by Patrick Gale
‘Evan Kirby’s in love with me.’
Mercy felt first a stab of envy, then shock that she did so.
‘Cariño, I could have told you that days ago,’ she bluffed. ‘Haven’t you seen the way he’s been following you around with those hangdog eyes? Too pathetic.’
‘He’s not pathetic. He’s a very interesting man.’
‘He’s old enough to be your father.’
Mercy heard herself and was sickened.
‘He’s asked me to go away with him.’
‘Where to?’
‘I dunno. Somewhere where we can be quiet and safe.’
‘Absurd. You don’t even know him.’
‘I think I know him quite well. We’ve had several long conversations.’
‘And you think that’s enough?’
‘It’s a start.’
‘So you are leaving your flat?’
Madeleine seemed nervous suddenly. She reached up for their coats and started to play with her red dress.
‘I don’t know. Maybe. It’s too early to say. Look, Mum, I’ve got to go and it’s time you were back in the shop.’
‘I go back to the shop when I please. It’s my shop.’ Mercy stood.
‘Well I’ve got to go anyway, I said I’d meet Evan to talk before he sets off.’
‘Well thank you for my lunch.’
‘Oh don’t be all cold and superior with me. It’s been so nice just talking. And you’ve put up with so much this week, I feel awful. Will you come and stay?’
‘Where?’
‘Wherever I end up.’
Mercy laughed. The girl was still a child. A fat, foolish child. She kissed her cheek.
‘Little Trouble,’ she said. ‘We’ll see,’ and they walked back up into the sunshine.
Unlocking the door of Boniface Crafts once more, she watched as Madeleine walked away then broke into an alarming run for home. As a child, Madeleine had never run if she could possibly walk. Mercy wondered at this revolution in her.
‘Excuse me?’
He was a tall, Barrowcester blond youth with an orange rucksack on his back.
‘Yes?’
‘You are Mrs Merluza, yes?’
‘That’s right. Mercy Merluza. How can I help you?’
He wore shorts and his long legs were tanned and glistened with fine blond hairs.
‘My name is Oskar, Oskar Svensson, yes? And the lady in the tourist information office said that you let out rooms.’
‘Indeed I do. For how many nights would you be wanting one?’
‘Five. Maybe six? I am here to make drawings of the tombs.’
‘Lovely, Mr Svensson. Well, if you come to my house at eight Tracer Lane at say six o’clock, I’ll have my daughter’s room ready for you.’
‘You are most kind. The address again, please?’
‘Eight Tracer Lane.’
She was pleased with his ice-blue eyes and the delicacy with which he noted the address in a small green diary and refrained from asking about the rent. She would charge him a little less than she had the Professor.
‘Good. I shall see you there at six o’clcok precisely,’ he said.
‘Lovely.’
He left the shop, setting the bell tinkling over the door, and left her alone with her overpriced knitwear and ugly local pottery. She peered into her mirror to check the lie of her hair then put the kettle on for tea.
45
Lunch went quite well, possibly because they had never met and would in all probability never do so again. Emma had not gone to a great deal of trouble; she believed it kinder to strangers not to. She had bought a couple of tins of a superior brand of vichyssoise at Hart’s along with a selection of interesting English cheeses an American would be unlikely to know, some fresh granary bread and a big bunch of grapes. She had also opened a bottle of white wine that Clive Hart had brought to supper once and which she therefore assumed was a few grades above plonk.
She had dreaded that he would go on and on about Jeremy, since her cousin was the obvious friend in common, but he had kept surprisingly quiet on that subject. At first. She had tried to lead him out on his work. She had not actually read the book on Hell but she had glanced at it in the library and read several lengthy reviews so she had done enough homework to pose a few convincing questions. They had sat eating at the kitchen table, chatting about the Last Judgement, Dante, modern Satanism and so on. He then began to relax with the wine (and the aspirins he had asked her for) and it turned out that he had been a great fan of her father’s sermons and writings. He complained that religious discourse and history were such private forms that he knew only of her father’s personality from what he could glean from the humanity of his observations and the quirkier of his footnotes. Nobody had asked her about her father in a long while. He was such a local figure that most Barrowers accepted him dumbly as a cultural donnée, like the Virgin Birth. She was hesitant at first then, once she had perceived that his interest was genuine, she found herself painting a wry, loving picture of the old man. She spoke of his manner of working, of the obsessive hours he would spend poring over seed catalogues or tracing the genealogy of a rose he was about to plant. She described his love of sandcastles and his dangerous habit of riding his bicycle abreast of one’s own instead of behind or in front, so as to continue a conversation.
By the time she was loading the coffee things on to a tray to take through to the study, where the sun was just arriving, she too had relaxed completely. Evan Kirby was attractive for his age, not unlike Gary Cooper in fact. She had seen in newspapers in the choir school common room how he had become ensnared by Madeleine Merluza and was even rumoured to be paying for her abortion. She thought this a pity. She remembered Madeleine as a fat, spiteful little girl. There was a slight awkwardness when she asked in passing what he was working at now and he said,
‘Finished. It’s all finished,’ in an unexpectedly belligerent fashion and drained a full glass of wine, but soon they were in the study and he was happily on the hunt for Dyce-Hamilton memorabilia. Coffee cup in hand, he stooped to peer at the photographs. He asked a few questions about Emma’s adoptive mother, then picked up the beach photograph that had made poor Crispin cry.
‘Is that you?’ he asked, taking a closer look.
‘Yes,’ she said a little shyly.
‘You haven’t changed much. God in heaven! Is that Jeremy behind you all, with the seaweed on his head?’
‘That’s right. He was showing off as usual.’
‘He hasn’t changed much either.’
‘How was he when you saw him last?’ she asked.
‘Oh. Same as ever. Still happily married,’ he said, replacing the photograph with care and taking a seat opposite her.
‘He’s not married. Not any more,’ she assured him. ‘Are you sure we’re thinking of the same Jeremy?’
‘Oh God. Pardon me. I mean …’ He was suddenly covered in confusion. Wild thoughts shot through Emma’s mind of secret espousals, a Chinese beauty hidden away in Kilburn, a lovely but crippled poetess in Chiswick.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘Oh God. I wasn’t meant to tell you. At least, he didn’t say anything, but I assumed Barrowcester being Barrowcester, that he hadn’t told you. And now I’ve added insult to injury. But I guess …’
‘What?’
‘He’s not married, exactly, but he does live very happily with a vet called James.’
‘Ah. The lodger.’
It was as if she had just opened a door and found a whole roomful of people in garish party hats who jeered in unison and blew party poopers at her.
‘Is that what he told you?’ Evan Kirby’s voice was full of avuncular concern and she wished him gone.
‘Well no, not in so many words.’ She grinned and put on her brightest tone. ‘It was just my naive assumption. I think Jeremy must have supposed that I knew and that I was being terribly civilized and unprurient. Do you think that was why Jill … er?�
�
‘Yes. I reckon it’s as good a reason for divorce as any.’
‘How is Jill? I’ve heard nothing of her for ages. She sent a Christmas card the year after she left him and then nothing.’
‘I’m not sure. I think she might have moved back to Exeter.’
‘Back to the university?’
‘Yeah.’
And somehow Emma managed to sustain her half of a conversation that was rapidly steered back to the unshadowed paths of banality. She forced herself to offer him a second and a third cup of coffee and even to show him around her late father’s garden before he left at about three. She washed up as soon as he was gone and even dried everything meticulously and put it away in the cupboards.
Then she noticed that the cats were nowhere to be seen. She could not remember them having put in an appearance for several hours. Rubbing some cream into her hands, she set out through the house to look for them. They were nowhere downstairs, neither in the basement nor the potting shed. Starting to panic slightly, she hurried up the stairs. She was just emerging from her bedroom, where they sometimes lay on the bed, when she heard voices and froze. Two voices, one male, one female, were coming from behind the spare room door. Their tone was mocking, accusatory.
‘So I told her … It’s no use, I said …’
‘Absurd. Quite absurd. But of course she never listens. Pathetic creature, really.’
‘And now this.’
‘Mon cher, I mean, really!’
There was a burst of mocking laughter. Panting with fear, Emma thrust open the door. No one was there but the cats who looked up, angry at the interruption, from the foot of one of the beds. Emma slammed the door to again, shutting them in. She ran to her room and threw herself face down on her bed, soothing her burning face in cool cotton.
‘This is how it begins,’ she said out loud. Faintly, because she was a floor up, she heard the glassy strains of Dr Feltram’s harpsichord.
46
Dawn hung up her pinny under Clive’s and Lydia’s expectant gaze. She picked up her bag and a bottle of champagne.
‘I think that’s everything done, then,’ she said. ‘Thanks ever so much for the champagne, Mr Hart.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Clive. ‘You did a wonderful job. Oh, and thanks for the paintwork on the porch!’
‘Don’t forget the rest of the turkey,’ said Lydia. ‘You can make a lovely soup with what’s left.’
‘Actually, I’m not going straight home now. Is it OK if I leave it and pick it up tomorrow?’ asked Dawn.
‘Of course’ and ‘Fine’ said both Harts at once.
‘Thanks. I’ll … er … be off then,’ said Dawn, looking at them with an amused air.
‘Bye,’ they both said. They watched her walk out of the kitchen and through the side door on to the street. As the door closed, Clive slipped a hand towards Lydia’s waist but touched her buttocks instead.
‘Don’t you dare touch me!’ she flashed at him. Using her left hand because her rings would make it more painful, she slapped him hard on the jaw, dived into the utility room and locked the door. ‘Ohh you …! Ohh!’ she exclaimed, near speechless with rage, and burst into loud sobs. With the tears flowing she was more relaxed than she had been all day.
‘Lydia?’ queried Clive, a hand nursing his tender jaw. ‘Oh don’t be so childish,’ he continued, raising his voice. ‘Lydia!’
‘Go away,’ she barked, her voice clogged with tears. ‘Go and … Oh God. Go and do some marking or something.’
‘Come out and talk properly. I can explain.’
‘No.’ She blew her nose and coughed. ‘Go away,’ she said with a little less enthusiasm.
‘I didn’t touch Gloire, I swear.’
‘Then why did I meet her backing on to the landing like that, telling you to “lay off of her”? Mmh?’
‘I tell you she’s a little minx. We were just talking in there then she heard you coming and put on that absurd charade.’
‘Huh!’
‘She was pissed off because I’d turned her down the other night.’
‘What?’ Lydia opened wide the door. She looked a wreck, but she had been through a great deal in the past few hours.
‘Well not precisely that,’ he qualified, ‘but all through that supper with her and Tobit, she was pawing my leg like a highly sexed demon.’
‘So when you stood up and her …’
‘And her wine spilled, it was because she was half knotted round my knees, that’s what.’
She walked past him into the sitting room, letting this explanation hang unanswered for a good forty seconds so that when she finally said,
‘Doesn’t sound very likely,’ in her I-am-about-to-let-bygones-be-bygones tone, he was inclined to agree with her.
‘No,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t, but neither does Tobit’s marriage to a medical black nympho with right-wing, nay, fascist parents with a dubious export empire and shares in South Africa.’ She chuckled a little at this, in a tired way, so he pressed home his advantage. ‘How about a drink?’ he said.
‘Yes please. No more champagne, though. I’ve got breath like old flower water.’
‘A real drink, then.’
‘That sounds like a really bad idea. Yes please.’
Kicking off his shoes – he had already tossed off jacket and loosened tie when their guests left – he padded through to the dining room sideboard. When he returned with two gin and diet tonics she too had kicked off her shoes and had drawn her feet up beside her on the sofa. He set the drinks on the coffee table.
‘Hang on,’ he said. ‘I’ll get some ice.’
‘Oh don’t bother,’ she said, not reaching for her glass.
‘No problem,’ he assured her, already on his way to the kitchen.
‘Bless you,’ she murmured and half-heartedly plumped out a silk cushion to her left.
The service had gone without a major hitch. No dresses had been torn, no more than the honourable, small hankyful of tears had been shed and most of the food had been eaten. To this extent, Clive and Lydia could call the wedding a success. Rarely, however, had a day been so fraught with embarrassments. The first was when Geoff Dixon, albeit tone deaf, had spontaneously launched into ‘Lord of the Dance’ before the blessing and, since he showed no sign of letting up, they had all been compelled to join in, with much smiling and a little rocking from side to side, as if to show that this was all part of the plan. Their appalling underestimation of the DelMonicas’ income and savoir vivre was so apparent to all present that no mention was made of it until Mr DelMonica took one look at the West Indian buffet laid out on the sideboard and said, in his best I-May-Be-Black-But-I-Sho-Am-Faithful accent,
‘Why, Miz Hart, I ain’t seen a spread like this ’un since I wuz lil’ and Mammee’d celebrate harvest home on the plantation!’
That was embarrassment number two, luckily covered up by uproarious laughter from both Josephine DelMonica and her new son-in-law and the discovery that the food, if insulting, was delicious. Embarrassment the third had been when Josephine DelMonica was describing the delights of Martinique and let slip that her namesake, Napoleon’s empress, had come from there. Her tongue loosened by champagne, Lydia had taken this for a joke and, while not finding it immensely funny, had giggled a good deal, thinking to set her guests at ease. After that they lost count. Josephine had taken Lydia on one side and confided that Dawn was a witch and that, being acquainted with such things from childhood, she knew. Therefore Lydia could not help noticing her making surreptitious signs to ward off the evil eye whenever Dawn came to top up her glass. Mr DelMonica attacked Clive for daring to be ‘nothing but an English teacher’ when his wife was being so much more ‘go-ahead’, and later Gloire was seen by Lydia apparently being attacked by Clive in the bathroom. Then, drawing fire rather too heroically for the embarrassment over the icing on the Trinidad Wedding Cake, which had misbehaved into Josephine’s ample cleavage because it had failed to set properly, Clive had dec
lared how surprised they had been at the announcement of the day’s marriage.
‘And why’s that?’ asked Josephine, from beneath the ministrations of Lydia and a hot, wet flannel. ‘Because we’re black?’
‘No. Heavens no!’ laughed Clive, puce. ‘Because … well … Tobit … er.’ And dried up under Mr DelMonica’s and Lydia’s withering stares.
‘You mean to tell me that my daughter, our only child, has just thrown herself away on a snowflake faggot?’
‘It’s OK, Dad,’ hushed Gloire.
‘You mean you knew? gasped her mother.
‘Well yes. It was obvious. But it isn’t any more, huh?’ said Gloire, chucking her brand new husband under the chin then chasing him, laughing, from the room.
Flapping her flannel for emphasis, Lydia then found herself launching into an argument about whether her son was less of a ‘man’ for having experimented with members of the same sex. The other parents joined in. It was only during a lull after about ten minutes, that somebody thought to ask,
‘Where are the children?’
and it was discovered that the newly-weds had pecked Dawn on the cheek and slipped away unobserved, for their working honeymoon in London. This had the effect of a total deflation and, after a few minutes of standing around like a pair of displaced souls, the DelMonicas had shaken hands all round and fled too. The terrible afternoon was rounded off by the indignant doorstep announcement by their chauffeur that the Bentley had been attacked overnight by some local vandal with a key ring.
Clive returned with two fistfuls of ice for their gins. Lydia murmured her thanks. He flopped into an armchair by the fireplace. She made one of their secret animal noises, wrinkling her nose and patting the sofa beside her. He sighed, stood and flopped at her side instead, resting his head on her shoulder. She was too tired to hold him, so she draped her arm along the back of the sofa and simply gave his head a brief rub with her cheek.
‘I’m glad it’s over,’ she said.
‘Glad they’ve gone.’
‘Well. They were very nice, very … but.’ She took a sip of gin. ‘No they weren’t. They were horrid. I mean, not because they were black, of course, just because …’