‘Yes,’ said Vi. ‘I agree with you about that too.’
‘Well, goodnight, dear.’
Vi made her way round to the port side of the ship, where the force of the wind was less fierce and the deck a little dryer. Before she drew near enough to be sure, she had guessed the identity of the figure smoking under the shelter.
‘Dino?’
‘Mrs Hetherington!’
‘I was just thinking about you,’ she said.
Vi, alone in the flat, with no job, no Bruno, Annie in Brisbane, where things were apparently going well with her gynaecologist, and Edwin in Oxford till the end of term, was unbearably lonely. Her solitary state was brought home to her by Mr DellaCosta, who noticed the reduction in her fruit and veg purchases.
‘You on your own, darling?’ he asked one day.
Vi explained that Bruno was away working.
‘He don’t want to leave a lovely girl like you on her own too long.’
The next time she saw Mr DellaCosta he presented her with a bunch of fat spears of asparagus. ‘That’s what my ma give my daddy when he look to stray. You give him some of that, sweetheart. Your man come back to you, you see.’
Vi ate the asparagus alone. She had had no word from Bruno and could only suppose that for the time being he did not want to come back.
In a fit of worse than usual despondency, she arranged to visit her father, who seemed almost offended at the prospect of having his evening interrupted by his only child.
‘I’m afraid I cannot have you spend the night, Honour. My daily’s on her annual leave and there is no one to make up the bed.’
He was the only person, since her mother’s death, who called Vi by her first name. It was perhaps his way of denouncing the woman who had so selfishly deserted him.
Vi did not say that she could quite well make up the bed herself. She had, in any case, no desire to spend the night. Her father had taken to using nylon sheets in insipid pastels, which he boasted of buying by mail order from Brentford Nylons on the Great West Road. Her old bedroom, which for a time had served as the spare, had begun to do duty as the repository of his bulk buying, which, she concluded, was another means of fending off guests, if it wasn’t a symptom of him going out of his mind. When she had visited last, the room had been stacked with rolls of bargain lavatory paper, catering-size boxes of soap powder and, more puzzling, jars of English mustard, pickled onions and salad cream. Also, quantities of 100-watt light bulbs, particularly bizarre since her father was fanatical about turning off electricity and for some years had lived in almost perpetual semi-darkness.
The morning after her doleful attempt at igniting familial affection she woke with a sense that she might also be in danger of slipping towards some fatal point of disintegration. For all she could tell, she too might be quietly going out of her mind. It was this fear that prompted her to ring the agreeable-seeming man she had met at Tessa Carfield’s party. That it was the last occasion on which she and Bruno had been some sort of a couple was in her mind when she rang the firm of solicitors named on his card.
He answered the phone himself so it must have been a direct line. ‘I was just thinking about you. Funny how that sometimes happens and then the person you’re thinking of rings.’
Her first thought was that he had confused her with someone else. ‘Edward, it’s Violet St John.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Oh. I was ringing about A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’
‘You would like tickets?’
‘If that’s really OK,’ Vi said, relieved to be so readily remem-bered.
‘Indeed it is,’ he had said. ‘How many would you like? It seems to have become incredibly popular so I doubt I could get hold of more than two.’
‘Oh, one’s enough, honestly. It’s just me.’
‘Let me have your number and I’ll call you back.’
He rang back almost at once. ‘I can get two tickets so if you really have no one you would rather bring I might come along myself, if I can get someone to look in to see to Margaret.’
‘No, there’s no one. That would be fine. Thank you.’
He named a day the following week adding, ‘If you fancy a bite afterwards there are some fairish places to eat in Primrose Hill.’
‘That would be very nice.’
‘Good. Shall I meet you there or would you like me to pick you up?’
Vi, too unused to being chauffeured to be at ease with this idea, said she would meet him at the Roundhouse before the start of the performance.
Two days later, a letter from Bruno arrived:
Dear Vi, If you would like to come down here I can now see you. There are trains from Paddington, via Newport. If you come, could you bring the catalogue for the exhibition we saw at the Horniman? It’s in the bookcase somewhere. I can meet your train if you let me have times. B.
Vi rang Edward’s office and got his secretary. She asked the secretary to give Mr Hetherington her apologies and explained that she had been ‘suddenly called away’, which struck her as the sort of language a solicitor would understand.
She packed her better summer clothes in some excitement and had her hair done and, in a reckless mood of anticipated happiness, her nails, bright red. She hunted for the catalogue from the Horniman exhibition and finding it flicked through to the picture of the bleak figure with the peg through its head. It stared blankly out at her and she was suddenly reminded of the little bat-wing purse Bruno had shown her that day they had quarrelled.
Slightly guiltily, she searched for the purse in Bruno’s desk and chest of drawers. But with no luck.
On the morning she was due to leave she woke at four, choreographing in her mind the meeting with Bruno: he would sweep her up into his arms, they would make love by the side of a mountain stream, he would apologise, confess his faults and they would live happily ever after. Maybe that was going a bit far…
When the phone rang at just past five a.m. she answered in trepidation in case it was Bruno calling to put her off. But it was not Bruno, it was Edwin.
‘Vi?’
‘Ed!’
‘Vi. Can you come.’
‘Where? Why?’
‘To Oxford. I need you.’
‘What’s up?’
‘I’m at the police station.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I’ll tell you when you get here. Get a taxi when you arrive and ask for the St Aldate’s police station.’
26
‘Do you think I could have one of your cigarettes?’
‘Sure.’ Des tried to light it for her. ‘It’s not the best weather.’ He was wary, Vi could tell, of using her name.
‘I rather like it,’ Vi said, thinking that the wind had so blown about her hair that she might well look a little deranged.
‘Me too. I like all weathers as a matter of fact.’ He had dropped his dance host manners with his Italian accent and sounded younger, less sophisticated.
‘Desmond,’ Vi said. ‘Would you like to come up to my room for a drink?’
‘It’s not really allowed. I could get into trouble for less.’
‘How about if I were to say, if asked, that I was overtaken with sickness and you were escorting me to my room?’
‘Right. If you like.’
They walked up the red-carpeted stairs with Vi, for the sake of show, holding on to his arm. There was no one about, and they made their way along the corridor to Vi’s room without meeting a soul.
‘Nice flowers,’ he said, looking at Renato’s ice cream-coloured carnations.
‘My steward left them for me. He is mortified about the ring.’
‘The ring?’
‘My diamond,’ said Vi. ‘What would you like to drink? I have a complete minibar here which is woefully untouched.’
‘I’ll have a beer, please.’
‘You can have a short if you’d prefer.’
‘No, beer’s fine, thanks.’
‘A glass, or do
you prefer the bottle?’
She suspected he would prefer the latter but he accepted a glass.
Vi poured herself a brandy. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said, ‘and I feel sure that I was wearing the diamond ring when we smoked that evening on deck. Would you have a think for me and see if you can remember it?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Thank you. Only my poor steward is in a state over this. He’s afraid he will be accused of theft. But I know that he didn’t take it.’
‘Who else could have?’
‘I think it may have dropped off my finger. My hands tend to shrink when they’re cold. My husband used to warn me that I might lose a ring one day. Of course, when he was around I had the wedding ring on to secure the diamond. He would say it’s my own fault for taking my wedding ring off.’
‘But it’s insured?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Vi, ‘it’s insured. But with something like this it is not the money which matters.’ She looked levelly at Des. ‘Do you see?’
‘Yeah, I do.’
‘So what I thought was this: you might very kindly institute a search among your colleagues, in case some sharp-eyed person spots it, on a ledge or under something. The ship’s so big I can’t possibly undertake to search everywhere myself. There would be a reward.’
‘Sure,’ said Des. ‘How much would that be, if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘The amount it is insured for.’
‘And that’s…? Just so’s I can say.’
‘I don’t have the insurance papers with me. But you have my promise that whoever finds the ring will get the same sum.’
‘Righto. I’ll ask about.’
‘You see, there is only the rest of today left, really, before we reach New York. So if I’m to have any hope of finding it I need to get a move on. You might start looking around the area where we were sitting that night. Would you do that for me?’
‘Sure.’
‘Thank you. Another beer?’
‘No, I’d best be getting back.’
‘I’ll check to see that all’s safe.’
When Vi opened the door she saw Renato hurrying down the corridor. ‘Renato.’
‘Madam, you have found your ring?’
‘Sadly not. One of the dance hosts has just escorted me to my room. I went dancing, perhaps unwisely, and wasn’t feeling too well.’
‘Oh madam. You like I fetch the doctor?’
‘I’m fine now, thank you. He’s just leaving. And he has very kindly offered to help in the search for my ring. Dino,’ she called into the room where he was standing looking awkward. ‘I’ve explained to Renato that you kindly saw me back to my room.’
He had jumped up and was smiling eagerly. ‘Are you sure you are all right now, Mrs Hetherington?’
‘Thank you, Dino. Renato will see to me if I need anything.’
Vi rang directory enquiries and asked for the number of St Aldate’s police station. When she got through, half an hour later, she asked for Edwin.
‘I’m afraid you can’t speak to him, miss.’
‘He rang me from this station about half an hour ago.’
‘Mr Chadwick has been detained, miss.’
‘Can’t I speak to him?’
‘I’m afraid not, miss. He’s detained in the cells.’
‘My God. Why?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that, miss.’
‘Will you give him a message?’
‘I’ll make a note you rang, miss. May I take the name?’
Bruno was waiting on a deserted platform at the station in Knighton. He looked thinner and had gone quite brown. He kissed her distantly on the cheek and picked up her bag.
‘I’ll take this to the car.’
‘Does the car go with the cottage?’
‘You couldn’t manage here without transport.’
‘Bruno,’ she said. ‘Listen, I’m going to have to go back—well, anyway to Oxford. Maybe at once.’
‘Why?’
‘Edwin’s in trouble. He rang me from an Oxford police station just before I left.’
They had reached the car, a pale blue Morris Hillman. Bruno put down her bag with great deliberation and stood with his big hand placed flat on the car’s roof. ‘What kind of trouble?’
‘They wouldn’t tell me.’
‘They?’
‘The police. The one I spoke to was a pig.’
‘Edwin didn’t tell you?’
‘I got the impression he couldn’t talk for long. He sounded frantic. I must go to him.’
‘Why?’
‘Well…’
‘No, Vi, I mean this. Why do you have to go running to Edwin? If he’s in trouble he needs a solicitor not you. What can you do?’
‘He didn’t ring a solicitor, he rang me.’
‘Either he’s been had up for drunkenness or it’s some sex thing. He’s probably been caught picking up boys.’
‘So?’
‘So are you going?’
‘Well…’
Bruno picked up her bag from where he had placed it and moved it about a foot to position it at her feet. ‘If you go then take that.’
‘Meaning…?’
‘I don’t want to see you again.’
‘Bruno, Edwin’s your friend too.’
You knew it would be like this, said the voice.
‘He didn’t ring me.’
‘How could he ring you? You’re not on the phone. I haven’t been able to ring you. No one has been able to ring you for weeks.’
‘Please don’t embarrass me in a public place, Vi.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ she yelled, ‘you can’t call this a public place. There’s not a living soul in sight.’
An elderly man in a uniform came out of the station into the yard and looked over to see what was going on and then went inside again.
Bruno said, ‘Either you get in the car and come with me to the cottage, or you catch a train to wherever in the world you please. And if you do that I shall not see you again.’
Leave, said the voice. Get on the next train.
‘Bruno, please listen…’
‘No, Vi, you listen. Either get in the car—or go.’
Go, said the voice. Go now.
She got in the car.
27
When Vi woke, the storm had passed and the ship was cradled in a muffling fog. She could see nothing beyond the lifeboat hanging just beneath her, ready for disaster.
She dressed and went down for breakfast in the Alexandria. Patrick was there spooning in cereal.
‘Patrick, I hoped you’d be here.’
‘Violet, are you going to say all the names you don’t like?’
‘Do you want to go first?’
‘I don’t like Jaiden or Lucas or Charles.’
‘That’s interesting. I quite like Charles.’
‘He’s a boy at nursery I don’t like. So are Jaiden and Lucas boys I don’t like.’
‘Any others?’
‘I don’t like Jodie or Tina.’
‘I agree.’
‘Or Gabriella.’
‘Not nice girls?’
‘Jodie pinches people. Gabriella had nits. Tina spits at me.’
‘How horrid of her. Do you spit back?’
‘We don’t spit at people do we, Patrick?’ his mother remonstrated. She was afraid this might be getting out of hand.
‘Your turn to say what names you don’t like.’
Vi said, ‘OK, I don’t like Samantha, Sandra, Lulu, Kylie or Kim…’ she stopped short, aware that she was on the edge of an indiscretion.
Patrick looked at her sharply. ‘You were going to say Kimberley.’
‘I said Kim,’ said Vi.
‘There’s a lady called Kimberley here on the boat. I heard my mummy and daddy talking about her.’
‘And I don’t like Roy, or Karl, or Eric, or Justin or Rex,’ Vi continued, feeling the best policy was to press on.
‘Rex
is the name of a dog!’
‘Well, I don’t like it.’
‘You don’t like Skarloey either, do you?’
‘Most definitely I do not like Skarloey.’
‘But you like Patrick.’
‘I do.’
‘Because you like me.’
‘Exactly.’
‘I don’t like poo poo or bum bum,’ Patrick confided. ‘Do you?’
‘Time we went, Patrick. Say “bye-bye” to Mrs Hetherington.’
‘She’s not called Mrs Hetherington. She’s called Violet. She’s my friend.’
‘Thank you, Patrick,’ Violet said. ‘I am honoured. Goodbye for now.’
‘Goodbye poo poo wee wee bum bum.’
Vi was enjoying a pot of coffee to herself when Martha Cleever, her hair in a soigné French pleat and wearing lipstick, arrived. She had on a short skirt which revealed a pair of sturdy legs.
‘Oh hi, Vi, if I’d known you were here I’d have brought back the shoes.’
Vi said it didn’t matter a scrap as she had no plans to wear the shoes. Any time before that evening would do.
Martha seemed a little ill at ease. ‘I’m glad to have found you. Baz will be along any minute.’ She paused to pour herself coffee.
Vi, who had an inkling of what was coming, offered to pass the milk and sugar.
‘Thank you, I take neither. I wanted to ask you, I was very late back to our room last night. Ken and I got talking and the time just flew by.’
‘I’m glad you both had such a nice time.’
‘Oh we did,’ Martha said. ‘Not that there was any, you know. We just talked.’
‘Well, that’s often the best fun.’
‘Oh yes. We found we had a lot in common. Ken’s grandmother died in Ravensbrück and both my grandparents died in Dachau. It kind of made a connection between us.’
‘I can see how it might.’
‘Anyway, before I knew it, it was three a.m. and Baz was kind of worried, so I told him, well, to be honest I said that I’d been up talking with you.’
‘Ah.’
‘I said I’d gone with you to your room.’
Dancing Backwards Page 16