I was glad. I felt both safer and more confident behind my desk.

  ‘I’ll cut to the chase,’ he said. ‘I understand from Christopher that in principle you’d be interested in doing a few hours’ work a week for me, and that they could spare you.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘But of course I’ve no idea what sort of work needs doing, or whether I’d be qualified for it.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ He had a calm, neutral way of speaking, though his eyes were piercing. He uses his voice like a mask, I thought.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘the work’s perfectly routine. Correspondence, filing and calls, the sort of thing you’re used to here – though perhaps a little less interesting.’

  ‘Could I ask who’s been doing this until now?’

  ‘I had a full-time secretary, but there wasn’t enough for her to do. And I like to have the place to myself most of the time. In contrast to your present employers; they like nothing better than a crowd, as I’m sure you know.’

  At this moment there was a tap on the door and Dorothy came in bearing a small salver with Ashe’s whiskey, a jug of water and a glass. On her way out she pulled a face of round-eyed, open-mouthed astonishment, which I ignored.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind this,’ he said. ‘It’s not my habit to drink at teatime, but . . .’ He took a sip, closing his eyes for a moment as he savoured it. ‘This will probably be my only one. There’s far too much champagne in my line of business.’

  This was my cue to ask: ‘Could you tell me a little more about that – about the business?’

  ‘I own half a dozen clubs in London. Nightclubs, I suppose you’d call them, although a couple of them are no more than fashionable bars. I own a good deal of property for rent, as well, but the clubs provide my main source of income. I should tell you that there would be occasions when I’d ask you to call at one or other of these places on my behalf.’ He must have caught something doubtful in my reaction, for he added: ‘During the day. Checking books, that sort of thing. Dealing with junior staff, you wouldn’t mind that, would you?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’ve never had to do it.’

  ‘Christopher says you practically run things here.’

  ‘He exaggerates.’

  ‘Probably. But your sangfroid is one of your more evident characteristics.’

  ‘Shall I need that, then?’ I asked. ‘Sangfroid?’

  He answered the question with a rhetorical one of his own. ‘It’s a useful attribute in any walk of life, don’t you think? As to hours, I was thinking in terms of two afternoons a week. But there can be considerable flexibility, to suit you and your work here.’ He tilted his head slightly, in a way both quizzical and collusive. The impression given was that we were engaged not in negotiation but in a ritual whose outcome was a foregone conclusion.

  I bridled slightly. ‘That is important. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience Mr and Mrs Jarvis, who’ve been so good to me.’

  He inclined his head in silent agreement. ‘And of course I shall at the very least match what they pay you. That would be only fair since your work for me would in effect be overtime.’

  I realised for the first time how much more I would be earning. Ashe sipped his whiskey before taking another step in the ritual dance.

  ‘My office is in Soho, by the way. I assume that wouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You yourself live in Fitzrovia, I believe?’ I’d never heard the term before, but he went on: ‘Sometimes called north Soho. We’re practically neighbours.’

  ‘When would you want me to start?’ I asked. The question was intended as another ritual move, but I heard at once that was not how it sounded, and Ashe was quick to draw the inference.

  ‘So – you’ll take the job?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Here’s what I suggest.’ He drained his glass and put it down. Ritual over, he was brisk. ‘Come down and visit the office next week one afternoon when you’ve finished here – say Wednesday at six o’clock – and then you can begin the following week.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you. I will.’

  ‘Good.’ He rose. ‘I must say, Mrs Griffe, it’s a pleasure to meet a woman as incisive as yourself.’

  Once again he held out his hand; once again my own was encircled. It was the oddest thing. I was not held or restrained in any way, and yet I couldn’t help feeling that if I attempted to withdraw my hand precipitately the jaws of the trap would snap shut.

  It was a ridiculous notion; the handshake was brief and businesslike. He took a card from his breast pocket and laid it on my desk. ‘My address and telephone number. If for any reason you can’t make the agreed time, just let me know. Otherwise I shall look forward to seeing you next Wednesday evening.’

  The door closed behind him. I picked up the card, and read the few words that were to change the course of my life. Ashe Enterprises, 12 Soho Square, W1.

&n
bsp; I left almost at once after that. I didn’t want my departure to coincide with the arrival of guests, nor did I wish to engage in conversation about the interview with any other members of the household, especially Dorothy, who would be beside herself with curiosity.

  On the way up the road I passed the great black motor car, which Amanda had told me was a Hispano-Suiza, belonging to John Ashe. Like its owner, or more probably by association with him, it had a presence far beyond the smooth, heavy planes of metal and chrome. The gilded bird on the bonnet was a stork in flight not, it seemed to me, the friendly, baby-carrying stork of popular children’s stories, but a creature strange and fierce as a pterodactyl, its angular wings mantling prey, its long, predatory beak poised to stab. The car’s rich leather interior was like a cave. As I glanced in I half expected to see some other strange creature lurking in its depths. But I saw only the young driver, whose dark gaze met mine calmly, as though he were used to the curiosity of passers-by.

  And yet, there was no mistaking my excitement – my own feet had wings as I headed for the bus stop.

  Chapter Twelve

  That Sunday I went down to see my mother again. I knew she was under no illusion as to the dual motive for my visit, but that was all to the good: her telling herself that I was only there to see Alan prevented the hated sense of obligation and made things easier for both of us. And with the long and unusual hours that he worked it made sense for me to do the travelling from time to time.

  It rained heavily in the afternoon; we went for a drive as before and parked at the top of the hill. There was no view this time. Instead the windows streamed, like bead curtains, all around us as we talked. No longer embarrassed by intimacy, we sat as close as the Morris’s front seat would allow. He told me for the first time about his interest in psychiatry.

  ‘I love general practice, it’s what I’ve always wanted to do. But the more patients I come into contact with the more I realise that some of their worst ills aren’t the ones they’ve ostensibly come to see me about. Honestly, Pamela, you’d be amazed how many sad and desperate people there are.’

  I thought, with a twinge, of Barbara. ‘I believe you.’

  ‘The war left its legacy, of course. But one can’t always find such a directly attributable cause. And people are ashamed of their unhappiness because they feel there’s no reason for it. And there are difficulties with children, or parents, or between man and wife. Some of my patients have physical symptoms which I know have psychological roots. But it’s hard for me, and for them, to talk about it. I don’t like to meddle in an area where I have no qualifications for fear of doing more harm – and apart from their natural reserve and embarrassment they’re loath to unburden themselves to the junior partner, a young whippersnapper like me. They’d rather see Dr Cardew, who probably delivered them, let alone their children, and who will take them at face value and give them a bottle of pink stuff. Don’t misunderstand me, Pamela, he’s a good doctor and a caring man, but he’s an orthodox physician through and through. No one’s going to get any uncomfortable insights from him. But as things stand there’s so little I can do.’

  It was the most passionate I’d seen Alan. Looking back I think that was the moment I began to love him.

  ‘So what will you do?’ I asked. ‘If you continue to have these convictions it doesn’t sound as though general practice will suit you.’

  ‘No, you’re right. It would be downright unethical to hold the views I do and ignore them. But I can scarcely let them loose on my patients with no clinical training or experience to back them up. I’m thinking of retraining, but it’s a big decision with all sorts of implications. Not least forfeiting my hard-earned salary for a good few years.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘You must do it. The loss of income may be inconvenient, but that’s nothing to the regrets you’d have if you didn’t follow your instincts.’

  He took my hand in both of his and looked down at our joined hands so that what he said next felt like a promise entered into together; a mutual vow.

  ‘Then I shall. Your opinion means more to me than anything. Things may take a little while—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter how long it takes.’

  He stroked the back of my hand. ‘You wouldn’t mind keeping company with a hard-up, hard-pressed medical student?’

  ‘No,’ I said, and couldn’t resist adding: ‘And from next week I shall be earning more, so we’ll still be able to go to the pictures.’

  ‘You’re starting? With the mysterious Mr Ashe?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘That’s tremendous – congratulations!’ His pleasure in my small achievement was delightful, but I simply wasn’t used to such overwhelming approval.

  ‘We’ll see how it works out,’ I said cautiously.

  ‘It’ll work out wonderfully . . .’ He stroked my cheek, his eyes shining as our faces grew closer together. ‘Dearest, dearest Pamela . . . we’re both of us starting on a great adventure.’

  The party, I gathered, had been a success. Dorothy was full of it – the music, the boozing, the dancing, the ‘necking’ as she called it. In spite of her best efforts the drawing room still smelt of smoke, three glasses had been broken, and some caviar had been squashed on the seat of the brocade sofa.

  ‘Dirty beggars,’ she said, clearly delighted. ‘One thing though, somebody’s backside is going to look even worse. You should have been there,’ she added. ‘It was quite an evening.’

  ‘It sounds it.’

  ‘Your Mr Ashe was the only sober one there.’

  ‘He’s not mine, Dorothy. And he doesn’t like champagne, apparently.’

  ‘Told you did he?’ she asked, with a mock-innocent expression. ‘Over the whiskey?’

  ‘Yes, as it happens.’

  ‘Come on then,’ she said, hoisting herself on to the kitchen table and folding her arms expectantly. ‘That’s enough secrets. What were you and him in such a huddle about?’

  ‘We weren’t in a huddle. It was purely business. I’m going to do some work for him.’

  ‘Ooh, I see!’

  ‘There’s nothing to see, as you put it. He mentioned something to Mr Jarvis, and they can spare me for a few hours a week, so . . .’ I made a vague gesture to indicate what an incredibly trivial and everyday matter it was. But that didn’t fool Dorothy.

  ‘Rather you than me,’ she said, screwing up her face. ‘I hope he’s paying you double to sit looking at that all day.’

  ‘He’s paying me more than adequately, and it won’t be all day,’ I said.

  ‘You won’t leave us, though, will you?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Good.’ She slipped down off the table and opened the cleaning cupboard. ‘Because this place has been a lot more organised since you got here.’

  I knew Dorothy well enough by now to understand that this was her way of saying she’d miss me.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ll still be keeping an eye on you.’

  She grinned cheekily. ‘Not this afternoon, you won’t. I’m off early in loo.’

  I hadn’t expected to see John Ashe again until our meeting on Wednesday, but he called at Seven Crompton Terrace late on Monday afternoon. Christopher Jarvis was in town at the gallery, and Amanda had gone with him to do some shopping. I came back from posting letters in the village at about five, and the Hispano-Suiza was parked outside the gate in the space where the Riley normally stood.

  When I got inside the house was very quiet and there was no sign of the visitor. I was about to leave anyway, and could hear Chef in the kitchen, so I popped in.

  ‘Goodnight, Chef.’

  ‘ ’Night, Mrs Griffe.’

  ‘Oh by the way –’ I pretended that this inconsequential matter had occurred to me quite randomly – ‘is Mr Ashe here? I saw his car outside.’

  ‘He came to collect her.’ Chef jerked his head upward, indicating the top of the house. ‘She’s moving out today.’

&nb
sp; I had received due warning, but it was still a surprise, which I did my best to conceal. It struck me as odd that Suzannah should be leaving when the Jarvises, her hosts for the past few months, were not present. As I emerged into the hallway I heard slow footsteps on the stairs and John Ashe’s uniformed driver appeared. On the couple of occasions I’d seen him before, sitting at the wheel of the car, I hadn’t really noticed his appearance. Now I saw that he was an exceptionally handsome young man – dark-haired and olive-skinned, with wonderfully lustrous eyes. Elegant in his dark green breeches and jacket, he was tall but quite slim, and struggling to carry a large, battered suitcase in one hand, and a paint-stained canvas holdall in the other.

  ‘Good afternoon, madam.’ His voice was soft, with that precise diction that often accompanies the suppression of a regional accent. He obviously wasn’t aware of my lowly position in the household, and I didn’t correct him. His deference was charming.

  ‘Good afternoon – are you going out with those? Let me open the door for you.’

  ‘Thank you, madam.’

  I opened the front door wide, and did the same with the gate. He carried his burden out to the car, opened the boot and loaded it. I went to the office to collect up my things. I heard Ashe and Suzannah come down, and the driver met them in the hall and relieved them of Suzannah’s easel, art folders and cloak. I couldn’t imagine how they would fit it all into the car, even such an impressively large one.

  I emerged from the house as the driver was getting in behind the wheel. He had resolved the space problem by putting the folders and easel in the foot well of the front seat, the easel propped up like an angular, skeletal passenger. Suzannah sat in the back seat on my side, next to Ashe. Her face, small and pale in its cloud of silvery hair, was turned to the window, but she didn’t appear to see me. My last sight of her was that pale face, seeming to float in the darkness of the car like a will o’ the wisp as she was borne away.