Alice's Secret Garden

by Rebecca Campbell

  ‘I think so. But your scoring system doesn’t seem to work very well. What if you’ve chalked up two and a third points, then lose half a point for a mistake? You’d find yourself with some very peculiar fractions. No, on second thoughts, please don’t answer that, I really don’t care enough. That, I presume, is the spade-no-tash?’ Alice nodded down the bar towards a harmless-looking man who’d just been stabbed in the chin with a wombat. ‘It looks like it must be the, what was it? Fell-walker’s chin cosy.’

  ‘You catch on fast,’ said Andrew. ‘But then you learn from the masters.’

  Shortly afterwards, the office began to arrive. The secretaries and support staff were moderately glammed-up, but most of the experts were still tweeded and frowsty, except, of course, for Ophelia. Most had not, in fact, brought partners. Oakley’s wife appeared, walking like an ostrich, almost to the point of her knees going the wrong way. Her face wore the expression of someone about to be given an award she hadn’t expected and didn’t want, and her hair looked like yellow candyfloss, moulded by a Stasi operative.

  ‘Phwoar!’ said Leo, frothing his beer. Andrew had begun to do a little initial circulating, leaving Alice and Leo temporarily alone. Alice wasn’t sure if the phwoar had been a comic one aimed at Oakley’s extraordinary spouse, or a real one intended for Ophelia, but given a comic camouflage.

  ‘Andrew told me you carry a knife.’

  ‘Really? I must be more discreet with that boy. Did he also tell you about my flame-thrower and collection of Victorian pornography?’

  ‘It seems rather a rash thing to do. The knife, I mean. Isn’t it illegal? Can I see it?’

  ‘Look,’ he said, seriously. ‘It’s not a flick knife or a hunting knife, or any kind of stabbing-people-in-a-pub-brawl kind of knife. It’s a rather beautiful Renaissance stiletto, and I carry it around because I want …’ Leo stopped, and then went on. ‘Because it’s just a nice thing to have.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Alice, aware that she might have trampled on some unsuspected area of sensitivity. She’d assumed that so odd a thing as going around the place armed might be something that Leo would want to talk about. She supposed he’d have a funny story about it.

  ‘Who’s that vain-looking woman over there, ignoring poor old Andy?’

  ‘Oh her. She’s Ophelia. Nominally our art books expert. I expect you’re in love with her already. It’s usually the way.’

  ‘So that’s the fatal Ophelia. Yes, I think I probably am. Why not introduce us?’

  Leo had been sitting on a bar stool, and Alice was amazed to find that he was no taller than she when he stood up. Sitting over the bar had also gone some way to disguising the fact that he was strangely ill-knit, not twisted or handicapped in any way, just somehow not quite optimally put together. Had he been less fierce, less caustic, moved with less swagger, Alice might have pitied him.

  Andrew had been talking animatedly to Ophelia, an animation she passively absorbed, reserving movement for one arched eyebrow. As they approached, Andrew said excitedly, ‘Ah, Leo, I was just talking about you. Why don’t you meet Ophelia. You’d never guess it, but she’s actually one of our experts.’

  Ophelia looked sharply at Andrew, before deciding that he had probably meant it as a compliment.

  ‘So, an expert,’ said Leo, looking up into Ophelia’s wonderful eyes. ‘Isn’t that someone who’s made all the mistakes there are to be made in a very narrow field?’

  ‘I know that, I know that!’ said Andrew, making little jumps. ‘Niels Bohr, the physicist, isn’t it?’

  ‘Or is it someone who knows more and more about less and less. I forget.’

  There was a strange little silence after that, as Andrew searched in vain for the origins of the quote, and Ophelia looked at Leo, her face as blank and fearfully beautiful as a pharaoh.

  Even Alice, who had only just met Leo, could sense that there was something false about Leo’s display of borrowed wit. It didn’t fit at all well with his otherwise menacing originality of thought. Ophelia surprised her by speaking:

  ‘And what do you do, little-friend-of-Andrew?’ As she said it a lovely smile shimmered across her face, taking, Alice thought, much of the sting away from the ‘little’. Perhaps Ophelia was going to be nice.

  ‘Oh, I’m er a …’ Leo stumbled slightly over his words.

  ‘Let me see,’ cut in Ophelia, …’yes, I have a … hunch.’

  Leo’s lips had been about to frame something, Alice assumed, witty and appropriate, triumphantly regaining lost ground. She didn’t think he had any chance with Ophelia, but she wanted him to keep his dignity and even, she hoped, in an unaccustomed spurt of playful malice, knock Ophelia down a peg or two. But at the word ‘hunch’ Leo’s mouth froze.

  ‘Nothing ring a bell,’ continued Ophelia, the smile still lingering, but its true meaning now apparent.

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about, Ophelia?’ said Andrew, clearly a little too drunk, even this early in the evening, to fully realise what was happening.

  Again Ophelia spoke. ‘You’ve come a long way for a drink, haven’t you, er, what was it, Leo. Is Notre Dame on the tube these days?’

  Two or three other people who’d been standing around chatting began to pay attention, aware that something interesting might be happening.

  Still Leo did not reply.

  ‘I’m sorry, perhaps I was being a little vague,’ said Ophelia, sweetening once more her smile. ‘If only I had one of my ponies here, perhaps you’d allow me to swap it for your kingdom?’

  At last Leo spoke, slowly and quietly, but with total clarity: ‘No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity.’

  ‘If you’re calling me a beast, O little-friend-of-Andrew, perhaps you should look in the mirror.’

  It was the immense girlishness of this last comment, its very lack of sophistication or polish, that made Alice see clearly what Ophelia was doing. She had assumed that her spite, what might be called her humour, had been for the benefit of those around – a public display of offensiveness intended to in some way enhance her reputation, or at least diminish another’s. This was, of course, no defence, but it gave the wickedness a human face – it was part of the long bitter wrangle of mankind. But no. This was something different. This was not intended to amuse, or to affect, in some way subtle or crude, the public perceptions of the onlookers. This was a totally private spite, the simple and efficient delivery of pain with a sublime purity of malice; hurt for hurt’s sake. It was then that Alice decided to hit Ophelia. She took a step forward, with every intention of slapping Ophelia as hard as she could, and then her eye caught a small movement of Leo’s hand. He twitched aside the hem of his jacket and Alice saw there in his belt a tiny scabbard, and the black and silver hilt of what she knew must be his famous stiletto.

  My God, Alice thought, he was going to stab her!

  She looked to his face. Its coldness now matched Ophelia’s, although she had already dismissed him from her mind and was turning to talk to one of her handmaidens, a secretary called Anita.

  Acting on impulse, Alice placed her fingers quickly on Leo’s wrist and, putting her lips close to his ear, whispered, ‘I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.’ He spun away as if she’d yelled an obscenity in his ear and then paused, blinking. Alice saw the courage and strength with which he regained a measure of control.

  He smiled a smile like a fissure in a rock and said, ‘What, my round again? What is it about you book people?’

  Andrew, who’d remained motionless throughout the exchange with Ophelia, suddenly flew into action, sweeping both Leo and Alice back to the bar.

  ‘Well, that was fun, eh?’ he said, looking carefully at Leo.

  There was a silence, perhaps only three seconds, but long enough to make its presence felt, before Leo replied:

  ‘Quite a girl. Just the sort of challenge I appreciate.’

  Despite the bravado, Alice could tell that Leo had been cut deeply by Ophelia’s words. She gues
sed that his stature and his slight crookedness must have made him an easy target at school, but as an adult it must have been rare for him to encounter that kind of attack. His black eyes had acquired a deep-blue iridescence, like the wingcases of a beetle, although the clinical side of Alice knew that must be a reflection from the blue neon behind the bar. She could taste the dull metallic tang in his mouth, feel the tightening of his scalp, the tingling at his fingertips. Drinks came and Leo drank back a pint of beer and a vodka chaser before she or Andrew had swallowed more than a mouthful.

  The pub was now packed. Apart from the odd City type, everyone seemed to be from Enderby’s. Many of those who hadn’t brought partners had invited friends from other departments, so there was a smattering of half familiar faces: the nasty old lady who dealt with ancient teddy bears and battered toy cars; a large woman in long earrings from Fabrics; a Porcelain man.

  People kept waving and gesturing to Andrew, and he obviously felt it was time to circulate. He said to Leo, ‘Come on, old chum, let me introduce you to someone that isn’t a bitch. There’s a mate of mine from Paintings who’d actually enjoy hearing your theories about art, unlike the rest of us poor shags.’

  ‘Just give me a minute or two to get properly shit-faced, will you, Andrew? I’m being summoned by Bells at the moment.’

  Andrew looked uncertainly at his friend. ‘Okay. Why don’t I leave my esteemed colleague with you to catch the overspill?’ He glanced quickly at Alice, but managed to convey to her a reasonably complex message, along the lines of ‘if you keep an eye on him and try to be nice, and don’t let him get falling down drunk, I’ll owe you a favour the size of Alaska.’

  After he’d gone, Leo said to Alice, in a low flat voice, without looking directly at her, ‘I wasn’t going to do anything, you know.’

  Alice didn’t know what to say back. She started burbling about Ophelia, telling him some of the stories about her bitchiness and superficiality. Leo interrupted her, talking more to himself, it seemed, than to Alice.

  ‘I like to know that there’s a way out.’ And then suddenly his mood changed. The electric glitter in his eyes intensified and he said, rubbing his hands together, ‘Okay, time to work the room. Let’s see: who’s pretty, who’s clever? Who needs taking down? Who needs dragging up?’

  Alice was about to introduce him to some people she knew when she suddenly caught sight of Odette, who she’d completely forgotten about, coming tentatively through the door. She caught her eye and waved, summoning her over, but also went to meet her halfway. They kissed warmly.

  ‘Thank God you’re here,’ said Alice. ‘This is already the most complicated social event I’ve ever been to, and it’s only seven o’clock. I think I need some of your clarity of thought and unflappability. There’s a fellow I need some help with. I’ve never met him before tonight myself – he’s a friend of Andrew, who you already know all about, and I’ve been sort of taking care of him, which is a bit like the rabbit taking care of the fox. He’s … oh, God, come and see for yourself!’

  ‘Well,’ said Odette, with enthusiasm, ‘this all seems very interesting. I was expecting a quiet glass of sherry with the tweedies, where the most avant-garde happening would be someone buying a packet of cheese and onion, rather than plain, crisps. But by the sound of it I’ve walked into a battlefield.’

  By the time Alice led Odette back to the bar, Leo had gone, and the pub was too crowded for Alice to immediately lay an eye on him.

  ‘Oh,’ said Alice. ‘I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed. I’m sure you’ll get to meet him sooner or later. In the meantime, let’s have a nice girlie chat.’

  ‘I’d love a quick rundown on this lot,’ said Odette, nodding towards the crowd. ‘I can’t quite figure them, at first glance. One of the things about working in the City was that everyone looked exactly the same, but here – well, without going overboard on the individuality, there at least seems to be more than one tribe.’

  ‘That,’ said Alice, with something of the refined Edinburgh lilt of Mr Crumlish, ‘is because we have displayed before us, the Toffs, the Tarts and the Swots, not to mention our solitary Oik.’ She cured Odette’s puzzled look by explaining about her initiation, all those long months ago.

  Meanwhile, Andrew was trying hard to charm Mrs Oakley, who, disappointingly was not called Annie, but Dorothea. She was very good at giving the impression that she thought he was an escaped serial killer, or at the very least someone likely to give her low-hanging breasts a quick tweak should she drop her guard. In his battle for hearts and minds, Andrew had tried flattering her person, but got no further than ‘Oh, I think your dress really is awfully …’ before radio silence descended on his creative faculties. He then switched to being nice about Oakley, which was yet more of a challenge to his ingenuity. ‘Yes, no one has ever disputed his … erm … er … watchfulness. Um … his tremendous sense of …’ of what? Of what? How to combine being a stickler for the irrelevant minutiae of office life with a complete inability to grasp what was significant? His way of inciting both fear and pity? How to mix a metaphor like a martini – who could forget his injunction that they should all be singing from the same level playing field? Thankfully Clerihew arrived just then to relieve him of the need to complete his sentence.

  ‘On the stump eh, Andy?’ he said, beaming. ‘And trust you to pick on the pretty ones.’

  Andrew made an audible scoffing noise, but slightly misjudged his airway management procedures and expelled a small amount of mucus from one nostril. Luckily he had a hanky, and was fairly sure that no one had noticed the accident, until he saw Dorothea Oakley’s face, half of which was given over to evident disgust at his display, and half to a tittering, hideously girlish appreciation of Clerihew’s fawning compliment.

  ‘Oh, Cedric,’ she said, fanning herself with a heavily ringed hand, ‘you really mustn’t be so gallant. What would Colin say?’

  ‘Well, Dorothea,’ Clerihew replied, standing to a sort of attention, which involved an attempted redistribution of body mass from abdomen to thorax, ‘so long as he doesn’t say I can never again eat your simply wonderful food he can punish me as he pleases. Your Sunday roast is the finest I’ve ever tasted, and I stand by that even though it would break Mother’s heart to hear it.’

  So, thought Andrew, the little shit’s wormed his way into the Oakley family home. Christ, that’s what I call ambition.

  Well, if the gloves are off, let’s see what we can do.

  ‘I thought, Clarence, that you were a vegetarian? Didn’t you make some big fuss about the canteen not having any tofu?’

  Clerihew was caught off balance, but only for a moment.

  ‘I, as much as anyone enjoy a joke, but I don’t quite understand the humour of getting a fellow’s name wrong on purpose, Andy. No doubt,’ he said, looking meaningfully at Dorothea and also, as Andrew suddenly realised, at Oakley himself, who’d just appeared, ‘you’ve got your reasons. And I’m equally sure that you know that my objection is not to meat, per se, but to the hideous industrial effluent that is all too often passed off as the real thing. And Mrs Oakley’s table, I can confidently assert, never carries anything other than the finest, wholesome, organic produce. There is simply no other way it could taste as good as it does.’

  Andrew detected from a slight tremble from one of Dorothea’s wattles that the main organic produce on offer here was bullshit, but he could hardly start insulting her now via an exposure of Clerihew. He mentally doffed his cap to his opponent for the slick move. He then mentally took out a Kalashnikov and splattered his guts over the back wall.

  ‘I’ve just been talking to a young man whom, I understand, is your friend,’ said Oakley in a way that strongly suggested to Andrew that no good was about to come out of this conversation.

  ‘Oh, Leo? Yes, he’s a live wire. Brilliant academic, you know. One of the leading minds of his generation.’

  The leading what of his what? Not for the first time Andrew had the feeling that
his words were being written by a truly bad playwright. No, it was worse than that: a hack librettist translating a Bulgarian folk opera from the period just before the …

  ‘He was talking about Noddy.’

  ‘Noddy?’

  As soon as he said ‘Noddy’ Andrew realised that he should never have said ‘Noddy’. It was impossible to say ‘Noddy’ without sounding like an idiot. Especially if all you said was ‘Noddy’ in a single word sentence, given a rising intonation to turn it into a question.

  ‘Noddy. The historical Noddy,’ continued Oakley, with an expression midway between curiosity and revulsion, like someone who’s found a complicated-looking foreign body up their nose. ‘Apparently he’s doing some research on the subject. Says the standard view was that the Noddy character was based on a Scandinavian wood-sprite, the Nodal, known for playing humorous, and often explicitly … well, sexual, tricks on woodcutters and so forth. Went into considerable detail on the sort of tricks … But then there was also a Viking named in some or other Icelandic saga, Nodrum Ninefinger, who, oh well, can’t quite remember. But this friend of yours, Leo, his view was that Blyton was in love with some chap called Lord Nodderington, who was killed in the trenches in the Great War.’

  So, Leo was on that one. But of course it wouldn’t just be Noddy. He looked around, and finally caught sight of Leo, surrounded by an assorted group of experts and others. They wore the mixed expressions of amusement and shock that Leo always attracted when he was on fire, and Andrew cursed himself again for the folly of inviting him. Once spotted, Andrew managed to focus in on where he’d reached in his rant: