by Francis King
He paused in shovelling his food into his mouth. ‘ Is that all you’re going to eat?’
‘Somehow I don’t feel hungry.’
‘I’m eating for the whole week ahead. They never give us anything but corn-flakes and bread and margarine for breakfast.’
Even with butter and marmalade, the toast felt strangely dry and tasteless in my mouth. ‘I wish you didn’t have to go.’
He shrugged cheerfully. ‘Well, that’s how it is.’
‘I hate her for not allowing you to stay. Why couldn’t you stay? You wouldn’t be in the way.’
‘She must have had enough of me,’ He grinned. ‘After all, I’m not her One and Only.’
I had an absurd impulse to declare: ‘No, but you’re my One and Only.’ Instead, I found myself saying: ‘You know, I miss my father so much. Last night I was thinking of him. And again this morning.’
It was true. I had so often groaned inwardly at the thought of having to go to visit Dad; had so often postponed doing so; had so often stayed with him for half an hour or even a mere quarter of an hour and had then hurried off. But now his absence was like a perpetual ache; and, as though in an effort to appease that ache, I was constantly dreaming of him, not as I had known him during those last unhappy months but as he had been when he had first come back from the Benedictine community and had seemed to be cured.
Bob put his head on one side, looking at me over his raised fork. He shrugged. ‘You’ll get over it.’
No, no, I shan’t, I shan’t! Any more than I’ll get over your leaving me now. But instead I merely said, with a sigh: ‘Yes, I suppose I shall.’
For a while we sat in silence broken only by the sound of toast crackling between his teeth or his slurping of his coffee. Then I asked, since I knew that any return visit of his might depend on it: ‘Did you leave anything for Isabel?’
‘Isabel?’
I pointed at the closed door between the dining-room and the kitchen. ‘ The maid.’
‘What should I have left?’
‘Well, a tip.’ I put a hand into my trouser pocket and took out a half-crown. ‘ Leave that on the dressing-room table.’
He did not take the half-crown. ‘Is that necessary?’
I nodded. ‘Ma’s sure to ask her.’
‘But she’s not done anything for me. I mean, she gets paid anyway for making the bed and so on – doesn’t she?’
‘Yes. But … well, it’s expected.’
‘I don’t see why you should fork out the money – just because I haven’t got any to speak of.’
‘Go on. Take it.’
Reluctantly, he took the coin from me. ‘ I never left anything for Maria or Violetta,’ he said.
‘Yes, I know.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Ma told me.’
He threw back his head and laughed. ‘She told you! Oh, God, what an old cow! She must have asked them.’
‘Yes, I suppose she must have.’
Then I too began to laugh.
Once again I carried the bag and he carried the battered, corded suitcase, as we made our way down the hill to the underground. He had been in such high spirits during breakfast, but now he was silent and glum.
In the Inner Circle train he said: ‘Those were good days.’
‘Yes, they were, weren’t they?’ Then I added: I think the best of my life.’
He laughed. ‘Isn’t that something of an overstatement?’
‘No. Not at all. Not at all.’
He looked at his watch and then raised it to his ear and shook it. ‘This bloody thing has stopped again. I need a new one. Perhaps your mother might consider giving me a Longines? Gold, of course.’
‘If I had the money, I’d give you one.’
He looked at me, surprised, appraising. Then he said in a slow, wondering voice: ‘Yes, I believe you would.’
At the entrance to the platform, I crossed over, penny in hand, to get a platform ticket from the machine. But he told me: ‘No, don’t get one of those! I hate being seen off.’
‘But I want to see you off.’
‘No. I’d rather you didn’t.’
I sighed. ‘Okay.’ I drew out my wallet. ‘Bob – don’t be offended … don’t refuse …’
He shook his head vehemently. ‘No. No!’
I held out a pound note. ‘It’s not much. But I know you’re dead broke. It’ll help in the week ahead. Please!’
Briefly he hesitated. Then he took the note from me and stuffed it into the breast pocket of his Harris tweed jacket. ‘Thanks. You’re a good pal.’
‘We must spend another hols together.’
He grinned. ‘Yes. We have so much unfinished business.’
What did he mean? Did he mean what I hoped and thought
that he meant?
‘Well – so long!’ He showed his ticket to the collector and hefted
first the suitcase, then the bag. He began to march off down the
long platform, the trilby hat making his head seem even bigger
than usual.
I felt the tears pricking at my eyes. I felt my anger against Ma,
frothily bilious, surging within me.
‘Goodbye! Goodbye!’ I called after him.
But he did not turn round.
Chapter Thirty Eight
‘So our charity boy has gone.’
As I entered the hall, Ma came down the stairs in her new silk dressing-gown, bought in Milan, and feathered mules. She had beautiful feet, small, with high arches. Once, at the villa, I had seen, from my bedroom window, Tim holding one in his hands and kissing it, on the terrace below. I could understand his doing that.
‘Do you mean Bob?’ But of course I knew exactly whom she meant. Sometimes she would also refer to him as ‘the remittance child’.
‘Of course I mean Bob. Who else would I mean?’
‘Yes, he’s gone.’
‘Oh, what a relief! I do hope that next time you decide to invite a school chum for the hols, you’ll find someone a little more sortable.’
‘Why do you keep using that word?’
‘What word?’
‘Sortable.’
‘Well, I suppose I use it because there’s no proper English equivalent. You are in a crosspatch mood.’
‘Suitable. What’s wrong with suitable?’
‘What’s wrong with it? Well, it’s just not quite right. Sortable suggests a social unsuitability.’
She went into the dining-room and I followed her. As she raised the lid of the chafing-dish, I said: ‘You’ve ruined this last week for me.’
‘What do you mean? What do you mean?’
‘By sending Bob away. He was my only company. You and Tim do everything together. I’m always alone.’
‘Oh, nonsense! Stuff and nonsense!’ She speared a rasher of bacon. ‘Aren’t we all going to the Royal Academy tomorrow?’
‘Bob could have stayed. There was no reason why he couldn’t have stayed.’
She turned on me, plate in hand. ‘There were a number of reasons. I was tired of spending money on him. Tired of his gaucheness and – er – rudeness. Tired of his grubbiness. Tired of his total, absolutely total, lack of any kind of charm. You have the cheek to say that I’ve ruined this last week of your holidays. Well, that dreadful pal of yours ruined my whole holiday in Italy.’
Any further argument was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. ‘Oh, do answer it!’ Ma snapped at me. ‘ God knows what those two women are doing!’
I went out into the hall and picked up the receiver. The operator quacked that it was a call from New York – a person-to-person call for Mr Timothy Packer.
‘Who is it?’ Ma was shouting from the dining-room. ‘For God’s sake, who is it?’
‘It’s for Tim. From America.’
‘Well, call him then! Call him!’
Telling the operator to hold on, I raced up the stairs and banged on Tim’s door. When, after a number of bangs, there was
still no answer, I crossed over and banged on Ma’s.
‘Hello! Yes, yes!’ Clearly I had woken him.
‘Telephone! New York!’
‘Oh, Christ! Coming, coming!’
His face flushed, his eyes bleary, his feet bare, in only his pyjama bottoms, he lurched through the door. ‘What a bloody awful time to ring!’ It was almost eleven.
Grumpily he picked up the receiver. Ma was now out in the hall, a cup of coffee in one hand. He scowled over at her, as he said: ‘Yes, yes … This is Tim Packer here.’ Then his face was irradiated. ‘Oh, Aaron! Aaron! What a wonderful surprise.’
Ma drew in her breath sharply, then approached yet nearer to the telephone, in an effort to hear what was being said.
‘… But that’s terrific … Jane Austen’s Emma … No, I can’t say I’ve read it, you know what an ignoramus I am … Yes, of course, of course … Of course … Would I like to do it? You must be joking!’
As the conversation prolonged itself, Ma kept saying: ‘ What is all this? What’s this all about? What does he want?’, until, placing a hand over the receiver, Tim told her brutally: ‘For God’s sake, shut up!’
Eventually, the conversation had ended. Reflectively, Tim put down the receiver. Then he looked up at us both and grinned. ‘ That was Aaron,’ he announced, needlessly. ‘There’s a job in the offing. Jane Austen’s Emma. Apparently there’s a character in it – only a minor character, unfortunately, not one of the leads – and Aaron thinks that he might be just right for me. That Huxley man will be doing the script,’ he added.
‘Are they filming over here?’
‘No. Oh, no. In Hollywood.’ He burst into laughter. ‘Perhaps at last, at long last, my luck is changing! I’ve always longed to go to Hollywood.’ Then he sobered up. ‘Of course it’s by no means in the bag. The director may take against me. Who knows? All sorts of things could go wrong.’
Ma put down the cup of coffee on the hall table. Her already made-up mouth looked vividly red against the pallor of her face. She was breathing heavily. ‘You mean – you have to go to America?’
‘ ’Fraid so, old darling. Tout de suite … Once I’ve had a cup of coffee and a bath and got into some togs, I’ll have to rush round to Cook’s to see about a passage.’
‘But you’re not going to leave me?’ Ma was incredulous.
‘I’m not going to leave you for ever, sweetie. Just for a week or two – or a month or two, if I get the job.’
‘But this is terrible!’ Ma sank down on to a chair. ‘This is absolutely terrible! How can I manage without you? You’re The One and Only. Without you, I’ll be’ – her face began to crumple – ‘I’ll be totally lost. Oh, Tim, Tim, how can you be so cruel? How can you?’
‘Now, come on, darling.’ Tim put an arm round her shoulder. Then he knelt beside her. ‘It’s not all that bad.’ He laughed. ‘ Wouldn’t you like me to become another Ronald Colman?’
Ma raised the hem of her silk dressing-gown and wiped her eyes on it. ‘Of course I want you to succeed … want you to become famous …’ She looked imploringly at him. ‘Perhaps I could accompany you? Wouldn’t that be possible?’
Tim’s face set into hard lines of exasperation. ‘ No, I’m afraid it would not. Emphatically it would not. This is a business trip. If you came, I’d be able to spend very little time with you. Frankly, you’d be in the way!’
‘In the way!’ Ma wailed it. ‘What a cruel thing to tell me!’
At that point, I decided that I could take no more. Mess, mess, mess! Why did she have to make such a horrendous mess of everything? I was sickened by this public vomiting out of the emotions on which she constantly gorged herself.
From the sitting-room, where I sat with Ma’s Daily Sketch, I tried not to listen to them continuing to shout at each other. But it was impossible not to do so. At one moment Tim yelled at Ma: ‘You stupid old cunt!’ and at another moment I heard her sobbing – ‘ Cruel, cruel, cruel.’ Then their voices became less and less furious, less and less audible. ‘Oh, never mind, never mind!’ I caught Ma crooning.
Not long after that, I heard them going up the stairs. I knew where they were going. I knew what they were planning to do.
I put down the copy of the Daily Sketch. I felt at once nauseated and excited. I thought of Ma’s bed, with its pink sheets and pink eiderdown and damask silk cover of a darker pink. I thought of those mountainous, down-filled pillows of hers and the light filtering through the thick curtains. I thought of her and Tim lying pressed to each other, limbs inextricably entangled, as once, so many years before, I had seen Ma and Fergus lying pressed to each other, limbs inextricably entangled, in their Ritz Hotel bedroom in Barcelona.
Then suddenly Bob became Tim and I became Ma, and it was he and I on the bed, with Ma’s scent, that scent which even now I associate with her, lemony, sharp, almost peppery, filling my nostrils.
Chapter Thirty Nine
Tim had said that his luggage looked awfully shabby for Hollywood – ‘people judge one so much by appearances over there’ – and so Ma had bought him the two crocodile-leather suitcases which now stood in the hall. Ma had wanted to accompany him to Southampton, where he would be boarding the Queen Mary, but he had said no to that. He had also said no, precipitating yet another row, when she had said that then at least she would see him off at Waterloo. ‘I know why you don’t want me to come,’ she had told him. ‘ You’re meeting that dreadful queen.’
‘Aaron is in the States,’ Tim had told her with icy disdain. ‘So how on earth can he be my travelling companion?’
‘Well, then you’re meeting someone else.’
‘I am meeting nobody, nobody at all. Just get that into your head. I just hate being seen off. I always have hated it.’
Now, all this previous acrimony forgotten, they kept reminding each other to write, to telephone, to take care of themselves, not to do anything silly, not to forget each other.
‘What’s happened to that bloody taxi?’ Yet again Tim looked at the Longines watch. ‘I don’t want to miss that boat-train.’
‘You’re not going to miss it. There’s oceans of time.’
‘Suppose we get held up in a traffic jam?’ Tim was clearly one of those people who suffer from Reiseangst. ‘Suppose the taxi breaks down?’
‘Oh, darling, I’m going to miss you. I’m going to miss you so, so much.’ Tears now running down her cheeks, Ma threw her arms around him.
Perfunctorily Tim patted her back. ‘And I’m going to miss you, sweetie.’
‘You know that you’re my One and Only. There’s never been anyone like you. There never can be anyone like you.’ Then she abruptly let go of him. ‘Oh, God, I’d almost forgotten!’
‘What is it?’
She began to race up the stairs. As soon as she had disappeared, there was a ring at the door. Tim rushed over and pulled it open. It was the taxi-driver, a muffler wound round and round his scrawny neck, its end trailing down his back, despite the summer heat.
‘Bella!’ Tim yelled. ‘ Bella! The taxi’s come. Oh, what the hell is she doing?’ He turned to the driver. ‘Those are the two bags,’ he said.
Ma came clattering down the stairs. ‘I wanted you to take this. As a keepsake. A good-luck talisman.’ She gave a high, hysterical laugh. ‘My marker. To say – this property belongs to me – so, hands off.’
She was holding out something to him, saying: ‘Put it on, put it on! I hope to God it fits.’
What was it? I went forward, peered.
Tim placed the ring on his little finger. Then he held out his hand to us: ‘Perfect. Absolutely perfect.’
The ring was Dad’s signet ring.
Chapter Forty
‘Do you really think you’ll be all right on your own?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘I don’t have to go today.’
‘Yes, you do. The sooner you go, the better. You know that. It’s been preying on your mind.’ Noreen sighs, as she holds up two dried leaves
to the light and squints at them, wondering which of them to use for her collage. ‘Not that you’re likely to get anywhere,’ she says, voicing my own pessimism. ‘ He’s not the sort of person to listen to an appeal.’
Yesterday evening she had what she called ‘a nasty turn’. I heard a bang from the kitchen, followed by a groan, and rushed in from the sitting-room, still clutching the cutlery which I had been about to place on the table for our supper. Her copy of Elizabeth David’s Mediterranean Food lay, open face downwards, on the tiles by the stove, with her glasses, fortunately unbroken, lying beside it. How had she lost the glasses? We neither of us could imagine. She herself was propped sideways on the kitchen chair closest to the stove, on her face an expression of dismay and bewilderment.
‘What happened? Are you all right?’
‘I don’t know.’ There was an oddness in the way in which she seemed to be forcing the reluctant words, one after the other, out of her half-closed lips. ‘Suddenly … I don’t know … I had no idea where I was or who I was or what I was doing …’
I went over to her and put my arms about her. ‘Anyway, you’re all right now. Thank God.’
‘Yes, I’m all right now,’ she replied in a low, perplexed voice. ‘I’d better get back to preparing the supper.’
‘Certainly not. I’ll see to it.’
‘But you’re tired. You did all that gardening.’
‘I’m not in the least tired,’ I answered, untruthfully. ‘Now you go and put your legs up on the sofa. Come on! I’ll help you.’
Now she says: ‘I was thinking last night … If he says no – if he won’t make any changes … It needn’t be the end of the world.’
I say nothing. What can I say? Of course it will be the end of the world, of our world, of this cosy little world of respectability and habit and mutual love, which, oh so laboriously, we have constructed for ourselves over the last forty and more years. How, for a start, are we ever going to sell the shop and the house, at a period when no one can sell anything? And how, at our ages, are we going to acquire new customers and new friends under some other name in some other village, remote from this one, or even in some other country?