All My Enemies

by Barry Maitland

“That too,” Ruth sighed. “We’re doomed.”

  “I suppose it’ll come right on the night.”

  “Oh no, this one is going to be a disaster, I know it. Because we’d agreed to do Blithe Spirit this time, we lent all our nineteenth-century costumes to another group, and now we haven’t got a thing, and the first performance is in two and a half weeks. We’re going to have to hire the men’s costumes, but the budget simply won’t run to the women’s costumes as well. We’re going to have to do those ourselves, somehow. I don’t suppose you know a dressmaker, do you, Sergeant? I’m absolutely desperate, I really am.”

  “Sorry.” Kathy shook her head. “Anyway, I’d better leave you to it. Good luck.”

  Kathy got to her feet. At the door she turned and saw Edward Quinn give her a little nod. She also noticed the young blonde woman, who had been rehearsing when they arrived, glare at her, then look pointedly away. With a jolt Kathy realized where she had seen her face. She reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out the sheaf of photocopied pictures of Gentle’s women and thumbed rapidly through them until she found her, subject number sixty-two.

  She went over to the girl and asked her to step outside with her. There was another, smaller function room on the other side of the landing, deserted, and Kathy switched on the lights and asked the girl to take a seat at the long banquet table set out down the centre of the room.

  “What’s your name?” she asked her.

  “Bettina,” she replied, a bit sullen, “Bettina Elliott. What’s this all about, then?”

  “I just need a few details, Bettina, then I’ll explain. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “Address?”

  She gave Kathy an address in Shortlands.

  “Do you work in town?”

  “No. I work for Bromley Council.”

  “In Bromley? You don’t take a train to work?”

  “No, I take the bus. What is all this, anyway?”

  Kathy showed her the photocopy of Gentle’s picture. “That’s you, isn’t it?”

  Bettina frowned at it, curling her lip. Her skin wasn’t very good, Kathy saw, her blonde hair crudely cut and in need of a wash.

  “Could be. Where was it taken?”

  “I don’t know. Can you take a guess? It seems to be through a window, do you see? There’s a bit of the frame.”

  “Ye-es. S’pose so.”

  “Could it be where you live?”

  She shrugged. “It’s hard to say, isn’t it? I mean, there’s not much there.”

  “No, that’s true. Have you ever been aware of anyone following you home? Or anywhere else come to that.”

  “Well . . . not recently. Once, when I was at school . . . but that was years ago.”

  “No, this would be more recent.”

  Bettina shook her head.

  “What about this man? Do you recognize him at all?”

  Bettina looked closely at Gentle’s picture, then shook her head again.

  “Do you know anyone called ‘Jordan,’ or ‘Gentle?’ ”

  “No. Gentle’s a funny name, isn’t it? Is he a murderer or something?”

  “No, no. We just have a list of people that we need to eliminate from our inquiries, you know.”

  “Oh yeah? But where did you get the picture of me from? Did he have it, this Jordan, or Gentle?”

  “Look, this probably isn’t significant at all. But just to be on the safe side, Bettina, it’d be a good idea if you took a few extra precautions. Don’t open your door to strangers after dark, and try to make sure there’s always someone else with you when you go out at night, things like that. Do you live with someone?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  She shook her head. “That’s why I joined this lot, isn’t it. Only they’re all too old.” She curled her lip disdainfully.

  “Well, as I say, it’s probably nothing, but best to be careful.”

  “You going to give me police protection?” She was being sarcastic, but the thought seemed to appeal to her.

  Kathy smiled. “I don’t think you’re in that much danger. But if you think of anything, or notice anyone following you or paying you particular attention, get on to me straight away, OK? I’ll give you my phone number.” She wrote on the back of a card and handed it to the girl, who shrugged. “OK. Ta.”

  The car park of the pub was deserted when Kathy got downstairs, but when she drove her car to the entrance, and waited to turn out into the traffic, she was startled to find a car right behind her. It made her realize how jumpy it had made her, seeing another of Gentle’s women.

  AS SOON AS SHE opened the door of her flat, Kathy was hit by the smell. Liver. Liver and onions. And other things. Aunt Mary’s special.

  “You remember, do you, dear?”

  “Yes, I remember. I haven’t had that since . . . for years.”

  “It was your favourite.”

  “Was it?”

  That wasn’t Kathy’s recollection. The small terrace in Attercliffe used to reek of it. That and Uncle Tom’s foul pipe-tobacco smoke.

  “You went out today, then. To the shops.”

  “Yes, pet. I think I’m beginning to get the hang of them tubes.”

  “Oh, you used the tube?”

  “Aye. To Soho.”

  “Soho? Are you sure?”

  “Of course, dear. I know where I went.”

  “But . . .” Why? For a moment Kathy had a bizarre vision of Uncle Tom sending his elderly wife down to comb the sex-shops of London for some exotic thing they couldn’t find in Sheffield.

  “What on earth made you go there?”

  “I was interested.”

  Interested.

  “And what did you think of it?”

  “Oh, grand, love. Very nice.”

  She’s a public menace, Kathy thought guiltily. She probably risks a major traffic accident every time she crosses the street. I’ve been worrying about the likes of Bettina Elliott when I should have been spending time doing something about this.

  AS THEY SAT AT the table eating their breakfast toast and marmalade the following morning, Kathy said, “I’m sorry I’ve neglected you since you arrived, Mary.” This was the first time she’d ever addressed the older lady without the title “Aunt.” It seemed an important small preliminary to getting things straight. Her aunt seemed not to notice, sipping absently at her cup of PG Tips. She had become calmer during her stay, perhaps more withdrawn.

  “I’ve only been in this job two weeks, you see, and I just couldn’t take a day off before now, but I’ve told them I’m not working this weekend, so we can spend time together. Is there anything special you’d like to do? What about the big stores? Shall we go shopping? Mary?”

  “Oh . . .” Mary looked out of the window. “Of course, pet, if that’s what you’d like to do.”

  “What about you?”

  “Oh, not on my account. There’s nothing I want to buy.”

  It occurred to Kathy that her aunt might be short of money.

  “Well, what about the sights, the places we talked about, the Tower . . .”

  “It seems too nice a day to be indoors.”

  Kathy sighed, trying to remain calm.

  “If you want to go out,” Mary said suddenly, “why don’t you pick somewhere you’d really like to go to? I don’t have anywhere.”

  They would have to go somewhere, since the idea of staying at home together, trying to make conversation like this, didn’t bear thinking about. For some reason, Kathy thought of the pagoda at Kew, and said they might take a picnic to the Botanical Gardens. “And on the way,” she added, “I want to call in at my doctor’s.”

  “Aren’t you well, dear?”

  “My annual check-up,” Kathy lied. “I’ve made an appointment for us both. She might as well look you over while you’re there. See about that cough.”

  “Oh, not me!” Mary looked affronted. “I have my own doctor at home. Dr. Skinner
. I’ve been going to him for nigh on thirty years.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Two weeks ago, as it happens. Kathy, I am not going to see your doctor.” She glared at her niece defiantly.

  “What did you see Dr. Skinner about?”

  “A personal matter,” the old lady snapped.

  “Sorry.” Kathy had only given the idea a fifty-fifty chance. “You’re right, it is too nice a day. I’ll cancel the appointment and go another time.”

  The conversation had got Mary more agitated than Kathy had seen her. She began to wonder if her aunt did have something seriously wrong with her health, something she didn’t want to discuss. Perhaps this was the reason for the mystery visit.

  They bought a roasted chicken and some bread and drinks from the deli round the corner, took the tube down to Embankment, then changed to the District line west to Kew Gardens. There had been no further rain after the previous Saturday, the summer firmly taking hold again in hot, hazy days, refusing to let autumn sneak in. They wandered silently for a while through banks of dense foliage, until they found a seat deep in cool shade in the Berberis Dell.

  “This is grand,” Mary said softly, and gave a deep sigh. “It always feels so peaceful in a proper garden.”

  “Yes, it is lovely. I can’t think why I’ve never come here before.”

  “Oh, but you have, pet. You’ve been here before. Don’t you remember?”

  “Sorry?”

  The old lady gave another big sigh and closed her eyes. “You used to love going to the Botanical Gardens. We’d take the bus along Eccleshall Road to the bottom entrance, and walk right up to the aquarium and budgie house at the top. Your favourite is the springtime, with the crocuses and daffodils, and I like the summer. Especially dahlia time. They do a wonderful display of dahlias. And chrysanths.”

  Kathy’s heart sank. So that was it. Mary didn’t even know where she was. She was thinking they were back in Sheffield together, in the Botanical Gardens, Kathy a girl of twelve or thirteen. A wave of sadness overcame her. She wanted to reach out to the small figure at her side, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. She knew the gesture would feel empty and futile. All those bleak years cooped up in that grim little house in Attercliffe with that miserable old sod of a husband, and now her mind had gone. What could Kathy say?

  She began to think of practical things. I’ll have to get her home straight away, this afternoon. The train, or car up the M1? And who’ll look after her when we get there? Perhaps Tom’s mind’s gone the same way. Will the Social Services be open on a Saturday? Dear God, I can’t take time to sort it out now, I’ve only been in the job ten minutes. Di knew! That’s what her phone call was about, of course. She must have realized from talking to her mother on the phone. She’ll have to come over from Canada and sort it out. How long will that take? There’s a neighbour, Effie, the big West Indian woman. They probably have no idea where Mary is! They’ve probably had the police combing the moors, and I didn’t even think to phone them and let them know she was safe.

  “It is strange, though,” Aunt Mary said suddenly.

  “What is, Mary?”

  “You not remembering that you’ve been here before.”

  “Oh . . . yes, I do remember the Botanical Gardens on Eccleshall Road. I remember us going there very well.”

  Mary turned and looked at her oddly. “No, pet. I’m talking about here. Kew Gardens. You wrote to me about it when you were a little girl—seven or eight. ‘Dear Aunty Mary. Today Mummy and I went to China.’ ” Mary smiled at the memory. “Don’t you remember?”

  “China?”

  “The tall red pagoda, you see. Your mum explained in her letter. You thought this was China. She said I’d love the gardens at Kew. It’s funny to think it’s taken me so long to come.”

  Kathy looked at her, stunned. “Oh,” she said at last. “I see.”

  “Is something funny, pet? Are you all right?”

  Kathy realized she was grinning with relief. “No, nothing. For a minute there I thought . . . I thought you didn’t know where we were.”

  “What?” Mary looked intensely affronted. “I’m not bloomin’ gaga, Kathy. Not yet, anyway.”

  “Why did you never come down when we lived here?” Kathy said, hastily changing the subject. “I don’t ever remember you coming to stay.”

  “Tom would never allow it. Not after he quarrelled with your dad. But I did come to London the once, before we were married. We all came—Tom and me, and your mum and dad.”

  “Really? When was that?”

  “Fifty years ago, love. That sounds such a long time. Doesn’t really feel like it, though. Your dad was stationed down south with the army, and he’d heard he was going to be sent overseas, so he asked your mum to come down to London quickly. They were only just courting at that stage, and our mum said Christine could only go if I went too, as chaperone. Tom came as well, and we had a grand weekend, the four of us. We stayed at a little hotel in Wardour Street.”

  In Soho, Kathy realized with surprise.

  “Was Dad sent abroad?”

  “Yes. He was away for three years after that.”

  “And Uncle Tom?”

  “No. He was in the steel mill, you see. He had to stay. It was what they called a reserved occupation during the war.”

  “Is that something to do with why you went to the Imperial War Museum?”

  Mary didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes were following the progress of a thrush, pecking its way across the grass in front of them.

  “I first met Tom a year before we made our visit down here. I was on my way home from work one night when the sirens started. There’d been a week of heavy raids, and I went straight to the nearest shelter. Tom had just finished at the mill too. They’d been blowing the furnaces, and he was covered all over with red dust. I remember it very clearly, him stepping into the shelter, red from head to toe. He sat next to me, and asked my name. I said Maryanne, and he said that was too fancy. He’d just call me Mary.”

  “I had no idea that your name wasn’t really Mary.”

  “I’ve been Mary ever since. I suppose I should have realized when he said that.” She shrugged. “The travel agent told me about the museum. They have a thing called the Blitz Experience. You go into what’s supposed to be a shelter, about a dozen of you, and then you hear the bombs, and dust comes down from the ceiling, as if there’s been a near miss. Then the all-clear sounds, and you go out into the street that’s just been bombed. Some houses have been knocked down, and you can hear people shouting. In the middle of the street is a pram, upside down, with the wheel still turning.”

  “So you were retracing your steps,” Kathy said. “Did it work?”

  The old lady shook her head. “It wasn’t the same,” she said. “I found the place where we stayed in Wardour Street, but it isn’t a hotel any more. This lad was standing at the door, trying to get the men that passed to go inside. When he saw me staring he asked if I wanted a job there. He was trying to be funny. The Blitz Experience wasn’t the same, either, not really. It was quite exciting, especially when I realized that all the other folk in the shelter with me were German people. I was worried what they would think, but they seemed to enjoy it too. Only, it just wasn’t the same. It wasn’t real.”

  “What did you mean just now, when you said about your name, that you should have realized something?”

  “I should have realized what he was like, that’s all.” She lowered her eyes, and added in a voice so low that Kathy had to lean forward to hear, “I’ve left him, Kathy. After all these years, I’ve left your Uncle Tom.”

  “Oh . . .” For a moment Kathy was speechless.

  “Do you think . . . do you think that’s very shameful?”

  The old lady seemed to have shrunk with the effort of confession. She sat, hunched, her hands clasped tightly on her lap, and tears welled into her eyes.

  “Oh, Aunt Mary.” Kathy moved to her side, wrapped her arm aro
und her, and pulled her close.

  At that moment a family of Japanese tourists rounded a dense bank of purple Berberis thunbergii, chattering happily. They halted at the sight of the tableau on the bench, the young blonde woman cradling the tiny silver-haired lady, and backtracked deferentially.

  “I think,” Kathy said slowly when they had gone, “that you should have left the old bugger years ago.”

  Aunt Mary made a noise that was half-way between a sob and a giggle, bobbed her head a couple of times, and began groping for a hanky.

  Kathy waited. When her aunt had recovered somewhat she said, “Do you want to tell me how it happened?”

  Mary sniffed. “He loved a glass of whisky, I expect you remember.”

  “Yes.” Kathy could picture very clearly her uncle seated in his armchair beside the fireplace, glass of whisky in one hand and pipe in the other.

  “It always put him in a very . . . aggressive frame of mind.”

  “Was he hurting you?”

  “Only with his tongue, dear. He could hurt well enough with that.”

  “Yes. I remember how he was with Mum.”

  Mary nodded and bowed her head. “I know I should have stopped it then, the way he spoke to her. Only I was afraid he would turn you both out into the street if I came back at him. That was the important thing, to give you and Christine a home after your dad died, until you were on your feet again.”

  “He felt vindicated, didn’t he, by what had happened to us? He couldn’t help gloating, making Mum suffer.”

  “I told myself it was a matter of his principles, his political principles, his socialism, that turned him so hard against your father. But it wasn’t that at all. He was just filled with envy. He hated Ray because he had done so well down south, while Tom had stayed where he was, on the furnace floor, and gone nowhere. And he also hated him because he had wanted Christine, not me, and Christine chose Ray instead. I was the other sister, you see. The plain one.”

  “Oh, Mary,” Kathy groaned. “That’s just so . . . It’s like a bad melodrama.”

  “I know. But it’s the truth all the same, love. Even a bad melodrama can be true.”

  “So, after all this time, what changed? Why did you decide to leave him now?”