“I’m so glad you’re back,” she whispered. “To meet my new friend.”
The wind had been strong that day, strong and cool.
I remember that much.
As I remember the look on the young woman’s face, the same look on all their faces when they see me and wonder and wonder at my smile, and the odd little girl standing at my side, and the way I hold out my hand to help her to her feet.
“Good evening,” I said politely. I remember that; I always do.
Delia stirs and wriggles with the impatience of her kind.
“The fog is bad tonight,” I said further. “Come with me, I’ll show you home.”
And she followed. They always do.
Into the fog.
Into the dark.
Where I remember all the rest.
And Delia hands me the knife.
By Flower and Dean Street
PATRICE CHAPLIN
Patrice Chaplin (1940– ) is an internationally renowned playwright and author with more than thirty-five books and plays to her credit. One of her most notable works is Siesta: A Supernatural Love Story (1979), in which a young woman in Spain wakes up blood-soaked and bruised but with no memory of the past few days. When she has flashbacks, she begins to think she might have killed someone. It was made into a 1987 film starring Ellen Barkin, Gabriel Byrne, Jodie Foster, Martin Sheen, and Isabella Rossellini.
Among her other works are her first novel, A Lonely Diet (1970), the autobiographical Albany Park: A Story of Bohemian Adventure and Obsessive Love (1986), Into the Darkness Laughing: The Story of Jeanne Hébuterne, Modigliani’s Last Mistress (1990), Night Fishing: An Urban Tale (1992), and Hidden Star: Oona O’Neill Chaplin: A Memoir (1995); Patrice Chaplin was once married to one of Charlie Chaplin’s sons, Michael.
Several of Chaplin’s plays, documentaries, and short stories have been adapted for radio. The short story “Night in Paris” has been translated into many languages, and her stage play From the Balcony, a joint commission by London’s National Theatre in conjunction with BBC Radio 3, was performed at the Cottesloe Theatre. Her journalistic pieces have been published in numerous newspapers and magazines, including The Guardian, The Sunday Times, Marie Claire, The Jewish Chronicle, The Daily Mail, and The London Magazine.
“By Flower and Dean Street” was first published in By Flower and Dean Street & The Love Apple by Patrice Chaplin (London, Duckworth, 1976).
BY FLOWER AND DEAN STREET
Patrice Chaplin
1
The London sky was pale and hard and glistened like an ice rink. At the end of a long wintry front garden stood a narrow three-storey house with dry dignified trees on either side. Everything was still. The two lower floors were brightly lit and at some windows curtains weren’t drawn. Light from the street lamp didn’t reach the garden because rough overgrown shrubs with dead honeysuckle tangling through them ganged together just inside the railings, and small ones, spiky, treacherous, hid by the gate. A child’s new tricycle lay on its side across the path, its handlebars poking into the cracked earth of the flower border. A wind shook the trees. Then everything was still again.
A light went off on the first floor. The front door opened, and a man and woman walked quickly along the path. “Damn the child!” the man said and swung the tricycle away across the lawn and into a shed while the woman went on to the gate, the gravel spitting under her tall elegant shoes. She waited on the pavement, her black fur coat sleek around her, and the light of the street lamp shone on her face, pale and beautiful, as she turned and shouted, “Daniel! We’re late.” From the road, the house no longer looked isolated—there were other houses nearby, a church hung over the garden shed, cars lined the kerb.
Daniel ran to the gate, out of breath, and, knowing the plants well, jumped to avoid them. But sly, undercover, they were waiting somewhere else, and he tripped and swore.
“I’ll pull them up tomorrow, Connie,” he promised.
He closed the gate. It squeaked open immediately and they got into the car.
“Why doesn’t he put it away I wonder? Does he want to get it pinched?”
“Perhaps he does.” She laughed. “I think he’s bored with it already and daren’t admit it.”
He started the engine, and then turned and kissed her. “I didn’t give you this in front of the children.” He took a small black case from his pocket. “I wanted to wait until we were alone. A little extra present.”
She opened the case. Glittering on a nest of black satin was a small diamond brooch shaped like a heart. Still smiling, she said, “Oh. Oh, it’s lovely, Daniel. Really lovely.” She was all the more touched as once again he’d given her something she would never use. She never wore brooches—thought they were for elderly women. It would join the bottles of scent, kid gloves, jewelled powder compacts, which were aging elegantly in her bedroom. “But why a heart?”
He squeezed her hand. The car moved forward, and she undid the fur and pinned the heart to her dress.
Silence came back into the long wintry garden and the narrow house looked lonely again.
It was Connie’s thirtieth birthday.
2
The restaurant was well known for its intimate atmosphere, its roast beef, its blazing log-fire and the difficulty of getting a table.
They sat with two friends by the fire as the waiter cleared the empty Beaujolais bottle and glasses and brought the champagne. Jane had black bright eyes. She was full of energy, and she considered herself Connie’s best friend. She pushed back her long shining hair and started on her third portion of fresh figs.
“Can’t get enough of them,” she said, and seeing Daniel laughing at her, wriggled athletically. She could never keep still.
Her husband, Mark, was quiet and withdrawn and had pale, powdery skin like a moth.
Daniel raised his glass. “Happy Birthday, and thank you for ten marvellous years.”
“They haven’t all been marvellous,” said Connie. “What about when I couldn’t cook? You can’t have forgotten that. Are you drunk? It got better when I learned to open tins.” She laughed, and her teeth were slightly protruding; but even that, Jane thought, seemed attractive on Connie. “Before that, poor man! The burnt dinners, undercooked dinners, non-existent dinners he had to come home to.”
“You’re exaggerating,” said Mark mournfully. “I’ve had some very good dinners at your place.” He always seemed tired except when he talked about his work.
“They were usually burnt and undercooked at the same time,” murmured Connie.
“It’s lovely,” said Jane, flinging her hair back into the eyes of a passing waiter and nearly toppling his tray. She shivered towards the next table. “I haven’t had champagne for ages.”
Her black plain dress, its material, its style, seemed only to emphasise her flat chest. “It’s as much as I can do to get Mark to remember my birthday, let alone celebrate.” She looked at Connie’s bosom, generously revealed by the cut-out in the bodice of her dark-red dress, and she had to admit that in spite of nursing four children, it was still shapely. Jane gulped some champagne. “That’s a super brooch.”
The cut-out was shaped like a diamond; and Mark, eyeing more than the brooch, said, “Diamonds are definitely the evening’s motif.” Something like light came back into his eyes.
“The frock was meant to be modest,” Daniel told him. “But the long sleeves and high neck obviously got too much for the designer, so he ripped it open at the most telling point.”
“You need something super when you get into your thirties,” said Connie. “Thirty! Definitely the end. No more silly girlish indulgences—eh, Papa?” She pulled Daniel’s ear. “Can’t blame my mistakes on immaturity.” Her voice was husky.
“Will you have any more kids?” asked Jane. “God, that sounds awful. I didn’t mean they’re a mistake.”
“When David’s at school, perhaps. I’d like one more baby. I’d like really to enjoy it, lavish attention on it.” Her eyes
were warm, caressing, as she smiled. Connie looked at people as though she cared for them; she’d been well-loved. She twisted the glass round, and the champagne splashed about and fizzed, and Jane noticed that even her hands were rounded and in proportion. “I had the others in such a rush. There was so much to do. I couldn’t give them enough time.”
“I’m certainly not having any more,” said Jane defiantly, and she looked at Daniel, for some reason, as though he’d contradict her.
He didn’t. “It’s the only solution,” he said firmly. “They’re easy to build, economical, hygienic—they’re sensible.”
“What’s he on about?” asked Jane. “Not tower blocks again?”
“They suck up the drifting surplus overnight. You can cram fifty families in the space you would use for one. They might not be pretty,” he added sharply, as though Mark had opposed him, “but how pretty is half a million with nowhere to live?”
“He’s going grey,” said Jane.
“Who?” asked Connie.
“Daniel. And his stomach! It’s a hazard.”
“You ought to see the ones the Council get. You’d soon forget your preoccupation with saving cornices and low-timbered roofs.”
Mark didn’t answer. His cheeks full of unchewed food, he looked like a hamster.
“Pansies. That whole group are pansies, Mark. What do they know about housing women and kids?”
“How d’you mean, a hazard?” asked Connie.
“Well, it sticks out,” said Jane.
Connie looked at Daniel’s stomach. “You mean someone might bump into it?” she giggled.
“No. It’s a health hazard. Men over a certain age should watch it. I’d stop giving him puddings.”
“You might say the hospital dominates the heath. You might say it should have been spread across, rather than up—but it saved space, for crissake, Mark. It’s economical.”
Mark still didn’t answer. Then he remembered the forgotten food and started chewing.
“Do you know you can see it from wherever you are on the heath?” said Jane disingenuously. “Even in the woody bits.”
Not quite sure of her tone, Daniel looked at her, his dark eyes, with their yellow lights, unblinking.
“I mean, wherever you are in Hampstead you just never forget that hospital.”
“People need clean, hygienic blocks,” he said swiftly and refilled the glasses. “Anyway, Mark, how’s Golders Green’s next best thing to a Regency terrace working out?”
Connie nudged him.
“It’s not!” snapped Jane.
“The builders are no good,” said Mark gently. “Very expensive, unreliable—”
“And who’s to blame for that?” asked Jane. “Who chose them?” Smiling, Mark pointed at himself.
“Change them,” said Daniel.
He started to answer, but Jane said: “It’s been unlucky from the start, that scheme. He did the drawings and spec. in his spare time. Then he found he’d put the drawings back to front. They’d all have been peeing in the front garden.”
Daniel looked sympathetically at the younger man and thought of a way to change the subject, so that Jane would keep out of it. “There’s another council meeting Friday. I’m proposing new flats for that old station site near—”
“Oh no,” said Jane flatly. “Don’t get him involved in any more work. I hardly—”
“—Camden Town. I think we should use a local architect. You’ll have to do some provisional drawings.” His decisive tone dropped under Jane’s high howl and gave Mark confidence to reply, softly, “I’ll have to think about it.”
“I hardly ever see him as it is.” Jane bounced up and down in her chair.
“Have some more figs,” said Daniel.
Mark suddenly looked crushed by fatigue. Jane took his energy, absorbed it and shone even brighter, spoke even louder, her smiles thrusting, her eyes jabbing, leaving him shrunken and uninteresting at the tail end of everyone’s conversation. She took the glow from everything except Connie. She even took it away from the brass ornaments round the fire.
Almost before Daniel looked in his direction, the waiter was beside him and another bottle was whisked to the table.
“It may be unimaginative, even ugly,” said Daniel. “No. Not ugly, I’d call it uncompromising. It serves a damn useful purpose. It’s a million times more efficient than that old Victorian one.”
“Efficient?” cried Jane. “Hell. It took me half an hour just to find the X-ray department. There’s no signs anywhere. Even the nurses don’t know where anything is. I walked miles. It’s like a city.”
“When I look back on my twentieth birthday—help!” said Connie. “I thought leaving your teens was the end of the world. I cried. D’you remember, Daniel? I’ve led a very sheltered life, when I think about it.”
“It’s been uneventful compared with everyone else’s,” said Jane, and she stared at Daniel. “I mean, it’s been so smooth. Married straight from boarding school—”
“Well, so were you,” said Mark.
“No. It’s different. I mean—” For a moment she looked sad, and as her eyes were pointing at the empty plate Daniel was going to suggest yet another helping of figs, when she said suddenly, “I’m going to teach full-time. I’ve decided. The money’s not worth it doing just mornings.”
“Oh no,” said Daniel. “That means you’ll be even fitter, your cheeks will be even rosier. You’re already the healthiest mum in N.W.3. Do you know that?” He leaned towards her, playfully. She turned scarlet. “You’ll put us all to shame.” He straightened back into his chair.
“I’ll give them isometrics and more running,” she said breathlessly. “Running’s what they need.”
Mark pointed over Daniel’s shoulder and Daniel turned round quickly.
“What?” He frowned, seeing nothing sensational.
“Through the windows, across the road—one of the most beautiful houses in London. Keats House. Late eighteenth century. Surrounded by gardens. Don’t you just long to tear it down and build one of your nice gleaming tower blocks?”
Daniel stared at him—at his long floppy face which strain and living with Jane had made already old, at his blue, harmless eyes, his woman’s mouth—and he said, “I’d really love you for the new project. If you can get it. I’ll certainly push you. We need an architect with taste.”
“Yes but—” Jane exploded.
“You’ll get a good fee,” he added quickly, not quite looking at Jane.
“How much?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Double, treble what—”
“We’ll think about it,” she decided. “I need a new fridge.”
“No more for me.” Mark put his hand over his glass and tried not to yawn.
“Don’t you ever get bored, Connie? Honestly?” asked Jane.
Connie, surprised, shook her head.
“You look all right, though. I don’t know how you do it with four kids and that big house. What’s your secret? Vitamin E?”
Connie laughed, and the way she looked at Daniel suggested he had a lot to do with it.
Mark was saying, “With the prices of everything now you can’t afford them.”
“Can’t afford what?” asked Jane.
“Kids.”
“Well, you’re not having any more, so don’t start worrying your head about affording them.” Her long teeth gleamed as she smiled at Connie. “He can’t even cope with one.”
“We’ve enough difficulty with one,” Mark was saying.
“But you’ve put your money into the cottage and you’ve had some rather exclusive holidays,” said Daniel.
“Jane likes to feel free.”
“Free!” Jane crossed her eyes.
Daniel put his glass down and his hand dropped out of sight. Suddenly Connie looked flushed—pleased. Daniel’s eyes were hot as he watched her.
Aroused, Jane could only wriggle wildly. Connie shivered a little, as though with anticipation. Nobody saw it, exce
pt Jane.
“Is that beauty spot by your eye real?” she asked fiercely.
“I hope so,” murmured Connie, her mind not really on what Jane was saying.
“Mark, d’you hear that? Mark!” she cried; and a waiter crept up, wondering how to deal with this obtrusive customer without upsetting her host, whom he cherished for his demeanour, his reckless appetite, and his bank balance. He offered her more champagne, naively thinking that that would shut her up. After several of her more spectacular sounds, she dragged Mark’s attention from out of whatever private grey crevice it had been hiding in. “Yes?” he sighed.
“D’you know that Connie’s beauty spot is real? I always thought it was false.”
“Is it?” he replied. Nothing much of what his wife said ever got through to him.
“I like this place better than the one we went to on Connie’s last birthday. It’s more intimate.”
Mark’s empty expression suggested that it was too intimate for him with her at the same table. Her remarks whizzed wall to wall like a ball on a squash court. Her “Oh goshes” and “How terrifics” became part of other people’s conversations. Her shriek, as the third bottle was uncorked, had everyone frozen.
“Daniel gave me a velvet dress—you know, one of those lovely new Ossie Clark ones—as well as this brooch.” Connie lowered her voice dramatically, hoping she’d follow her example. “The children gave me an electric mixer.”
“I thought you’d already got a mixer.”
“Not an electric one.”
Connie reached across for the ashtray. For a moment Jane smelt the light, flowery perfume Connie always used—it echoed persuasively in her clothes, in her bedroom, in rooms she visited; it was a part of Connie, and Jane, who had never smelt it on anyone else, had secretly hung her nose over perfume testers in chemists all over the place but had never been able to track it down. It reminded her of summer. For some reason she felt silly, shy of asking Connie its name.
“You don’t go out much,” she accused her. “You must get fed up staying in. I know I would.”
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 146