by Sylvia Waugh
Tulip knew him. She hoped that gradually, one step at a time, she might be able to restore her husband to a less anxious frame of mind. Pilbeam’s visit to the theatre might even help. Look, Magnus, Tulip could say, Pilbeam went to the theatre, and the sky didn’t fall in.
So when Thursday evening came, Tulip insisted upon Pilbeam going to Granpa’s room to show off her outfit before she left for the theatre. She had warned Magnus to be gracious, throwing him the pearl of wisdom that what could not be cured must be endured. Vinetta came too, prepared to defend her daughter if necessary.
Pilbeam stood in the middle of the room, knowing she looked her best, and feeling quite pleased with herself. She had replaced the tie belt on the red coat with a broad, black one in tooled leather with a buckle. She was wearing the spectacles Appleby had chosen from Mr Sutton’s shop – large, thin black frames surrounding smoky plain glass lenses. They were not cheap rejects by any means, but Tulip had paid for them ungrudgingly. Pilbeam’s ensemble was completed with a pair of black kid gloves and knee-length fashion boots that matched the belt. There was an aura about her that would have drawn glances in any crowd.
“You look wonderful,” said Granpa. “I’m proud of you.” Then he reached under his pillow for his money pouch and gave Pilbeam a note.
“For your programme,” he said, “and taxi fares.”
No one in the family had ever travelled in any form of public transport. It was considered much too intimate, much too dangerous.
“I couldn’t use a taxi, Granpa,” said Pilbeam. “I shall just have to walk. It’s not so very far, you know.”
“A taxi would be safer than walking. I don’t approve of your walking at this time of day. And it is not the same as travelling in a bus or a train. You would sit alone in the back. The driver would be in front. It will be dark. The risk is minimal.”
Vinetta thought of the minimal risk and said, “I prefer no risk at all.”
She told him of the arrangements she had made for Pilbeam to be escorted there and back.
“You are right, I suppose,” said Granpa pensively, even more conscious of risk than Vinetta would ever be. “Yes. You are right. Better safe than sorry.”
He turned to Pilbeam and said, “You are quite sure about going there? You have considered the dangers?”
“Yes,” said Pilbeam, giving Granpa a look that warned him to say no more.
She tried to give him back his money, now that it had been decided that she would not be taking a taxi.
“Keep it,” said Granpa. “Do what you like with it. But I would like to see the programme. I used to enjoy the theatre in my young days. It will bring back happy memories.”
They all knew how much and how little that meant. The words had cost Sir Magnus some effort. Deep down, he was so disapproving of this outing that he would have loved to forbid it. Having accepted that it would take place, he needed to insulate it, to wrap it round with protective pretends.
When they went downstairs again, Joshua was already standing in the hall, becoming impatient.
“Time we were away,” he said. “Got your ticket?”
“Yes,” said Pilbeam.
Father and daughter set off briskly into the darkness. Once they had left the Grove behind them, Joshua turned down the first side street onto a route that would add at least ten minutes to their journey, but this was his usual way to work and he had no intention of changing it.
Pilbeam was not at all comfortable going down badly-lit back streets and tripping along quickly to keep pace with her father. She kept worrying in case her little heels caught in uneven pavements. It was as if she were a child again, a five-year-old trotting along beside her parents. Embedded memory, silly embedded memory! She did not feel in the least bit elegant now! What is more, she was anxious in case they should miss the turn-off for the theatre. But when they came at last to Kyd Street, Joshua stopped abruptly and looked along the unlit, narrow alley.
“It’s along there,” he said.
At the other end of the alley they could see signs of a broad, well-lit street.
“I’ll take you to the far corner,” said Joshua. “Then I’ll have to put on some speed or I’ll be late for work.”
“No need,” said Pilbeam. “I’ll just leave you here. I can go the rest of the way by myself.”
“Along there!” said Joshua, looking at the murky street that was no better than a back lane. “No you’ll not. Your mother would be furious if I let you go along there by yourself. Come on. Walk a bit faster.”
Together they went along the lane, walking quickly on rough cobblestones, past the rear wall of a restaurant, then the closed double doors of a side entrance to the theatre. When they came to the corner, there was suddenly a blaze of light and life. Streetlamps were augmented by lamps on wrought-iron stands attached to the pillars of the theatre’s huge portico. Groups of people were going inside. It was all lively bustle.
“You’ll be all right now. Don’t speak to anybody, and be sure to wait for Soobie when you come out,” said Joshua as he melted back into the darkness of the alley and sped on his way to work. Like his father, he was worried about Pilbeam’s venture into public life. His brusqueness was his way of showing it, the only way he knew.
Pilbeam, so brave in preparing to go, so determined to have this extra dimension to her life, looked at the crowd, and felt nervous and foolish and out of place. As in a dream, she walked into the foyer, across the carpeted floor, past the gaudy kiosk, and through the doors that led to the stalls. A girl in an overall, standing in a corner of the softly-lit lobby, took her ticket, tore it in two, threaded one end onto a string and handed Pilbeam the stub.
“Left-hand side,” the girl said without looking at Pilbeam.
“Thank you,” said Pilbeam, and hurried down the ramp and into the auditorium. She bought a programme and slipped into her seat. The worst was over. She could hide behind the programme till the lights went down.
Bobby Barras and Anthea Fryer had seats in the Dress Circle. They came into the foyer just behind Pilbeam. Anthea tugged Bobby’s sleeve.
“I’m sure that’s our neighbour,” she said.
“Who?” said Bobby.
“That girl over there – the one in the red coat. I saw her the other day coming out of the gate of Number 5.”
“She doesn’t look like a recluse to me,” said Bobby. “You must be mistaken.” He had heard all about the mysterious residents of Number 5 who were on no account to be disturbed. At the time when they were all trying to save the Grove, Albert Pond had told Anthea a very convincing tale about his ‘cousins’ who had a paranoid fear of the outside world. It was, after all, very nearly true. That their fear was down to something quite other than collective neurosis was a situation no one could ever have imagined.
“I am beginning to think that relative of theirs, goodness knows why, was just spinning us a yarn,” said Anthea. “I have been watching Number 5. They come and go like anybody else. And I am quite sure it is her. That long, black hair, and the way she walks and holds herself, are very distinctive. Just to look at her makes me feel a frump.”
Anthea put on no airs for Bobby. To him, this frankness was one of her most endearing qualities. He had become a good friend and she felt she could talk to him as freely as to one of her own family. It was a pleasant change. On this personal level she was often awkward with strangers, worrying too much about what they would think of her. It was easier to talk to a crowd than to be comfortable chatting with one person. And her assertiveness towards the outside world was probably a side-effect of her failure ever to rebel against her parents, or even Connie. The public and the private Anthea were two different people.
Pilbeam disappeared into the Stalls. Her neighbours from Brocklehurst Grove went up the curving staircase to the Circle. They settled into seats near the front. Anthea began to inspect the audience with her opera glasses.
“She’s there,” she said. “I’m sure it’s her. She’s sitting on
the end of the row, near the centre exit. Look.”
Bobby wasn’t interested but he grinned at Anthea, took a brief look through the glasses, and handed them back.
The lights dimmed, the curtains parted, and the play began.
4
A Close Encounter
PILBEAM WAS ENTRANCED by everything – from the lighting on the stage to the warmth of the listening audience who stopped being polite and pompous (pretending to read the Bard from morning till night and to have seen all the best performances at Stratford) and became genuinely engrossed in the play. Appleby should have been there after all. Even Appleby would have been enthralled by it.
Pilbeam sorrowed for Shylock. That poor man! Spat upon and spurned, robbed and betrayed by his own daughter, driven to such madness that he almost takes another man’s life . . . The outsider recognised the outsider. When Jessica ran away from her father, Pilbeam thought of Vinetta, worrying herself sick over Appleby’s escapades. And what if Shylock did sound more interested in his missing jewels and money . . . was that not just like Sir Magnus, hiding one feeling under another less painful? Anger is good at masking grief.
In the interval, Pilbeam had courage to lay aside her programme. The man sitting next to her was being attentive to his talkative wife. Pilbeam looked round the hall. She gasped as she saw, four or five rows in front and away to her right, a profile she recognised, a young man talking to. a girl with long, dark hair. In a provincial city, with only one large theatre and the Royal Shakespeare Company on a brief annual visit, it was not such an improbable coincidence. This was indeed Pilbeam’s final sight of Albert Pond, that love of hers she had never thought to see again. He had a girlfriend. Pilbeam, loving him still, was glad.
The first thing Pilbeam did as the final curtain fell was to pull her fur-lined hood well over her head. An unnecessary precaution, but never had Pilbeani been part of such a crowd in a space so enclosed. She walked quickly out of the auditorium. Then up the ramp she went, through the outer doors and into the street, though still under the theatre’s well-lit portico. She looked along towards the corner that led to Kyd Street, expecting to see Soobie standing in the shadows. He was not there.
Bobby and Anthea came out of the theatre and began walking down towards the spot where they had parked the car.
“There she is,” said Anthea, spotting the distinctive figure in the red coat. “She must be trying to get a taxi.”
Pilbeam was looking round uncomfortably, unsure whether to set off walking home alone. But Soobie might come along Kyd Street, or he might be jogging up the High Street. They could miss each other. If Soobie arrived and she was not there, he would be anxious. In such circumstances, Appleby would have strode off regardless, and would have thought it served Soobie right for being late. Pilbeam was much too considerate even to think that way.
“Let’s offer her a lift,” said Anthea. “She can only say no. There’s no harm in asking.”
Before Bobby could stop her, she was striding across the pavement towards the girl in the red coat.
Pilbeam was looking towards the alley, still wondering what to do. She had no idea that anyone had noticed her, but when she heard a voice behind her say, “We’re going your way. Can we give you a lift?” she knew in a flash that this must be one of their neighbours. The danger was dire. What on earth was she to do?
At that moment, Soobie jogged out of the dark alley and took in the situation at a glance.
The blonde woman with her hand out about to tap his sister on the shoulder was surely their neighbour, the one who had been so busy about saving the Grove. Soobie spurted forward, head down like a rugby player, grabbed Pilbeam by the arm and steered her into the darkness of the alleyway.
“Jog!” he said. “Jog for all you’re worth!”
They ran along the narrow, cobbled street and out of sight.
Anthea, left standing, couldn’t believe it. How could anyone, recluse or no recluse, have such appalling bad manners?
“Maybe she didn’t hear you,” said Bobby when he reached her side.
“She heard all right,” said Anthea. “That must have been her brother who pulled her away. I thought I recognised the tracksuit. He’s another weirdo. I’ve seen him jogging at midnight, but never during the day.”
“Talk about nosy neighbours!” said Bobby with a laugh as they got into the car.
“Interested in my fellow men,” said Anthea a bit frostily. “Just interested.”
They did not drive home in silence. Anthea was incapable of being frosty for long. The evening ended as it had begun, in friendship. And when Bobby suggested another outing. Anthea did not refuse.
“Do you think we could slow down now?” said Pilbeam as they turned the corner out of Kyd Street. “I trotted all the way here. I don’t want to jog all the way home. It does nothing for my image!”
Soobie slowed to a walk.
“Did you enjoy the play?” he said.
“It was wonderful,” said Pilbeam. “We have too few happening-now things in our lives. But I think I might be scared to risk going again.”
“Because of the neighbours?” said Soobie. “I see your point. That was that Fryer woman. She strikes me as being a busybody. She could be dangerous.”
Pilbeam agreed. She never mentioned seeing Albert.
5
A Family Conference
“WE MUST NOT court disaster,” said Sir Magnus looking round solemnly at the assembled family. Everyone was there except Googles. It was their first meeting in Granpa’s room for many months. Sir Magnus had called the conference on the Saturday after Pilbeam’s outing to the theatre. She had told him all about the play, had given him the programme, and had explained why she could never go again. Anthea Fryer. The masterful blonde who lived at Number 9.
Granpa had taken it much more seriously than Pilbeam expected. It became a momentous event that needed to be dealt with as family business. He called a meeting for Saturday so that Joshua could be present. And at seven p.m., when they were all gathered round his bed, Sir Magnus plunged straight into a long explanation of how great was this new, though insidious, threat to the family. He was seated bolt upright, unsupported by his many pillows, leaning forward so that his purple foot, which always hung over the side of the bed, was actually touching the floor.
“This Fryer woman,” he said, “is as great a danger as the planners who wanted to destroy the street, possibly even greater. Planners are not interested in people. This young woman is.”
“I think you are exaggerating, Magnus,” said Tulip, trying to calm all their fears. “We will ignore her, as we have always done. She has lived in the street for about five years, I should think.”
“Four years and seven months,” said Soobie, who was always very precise about the dates when people moved in and out of the neighbourhood. From his seat in the lounge window he had a ringside view of every disgorging pantechnicon. The Fryers were remarkable because a second special van had delivered a grand piano.
Tulip gave Soobie an impatient look before continuing.
“This woman,” she said, “may move away at any time. She and her family will probably be as transient as others have been. Her prime concern in saving the Grove was probably to ensure that her house should not become unsaleable. I don’t blame her for that, but, take it from me, that will be the truth of it.”
Magnus was scornful.
“We are talking about here and now,” he said. “Next week, not some hypothetical next year. There is every chance that Miss Fryer will speak to Pilbeam the very next time she leaves the house. Then what? And she may know by sight any one of us that is in the habit of going out into the street, for whatever reason. She is dangerous.”
Miss Quigley looked smug.
“She would not know me,” she said, “not even by sight from a distance. I have a talent for fading into the background and being totally inconspicuous. It has to do with being nondescript, I suppose.”
There was always a b
ite in Miss Quigley’s blandly delivered statements. Soobie alone recognised and appreciated the dryness of her wit.
“That could be useful,” said Sir Magnus looking directly at the nanny for the first time in ages. “It is certainly worth considering. We may need you. We will need you!”
The others looked puzzled.
“As I see it,” continued Sir Magnus, speaking now to everybody, “we must all stay indoors for a month or two, till Miss Fryer loses any interest she might have in the residents of Number 5.”
“Stay indoors!” said Appleby. “For a month or two? You must be joking! Easy enough for you, Granpa. You haven’t been out of that bed since Christmas. And then it was a major event. I’m not staying cooped up in the house for days on end. I go places. I see things. I buy things. That’s what life’s about.”
Vigorous as usual, blunt and determined, but no match for her grandfather on this occasion. His black button eyes glared at her.
“You will do what you are told, young lady, or you might find yourself shut up in the airing cupboard. That is really being cooped up. Remember?”
Appleby seethed, but said no more.
“I suppose I could get by without going out,” said Tulip, “but it will be inconvenient never to go to the wool shop. I have my work to do, you know, Magnus. I will need the wool.”
The only place Tulip ever went to was, in fact, the wool shop. Infrequently and with a sense of occasion, she took off her checked pinafore and dressed up to go out. She would wear her one and only outdoor coat, dark grey, in a princess style with a silver fur collar and a half-belt on the back. On her head she would wear a matching felt hat with a veil that she pulled down over her brow. The clothes were old-fashioned, but they served their purpose. The woman inside them was totally unrecognisable, but obviously a lady.