‘I see.’
‘I don’t know why I said that,’ Martha said. She frowned.
‘You were helping me to my room because I was feeling unwell, perhaps?’
‘You know, I did kind of intimate something like that. It wasn’t that anything happened with Ken but Baz said he’d gotten worried and come looking for me.’
‘And he couldn’t find you?’
‘I kind of panicked and said I was with you…and then there were your shoes,’ Martha added, not entirely logically.
‘Well, Vi said, ‘since last night you were talking to me and, as it happens, I was helped to my room I think if need be we can reassure Baz.’
‘There wasn’t anything…’
Vi interrupted. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s not always a good plan to speak the truth. It can be misleading. People misread the truth quite as often as they believe lies. But my guess is that Baz won’t ask.’
‘He was very pleased to see me last night, I mean this morning,’ Martha said. ‘That was kind of nice.’
‘Good,’ said Vi. ‘Then I suggest we stop worrying. You had a nice time, Ken had a nice time and Baz was very glad to see you. What can be wrong with that?’
‘I hope you had a nice time?’ Martha asked.
‘Very nice,’ Vi said. ‘I chatted to Miss Foot.’
‘Oh but…’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Vi. ‘She won’t give us away. And someone did come to my room with me, and he is not likely to spill the beans. So our stories tally.’
Martha looked pleased. ‘I hope it was someone nice.’
‘I am not sure that I would call him nice,’ Vi said. ‘But it was interesting, certainly.’
On their last day at sea, the passengers due to disembark at New York were for the most part in the unsatisfactory half-hearted state of anticipating the end of an event and thus being unable to enjoy the time remaining. They roamed aimlessly about the ship, picking up the extensive trivia sold, at grossly inflated prices, by the ship’s many franchised retailers. Vi, catching sight of her hair, which looked, as her mother would have said, like the wild woman of Borneo’s, went to ‘We Are Hair’, where it was washed and blow-dried by a cheerful New Zealander called Avis.
‘Nice and full we’re doing it today?’
Vi, who had a horror of big hair, said she liked her hair smooth and very simple.
‘Not a problem. Ever thought of having some nice highlights put in to hide the grey?’
‘There’s not a lot of grey is there?’ Vi was perhaps a little vain about her natural hair colour.
‘Why let the men know our age? Keep them on their toes, I say. Still, yours isn’t too bad.’
Coming out of the salon, she met Ken and Jen, Jen handsome in brief white shorts and high-heeled mules and Ken in dark glasses, burdened with plastic bags marked ‘Duty Free’.
‘Vi, we were just talking about you. Your hair looks nice. I like it full like that. Have you recovered from last night?’
Ken took off his sunglasses.
Vi said, ‘Thank you, yes. I’m afraid I was an awful bother but Ken was kindness itself.’
‘He’d have got the rough side of my tongue if he hadn’t been.’
‘I got it anyway,’ said Ken, looking relieved.
Vi said, ‘Can you do me a favour, Ken? I want to buy someone I’m seeing a special whisky.’
‘He’ll go with you,’ Jen said. ‘Give me the bags, Ken, and take Vi down to the Duty Free.’
Ken squeezed Vi’s arm going down the stairs. ‘That was sweet of you. Very quick.’
‘Ah, well.’
‘That Martha’s a nice woman.’
‘Yes.’
‘Not that there was anything…’
‘I know that,’ Vi said firmly. ‘Now, about the whisky. It’s for a friend I’ve not seen in years and I want to take him some-thing really special.’
There was some debate among the cognoscenti in the Duty Free over the best malt to buy a whisky drinker with form. Vi left Ken debating with a Greek Orthodox priest from San Francisco, returning, he explained, from a retreat on Mount Athos, about the merits and demerits of single malts from various unpronounceable Scottish islands. She wandered off to look for something suitable for Annie. A Gucci bag? But Annie already had any number of bags and these all appeared hideous. In the end, she bought a plastic train filled with Smarties for Patrick, no less hideous but more reliably acceptable.
On her return to the drinks section, she learned that the priest, who turned out to be a bishop, perhaps pulling rank, had swung the choice of whisky to a sixteen-year-old single Islay malt. Vi paid and then helped him with the choice of stole he was buying for a nun friend.
‘But surely she would only wear black?’
‘I think she likes a spot of colour in private.’
They finally settled on a discreet azure and the bishop gave Vi his card. ‘Do look us up if you are ever in California. I hope your friend enjoys the malt.’
Ken carried the bottle of Lagavulin up toVi’s room. ‘Honestly Ken, I can manage.’
‘I’d like to be able to say I’d been in your room with a clear conscience, Vi. Not that Jen would ever suspect anything.’
He prowled about the room inspecting the balcony and even the bathroom. ‘I’ll mention the swans. Jen’ll like those.’
‘Don’t overdo it,’ Vi advised. ‘Too much detail sounds suspicious.’ She recalled Edwin explaining this in their Columbo days.
‘Will you accept a reversed charge call?’ asked the operator. It was hard to imagine where they acquired such voices.
‘Yes.’
Thank God it was Edward Hetherington himself at the other end.
‘Go ahead please, caller.’
‘Edward?’
‘Vi. Are you all right?’
‘I am but a friend of mine isn’t.’
‘What’s up?’
‘I don’t know exactly but he’s in a police station in Oxford. He’s being held in the cells.’
‘Give me his details. Can I ring you back?’
‘I’m in a phone box. There’s one at the bottom of the road near where I’m staying. I can call you back but at present I’ve got no change, only a pound note.’
‘That’s all right. Reverse the charges.’
‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’
‘Quite sure. Where are you?’
‘It’s Tessa Carfield’s cottage in the Welsh Marches. Near somewhere called Knighton. Why?’
‘It’s nice to know where you are. I’ll get on to this. Call me back in an hour.’
Vi walked into Knighton and had a cup of coffee in a depressing hotel. The coffee was mostly milk and tasted of chicory essence. There was a jukebox which took her money and didn’t play ‘Heartbreak Hotel’. When she asked the man behind the bar for her money back he grinned unsympathetically and said she would need to come back Wednesday and have a word with the manager.
She walked up the hill to the chemist where she bought some Nivea cream for her face, which was smarting dreadfully. There was still twenty minutes before she was due to ring Edward back. So she went into a second-hand bookshop and loitered there, reading one of the various second-hand copies of A Shropshire Lad.
‘Will you accept a reversed charge call?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go ahead please, caller.’
‘Vi? It’s Ted.’
‘Oh, Ted. What’s happened?’
‘A colleague’s on his way to Edwin in Oxford.’
‘Why is he there?’
‘We don’t yet know. It’s usually best to sort that out in person. If you ring me later today I can tell you more. Say, between four thirty and five p.m.? I’ll need to leave here by five thirty. Margaret’s not too well.’
Tessa Carfield’s cottage stood by itself on a low rise reached by a long track. It was small and whitewashed and had a large stone fireplace and a flagged floor. There were only two rooms, a living room with a small
Belling stove and a primitive sink with a water heater, and a bedroom with a bed with a painted iron frame, the bed-head worked in the form of a Welsh harp. There was no bathroom and an outside WC with a wooden seat that had long lost its varnish and a door that swung open to Housman’s hills. In other circumstances it might have been idyllic.
Bruno was typing frenetically at the only table when Vi came back from the phone box. ‘Shall I unpack?’
‘If you’re staying.’
‘I seem to be.’
‘That’s up to you,’ Bruno said.
‘I’ve rung a solicitor for Edwin.’
‘Who?’
‘Someone I met at Tessa Carfield’s party.’
‘I don’t remember any solicitor.’
‘It was before you arrived.’
‘So what’s Edwin been up to?’
Vi, who hated that form of question, said, ‘I don’t know. I’m ringing Ted back later this afternoon.’
‘“Ted”? I see. Very matey.’
‘I brought the catalogue for you from the Horniman exhib-ition,’ Vi said.
‘Yes, I saw.’
So he’d been through her bag. ‘Bruno, what happened to that strange purse you showed me once? The one made of out of a bat’s wing?’
‘It’s here. Why?’
‘Why is it here?’
Bruno stopped typing. ‘Vi, is it your intention in coming here to interfere with my work?’
‘You asked me to come.’
Bruno got up and went into the bedroom. After some minutes, he came out again. ‘So where is it?’
‘What?’
‘You know.’
‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about, Bruno.’
‘The soul-keeper. What you choose to disparage by calling a purse.’
‘I don’t know where it is. You said you had it here.’
Bruno walked into the bedroom and came out with her note-book. ‘If you don’t return the soul-keeper I’ll burn this.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll put your notebook on the fire.’
‘Bruno, I haven’t seen your horrible little purse since the day we went to the Horniman exhibition. This is mad.’
‘You have fifteen minutes to return it. After that, the book goes into the fire.’
Vi began frantically opening the few cupboards and shifting the armchair. She dug her fingers down the crack at the back of the sofa. Nothing but ancient fluff and burned-out matches. She went into the bedroom and searched through all the drawers and then took up the rugs. The only thing she found was any number of woodlice.
This is a set-up, the voice said.
Finally, she felt under the mattress. ‘The missing item seems to be here.’
‘I’m glad you came to your senses.’
‘Bruno,’ she said. She was overcome by a sudden appalling weariness. ‘I didn’t take the bloody thing. I loathe it, as a matter of fact. You know I didn’t take it, nor would I ever hide your possessions. It’s not in me to do that. I can hardly believe it.’
Just as you like, the voice said. He put it there. Take it or leave it.
‘Will you accept a reversed charge call?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go ahead, caller.’
‘Ted, I hope you don’t mind all these reversed charge calls. I do have some change now.’
‘I think the firm can absorb a few reversed charges. Now then, about your friend…’
When Vi returned to the cottage Bruno was lying on the bed listening to the news on the radio.
Vi said, ‘Edwin was arrested for picking up a man in the public lavatories. The man, may he rot in hell, was a plainclothes detective. I think that is utterly, utterly vile, to trap people deliberately like that.’
‘So what follows now?’
‘What “follows” is that Ed has been charged with gross indecency.’
‘Are you surprised?’
Vi stared. ‘Bruno, you are Edwin’s oldest friend.’
‘He’s a faggot.’
‘I can’t believe you said that.’
‘No? Let me say it again.’
Vi put her hands over her ears and went, ‘Wurra wurra wurra,’ as she had done as a child so as not to hear what was being said. But the device no longer worked. She knew what was being said.
She took her useless hands from her burning face and stood looking at Bruno lying on the bed, looking at her with expression-less green eyes.
Vi, on her way to the morning dance class, met Martha wearing a red flounced skirt.
‘Hi there, Vi, I hear they’re doing jive today so I thought maybe I’d come along and brush up my technique.’
‘It’s the only dance I really know,’ Vi said. ‘I’m too young to have learned ballroom, but I just caught the tail end of jive.’
Martha spent some time looking over to the entrance to the room but there was no sign of Ken. Nor of Dino. The dance hosts appeared to be having a day off.
Marie put on ‘Jail House Rock’. ‘Now has everyone got a partner?’
‘D’you want to dance with me, Vi?’
‘OK, Martha, if you’re willing to put up with me.’
‘Sure. I’ll lead.’
Towards the end of the class, Patrick and his parents appeared. ‘There’s Violet,’ Patrick called, pulling Greg’s hand. ‘Can I dance?’
‘Of course you can, Patrick. Come and dance with me and Martha.’
‘I’m shy of Martha.’
‘It’s OK, you guys.’ Martha had spotted a tall figure hovering near the doorway. ‘I’ve just remembered I’ve an errand I need to run.’
Greg and Heather took snaps with their mobiles of Vi and Patrick dancing to ‘Living Doll’ and Vi explained to Patrick that while she liked Elvis as a name she didn’t care for Cliff.
‘Why not Cliff ?’
‘He’s not a good singer. Elvis isn’t a great name in itself but Elvis Presley’s the absolute tops so you have to like his name.’
‘My friend at nursery is called Elvis.’
‘How sensible of his parents,’ said Vi.
Les and Valerie Garson came by, Les walking ahead of Valerie who nodded. ‘That’s a nice young man you’ve found to dance with.’
Les Garson stopped. Ignoring Vi, he walked across to Patrick and ruffled his hair. ‘Are you going to dance with me, young man?’
‘No I’m not.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because you’re too fat.’
Valerie Garson had a sudden fit of coughing.
‘That Heatherfield woman’s a snob if you ask me,’ Les said, as they entered the casino.
‘Hetherington.’
‘What?’
‘Her name is Hetherington. I must say she was very pleasant to me when we lunched together.’
‘For my money she’s a dyke. Probably make a pass at you. I’d watch yourself.’
‘You won’t anyway.’
‘What?’
‘I said we had a nice meal anyway. You’re going deaf, Leslie.’
Martha returned from her errand looking quite pink. ‘Will you be coming to the “Swinging 60s” dance tonight, Vi?’
‘Well, if you’re game I am. Where is it?’
‘The Prince of Wales. I’ll tell Baz.’
‘I see,’ said Vi.
‘Who’s Baz?’ Patrick asked.
‘He’s Martha’s husband.’
‘Do you like his name?’
‘I do,’ said Vi. ‘I like Martha’s name, too.’
‘As much as you like mine?’
‘No,’ Vi said. ‘I like your name best of all. Now, if it’s OK with your mummy and daddy I’ve got something for you in my room.’
‘Is it something which is good for me?’
‘Not at all good for you, Patrick, no.’
Des, on his way to serve lunch at the Alexandria, ran into Boris.
‘How’s Mrs Hetherington?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘I hear y
ou were seen going to her room.’
Des stopped. This might be the case or it might just be Boris trying to wind him up. Boris had the uncanny ability of those who grew up in the shadow of the Stasi: the ability to see round corners.
‘Yeah, well she was ill and asked me to help her.’
From the satisfaction in Boris’s smile Des could see that the dig had been a lucky strike.
‘She’s lost some ring. Asked me to spread the word there’d be a reward. It’s valuable, she says.’
Boris grinned. ‘I will keep my eyes peeled.’
‘Keep them peeled, Boris, yes.’
‘I will tell Sandy. She has the sharp eyes, that one.’
28
The plastic Smarties-filled train went down well with Patrick until Vi made the mistake of pretending that it was Skarloey.
‘Skarloey doesn’t look like that.’
‘Sorry. I was being silly.’
‘Were you making things up?’
‘Yes.’
‘Daddy says it’s naughty to make things up.’
‘Well,’ said Vi, cautiously, ‘perhaps it is sometimes, but other times it’s a very good idea to make up a story. It all depends.’
‘What does it all depends on?’
‘That’s too difficult for me to answer.’
‘Why is it too difficult?’
Luckily at this point Renato knocked on the door. ‘Any news of your ring, madam?’
‘No, Renato, sadly. But may we have some fresh orange juice and biscuits, please?’
‘Of course, madam. For the little one?’ Renato bared his teeth at Patrick who shrank behind Vi.
‘I don’t like that man,’ he said, when Renato had closed the door.
‘Why not?’
‘I think he bites children.’
Patrick ate the plate of biscuits but explained that although he did like orange juice, because it was good for him, he didn’t want any right now. He might like a Coke, though.
‘I’m awfully sorry, but my minibar has no Coke.’
Patrick sighed philosophically. ‘That’s what my mummy says.’
Vi took him back to his parents’ room.
‘I expect Mummy has a headache,’ he suggested as he and Vi raced each other down the two parallel flights of stairs.
‘You’ve won, Patrick. Why?’
‘Usually when I go to see my Aunty Chris she does and my daddy lies down with her to make it better. Is that a story?’
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