Mr Scribbin seemed about to speak, perhaps to interest Mrs le Tor in the recordings referred to. He said, however, nothing.
‘Take no notice whatsoever,’ said Nurse Clock. ‘What about a cup of tea?’
Mrs le Tor refused this offer and asked again if anyone could think of an explanation for the letter she had received.
‘It is a pity Mr Studdy is not here,’ said Rose Cave. ‘He might know about such matters.’
Miss Clerricot rose and slipped away. She felt the business of a letter written to Mrs le Tor was not at all her affair. She wished to be alone to try once again to puzzle out what had come to pass that day. Three o’clock it had been when they returned from lunch, she and Mr Sellwood; and she had felt her face flushed from the wine he had given her.
Of Miss Clerricot, Mr Bird had written in Notes on Residents:
Little Miss Clerricot (39), known to me, I fear, by no other name, came to this boarding-house in 1956. How she had heard of the place or why she sought it out remains a mystery. There was no room vacant at the time, but I turned out a man called Fortune who had been getting above himself and seemed a bit of a fraud. From the very first I found Miss Clerricot adorable. I repeat a few lines from the poet Pope when I encounter her throughout the house ; it is more interesting than remarking on the weather and so much more rewarding. Miss Clerricot blushes most charmingly and raises a hand to cover a portion of her countenance. It is a shame, this ill-feeling that exists between Miss Clerricot and her face.
She drew the curtains in her room and put on the light. She looked at herself in her dressing-table mirror and saw the face referred to by Mr Bird, the same face that Mr Sellwood had taken out to lunch, and she saw once again that it was plain, too red about the cheeks, too hopelessly unmanageable. It was her mouth, she supposed, shifting her lips about, twisting them and making them go sideways, pouting them, and finally placing the tips of two fingers over the corners where the two lips met. Her mouth was too wide: her mouth cut right up into her face, chopping the whole thing in half. Miss Clerricot sighed before the mirror, watching herself sigh and reminding herself that she must not do that too often in public. They had come to her when she was eight years old and placed a pair of spectacles on that face, which of course had finished off the joke that God, forgetting mercy, had begun. At eight years of age she was just becoming conscious of the face, just beginning to realize that whatever else lay there it was not her fortune. Her spectacles had drawn greater attention to it, picking it out in the classroom, marking it down as an object for closer examination. An obsession developed within her about her face. As an adolescent girl she could not bear to see it in a mirror or in the glass of a shop window. Thinking of it sitting there, a few inches down and forward from her mind, made her depressed and often affected her physically, causing her to shiver. Walking in the street, she looked at other faces, quite nice, simple, straightforward faces, faces perhaps with slight flaws, noses a bit crooked, eyes too small, too slanted, too close together. She saw faces with pinched nostrils and hair on the upper lip, faces with narrow foreheads, or foreheads that were particularly broad or particularly deep, or hair that grew low into the forehead, a widow’s peak outside the bounds of its domain. She noted faces without eyebrows or without eyelashes, with peaked chins or double chins or chins that were lost, chins that you couldn’t see at all, that had probably never been formed. After such excursions through the streets, looking about her in this way, she would return with lifted spirits to her mirror, deciding it was all nonsense not to look at herself too, and would sit down with her eyes closed and then, preparing herself, open them very suddenly. But it never worked: her own dejected eyes stared back at her, defying her.
Yet for two and a half hours Mr Sellwood, married no doubt to a woman with a perfectly presentable countenance, had sat opposite her most dreaded possession and had taken it apparently in his stride. Of course, he was well used to it, he had seen it many times before, he had had ample opportunity to examine it and think about it, to work out improvements in his mind, to wonder what had gone wrong, to feel sorry that she should have to bear this cross. Yet because of her sensitivity she was aware that today had been the first time that Mr Sellwood had had the opportunity to eye her constantly and repeatedly for so lengthy a period.
‘Where’s she gone to?’ Major Eele asked in the television lounge. ‘I call that suspicious, slipping out like that when we’re just about to investigate this mystery.’
Mrs le Tor seemed alarmed to hear this complexion attached to what she had imagined was a simple misunderstanding of some sort. First it seemed that the man in the blue blazer had been under suspicion and now the woman who had just left the room.
‘I did not at all mean to suggest that there has been any–’
‘Hanky-panky?’ suggested Major Eele. ‘You are being too polite, Mrs le Tor. What you mean is, you imagine there has been some hanky-panky and are too good to say so right out. How do you feel, Nurse Clock, Miss Cave, Venables, Scribbin? Has there been hanky-panky? Is this a case of mystery and detection? Is one of us to be murdered? Obd here? The gentleman on the piano stool, Mrs le Tor, hails from the dark continent and is known as Obd. He works for the rebel forces: the letter you have received may well be a coded instruction fallen by error into your hands–’
Mr Obd said: ‘I do not understand you, Major Eele. I am surely a man of most liberal views. I have many things to think of–’
‘Quite, quite. Do not fret, there. Listen, Mrs le Tor, allow me to introduce my fellow guests. This lady in uniform is Nurse Clock, often seen on our suburban roads astride a mechanized bicycle, carrying comfort and medicaments to the ailing. Next we have Venables, whom I have already indicated as our oldest inhabitant as it were, and then Scribbin who has the gramophone, and then Miss Cave, Miss Rose Cave, a delightful name I always think, though I fear the lady does not greatly care for an old profligate like myself. Well now, how about this letter thing?’
Rose Cave said: ‘To me it is the work of some demented person who had heard of Mr Bird’s death; someone outside, a stranger unknown to us.’
Major Eele pursed his lips. ‘Well, certainly that’s a theory. Someone by the name of Moran, you think, my dear? Well, yes, certainly–’
‘There is no demented person of that name in the neighbourhood,’ said Nurse Clock. ‘I am in touch with these things in my work. There is no demented person called Moran anywhere near here.’
‘The nearest demented Moran,’ said the Major, ‘would probably be in Hampstead, would it?’
‘Ha, ha,’ said Venables, and Major Eele turned on him, glaring.
‘What the hell are you laughing at? You’re not laughing at Nurse Clock, are you? She’ll have you out on your ear. He’s forgotten you’re in charge now, Nurse.’
Venables protested and Mrs le Tor said she had better go.
Rose Cave said: ‘I am so sorry, Mrs le Tor, that all this has happened. It is a most unfortunate thing, and there seems to be no explanation. I think we would all offer you apologies, as Mr Bird himself most certainly would have done. It seems a shame that there is not even an ornament to collect, as your letter implies.’
Mrs le Tor rose and drew on white gloves. Major Eele said:
‘Would you like an ornament, Mrs le Tor? There are plenty here, some of them left to individual residents by the dead man, others the property of The Boarding-House. You can have a volume on astronomy that I got. Would that interest you in the least? I have little use for astronomy in my daily ‘round.’
But Mrs le Tor said no, and thanked The Boarding-House residents individually, and then took her leave.
‘Clear as crystal,’ said Major Eele. ‘She wrote that letter to get herself into the house. She had her eye on Scribbin here.’
Nobody replied. Nurse Clock read a magazine and was later called out on a case. Rose Cave read a library book. The others watched a play about love on the television.
At a quarter to eleven, when Stu
ddy returned, Major Eele was alone in the television lounge.
‘Come in here, Mr Studdy. Can you spare a minute?’
Studdy entered the television lounge and sat down. Major Eele turned the sound down on the television.
‘A Mrs le Tor called round. A big white woman, obviously a prostitute. I didn’t say anything in front of the ladies, but I wondered if you’d perhaps heard of this kind of thing before in the locality? Women calling round, offering their services in a straightforward way? I wondered if we should do anything about it.’
‘A Mrs le Tor? What did she say she wanted?’
‘Oh, a cock-and-bull story; the usual thing. She had a letter signed with the name of Moran, saying that Bird left her a donkey in his will. Clearest case of how’s your father I’ve ever seen.’
‘A donkey? Mr Bird had no donkey. Your friend’s a horsewoman?’
‘Not my friend at all; don’t malign me, sir. I don’t know anything about being a horsewoman. We didn’t discuss horses. She was led into the room by the maid and then stood here and handed round this letter. Interesting thing was that the little Clerricot woman fled at once. D’you see what I’m getting at? The Clerricot’s face was like a sunset. It’s my contention they’re in it together.’
‘Heavens alive. Major, you’re not saying to me Miss Clerricot is on the streets?’
‘There’s no one on the streets, Studdy. Didn’t you know the police had fixed all that? All the organizations are driven underground. Hyde Park is cleared. Everything is underhand, slipping pound notes into fellas’ hands. It’s my contention the whole thriving business is in the hands of our coloured friends.’
‘I’m interested in Miss Clerricot going like that,’ said Studdy. ‘I wonder why she did that. Was she embarrassed at all? You say she was red in the face, but sure she’s always red in the face.’
Studdy stretched out his legs and opened a button at the top of his trousers. There were beads of sweat on his forehead and his nose. His hands clapped gently together, an aid to his concentration.
Major Eele said: ‘Definitely embarrassed. Beside herself. I watched her closely. The way she crossed the room there was no doubt about it that she wished to get out as fast as her little legs would carry her.’
‘By dad,’ said Studdy, and Major Eele said ‘Yes?’ thinking that the man had said ‘My dad’ and was about to embark on some anecdote or opinion of Studdy senior. Silence reigned for a minute or two. Both men were puzzled, Major Eele by Studdy’s reluctance to finish his sentence, and Studdy by the reported behaviour of Miss Clerricot. Why, he wondered, should she react at all to the presence of a woman who was certain to have been a stranger to her, since he himself had picked her name out of a telephone directory at random?
‘I wouldn’t know what to make of it,’ Studdy opined at last. ‘Tell me, Major, was the nursing woman here? What’s her name, Clock?’
‘Nurse Clock was present throughout the proceedings.’
Major Eele observed Studdy clumsily thinking. He saw an opportunity to create a pleasant mischief and did so immediately.
‘Nurse Clock, in fact, took charge, saying she was the boss of the house now, explaining to the pro that Bird had left her the goodwill and the property. She didn’t mention you. “What about Mr Studdy?” I said, but Clock said not a word. She passed the remark by. The way she was going on, you might have been dead. To tell the truth, I felt a bit ashamed.’
‘Ashamed, Major?’
‘Talk like that in front of the woman, and in front of me who knew it was all a pack of lies.’
‘Weren’t the others there? Mr Scribbin, Mr Venables–’
‘Not when the nurse passed that remark. We three were alone. Perhaps we were standing on the doorstep. I’m not sure.’
Studdy sighed deeply. ‘It’s a big responsibility, a going concern like this, with the whole thing tied up to a queer type of nurse.’
Major Eele shook his head, to denote sympathy. He did not feel sympathetic. He did not feel anything. He was on neither Studdy’s nor Nurse Clock’s side, and was aware only of a slight though angry disappointment that Mr Bird in his wisdom had not seen fit to leave him a part at least in The Boarding-House and its running. He was an older man than Studdy; he had always, he thought, got on very well with Mr Bird.
‘There’ll be changes?’ suggested Major Eele. ‘Changes in routine and personnel, I’ve no doubt?’
‘Ay?’ said Studdy, who was thinking of ways in which he might get rid of Nurse Clock.
‘You’ll introduce changes, I dare say?’
‘As it stands, change is disallowed by the late proprietor. I have a legal brain looking into the matter now.’
The Major laughed and rose from his arm-chair. He knew that Studdy was telling lies, talking about a legal brain. It had been a good evening, what with the visit of the professional woman and the opening of the breach between Studdy and Nurse Clock. Greatly pleased, he made his way to bed.
Mr Obd was unable to sleep. Annabel Tonks’ face haunted him, smiling at him, full of sympathy and generosity. He remembered the games of ping-pong they used to play. He closed his eyes and heard, perfectly, her quiet laugh and the sharp crack of the table-tennis ball. He tried to drive himself to sleep by thinking of the colour blue, a big blue expanse, an unnatural thing, like a desert with blue sand. He began to count.
He counted all the Christmases he had spent in London; he looked back over a series of annual holidays; he tried to count all the times he had sat down in the past, in restaurants and cafes, with Annabel Tonks. He saw people bringing them coffee, cappuchino coffee, three-quarters foam; he saw Annabel smile her crooked smile and lean back, snuggling into her chair, smoking, listening to him. He wondered what had gone wrong; and he remembered with pain the time when she had stopped playing ping-pong and then had stopped, apparently, drinking coffee. That was twelve years ago. He got up and put on the light. Mechanically, he wrote to Annabel Tonks.
Studdy wrote to Mrs le Tor. He used on this occasion a sloping backhand with curly capital letters.
Dear Mrs le Tor,
I put it to you that certain parties would be more than interested in your present activities. I put it to you that you are fast becoming a gossip subject in this neighbourhood, calling in on houses full of men and carrying on in a flagrant manner. My assistants and I have a comprehensive dossier, compiled from nothing but the facts. I put it to you that certain witnesses may be induced to come forward and that I am in a good position to help you in this affair, as I do not wish to see a good name tarnished. I suggest you put a postcard in Dewar’s the tobacconist’s advertising for a basement flat. I will take this as a sign of goodwill, and negotiations can then easily be begun. I have your interests at heart. I knew le Tor in his lifetime.
Respectfully,
A friend to decent morals.
Rose Cave dreamed of the bungalow in Ewell. She was sitting on a chair in the middle of the small hall reading a novel by Francis Brett Young.
‘Why are you there?’ cried her mother, her voice high and querulous. She could not see her mother. The voice came from behind her.
‘I am only reading,’ said Rose Cave, although she may have not used those words exactly: she was aware of the meaning she intended rather than the precise way she had expressed herself.
‘Why are you sitting in the hall?’ asked Rose Cave’s mother; and she in turn asked why she should not, demanding a reason against sitting in the hall with a book, and added:
‘Why are you not dead. Mother? I made sure you were dead, the way you looked. All the arrangements are made, a place booked in the crematorium. I have visited an undertaker’s premises for the first time in my life.’
‘I am alive,’ said the elder Miss Cave, and floated past her daughter, making no sound.
‘I am alive,’ she repeated, this time in the bed-sittingroom that Rose Cave had taken after moving from Ewell. ‘Poor, poor Rose, to have life pass her by because her mama was naughty with th
e wallpaper man. The sins of the fathers … My dear, shall I tell you? How it happened? At four o’clock in the afternoon?’
‘No, no, no,’ cried Rose, pressing the palms of her hands to her ears. She made a groaning noise in her throat, trying to wake herself before her mother could explain the details.
Mr Scribbin, wearing green pyjamas, left his bed. He crossed the floor of his room in his bare feet, which were long and narrow as he was. With great care he placed a record on the turn-table of his gramophone. Class A4 Pacific 60014 hissed its way out of Grantham station, increasing its steam for the ascent to Stoke summit.
Nurse Clock slept. On the chair at the bottom of her bed lay her uniform, and beneath it, modestly, her underclothes. Her black workaday shoes, polished before retirement, stood nearby. Beside her bed a pair of fluffy slippers awaited Nurse Clock’s feet when she awoke. The room was a tidy one, reflecting the brisk nature of Nurse Clock’s mind. She dusted it daily herself, not quite trusting the dusting of Gallelty or of the charwomen who came every week to do a few days’ work at The Boarding-House. On the mantelshelf, displayed beneath glass, was a little piece of the Garden of Gethsemane, brought to Nurse Clock’s mother by a soldier returning from a war, and a coloured portrait of the Queen, and a toby jug, a gift to Nurse Clock from a grateful patient. The patient had died two days after making this gift, somewhat unexpectedly, because the jug had changed hands in an atmosphere of recovery and joy at survival. It often caused Nurse Clock some little sadness when in passing she observed the toby jug and meditated upon the facts of life and illness and death. Still, she was not one for morbidity and could quickly pull herself up. One of Nurse Clock’s theories was that a nurse should be a tonic to others. ‘Why not to oneself too?’ she asked herself, and forgot about the toby jug and the circumstances in which it had come to find a place in her room.
Never in her life had Nurse Clock dreamed at night. She lay now, on the night of August 22nd, smiling in her sleep, unaware of anything. Polishing her black shoes before making for her bed, she had thought about the evening’s events: the visit of Mrs le Tor, the letter that purported to have come from The Boarding-House. Nurse Clock had not yet formed a plan in her mind; she had not yet adopted, as it were, a course of action in regard to her joint inheritance of The Boarding-House. ‘I am struck all of a heap,’ she had confessed to a patient of hers, a Mrs Corry, to whom that morning she had presented the whole march of events. ‘No need for nursing now,’ Mrs Corry had pointed out, but Nurse Clock had quickly explained that she could not live without her trade. And then it had occurred to her that there was a room to let at The Boarding-House, since Mr Bird was dead and out of his. ‘A pleasant enough room,’ she said to Mrs Corry, ‘though not large. Why not come now? You have said more than once you are not suited.’ ‘I have had a tough life,’ said Mrs Corry, as though requesting Nurse Clock not to force her, as though indicating that she could stand up to little more. ‘The Boarding-House is as pleasant an establishment as you’ll find in the area,’ replied Nurse Clock, thinking that a room might as well be earning rent. ‘Nice people there are there, a mixture of sexes, most excellent food.’ So eventually Mrs Corry, an admiral’s widow down on her luck, had consented to make the move, but later Nurse Clock had returned to Mrs Corry and said she had decided against filling the room at the moment, and had seen Mrs Corry look sad.
The Boarding-House Page 7