“Oh, I know. I remember James. And now he’s a banker in a sharp suit and expensive shirts.”
“He is banker? He is one of the people who make the credit crisis?”
“No,” said Rose. “He’s only a baby banker. More like the office boy, though he’d have you think otherwise.”
“And you? You work for a history man, your mother say. History man—is that right?”
“It’s historian. But I like history man.”
“He is old man, she say. Important old man.”
“He’d like important. Though he was, I suppose.” She told him about Henry. “Right now, he’s trying to get into television—to make programs. He hasn’t a hope, I imagine.”
“I like to watch programs like that. Where you learn something. But my nephew and his friends—not. So we have argument and I do not win.”
“Sounds like family life,” said Rose. “At least when your children leave home you get hold of the remote control. What does your nephew do? Before coming here, I mean?”
“He work in a bar. Is not bad job but pay very little and he want to get married. So he come here for a year to have money for wedding and to start home. He is a nice boy—and the others—but I would like place by myself. Soon I look for a room somewhere.”
“The building site . . .” Rose began, diffidently “It must be well, tough, doing work like that when you aren’t used to it.”
“Oh, often I am please with myself. Look! I have lift this, and move that, like I am a real worker! I have work hands now”—he opened them on the table and she saw calloused blisters—“but I hope is not for too long. I would like nice clean office again.”
“It won’t be,” she said. Suddenly anxious for him, and determined.
“All the time I try new reading. Look.” He pulled a book out of his rucksack. Walking London, she saw. He opened it at random: “‘Enter the . . . dome, yes? . . . to your right, and use the foot tunnel to cross the . . . river . . . to Green . . . Greenwik.’ ”
“Grenidge,” said Rose. “Place-names are impossible. But it’s nice there, and you go under the river through this tunnel, like it says. So have you been doing these walks?”
“A little bit. On Sunday. And I like to try to read the book, and look at the pictures.”
“Gerry and I used to walk in London. My husband. Way back.” Not for ages now, she thought. Never, now. Why not? “There’s a fantastic walk along the river.” She flipped over the pages of the book. “Yes, look—here it is. Kew and Richmond.” He leaned forward, following her finger on the map. “Or there’s the City churches, that’s interesting.”
He was intent, listening to her. “St. Paul’s . . .” she said. “And you must see Hampton Court. And even just the parks . . . St. James’s is my favorite—the lake, the ducks.” Some kind of possibility seemed to smoke up from the book, from what she said, from her warmth, from his attention. She put the book down, picked up her cup, drained it. “Well, yes,” she said. “Yes, you must . . . see more.”
“I would like.”
“Perhaps . . .” she began. Then, briskly, “How is the Chocolate Cream Frappuccino?”
He pulled a face. “Too sweet. I cannot finish. I have learn a lesson—not to think like small boy.”
“Have an espresso,” she advised. “To cancel it. Actually, I could use one too.”
She watched him while he was at the counter. She wondered if everyone had that very dark thick hair, where he came from. She heard him give the order, thought of his daily struggle with language, but in his head was that alien fluency—his other world. Once, he turned, and their eyes met in the mirror on the wall; he smiled.
“Two coffees,” she said, when he was back. “I don’t usually live it up like this.”
“This is special day. For me,” he added. “For my mother, soon—when she have her coat.”
Rose thought: for me too, in a funny way. I’m enjoying myself, for some reason.
“When I was young,” she said, “wine bars were the place to be seen, to hang out with your friends.”
He looked at her. “And you are still young. Grown-up child—children—does not make old. And I am young.” He laughed. “I tell myself this when I come to England. I am young enough so I make new life. But then I find I am not young enough for live like student and eat out of tins.”
“I don’t feel young,” she said. “But I see what you mean. I am, by comparison. We are. Old is—different. My mum. Forty-something is just—older.”
“And is good time. Young is . . .” He scowled. “. . . problem, problem. I have not girl. I am stupid, I have spot on my face.”
“It’s one’s hair, with girls. I thought about my hair about half of every day.”
“So now we are young still but better sort of young. We do not mind about spot or hair. We have learn to enjoy.”
Well, yes, she thought. Even in a Starbucks on a Saturday afternoon. Surprise, surprise.
“On the building site,” he said, “I enjoy now the tea break. You wait for—you watch time. Then—whew! Sit down. Talk. Learn more bad word in Kosovo. Play cards. Read newspaper—try to read newspaper. What are you enjoying?”
She pondered. What? “Oh . . . Weekend mornings, getting up later, tea in bed. Lucy coming back from college, chattering non-stop.” Pause. Thought—no, impulse. “Actually, weather. I enjoy weather. Wind. Rain, even. Sun, like now, this spring. I sort of love weather—lots of it.” Goodness, I’ve never said that to anyone before. “Good thing I’m not living in California. Always the same there, they say.”
“For me, things that grow. On the building site, we are growing only cigarette ends and crisp packets. But on my way I look into gardens. English gardens are—beautiful. All flowers, all different. Some names I learn.” He smiled. “Your flower. Your name. Rose.”
She had never cared for it, name-wise. Miranda, she had wanted to be, aged eight. Coming from him, it sounded suddenly fresh, new. Rose. With his accent. A different name. She liked it.
He told her his grandparents had been farmers. “So I remember their growing. The growing and the . . . cutting.”
“Harvesting.”
“Yes. So perhaps from that I get to like. But my father come to the city when young man, so no more farm. But perhaps inside me is person who want to grow things, who remember the . . . the earth. Never mind. When I am accountant again I grow numbers.” A wry smile.
The clientele of the coffee bar changed, and changed again. That noisy group of girls left; a courting couple came, and snogged in a corner; two young mothers traded babies, were replaced by a father restraining a toddler. Rose and Anton did not much notice any of them, somehow. Midafternoon became late afternoon. He had told her about those visits to the grandparents’ farm when he was a child, about his father’s death when still quite young, about his dislike of rock music (“My nephew and the boys, all the time—I try not to hear”); about his love of opera. She had talked of Lucy and James (but not too much . . .), of Henry and his idiosyncrasies; she agreed about rock music, but confessed to a lacuna where opera was concerned. They found that both liked to do crosswords; Anton produced a dog-eared book of these in his own language and Rose stared in fascination at the mysterious network of the one he had just completed. She reached in her bag for the Guardian: “Here—let’s have a go. One across: ‘Study of handwriting.’ Ten letters.”
After a few minutes he was laughing and shaking his head. “No, no—this is a bridge too far.”
She glanced at her watch. “Heavens! It’s past five. I must go.” She began to put on her coat, to gather her things. “I do hope your mother will approve of the jacket.”
“I know that she will. And thank you.”
“But . . .” Rose hesitated. “It really does need a scarf to go with it.”
“You think?”
“I do think.”
“I would like,” he said. “I would like very much.”
Charlotte made a pot of tea at five. Gerry came in from his shed, had a cup, read the paper. Charlotte said, “I’d have thought Rose would be back by now.”
“Mmn. Got held up, I suppose.”
Run over, thought Charlotte. Knocked down by one of those manic cyclists. It dies hard, maternal anxiety. In fact, it doesn’t die at all. A life sentence. Well, one wouldn’t wish otherwise. All the same, where is she?
When at last Rose appeared Charlotte experienced that comfortable rush of relief. “I’ll make some more tea. This pot’s cold.”
“No thanks, Mum. I’m fine.”
“Successful shopping?”
“Yes. Nice gray jacket.”
“How was Anton?”
“Fine.”
Not run over, not picked off by a cyclist, but something on her mind. One always knows. Oh well—whatever, she’s not saying. She never does, does she?
Gerry came in from the garden. “That new clematis doesn’t look very happy to me. Where did you get it?”
Rose stared at him.
“The clematis. That new one.”
“Oh,” she said. “Oh—Clockhouse garden center, I think.”
“And I’m afraid your mother’s hairdryer was too much for me. Heating element gone.”
“A bridge too far,” said Rose.
Charlotte eyed her. And you’re not quite with us, are you? What’s wrong? Has his lordship been playing up? This TV nonsense? Rose made it into a joke, but one’s heard what he can be like when he gets obsessive about something.
Gerry picked up the cat, which had been winding round his legs. He was attached to the cat, and she to him, in an ostentatious way; others could feel relegated. “She’s off her food. Didn’t touch her lunch. Should you take her to the vet?”
“No,” said Rose. “She’s dramatizing as usual. The place seems to be falling apart, in my absence. Clematis, hairdryer, cat.” She sat down, and opened the Guardian at the crossword. Half done, Charlotte saw.
Gerry took the cat through to the kitchen; he could be heard urging her to try some milk.
Charlotte said, “Maybe what his lordship needs is diversion. Take his mind off this television idea. A cruise. He could afford it.”
Rose frowned. “Mmn? ‘Cause of unexpected mechanical problem’—seven letters. This is supposed to be the quick one—my mind’s a blank today.”
“Gremlin,” said Charlotte. “Get him a Swan Hellenic brochure—tempt him.”
“Henry? Oh, he’s very chirpy. He’s seeing someone this week. Some woman. ‘Rather influential in that world, I gather.’ ” Rose put on her Henry voice, laughed, returned to the crossword.
Gerry came back. “She won’t touch milk, either.”
“Try champagne,” said Rose. “We must have a bottle of Krug around somewhere.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“An hour,” said Delia Canning. “A single feature. Docudrama, maybe. I can promise nothing. We’ll have to think.”
“No, no,” said Henry. “Six parts, I envisage. A series.”
They were in her office, where supplicants were normally at a disadvantage. He was not, it seemed. His loud, plummy tones filled the room. His capacious form filled her office chair; she hadn’t seen a tweed suit like that in decades. Her grandfather had had one, for church on Sundays.
She shook her head. “Out of the question, I’m afraid.”
Small, sharp-featured woman. Trousers and a shirt; one would have thought something more formal, for a person in a top job here, or so one understood. He felt wrong-footed, having to negotiate like this with a young woman. She hadn’t yet got the hang of what he had in mind. He elaborated: “. . . the essence of the Augustan age—the politics, the art, the architecture—one would look at science and industry, of course, plenty of visual opportunity there, your people would be able to work out the . . . locations . . . Ironbridge, that sort of thing . . . I wouldn’t be averse to the occasional period costume, I gather it’s expected these days, but not too much—enlightenment would be the idea, enlighten and inform the viewer, enlightenment the appropriate word for the eighteenth century, don’t you agree?”
Unbelievable. You didn’t come across people like this today, at least she didn’t. She eyed him. A certain awful appeal, there was no getting away from it.
“So six parts seems about right. The structure to be a matter for discussion between us, as I said in my letter.” He beamed, expansive now—into his stride. He had decided that she was looking more as though she followed what he was proposing.
Almost a parody. You’d have to have him wearing a waistcoat and watch-chain, and that suit, or something similar. The voice, the pronunciation, the mannerisms. It could work. Could it? Hmn.
“Just conceivably,” said Delia Canning. “We might consider a single program. As I say, possibly. I can’t promise, at this stage.” She rose, she smiled—a smile that those alert to the surface codes of her trade would have interpreted as meaning absolutely nothing.
Henry was not alert. He decided she was really quite an intelligent young woman after all. “I’m so glad you’re keen on the idea. Let me know when you’d like to talk again. Next time, you must lunch with me at my club.”
When he had gone, she stared again at his proposal—no, his letter, his self-important letter which would have been dismissed had not the mention of Marion Clark’s name caught Delia’s eye, and Marion Clark had done such a good job on the flat, and Delia felt she couldn’t bat Marion Clark’s uncle aside out of hand, this Lord Whatsit. She had her secretary check him out; it seemed that he was indeed—or had been—a well-known academic. Suppose I’ll have to see him, she had thought. Academics are two a penny, but never mind. Waste of half an hour, that’s all.
A certain awful appeal. The voice, the manner, everything. You’d be sticking your neck out a mile, putting him on. People would love him or hate him. A provocation. Risky—oh, yes. But just might be a winner.
Take a chance? Yes? No?
“So one’s name still counts,” Henry told Marion. “She seems to favor a single program, for some reason.”
I don’t believe this, thought Marion. Delia Canning? Uncle Henry? No, no. “Are you sure?”
“I still prefer six. I dare say she’ll change her mind.”
“You did actually see Delia Canning, Uncle Henry?”
“Of course I saw her. Pleasant young woman. A most useful introduction, my dear.”
“I do wonder . . .” Marion began, and then broke off, “I’ll have to go, Uncle Henry. I’m at this flat I’m doing and the bathroom people have arrived.”
The bathroom was coming in over budget, which was tiresome. George Harrington had taken against her original specification, and a whole lot of instructions had arrived from his secretary involving a suite that Marion spent an entire weekend sourcing. He had visited some friends, apparently, and been taken with their installation. Marion never seemed to speak to Harrington himself these days; he was always in a meeting or out of contact, and the secretary acted as intermediary. This first tranche of money would soon be exhausted, but apart from this glitch over the bathroom Marion was not too concerned; the Poles were performing excellently, and she was confident that the job would finish on time.
Not that she had much else in view. Recession still biting, it would seem. A few inquiries, which petered out as soon as she came up with an estimate. Bedroom makeovers were going on hold until next year; she imagined trophy wives all over Chelsea pouting in frustration.
Marion did not often like her clients. If women, they usually had too much money and too much leisure and a paucity of taste. There was a certain satisfaction to be had in steering t
hem away from their wilder excesses, and persuading them to discover some unsuspected residue of style. Quite often, she could deliver a finished room that caused her little or no offense and that the client really really loved, much to their surprise since they had thought they wanted something entirely different.
She had liked Delia Canning. Partly because she was a working woman, earned her money, and had no more leisure than Marion herself. There had been mutual respect. Delia had been brisk, businesslike, knew what she wanted, and none of it caused Marion any distress. A bit sleek and neutral, perhaps, but not a job of which she could feel ashamed.
Uncle Henry was fantasizing, of course. Must be. No way could Delia Canning take a shine to Uncle Henry; she was from another planet. Maybe he had seen some sidekick, thought it was her. Had misunderstood.
The bath was not going to fit. Six inches too long. Would throw the whole bathroom design out of kilter. Damn. What to do?
“A pilot,” Henry told Rose. He read from the letter in front of him: “ ‘. . . no commitment at this stage, of course.’ ” He chuckled. “That’s a formality, I imagine. A pilot is apparently a sort of . . .” he waved a hand vaguely “. . . a sort of trial run. They film me, talking.”
“Oh,” said Rose, whose mind was elsewhere.
“Rather amusing, it should be. One will have to decide on a theme. Walpole, possibly—stick to one’s particular field at this stage.”
Rose surfaced. He was on about this television thing, it would seem.
“They want to do it, then?”
“Of course,” said Henry. “Just a question of sorting out the details now. Let’s write to Miss Canning, Ms. Canning, that is—we must observe the conventions. ‘Dear Ms. Canning, I am delighted . . .’ ”
Good grief, thought Rose. His lordship on the telly. Some mistake, surely?
“She must be out of her mind.” Marion told Jeremy. “Even thinking of it. Uncle Henry! I thought at first he was making it all up. Not that she’ll go through with it, once she sees him in action.”
Jeremy has never been much interested in Uncle Henry. He is not now. He has his own matter of the moment.
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