Happy heard her approaching and walked up the path to meet her followed by Mr Hashimoto. Mr Hashimoto was now firm friends with the kitten, which followed him about the garden as he worked. The Bengal had defended its territory but the gardener had put an end to the rivalry by packing the older cat into a chicken basket and driving it home to Gardena as a surprise gift for his concubine.
‘The pond looks much better,’ she said. ‘Very clean. Very nice job.’
‘Kitty like,’ he said. ‘Pray with fish.’
Evelyn crouched down to stroke the kitten and it jumped on to her shoulder and rubbed its nose against hers. Mr Hashimoto smiled and bowed.
‘Happy happy now.’
Chapter 15
Evelyn was in the dentist’s chair and Silas, wearing his white coat with the side buttons, was coming towards her with a steel tray of very shiny porcelain teeth: a Nova Pilbeam smile.
She had fallen asleep in the sunshine after getting showered and dressed and was rescued from her nightmare by the arrival of her lunch date.
‘I’ve never seen you look so lovely,’ smiled Felix. ‘All lit up inside.’
Felix himself was looking trim and expensive in a pigskin bush jacket worn over a cashmere shirt.
‘I got you this.’
A slim, ribboned box from a Beverly Hills shop with a silk headscarf inside. Evelyn smiled sleepily at the pattern: a California sky of palms and oranges and bluebirds.
‘It’s gorgeous.’
‘I thought we could take a drive after lunch and you could wear it as a wrap-around. Be a shame to muss up that hair.’ A shy finger hooked a stray curl into place.
He could have kissed her if he’d wanted to – Ted Monroe would have kissed her – but instead he cut straight to the scene where he helped her into the passenger seat of Foxton Meredith’s roadster and drove through the wide, sunny streets to a downtown diner with no waitress service and sawdust on the floors and where the chef piled fat notebooks of roasted meat and gravy between crispy logs of bread.
When Evelyn looked back on that long, happy luncheon she could remember laughing but could not remember the jokes themselves. It was the close-ups, the stills framed in the foyer, that lingered in her mind’s eye: the wide smile of yellow mustard licking across his cheek; the steaming tray he brought back from the counter laden with all three flavours of pie.
‘Your face! You look like you never seen dessert before.’
‘It never really featured at home,’ she had explained. ‘Life is more than food, and the body more than clothing – or so my mother-in-law always said.’
‘Oh yeah? Eat what is good and delight yourself in abundance. If you want to play Bible games my big brother and I can keep this up for hours.’
‘I didn’t think you were the Scripture Studies type.’
‘Hidden depths.’
His hand had reached across the linoleum-covered table and again she had raised her chin for the expected caress but he merely stole a piece of piecrust.
Had anyone shown her the ocean yet?
They took what he called the scenic route: west past the studio, north along Cahuenga Boulevard and then a scary, switchback ride along the crest of the hills, canyons falling away on either side of them like a process shot. The sprawling city shimmered implausibly beneath them, veiled in a mist of dust and petrol fumes, and the Pacific was just a grey blur on the horizon. The tyres of Felix’s shiny new motor skidded very slightly on the unmade stretches of the road and there were burned rubber traces on the asphalted sections where drivers had played fast and loose with the hairpin bends. The car radio began broadcasting anxious strings and suddenly the romantic afternoon took a darker turn, as if the laughing lunch and the Technicolor scenery had merely been the build-up to a tragic climax: a car out of control; a scarf pulled tight around a soft neck; the muzzle of a gun pushed hard against a breast pocket.
It wasn’t until the signs began promising Malibu that the air cleared and Evelyn had a heart-lifting glimpse of blue. She could only remember three visits to the seaside: Whitby, Worthing and Torquay. The seas she had seen smelled of seaweed and fried fish but the Pacific smelled only of salt. The music stopped as Felix pulled over on the coast road and they scrambled down a dune to the water’s edge where they stood hand in hand gazing out at the unpaintable seascape, a formless composition rendered in swathes of colour: ochre; indigo; cerulean: sand; sea; sky.
When they reached Bolton Canyon the concert had already started. There was an unnatural yellow glow in the night sky, as if Martians were forging one of their deadly machines in the valley beyond. The unearthly mood was intensified by the eerie sounds wafting down the hill through the cottonwoods. Inside the auditorium, backed by a gigantic cup of white concrete, a Junoesque female was summoning Stravinsky’s Firebird from the ether, flourishing her bare white arms in a spectral semaphore in front of what looked like some kind of giant crystal set. Her right hand mimicked the fluttering fingers of a cellist while the other batted gently at the air. Her doll’s face was magnolia white and her dark brows permanently raised in surprise at the sounds her hands were making.
The audience, well-wrapped in furs and blankets, kept unusually still, fearing that any sudden movement of their own might break the spell, shatter the atmosphere and fill the air with wrong notes. Felix gave a happy sigh as the music ended and smiled up into the darkness.
‘There ought to be fireflies. Back east we’d have had fireflies. They don’t have them here. We’ll have to get Cynthia Games to import some.’
The applause died away and the theremin player resumed her stance in front of the apparatus and proceeded to conjure the rest of her repertoire from the evening air, giving them Saint-Saëns’s ‘The Swan’ for an encore. It had been a favourite of Silas’s and, from force of habit, Evelyn looked along the row, half expecting to see his deceptively handsome profile. There was a rumble of distant thunder like a sound effect and she shivered, prompting Felix to pull their rug more closely around her knees, take shy hold of her hand and press it to his lips.
‘My mother loved that number,’ he said as they dashed to the car through the raindrops. ‘She was always a pushover for strings. I wanted to have a gramophone at the funeral but the rabbi said no music allowed – can you believe that? Like he wanted a way to make it even worse. It was hell. All these people you only see when they’re crying: weddings and funerals, always crying. And they’re all talking about this woman I never met. What an angel, all her sacrifices.’ He turned to Evelyn, his face wet. ‘She wasn’t an angel. She was a grand old lady but she was a pain in the ass. I’m sorry she died and I miss her but I can’t cry the way they do. What good did grief ever do anybody? It won’t bring her back, it doesn’t prove anything. My brother is going to be sitting shiva for a week – he didn’t even get out to vote – does that mean he loved her more?’
‘Of course not.’
When they arrived back at Cedar Point he pulled her towards him and kissed her on the lips.
‘Thank you for coming out with me today. I feel a lot better. We ought to make a date to hang all those pictures.’
He kept vague hold of her hand but there were no more kisses and he had not turned off the engine.
There was a studio envelope propped against the telephone in the kitchen and a bulging sack of oranges on the breakfast bar. She opened a can of fish for the mewling kitten, squeezed herself a glass of juice and sat down on one of the basket chairs in the sitting room to read her letter from Deborah. Happy, who had abandoned his supper after a few dubious mouthfuls, jumped into her lap and was kneading the cashmere of her cardigan into a suitable nesting place. There were three sheets of paper in the envelope but, in her hurry for the last collection, Deborah had not put them back in order.
…they wanted to know if we knew his blood group but his GP was over in New Malden, you may remember, and they were bombed out a few weeks ago – far more bombs in New Malden than Woking for some reason which has remained
intact so far – perhaps the Nazis are saving it for themselves, like Paris and Belgrave Square. Anyway, someone’s got to trek up north to the Scottish hospital and see whether it’s poor Silas or not. A change is as good as a rest and Mrs M would try the patience of a saint which, as you know, I’m not.
Evelyn fell back in her chair which shrieked in sympathy making Happy jump clear. The letter hung by her side. She could almost hear the music swell, sense the lens moving in for a close-up as tears waited on the brink of her lower lids. Breathing hard, she mechanically put the pages of the letter in order and tried to concentrate on Deborah’s narrative: a bearded amnesiac had been found in a Scottish military hospital. In his pocket was the soft-backed, India paper Bible that Evelyn had given Silas when he left. There was a very good chance that her husband was alive after all.
If this had been a film someone would have poured her a glass of brandy – a giant-size glass that would make the hand that reached for it appear frail and childlike – or a kindly medic would emerge from her bedroom fumbling his stethoscope into his black bag: ‘She’s resting now. I’ve given her a sedative.’ Evelyn felt her face drain of colour. She remembered reading once that the actress Eleanora Duse could blench or blush at will (how was never explained). She got up and poured some of the vodka into her orange juice.
Old Mr Buckingham next door was here when the first telegram arrived and says he has a niece in Dunbar and would we like him to nip up to Edinburgh on our behalf which was very obliging I will say. I tried talking this over with Mother but she only said ‘Who’s Mr Buckingham?’ so no joy there and then Mr B has second thoughts and puts a note through the door saying can we wait until the schools’ half-term exeat so he can spend a bit of time with his great-nephew and I don’t think we can really so I’ve written to say I’ll go. Sooner the better for everyone’s peace of mind quite frankly. The Bible’s the only clue they’ve got as they haven’t heard back from the ship’s captain about Silas’s identity tags and watch and uniform and so on, none of which was in the parcel sent home after the you-know-what. The Scots doctor said not to get our hopes up but even he says the man they’ve got fits the description I sent so I’m feeling cautiously optimistic. I hope you’ve still got your rabbit’s foot. Will write as soon as I learn more.
*
Evelyn rinsed the empty glass in the kitchen sink, brushed her teeth, put on her nightgown and was about to get into bed when she crumpled to her knees by the side of it and felt her hand closing over her mouth to keep in the guilty prayer that sprang to her lips. Happy leapt up on to the quilt, his furry little body all Tailor of Gloucester against the sprigged calico squares. His baby-tiger face pushed against hers and a tiny tongue licked thirstily at a teardrop.
She lay awake into the small hours listening to the thunderstorm and wrestling with a choice of endings, except that she didn’t have a choice. If poor Silas was alive then her place was by his side and she would walk up the front path, honeysuckle round the porch, a soaring, major-key melody in the air, and the door would open and he would fold her in his dry embrace and tell her how nice she looked. Hollywood would be in no doubt about what the happy ending consisted of even if it didn’t make her happy. And if he were dead after all? What kind of happy ending was that?
Evelyn reached for the Bible on her bedside table and as she parted the pages and pointed a finger there was a crash of thunder overhead and a simultaneous flash of lightning: God shall likewise destroy thee for ever, he shall take thee away, and pluck thee out of thy dwelling place, and root thee out of the land of the living.
She was woken next morning by the telephone.
‘I guess you’ve heard the bad news.’
‘I …’
She thought for a befuddled moment that Mamie Silverman knew about Silas, knew enough to know how bad the news was, and, before she could stop herself, she burst into noisy tears. Mamie, assuming, not unnaturally, that Evelyn was responding to her own news, found this enormously gratifying and began weeping herself.
‘And you only knew him such a short time but Manny was like that, he had that gift, he touched people. We all knew his heart was bad but I guess I just thought he’d outlast me. The funeral’s tomorrow. He’d have liked you to be there.’
Evelyn thought of Manny Silverman’s bad temper at Nito’s restaurant. Would he? Really?
She climbed gingerly out from under the bedclothes, taking care not to disturb Happy who had slotted his body into the crook of her knees, and went out to the kitchen. The clock said eight fifteen. It would be nearly noon in New York.
She dialled the exchange but Armistice Day was a public holiday and it was half an hour before the operator called back with Gregory Fenn on the line. She explained the situation as succinctly as she could.
‘Are you at the house? Give me the number, I’ll make some enquiries.’
It was nearly twenty minutes before her call was returned.
‘Look here, I don’t want to appear unsympathetic. Obviously in an ideal world you would be returned to sender ASAP but I’ve had a quick word with the only chap I could find – the office is pretty deserted today – and it’s No Can Do for the moment, I’m afraid, unless you can persuade you-know-who to undertake such a transfer off his own bat and at his own expense which I wouldn’t advise, quite frankly – he isn’t flavour of the month with management. As you’ve probably gathered. he’ll be undergoing, ahem, a review at the highest level regarding his unorthodox sales activities … I’m not saying that you’ve been cut adrift but, well, you’ve been cut adrift. I mean if anything major occurs please feel free to get in touch but I’d be very surprised. I realise this will come as a disappointment but if there’s anything we can do to speed things up at the Scottish end we will of course do all in our power … ’ He tailed off, as if fearing that HQ’s powers would not stretch quite as far as the Clyde valley.
‘I understand.’
‘Jolly sporting of you. Let’s hope you get some definite news either way in a day or so. Rotten for you.’
‘Yes.’
Chapter 16
Evelyn had not been present at her mother’s funeral which had been held the day after Von Richthofen was shot down. Various parishioners had been consulted and expressed the view that the occasion would prove too much for a small child but not seeing the casket lowered into the ground made it hard for the six-year-old Evelyn to come to terms with her mother’s disappearance.
‘Your mother is with the angels,’ her father had explained.
‘When will she be back?’ Evelyn had asked.
She was initially sent to stay with cousins while her father struggled with his grief and took advice on suitable boarding schools. Meanwhile, little Evelyn began conducting elaborate obsequies for drowned kittens which she would shroud in old stockings, and lay tenderly in carbolic soap boxes together with bunches of catnip and cigarette cards from the Birds of Britain series. Her cousins thought her odd. They were very distant cousins, ‘third cousins twice removed’ as Cousin Timothy was fond of pointing out, even going so far as to draw a diagram in thick black pencil all over the nursery tablecloth which outlined the fecundity of their mutual great-grandmother (no jam in his rice pudding).
Silas had had no funeral, of course. They had had a few of the congregation home to tea at Mrs Murdoch’s house after the Sunday service at which his passing was mentioned. Quite a few patients came and expressed their regrets then spent a fractious hour drinking weak Darjeeling and comparing notes on the various inferior dentists they had selected to replace him. A man called Russell had come out of retirement but he had qualified in the days when anaesthetics were for sissies and lacked Mr Murdoch’s wonderful way with children.
Many of them had worn black as a mark of respect and Mrs Murdoch’s ensemble was even sootier than usual for the occasion but she had discouraged any show of mourning by her daughters-in-law. It was an extravagance, she argued, and quoted Wesley (for a change) in her defence although Evelyn and Deb
orah both sensed that their mother-in-law desired a monopoly on all shows of grief. As a result, Evelyn had worn her trusty grey suit to the service. Did Hollywood wear black to funerals? In films they did: model hats with heavy veils; a scrap of Honiton lace glued to the glove’s fingertips.
On Tuesday morning, the day of Manny Silverman’s funeral, Evelyn ran her eye along the clothes in her closet which invisible Japanese hands had arranged in colour order like a box of crayons. The only items down at the dark end were crêpe (navy) and the old grey tailor-made. She slipped its jacket on over her nightdress and turned to look in the glass, tilting her chin and plunging her hands into the pockets: a Southern Railway ticket to Woking: third-class return. No place like home.
Navy would have to do, she decided, but her only hat was red so she went to the big, marble-lined department store on Wilshire Boulevard on her way to the cemetery where she played a short comic scene with a chasteningly smart saleslady who supplied her with what she called a ‘navy felt Peter Pan’ that seemed to fit the bill. She looked for Silas in the fitting-room mirror (‘You’ve got hats’) but he wasn’t there.
Hats really were day rigg-err at the Silverman gathering which could be spotted from the parking lot beyond a model village of tombs. The kiosk-like houses of the dead slept twelve and had elegant, glazed front doors with potted plants either side of the entrance. Inside there were tiled floors and white marble vaults. One expected an English butler (or a French maid), a demilune table with its Sèvres bowl of calling cards and a pair of parcel-gilt porte torchères.
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