by Charles Owen
Julian let out a deep sigh. He had been born twenty years too late, missed out on that golden age when girls like Liz sat drooping in their wretched bedsitters every evening waiting for the telephone to ring. Now they had careers, bought their own flats, paid for their own dinners and drove sports cars. Judging by the magazines they read, they enjoyed frenetic sex lives. He never seemed to meet any girls. But what could you expect if you lived in a flat in your parents' house? And if you had parents like his?
His mother was a tall, spare woman with long, untidy limbs and the awkward movements of a crane fly. Her sole interest in life was the wilderness between the back of the house and the railway line where she grew the wild flowers and herbs that went into the rows of miniature bottles in the larder cupboard where she stored her remedies. That and the small band of disciples who come to the house on Tuesday afternoons to sip rose-hip tea and listen to a talk from an invited speaker on ‘The natural world of healing’.
His father, Harold, was a stipendiary magistrate in one of the London courts and an authoritarian of the old school. ‘It's long past time that you decided what you are going to do with your life, my boy. You won't find the answer lying on that sofa all day watching the television.’ His strictures, bellowed down the stairs to the flat in the basement, became as regular and predictable as the catchphrases in the beer advertisements.
Eventually his father had lost patience. ‘You had better go into the law since you have no ideas of your own. Your Uncle William has agreed to give you a fortnight's work experience at the end of term. He took some persuading, I don't mind telling you. Solicitors' firms are not a soft touch these days. They can pick and choose.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘If he likes the look of you, he will put you on his list for articles. But the rest is up to you. You will have to work like hell to get to university and then get your grades. So don't let me down.’
For the only two weeks of the summer holidays when it stopped raining and the sun shone gloriously, he had trailed across London to the dismal alleyway off the Gray's Inn Road where Harben, Beasley and Rhodes conducted their business.
He was given a desk in a gloomy office with a narrow window looking out on a light well, if a small yard bounded by blackened brickwork and rusty downpipes, littered with pigeon droppings and smelling faintly of drains can be so described, and for his sole companion, a sallow-faced, taciturn young man with a disconcerting twitch.
Long periods of indolence were punctuated with brief flurries of photocopying, filing and tea-making. His uncle had visited him but once, interrupting his examination of the mummified carcase of a tiger moth which he had discovered pressed between the mildewed leaves of Knecker on Probate and Trusts.
His father summoned him to his study. ‘Your uncle wasn't very encouraging.’
‘No, Father.’
‘We will talk about it again when we get your exam results.’
‘Yes, Father.’
Unfortunately for his father's ambitions, his examination results had been execrable and hopes of getting to university were abandoned. He had been rather looking forward to three years of leisurely introspection with a barricade of cloisters and quadrangles, quirky pipe-smoking dons and burly college porters between him and the world outside.
‘It's a pity,’ his mother said. ‘It would have been a chance for the boy to find himself.’
A succession of job interviews made it clear that this was a quest that prospective employers were unlikely to support. ‘You will just have to learn to stand on your own feet,’ his father said. ‘Go down to the Jobcentre and take what's on offer. Get some experience under your belt. There's no school like the school of life.’
‘A bit of a sportsman, are we?’ the clerk behind the window had inquired, casting a speculative eye over Julian’s tweed jacket and corduroy trousers. ‘The Dalston Animal Sanctuary is looking for someone to join their Recovery Team – rounding up stray dogs and that – but you'll need a doctor's certificate to show that you've had your jabs.’
‘Jabs!’ He was startled.
‘Inoculations. One of their blokes got bitten last week. Went down with lockjaw – swallowed his tongue.’
Julian gulped. ‘Have you ... something a little less...’
‘Less exciting?’ The clerk sucked the end of his pencil, ‘There’s a hospital porter’s job going. What about that?’
He had taken it. The hospital was a rambling Victorian building and this, indirectly, led to a misadventure. He had only been there a few weeks when he lost himself in the maze of featureless corridors while wheeling an elderly, feeble-minded patient from her ward to the physiotherapy department.
After twenty minutes of fruitless peregrination, his charge, a diminutive, white-haired old lady became fractious and, thrashing the air with her stick, insisted that he should leave her and go in search of help. He pushed the wheelchair into a small, windowless room and left her, appeased for the moment, gazing with rapt attention at an enigmatic circular aperture in the ceiling immediately above her head.
He eventually tracked down a helpful orderly who took him to a large wall chart and patiently explained the layout of the hospital. ‘You must be somewhere near the laundry room,’ the man suggested. ‘All the sheets and towels come down from the upper floors.’ There was a reverberation like distant thunder and a slight tremor ran through the building. The orderly cocked his head, ‘There! What did I tell you? That's the chute you can hear now.’
For a month he had sat in his tiny sitting room addressing envelopes. It was work for which he still had to be paid. Every morning he telephoned to ask about his money. The message was always the same. A cheque was in the post. One morning he rang and received no reply. The telephone had been cut off.
Morale had suffered. Life seemed quite pointless. It was difficult to find a sensible reason for getting up at all. He had lain in bed listening to his father hammering on the breakfast table.
‘Phyllis! Can't you get that son of yours up in the morning?’
There were a few winged days as a motorcycle courier culminating in a desperate wobble one dark, wet evening which had deposited a package of expensive artwork under the wheels of a double-decker bus. His mother made up a tincture of yellow jasmine and gave it to him in a little warm cooking brandy. ‘It will settle your nerves, dear.’
He took almost a week to recover, lying prostrate on the sofa in the darkened room listening to his Bruce Springsteen tapes and philosophising upon the meaning of life. The human race, he decided, was like the enormous jigsaw puzzle that his uncle produced for their annual visit on Boxing Day. There were the easy pieces which fitted readily but there were others so recalcitrant that they were still scattered around the edge of the table when it was time to abandon the project and go home. He emerged from his purdah in a mood of cheerful resignation.
His father was ready for him. ‘I will be in my study,’ he barked as he rose from the table. ‘I can give you five minutes. Now!’
When his father was angry, his face turned a dusky red and the tufts in his ears seemed to bristle, giving him the appearance of an infuriated gooseberry. He stood with his back to the fireplace tugging fiercely at a cigarette. ‘I've got you a month's trial with Fulford Fallow. Estate agents. Chelsea branch. I had to go cap in hand to John Fallow. I hardly know the man. And I had to give him lunch.’
‘What do I–’
‘Let me finish. There's not much money, a low basic salary plus commission – use of a company car. Showing people around flats.’ He threw his cigarette, half smoked, into the grate.
‘You are up to that I suppose?’ His son supposed that he was.
‘Well, get yourself tidied up. Here's a tenner for a haircut.’ He took a note from his pocketbook. ‘Your mother has pressed your suit. Get your shoes polished. This is probably your last chance to make something of yourself. So don't let me down.’
***
Julian watched a pigeon strutting along the
railing outside. Up and down, up and down. He opened a drawer to consult his journal and turned to the page headed Pigeons. It was where he kept a tally of the number of patrols completed before the inevitable squirt of white graffiti on the shiny black paintwork and the bird flew off. He made a note in the book. Perhaps this was how Darwin got started.
‘It's time we let that apartment in Admirals Court,’ Mr Sprague called out from his office.
‘Yes, Mr Sprague.’ He could see the manager's feet under his desk pedalling up and down, up and down. He hadn't the energy to add this new phenomenon to his observations. Wearily he dug into the pile of brochures and retrieved the details. Magnificently appointed ninth floor apartment, he read. Probably the finest property currently available on the London market ... fully furnished ... superb balcony views ... prestigious waterside setting ... unrivalled facilities ... fitness club ... tennis court ... heated indoor swimming pool. He sighed. What wouldn't he give to live in a place like that? He could see it all. Dinner on the balcony under the stars, a beautiful woman across the table, candlelight, champagne, soft music coming from somewhere…
‘I had Victor Skordias on the telephone after you had gone home yesterday.’
‘The Greek ship owner, Mr Sprague?’
‘Correct. He and his wife are over here for ten days. Some big business conference. They own the penthouse flat on the tenth floor. They must be worth millions.’
But Julian had lost interest. He turned over the brochure. At the bottom of the page there was a layout plan. Idly he sketched a pair of feet walking from the lift lobby to the front door of the apartment.
A pale shadow fell across his desk. Someone was looking at the properties advertised in the window. The door opened and he busied himself with his papers, conscious only that a woman had come in and was standing in front of his desk. ‘I wonder if you can help me,’ she said. ‘I am looking for somewhere to live. Somewhere rather special.’
He didn't look up at once, intrigued by her voice, trying to match the husky undertones to the long red brocaded coat, the black sable cuffs and hem. She removed her fur hat and shook out her hair. It was as if she had released a cloud of goldfinches.
He stood open-mouthed looking at her. For the life of him he could not have uttered. He had walked into the sea and been caught by a huge breaker which had knocked all the breath from his body.
She smiled at him. ‘It would be wonderful to have somewhere near the river. I think water is so romantic, don't you?’
The perfume that she was wearing was light and subtle. A hint of lily of the valley, of a woodland in spring ... clear pools ... he looked into her eyes ... and bluebells ... bluebells as far as you could see.
‘Blue...’ he said in a small, strangled voice.
She laughed, a tinkling sound like ice melting in pale, early morning sunshine, and borne away on the stream. ‘I won't make you promise that my river will always be blue, but please do your best.’
Mr Sprague had been making low growling sounds in his office like a dog chained in a backyard. Now he came to the door. ‘Perhaps I can be of assistance, Madam?’ His trousers had bagged at the knees. He ran his hands down his thighs in a fruitless attempt to iron out the creases.
The young woman turned to him, ‘How very kind of you, but please do not trouble yourself. Your colleague is attending to me.’
Mr Sprague pursed his lips and with a scowl at Julian, clumped back to his desk.
She rounded her eyes at the departing figure, pressing her teeth into her upper lip like a mischievous schoolgirl baiting teacher. ‘My name is Suki Renouf.’
‘Julian Stanford.’
She pressed his hand lightly, ‘I shall call you Mr Standfast. You shall be my tower of strength.’
‘I shall try to be.’ He fetched her a chair and with a little sigh she sat down. She had been travelling around the world for several years, she told him. ‘I have been everywhere and seen everything. I'm tired of it, Mr Standfast. I want to make my home here. I want to put down some roots.’
‘Are you ... by yourself?’ he inquired timidly. How was it possible that such a creature had not already been ensnared by some collector of exotica and locked away with his other trophies?
‘Oh, quite alone.’ The corners of her mouth drooped for a moment. Then her eyes lit up like a child invited to a party. ‘But everything is going to be different from now on, isn't that right, Mr Standfast?’ She picked up the brochure and crossed her hands over it, holding it to her heart. ‘I have a feeling about this place and I'm never wrong about my feelings.’
‘Admirals Court is very expensive,’ he began, ‘there are cheaper apartments.’ A rumbling sound came from the manager's office.
She giggled. ‘Dear Mr Standfast, I can see that you are determined to look after me. But don't worry too much.’ She lowered her voice, ‘You will think me dreadfully spoiled but money isn't a problem. I can pay six months in advance. Or a year if you prefer.’
‘If you think that you would be happy there–’
‘That is all that matters. To be happy. When I open my eyes each morning,’ she fluttered her long lashes into wakefulness, ‘I want to feel as if I am on holiday, as if all the people I most want to see are on their way to call on me.’ She twirled her hat on the end of her finger. ‘Life should be one long carnival. Don't you agree, Mr Standfast?’
He nodded mournfully. If only it were. But he and Suki lived on different planets. He could never share even the smallest corner of her life. The sunlight that warmed her by day, the moon that slept upon her pillow at night were closer to her than he could ever hope to be.
Suki leafed through the pages of the brochure. She seemed to pause for a moment over the layout plan and he felt his face reddening as he remembered his infantile doodling.
‘Forgive me,’ he muttered. ‘I will find a clean copy for you.’ He hurried across the room to the filing cabinet. Mr Sprague appeared at his shoulder, hanging over him like a vast spoil heap.
‘What has got into you today, Stanford?’ he hissed. ‘Ask Miss Renouf whether she would like to view the apartment. She can be driven there at once. Explain that we have keys and would be pleased to accompany her.’
‘Yes, Mr Sprague.’ He almost choked on the words. Tears of rage and humiliation pricked at his eyes. To be scolded in front of Suki! To be treated like the merest clerk! But she was shaking her head, she wouldn't do what Mr Sprague wanted. He could have thrown his arms about her and kissed her!
‘No, thank you ever so much. I will just take the details if I may. I am meeting some friends at Claridges for lunch and I am rather pressed for time. I have a car waiting. So, if you don't mind, I will be on my way.’
Mr Sprague returned to his office, shutting the door sharply behind him. Suki took the brochure with a smile of sympathy.
‘You will come back when you have read it?’ he entreated. He couldn't bear to see her go. When she left she would leave him in darkness like an eclipse of the sun.
Suki moved a little nearer and put a hand on his arm. Her closeness made him feel dizzy. ‘I promise,’ she said softly.
He held the door for her, his eyes following her as she tripped across the pavement to where a uniformed chauffeur stood waiting beside a shiny black saloon. A gloved hand waved at him. Then she was gone.
He went back to his desk, his back bent like a galley slave granted an hour of freedom and now returning to the thwarts to serve out his sentence.
The door of the back office opened and Mr Sprague reappeared. ‘Congratulations, Stanford! The first good prospect that we have had in weeks and you let her get away.’
‘But Mr Sprague,’ he protested, ‘she will be back.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. I wouldn't count on it. Do you know where she is staying?’
Julian hung his head and made no answer.
The manager smiled sardonically. ‘Then I think you have lost her. People like that don't walk in every day, you know.’
Jul
ian wanted to scream at him, ‘No! But people like you do!’
Mr Sprague consulted his watch. ‘It's time for my lunch.’ He patted his paunch complacently. As he came to Julian’s desk he paused and seemed to take satisfaction in his colleague's crestfallen expression. ‘You have got to learn to take the knocks in this business, Stanford.’ He sucked his teeth noisily. ‘When you have been around as long as I have you'll find that out.’ He opened the door and went out, whistling tunelessly.
Julian slumped over his desk, resting his cheek on the corner of the brochure that Suki had held between her fingers. If she didn't come back, he would sink into melancholy and just pine away.
There was a rattle of the door and Liz swept into the room. ‘Keeping busy, I see,’ she said. She went to her message pad and then to the keyboard. ‘I have got a viewing in Castlerosse House. I'll be about an hour.’
‘We have got some interest in Admirals–’ he began, but she was already out of earshot and he watched her swinging her legs expertly into her BMW. She revved the engine and zipped out into the traffic.
His eyes fell to the heap of leaflets in front of him. Houses and flats, maisonettes and duplexes, freeholds and leaseholds, long leases, short leases, to rent and to buy. The detritus of other people's lives. Lives that were meaningless to him. For all the interest he could summon up, their dwellings might be so many defunct molehills.
He cleared a space on his desk and opened up the brochure on Admirals Court, debating with himself how many forms of construction the publication might lend itself to ... a tent ... an open hanger ... he stared at it, feeling his hair rising at the nape of his neck, the skin on his upper arms prickling like nettle rash.
On the layout plan where he had placed his line of footprints, another set of prints had been added. The lonely track of prints had found their twin. Not one but two people now left the lift together and walked across the lobby to the apartment. But that was not all. He bent over the diagram, his heart racing. The new line of footsteps did not stop, as did his, at the front door. They crossed the hall and advanced along the passage until they reached the entrance to the reception room. In a fever of excitement, he took his pen and extended his line of prints until the two phantoms stood side by side.