Finer Things

by David Wharton

  As he returned to his search through the drawer, Delia’s attention was caught by the sound of someone carefully closing the front door. She looked out of the window and saw Zoe, now dressed, leaving the house. Bill was too busy rifling through papers to notice.

  He gave a sharp little laugh ‘Here it is,’ he said, unfolding a piece of cut-out newsprint and handing it to Delia. ‘Guardian letters page, last year.’

  PLAYWRIGHTS AGAINST APARTHEID

  Public Declaration: June 25th 1962

  While not wishing to exercise any political censorship over their own or any other works of art, but feeling colour discrimination transcends the purely political, the following playwrights, after consultation with the Anti-Apartheid Movement and with South African artists and writers, as an expression of their personal repugnance to the policies of apartheid and their sympathy with those writers and others in the Republic of South Africa now suffering under evil legislation, have instructed their Agents to insert a clause in all future contracts automatically refusing performing rights in any theatre where discrimination is made among audiences on grounds of colour:

  Arthur Adamov, Janet Allen, John Antrobus, John Arden, Mary Hayley Bell, John Barton, Samuel Beckett, Robert Bolt, Ray Cooney, Clemence Dane, Paul Dehn, Shelagh Delaney, Daphne Du Maurier, Ronald Duncan, Charles Dyer, Graham Greene, Robert Gore-Browne, Elizabeth Hart, Lillian Hellman, Frank Hilton, N. C. Hunter, Stephen King-Hall, Bernard Kops, Hugh Leonard, Benn Levy, Henry Livings, Miles Malleson, Alan Melville, Bernard Miles, Ronald Millar, Arthur Miller, Jonathan Miller, Spike Milligan, John Mortimer, Robert Muller, Iris Murdoch, John Osborne, Harold Pinter, J. B. Priestley, J. D. Rudkin, James Saunders, Gerald Savory, Murray Schisgal, Peter Shaffer, William Shearsby, Dodie Smith, C. P. Snow, Muriel Spark, Lesley Storm, Gwyn Thomas, Arthur Watkyn, Fred Watson, Arnold Wesker, Angus Wilson, Tennessee Williams.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Delia said, handing the cutting back to Bill. ‘Why would the Richardsons’ business friends care about this?’

  Bill was enjoying the drama now, the discovery that he had been unwittingly caught up in some kind of conspiracy. He was making a story out of it, Delia thought.

  ‘You can’t separate business from politics,’ he said. ‘And this is public criticism of their regime. The South Africans really don’t like that.’ He took a notebook and pen from the drawer. ‘Do you mind if I write a few things down?’

  It didn’t seem as if he needed her to answer. He scribbled for almost a minute, then said, ‘You know what? I bet they aren’t businessmen. Or not just businessmen, anyway. Have you ever heard of the Broederbond– the Brother Band?’

  Delia shook her head.

  ‘It’s an Afrikaner secret society. Sort of a cross between the Masons and the Nazis. Deeply unpleasant people, and highly influential over there. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d tried to get their claws into the Anti-Apartheid Movement.’

  Thinking back to that night in Stella’s kitchen, Delia recalled Teddy’s shiftiness. That unsettling figure outside in the garden – might he have been one of these sinister Broederbond men? Yet she still couldn’t see why Bill would be of any interest to such a person.

  ‘Are you involved in anything else to do with South Africa?’ she said.

  He seemed disappointed she wasn’t more impressed. ‘Apart from my name being on that letter? I suppose it is quite a long way down the list, but that’s only because it’s alphabetical.’ He paused to assess his contributions to the movement. ‘Well, I’m treasurer of the Clapham branch, and I do quite a bit all over South London – handing out leaflets, speaking at events and so on.’

  ‘I suppose all that could be what they were looking into,’ she said, sure it was not, and sure too that he knew that. She had heard his conviction drain away as he spoke.

  He studied the pattern of the carpet. ‘On the other hand,’ he murmured, ‘it’s possible I might have overstated my influence. Encouraged a few people in the Gaudi to think I was involved at the top level of the British Anti-Apartheid Movement.’

  ‘Well,’ Delia said. ‘That’s the impression you gave me too. Was there no truth in it, then?’

  Though obviously abashed, he was ready to admit his foolishness. ‘Not a great deal of truth, no. I’ve met Barbara Castle and Harold Wilson quite a few times, at events, rallies, marches; Duma Nokwe too; but the fact is, I’m just an insignificant old scribbler trying to sound like he’s more important than he is. Embarrassing, isn’t it? Christ! Have I put myself in danger, do you think?’

  Delia understood: a falsehood always expanded in the retelling. Someone had listened to Bill’s fibs in the Gaudi and taken them for sale to Finlay. Finlay had sold them on to the Richardsons, and the Richardsons had traded them for friendship with their South African associates. At every stage, something had been added to give the information a little more value, to make it worth passing along. Who knew what nonsense the Broederbond had heard about him in the end? Whatever it was, it meant a message had returned to Finlay: keep an eye on that writer, get one of Stella’s girls to lead him on. All the time there had been nothing more to it than the usual blagging and boasting. Bill was right to look ashamed of himself. Delia knew how to lie to get herself out of trouble, of course, but what sort of idiot would lie to get into it?

  ‘You’re probably safe enough,’ she said, remembering how uninterested Stella had been last night in news of Shearsby. ‘Finlay’s in a coma, and there’s more urgent things for the Richardsons to worry about. Most likely they’ll all forget about you. I’d keep out of Soho for a good while, though.’

  She stood, readying herself to leave. He remained in his seat, but caught her hand between his.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t stay? There’s a spare bedroom if that’s what you’d prefer. Please don’t turn the offer down just because you’re angry at me.’

  ‘I’m not angry at you, Bill.’ She was surprised to discover she meant it. Whatever passion she had felt for him had evaporated. Perhaps it had never been there; perhaps she’d rid herself of it yesterday when she’d decided to betray him to Stella; perhaps it was just that he was only another liar, no different from the rest. ‘I’m fine, I’ve got a bed at a friend’s place for a few days, then I’ll look for somewhere on my own. Would you mind calling for a taxi? I need to get to Paddington Station.’

  ‘Off somewhere nice?’ the driver asked as the cab pulled away.

  ‘Don’t know,’ Delia said.

  After her encounter with the fat shopwalker in Barkers yesterday, she had imagined she knew how to fix her life; believed that she’d worked out what she needed to do to appease the Imps. Now it seemed all that had just been the start of this series of trials they were putting her through. They hadn’t wanted her to give up Bill for Stella. They hadn’t wanted her to run to him either. So she had to unpick the pattern of her life, look for other threads to follow. Sooner or later she’d find the right one.

  Bill had insisted on coming out to pay the man in advance. After finding Delia’s suitcase where she had left it by the gate, he had loaded it into the boot without remark.

  ‘I hope they remember you,’ was the last thing he said to her, through the taxi’s open window. He had guessed her reason for going to Paddington must be to make a trip out to Somerset, in search of the old couple who had taken her in during the war, and she had allowed him that nostalgic fiction, even though Reg and Janet Lander were probably dead. They’d both been in their sixties twenty years ago, and as she remembered it, Reg had some kind of heart condition.

  Delia had no intention of leaving London at all. It was time to go forward, not back, and surely there couldn’t be many more wrong choices left for her to make. At the station, she went straight to the left-luggage lockers. She undid the chain around her neck and took the key from it, thinking of how she had once told Bill it belonged to some long-lost money box. Well, that was true in a way. She opened up her locker and took out one of the half-dozen account books inside. H
ere also were those two sketches Tess had given her after her first visit to Fenfield. Delia pushed them to the side of the locker so they would not be damaged when she slid in the suitcase. She would leave it here while she went to collect some of her savings.

  Many of Stella’s hoisters hid cash around their rooms, under loose floorboards, taped to the backs of drawers or in other obvious places. Delia took more care. She knew that while the girls were out at work Teddy liked to prowl around his sister’s properties with his spare key, nicking whatever he took a shine to, and doing Christ knew what else besides.

  Delia had saved everything she could, and she’d kept the cash books here in her locker at Paddington, close to the stores where she did her hoisting. Over the years she’d built up a decent amount, distributed between six accounts under six different names.

  At the Chelsea Building Society on Spring Street she took out enough to support herself for the next fortnight. She also asked the cashier to make out a cheque for the amount Bill had given the cab driver, which she posted to him on her way back to the station. Then she returned the savings book to the locker with the rest, collected her suitcase and hailed another taxi.

  Half an hour later she arrived at a shabby townhouse in Camden. No front garden this time, just a door directly onto the street.

  ‘Can you wait, please?’ she asked the driver. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be.’

  Always someone waiting behind her with the meter running. Door after door to knock on, and no idea what might be behind any of them.

  With her bare legs and light summer frock, the young woman who answered this time was unsettlingly reminiscent of the Doris Day mannequins in Barkers’ window. She was holding a livid green apple, into which she had obviously bitten just before she’d opened the door, and though she looked very different from that time at the Gaudi, Delia recognised her.

  ‘You’re Penny, aren’t you? I don’t know if you remember me. My name’s Delia.’

  The young woman swallowed the mouthful of apple. ‘It’s Penelope, not Penny. I’m going by the full thing now. I suppose you’re looking for Tess?’

  ‘She gave me this address. I was thinking if she wanted to finish the portrait she started, I could pay her for it.’ Delia had concocted this excuse in the cab on the way here. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t especially convincing. It was just a way in. She needed somewhere to leave her suitcase, and maybe a floor to sleep on. That could come later.

  ‘You’ve come to the right place,’ Penny said, ‘but I’m afraid Tess’s out of town. Remember her friend Jimmy from the Gaudi that night? He hasn’t been well. She went this morning to see him at his father’s place in Kent. But she’ll be home tomorrow afternoon if you want to come back then.’

  Delia sighed involuntarily. Another test, then. ‘I suppose so. If you wouldn’t mind, could you let her know I stopped by?’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Penelope, stretching her neck to look over Delia’s shoulder at the waiting taxi. ‘Have you travelled all the way here from Fenfield? You must be exhausted. Why don’t you come in for a cup of tea?’

  ‘Thanks. But I’ve just moved out of the place I’ve been living. I need to find a guest house or something for tonight.’

  Penelope swept past her and tossed away the half-eaten apple. ‘That’s easy enough,’ she declared, as the apple bounced along the pavement a couple of times and rolled into the gutter. ‘You can sleep in Tess’s room, at least until she gets back. I’m sure she won’t mind. Shall I just tell this taxi chap he can go?’

  16

  After reading Jimmy’s letter, Tess had marched from the pigeonholes directly to Garvey’s office, convinced she was going to persuade the head of department to take her friend back onto the course.

  All the necessary arguments ran through her mind. She would overwhelm Garvey with them swiftly, leave him no room to refuse. She stamped in without knocking, stood opposite him. And language deserted her.

  For nearly a minute he looked up at her from behind his desk, seemingly untroubled by this silence, willing to let it continue forever if necessary. All her sense of advantage ebbed away. Now she could only think of the insult Garvey had once, long ago, levelled at Penelope. It had no bearing on why she was here, but all she could do was say it anyway.

  ‘You once called my housemate a talentless – sapphist.’

  His evident amusement at this declaration caused his eyepatch to lift slightly. Tess thought she saw some scarring just below its edges.

  ‘Who is this housemate of yours?’ he said.

  ‘Penelope Hoxworth. You taught her at the Slade.’

  ‘Can’t recall the name, sorry. It’s two years since I left the Slade, though.’ His tone was disconcertingly kind. ‘Now why not take a seat and tell me what you actually want to discuss?’

  ‘It’s about Jimmy Nichols. He’s gone home because of an illness. Look, this is completely private—’ Still unable to think of a way to explain, she handed him Jimmy’s letter. He read it twice, gave it back and watched her replace it in the envelope.

  ‘How long has he been missing from classes?’ he said.

  ‘Just over three weeks.’

  ‘In that case, Mr Newbolt will have been in touch with him to say he’s no longer to consider himself a Moncourt student.’ Before Tess could interrupt him, he raised a hand and said, ‘Don’t worry, you can tell Nichols to ignore it. We send those letters to frighten idlers out of their beds and back to college, that’s all. It’s not as if we’re going to draw a line through his name on the register.’

  ‘So if I can get Jimmy to come back, he’ll still be on the course?’

  ‘His final project’s the only thing that counts. As long as he hands something in for that, he’ll pass the first year. Shouldn’t be too difficult. The standard isn’t all that high.’

  Tess’s relief was mixed with disappointment. She’d expected a fight, not this easy accommodation. And presented with a standard that wasn’t all that high she would almost have preferred Jimmy to have been thrown out. ‘I’ll let him know,’ she said.

  ‘Nichols is one of our most gifted first-year students, after all,’ Garvey said. ‘I’d be sorry to see him drop out. Why not tell him that? If it’ll help, you can suggest I’ve made a special effort to challenge nasty Mr Newbolt on his behalf.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s come back to me,’ he said as she stood up to leave. ‘I do recall your friend from when I taught at the Slade. Quite a distinctively dressed person?’

  ‘That’s Penny – Penelope – yes.’

  ‘Although sapphist seems a bit mealy mouthed for me. Was the word I used not bulldyker?’

  Tess nodded.

  ‘Then, yes, you’re right. I did say that. I don’t understand why she should be so upset about it, though.’

  ‘I suppose, for a start, because she isn’t one.’

  ‘A sapphist, you mean? Isn’t she? Well, that was a misapprehension on my part. Understandable, though, wouldn’t you say? She certainly liked to create the impression she was giving it a try.’ He gave Tess a sly look. ‘I notice you haven’t challenged my calling her talentless.’

  ‘I doubt she’d have got into the Slade if she had no talent.’

  ‘That’s an assumption I could easily disprove. But fine, I’ll admit she’s neither a bulldyker nor completely talentless. You know, it’s all the same thing, Theresa. Take you, for example: you’re unusually talented, but that’s nothing to be proud of. It’s in your genes or your upbringing – you didn’t make yourself that way through virtue. Equally, your friend the non-bulldyker isn’t so talented, but that’s no reason for her to feel ashamed.’

  ‘She isn’t ashamed,’ Tess said. ‘Just the opposite, in fact.’

  ‘Good for her. Talentless or talented, attracted to women, attracted to men. These are just ways a person is. Just descriptions – like tall, short, ugly, pretty, cheerful, miserable. You can’t be insulted by facts, can you?’

&nb
sp; ‘I suppose not.’ Tess saw how impressed he was with himself. He was already weighing the idea’s potential, storing it for later expansion into some television lecture or book chapter.

  ‘Even so,’ he said, ‘do pass on my apologies, won’t you? Tell her if I had the time again, I’d describe her accurately. As a heterosexual woman with a modicum of artistic ability.’

  ‘Perhaps I will,’ she said. Though she was certain Penelope would rather stick with the talentless bulldyker version than let go of a useful anecdote.

  The next day, at about the time Delia was arriving at the house in Camden, Tess’s train pulled into Trencham. Like Delia, she had started her journey with no idea how it would end. Now, overnight bag in hand, she stepped out of the railway station into the gloomy streets of a Kent mining village, and she felt no uncertainty, only relief.

  It took her half an hour, and several requests for directions, to find the place: number 130 in a terrace of tiny houses that continued to 200 at least. Jimmy’s father answered the door, and brought her into the room he called the parlour. Tess could see no obvious similarity between this slight, courteous man and his larger, pricklier son. Perhaps Jimmy took after his mother, she thought.

  ‘Jim’s down in his shed. I’ll go fetch him. Take yourself a seat.’ Mr Nichols paused by the door before he left, scrutinising this young woman whose arrival, she could see, had baffled him a little.

  ‘What was the name again?’

  ‘Theresa Green. Tess.’

  ‘And he isn’t expecting you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Won’t be a minute, then, Miss Green.’

  All year she’d believed her own ordinariness had prevented her from fitting in at middle-class Moncourt. Here in Mr Nichols’ parlour, she wondered if she’d ever really known what ‘ordinary’ was.

  Her parents’ home in Dewsbury had no parlour, but both a living room and a lounge instead. Asked what the difference was, her father would invariably reply, ‘Simple. The lounge is where we lounge around; the living room’s where we show people what kind of a living I make.’ This remark, which had started out as a joke had, over the years, calcified into simple fact. By contrast with the soft, homely lounge, the living room was self-consciously formal. Its stiff chairs were upholstered in slippery leather; its bookcases were full of unread hardbacks; it contained no television set. The living room was only for visitors, which meant not friends or close relatives, but another grade of person – distant aunts, colleagues from her father’s work, members of her school’s parent-teacher association. It was where these visitors came to share stilted small talk over scones and tea served on the good china. As a child, Tess had dreaded being called into there, to show her pictures or talk about her glowing reports, or to reprise unaccompanied the song she had sung at the Christmas Concert.