Jenny followed me into the room and stopped dead in front of the mural.
“Wow!” she exclaimed. “Out of sight!” She looked over at Dave. “If this is what his work is like, then man, you've got to have him.”
“Actually,” Toby came into the room behind a pile of canvasses, “that mural was Stella's design. It's the same idea as that scarf you were admiring.”
“Of course!” said Jenny, and narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “Well, well, well…”
Chris put the needle down on ‘The John Barry Sound’ and I set about trying to be as helpful as possible. I brought through some chairs from the bedroom, and the easel to rest the canvasses on, found some glass ashtrays for the smokers to use. Then, after making sure everyone had all they needed, I excused myself to go to the bathroom.
My face in the mirror was red and shiny. I'd put my hair up into a French pleat and little tendrils had escaped to form curls around my cheeks, making me look about ten years old. I splashed some cold water onto my face, dabbed on a bit of powder, touched up my lipstick and ran a comb through my fringe. I had begun to feel very gauche compared to Jenny.
When I stepped out into the hallway the bedroom light was on and the door was open, which was strange, because I thought I had closed it after I'd taken all the chairs and paintings out of there. I had no wish for the others to see the mess we were currently living in, nor all of our private things.
I put my head around the corner. Jenny was standing in the middle of the room, nosing her way through a box of books. She smiled when she saw me.
“I couldn't resist taking a peek,” she said. “You really are quite the little bookworm aren't you?”
I felt myself go red again. “Look, do you mind?” I said. “I'd rather you didn't come in here. That's why I kept the door shut. We've only just moved in and,” my words died in my throat as I saw her eyes suddenly well up with tears.
“I'm sorry,” she said, dropping the book she had been holding. “I should have realised.” Then she took a hanky from the pocket in her skirt and started sobbing into it. “I always do stupid things like this,” she went on, “no wonder I never have any real friends. Nobody likes me and it's all my own fault.”
“Look,” I said, feeling guilty now, “it doesn't matter. It's just such a mess in here, what with the decorating and everything, I didn't want you to see the place looking like this. I'm not angry with you, honestly.”
She looked beautiful even in the midst of her tears, not even smudging her kohl, her face just shining luminescently. She stumbled over to me and gave me a fulsome hug. “Oh thank you Stella,” she said.
“Look, why don't you just step into the bathroom there and sort yourself out and I'll make you something to drink,” I said, pulling away from her grasp.
She stood there just staring at me, her eyes completely blank.
“What do you want, Jenny, a cup of tea? I'm sorry I don't have any lemonade.”
I realised I was speaking to her as if she were a child. But it seemed to bring her back to herself.
“I'd love a cup of tea,” she said. “With just a little milk and one sugar.”
“All right then, I'll get that for you. I'll see you back in the lounge,” I said.
My hands were shaking as I poured the boiling water into the pot. Jenny had completely unnerved me.
Thankfully, everyone was still having a high old time in the lounge. Chris and Dave had looked through Toby's best canvasses and offered him space to show five of then alongside their own work at their opening exhibition, which would be held in a month's time. We could begin taking it over to their place in Vernon Yard as soon as was convenient, to see where we wanted to hang them.
“This is all very fortuitous,” said Chris, pouring me a glass of cider without being asked. “Toby's work was just what we needed to forward our agenda. You'll see exactly what I mean when you've looked at what David and I are going to exhibit.”
“Yeah man,” agreed Dave, “we're gonna hit the squares right between the eyes. This is the start of the over-the-counter revolution.”
“Wonderful,” I said, wondering what he was talking about.
I put Jenny's cup of tea down on the chest. She was taking her time in the bathroom. “Here,” said Dave, peering behind me. He had taken his sunglasses off to look at Toby's paintings, using them like an Alice band to hold back his hair. He had dark brown, almost black eyes, and high cheekbones over a full, sensual mouth. It was a wonder he kept a face like that hidden. “Where's that girl gone? I thought she was with you?”
“Oh, she just had to powder her nose,” I said, feeling a tremor of guilt again.
“That'll be Jenny,” he said with a wry smile, his gaze still on the door beyond me.
She emerged a few moments later, looking fresh as a daisy, took the cup of tea gratefully and sipped it demurely, sitting herself down on the floor by the Dansette, her expression now completely beatific.
Dave went and sat down next to her, talking to her quietly and earnestly, stroking her long blonde hair. I ignored what they were saying, drifting to the other side of the room with Toby and Chris. But it didn't surprise me when, ten minutes later, Dave was making their excuses.
“Jenny's beat,” he said, “we're gonna make tracks. Thanks for the night, man,” he shook Toby by the hand, then took my own and gave a funny little bow. “It's a real pleasure to meet some fellow travellers. This is the start of something, man, this is kismet. I'll check you cats soon.”
“Yes thank you,” said Jenny, “it's been a scream.”
She sounded sincere when she said it, and she smiled at me, but her eyes were still curiously empty.
Toby showed them upstairs while Chris lingered, looking vaguely uncomfortable.
“You don't mind if I don't go straight off do you?” he asked, once they were out of earshot. “Only I can tell when those two need some time to themselves.”
“Of course not,” I said. “I can see what you mean.”
“Yes,” he said, frowning and stroking his beard. “She's a funny girl, is Jenny…”
Then he gave a little laugh and shook his head. “Still, who am I to talk about that, my entire family think I belong in Bedlam. So what about this geometry of yours then Stella, where do you see it taking you next?”
I realised Chris didn't want to share any more personal thoughts with someone he'd only just met and this made me like him all the more. So I started to tell him about my plans for making 3-D blocks that could be arranged like a big jigsaw to any number of solutions, all of them designed to present an optical illusion. Soon Toby had come back down to join us and we spent the next couple of hours in happy discussion about the possibilities of art.
It was getting on for midnight, the alcohol long gone and several pots of tea later before Chris looked at his watch and decided that he really should be going.
“Well, please do come across to the house any time you like. You've got the address, Toby, it's 4 Vernon Yard, just down the Portobello from Henekeys, tucked away on the left there.”
Toby saw him out, too, while I began clearing up the debris of our impromptu party, wondering if I should say anything about Jenny's strange little fit. I was in the kitchenette washing up the cups and glasses when he came back down, shaking his head in mild disbelief. “What a day. What a night! Can you believe it?”
“Of course,” I said, wiping my hands on a tea towel. “When you're married to a genius, you just expect this kind of thing to happen all the time.”
He pulled me into an embrace. “You're brilliant, darling. Thanks for being so good about having people back when we're in such a state here.”
“It got you an exhibition,” I said, “that's all that counts. But they really were nice people, Chris and Dave, even if I don't entirely understand what Dave is talking about half the time. I'm glad we met them.”
I looked up at his grinning face. He looked down at mine, searching my eyes for what I hadn't said. “What about
Jenny?” he asked, “was she all right? I never really got chance to talk to her.”
“She was weird,” I said. “Just after I came out of the toilet, I caught her in our bedroom, going through a box of books.”
“Really?” he frowned. “Do you think she was trying to steal something?”
“I don't know,” I said. “I don't see why she should want to do that, she looked pretty well-heeled to me. What could we possibly have that she couldn't get for herself?”
Toby laughed. “Happiness?”
He was right, I hadn't thought of that. All that stuff about love being a gimmick. Maybe she was just put out that for all her glamour, Dave wouldn't commit to her.
“Anyway, that's enough about her.” Toby grinned at me wickedly. “I haven't seen enough of you this evening. I propose that we get straight to bed.”
So we did.
5 SMOKE GETS IN YOUR EYES
Gypsy George walked up the Grove in the same unhurried manner as he had left the KPH, rolling along on his bandy legs with hands stuffed in his pockets. Outside the Elgin, he stopped in front of a couple of little tykes who were sitting on the steps, a girl and a boy would couldn't have been more than four or five, drawing patterns in the dust with a stick and swinging their grubby legs with boredom, waiting for their parents to eventually stagger out. George leant down to them and started fiddling behind his left ear, saying something to them that Pete couldn't quite catch. He saw their eyes widen with wonder as George suddenly produced a little yellow bird from underneath his hat.
Pete was pretty perplexed by this too, having seen the hat go on. He tried to work out whereabouts on his person the thief could have disguised such a thing and it was only when George sat it on his finger and made out that it was talking that he realised the bird was actually stuffed and not really alive.
The little girl stared up at him dumbstruck, while the boy, who looked to be the younger of the pair, reached up with tiny fingers. George smiled and put the bird up to the youngster's ear, making some more funny talk, before his other hand reached into his pocket and he produced for each of them a penny. In the flicker of an eye, the bird had disappeared, not that either of the children noticed, so amazed were they by their sudden windfall. George ruffled the boy on the head, smiling fondly, then stood up and pushed open the door to the public bar.
Pete was surprised by this spontaneous act of benevolence, but at least he had the wit about him not to barge straight in after the generous gypsy. For, as George disappeared into one door, the Teddy boy who had nodded to him earlier, came out of the back of the saloon that opened onto Westbourne Park Road.
Pete stayed exactly where he was, slowly took out his packet of Players and lit one up, never taking his eyes off the Ted, who made a sudden left and disappeared into the Mews behind the pub. He counted to ten and sure enough, George followed, out the back door and round the same corner.
There was no way of following them and staying unobserved – but the mews doubled back onto Ladbroke Grove, and Pete positioned himself so he could see both ends of the cobbled street, ready for when George emerged. He stayed close to the wall of the pub, smoking his fag down until it almost burnt his fingers, writing out a description of the Ted in his mind, the surest way to commit his image to memory that he knew.
Five foot eleven, slim build, fair hair with a slight wave to it, blue eyes, wearing a black and white chequered sports jacket, black drainpipe trousers and black winklepicker shoes. A very wide face with a slightly hooked nose, probably in his late teens or early twenties, broad shoulders and a slightly knock-kneed walk…
Pete's luck was in. After only a few more minutes, George reappeared, alone, and began barrelling his way towards Portobello Road, picking up a surprising show of speed as he did so. He turned right at the corner of Kensington Park Road just as a radio car hurtled past, siren on, swinging left. Pete instinctively pulled back but George paid it no mind, continuing on his way without so much as turning his head. On the corner of Blenheim Crescent he weaved left and disappeared into another hostelry of dubious repute, Finches.
Pete crossed to the other side of the road to consider his options. Like The Elgin, Finches was on the corner of two roads and he wondered if George would simply travel through this one too. In the gathering dusk, he took advantage of the further shade provided by the awnings on the shop opposite and stayed where he could see both exits. His mind was racing and so was his heart.
The windows of Finches were made of thick, bottle glass, so that apart from a diffuse yellow glow, you couldn't make out what was going on in there, just the way the local villains liked it. Pete knew that this was another joint favoured by the white working class, although some of the braver – or tougher – West Indians had begun using it lately. Dressed as he was, in his shabbiest old tweed suit, with similarly battered trilby pulled down over his brow, Pete could have passed himself off amongst them, yet he preferred to stay where he was. If George was up to something, he didn't need a pub fight or a surly local starting something to get in the way of himself and his quarry.
Yet stay still on Portobello Road for long enough and trouble would surely find you. It hadn't been five minutes before Pete heard a voice beside him, soft and low.
“You looking for something mister?”
She was probably in her late teens, but like all the toms, looked older. Harsh make up covering premature lines and a helmet of hair bleached an ugly orange. A summer dress revealing an elevated cleavage, along with several purple bruises along her neck, clumsily covered with smears of toothpaste.
“Looking for a good time?”
One of her front teeth was missing and her eyes were glazed, wreathed in purple shadows that clashed nastily with the thick blue paint on her eyelids.
“No,” said Pete, turning his eyes back to the pub, “and you won't be having much of one if you stop out here much longer.”
“What you on about?” her voice clanged into a harsh whine.
Pete slowly raised his right arm and took a lengthy gander at his wristwatch.
“In just under four hours’ time,” he said, “I could have you nicked for talking to me like that. So be a good lass and hop it.”
The girl recoiled. “You're a bogey ain't you?” she screeched. “I should have smelt it!”
Pete continued to stare at the pub, praying that Gypsy George didn't choose this of all moments to take his leave. Girls around here didn't tend to just do what they were told. Not when they could have a fight about it instead.
“What d’you want to pick on me for?” the brass continued. “I ain't doing nothing wrong.”
Pete pushed his hat back on his head, turned and stared at her hard.
“Do you want me to just nick you now?” he asked quietly. “It'd be no bother. Though I doubt your boyfriend would be very pleased with you.” He looked pointedly down at her bruised neck. “Any more than he already is, like.”
Her mouth opened and closed like a landed fish while her eyes blazed with an elemental hatred. It made her look ten times better than her previous, soporific glaze.
“Get on with you, love,” Pete continued, suppressing a smile. “Don't waste my time and I won't waste yours.”
“You talk funny, mister. You must be a queer!” was all she had to say to that, but at least she pushed herself off and up the road and just as well she did. Gypsy George was already halfway down Blenheim Crescent, a little toolbag in his right hand, when Pete turned his head again.
A jolt of excitement propelled him up the pavement after him. His luck was holding, the girl had unwittingly provided him with some cover – if Gypsy George had noticed him at all it had probably looked like he was engaged in a lovers’ tiff. Still, his heart stayed in his mouth as he dogged the little man through the darkening streets, fully aware that the sleight of hand George had demonstrated to the kids outside the pub was probably the least of his devious talents.
It was a fairly twisting path that George took too: back
across the Grove and up to Elgin Crescent, threading through Rosemead Road onto Landsdowne Crescent, to the very top of the hill, where the most imposing of the white stucco mansions sprawled out among their parks and gardens, providing every opportunity for the thief to get lost under a hedge or over a crumbling wall. It was very beautiful up here, and Pete had often wondered how these buildings would have looked before the War, before the paintwork had turned grey and brambles and nettles had overrun the gardens. Wondered if they would ever get restored to their former glory, or just go on quietly crumbling into dust.
But there was no time for thoughts like that now; only the desperate need to keep George within his sights.
Round the back of the crescent, two terraces converged, backing onto a wide, communal garden. A wrought iron fence backed by a high privet hedge and the overhanging boughs of trees shielded the park from prying eyes. Gypsy George stopped. He slowly turned his head around, sniffing the air like a hound picking up a scent, and Pete only just had time to duck down behind row of overflowing dustbins at the side of a driveway. The stench of decaying vegetables assailed his nostrils along with a sudden fear that George had sensed his tail all along and was waiting until the last moment to deceive him into giving the game away.
For when he raised his head again, the little thief had melted into the dusk. Pete's heart hammered in his chest. He crouched forwards, peering out from behind the bins. George had gone neither to the left nor the right, it seemed he had just vanished, using the same Romany magic that had fashioned a bird out of thin air.
Don't be daft, Pete chided himself. Stay calm and look harder.
Through a tiny gap in the privet hedge, he thought he saw the merest flicker of movement. Of course, he thought, little bugger's gone straight through it. Cautiously, he stole towards the last place he'd seen George standing, wondering if that tool bag he'd been toting had contained some kind of bolt-cutters. But when he got up close, the railings were all in tact. He pushed against them to make sure, noting at the same time that there was nowhere near a big enough gap in the hedge even for an illusionist such as George to slip through so quickly. His brow furrowed and he stepped sideways, trying to see another way through the obstacle, when an overhanging branch knocked his trilby askew. Pete looked up sharply. There, wrapped around the lower bough of the nearest tree, was a length of rope.
Bad Penny Blues Page 6