The Second Life of Sally Mottram

by David Nobbs

  ‘Well, it’s very good to meet you, Lennie, if I also may call you so.’

  She realized her mistake even as she said it. Out came the hand. Once again, she shook it with every appearance of enthusiasm.

  ‘How do you do, Lennie,’ she said.

  ‘How do you do, Mrs … or may I call you Sally?’

  ‘Certainly, Lennie.’

  ‘Thank you, Sally.’

  ‘Lennie?’

  ‘Yes, Sally?’

  ‘I feel a fool.’

  ‘You? Never.’

  ‘I’ve let you go on and on. It was egotism. I was just thrilled to hear that you and your boss both found me impressive.’

  ‘Oh, we did. Very impressive.’

  ‘Yes, but – and thank you – but I should have said that I haven’t the faintest idea who your boss is. I have no idea why you’re here.’

  ‘You have no idea why I’m here? Well, stone the pigeons as we used to say where I come from. Not many crows in Stoke Newington. I am so sorry. Stupid me. I am so sorry. That is so stupid. I come from none other than Sir Norman Oldfield himself. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of Sir Norman Oldfield.’

  ‘Of course I have.’

  ‘He’s one of the ten richest men in the Sunday Times list.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘He was born in modest circumstances here in Potherthwaite.’

  ‘Oh, I know. There’s a plaque.’

  ‘I know. Last time I was here I took a peep. I said to myself, “Lennie Tiptree, you little thought when your teacher said you’ll never amount to anything – bastards, teachers, oops, excuse my French, but they are – you little thought that one day you would be emissary to the great Sir Norman Oldfield.’

  ‘Emissary?’

  ‘Sir Norman is allergic to people. I am his go-between. I prefer the word “emissary”. A harmless piece of conceit, perhaps. I was sent here to find out whether I found you—’

  ‘Impressive.’

  ‘Once again you’re too quick for me. The only reason I have not been back here sooner is that Sir Norman winters abroad. He has a house in Bermuda. But he had barely returned home, and he was speaking of you. Sally Mottram, you are about to have the most important conversation of your young life.’

  ‘Young?’

  ‘To me. Your enthusiasm for your cause has brought the bloom of youth to your lovely cheeks. Our talk may take some time.’

  ‘Why am I not surprised?’

  ‘Is there somewhere where we may sit, take a latte and perhaps a toasted teacake?’

  ‘There is, on the next corner.’

  They walked past the end of the cul-de-sac. Sally dreaded that she might run into Marigold. She didn’t want to introduce her to Lennie, and then snub her by going off to talk to him alone, and she certainly didn’t want Marigold to be present at the most important conversation of her ‘young’ life. Besides, there were bar stools at the Kosy Korner Kafé. She didn’t want to witness Lennie Tiptree’s admiration of Marigold’s legs.

  They sat in a far korner, as far as possible from the kounter. Sally ordered a kappuccino and a kream kake, Lennie a latte and a toasted teakake. Lennie told Kate Kavanagh, ‘I’m never happier than with butter on my chin, me.’ When Kate had gone, they began their konversation.

  ‘So you’re an emissary,’ said Sally.

  ‘I’m all sorts of things. I’m a factotum. I’m an enabler. I’m a communicator. I’m a major-duomo, or is that an Italian cathedral? I am the world for a man who has withdrawn from it. He sent me to Potherthwaite with specific instructions to watch you at work and return to him with my view on whether you were imp—’

  ‘—ressive, yes.’

  ‘Precisely. To cut a long story short, I told him you were. Very. He said he would like to meet you. Now that is extraordinary. If you don’t know him, you can’t begin to imagine how extraordinary that is. He does not meet people. He makes Howard Hughes seem like a socialite. He thinks everyone is planning to infect him. He lives in a large house outside Marlow, with a spectacular view of the Thames. Views give him little pleasure. We were standing by the window one day, talking, he was giving me his instructions, I ventured to say, “It’s a lovely view. Why don’t you look at it?”, and he said, “I looked at it yesterday. It’ll be the same. It never bloody changes.” Sir Norman, Sally, is not a happy man. Nor is he known for his generosity. That’s what makes this all the more extraordinary.’

  ‘All this?’

  ‘He wants to give you a great deal of money.’

  Sally’s heart was racing. Hope surged through her.

  ‘Good Lord.’

  ‘Don’t say things like that to him. “Good Lord.” “Oh God.” Anathema. I mean it. An-bleeding-athema.’

  ‘He doesn’t believe in God?’

  ‘He believes in him and he hates him. He gave him all this money and took away all the qualities that he might have needed to enjoy it. Now, Sir Norman could have written to you – not by computer, he hates computers – but he prefers to send me. He likes to be paradoxical, does Sir Norman, if you ask me, so, hating the personal touch himself, he uses it, via his henchmen, in all his dealings.’

  ‘So, you’re a henchman as well?’

  ‘I like to think I’m his senior henchman. Not that I’m quite sure what a henchman is, but, if I am one, I like to think I’m the senior one. So, I came up to Potherthwaite, wanted to take you off guard, to see if you really are as impressive as I thought. Got your address – everybody knows you, as I knew they would – went to your flat, you weren’t in. You were out.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No. Not your fault. Can’t blame you. You weren’t expecting me. So, went to the Market Place, saw you. End of story. Do you know, I think I fancy another toasted teacake.’ Suddenly he roared, ‘Butter on the chin. Butter on the chin, eh?’

  Several people looked round. Sally’s smile reassured them that she wasn’t being attacked by a lunatic. Lennie ordered another latte and another toasted teakake. Sally just had a glass of tap water. Lennie waited until they had been served before resuming his tale.

  ‘Now,’ he said at last, ‘please don’t let what I say make you feel nervous, but I must give you a few hints, because if you play your cards right you will be given a great deal of money and all your problems will be solved at a stroke. At, lovely Sally Mottram, a stroke. Now, you will be sent train tickets for this coming Saturday. If you aren’t free, change your arrangements – Sir Norman hates cancellations. You will be met at the station, not by me—’

  ‘I should think not. You’ll be too busy being an emissary, a henchman, a factotum, an enabler, a communicator and a major-duomo, which I’m sure you’re quite capable of even though you’re right, it is an Italian cathedral.’

  Lennie Tiptree showed no sign of amusement at this, but said, ‘Sally Mottram, you are a card. Right. You will dine that night with Sir Norman, in the morning you will be served breakfast on your own – Sir Norman doesn’t do breakfast, he hates breakfast – you will have an early Sunday lunch with Sir Norman, very traditional, and a chauffeur will then take you back to the station to catch what I’m afraid will be the first of at least three trains. You will, I fervently hope, leave with the offer of a small fortune. Take as little luggage as possible. Sir Norman hates luggage. He once booked on a ship to America, saw all the luggage and refused to go. Oh, and make sure you have gloves.’

  ‘Gloves, why?’

  ‘For shaking hands. Sir Norman will not touch a naked hand. Even with me, after all these years, he won’t touch my naked hand.’

  I wish I had some gloves today, thought Sally.

  ‘Oh, and one more thing. Don’t mention Market Harborough.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sir Norman cannot abide references to Market Harborough.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Haven’t the faintest idea. No idea. Nobody has. Maybe something bad happened there once. But a Canadian financier once happened to say, over the brandy,
that his aunt lived in Market Harborough, and he was thrown out at eleven minutes past midnight.’

  ‘Good Lord.’

  ‘And don’t say “Good Lord”.’

  ‘Oh, sorry. Oh God, this … Oh my God! Oh, this is going to be difficult. Thank goodness I’ve never been to Market Harborough though.’

  ‘Don’t tell him!’

  ‘I don’t think I can do this.’

  ‘You can. You can, Sally. You can walk it. You have to. You have to, Sally. Remember only one other thing. Be yourself at all times. Be true to yourself. Only that will work. Any questions?’

  ‘Well, just one, I suppose. Why is he doing all this?’

  ‘Ah. Now that, lovely lady, is a question. That most definitely is a question.’

  ‘Is there an answer?’

  ‘I have a theory. I am sure you will be able to reach the same answer as me. Clever lady, clever impressive Sally, what is the answer? Take your time.’

  Sally took a sip of water, and thought.

  ‘Um …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Um … is it because he loves Potherthwaite?’

  ‘I think so, but that is only half the answer.’

  ‘The other half being the answer to the question, “Why does he love Potherthwaite?”’

  ‘Precisely. And why does he love Potherthwaite?’

  ‘Um …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Because … could it be because … this is so sad, Lennie … it was the last place in which he was happy?’

  ‘Exactly … and yes, it is sad, Sally. Well done. You see, you can do it. For you it will be what my dear mother in Stoke Newington used to call a doodle. Impressive? The word itself is not impressive enough to describe you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Good luck, Sally.’

  He held out his hand. Sally shook it. They both allowed their hands to remain clasped just a moment longer than was necessary.

  Their eyes met. Sally had no idea what he was thinking, and he, she suspected, had no idea what she was thinking.

  It was disturbing.

  THIRTY-TWO

  A life of luxury

  Sir Norman’s Rolls-Royce purred almost silently through the thick beech woods of the Chiltern Hills. Overhead, red kite circled slowly in their perpetual search for carrion. Sally’s nerves were as taut as the strings of a violin. In her stomach, tiny creatures were churning cream into butter. This visit, this taste of unimagined luxury, was in fact yet another hurdle, her greatest hurdle yet. Each hurdle overcome was a relief. Each hurdle seemed like the last hurdle, but by now Sally believed that there was no last hurdle, there would be hurdles for her till the day of her death. This, however, might well be the greatest hurdle. Money in large quantities was promised, if she passed this test.

  The Rolls-Royce turned off on to a side road, climbed steadily through the great trees. There was an occasional brief glimpse of the Thames far below, alive with boats on this sunny Saturday afternoon. On the left were the thick, dark, daunting woods. On the right they passed discreet drives that led to big houses built to impress and then carefully hidden, behind thick hedges, from all the people who might have been impressed, had they been able to catch a glimpse of them.

  No house name stood at the beginning of Sir Norman Oldfield’s drive. This was a discreet world. Postmen in Buckinghamshire were not expected to suffer from Alzheimer’s.

  The gates to the property opened slowly, solemnly, silently at the chauffeur’s touch. The drive was long, and passed through more woods, thinned out and less foreboding. Then the house stood before Sally. Its centre was Georgian, red-brick, with regular windows. It was immense. One end of the house turned suddenly French, with a large round turret. The other end favoured Italy, with a tall square tower. None of it was old.

  A maid, smart and formal in black and white, led Sally up a wide staircase, past rows of indifferent Italianate landscapes. Behind them, a manservant in morning dress carried her tiny suitcase. The maid led her along a corridor studded with oak chests, opened a door, and stood aside to let Sally enter her suite. The male servant followed, carrying the case as if contemptuous of its wheels. He placed the case upon a receptacle for cases. It was large enough to have held four such cases side by side.

  ‘Tea will be served in the drawing room in thirty minutes,’ said the maid. It was a command, not a suggestion. ‘Sir Norman will join you there for a pair of teeth at six-thirty.’ Afterwards, Sally was quite proud that she hadn’t shown any astonishment in the twenty seconds that it took for her to realize that the maid had said ‘an aperitif’.

  It was clear that the thirty minutes allowed her before tea, a period of time to be taken far more seriously than ‘half an hour’ would have been, was to enable her to change her clothes, soiled from sitting in seats sometimes occupied by the working classes, on three trains. She hadn’t brought enough changes of clothes to be able to make one now. Damn Lennie Tiptree and his advice.

  She stood at the window and looked out on a fantasy of terraces and fountains. Water spouted from the mouths of gods and goddesses and fat Cupids. Far below, the Thames meandered gently, as if reluctant to reach London and its crowds.

  The drawing room looked as if the people chosen to actually present their proud possessions on The Antiques Roadshow had been allowed to store them there. There was too much of everything, it was all valuable, very little of it matched. There were too many old chairs, too many old sofas, too many chaise longues. It looked like a care home for the former staff of Sotheby’s.

  Sally sipped her Lady Grey tea. There were even cucumber sandwiches, as if new money was parodying the traditions of old money. She felt uncomfortable, but also, it has to be admitted, rather excited. She became aware that she might enjoy a third life, a life of luxury, if chance permitted.

  Back in her suite, she faced a forest of aids to cleanliness, glamour and fragrance. Lennie had seemed to preach the doctrine of simplicity, but Sally had never seen a bathroom furnished with less simplicity. She decided to ignore Lennie’s advice. How could she be herself here? What was her self, between Sally the lawyer’s wife, Sally the leader of men, and Sally who dreamt of luxury?

  She had never before walked down a staircase smelling so sweet, and looking so good, and feeling so awful.

  The eighteenth-century clock in the twentieth-century hall struck six-thirty as she descended the last step. With perfect synchronization Sir Norman appeared from the doorway of the room opposite the drawing room. He was wearing gloves. Sally wondered suddenly whether Lennie had been leading her up the garden proverbial over the gloves, but she put on a pair and solemnly shook hands with her host.

  ‘Good girl,’ said Sir Norman, in a voice that still contained traces of Potherthwaite, and he led her into the drawing room with a smile.

  He was shorter than she had expected, slim, even slight. He was wearing smart, well-fitting trousers, an expensive shirt, and a neat jacket. His clothes avoided his lack of colour sense by having almost no colour at all. His face, too, was pleasant without leaving any vivid memory. He had no need to show even a vestige of power. His money did that for him.

  She took off her gloves as discreetly as she could.

  ‘What would you like to drink, Sally?’ enquired Sir Norman.

  She was appalled to hear herself saying, ‘What are you having?’ It’s the most infuriating of all replies. She felt obliged to continue, to make amends, even though it might be frightfully unwise, and her riches might go up in smoke right at the start. ‘I don’t know why I said that,’ she said. ‘I find it a most irritating remark. I’d like a sherry, please.’

  ‘I have a nutty oloroso that has quite a stern dryness under the easy promise of its lush surface,’ said Sir Norman.

  ‘Good …’ She was on the verge of saying ‘Good Lord’. That would never do. God, this was difficult. ‘Good. That sounds really good.’

  ‘Does it? Sounds like cobblers to me. That’s my wine merchant talking
.’

  ‘Oh.’ This was just too difficult. She felt tempted to say, ‘I once had a marvellous sherry in Market Harborough. Oh shit. Sorry. Shall I ring for the chauffeur or will you?’ But no, she must struggle on. She owed it to Ben, and Ellie, and old Uncle Harry Patterson and all.

  ‘I don’t do alcohol. I get no pleasure from it,’ said Sir Norman.

  ‘I’m afraid I rather like it.’

  ‘Don’t ever be afraid,’ said Sir Norman.

  He handed her the sherry. She was disappointed that its proportions didn’t match those of the house.

  It tasted wonderful.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ she said.

  He nodded, as if to say, ‘Of course.’

  She felt that she might have committed another gaffe. Everything would be delicious, so to comment on it would be superfluous.

  ‘It’s so good of you to come,’ he said.

  ‘It’s so good of you to invite me.’

  Oh God. Oh no!

  ‘Tiptree was most impressed by you.’

  ‘Well, yes, he gave me that impression.’

  ‘A strange man, but I’d be lost without him. He’s streetwise. I’m not. I last saw a street in nineteen ninety-seven. Would you like another sherry?’

  She toyed with being polite. Luckily she overcame the temptation. ‘Be yourself.’ She was slightly shocked to find that being herself involved simply longing for another sherry.

  ‘I’d love one.’

  ‘Good.’

  It was the first time she had sensed a touch of pleasure in his voice.

  ‘I expect Tiptree has outlined the plan,’ said Sir Norman, as he handed her the second sherry. ‘But let me elaborate.’

  Sally was very pleased, as she sipped her second sensational glass, to let Sir Norman elaborate.

  ‘We will dine shortly, and over dinner you can tell me your plans for Potherthwaite, for this Transition of Potherthwaite, in detail. I want to know everything. Every single thing. I made my way in the world very swiftly, Sally. I loved money, and I understood it, and I was lucky. It was natural to leave Potherthwaite behind, to discard it as beneath me. If that sounds arrogant it’s because it was. I now regret it. I had feelings when I lived in Potherthwaite. I renounced these feelings. Some of the things I did in business, though never quite illegal, could not have been done if I’d had feelings. Now I have no feelings, and I miss them. Would you try to rekindle those feelings for me, Sally, over dinner this evening?’