‘I’m afraid we’re going to be a terrible nuisance to you,’ I said meekly.
‘I’m certain of it. Don’t let it worry you, though. You’ll suffer more than I will, I imagine. It seems to me quite extraordinary that you are all, at your respective ages, still living at home, financially dependent on your father.’
‘Well.’ I paused, unable for the moment to explain just why this was so. ‘I suppose it is rather lazy and selfish of us.’
‘Not only is it lazy and selfish, it’s thoroughly detrimental to your own lives and happiness.’ He sighed and pressed his hands to his temples. ‘I’m tired of moralising. It’s been a long day. Let me know about the jobs. I’ll be back in London by Thursday. Two weeks, mind.’
‘But what shall we do?’ I felt helpless in the face of these demands, which, though I knew them to be entirely reasonable, I saw no way of meeting.
Rupert looked at me with an expression of barely suppressed irritation. ‘All right. Let’s begin with you. What do you most enjoy doing?’
‘I’ve written a lot of poetry. But it isn’t nearly ready for the public gaze.’
‘You may as well attempt to colonise the moon with white mice as publish a volume of poetry. But if you like writing – let’s think.’ He thought while my mind wandered ineffectually, revolving vague, indefinable anxieties. ‘I’ll give Sidney Podmore a ring before I leave tomorrow. He’s a subeditor on the Brixton Mercury. He’ll take you as a cub reporter as a favour to me.’
‘A journalist?’ I thought of Stanley Norman and all the others who had staked out the house and gone through our dustbins, hoping to discover, among fishbones, vegetable peelings and butter wrappers, the web and woof of the Byng family life. ‘I couldn’t possibly!’
TWELVE
Mr Podmore, subeditor of the Brixton Mercury, had a large nose that was reddish. The rest of his face was putty-coloured, as though he spent too much time cloistered from the light of day. His eyes were hidden behind small blue-lensed spectacles. A crop of grizzled hair was parted in the middle, ending below his ears in an exuberant burst of curls. His clothes, particularly the crumpled silk cravat and stained, embroidered waistcoat, proclaimed the Bohemian.
His office, which I had leisure to examine as he kept me waiting several minutes while he finished what he was reading, bore testament to pantheistic views. A crude painting of Kali, the goddess with a necklace of skulls and more than the usual complement of arms, hung on one wall, hanging out her tongue at a large green plaster Buddha, smiling fatly above rolls of flesh, which stood on the desk. Distributed about the room were sacred symbols and fetishes galore – masks, beads, bells, crucifixes, pyramids, something wizened that might have been a shrunken head, corn dollies, wooden snakes, a brass pyx and a small totem pole. The room smelled strongly of incense, cigarettes and perspiration. It was not at all what I had expected.
‘Name?’ said Mr Podmore, without looking up.
‘Harriet Byng.’
‘Byng? Oh, yes.’ He raised his voice as though he was shouting banner headlines from a windy street corner. ‘Famous Actor Arrested for Murder!’
I winced. ‘He didn’t do it.’
‘Daughter Protests Innocence!’ He dropped his voice to a volume more suitable for a conversation between two people in a small office. ‘Relationship to Rupert Wolvespurges?’
‘Um – a family friend, really. He used to live with us but we hadn’t seen him for years until –’
‘Experience?’
‘None, I’m afraid.’
‘Previous job?’ A violent blowing of nose in a far-from-clean handkerchief.
‘Well, I’ve written some poetry –’
‘Shorthand?’
I watched with horrid fascination as Mr Podmore burrowed in a nostril with a skinny forefinger. ‘I’m afraid not –’
‘Spelling?’
‘S-H-O-R-T – oh, I see. Well, a bit erratic, to be truthful, but with a dictionary –’
‘You can do my business expenses.’ Mr Podmore found whatever he was looking for and brought it out for inspection. He got up, stuffing his handkerchief into his trousers pocket and went out, leaving the door open. After a few seconds he put his head back round the door and threw up his chin at an angle of forty-five degrees, which I interpreted as a signal to follow him.
His office led into a larger one in which two women of indeterminate age were attacking typewriters as though they were engaged in a race and the loser was to be executed the next morning. They did not raise their eyes from the page to look at us but continued to pound the keys and every few seconds to clout the thing like a black rolling pin at the top of the machine as though they were determined to teach it a lesson. I wondered how they could keep up such furious activity without fainting, for the gas fire was full on and the room was a shimmering stew.
‘Desk.’ Mr Podmore pointed to a table, which was bare but for a typewriter. I smiled keenly and sat down. He threw a folder in front of me. ‘Sort them into headings, itemise and total. You can add, I suppose?’
I recognised sarcasm in his tone but I did not blame him. Of course he resented having to give a job, however lowly, to someone as ill-qualified as me. I reflected briefly on Rupert’s power and importance in the world of journalism with increased respect. Mr Podmore went back into his office and slammed the door. The two women stopped typing as abruptly as though they had been plugged into the mains and the trip switch had been thrown.
‘I’ll have an extra sugar in mine,’ said the one with dyed blonde hair and a kingfisher-blue cardigan.
‘Fancy a marshmallow tea-cake?’ asked the thin one in ginger slacks, getting up and going to the corner where there was a tray with a kettle and some cups. They avoided looking in my direction.
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I’m Harriet.’
Ginger slacks looked at me over the top of her spectacles. ‘How do you do? I am Muriel Minchin.’ Her accent was suddenly breathtakingly refined. ‘And this,’ she indicated the kingfisher cardigan, ‘is Eileen Feather. Would you care for some refreshment?’
‘That would be lovely.’ I smiled, almost showing my wisdom teeth, but it was no good.
‘I’m afraid we only have PG Tips or Nes-caif. Probably it is not to what you are used. You may prefer to bring your own.’
‘Oh, no, either of those would be marvellous.’
‘Would you care for a digestive biscuit or a rich tea?’
I would have liked a marshmallow teacake but I did not dare to say so. ‘Nothing to eat, thank you.’
‘You’ll pardon us if we nibble, I’m sure. We are obliged to get up so very early, you see, to travel by public transport.’
Now I understood. Bron had insisted on dropping me off at the Brixton Mercury in a silver and blue Bentley Continental. ‘Oh, that car doesn’t belong to me,’ I said eagerly. ‘My brother’s got a job as a salesman and he was delivering it to a customer in St John’s Wood. He wanted the excuse to drive it around a bit.’
Miss Feather gave me a cool smile. ‘I do not know to what you are referring.’
Naturally they were not pleased by the insinuation that they had been craning out of the window when I arrived. They sipped their coffee with pursed lips and little fingers extended.
‘Mr Podmore has told us that you are a debutante in need of pin money.’ From this I gathered that Rupert must have suggested to Mr Podmore that I work incognito at the Brixton Mercury to save me from painful notoriety among my co-workers. ‘Evening gowns are so expensive, are they not?’ Muriel took a tissue from her bag and daintily patted her lips to remove a crumb of chocolate.
‘I’m not a deb. I’ve only ever been to two balls in my life and I really hated them. I was longing to go home by ten o’clock. Honestly, we’re as poor as church mice.’
Muriel and Eileen exchanged little smiles of disbelief.
‘My mother was used to have her gowns made by a very select shop in Bounds Green,’ Muriel went on, having taken charge of the convers
ation. ‘My grandfather had a flourishing business in domestic wares. My grandmother had everything she wanted. Fitted carpets in every room. A cook-general living in.’
‘Gosh!’ I said.
‘What happened to all the money?’ asked Eileen.
‘My father, God rest his soul, was unlucky in his investments. My mother said he was the plaything of fortune.’ She looked solemn. I imagined that Eileen felt, as I did, that it would be impertinent to ask for details.
‘Another cup of coffee, Eileen dear?’ Muriel shook herself from the sad reverie into which she had momentarily fallen.
‘I think I will partake. Though it is only instant, it does perk one up no end. Did I tell you about Auntie and I going to the whist drive last evening? It is only the British Legion Hall but there is always a very nice sort of person attending.’
They chatted between themselves and soon relaxed into ordinary voices. With fingers dampened by anxiety and the tremendous heat in the room, I opened the file and stared at a sheaf of bills and bits of paper covered with illegible writing. I had not the faintest idea what to do with them.
‘Excuse me,’ I said, when Eileen paused during a breathless résumé of her aunt’s doings, ‘I know it’s stupid of me but I don’t understand what Mr Podmore wants me to do.’
‘Eileen, I am sure, will be delighted to assist you,’ said Muriel. ‘She has seen to Mr Podmore’s business expenses for the last ten years and I can say with absolute confidence that her accounts were without error.’
‘Thank you, Muriel,’ said Eileen in stately tones. ‘I have done my poor best.’
She walked over to my desk and picked up one of the bills. ‘Hotel Astoria, Brighton, double room, bed and breakfast. That’ll be when he took that nasty little piece from the printers, Marietta something or other, common as they come. Mind you, I should have thought even she might have objected. Mr Podmore has –’ she lowered her voice – ‘perspiration problems which make him not very nice to know. Put it down as single room and dinner. That’ll make the cost about right. And don’t forget the rail fare.’ I stared at her blankly. She sighed. ‘Dear me, what a lot you have to learn. Left hand of the page, capital letters, underlined in red, “TRAVEL”.’ I looked at the typewriter, my eyes wandering over the keys. I saw the letter T and struck it nervously. In my agitation I hit two other keys by mistake. Eileen freed the tangle of metal strips with fastidious fingers. ‘I don’t know where you was trained – no doubt somewhere in the West End – but I was always taught it was advisable to put some paper in first.’
Muriel tittered.
‘I don’t know what you’re complaining about,’ said Bron, swinging his legs up on to the sofa in the drawing room. ‘At least you’ve still got a job to go to. I’ve had an unspeakably dull afternoon and now I’ve got to hunt around for another dreary little hole to hide my talents in for the nonce.’
After dropping me at the Brixton Mercury Bron had been unable to resist picking up a pretty girl he had spotted at a bus stop and they had got on so well that he had taken her for a spin. They had stopped for a snifter at cosy little place he knew in Putney and the snifter had become a long lunch. It was not his fault that some bloody idiot had stopped without warning at a zebra crossing and destroyed the Bentley’s radiator and the front offside wing. He had taken the car back to the showroom and explained that this had happened just after he had parked outside the customer’s house to effect the handover. The manager had been suspicious but Bron had got away with it. He had been told to stay in the showroom for the rest of the day and look after browsing punters. Bron had got on very well for a while and actually made a sale by promising extremely favourable credit. Then a tolerably good-looking woman had arrived and Bron had made a pass at her. How was he to know that she was the manager’s wife?
‘Oh dear.’ I swung my arms and flexed my shoulders to relieve the cramp that had set in after a miserable day spent crouched over the typewriter. I had finally managed a page of expenses, laid out as instructed by Eileen and without spelling mistakes. I suspected that she had deliberately omitted to tell me I was supposed to be making carbon copies of the beastly thing, so it would all have to be done again in the morning. Dirk, who had only been pacified in my absence by being allowed to sleep in my bed with a large, greasy bone, was disturbed by my muscle-stretching exercises and started to bark so I stopped. ‘What will Rupert say?’
‘Naturally we shan’t tell him,’ said Bron.
‘But won’t that be breaking our agreement?’
‘Rupert doesn’t want to be bothered with the minutiae of our dealings. He’s a busy man with more important things to think of. Anyway, I shall have another job in no time. You’re always straining at gnats, Harriet. It’s very tiresome in a sister. I blame those nuns. Now, be a good girl and fetch a bottle of plonk. I’m in need of fortification.’
‘Do you think we ought? Rupert did say we had to economise –’ A flying cushion struck me on the nose. I went down to the kitchen with watering eyes, conceding that the reform of Bron was a hopeless task.
Ophelia was spread-eagled in a chair, still wearing her coat, scarf and gloves when I returned to the drawing room. As with Bron and me, it had been her first day as a member of the working classes. ‘God! Give me a glass at once before I faint.’
I took one over to her. ‘Bad day?’ I enquired sympathetically.
‘No-o-o,’ she said slowly. ‘Actually, rather fun. But shattering. Fay is a vortex of energy. By lunchtime my feet were killing me and I could hardly keep my eyes open. I explained that I’d had to get up at eight to be at her house by nine and she told me she gets up at six every day! I mean, really, have you ever heard of such a thing?’
Fay Swann ran a successful interior decorating business and had agreed like a shot to take on Ophelia. She had been a friend of my mother’s for years but the relationship was somewhat half-hearted on my mother’s side. She knew that Fay was a toadeater who enjoyed being able to talk about her intimacy with a famous actor. My mother said that Fay had excellent taste but there was a smell of the shop about her. My mother said this about everyone whose occupation was unconnected with the theatre. I still have no idea what she meant by it. I thought Fay quite terrifyingly grand.
I was relieved that Ophelia’s mood was cheerful. When I had tentatively set forth the conditions Rupert had laid down in return for subsidising the Byng family Ophelia had laughed contemptuously and said that nothing would persuade her to be party to such a ridiculous scheme. My mother had been indignant on Ophelia’s behalf and demanded to know whether Rupert was so determined to humiliate them that he expected Ophelia to stand in rags in Oxford Street, selling matches from a tray. During the period of his absence in New York my family indulged in much extravagant satire at Rupert’s expense.
He had called on us the very next day after his return from New York. I thought it was kind of him to come all the way to Blackheath. Though it was noon the curtains were closed against the wintry sun and the drawing room was lit by candles. My mother received him with great stateliness, sitting on a throne from Richard II – or was it King John? – and wearing a black mantilla that covered her face. Though their stitches had been taken out by the local GP, she and Ronnie were still under wraps. They claimed to be still too bruised to reveal themselves in their full glory.
‘Well, Rupert. It must be five years since we met.’
I was willing to bet she knew to the day when that merciless review had been published. She extended a couple of fingers. Rupert shook her hand briefly, then dropped it.
‘Hello, Clarissa. It’s nearer ten.’
‘Really?’ My mother gave her stage laugh, which was pretty convincing until you heard her real one. ‘It seems only yesterday that you were a dirty little boy with farouche manners and a sad little stammer.’
‘I don’t suppose much has changed.’
Cordelia came up to him and peered rather closely, perhaps looking for dirt. ‘How do you do? I’m Cordelia. I
’m going to be a film star.’
He looked down at her gravely. ‘Have you the hide of a pachyderm and the brain of an amoeba? If so, you’ll do.’
‘I assume you don’t mean that liberally,’ said Cordelia with dignity.
‘Cordelia, ask Ronnie to bring us some sherry,’ said my mother quickly, perhaps unwilling that any member of the family should seem comical in the eyes of this repulsive Nemesis who had thrust himself among us. ‘And tell the others to come.’ She addressed herself to Rupert. ‘I can’t tell you how much we have all looked forward to seeing you again.’
She delivered this with a tremendous weight of irony but Rupert appeared not to have heard. He had turned his back on us and was examining a portrait by Corot. ‘I’d forgotten you had this. Charming. But it’s a copy, of course.’
‘It happens to be genuine –’ began my mother heatedly, forgetting to be icily remote.
‘Ah, ha, ha!’ Bron strode in and shook Rupert’s hand vigorously. ‘How are you, old chap? Marvellous to see you! Never better, thankee, never better!’
He put his hand to his eye to adjust an imaginary monocle. For some reason Bron had decided to conduct the interview in the guise of a P. G. Wodehouse toff.
‘Good,’ said Rupert in rather a deflating way.
‘I say, old boy, jolly decent of you to rally to the call – appreciate it no end. Quite right, we’ve all got to pull together now the pater’s down on his uppers. I’m as ready as the next man to put my shoulder to the wheel but the question is, as what? I suppose you couldn’t get me a snug little billet on the Guardian as restaurant critic, could you? I’d be prepared to eat anywhere if it’ll help the old man get on his legs again. Even Greek.’
‘No,’ said Rupert.
‘Here we are.’ Ronnie bustled in with a tray of tiny glasses, meanly filled with sherry. He had retained his dark spectacles and wore a red and white spotted bandanna over the lower part of his face, like a bank robber. ‘Hello, Rupert. It’s been a long time. Excuse the get-up. Clarissa and I had a little motoring accident and we aren’t quite better yet. Oh, bugger that bloody dog!’ He clutched at the skidding glasses on the tray and managed to save them. ‘Sorry, Harriet, but he will get under one’s feet and I didn’t see him in the dark. Come on, my dear.’ He offered the tray to my mother. ‘Drink up,’ he said kindly. ‘This’ll make you feel more the thing.’
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