by Patrick Gale
‘Miss Dyce-Hamilton?’
‘Hello. You must be Mr Gibson. Come in.’
‘Thanks. What a garden you have there. I’ve often admired it on my way past in the car.’
‘Isn’t it. All my father’s work. All I have to do is prune and weed.’
‘I’m sure it takes a lot more work than that,’ he started, but she was already walking into the sitting room.
He had cast her into confusion. He was not exactly handsome; not her idea of handsome. He had greying sandy hair (which she had never much liked) that appeared to be thinning, and his nose looked as if it had once been broken. He smelled of peppermints and she liked her men to smell of leather and pipe smoke. His eyes were brown and liquid, however, like a spaniel’s and one of their brows had a quizzical tuft in it. She was confused. She had no idea how interior designers should look, but she had not been expecting him to look like this and she was confused.
‘No!’ he shouted involuntarily on seeing the disagreement between curtains and chair covers.
‘What is it?’ she asked in alarm, visualizing a brutalized mouse or worse underfoot.
‘Oh, sorry. It’s probably all your mother’s …’
‘No. I quite agree,’ she piped up. ‘The whole place is quite revolting. Do sit. Please.’
He sat on the sofa opposite her chair. Blanquette, who usually fled from male strangers in a huff, wandered over to sniff his suit trousers then jumped on to his lap and settled immediately into her contented chicken posture.
‘Hello,’ he said softly.
As he stroked the cat, Emma saw the flash of a signet ring and a strong wrist. She had seen him before. He had once stood immediately in front of her in the queue for Eucharist and she remembered glancing at his hands as he raised them for a wafer.
‘Oh. I’m sorry. Do you hate cats?’ she asked. ‘Just push her off if you like.’
‘No. She’s lovely. What’s her name?’
‘Blanquette.’
‘As in veau?’
‘What?’
‘Veau.’
‘Er. Probably. I’ve seen you before, you know.’
‘Really? Well I only live a few streets away.’
‘No. It wasn’t in the street.’ She tried to laugh. ‘I was kneeling next to you for Communion. I shouldn’t have been looking, I suppose, but … sometimes it’s hard.’
‘Isn’t it.’
Should she ask after his mother? Lydia had said he had mother trouble. Perhaps that was too personal.
‘I should explain,’ she said. ‘I’m not certain that I want to stay here but if I decide I do, I shall want the place tidied up and if I decide to sell I think I’ll get a better price if I’ve done some titivating.’
‘I see. How much were you thinking of having done?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, anything structural, for instance? Do you want walls knocking down or windows moving?’
‘Goodness no – unless, of course, you think it vital. Just walls and carpets and’ – here she grimaced at the sofa – ‘I suppose these ghastly old chair covers. Well, I say just, but I expect that costs the earth.’
‘It wouldn’t be cheap, no, but as you so rightly say, it would help you get a better price. Can I look round?’
‘Yes. Of course.’ Emma would have preferred to sit here at a safe distance rather than walk side by side. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee first?’ she added. Once moving, one’s limbs were so much freer to move further. He emanated so; it was insidious, like a sexual equivalent of bad breath only far from repulsive.
‘Thank you, but no,’ he answered. ‘I had some just before I came out.’
So she apologized for the house being in such a terrible mess and they walked round it. He wrote things in a pocket book as they went.
‘What are you writing?’
‘Extremely rude things about the decor of your lovely house,’ he said with his soft Scots accent. She laughed then fell behind for a second to pick a piece of apple peel from between her teeth, cursing herself for not having grinned as well as pouted in the hall mirror before she let him in. It had occurred to her that he could have been taking notes for a burglar friend. It had also occurred to her, as their arms brushed yet again on the stairs, to lock him in the spare room and keep him all to herself.
‘I would feed you well,’ her mind’s voice wheedled, ‘and my requirements would be few. No visitors, of course, but I would let you have a sewing machine and a television.’
He seemed delighted. He admired the good state of preservation of the cornices and mouldings, was happy to see that none of the original sash windows had been touched and suggested that she apply for planning permission to replace the one bricked up during the imposition of Window Tax. He tugged, with her permission, at some skirting around the bath and was pleased to find that the bath had lion’s feet. As he admired she felt a glow of pride. She had always liked the house because her father had chosen it and she had lived there. Now, through Fergus Gibson’s spaniel eyes, she perceived its finer points.
As they returned, at the end of his tour, from a quick trip to the cellar, she snatched a white handkerchief that was riding up out of his pocket and stuffed it up the sleeve of her dress.
They re-entered the sitting room, where Rousillou, who was now sunning himself, took up an enviable position on Fergus Gibson’s knees.
‘There remains the sticky question of money. Obviously I can’t give you an estimate until we’ve chosen colours and materials but, roughly, what would your budget be?’
‘A few thousand,’ she suggested, wondering how far her nest egg would stretch. ‘How are you paid?’
‘Well I charge a set fee for my suggested scheme and then, if you decide to go ahead, I’ll provide the workforce and materials then charge you ten per cent on top of their cost.’
‘Lovely,’ she said, oblivious.
He raised that eyebrow again as he stood.
‘Right then, I’ll give you a ring when the plans are ready and once I’ve got the samples together. Probably in two or three days. Wednesday, I expect. Can I call you here during the day?’
‘I teach at the Choir School most mornings but, yes, afternoons are fine,’ she said. ‘Or evenings,’ she added.
‘You’re in the phone book, aren’t you?’
Had he already looked her up?
‘Yes,’ she said, walking him to the front door. He slid his hands into his pockets and paused, frowning. ‘Have you lost something?’ she asked.
‘Nothing really. I think I might have dropped a handkerchief somewhere, that’s all.’
‘I’ll keep a look-out for it.’
‘Thank you. Goodbye, then.’
‘Goodbye. And thank you.’
Rousillou followed him down the garden path to the gate then, belly swinging, bounded back asking for a hug. She shut the front door then pulled the stolen handkerchief from her sleeve. There was an F embroidered in one corner, in red with a little toy soldier standing to attention against the upright of the letter. It was exquisitely done, obviously not bought in a shop. Mother trouble. His mother had worked it for him when he was little and before she had become any trouble. F for Fergus. Nothing really, he had said. She sniffed it. It smelled of peppermints too. She would wash and iron it for him. He would be touched. She would be pleased to touch him.
While the cats were eating their supper, Emma sat at her desk and chose a postcard to send to her godson, Crispin, who was thirteen and had just arrived for his first term at Tatham’s. His mother had telephoned the other day asking if Emma could invite him round. He was bound to be homesick. She sent him a picture of an elephant from a Bodleian manuscript.
‘Dear Crispin,’ she wrote. ‘Welcome to your “Big” school! I hope everything is well. Your mother rang me the other day and gave me all the family news. How lovely about your Lottie going to have puppies. I’ll bet you’ll find they keep one just for you. Can you come to tea tomorrow at four? (Tu
esday is still a half day, isn’t it?) If you can’t, ask Mr Henryson to let you ring me – otherwise I’ll assume it’s OK. Lots of love. Emma (D-H). p.s. It’s number 8 Tatham Street. p.p.s. Will make a chocolate biscuit cake especially!’
12
Later on Monday afternoon Mrs Merluza, whose husband no one had ever met, left Evan Kirby’s room where she had been having a quiet snoop and dialled the Bishop’s Palace number.
‘Deirdre, c’est moi,’ she said when someone answered. ‘No, I am coming but I’m running rather late. I’ll be there in ten minutes … Yes. So sorry. Are they all there? … Oh Lord. I’ll set off now. Bye, dear.’
She kept up a muttered commentary as she hurried, hair-patting, to the kitchen. When alone she no longer spoke Spanish, but worked unconsciously at her English vowels.
‘Now. Harrods bag. Bag. Bag. Ah there you are. Harrods bag into which we put one candle.’ She pulled a candle from a candlestick. ‘One candle yes and one piece of perfect fruit.’ She gave the fruit bowl a tentative shake which released a shimmer of fruit fly. ‘No,’ said Mrs Merluza. ‘Not really. Try the fridge.’ She tried the fridge and found a cellophane-wrapped bunch of grapes. ‘One perfect grape,’ she announced, tugging one off and tossing it into her bag. Then she opened the bottom drawer of the dresser and took out a carefully folded square yard of deep blue cloth. ‘And one meditation mat,’ she declared, folding the mat one more time so as to fit it into the carefully preserved carrier bag. ‘Now, what else?’ she asked, moving to the hall and pulling a cotton cardigan about her shoulders. ‘Ah, si,’ she answered with a frown. Leaving the bag on a chair in the hall she went to open the door of the downstairs lavatory.
The Victorians showed a cavalier attitude towards many of their downstairs lavatories, contorting their importance into whatever awkward space remained on an architect’s plan; curious behaviour given their delight in a well-proportioned bathroom. Though half-redeemed by a stained-glass window, Mrs Merluza’s was no exception. It stood a little over four feet wide, ten feet deep and twelve feet high. When she emerged a few minutes later her breathing was wild and a faint smile pulled at her lips at every breath. She returned to the kitchen telephone and called the Bishop’s Palace again.
‘Deirdre? … Yes, c’est moi encore. Look, you’ll have to do without me this evening … Yes, you see my little girl’s coming home … No, I’ve just found out.’ There was a pause for Deirdre Chattock’s conjectures then Mrs Merluza (whose name she allowed to be pronounced to rhyme with ‘medusa’ as in raft of, as opposed to ‘marelootha’ as in Spanish for hake) explained in the tone of one who knows she will be understood, ‘No Deirdre, she hasn’t. I just know.’
She left her meditation-class paraphernalia on the table beside her then walked to the hall and stood before its mirror a while to calm herself. She ran her pointed fingers through her full black hair. Its deep raven hue was the only part of her colouring which was wholly natural but, Marge Delaney-Siedentrop had recently confided, as only an intimate could, that there were those who took it for a superior wig. She had since taken to braving high winds without a headscarf and had even been seen to comb her hair in public.
Mrs Merluza did not only visit the Palace for meditation classes. In private sessions Deirdre Chattock was helping her to unravel her past. She could remember nothing of her parents, though she liked to think that her mother had possessed the same black hair until her deathday. The story she had allowed to be passed around was that she came of a good Barcelona family and that home and relatives had been destroyed by a Basque separatist incendiary bomb while she was picking her daughter up from a party. Looked on therefore as a sweet refugee, she had let only Mrs Chattock into the secret that she was actually orphaned by amnesia. Try as she might, she could reach back no further than a Barcelona nightclub where she had danced as a child or, more precisely, a jeune fille and where Jésus had danced with her and shown her things …
Her reverie was interrupted by the opening of the front door. It was her Professor Kirby, who had arrived yesterday. She had been taking lodgers ever since her Madeleine left for university. She missed her daughter’s presence – company was not the mot juste for that brooding creature’s social contribution – and it pleased her to cook the occasional breakfast and to feel that there was someone else under her roof.
Professor Kirby was the first lodger to whom she had entrusted a latchkey. So far they had all been foreign students (Barrowcester was a perennial favourite with the Germans), visitors from further north or shifty little organists who had come to give recitals. He was how she would imagine an eagle might look if turned into a man. He was at once broad-shouldered and thin so that he seemed to stoop, although his posture was perfect. He had a great beak of a nose which made the pale blue of his eyes piercing rather than babyish. His manner towards her was so polite and distinguished that they had been talking for some minutes before she remembered that he was American and that she should say how she had always wanted to see Maine. One of his huge, clever hands was forever teasing at a packet of cigarettes and his lighter was never in the pocket he tried first.
‘Buona sera, Mrs Merluza.’
‘Hello there, Professor,’ she tinkled at him from the corridor. ‘A productive day, I hope.’
‘Very productive, thank you.’ He had been shopping and bore a carrier bag of food. She hoped he would not burn anything. ‘Yours is a beautiful city,’ he said.
‘Isn’t it, though,’ she agreed.
‘I went to the Cathedral library and Miss Dixon told me about the happening there this morning. Were you at the service?’
‘Yes. It was a beautiful’ – she sought momentarily for a word – ‘stunt.’
‘A stunt? So you don’t think it was miraculous?’
He came closer in the hall. She could smell the mixture of his cigarettes and cologne. His hair had streaks of grey in it and there was a curl which refused to lie down and was a terrible temptation to touch.
‘No,’ she said. ‘They need money to pay for the building works. This will bring crowds and crowds mean money.’
‘Ah, but might not Saint Boniface have had such a worthy cause in mind?’
‘Ouph!’ she scoffed with a flap of the hand, and he laughed at her, opening the door to the granny flat.
She returned to the kitchen and opened the fridge to look for food. There was veal and she could make a sauce with tomatoes and basil from the pot outside the French windows. The telephone rang. It was a call-box. After the pips Madeleine’s voice said,
‘Mum?’ in a strained, rushed way.
‘Cariño!’ They always spoke Spanish when alone or on the telephone, it created instant intimacy. When the subject was an awkward one however, or when either mother or daughter lost her temper, they used English. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m at King’s Cross. Can I come and stay for a bit?’
‘But of course!’ Mercy Merluza laughed and, kissing her thumb, crossed herself. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Sort of. I’ll tell you tonight. Be with you in two hours.’
‘I’ll make up a bed.’
‘No. Let me.’
‘Ssh. Go catch your train.’
‘See you.’
Mercy unhooked an apron from the back of the kitchen door and, tieing it around herself, went to knock on the granny flat door.
‘Professor Kirby?’
‘Come in.’
She opened the door. Steam was coming from the bathroom. He emerged from it in a long silk dressing gown.
‘Oh. Forgive me for disturbing you.’
‘Not at all. Forgive my state of half-dress.’
‘It was only that my daughter has just rung to say she is coming home and I wondered whether you’d care to join us for dinner.’
‘That’s very kind but I’m sure she’d rather see you alone.’
‘No. Please. Please.’ There was almost panic in her voice. ‘It’s more fun with three and I’m sure she’d like t
o meet you – she too is an academic.’
‘How can I refuse?’ He chuckled. ‘I’d be delighted. Thank you.’
‘About eight? Come up for a sherry in the sitting room first. Now I’ll leave you to your, er …’ She waved a bird claw at the steam.
‘Oh. Thank you very much.’
He was an attractive man for a bookworm, she reflected as she climbed the worn stairs. He had a vest under his dressing gown, which she found faintly moving.
Her daughter’s room was at the front of the house and looked over a pattern of grey and brown-red rooves to the Cathedral. Mercy preferred to sleep at the back. She loved her view down over the garden and, from her bed, into the great copper beech at the garden’s end. She found that the Cathedral loomed quite enough over all their lives, without her having to greet it every morning on waking. Besides, the sight of it at night, spotlit, like some gargantuan Marie Celestial aircraft carrier was unsettling. Far from filling her with a warm sense of Divine protection, it encouraged morbid fantasies. More than once she had dreamt of opening her eyes in the dead of night to find herself transported, mattress, cotton gloves, nightcream and all, to a precarious position on its kestrel-haunted roof with churning flood water glinting all around in bright moonlight.
On leaving home, Madeleine had commanded Mercy to turn her bedroom into a spare room.
‘Left to your own devices you’d go and turn it into a horrid shrine,’ she had said.
Mercy had complied although her only guests were paying ones and although there was more relief than sadness at seeing Madeleine off for life. She had set about taking down the posters and scratching the stickers off the windows with a heart unmaternally light.
Madeleine had not been an easy daughter. A child of accident, born under trying circumstances, the little burden was not even graced with a lightening beauty. Lumpish and wooden, with muddy skin and curly brown hair, she bore all too strong a likeness to Abi Merluza, Jésus’ mother, a cruel, unleavened woman who owned the nightclub and who died soon after his arrest and just before Mercy’s slow flight to England. Undemonstrative as she was unlovely, little Madeleine’s saving grace was a grim sense of humour far beyond her years. She was an early developer, like her mother; unlike her mother she was fiercely intelligent. Always a good girl on the surface, her sharpness could bring an obstinate set to her public jaw and a needle’s point to her private temper.