by Ann Granger
‘Thank you,’ she said.
We sat quietly for a while, hand in hand. ‘Is it difficult for you to take time off work like this?’ she asked suddenly.
‘I haven’t got a job at the moment,’ I told her. ‘But I’ve got one lined up, in a pizza parlour. It’s a new place, or will be, when it’s finished. The owner’s got ambitions for it. I’m going to have to dress up like someone in the chorus of The Gondoliers.’
She managed a faint smile. ‘You’ll look very nice, I’m sure.’
‘I’ll feel a bit of a prat, though. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’ve got plenty of time at the moment to go to Kew.’
‘Is Mr Patel with you today?’
‘No, he does have a job and he couldn’t get away.’
She nodded. ‘You’ll need some money, all this running around on my account. I’ll ask Sister Helen to give you twenty pounds. She keeps a sort of kitty for each of us for odd expenses. I’m sure there’s twenty pounds in mine. I don’t have any expenses.’ After a moment she went on, ‘I should have known that, shouldn’t I? About your not having a job. I should have asked you that sort of question last time you came. I didn’t ask you anything about yourself I was so keen to get Miranda’s story off my chest. I wanted so much to hear you say you’d do it, do what I wanted.’
She was still calling my sister Miranda. In her mind, Miranda would always be her baby. She knew that baby had taken on a new identity, but a corner of her mind wasn’t accepting it. I had an uneasy feeling that what she was trying to do was turn the clock back. No one can do that.
‘Don’t worry about it.’ I could see she was tired and struggling to concentrate. ‘I’ll come back when I’ve been to Kew,’ I promised. ‘We’ll have a talk then. With luck I’ll have good news for you.’ I stooped and kissed her forehead. Her skin felt soft and papery.
She raised a hand to touch my cheek, her palm resting against my flesh as lightly as a feather. ‘Call Sister,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell her about the twenty pounds.’
I thought Sister Helen might question me about the money, but all she said as she handed it over was, ‘It isn’t necessary for your mother to know everything, Fran. We’ll keep Mr Duke’s death from her and you’ll know if there’s anything else.’
I set off back to London, realising for the first time that even if I was successful in tracking down the Wildes, I might not find what Mum was expecting. If I didn’t, what should I do?
That evening a guy I knew from my drama studies days called Marty came round. He’d heard I was looking for a place to live and he knew of a squat in Lambeth. There might be a place for me, no promises.
I went down there with him so that he could introduce me and tell them I was an OK person. It was a big old house with a damp problem not disguised by an interior decoration top to bottom in lilac paint. The youth who opened the door to us had the pale skin and staring eyes of the confirmed junkie. As he lifted his arm to point up the stairs, his sleeve slid back to reveal the bruises and angry red puncture marks. Any squat I’ve lived in has always operated a no-hard-drugs rule. From behind one door came the sound of a first-class row between a couple who had the technique of veteran scrappers. Any minute now it would become physical. From behind another door a baby wailed with the sad hopelessness of instinct. It knew things weren’t going to get a lot better than this.
As it happened, I was too late and the spare room had already been taken on by someone. I wasn’t altogether sorry. As we left, the junkie at the door asked if we had any spare dosh. Marty retorted, did we look as if we had?
Outside Marty apologised for bringing me on a wasted errand. I told him not to worry and bought him a pint because he’d meant well.
‘The last time I was there,’ he said, still worrying about it, ‘it was a really nice place. It’s gone downhill a bit.’
Like me, he had his standards. Also like me, the stage didn’t appear to be providing him with much of a living. He had a tatty beard and the unhealthy look of someone who eats all the wrong food. However, I was wrong in thinking he had no plans in that direction.
He cleared his throat. ‘I was going to look you out anyway, Fran. I’ve got this, um, project.’
He looked both proud and embarrassed. I asked what it was.
‘You remember Freddy, the landlord at the Rose pub?’
‘I do indeed,’ I said. ‘And if you’re thinking of doing a turn on that stage he sets up, you’d better be ready for anything. I’ve seen the audiences he gets.’
‘Old Freddy’s a bit stage-struck,’ said Marty, defending him. ‘He fancies himself as a promoter.’
‘Freddy fancies himself, period.’
‘Are you going to listen or not?’ Marty asked, hurt by my cynicism. ‘I’m offering you work.’
‘I’m listening!’ I told him.
‘Well, he hasn’t just got that stage downstairs. He’s got a big room upstairs and every Christmas he puts on some kind of a show for his regulars. One year he had a panto. Last year he had an old-time music hall. This year he wants to put on a play.’
Marty sighed. ‘I was hoping I could persuade him to let me put on one of mine. I’ve written several. But no, he wanted something they’d recognise and like. He reckons they’d like a mystery. To cut a long story short, he asked me if I could do a stage version of something with Sherlock Holmes in it. And I said,’ Marty drew a deep breath, ‘I’d adapt The Hound of the Baskervilles. Freddy was pretty keen. All his regulars have heard of that. Most of them have seen the old film on telly. I’ve started on the script. I thought you might like to play either of the female roles, preferably the main one.’
‘Of course I will,’ I said at once. ‘So long as I don’t have to get into a dog outfit and play the hound.’
‘I’m going to have a real hound,’ he said smugly.
‘Marty,’ I pointed out, ‘trained animals cost the earth. They come with handlers.’
‘Don’t be daft, I can’t afford that sort of animal. Irish Davey’s going to train his dog. It looks the part.’
I knew Davey’s dog and yes, it did. It was huge, a mix of breeds, all big. It had shaggy black fur and it dribbled a lot. It was also unpredictable and I doubted it was house-trained. I mentioned this.
‘All it’s got to do,’ said Marty, ‘is run across the stage at the climax of the play. Just go from one side to the other. How difficult can it be to train a dog to do that? Davey will be there to take care of it.’
I had my doubts but Marty was our producer. Let him sort it out.
‘Freddy’s got some Victorian-style costumes left over from the music hall. We can cobble the rest together ourselves. We divvy up the profits between us. Freddy’s going to charge three-fifty a ticket. His regulars won’t pay any more. It eats into their beer money. As soon as I’ve got the script finished and assembled the rest of the cast, we can all meet up and read it through.’
We parted company. I went back to my garage home, wondering if my urge to strut my stuff on the boards had led me to abandon reason. The regulars at the Rose formed the kind of audience which in ancient times watched the lions eating the Christians. They were hooked on inflicting pain. But I was trying to put in enough paid work to claim my Equity card, so I couldn’t be choosy.
The garage looked welcoming and cosy and, above all, private. I wondered again if I was losing the ability to put up with communal living.
I strolled into the shop the following morning and, under the pretext of making some tea, managed to filch the A – Z guide again and take it into the washroom. I located the Wildes’ road on it and slipped the book back on the shelf, I thought rather neatly.
‘I saw you,’ hissed Ganesh, accepting the mug of tea. ‘If you keep on borrowing that A to Z I’ll make you pay for it. It’ll get shop-soiled. What are you up to now?’
‘Curiosity killed the cat!’ I chirped.
‘Killed Rennie Duke, more likely. Try remembering that.’
Hari appeared from the sto
reroom. He looked as if he hadn’t slept a wink all night. His hair was dishevelled and he’d gained so many extra lines on his face it was as wrinkled as an old apple.
‘A man murdered on my doorstep,’ he said gloomily. ‘The police here in my shop interviewing me. All my life I’ve been an honest man. How can such a thing happen?’
I said I was really sorry, as if I’d had anything to do with it.
‘What was he doing there, this is what I want to know!’ moaned Hari. With what could only be described as grim satisfaction, he added, ‘We shall all be arrested. You will see. I am right. All of us, taken away in Black Marias. Everyone watching. I must warn the family to have someone ready to take over the shop when it happens.’
‘Go on,‘ muttered Gan. Go and get yourself into whatever scrape you’ve got planned. It can’t be worse than being stuck here all day with him!’
Chapter Eight
Kew is a nice place, if it’s peace, quiet and civilised living you want. By the time the Tube gets there, it’s been running overground for quite a way, and there was even more greenery by the track than I’d found on my way to Wimbledon. Eventually we reached Kew Gardens station and I wasn’t really surprised to find it looked just like one of those old red-brick ones Hercule Poirot caught his trains at. About six people, all wearing sensible walking shoes, got off the train with me and promptly disappeared. I left the station, passing by a pub and through a small shopping area of upmarket florists, speciality food shops and nice cafés. In the summer I supposed this place would be buzzing with keen gardeners and tourists, but unlike Wimbledon’s get-up-and-go feel, Kew has an air of life taken at a slower pace. I ignored the signs for the Botanical Gardens and was soon alone in a complex of quiet streets.
The Wildes’ house was halfway down a curving sweep of gracious red-brick villas. I didn’t like to think what these houses cost. All the ones in this street were separated from the pavement by large forecourts and wrought-iron railings. The front doors were sheltered by porches held up by columns with Corinthian capitals. They had large square bay windows, offering discreet impressions of designer furnishings within. These kind of surroundings make me uneasy. At the entry to the street was a notice announcing it was a Neighbourhood Watch area. To me, it might just as well have proclaimed Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.
It’s not just that this isn’t my lifestyle. (I like to think my life has a style, by the way, despite Ganesh’s criticisms.) The point is, people who do enjoy this level of living also enjoy other things, like money and influence. They’re pally with magistrates and judges and solicitors and senior cops. Any complaint made by them is taken seriously. In a conflicting version of events, say, my version and any version given by one of them, I knew whose account authority would believe. I was wearing the decent outfit of blazer, sweater, jeans and zip-sided boots I’d worn when visiting Mrs Mackenzie. I still felt like a fish out of water. I also wished I had my puffa jacket, because it was a chilly day. I braced myself, thought of uplifting examples like Joan of Arc and that bloke who walked out of Scott’s tent in the Antarctic, and sought out the Wildes’ number.
The house was much like the others. The ornate capitals of the porch were whitewashed and all the other paintwork was fresh. The bay window was veiled with blinds made out of some sort of natural fibres. There were earthenware pots standing outside the door, ready for planting out when the weather permitted it. It looked a really nice place. I stood outside for a while and wondered if anyone would be at home. It was just after eleven. Coffee-break time. Now-or-never time.
I walked up to the front door and rang the bell. I hadn’t decided how I’d begin. I thought it safer to play it by ear. There’s nothing worse than having a story all prepared and right at the outset something happens to make it inappropriate and you find yourself completely thrown. The funny thing was, although I’d been sick with nerves all the way there, once I rang that bell, the nerves steadied. Now I was doing a job and I meant to do it well.
The door opened. The woman standing in front of me must have been in her late thirties, but in build she could have been a child of twelve. Only her face and skin told me this wasn’t Nicola herself. I’m not tall, but she only came up to my shoulder. She wore jeans which I’m sure she must have bought in the children’s department. A pink knitted sweater, too long in the waist and sleeve, made her look as if she’d been bundled up by an overprotective mother. She had short, curling mid-brown hair, a snub nose and slightly protuberant blue eyes.
I heard myself asking doubtfully, ‘Mrs Wilde? Mrs Flora Wilde?’
‘Yes.’ The voice at least was adult, firm, a little aggressive. She thought I was here to sell her something. She began to close the door, ready to shut me out.
‘My name is Fran Varady,’ I began.
I think if I’d physically hit her it couldn’t have been worse. She stumbled back away from me, putting out her tiny hands on which the wedding ring looked incongruous. Her mouth had fallen open and worked soundlessly. The blue eyes popped at me in terror. The door swung open and I could see her, standing in her tidy hallway, looking as if her whole world was about to be swept away. She even stretched out her arms to either side in a futile protective gesture.
‘It’s all right,’ I said quickly. ‘Don’t get the wrong idea. If you’ll just let me explain, you’ll see there’s nothing to worry about.’
She whispered, ‘Please go away. I don’t know who you are. I don’t want anything.’
‘I’m not selling. You know I’m not, Mrs Wilde. I’ve brought a message from my mother. But please, don’t be alarmed. She’s dying. She’s not seeking to – to disturb anything. She just wants you to know how grateful she is for everything you did for her some years ago.’
Ganesh had been absolutely right. I had got myself into something I should have stayed well clear of. How had I imagined, how had my mother imagined, that I could walk into these people’s lives and not have the effect of an earthquake, shattering the foundations of their world?
‘I don’t know your mother,’ she said, obstinate now.
‘Eva Varady.’
‘I don’t know an Eva Varady. You’ve got the wrong house. The wrong Wildes.’
‘Look,’ I said sympathetically, because I did feel a louse, ‘she told me all about it, but you really don’t have to worry. The last thing I want to do is rock the boat. My mother would like to know that – that your daughter is well and – and everything . . .’ My voice died away.
Flora had regained some composure. The blue eyes had lost their expression of fear and now stared at me as hard and dead as glass eyes in a dummy’s head. ‘I don’t know what all this is about, but I suppose, at the bottom of it, it’s money. Though I don’t know how you think you’re going to get any from me.’
‘No!’ I was horrified. But of course she thought this was a build-up to blackmail. ‘Mrs Wilde, will you let me explain to you about me and my mother? It would make things clearer.’
An elderly woman walking an overweight fox terrier passed the house, calling out a greeting to Flora.
Flora returned it automatically, but the idea that neighbours might see me arguing with her on the doorstep inspired her to change her attitude.
‘You can come in,’ she said in a clipped voice. ‘Provided you don’t bother us again, you can have five minutes to tell me just what you’re up to. Then you either go or I call the police.’
There was a touch of desperation in her voice, and I thought I knew what lay behind it. The Wildes couldn’t afford to call the police or any other authority in connection with my errand. I wasn’t supposed to be there. This wasn’t supposed ever to happen. If an outsider, in or out of uniform, once asked me, ‘Why are you here?’ and I told him, the fat would be in the fire. Suddenly everybody would be wanting answers.
She led me into the kitchen but I doubted I was to be offered any coffee there. I guessed this rear part of the house had been extended, making a large, airy room with a view of a ga
rden which would be nice in warmer weather. Right now it had a winter barrenness about it. Shrubs had been pruned down to brown stalks. Wet leaves from nearby trees were strewn in a decaying carpet across the lawn and on the nearby flower-beds, themselves bare of growth. The only thriving thing was a windmill washing line with a couple of tea towels pegged on it. They flapped in a desultory way. There was a bird table but no sign of any birds, though someone had put a bread crust on it.
Inside, the kitchen was a cosy contrast, with a touch of Homes and Gardens in its Cotswold-type pine fittings and bunches of dried flowers. The predominant tones were muted blues and russets. Flora indicated I should sit at the table and took a seat opposite me. In her big pink sweater and with her doll’s head, she reminded me of a tea cosy Grandma Varady had had, a china lady’s body over a knitted skirt.
I guessed Flora had just returned from a shopping expedition. She’d unpacked her bags but not yet put anything away. The table between us was littered with grocery items, a lot of them organic and none of them containing more than a modicum of fats or sugar. Even the crème fraiche was half-fat, and honestly, what’s the point of that? There were packets of pre-washed salads, waxed cartons of freshly squeezed juices (no additives), a loaf of wholemeal bread and a packet of Ryvita. A few tins had crept in, but they contained things like chickpeas. This was a household which took healthy eating seriously. That was how Flora kept her doll-like dimensions. No one had ever cooked a chip in this kitchen. I wondered if they ate meat. I couldn’t see a sign of any. I thought wryly that had I rung the doorbell half an hour earlier, very likely Flora wouldn’t have returned and I’d even now be on my way home.