Lady Jean

by Noel Virtue

  Otherwise the street is peaceful and serene and mostly asleep at four thirty on a Wednesday morning. The unusual heatwave still holds sway. Bath water has begun to be commonly used in an attempt to save gardens and window boxes and pots of geraniums.

  Jean had taken Mr Harcourt an early cup of tea and three plain biscuits. He pulled the blankets up around his chin at first, after she knocked quietly and entered his room. His two suitcases sit neatly in one corner of the room beside a wardrobe, one of them opened. On the door of the wardrobe are hanging two grey suits, one of which has a faded pink carnation in its jacket buttonhole.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ Jean asked him. Mr Harcourt reached across and pulled his teeth out from a glass of water and, after inserting them with his head turned away, smiled languidly at her and nodded. He was wearing red-and-white striped pyjamas.

  ‘Thank you, I did. I feel most refreshed.’

  ‘I was going to ask Christopher to bring this up, but he’s still fast asleep, I think,’ Jean said in a whisper. She placed the cup and saucer on the bedside table and as quietly left the room, pulling the door closed behind her. It was just after seven o’clock. The summer heat was already rising. Some of Mr Harcourt’s tea had spilt into the saucer.

  Jean had suggested to Christopher that Uncle Fergus not stay overnight in the house while his father was sleeping in the old nursery.

  ‘He won’t mind,’ Christopher said. ‘He wants me to be happy. He said. He’s had years of gross unhappiness with Mother. He’s very broad-minded.’

  Christopher and his father had talked in Christopher’s room for a whole hour before they’d gone to bed. Uncle Fergus had stayed away but telephoned three times before midnight and once after.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Jean went on. ‘Just out of respect for your father. I never said that Fergus could be here every night, now, did I?’

  Christopher simply shrugged and didn’t reply. Then he grinned, his mouth, as usual when it opened, looking like it was at least a yard wide. His ears grew pink.

  ‘We’ve got plans.’

  ‘You and your father?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’

  ‘Don’t play games, dear. You’re too old. It isn’t beguiling.’

  Christopher sniggered. He wrung his hands and continued to grin even after Jean left the room.

  Christopher had secretly confessed to Aunt Dizzy and Freida that it was to be his eighteenth birthday the same week as Jean’s fifty-eighth. He had never told Jean when his birthday was and she had never thought to ask as, until he had moved into Acacia Road, he knew she had treated him merely as being part of the furniture. On his last birthday, Christopher said, he’d prepared himself a real slap-up breakfast on Jean’s electric oven.

  ‘Fresh fried squid. Large juicy mushrooms. Chips. I ate it all before she came downstairs and gave her cereal and fruit. I brewed good coffee.’

  It had been Freida who had come up with the idea for a double celebration, centred on a formal blessing by her friend the ex-priest, of Uncle Fergus’s and Christopher’s relationship. Aunt Dizzy had clapped her hands at the idea. It had grown and blossomed since then, Uncle Fergus of course being let in on the secret plans and now thoroughly delighted and in approval. Christopher had not yet mentioned the event, which was to be held in two weeks time, to his father. Freida and Aunt Dizzy were to be bridesmaid and matron-of-honour, but Freida wished to reverse the roles, which would give an interesting bent. The ex-priest, whose name was Father O’Connell but who was known locally in Brixton where he lived as Fred the Frock, had been approached and was in happy agreement to undertake the blessing in the garden at Acacia Road, after which he was also happy to accept an invitation to join the garden party that was to follow. Uncle Fergus had suggested a barbecue. He would provide the necessities for that as well as fireworks. Aunt Dizzy was to organize games. Freida was to invite a select few of her more colourful but respectable friends to bolster the numbers. Ivan had not been informed but would, of course, be included. He had now taken a paternal interest in Christopher and talked to him at some length on the history of golf, to which Christopher listened artfully and with not altogether feigned interest, therefore winning Ivan Fitzpatrick over. Ivan and Uncle Fergus greeted each other civilly, but that was as far as their friendship went, as they were grown men. Aunt Dizzy was working on that, spending time with each and praising each to the other in such glowing terms as to make her out to be an intermediary of saint-like qualities.

  They had managed to decide on the details of the bash rather easily, as Jean was spending more and more of her time away from the house with Anthony Hibbert. The two had been to the theatre numerous times and spent an entire day at Richmond and Kew Gardens. Jean slept at his apartment. The expected, explosive scandal of Jean’s salacious biography had not eventuated. The book had simply but mysteriously disappeared from sale, just as Catherine Truman herself had apparently vanished, the entire affair being little more, as Aunt Dizzy put it, than a storm in a paper thimble. Anthony Hibbert kept two copies of Lady Sang the Blues in a wall safe at his publishers, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with string. The New York publisher involved had dissolved its partnership and closed down, Anthony had been able to discover and happily inform Jean, who was suitably underwhelmed. She was adept at dismissing such matters from her mind.

  ‘You may come after the blessing,’ Aunt Dizzy shouted into the telephone, standing in the downstairs hall, holding two tea towels wrapped around ice cubes to her forehead. ‘The blessing has nothing to do with you, Ceddie. You don’t know Christopher or Fergus. What? Speak up, you dolt. Don’t mumble. You’ll have to do something about those loose teeth.’

  Aunt Dizzy had a thumping head and was feeling every frailty of her eighty-one years. She had been out to a late-night jazz club with Fergus and Christopher two nights in succession, which had resulted in an inability to sleep the night just gone, when Jean had wanted the house quiet because of its being Mr Harcourt’s first as an unexpected guest.

  ‘Oh, I know that’ Aunt Dizzy was saying. ‘I’ve always known, Ceddie. I used the word paramour lightly, didn’t you realize? It was irony. I’d never have married you, ducky. You’re too much of a sissy. What? Am I? You’re such a flatterer. Well, all right, you may come to the blessing. You do have things in common with the grooms, I do realize that. Have you a white suit? We are all planning to wear white, like virgins. Now don’t call me again today or I’ll bloody change my mind. I shall lie down and behave like the delicate soul you think I am. No, no, you’re quite right. I realize I do have to slow down, Ceddie … Yes, I am eighty-two later this year. You do make me cross, reminding me.’

  Mr Harcourt was standing in a grey suit and a grey tie in the hall when she replaced the receiver.

  ‘Well, good morning!’ Aunt Dizzy said too loudly and winced, whereupon most of the ice cubes slipped out from the folded tea towels and fell to the floor, slithering across the worn carpet.

  ‘Oh, leave them. They’ll melt,’ she added, when Mr Harcourt stooped down to try to pick some up. ‘The kitchen’s back that way. Christopher’s there, preparing breakfast, I think. Your son. If you’ll excuse me, this aged old frump is planning to spend the entire morning in bed suffering from exhaustion.’

  Before Mr Harcourt was able to reply Aunt Dizzy had swept past him, still scattering the odd ice cube, disappearing into the morning-room and heading for the stairs. Christopher, who had overheard, came out from the kitchen. He stood peering along the hall at his father, wringing his hands, his face flushed.

  ‘I’ve made breakfast,’ he said and grinned sheepishly. ‘Toast. Bacon and fried eggs. Free range. There’s two sausages. I’ve brewed tea.’

  Jean had promised Anthony that she would meet him for a quick breakfast in Soho, at a different restaurant to the one he had taken her to before but another owned by friends. She had not wished to go and therefore not be downstairs for
Christopher’s father when he descended. Anthony had insisted.

  ‘I’ve grave news,’ he told her over the telephone when he’d called at six thirty. Jean had been awake and downstairs in the kitchen, secretly sipping a mug of gin.

  ‘Shit,’ Jean responded. ‘Not more.’

  He’d refused to tell her unless she met him. He was about to fly to Zurich on publishing business. ‘Some damn author’s broken his contract,’ he said. ‘They’re a real pain in the proverbial, all of them. Authors. We’ll be thousands down the drain if I don’t go. Why me? All the man will do is talk about himself and complain.’

  Jean spent twenty minutes gathering her face together by artificial means and telephoned a minicab which miraculously arrived. The restaurant in Soho was empty. One of the waiters sat with his feet in trainers up on a bare table but disappeared as soon as Anthony ushered Jean inside. Anthony had been waiting for her on the street, his face anxious, on the pavement beside him an overnight bag. He was dressed so immaculately she felt as if she were his grandmother. He kissed her fully on the lips and as he did so he squeezed her right breast and she winced but managed a smile.

  ‘I’ve to be out at Heathrow in two hours,’ he told her. ‘Sorry. I did need to see you before I left.’

  They were served herb-laden scrambled eggs and coffee. The restaurant was closed, but the meal took as long to appear as if it were open.

  ‘Christopher’s father has moved in,’ Jean told him as she sniffed at the eggs and jabbed at them with a fork. ‘I shouldn’t be here. He’ll think it terribly rude.’

  ‘How many is that now?’

  ‘Five. No, six. Fergus is there most of the time.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, because of Christopher.’

  ‘No, I mean why are you letting them all live there?’

  Jean poured more coffee and didn’t immediately answer. She shrugged. She’d taken one bite of the eggs and pushed her plate away.

  ‘I have absolutely no idea,’ she said. ‘I’m a soft touch? Christopher’s father shouldn’t be there for long. What is it you so desperately needed to tell me?’

  Anthony stared at her, the grin on his face fading.

  ‘It’s about Catherine Truman.’

  ‘I’m not sure I wish to know, Anthony. Unless she died.’

  ‘She’s been in a car crash somewhere in upstate New York. She’s broken several bones of one leg and fractured her pelvis.’

  ‘You brought me all the way down here merely to tell me that?’

  ‘It’s rather serious. She’s also in a coma.’

  Jean stood up, grabbing her coat. ‘I couldn’t care less. I have more sympathy for the tiny mouse Christopher caught in a trap. I am going home. Honestly, Anthony, this is ludicrous. You could have easily told me – if you had to – over the phone. I’ve enough to think about right now without…’

  ‘I love you, Jean Barrie. I really want you to marry me.’

  Jean paused in the act of pulling on her coat, sudden anger suspended. Anthony stood up and, arms at his sides, was staring down at the table like a lost child. His voice sounded almost desperate.

  ‘That isn’t news either. I know you love me. You don’t stop telling me. You’re not even divorced yet.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘What on earth am I going to do with you? Really.’

  ‘Marry me.’

  ‘Go to Zurich. Sort that out first. Then we’ll talk.’

  ‘Promise?’

  Jean nodded. They stood gazing at one another in silence until Anthony said, his voice just above a whisper, ‘I’ll pester you until you give in, you know. I want to share my life with you.’

  ‘Is it true, about Catherine Truman?’

  ‘Yes of course! We heard last night, by fax from the New York office. We’ve still a vested interest in you.’

  Jean’s anger returned. She felt like hitting him with a clenched fist.

  ‘And is that why you wish to marry me? So you can pester me about my past whenever you wish? You’re still planning to publish? I’m your path to riches? Ha! Prick!’

  ‘No! That’s not true.’

  Anthony moved across to her around the table and took hold of her hands.

  ‘I’ll call you tonight, from Zurich. It’ll be late. Please?’

  Outside he hailed a black cab and was still standing with his bag, watching her, as the cab slowly manoeuvred down Brewer Street and turned right. She watched him through the rear window until he was out of sight, just standing there, smiling slightly, and she realized that her heart was thudding and that her mouth had gone quite dry and it was just possible that she might love him as he wanted her to.

  The house felt empty when Jean arrived back. She called out and received silence as her answer in the front hall. She was rather relieved. Though as she moved into the morning-room she could hear a gaggle of voices wafting in through the open french windows from the garden. Freida, Aunt Dizzy in the usual hot pants, Christopher, Fergus, Ivan and Mr Harcourt were all sitting in a circle on chairs arranged around Freida’s table, which was overflowing with plates and mugs and a coffee percolator, which threatened to topple over. There was an immediate silence as soon as Jean appeared. Freida and Aunt Dizzy were looking decidedly guilty, as everyone stared Jean’s way apart from Christopher, who was examining his bare right foot, having angled his leg so that his toes were inches away from his flushed face.

  ‘Lady!’ Freida called. ‘We hadn’t expected you back so soon!’

  ‘Plotting?’ Jean asked.

  ‘Murder. We’re going to poison you, no, bludgeon you to death and then leave you soaking in a bath of water, which will be used afterwards to nourish the garden once your corpse has been hauled away.’

  ‘Slut.’

  Christopher, lowering his leg, sniggered. Uncle Fergus whinnied. Mr Harcourt looked decidedly ill at ease, sitting stiffly in his suit and tie balancing a cup and saucer on his knees. He cast Jean a confused, slightly terrified glance then looked away.

  ‘I do apologize, Mr Harcourt,’ Jean said as she moved across the grass. ‘I didn’t intend to leave you alone with this rabble. I had an urgent appointment. Has Christopher been looking after you?’

  She glared blackly at Christopher and then pointedly turned her gaze on Fergus. Fergus didn’t notice, as he was smiling in an affectionate manner at Aunt Dizzy. He was wearing bright yellow trousers and what looked like a Hawaiian shirt with short sleeves. His pale, hairless arms seemed quite devoid of flesh.

  ‘We were all enjoying a lovely chat about the last war, Jean,’ Aunt Dizzy suddenly said with noticeable deceit splashed across her face. And television programmes. I’d planned to sleep in, but one must be sociable with a new guest at hand.’

  ‘Must one?’

  Jean, still standing and irritated, glanced to her left and noticed the top of Mrs Meiklejohn’s head, so close to the dividing wall that it was more than likely that the woman had been eavesdropping.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Meiklejohn!’ Jean called, so loudly that everyone jumped. ‘How are you coping with this awful heatwave?’

  There was no response. The head lowered itself from sight. There were rapid footsteps along her path, followed by the slamming of her door. A flock of sparrows rose up from Mrs Meiklejohn’s roof and scattered like storm-tossed leaves.

  ‘Bloody woman. I hope none of you were talking out of turn,’ Jean said. ‘The Lady Maggot was listening.’

  Christopher exchanged a look with his father, who frowned and carefully took up his cup and saucer, placing it on the pile of dirty dishes on the table. Everyone remained silent. Aunt Dizzy pretended to brush crumbs from her purple hot pants and bare legs. Frieda suddenly laughed, then stopped.

  ‘Whoops!’ she said.

  Unseen and unheard and indoors, Mrs Meiklejohn headed as fast as her short legs would carry her through her spotlessly clean kitchen and into her hall, picking up the telephone, tapping out a number and, while waiting for a repl
y, gazing with satisfaction at a huge, still-life oil painting which she was convinced was valuable and one day wished to present on Antiques Roadshow.

  ‘Nellie?’ she said. ‘It’s me. I have some news. You won’t like it. I don’t wish to alarm you unduly, but you should know. Now…’

  Her usually loud voice, as she related what she had heard, descended slowly into a rapid, conspiratorial whisper. The knuckles of her hand turned white as she clutched the receiver of the telephone. Spit flew from her lips, adhering to the mouthpiece of the telephone like tiny globules of benign acid.

  FIFTEEN

  A black cat sits beside a flower-bed on the dry, yellowing grass in Jean’s garden. It crouches forward, sniffing at a particular small area of freshly dug earth, on top of which have been inserted two ice-lolly sticks, stapled together in the shape of a small cross. It is just after sunrise. The cat begins to pat at the earth with a paw and then in a not uncommon feline movement pushes at the earth, which is loose, until a small portion of fur appears. The cat inches forward, still a little suspicious but its senses telling it that here is food. Pushing further at the tiny grave, the cat exposes the withering corpse of the field mouse Christopher has buried there. Delicately, with its teeth, the cat picks up the body and stands to its feet, staring around the garden with widened yellow eyes. Then in one silken movement it turns and runs across the grass towards the rear, leaping with ease up to the top of the wall. Dropping the furry bundle, the cat touches it gently with a seemingly incurious paw until, squatting, it takes the corpse again into its mouth and bites down satisfactorily. The crunching sound as the bones of the body snap is quite loud in the quiet of the warm early morning.

  Mrs Meiklejohn, quite unaware of this, is eating her own breakfast of pre-soaked home-made muesli and milk, sitting on a deckchair just outside her back door. Minus her teeth, which she has not yet inserted into her mouth owing to a small ulcer that has not quite healed, she sucks gingerly on a spoonful of cereal and gazes with reptilian eyes at the horizon of the sky, hoping that it might rain but knowing there is little possibility. And as she carefully eats she listens for any sounds from next door, ready to scuttle indoors should anyone appear or call out. She has promised Nellie Harcourt to report anything untoward regarding the goings-on next door. Nellie Harcourt, in turn, is to put in a quiet word at her church to allow Mrs Meiklejohn access to join the flock of the Loving Souls for Jesus, Golders Green Division.