Grinny

by Nicholas Fisk

  ‘I don’t know, boy. I admit she’s a corker … And the smile, the famous smile, I can see what people see in her, but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I don’t really know. All these photographs pouring in from her agent. All the pressure behind her. All this Roller business. Law and order and discipline.’

  ‘But you keep telling me that I need discipline, I’ve got to learn the trade, I’ve got to try harder. Isn’t that just what the Rollers say? Decency, Discipline, Dedication. The three Ds.’

  ‘It’s all right me saying that to you, but I don’t like other people saying it to me.’ He grinned and noisily knocked the filthy mess from his pipe. ‘I suppose,’ he went on, ‘I just don’t trust celebrities. She’s a celebrity. Someone famous for being famous.’

  ‘Now the national newspapers are calling her Mona Lisa,’ Timothy said. ‘You know, the famous smile.’

  ‘Mona Lisa …’ Len said disgustedly. Tim thought his eyebrows would tie themselves in knots.

  ‘Anyhow, I’ll be seeing her tomorrow, actually meeting her,’ Tim said. ‘Pity you won’t be coming,’ he added airily.

  But Len refused to be drawn. ‘Go and make coffee, you young ape,’ he said. ‘And in cups, not mugs. And without slopping it all over the saucers.’

  So, in those earlier days, not everyone was mad about Lisa. Len Sturgeon mistrusted her on principle. Tim’s father pretended to be bored by her constant appearances on television. His mother used to sniff disapprovingly when the beautiful face appeared yet again on the screen.

  The person who really hated Lisa Treadgold was his young sister, Beth. ‘I loathe her!’ she’d hoot, flashing her dark eyes and waving her skinny arms. ‘She’s a phoney, she’s a pig-woman, she’s all smarmy and smiley one minute and bring-back-the-birch the next! She’s sinister, she’s awful, I hate her!’

  Timothy would pretend to go all love-sick: ‘But she’s so beautiful!’ Beth would literally spit, in a sort of fine spray, as she howled, ‘She’s despicable!’

  Beth never changes, thought Timothy. She’s the same unspoiled baby sister, half hellcat, half shark (she’s as greedy as ever). And Mac from down the road still dangles after her, doing his boy-next-door act, being fresh-faced, reliable, honest, nice, always there. I can’t think what he sees in her. Or perhaps I can. Whatever you say about old Beth, you’ve got to admit that she’s a goer. She’s more like a firework than ever. You light the blue touch-paper (by mentioning Lisa Treadgold, for example) and retire to a safe distance. Then – fizz, splutter, fizz, BANG! THUMP! CRASH! WALLOP! BANG! (That’s Beth!)

  Timothy smiled: then sighed, cleared his throat and began dictating his report of the very first meeting with Lisa Treadgold. Later, he’d boil down all his talk and write to Mr Fisk. But there was so much to tell …

  First, he spoke of the house – the old Vicarage. Outside, big trees, lawns, flowerbeds, a kitchen garden, a greenhouse: all in very good order considering the short time Lisa and Lisa’s money had been there. Then, the interior. Acres of expensive tiling and panelling. A covered and heated swimming pool, half in and half out of the house; Lisa was said to swim fifty lengths first thing every morning. A kitchen with copper canopies over the electronic ovens and cookers, all satin-chrome and smoked glass. A marble bathroom with gold-plated dolphin taps downstairs (the upstairs bathroom, the ‘master bathroom’, had a jacuzzi). Clever little telephones that opened and shut like oysters, trilling constantly, urgently.

  And Bunny, Lisa’s personal assistant – bulging, spotty, anxious, shiny-faced Bunny, loyal, flustered, over-worked, getting more and more behind every hour of every day – Bunny to show visitors the house, the gardens, the dogs, the signed photographs from famous people. Bunny filled in the time between the arrival of Lisa’s visitors (the visitors were always careful to arrive early) and the appearance of Lisa (who was always careful to be exactly ten minutes late).

  Because she almost ran, Bunny was able to show Fanny and Timothy at least half of the house. There were some surprises: sudden untidinesses, sudden dirtinesses. Areas that looked shop-soiled. In Lisa’s own dressing-room, the walls were covered in glowing suede leather. The effect must have been superb when it was completed. But now the suede was scuffed and scratched and stained. Bunny caught Fanny staring at the marks and said, ‘Oh, yes … isn’t it terrible? … But what can you do? The dogs, it’s the dogs, oh dear …’ She hurried Fanny and Timothy down to the great living room, muttering guiltily as she led the way.

  On the curving staircase, there was a sudden scuffling and hooting as a golden Saluki dog scrabbled past them. The Saluki had a broken leg. It had managed to undo, with its teeth, the bandages encircling a wooden splint. ‘Oops!’ howled the Saluki: ‘Oh!’ howled Bunny, running after it.

  Timothy and Fanny found themselves alone on the staircase. Fanny raised an eyebrow and said, ‘We go in there, I suppose.’ She nodded at the green and gold depths of the living room on the ground floor.

  Before they could enter the room, Lisa Treadgold was there behind them, at the top of the stairs. ‘Oh, hal-lo!’ she said, ‘You’re the Gazette, aren’t you? How exciting! Let’s go to the conservatory and have tea!’

  Her voice was a delight. And so was her smile.

  The conservatory was elaborately Victorian, warm, humid and alive with growing things in enormous oriental jars and pots. Water gurgled and tinkled in a little marble fountain with a bronze cupid in its centre. Lisa sat her guests in great white balloon-shaped lattice chairs, deeply cushioned. She wore a flimsy, many-layered frock elaborately patterned in green and gold. Her jewellery was gold. The flesh of her smoothly perfect arms and legs was another, subtler shade of pale gold. Her hair was carefully tumbled strands of many shades of gold. She glowed richly, a haze of gold relieved by startlingly luminous dark blue eyes.

  She smiled. ‘Now, you’re Miss Bishop, aren’t you, and you’re Timothy Carpenter. How nice … I’m a terrific fan of the Gazette, I read it from cover to cover. Especially the small ads! The Classifieds, I mean, you know, things for sale. We’ve just got to have a croquet set here, think how perfect it would be, croquet on the lawn! Bunny’s bringing tea – at least, I hope she is, I just live for tea … Tea and these Belgian chocolates, do have one, the mocca ones are the best. Bunny, where are you? Bunny! Bunny!’

  The chocolates were the shape of little buns, individually wrapped in foil. A shiny paper seal had to be peeled off to open the wrapping. ‘LT’, Lisa’s initials, were stamped on each seal. Fanny and Timothy accepted one chocolate each. Lisa took two and immediately ate one, making small yum-yum noises. They were superb chocolates.

  Bunny’s heavy footsteps thundered in the distance as she ran to answer the front-door bell. ‘That ought to be Jim Benedict, our photographer,’ Fanny said. It was: Bunny led him in. ‘Couldn’t get away from Council meeting, very sorry,’ he mumbled. He sat down heavily, his two Nikons bashing into each other on his chest.

  Lisa dazzled him with a smile and said, ‘Tea, Bunny. Lots of lovely tea!’ Bunny lurched away, sweating in her heavy sweater. It was very hot in the conservatory.

  She returned carrying a massive silver tray. She poured tea and handed it round. ‘China tea,’ Lisa said. ‘Will that do? Or would you prefer Indian? Bunny could bring a pot of Indian if you’d prefer.’ Nobody preferred. Everyone but Lisa drank the scented tea as it came from the pot. Lisa, surprisingly, added two large spoons full of sugar to her cup. ‘Bunny,’ she said, ‘I think we’ll need more hot water. Be a dear …’

  To Jim, she said, ‘I can tell you’re in a panic, Mr Benedict, press photographers always are! So shall we get your bit done? How do you want me?’

  Jim mumbled suggestions. Lisa agreed with all of them – then did something completely different and much better. She seemed to know just where to find perfect lighting, how to place her hands, how to give herself something to do. Jim clicked and clicked. He began to smile, delighted with his good luck in finding such a wonderful and
famous model. When he left, he was beaming triumphantly, knowing he’d got some good stuff in both cameras: stuff that anyone, not just the Gazette, might pay good money to use. Exclusives of Lisa Treadgold – in her own home!

  From upstairs came the noises of dogs running riot. Fanny caught a glimpse of Bunny, anxious-faced, running up the curved stairs. She was half-way up when Lisa called to her. ‘The dogs, Bunny!’ Lisa smiled ruefully, rolled her eyes comically and said, ‘Oh, those dogs! Bunny will cope. Now, let’s get down to business, Fanny. May I call you Fanny, or must I call you Miss Bishop? Fanny? Oh, good. I knew we’d be friends. Fire away, ask anything you like.’

  Timothy looked from face to face. The difference was astonishing: Lisa so graceful and gracious, so at ease with herself; Fanny so hunched and awkward, so on edge. It was as if they were of different species. Yet both were intelligent women of much the same age.

  Fanny caught him staring and said, ‘Take notes, Timothy.’ He mumbled, ‘Oh yes …’ and fumbled for his ballpoint and reporter’s notebook. Fanny’s shorthand made him nervous: it was so rapid and assured. Timothy’s always let him down. He had to rely on unreliable abbreviations.

  ‘Chocolate, Timothy?’ Lisa said and passed the box to him. He reached forward to take it – and his ballpoint jumped out of his hand. He actually saw it burrow itself down among the cushions, as if to spite him. He blushed, took a chocolate, muttered, ‘Thanks,’ and began the ridiculous business of sliding his hand down between the cushions while trying to appear involved and interested in the conversation between Lisa and Fanny.

  ‘Yes, ask anything you like,’ Lisa encouraged Fanny, ‘and I’ll answer frankly and openly just as soon as I’ve finished making a pig of myself!’ She was eating yet another chocolate, Timothy saw. Her hand concealed her mouth for a few seconds as she munched. How many did that make so far? Five? How could she keep such a fabulous figure when she wolfed chocolates and even took sugar in China tea?

  And still more interesting – what did she do with the chocolate wrappers? How did she dispose of them? He watched carefully.

  He was just on the point of solving the mystery when his probing fingertips met the ballpoint. This was more important. Carefully, he curled his fingers round the pen and brought it to the surface. Now he could frown intelligently and play the part of the ace reporter making lightning notes. The solution to Lisa’s Disappearing Chocolate Wrappers would have to wait: the interview had started.

  SCALDING WATER

  Fanny’s first questions were routine stuff – ‘What are your plans, how do you like living in this area,’ that sort of thing. Soon, however, she took the plunge. ‘D.,D.,D.,’ Fanny said. ‘You really mean it, don’t you, Miss Treadgold?’

  ‘Oh do call me Lisa!’ was the reply. Then, ‘Decency, Discipline, Dedication. My three Ds. Of course I mean them. Shouldn’t I? Is there something wrong about them? Because I’m quite sure there’s something wrong with people and nations that don’t follow the three Ds!’

  Fanny cut in. ‘Who tells us what’s decent? Who applies the discipline? To what or to whom are we supposed to be dedicated?’ She blurted out the questions as if they were attacks. Lisa simply smiled for a few seconds.

  Timothy inspected the famous smile, thinking, It’s just perfect. No flashing of teeth, no wrinkling of the eyes, no hand gestures. It’s economical, that’s what it is. Her lips go into a pretty shape, the smooth cheeks grow rounder, the long eyelashes come closer together – and there it is, the famous smile, the effortless, natural, economical smile. A Saving Grace, that’s what she’s got.

  ‘You asked me who applies the three Ds,’ Lisa smiled. ‘I think you meant to ask, who do I think I am? Am I some sort of would-be dictator, an Iron Hand in a Velvet Glove, a bully waiting for a victim? That’s what you meant to ask, isn’t it? Well, I don’t know …’ She began to laugh, a flowing, easy, musical sound; then said, ‘Tell me honestly, Fanny: do I look the part? Can you see me in jackboots, flourishing a whip? Well, can you?’

  From upstairs, the noise of the dogs suddenly became louder. The Saluki’s hoots sounded like a ship in a fog. Lisa raised an eyebrow and said, ‘We’ve been talking about discipline …!’ She smiled and added, ‘I think I’d better put my own house in order, don’t you? Please excuse me for a moment.’

  She picked up a copy of the Gazette, rolled it up and left the room. Fanny pursed her lips and pretended to review her shorthand. Really, Timothy knew, she was listening intently. The two of them heard Lisa’s running footsteps ascending the stairs; then her voice calling, ‘Bunny! Bunny! Whatever’s happening?’

  Then still louder barking as the door upstairs opened; and a slam as it closed.

  A short pause: then one enormous, yodelling howl from the Saluki – then a chorus of yelps and howls and barks as all the dogs started up again, louder than ever.

  Lisa returned to the conservatory, her face calm, her hair unruffled. ‘Where were we?’ she said, smiling. She threw the rolled-up Gazette on a small table and sat down.

  Timothy stared at the Gazette. When Lisa left the room, it was a smooth roll. Now it was kinked in the middle as if it had been used to hit something.

  Upstairs, the Saluki hooted and howled like a demented banshee. It was almost a comical sound, but Timothy did not smile.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Lisa said. ‘We were talking about the three Ds, weren’t we? Well, I think we’ve covered that. So now let’s talk about my Big A – Action! A for Action! First, local action: I am in favour of voluntary patrols equipped to deal with vandalism and assaults. I am in favour of capital punishment.’

  Before she could say more, Bunny burst in, her face suety with shock. ‘Oh, Miss Treadgold! Poor Prince Igor! It’s his leg, it’s gone again, worse than ever, he can’t even stagger!’ She saw the rolled-up newspaper and put her hand to her mouth.

  Lisa said, ‘Hot water, Bunny! Another minute and that tea will be undrinkable!’

  Bunny’s mouth opened and closed. Her eyes were locked on the dented roll of newspaper. Her footsteps clumped away and clumped back again. Now she carried a big, steaming silver jug of hot water. ‘I’ll fill the teapot,’ she mumbled.

  Lisa simultaneously said the same thing. Both bent forward to the teapot. There was a slight mix-up. Their arms collided. Bunny clumsily drew back the silver jug. It hit Lisa’s arm.

  Boiling water seemed to jump from the jug – hang in the air – then fall in a steaming flood on Lisa’s knees. It ran down her calves, over her feet and at last darkened the Chinese carpet with steaming wetness.

  Everyone jumped to their feet, appalled, sharing the boiling torture that Lisa must have felt.

  Lisa did not even blink. She simply stood, bent forward and held her soaked skirt away from her legs.

  Bunny began crying. Fanny shook her and shouted, ‘Medicines! Medicine cabinet! Quick!’ Bunny ran off.

  Lisa’s voice, steady and melodious, said, ‘I think I must ask you to go now.’ Fanny and Timothy protested. Lisa said, ‘No, really: everything is under control. Please go.’

  They left. They caught a last glimpse of Lisa’s erect and graceful figure, her arms holding out the front of her skirt; and of Bunny, scarlet and tearful, grovelling at Lisa’s feet, dabbing at her with a napkin.

  The last they heard was Lisa’s voice calling after them, ‘We will continue the interview next Monday at two-thirty.’

  Once Fanny’s Cortina had reached the road, both she and Timothy said, ‘Phew!’ Fanny slowed the car and said, ‘Here, light me one.’ He lit a cigarette and put it between her lips. She drew in a great lungful of smoke and released it noisily. Timothy saw the cigarette jiggle and bobble between her lips. He kept silent.

  ‘My God!’ Fanny said at last. ‘Talk about Super-woman …!’

  ‘And self-discipline,’ Timothy answered.

  ‘I mean, it must have been agony! Scalding water! And it’s worse than that,’ Fanny said, still inhaling ferociously. ‘I mean, her appearance is part of her stoc
k in trade. How can she do her thing with her legs all bandaged up? Awful blisters! And she’ll be scarred, she’s bound to be. Boiling water …’

  ‘And all she did was to make another date for us,’ Timothy said. ‘No screaming and yelling. Just “two-thirty on Monday”.’

  ‘Superwoman,’ Fanny said. ‘She’s just incredible. She may be a menace, but one’s got to sympathize with her –’

  ‘What do you mean, a menace? Why a menace?’

  ‘Weren’t you listening to her? Not just now, but in the past? Where have you been all your life, Timothy? She’s a menace, a bad thing, a threat.’

  ‘I don’t see –’

  ‘Oh, come on, come on! All that stuff she puts out about discipline and action groups – which means R.O.L., the Rollers – which comes down to vigilantes – which ends up meaning the Ku Klux Klan, or Hitler, or something – surely you’re old enough to see through all that!’

  ‘No, I’m not. You did that story only last week about the old lady who was mugged by yobbos, you were almost crying with rage. And now Lisa T. says, “Put a stop to that sort of thing!” and you call her a menace.’

  ‘Listen, young Timothy dear, there’s a difference between righteous rage and organized gangs of people going about hitting other people with clubs to make them be good.’

  ‘The Rollers don’t use clubs.’

  ‘Not yet!’ Fanny said.

  ‘You mean, it’s OK for you personally to cry with rage about that old lady, but not OK for a whole gang of people to cry about her. Or to try to do something to stop that sort of thing. Is that what you mean?’

  ‘You should read some history, sonny boy. Read about the Blackshirts and the Gestapo and concentration camps.’

  ‘That’s not the same thing as Lisa Treadgold. Hitler was a fiend, Lisa is just a very beautiful woman with strong opinions. Do you mind her being so beautiful?’ Timothy added innocently.

  These words made Fanny so angry that she stopped the car. ‘Listen, Dumbo,’ she said, glaring, ‘I realize that I’m no oil painting and I’m not rich and I’m not famous and no one wants my autograph –’