One evening in the late June of 1954, in response to an invitation from Amanda, I left Dorothy in charge and drove up to Highgate in my shiny Austin A40 (an indulgence courtesy of Ashe) to have supper with them. It was to be my last visit for over ten years.
Afterwards we sat outside. Mr Speight had done his stuff, but the bottom of the garden was as overgrown as ever, the little path wriggling away invitingly into the mysterious green darkness. Amanda may have guessed what I was thinking, for she said:
‘I have to restrain Mr Speight, Pamela, or he’d make the whole place look like a municipal park. I like to keep a little bit of wilderness, even though it gets on the poor man’s nerves . . .’
I said I absolutely agreed with her. Christopher Jarvis wasn’t so sure.
‘It’s not as though we ever use that end,’ he said. ‘We could have a pleasing prospect instead of a wall of vegetation.’
‘It’s not big enough for a prospect,’ protested his wife, isn’t that right, Pamela?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You’re ganging up on me,’ he said. ‘I give in.’
The evening sank into night, but a big, mottled, golden moon rose, and upstairs lights shone from several of the neighbouring houses, so it wasn’t completely dark. Half an hour later Amanda got to her feet.
‘If you’ll excuse me, Pamela, I’m going to bed.’
‘Heavens, is that the time?’ I rose immediately, conscious of having stayed too long. ‘I’m sorry, I had no idea. I must be off.’
‘No, no, you stay – you look tired, and it’s so lovely out here.’
To my surprise, Christopher added: ‘Yes, stay for a little while, why don’t you? Have a snifter.’
Amanda patted my shoulder as if giving her permission. ‘A very good idea.’
I declined the snifter, but he poured himself one and then returned, and we sat for a while in easy silence, breathing in the scent of the garden.
‘How’s the good work going?’ he asked in the gently teasing tone he used on this subject. ‘Is business brisk?’
‘As much as we can handle,’ I replied.
‘Dorothy OK?’
‘I don’t know what I’d do without her.’
‘Hmm . . .’ I could almost hear him smiling. ‘We used to say that, about both of you.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘and look how well things turned out.’
‘The Speights are fine but they’re not interesting.’
To change the subject, I asked: ‘Do you see anything of the Ashes these days?’
‘Good grief, no.’ He put his glass down and I heard the sounds of him lighting a cigarette, then saw the small red spark flare and subside as he took the first drag. ‘Not since he died. I never cared for Felicia, and I’m afraid all that business with Suzannah stuck in my craw.’
‘What business?’
‘Getting her in the family way and then adopting the child as though he were doing her a favour, when he didn’t give a damn for either of them. Anyway, they’re not interested in us.’
I sensed a sore point, but it was out of curiosity, not a desire to hurt, that I asked: ‘You were in the army with him, weren’t you?’
‘I was.’
‘He showed me a photograph, years ago.’
‘Did he.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘Yes . . . “C” Company, I think he said. I was very clever, I picked you out.’
‘Did you pick him out too?’
‘No, but then he looked very different.’
Quite a long silence followed, during which I sensed that Christopher Jarvis was conducting an internal debate. He must have reached a conclusion, because he broke the silence by saying: ‘Let me tell you something I learned in the army.’ He glanced at me. ‘Would that be all right?’
I wondered why he needed my permission. ‘Of course.’
‘It’s this. In war, you develop a sort of sixth sense about who you can trust. It has nothing to do with a man’s other qualities. In civilian life he could be a philanthropist or a thumping crook – it’s simply a question of whether you can rely on him under fire.’ He drew on his cigarette. ‘I trusted John Ashe. He was an odd chap – not well liked even then, without the damage. He gave nothing away about himself, but he made it his business to know about other people.’
‘He didn’t change, then.’
‘I forget – you knew him, too. So you’ll understand something of this. Anyway, whatever else, in my view Ashe was a man I trusted with my life. He was my batman, did you know that?’
I was astonished. ‘No. He didn’t say.’
‘Why would he? And anyway, after the war our positions became if not actually reversed then at least tilted in his favour. He made millions out of his dubious goings-on.’
‘I know.’
‘Left next to nothing, apart from the house. God knows where it all went.’ Jarvis glanced at me. ‘He liked you, Pamela.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Well, as much as he liked anyone, especially any woman. He always preferred his own company first and foremost, with men second and women a poor third.’
‘I guessed that.’
‘Anyway, I was fond of him. It wouldn’t be too much to say we grew quite attached to one another. And as I told you I’d have trusted him with my life.’
I listened intently, almost holding my breath. Above us, the light went off in Amanda’s bedroom. The sense of secrecy was intense and overpowering. I didn’t want to break the spell, but I couldn’t help myself. I asked:
‘And were you right?’
‘I was,’ he said, so quietly that I could only just hear him. ‘I was. But there was a price to pay, for both of us. And there has been ever since.’
I knew there could be no more questions, that he considered he had said too much already. Perhaps, from his point of view, he had. Christopher Jarvis was an old man, trying to make sense of the distant past. I had half my life ahead of me, and much to do.
I heard his breathing grow deep and slow, as if he were asleep. As I rose to go, another sound stopped me in my tracks. Liquid, sweet and plaintive – the song of a nightingale rippling softly from her secret, hidden place.
The baby upstairs has stopped crying. The only sound I can hear is the soft, surging roar of the traffic on the busy road beyond the house. But the house itself – my house – is still, and safe, its occupants slipping into rest in their different ways.
One by one, the lights go out. In the kitchen, the light is still on, and I can see Dorothy filling the kettle at the sink beneath the window. Peter Archard is with her; she must have let him in. They’re laughing together. He likes her but he doesn’t stand a chance. Neither of them can see me, out here in the dark.
But I’m watching – and all will be well.
Copyright
First published 2006 by Hodder & Stoughton
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