by Noel Virtue
Ivan simply smiled and squeezed her arm.
‘There we are,’ he said, nodding forward. ‘The brightling Brighton sea.’
Arm in arm they continued in the sunshine towards the Hove lawns. The day had become warmer while they’d been having lunch, the colour of the sky deepening. Seagulls screeched from rooftops. There were more people about. Jean began to relate a little of Aunt Dizzy’s behaviour while she had been living at the hotel in Mayfair. By the time they reached the promenade Ivan was chuckling. I like this man, Jean thought. It was almost as if she was out walking with someone she had just met, a stranger who was kind and courteous and gently ironic. If she was not careful she might end up having enjoyed a most pleasant day.
NINE
Two weeks had passed. Jean had still not heard from Freida. Her telephone rang unanswered. Ivan Fitzpatrick had settled into the third guest room on the first floor with apparent ease. There had been no mention of when he might return to Brighton. Jean had not asked. He acted as though he would remain for the duration. She had even been up into the attic to find some suits for him that had belonged to her father. It had not upset her, sorting through the trunks of clothing. She had expected it to. Not having wished to be rid of her parents’ belongings, she had decided never to look at them ever again. Time had proved her wrong.
‘He’s a plain, wholesome man,’ Aunt Dizzy had commented about Ivan. ‘Straightforward. Obviously middle class, which is why he hasn’t much to say. Boring, in fact. And he snores, when he isn’t talking to himself. I should have moved downstairs, Jean, when you kindly suggested it, but there’s no accounting for us women. We are contrary, even if I say so myself. I’ll stay where I am and suffer. One day you’ll take pity on me and have a stair-lift installed.’
She had invited Ivan to join her and Christopher on several outings, but he had politely declined. The usually unreliable spring weather was so mild that Ivan had taken to sitting on a wicker chair in the garden, reading. He had joined the local library – on a temporary basis, he’d explained, and read incessantly. He apparently enjoyed the company, being at Acacia Road, but now having shared with Jean the rudiments of his Brighton days alone he had little more to say to her or anyone except to his late wife to whom he talked, in his room at night, with what Aunt Dizzy described as vigour. Yet Ivan seemed relaxed. He smiled often during dinner. Jean had taken him out for lunch twice, but he claimed to prefer homely English cuisine. Christopher cooked. Aunt Dizzy insisted on paying the food bills. Jean found Ivan one morning with the Hoover and a duster, wearing an old apron he’d discovered hanging from the back of the kitchen door. As he dusted and vacuumed he hummed tunelessly. Christopher said he didn’t mind at all that Ivan was taking on the cleaning. Jean had stopped paying him anyway.
Ivan and Jean had walked along the seafront before leaving Brighton to Palace Pier, on which Ivan insisted Jean stroll with him, right to the end and back, stopping to gaze at its fairground attractions and shops. They sat in the sunshine on deckchairs, enjoyed a drink in one of the bars, all the while Ivan talking about himself and May. He left Jean sitting in Pool Valley while he hurried back to his room to pack a bag. He’d brought two large suitcases and a backpack, as well as a plastic carrier bag filled with paperback westerns, which, he explained, he’d begun to enjoy. His taste ranged from those to political thrillers and even the occasional horror novel. He read several novels at once and had begun to leave books scattered all over the house. Aunt Dizzy thought they lowered the tone.
‘I don’t mind anyone reading,’ Jean overheard her telling Christopher, ‘but it’s a sad-arse case who lets such common stories rule his life.’
Having dismissed Ivan as a rather dreary, crusty middle-class hindrance, she continued a new course of trying to visit every London art gallery she could find, with the idea of investing.
‘We could fill this house with art, Jean,’ she suggested one morning over breakfast, staring with disdain at Ivan who was engrossed in a James Herbert novel with a lurid cover. ‘There’s no end of wall space, ducks. Got to spend my money on something and contribute. Then when we’re all headed for the flophouse we can sell them one by one and live off the proceeds. Their value does accrue, so I’m told. There’s profit to be had in pictures.’
Christopher had stopped going to college. He was looking for a job. He had never wished to study further once he left school. It had been his father’s idea, he told Jean one night, to study for a degree and escape the clutches of his mother.
‘But what will you do?’ she asked. Christopher had merely shrugged. They were sitting in the morning-room with mugs of hot chocolate. Ivan and Aunt Dizzy had both retired to their rooms. Christopher had asked to hear Jean singing, so she’d played him selections from two CDs. He had listened with his eyes tightly closed and told her afterwards with great emotion that her voice was rapturous. Then he awkwardly stood to his feet and kissed her on the forehead three times. He did not suffer from body odour any longer, so his close proximity and the kiss were bearable and almost poignant, despite the rubbery touch of his lips.
His mother had recently had a letter delivered which had been printed off a computer and pushed through the letterbox. All across the top of the letter were small coloured portraits of Jesus with a snow-white beard. The portraits looked more like Santa Claus.
We are all LOUDLY praying for you three times a day now and five times on Sundays, she wrote. Whatever you are doing with that old woman I met you with is none of my business, but at least it will be less perverted than the company you kept with my damned-to-hell brother. As I cannot truly deny that you exist, then please expect me to keep on by letter in attempts to save you from your horrendous sins, just as I once saved your father. You will never be welcome again in my house, but I remain, in Jesus Christ’s name, your loving mother.
She had enclosed various religious tracts of a more thunderous nature, which Christopher intended to keep in a box-file beneath his bed. As, he said, there would be more. He still loved his mother, he explained. There seemed no reason, to his mind, that he should stop.
‘I want to ask you something,’ he said, sniffing at his fingers after picking up and discarding one of Ivan’s library books, a battered, creased paperback called Slicing the Departed.
‘Go on.’
Christopher sniggered.
‘It’s Uncle Fergus. He wants to know whether he can come and stay sometimes. Overnight. We won’t make any noise. He likes you. He likes Aunt Dizzy. He didn’t want to ask you himself because he gets depressed when people say no.’
Jean was mending a pair of Ivan’s woollen socks. Ivan owned twenty-seven pairs of woollen socks. Two pairs of nylon socks Jean had managed to lose.
‘You mean in your room? Or would he like to take over the last guest room?’
Christopher blushed.
‘He’s … changed his mind about things. That we should be sort of married before … sex.’
Jean did not look up from her mending. Christopher coughed.
‘You said I shouldn’t be scared of that word,’ he added.
‘Christopher, you’d have to be very discreet. And no,’ Jean said at his stare of consternation, ‘you haven’t embarrassed me. Not at all. I was thinking of Mr Fitzpatrick. Ivan. I’m really not certain how he’d take it. He’s quite conventional in his way. I don’t wish to upset him. I don’t want it flaunted in front of him. He might not understand. I don’t see why you can’t go to Fergus’s house.’
‘Is he staying here? Like me?’
‘Possibly. I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind. He’s got no one else. And I like him, Christopher. I know he doesn’t say much, but he’s had a rough time recently and he was my father-in-law. He was living in an awful room down in Brighton. Hove.’
They fell silent. Christopher picked up the paperback novel again and started sniffing the pages. Then he put it back and overtly wiped his fingers on his shirt. Jean watched him with a gentle smile. Christopher kept rapidly lifti
ng his heels off the floor and letting them fall. He tapped on his knees with his hands, not looking at her.
‘What sort of a job are you going to look for?’
‘There’s one going up at the library. Just sorting returned books. It doesn’t pay much.’
‘Money isn’t a problem, Christopher. You know that. I shan’t expect you to pay rent. If we go short you could always write a begging letter to your mother.’
Christopher sniggered.
‘If you do work up at the library you could bring some decent books back for Ivan. Improve his taste. He goes up there almost every day.’ Jean put down her mending and gazed up at the ceiling. ‘I’ve never known anyone who reads so fast.’ Then she added, ‘I’m sure you could get a better job than that. There’s no future in libraries, not in this country. And after all your studies…’
‘What about Uncle Fergus?’
‘I’ve no idea if he reads. You’ll have to ask him.’
Christopher looked away. His lips sagged. He seemed as if he was about to cry. ‘Oh, go on then, you’re obviously anxious. Fergus can come to stay one night a week. A trial run. But he’s to promise, mind – no wandering about the house wearing next to nothing as you do. Understand?’
Christopher had taken to coming downstairs in his underwear and socks.
‘Uncle Fergus would never walk about like that! He’d wear pyjamas and a dressing-gown. He’s got five dressing-gowns. They’re all silk. He bought them in Singapore.’
‘Not even in those,’ Jean said. ‘No, if he is to stay overnight then he will have to be discreet. Ivan goes to bed early. What say you ask Fergus to arrive late in the evening, but you both must stick to your room.’
‘OK.’
‘And no loud giggling. Or laughing. I heard you with Auntie last night in her room. It was gone two o’clock before you went to bed. That must stop. I’ll have a word with her. I’ve no idea where her energy comes from. I don’t want the three of you holding pyjama parties or midnight feasts. Heaven forbid.’
‘We aren’t children,’ Christopher mumbled.
Uncle Fergus often joined Aunt Dizzy and Christopher on their frequent outings. Jean had begun to suspect that they allowed Christopher to drink while they were out. She had been roused several nights ago at one a.m. by the three of them in the downstairs hall, giggling loudly after Uncle Fergus dropped them off. Ivan had been standing outside his bedroom door as Jean emerged to see what the commotion was downstairs.
‘I thought it might be burglars,’ Ivan had stage-whispered at her. He was wielding his umbrella like a weapon, wearing a dressing-gown the like of which Jean had not seen since the 1950s. It was all thick wool and had a rolled waist-sash with pom-poms. She had apologized to him also in a whisper, and he’d smiled sadly and gone back into his room, locking the door. He rarely failed to lock his bedroom door when he was in there. She heard him talking to May.
Jean had found Christopher lying on his back on the hall carpet, kicking his legs in the air. He wasn’t wearing shoes or socks. Uncle Fergus was leaning over him tickling his sides. Aunt Dizzy was clapping her hands as she looked on and began to cry out ‘Whoop-whoop, whoop-whoop!’ All three appeared to be drunk. Getting to his feet, Christopher had then fallen over and lay on his side in a helpless fit of giggles. Jean had herded them upstairs, after sending Fergus out the door, in an angry silence.
Anthony Hibbert telephoned. He sounded rather nervous. It was late, almost midnight.
‘I’ve bought tickets for a new production of Butterfly,’ he told her in a clipped voice. ‘Do you fancy going?’
‘I’d love to. I’m surrounded by the aged and a drunken juvenile.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Never mind. Look, may I meet you somewhere? I’d rather you didn’t come to the house right now.’
‘Is something wrong? It’s all right, I don’t mind if you aren’t interested.’
‘I am. When’s the performance?’
They arranged to meet along Floral Street where he said he’d take her for a meal beforehand.
‘I’ve a friend who owns a small restaurant,’ he said.
‘I’m sure you have.’
Are you all right? You sound tetchy.’
‘I’m fine, Anthony. How was Belgium?’
‘Beastly. You know, I really dislike English publishers when they’re abroad. I’ve been really looking forward to seeing you.’
‘As I said, I’m old enough to be your mother. Beastly?’
‘It worries you, doesn’t it? My being a little younger.’
Jean could not think of an answer. Anthony was less than half her age.
‘Jean?’
‘I’m still here.’
‘It’s just an evening out. I’d like an evening out with a truly beautiful woman who doesn’t talk shop.’
‘Oh, all right. You’ve talked me into it.’
After she replaced the receiver she realized that Ivan was standing in the morning-room peering through at her. The door was wide open.
‘I seem to have mislaid one of my library books,’ he said. ‘Can’t find it anywhere.’ Then he stared at her with a frown. ‘I’ve just had a fright. There’s a peculiar-looking man in the bathroom doing press-ups in his underwear. He said he was Uncle Fergus. Is he a relative?’
Jean started to laugh, then stopped and didn’t reply. Briskly she helped Ivan find his book. After he’d gone slowly back up the stairs looking bemused she headed for the kitchen, rummaging in the cupboards for a half-bottle of gin she kept in a cake tin.
Anthony was already waiting for her on the corner of Floral Street when she arrived the following evening. She almost didn’t recognize him. He had had his hair cropped short, wore a silver ring in the lobe of his right ear and sported designer stubble. He held her loosely by the elbow as they walked back down the street to a tiny restaurant with hanging baskets of late daffodils and with gas lights out the front. Anthony kept grinning at her every time she glanced at him. He smelt delicious, in a new grey suit.
‘Am I mumsy enough for you?’ she asked.
He laughed. ‘You look gorgeous. Edible.’
Jean had agonized over what she should wear, as if she was about to embark on a first ever teenage date. She wore black. She had remained in her rooms for two hours before leaving. Ivan had been hovering about downstairs, obviously wishing to speak to her about something. Aunt Dizzy and Christopher had gone out earlier to visit a new gallery in Camden Town which encouraged young London landscape artists and was holding a sale. Christopher had avoided her all day. He had not appeared for breakfast. Jean had burnt six slices of toast. The coffee was too strong. Ivan’s tea bag had split. Aunt Dizzy sat doing The Times crossword all during breakfast saying almost nothing at all. Ivan sat reading a horror novel by Christopher Fowler. He kept tut-tutting until Aunt Dizzy eventually asked him with a voice dripping with frost to be quiet. Jean suspected that Uncle Fergus had stayed the night and was still upstairs with Christopher.
The restaurant was overheated and overcrowded, filled to capacity with young people, most of whom Anthony seemed to know. Several waved and stared. Two young men threw Anthony elaborately gestured kisses and stared openly at Jean with knowing smiles.
‘You’ve two huge fans there,’ Anthony whispered as they made their way across the room.
‘Spare me,’ Jean whispered back. He steered her to a table on its own in a far corner. Immediately they sat down two waiters who looked no older than thirteen hurried across with a Japanese screen which they deftly opened out and arranged so that Jean and Anthony were separated from the other tables.
The advantage of having friends who own a restaurant,’ Anthony told her. ‘This place is always packed. I’ve already ordered. A drink?’
Jean realized half-way through the meal that she had never been out with anyone so attentive. Anthony did not take his eyes off her. He behaved as if there was no one within a five-mile radius.
‘I’ve been planning this
for months, you realize,’ he told her. As well as how to have my wicked way with you.’
‘It’s just an evening out, Anthony. An evening out with a truly handsome young man who doesn’t talk shop.’
Anthony laughed. ‘So why couldn’t I come to the house?’
As they ate Jean told him about her guests and her day in Brighton with Ivan. His puzzlement at finding Uncle Fergus in the bathroom. ‘I’ve a full house,’ she said.
‘Seems to me you’ve been lonely, Jean Barrie.’ Then, after she didn’t respond, he said, ‘I came across someone who knows you, in Brussels. Well, a couple of my colleagues did. A Miss Truman, she calls herself. Caught a glimpse of her at one of the inevitable gatherings, on the arm of one of our rivals. Kept talking about you in a loud voice apparently. The book – your book – was mentioned. Or rather its abandonment was talked about.’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you know her?’ Anthony was watching her carefully. Rather too carefully, Jean thought.
‘She was my lodger.’
‘You never mentioned that!’
Jean shrugged. ‘You never mention your wife.’
He blinked but did not respond. ‘I thought I’d seen her before. Catherine Truman. I think I saw her a couple of times when I was coming to the house. Up near the tube. You never said a thing about her.’
‘She stole a poster from the hall,’ Jean said. ‘She was …’
Just then the two young men who’d thrown Anthony kisses appeared around the corner of the screen. They were wearing identical suits.
‘Hi!’ they said in unison. Anthony sighed loudly. He cast Jean an apologetic smile and introduced them. They were both called Jeremy. They gushed. One of them insisted on kissing her hand. The other kissed Anthony’s hand.
‘Wonderful to meet you, Jean Barrie,’ they said, again in unison. They told Jean they each owned a copy of every album she had ever made.