Tigerlily's Orchids

by Ruth Rendell

  ‘They used to say “fat”,’ said Mrs Hayley. ‘I didn’t mind that. But “obese”, that’s awful. It’s obscene. That’s the trouble, the word sounds like “obscene”.’

  ‘Yes, but it doesn’t mean the same thing.’

  Rose knew that was a feeble thing to say. She knew that sound was all and that some people rarely saw the printed word. Mrs Hayley, she suspected, was one of them. That reminded her of Marius, to whom the printed word meant so much …

  The green herbal tincture was handed over along with the diet sheet and a booklet of simple exercises. Mrs Hayley paid and when she had gone Rose closed up. McPhee was waiting for her inside Flat 2, rapturously waving his feathery tail at the sight of her. She picked him up and hugged him hard. One of the lovely things about McPhee was that he never minded how tightly you hugged him.

  ‘What would I do without you?’

  McPhee wagged his tail even more vigorously. Rose put his lead on him and took him out for a walk round Kenilworth Green.

  It was by chance that Olwen discovered that Mr Ali had returned from his pilgrimage and his shop was open once more. Her front door was ajar, she was just inside it, bracing herself to venture out and find Wally Scurlock, when she heard two of the girls talking outside their own flat.

  ‘That Asian man is back if we need more Coke.’

  ‘You mean Mr Ali.’ ‘Yeah, whatever.’

  ‘You want to remember I’m Asian,’ Olwen heard Noor say. ‘You want to show a bit of respect.’

  They began arguing, Sophie shouting that no one called her a racist and got away with it and Noor countering that no one would if she watched her mouth. Olwen pushed her door open and came out. She stood on the threshold, leaning on her stick, but leaning unsteadily, her whole body faintly trembling. The sight of her in her moth-eaten fur coat over the same black dress she had worn for Stuart’s party silenced them.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Sophie asked.

  ‘Not really.’

  Molly would have asked if there was anything she could do to help but Molly was down in Flat 1, making Stuart’s bed, bringing him her version of a cappuccino and offering to take over Richenda’s cleaning job. The two girls looked again at Olwen and Noor said to Sophie, ‘I’ll see you out the front,’ and departed for the lift.

  Olwen said, ‘If you’re going round to Ali’s and you’ll get me a bottle of gin and one of vodka, I’ll give you ten pounds.’

  Remembering the five pounds she had never had back, Sophie said, ‘You mean you’ll give me the price of the booze and ten pounds? And what about the fiver you owe me?’

  Well brought up as she had been, Sophie would never have dreamt of talking in that tone to any of her parents’ friends (or come to that, her grandparents’), but Olwen, through her lifestyle, had forfeited all deference. As Noor had put it, Sophie wanted to show a bit of respect, but it didn’t occur to her to do so. Olwen hesitated but she had to go on. It was a matter of life and death to her.

  The date was the 23rd and on the following day her pension would come in. There was no help for it, she would have to trust Sophie, for she could already tell that this girl would be a lot cheaper to employ than the caretaker. Scurlock was already charging her thirty pounds to fetch two bottles of spirits. ‘Will you do it for ten?’ Olwen said harshly.

  Sophie knew she should refuse. She could see Olwen was killing herself. All the strictures against heavy drinking were known to her, as they must be known to everyone who looked at television or the Internet, not to mention glanced at a newspaper. Olwen was a living (barely) example of what drink did to you. But ten pounds for simply buying what Olwen wanted when she was going to Ali’s anyway …

  ‘OK, if you want.’

  The next step terrified Olwen but being without a drink terrified her more. ‘You’ll have to go to the cash machine in the post office first. Get the money out.’

  ‘Tell me your pin, then.’

  ‘Come in.’

  So Sophie went into Flat 6. She expected it to be dirty and even untidier than hers and she was surprised that it wasn’t. Its barrenness struck her, the lack of furnishings, the bare walls, the absence of any signs of eating, no clothes lying about, no curtains or blinds. She was reminded of when her parents and she and her brothers and sister had all moved to a new house, and until their household goods arrived, lived for twenty-four hours with just their beds and a sofa and the TV. But the smell there had been of floor polish and air freshener while here it was of gin.

  Olwen had sat down, had sunk down, into the sofa where her ancient scuffed black leather handbag lay. From it she produced a credit card. This card was almost the last thing she now possessed that brought her into participation in the present-day world, unless you counted the television remote which had ceased to function for lack of batteries.

  ‘You’ll have to tell me your pin,’ Sophie said again.

  Olwen would never have dared disclose that to Wally Scurlock. She didn’t know how far she could trust Sophie but did she have a choice? The bottle on the floor by her feet contained about an inch of gin and that was all she had. She turned her eyes slowly on to it as someone in a broken-down car in the desert might look at the last of his water.

  ‘Seven-five-two-nine,’ she said.

  Sophie didn’t write it down. She would remember it.

  ‘ “He for God only, she for God in him,” ’ Marius read when he opened Paradise Lost at random. For once, perhaps for the first time, he slammed Milton shut and nearly threw him on the floor. Ridiculous, sexist stuff, he thought. And Milton had had three wives! If he and Rose were together, they would have a totally equal partnership, loving and giving … He caught himself up. That could never be. He could never remind her of that night they had passed together and which had so evidently slipped her mind. Or, probably, hadn’t slipped her mind, but had rather slipped into that chronicle of brief sexual encounters everyone keeps, many or few, not to be entirely forgotten perhaps but recalled as having been spent with a handsome boy whose long hair was chestnut-coloured, whose body was muscular and whose face was smooth.

  His phone rang. ‘Oh, Rose,’ he said, his heart beating faster.

  ‘I was wondering if you’d like to come down for supper this evening.’

  ‘So sorry but I can’t. I’ve got a new pupil at seven.’

  ‘Some other time then.’ Her voice sounded sad.

  ‘Of course.’

  And he went off to teach Roman history to Penelope Moore-Knighton in Edgware.

  She must learn to make it last. Olwen knew this. She knew her plans and dreams to drink as much as she wanted and whenever she wanted were doomed to failure. Only a wealthy person could do that. A rich woman would have servants who asked no questions, who had the use of a car, who would buy what her employer wanted by the crate or simply order it on the phone. You could probably buy it online, she thought, though what she knew of the Internet was fast receding out of her fuddled brain. As for her, when she started on this strange enterprise of hers – she knew how strange it was – she hadn’t calculated that she might lose the ability to buy drink herself, simply to walk out of the place and buy what she wanted. And she hadn’t counted on the recession closing wine shops nearby. How long, for instance, would Mr Ali last?

  Meanwhile, Sophie Longwich had brought her the bottle of gin and the one of vodka and returned her card. What she had forgotten to ask for was a receipt from the cash machine. Sophie called it a ‘hole in the wall’ and had said nothing about a receipt, which probably meant she hadn’t one. Olwen worried a bit about Sophie having her pin number, but when she had twice filled a tumbler with gin and drunk it down, she worried less. Nor did she worry too much about what she had resolved the previous evening: to reduce her alcohol consumption by a half. That would be bearable, wouldn’t it? She could manage that. Tonight, though, she would drink what she wanted and think about economy tomorrow.

  Tomorrow is another day. She vaguely recalled Scarlett O’Hara saying that from t
he days, now long gone, when she read books and watched films. I’ll worry about it tomorrow, for tomorrow is another day.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Tomorrow had come but no Tigerlily with it. Stuart wondered if he had dreamt her promising to visit him but he knew it had really happened. The kind of dreams he had weren’t of girls asking him if he was a good man. Was there anything he could do? He remembered how her father had stared at him and remembered too how ignominiously he had retreated. Since that evening there had been no sign of her or of any of them. Remembering what he had told his mother about April, though April was nearly over, he sat at home with newspapers’ appointments pages in front of him and applied for jobs, made uneasy by the brevity of his CV.

  ‘Nessun dorma’ rang out frequently from the bedroom. He never answered it but Molly did, humbly telling Claudia that she was his cleaner and, in response to frantic gesticulations from Stuart, that he had gone out. His mother also phoned. He spoke to her and heard that a woman journalist called Claudia Livorno had called her to ask if her son had changed his phone numbers. She needed to get in touch because she wanted to interview him in connection with a story she was writing.

  ‘You didn’t tell her, I hope.’

  ‘Well, of course I did, Stuart. That is, I confirmed the numbers she had. They were both right. Surely you’d like to have a piece about you in the papers.’

  His mobile began to play that tedious tune while they were still talking. Stuart let it play but gave up applying for jobs. On his way out he told Molly he hoped she realised he couldn’t afford to pay her. Molly, who had never thought payment a possibility, took a phone call on her own mobile from Carl wanting to know why he never saw her these days. She fobbed him off with promises but not caring very much.

  It was a lovely sunny morning, almost the last day of April, and all Duncan’s windows were open. Stuart rang the doorbell. He knew Duncan would ask no questions but simply invite him in for one of his cups of watery coffee which, he hoped, would be drunk out in the garden. For a moment he thought his new friend must be out but the second time he rang the bell Duncan came to the door. Things then followed their usual pattern. The kettle was boiled, the water poured on to a very small amount of instant coffee, semi-skimmed milk added and custard cream biscuits arranged on a plate. Duncan always asked if Stuart would like to have his ‘elevenses’ inside or outside and Stuart always said outside. He had taken to visiting Duncan regularly. Duncan had never asked what prompted this sudden interest in himself and his garden but now, carrying the tray out through the French windows, he did ask. Or, rather, guessed right.

  ‘You’re hoping to get a look at Tigerlily, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, well, sort of,’ said Stuart.

  ‘You’re more likely to see her on a cold grey day. They don’t like the heat, that lot. Her and her sister and brother or whatever they are, they come outside to get cool.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘They have to keep it hot in there. It’s a real hothouse. They raise orchids, you see. They’re specialist orchid growers and they’ve got a flourishing business supplying plants to all the garden centres in west London. Got their work cut out, they have.’

  Stuart, who had always loved warm weather, now longed for the kind of grey day he would have said was typical. But an area of high pressure lay over the south-east of England, creating what was almost a heatwave. Even he realised that he couldn’t keep calling on Duncan for coffee without some reciprocation, so he had him over for six o’clock drinks along with Ken Lee and Moira Jones. Molly arrived too, bringing Sophie with her. It was quite a party. Sophie regaled them with tales of the drink she was buying for Olwen but she said nothing of the ten pounds a time.

  Stuart worried all the time that Claudia might turn up. She didn’t – but nor did Tigerlily. He was in no doubt that she had meant to come but been prevented by that autocratic father of hers. They must come from one of those Far Eastern families where all power was vested in the parents. He wasn’t well endowed with imagination, but still, he could picture her tending the delicate orchid plants, pinching off shoots from the thin supple stems, winding a tendril round a support, watering from a teacup-sized can with a long pointed spout. Her long glossy hair would be fastened back with a tortoise-shell comb and tied with a white ribbon.

  The fine weather lasted for another three days. Then it clouded over and the rain came, pouring down all night. In the morning the temperature had dropped to ten degrees Celsius and a sharp wind was blowing. Stuart went across the road to Duncan’s but found that while his host was very willing to give him coffee and biscuits, he refused to have it outside.

  ‘May is a treacherous month,’ he said – meaninglessly, as far as Stuart was concerned.

  No longer attempting to keep the true purpose of his visits from Duncan, Stuart opened the French windows and stood outside on the step, coffee in hand. From there he had quite a good view of the Springmead garden, the summer house and the gate into the back lane where the garage must be. There was no one about but then, just as he was thinking that it was too cold even for hothouse dwellers, Tigerlily came out and with her the other girl, followed by the father. He and she went out through the back-lane gate, no doubt to the garage, leaving Tigerlily to make her way to the summer house.

  She was on the steps leading to the little pink-painted door when something made her turn her head. It must have been him willing it, Stuart thought, it had to be. Their eyes met and she mouthed, ‘I come later. Evening time.’

  He could hardly believe his luck. He watched her go in through the pink door, and almost at the moment she closed it behind her, a boy of about eighteen – older maybe but those people always looked younger than they were – came out of the house and walked down the path to the summer house. Her brother, thought Stuart, left to guard her. I wonder how she’ll manage to get out this evening, but she will this time, I know she will.

  Xue, whose name means ‘snow’ symbolising purity, and Tao, whose name means ‘great wave’, sat on the floor in the summer house, savouring the cool air. They didn’t speak to each other. They had nothing to say except things which must never be said. Tao, who could sleep anywhere and for very short periods, lay down and closed his eyes, but Xue stayed awake and thought of the tiny ray of hope that might be offered to her.

  *

  There was no scene this morning, no involvement of the other residents. All was peaceful in Lichfield House and there was not a soul about, yet Claudia had got in and was sitting on his bed, counting on his mobile the messages she had left.

  ‘Oh, darling, where have you been?’

  ‘Having coffee with a friend. How did you get in?’

  ‘What a way to speak to me! Like I was some sort of intruder. If you must know, there was a fat girl here, dusting the place. Anyway, she had a duster in her hand. I told her I was your partner. I must say she looked a bit stricken but she let me in and then she went. Don’t tell me you’re having some sort of relationship with her?’

  ‘Of course I won’t tell you that, Claudia. Of course I’m not. She sort of cleans for me and she doesn’t charge anything so I’ve given Richenda the push.’

  ‘You really are something else, Stuart Font. Aren’t you going to give me a kiss?’

  Stuart looked at her. Why had he never noticed before how coarse her skin was, how dry and frizzy her long pale hair? Why had he never seen the muffin top starting round her waist and the lines that encircled her wrists? He glanced at himself in one of the mirrors. He looked years younger than she was, ten, fifteen years younger. How old was she anyway? She had never said.

  ‘You’ll have to go, Claudia. I’m busy.’

  ‘You what? You’re never busy.’

  He realised that the crunch had come. Now he must tell her their affair was over. He couldn’t have her getting in his way when dramatic events were about to unfold. Not her or that ridiculous Molly Flint. Tonight Tigerlily would come and an adventure might be about to happe
n. He might have to take her away somewhere, hide her from her father, even marry her. The prospect excited him. His life had become intolerably dull.

  ‘It’s over, Claudia,’ he said, a new firmness in his tone. ‘It was good while it lasted.’ The clichés rolled out. ‘I’ll always remember the good times we had. You’ll always have a place in my heart.’

  She got up. ‘If you don’t change your mind by this evening – say 6 p.m. – I’m going to tell Freddy I came here to end it and you – you raped me.’

  New-found courage aided him. ‘He won’t believe that. He’ll know you can’t rape a woman who never says no.’

  She came at him then, sharp nails extended. They had scratched his face before he succeeded in grabbing her round the waist and pinioning her arms behind her back. She struggled and kicked, catching him on the shin with one of her high heels. That made him yell but he held on to her, marched her across the floor and forced her out of his front door. Katie Constantine, collecting her post, watched with interest. Stuart slammed the door shut. The bolts on it had never been used but now he used them, to no purpose but to make himself feel safe. Claudia pounded on it with her fists – and by the sound of it, with her feet too – shouting and shrieking as she did so. Stuart went into his bedroom and closed the door.

  He scrutinised his face in the Design for Living mirror with all the anxiety of a model concerned about tomorrow’s photo shoot. The bruising on his forehead was long gone but the marks on both cheeks looked like what they were – scratches from eight sharp nails. His shin was bleeding, the blood coming through his jeans. When he had dabbed Savlon on his face, stripped off his jeans and put a plaster on the wound Claudia’s heel had made, he lit a cigarette and lay down on his bed to think about Tigerlily.