The Nightingale's Nest

by Sarah Harrison

  ‘What are you—?’

  ‘What are you doing—?’

  I was discovered anyway, ‘I work here.’

  ‘What a coincidence. Who for? I’ve got an appointment with someone called –’ she consulted a business card – ‘John Ashe.’

  ‘Second floor,’ I said. ‘He’s the man I work for.’

  ‘No!’ She frowned. ‘But I thought you were up in Highgate?’

  ‘I am. This is just part- time – two hours twice a week.’

  ‘You’re so full of surprises, Pamela!’

  ‘So are you! By the way,’ I asked cautiously, ‘have you met him before?’

  ‘At the Apache. Yes, I know, ghastly, but you get used to it, don’t you?’

  ‘What time’s your appointment?’

  ‘Six o’clock.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Jeepers.’

  ‘You’d better go up. He likes punctuality.’

  ‘ ’Bye! I’ll tell you all about it!’

  As I walked away I pictured Louise, a pink, exotic bloom in Ashe’s austere office. An unaccountable anxiety slithered in my stomach. Perhaps the journey from the subterranean black box to the empty white room was not as great as it seemed.

  But the next day Louise was buoyant. I went down to her room at five thirty when I heard her come back from Maison Ricard.

  ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Marvellous! You are lucky, Pamela, he is such a fascinator!’

  I confess this was not the reaction I’d expected, and I needed a moment to think about it, asking tamely: ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes!’ Don’t you?’

  I paused again. I was indeed fascinated by John Ashe but not, perhaps, in the way that Louise meant.

  ‘He’s an interesting man,’ I conceded cautiously. ‘What were you seeing him about?’

  ‘Oh, doing some different work: reception, bar management – you know he owns the Apache? Silly question, of course you do. For some reason, he’s trying to woo me away from the frank stares of the customers . . .’

  ‘And did he succeed?’

  ‘Not yet.’ She slid me her most alluring and sagacious smile. ‘I’m not stupid, he can keep right on wooing for a bit. And make it worth my while . . .’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘If he does his stuff I can pack in Madame and all her works. I shan’t need to borrow any more gowns.’

  ‘Louise,’ I said, not caring how prim it sounded. ‘You know he’s married, don’t you?’

  ‘I’d have been astonished if he wasn’t. They all are. And I saw the photograph, my dear!’ She flapped a mock-languid hand. ‘She looks far too cut-glass to give a man like that a good time.’

  This remark made me realise how different was Louise’s relationship with Ashe, however recent, from mine of several weeks’ standing. In all that time I had never ventured far enough into the white room to be allowed a glimpse of the photograph on the desk, whereas in the space of one short meeting she had been made – or had made herself – sufficiently at home to have studied it. I couldn’t help but feel mortified, and my mortification made me ungenerous.

  ‘Be careful,’ I said. ‘You hardly know him.’

  ‘True,’ she said. ‘But I know men. No need to worry, darling, I can look after myself.’

  When, at the weekend, I mentioned all this to Alan, he laughed.

  ‘It sounds as though Mr Ashe has met his match.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I retorted irritably. ‘I get along with him perfectly well. He doesn’t walk all over me, you know.’

  ‘I do know, but that’s different. From what you’ve told me you and he have a sound business relationship based on mutual respect.’

  ‘He told me I had good legs!’ I snapped.

  Alan laughed even louder as he put his arms round me. ‘Not so different then! You must introduce me to this chap some time.’

  In the end I laughed, too – but as for introducing him to Ashe, I swore I never, ever would.

  Though at first I’d envied Dorothy her holiday at the seaside, the few days each week I spent in south London while the Jarvises were away were sublimely happy. My mother was pleased, in her fashion, to have me there and to have someone to look after, and I was able to see Alan every free moment that he had. We talked and talked, and as we talked we grew closer. I realised how much I had missed real intimacy with another person. I should have liked to be more intimate still. Our kisses had undergone a sea change; no longer the culmination of a romantic friendship, but the precursor to something more. I left behind that residue of widow’s guilt, confident that my happiness with Matthew would lead to even greater happiness now. We wanted to get married, and discussed how it might be managed. Conscious of his responsibilities, he fretted more than me.

  ‘Perhaps I should abandon this psychiatry idea,’ he said as we sat in a tea shop near the surgery. He thrust his hands into his hair in an attitude close to despair.

  ‘Don’t do that, you mustn’t do that,’ I said, pulling at his wrist and taking his hand in both mine. ‘You know how much you want to, and you might never forgive yourself – or me – if you gave it all up.’

  ‘I haven’t got it yet,’ he said ruefully.

  ‘But you will have, and you must go all out to make a success of it.’ Something Dorothy, of all people, had said, popped into my head.

  ‘Marriage shouldn’t be a prison,’ I said. ‘We don’t have to be like everyone else.’

  ‘But what about money? It’ll be damn close to a prison if we find ourselves on bread and water.’

  Now it was my turn to laugh gently at him. ‘It won’t come to that, or anything like it! If we’re married I shall be living in Edinburgh, too, and I shall find work. I’m good at that.’

  ‘You are, but . . .’ He grimaced in frustration. ‘How can I be kept by my wife?’

  ‘Very easily, if you let me. And there’s no shame in it. Quite the opposite – when you’re consultant psychiatrist to the crowned heads of Europe I shall lounge about and spend your money like any other pampered wife of a distinguished man, never you mind!’

  He smiled, and was soothed for the time being, but I knew how much he worried. It seemed a pity, when we were so happy, and so full of anticipation for the future, that our pleasure in each other should be spoiled by the dead hand of convention. No one would ever have taken me for a rebel, but in this respect I was: the prospect of working while my husband studied for three years did not strike me as either odd or unsuitable, but highly desirable, not to mention practical. I accepted that love might very well be eroded by penury, and if in our case we could easily avoid it, what possible reason could there be to do otherwise?

  I wasn’t too insistent. Alan’s anxieties were honourable ones, and there was time in hand. The last thing I wanted was to impose on him an idea with which he wasn’t comfortable, and which would only, if he acceded to it under duress, see us starting out on the wrong foot. If necessary I could (though the prospect was terribly hard) wait. The other side of me, the non-rebel, the patient, industrious, ‘deserving’ Pamela, was good at waiting. But I hoped – oh, how I hoped – that it wouldn’t come to that.

  My mother caught a sniff of something in the air. She’d have had to be deaf, blind and stupid not to, and she was none of those things, especially not the last. One evening I cooked our supper and, greatly daring, I persuaded her to join me beforehand in a small glass of sherry. It was virtually unheard of for the two of us – two women, on our own, at home – to partake of alcohol, in the front room, too, and it gave the evening a real sense of occasion which helped smooth the path for my cooking. After two or three sips her cheeks grew quite pink.

  ‘You’re seeing a lot of Alan, then.’

  I agreed that I was.

  ‘Reason you came down here, I expect,’ she said, quite without rancour.

  ‘Part of the reason.’

  ‘Killing two birds with one stone. And very sensible. I’m not complaining, it’s nice to have you here, Pammie.’

 
I found myself hoping she wouldn’t regret this effusion in the morning. But there was more to come.

  ‘It’s nice to be here. And I’d have come anyway, Mum.’

  ‘Your father and I used to worry about you, you know.’

  I’d had absolutely no idea. ‘What for?’

  ‘It’s been such a long time since Matthew died, and you’re only a young woman.’

  ‘That’s true – but I haven’t been unhappy all that time, Mum. Not once I got over it.’

  She turned her head away slightly, as if peering out into the street, but I knew she wasn’t.

  ‘Takes a while, I dare say . . .’

  ‘Oh, Mum!’ Aided by the sherry, it flooded over me: how recently Dad had died, that she had been ill herself when it happened, how well she had coped, how little burden she had placed on me considering, and how far from selfless it was of me to come down and see her. I went over and put my arm round her shoulders. They felt very stiff, and her head remained averted, but there was the smallest glistening on her cheek, and when I kissed her I tasted the tears.

  ‘It does,’ I said, ‘it takes ages. But it will get better, I promise. And you and Dad had a good marriage. That makes it harder to lose him, I know, but it’ll be a comfort too. All those years you were happy together will make a difference when the sadness begins to go.’ I squeezed her shoulders gently. ‘I promise.’

  Her still, silent struggle for control was awful for her, and for me too. On top of everything else it must have been incredibly hard for her, in this one sad area, to be the less experienced one. But there was nothing I could do about that, and after what seemed a long time, she put up her hand to pat mine: I was acknowledged, thanked, and dismissed.

  I returned to my chair, trying to think of a way to change the subject smoothly.

  ‘Can you keep a secret?’ I asked.

  This caught her attention. It was not the way we spoke to each other; we were not playful. This, to her mind, was the sort of question uttered between friends rather than mother and daughter. Quick as a flash she was back in control, and looking at me, sharp-eyed.

  ‘It depends,’ she said firmly. ‘I should certainly hope so.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s nothing bad. Nothing that will trouble your conscience, Mum. Just that Alan may be moving to Scotland next year.’

  ‘Scotland?’ Her surprise was genuine, and gratifying – I’d succeeded. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘To take a course in psychiatry at the medical school in Edinburgh.’

  ‘What about Dr Cardew?’

  It was so like my mother to see all this in terms of leaving someone else in the lurch.

  ‘Well of course, if Alan’s accepted he’ll give plenty of notice and Dr Cardew will be able to replace him.’

  ‘I see.’ She beat busily at her skirt with the palm of her hand brushing away non-existent crumbs. ‘And what do you think of this idea?’

  ‘I think it’s splendid.’ For some reason I felt a lot depended on her response.

  ‘That’s the main thing,’ she said. She sniffed: ‘Had you better check that oven?’

  I was smiling as I went to the kitchen. For the first time in my life I could see my mother as an ally.

  The following Tuesday I spent an almost unprecedented afternoon window-shopping. As a general rule all I asked of clothes was that they be serviceable, inexpensive and inconspicuous. ‘Neat but not gaudy’ was my motto; in that regard I was my mother’s daughter. Today I felt slightly different. When it came to fashion I would never be in Louise’s class, but I felt a sudden inclination towards a little more colour, and prettiness.

  A gulf still yawned, though, between inclination and execution. I was out of practice. I wandered, gazed, and yearned, and became first dazzled, then confused, by the choice. How did anybody do it? How did Louise, or Georgina – let alone someone like the legendary Felicia – arrive at their stylish and glamorous toilettes? There were simply too many decisions involved. But I was determined to buy something, however small, to start the process.

  After two hours I spotted the brilliant-blue kid shoes. They glowed in the centre of the window on a little plinth all to themselves, like a kingfisher among sparrows, royalty among footwear. I didn’t stop to consider their lack of practicality, or what, if anything, in my neat, plain wardrobe, would do them justice. I simply coveted them in the way I had coveted things as a child. Where the shoes led, the rest of my wardrobe would surely follow. And it was clearly meant to be, because although they were the last pair (there had only been three, the assistant told me), they were in my size! I felt like Cinderella as she kneeled before me and the first shoe was slipped on to my right foot as softly and sweetly as if it had been made for me. Wearing both of them, I walked to where I could admire myself in the long mirror. They were perfect – the delicate, waisted heel, the T-bar with its tiny seed-pearl trim, the elegantly elongated toe . . . I was transported.

  ‘They look very well on you,’ said the woman. ‘Madam has a nice slim ankle if I may say so.’

  Oh you may, I thought, you may! For it was true – hadn’t John Ashe already commented on my legs?

  The one thing I had omitted to ask was the price, but by that time I had as good as bought them, and handed over the three pounds with as much insouciance as I could muster. After all, I reasoned, I might well have bought several cheaper things that afternoon, and altogether they would almost certainly have cost me five pounds. Louise, who was rapidly becoming my touchstone in these matters, would have thought nothing of it.

  As I left with the box under my arm I had to restrain myself from giving a little skip of elation. But having spent so successfully and extravagantly once, I had to resist the temptation to do so again. The shops which two hours ago had appeared so exhaustingly overstocked seemed suddenly crammed with things I might want to buy. In the space of that heady few minutes in the shoe shop I had undergone a Jekyll-and-Hyde transformation from self-effacing novice to devil-may-care profligate. It was exhilarating but alarming. Seeing that it was already four thirty I decided to avoid temptation by going straight to Ashe Enterprises. I was sure John Ashe wouldn’t mind my being slightly early; it was lateness he didn’t care for.

  By the time I reached Soho Square I was hot and footsore, and couldn’t wait to reach the cool seclusion of my little office, and the promise of a long drink of cold water. In the lift I leaned back and closed my eyes. So it was almost like a dream when, on the second floor, the doors rattled back to reveal a strange young woman.

  I had never seen another soul in the place. Even Louise’s visit had been timed to coincide with my departure. And this girl was not waiting for the lift, she was moving across the landing from the direction of Ashe’s office. I had time to take in a tall, slim figure in loose black trousers and a scarlet satin jacket, a long black scarf tied round her head. Bare feet, I noticed. Brown skin.

  My arrival obviously startled her, too, because she paused for a second, half turned away as if shy.

  ‘Oh! Hello.’ Her voice was quite deep, but no more than a whisper.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ I said as I stepped out.

  ‘I’m just . . .’ She pointed in the direction of the room which was usually kept closed. The door was ajar. ‘Excuse me.’

  She disappeared into the room and closed the door. I went into my office, put the shoebox under the desk, hung my hat on the back of the door and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. I let the water run over my wrists for a moment to cool me down. I could hear a faint murmur of voices from the other room. I wished now that I had not arrived early. I had interrupted something; I was out of place. I hoped this wouldn’t mean a black mark against me in John Ashe’s book.

  Back in my office I pushed the door to, opened the window and removed the cover from the typewriter. I had nothing, as yet, to do. I sat very still, catching my breath. Ten minutes later I heard the internal door close, light footsteps, the soft clank of the lift doors.

  When John
Ashe did come in he was, thank goodness, calm and pleasant, and I detected no hint of criticism. On the contrary, he said: ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting; I was conducting an interview.’

  ‘No, I was early.’

  ‘You’ve been shopping, I see.’ He nodded in the direction of the shoebox under the desk. Not much got past him. ‘Just looking, really.’

  ‘But you bought some shoes.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. May I see?’

  ‘I suppose . . . yes.’

  I picked up the box and undid the ribbon. When I removed the lid the shoes were like two bright birds nestling in their bed of soft, white tissue. My heart pattered in agitation. I felt foolish, vain – exposed. But before I could collect myself, John Ashe leaned forward and removed one of them, holding it up before him and turning it this way and that as though it were a rare vase.

  ‘These are beautiful. Exquisite.’

  ‘Thank you.’ There seemed nothing else to say. Except, perhaps, to take credit: ‘They caught my eye right away.’

  ‘Yes . . . yes . . . they would do.’ He set the shoe down on the edge of the desk and I put its companion next to it. We gazed, he with an expression of sophisticated appreciation, I somewhat anxiously. I was overwhelmed – by my extravagance, by the presumptuousness behind it, by the situation.

  ‘You must wear them often,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘They’re party shoes.’

  ‘Do you attend many parties?’

  I found it hard, as always, to assess the weight of this question. Was I being patronised? His tone had been one of neutral, polite enquiry. Since I was scarcely in a position to take offence, I thought it best to be truthful.