Before and After

by Lockington, Laura

“So,” I continued with a sly look at Archie, “I thought that this weekend, as it’s so messy in here we could all go away. A little break. A breath of fresh air. A chance to spread our wings. What do you all say?”

  Hal and Bella were vocal indeed in their enthusiasm. Sylvia looked worried, and Archie had the look of man who wasn’t going to be budged.

  I had been toying with the idea earlier in the day, debating where to take them.

  “Well Archie,” I said, “I was rather hoping that you would all accompany me to a friend of mine –

  “Is it Mr Isaacs?” Hal interrupted with a note of fear in his voice.

  “Who?” His father said.

  “No, it’s not Hal,” I said, smiling reassuringly at him as one would a trembling bunny rabbit, “Mr Isaacs is a friend of mine that I introduced Hal to the other day, a charming man, don’t you think Hal?”

  Hal squirmed in his chair, remembering the illicit afternoon spent in the fiends den. I smiled delightedly at his discomfort and continued talking to his father.

  “It’s a friend of mine who’s only in the country for a little while. He sails back to Greece in a few days. To tell you the truth, Archie, I’m contemplating doing some business with him and would value your expert opinion and advice. You know how we women let our hearts rule our heads when it comes to investments. Do say you’ll help me?” I laid my hand on Archie’s arm and gave him my best poor-little-me-I’m-just-a-foolish-female smile.

  “Investments are a very tricky business, let me tell you, and not to be entered into lightly,” Archie said, pleased to be appealed to and anxious to let his family see that he really did know what he was talking about when it came to finance.

  “Oh, I know, I get frightfully confused with all those figures. Do say you’ll help me?” I lowered my head and glanced upwards at him. I kept my hand on his arm and slowly increased the pressure, until my grip on him was nearly as hard as you’d use to open a jar of caviar perhaps, or to wring a duckling’s neck.

  Archie gave a start, and withdrew himself. He dragged his eyes away from mine and said, “Well, I don’t see why not –“

  “How wonderful Archie, thank you so much, I do so appreciate it,” I said warmly.

  I walked to the wall in the kitchen where the phone was mounted and dialled one of those impossibly long ship to shore phone numbers. I amused myself whilst waiting for a reply by flicking the skirts of my black silk skirt around me. It was heavily embroidered with dolefully coloured birds and flowers, and they swung in and out as I swayed, as if blown by a breeze. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Maria, lurking in the background, not quite knowing what to do with herself. I smiled at her and drew attention to the scuffed area of dirt that I was rubbing with the pointed toe of my black suede shoes.

  Maria immediately went on her hands and knees to scrub at the patch on the floor. Sylvia watched her indifferently as she did this, whilst the rest of the family ignored her completely, although I did see Bella glance at her once or twice.

  “Maria,” I whispered, “We’re all going away for the weekend, so you may have some time to yourself. We’ll soon be out of your kitchen, I promise. It’s the feast of St Ignatius today, isn’t it? Perhaps you could go to church, possibly all afternoon? You’d like that, I’m sure.”

  Maria crossed herself with a pious smile of ecstasy and scrubbed with renewed vigour.

  “Thank you, Miss,” she whispered fervently, “I go to church and pray for you.”

  I smiled at her and said, “No need to wear your knees out on my account,” I marvelled not for the first time at the sheer lunacy of the religiously inclined. Can anything be more boring than beseeching an imaginary friend for the intervention of another? I mean really, I ask you. Ridiculous, no? I continued to smile into her practically bovine eyes and added, “Whilst you’re down there Maria, could you possibly brush my shoes for me? They do look as they need a bit of attention.” I pointed one long, elegant toe towards her.

  Maria nodded, and I watched the entire Amble family as they watched Maria attend to my shoes. I was interrupted in this fascinating anthropological study of manners by a voice suddenly booming in my ear.

  The line was bad, and the disembodied voice of Mr Carlton ebbed and flowed around my ears like a tidal flood of mud being pushed down the Thames.

  “Where? Oh, of course we can be there by then,” I said, practically shouting down the phone. “No, no, please don’t go to any trouble. Well, if you insist. That would be most kind of you. Yes, charming people. Very well, see you later.”

  I turned towards the expectant faces of the Ambles, tapping my fingers together.

  “Well, we are lucky.” (I nearly choked on this last word, but recovered myself in time) “Mr Carlton is taking his yacht to Brighton Marina, and he suggests that we meet him there. Do you know him? No? Well, in that case, just a few words to the wise before we arrive perhaps. A dear man. A very dear man. But a trifle, well, what shall I say? Perhaps the word might be nervous. Still, as long as none if us mention the incident, I’m sure he’ll be fine. Oh, and of course, it goes without saying he’ll probably be rather scarred from all the surgery so we won’t be so bad mannered as to stare, will we?”

  Archie and Sylvia exchanged glances, whilst Hal and Bella giggled. That was fine by me. Anyone who giggled at Mr Carlton (not his real name – naturellement) was far too young to remember what crime the man had committed.

  “Brighton!” exclaimed Bella, shooting a glance of amusement towards her brother, “Isn’t that where you and mummy went on that-“

  “It was a business conference and your mother came with me, that’s all,” Archie said in a voice that brooked no interruption.

  I narrowed my eyes. What had gone in Brighton then? I cursed the loss of my notes. I glanced at Sylvia and saw a slight blush creep over her face. Damn. I’d have to ask. (I’d already ascertained with a little light snooping that neither Sylvia nor Archie kept anything as useful as a diary.

  “Oh, so you know the Prince Regent’s favourite spa?” I asked sweetly, shooting an enquiring look at Sylvia.

  “Oh yes, we had an interesting time there, didn’t we darling?” Sylvia said swiftly, remembering the highly-alcohol fuelled business dinner that they’d had with Sir George and the amorously awful Lady Pat.

  Archie cleared his throat and said in a man of the world tone of getting back to the business in hand voice, “Umm, so who exactly is this man that we’re going to see then?”

  I let the past memory of Brighton go and laughed, “That’s it! I’m so glad you’ve entered the spirit of the thing. You’ve got it exactly. Who is he? Well, we all know and yet as you so wisely say who is he exactly? Who can say or rather who would want to say?”

  With that irritating little speech I left the room to pack for a weekend by the briny. I do so love English seaside towns, don’t you? Of course some of them are sad, and some not worth seeing at all, but Brighton at its rakish best is always a treat. I was so glad that I was in my floaty black wardrobe, I always think that the true colours of Brighton would be black and gold. Forget that whimsical nonsense of everything being daubed blue or turquoise just because we’re beside the sea. It matters not a jot. All cities have their own true spiritual colours. London would be moss green, with a hint of pewtery silver somewhere lurking round the edges. Bath? Oh, I think deep yellow and cream. Edinburgh? Hmm, well, I think a tweedy mauve if you know what I mean. Have you got the hang of it yet? Good. Birmingham, I hear you ask? Birmingham? I leave it to your doubtlessly vivid imaginations. Really.

  Bella knocked on my door as I was flinging some papers into my overnight bag.

  “Yes?” I said smiling at her.

  “Pa wants to know if we should get the car out?” Bella asked.

  “Good god no! We’ll hop on the train,” I said, snapping my case firmly together.

  “The train!” Bella said, savouring the word as if I had told her we were travelling by camel caravanserai over the Gobi.

&nbs
p; “Yes darling, the train. It will do you good to see how the vast majority of the country travels, without the help of a large fuel guzzling monster of a motor car. Some poor people do it every day you know. It’s called commuting.”

  Bella looked doubtfully at me. “I don’t think that ma will be very happy about it –“

  “Rubbish. It’ll be great fun, I promise. Now do go and get packed and don’t forget a hat. Brighton can be frightfully windy.”

  Before I exited my room I hid my jar of marbles. You may think that odd, but you wouldn’t leave a stack of cash lying casually around, would you? I left the bedroom and sailed downstairs, already fancying I could feel the wind under my tail so to speak. Maria was glancing longingly at the kitchen clock, no doubt counting the seconds till we were gone and she could fall down in joyful devotion at the altar of the architecturally challenged Church of the Penitents in St Johns Wood. I gather the priest there, a certain Father Absolom, made a small fortune in selling communion wine to local Polish restaurants, and also had a nice line in passing on the rosaries that Mishka, Maria’s religious artefact pimp, dealt with. Father Absolom had been moved from pillar to post in his calling, the move usually came about when some of his parishioners heard about some of his peculiarities with choir boys. I knew all this and still did not tell Maria. Breaking her faith would have been as easy as removing a cherry stone from a pot of her jam. No fun in it at all.

  The rest of the Ambles were collecting accoutrements for the journey, so I sat on the stairs consoling Marmaduke.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve left some salt beef for you in your bowl, and I think that the poodle next door is about to come into season. With all of us gone you can indulge yourself, hmm?” I whispered, stroking his ears. Marmaduke’s heartbreakingly kind but admittedly rather daft eyes lovingly stared back at me. He very nearly winked, I swear.

  “Don’t worry Marmaduke, I’ll send them back home safe and sound. Well, some of them anyway.” I whispered into his golden ruff of curls. Being a dog he responded as dogs tend to do. He licked my hand.

  Rule Number Eight

  “When moving from one place to another—whether through a room or across a continent or ocean—it is vital to keep your insides still. Composure is the key to successful travel. Which is why public transport must be avoided—at all costs.”

  Victoria Station was the usual awfully crowded mayhem composed of harassed families, amiable and not so amiable drunks, business people, and the early morning shift of unprofessional rent boys out and about on a Saturday morning. Sylvia looked more than nervous and stood as close to Archie as she could get without actually touching him. A Big Issue seller practically gave her the screaming abdabs. Hal took on the swaggering assurance of the young middle class male who truly believes that because they have a few urban rap CDs in their collection that they are down with the homeboys. He condescendingly explained to his mother what it was the Big Issue seller was selling, and Sylvia immediately scrabbled in her bag for some change, but Archie put a manly stop to that nonsense by giving the vendor a lordly note from his wallet. Bella clutched her multi coloured woollen hat to herself and gazed longingly at the freshly baked cookie stand.

  The train was at platform seventeen, and we all trooped on board, Sylvia bravely facing the rigours of a classless carriage. A huge family of Africans were negotiating an impressive array of battered luggage, bearing Gatwick tags that got tangled up in Archie’s legs, causing him to flush with annoyance. I soothed the situation by talking to the matriarch of the family with the few words of the ‘click’ language that I knew.

  “Nclick, nooclick, ng?” I asked pleasantly.

  A delighted beam of amazement lit up the faces of the Africans and we clicked our way out of the station. Literally. Anyone eavesdropping would be forgiven for thinking that we were a troupe of tap dancers heading out for a provincial tour.

  To be absolutely truthful with you, all I had said was the bland comment that it was hot in the desert, but they seemed so taken with the idea that I could in fact speak anything at all in that delightfully bonkers tongue that I got by famously with nodding for the rest of the journey all the way to Gatwick. The Amble family were agog with my feeble linguistic display and heaped praise on me as soon as we had helped the charming family off the train with their accompanying army of samsonite.

  “Oh, it’s nothing, I picked up a few words when I was with Richard E Grant last summer, he speaks it fluently of course, coming as he does from that dry and arid land.” I said airily, remembering a radio programme I’d heard the actor speak on a few weeks ago.

  A trolley cart of refreshments was being dragged down the aisle of the train by a boy who looked as if his calling lay elsewhere, who grudgingly served us with a combination of coffee, highly toxic fizzy cans of drink and a bottle of mineral water.

  Sylvia looked on in amazement at such fare. I leant across to her and tapped her on the knee. “It’s hardly the Orient Express, is it? But really, I urge you to have a drink. Perhaps a gin and tonic?” She looked doubtfully at me, but gathering her courage about her she consented.

  I asked for a glass (plastic, of course, which is I agree quite deplorable, but what can one do?) and poured an inch or so of the mineral water into it. I then topped it up generously with a small bottle of remedial sloe gin that I always carry in my overnight bag for such occasions. By the way, I urge you to do the same. It’s wonderful stuff, such a cheery colour to start with and then it does have simply marvellous effects. A well known antidote to the ennui of travel, it also staves off hunger pangs quite admirably.

  I allowed Bella to have a sip of it, and she swelled in self importance.

  “Delicious,” she said smacking her full lips together in a show of teenage bravado.

  “Now then,” I said, as we settled down for the rest of the journey, “Where shall we stay the night? I have a few suggestions of my own, but perhaps you have a favourite hotel? I can call ahead and book some rooms if you like?” I gazed at Archie, who to my certain knowledge had no destination in mind.

  “Oh, umm, I would think anywhere you like Flora,” Sylvia said with a show of insouciance.

  “In that case it simply must be the little place I know. I’ll call them now.”

  I pulled out my phone and made the necessary arrangements.

  The train swept into Brighton station with an air of relief. Soon we were all tumbling down the hill catching a glimpse of the steel grey sea between the high rise buildings. Even Archie had entered the holiday spirit of the day, and he spontaneously caught hold of Sylvia’s hand as we dodged the traffic and crossed a busy road.

  “Where to then Flora?” He called genially enough over his shoulder to me.

  “Follow me,” I called back leading them through the lanes and twittens of Brighton, as if I had been born there. Which I could very well have been.

  Bella and Hal had to be rounded up periodically as they stood stock still in front of a shop that caught their fancy. Tattoo parlours, 1950’s ephemera, amber shops, tiny little holes in the walls that sold nothing but saris or pipes. The wind caught at our heels and pushed along, leading us a merry dance through the breezy alley ways. The smell of salt was in the air mingling with the aroma of cheap food wafting from hundreds of burger bars and cafes. It was a curiously invigorating mix.

  I dragged Bella away from a hot fudge stand, and then coaxed Hal from a stall promising the misspellt delights of old skool garage CD’s, making them follow me to the seafront.

  The wide promenade swept along for miles, regally ignoring the hideous new buildings that it had endured. Glancing quickly to your right it was possible to glimpse, very swiftly from the corner of your eye the horses bowling along with Prinny, ready to deposit him for a night of indulgence with the ever ready Mrs Fitzherbert.

  “Come along, no dawdling, and above all I implore you, no pebble throwing into the sea. Such a futile exploit I always think.” I said, tucking the end of my velvet scarf more securely aroun
d my head. We galloped along the seafront, with me chivvying the Ambles till their cheeks were red and their breath came in gasps.

  “I haven’t had so much exercise since I was forced into playing lacrosse!” I heard Sylvia confide to Archie, her camel hair coat flapping in the breeze.

  Archie smiled fondly enough at her, and offered her his arm, but I swiftly moved between them and linked my arms through both of theirs. I simply can’t bear marital displays of public affection, can you? We continued in this fashion, with me in the middle, until we came to Middle Fish Street, and The Dolphin Hotel.

  It was, I admit, an unprepossessing sight from the outside. Drab almost. Tucked behind a curve in a road that led down to the sea, a large double-fronted sooty-bricked house, with two bow windows and a peeling blue painted front door stood shivering between a derelict church and a Mongolian BBQ restaurant seemingly just looted by Genghis Khan.

  A small hand-painted sign of two cavorting dolphins was nailed haphazardly to the door and a hand written note on a scrap of yellowing paper was pinned to the lintel stating baldly that there were no vacancies till Trinity Sunday.

  “Whenever that is,” Archie muttered, staring at the note, and looking at the building with what I took to be disdain.

  “The fifteenth of June,” I replied tartly, giving the door a smart rap with my knuckles.

  “Darling, isn’t this the place that –“ Sylvia was interrupted by the door being flung open by a vision in pale pink. A Hollywood sex kitten, circa 1956 pouted at us. Her ash blonde hair was teased into a bouffant that only defied gravity with the aid of several cans of hairspray, tottering pink mules, trimmed with marabou feathers made her walk like a swaying harem girl, and the tightness of her pink Capri pants accentuated her swelling hips and tiny waist. A pink polka dot shirt was tied round her midriff, and was cut sufficiently low for us all to admire her swelling breasts that were in danger of toppling over her neckline like two ice cream cones about to melt on a hot summer’s afternoon.