With the early days of March there came some tentative sunshine. On most afternoons during the first week they went for a walk in Kensington Gardens. She was well by now; there was some warmth in her skin and depth to her eyes, her hair thicker, her hands more calm. She had put on weight. He had given her money to buy clothes. ‘I’ll pay you back when I’m working,’ she said.
Winter was backing out; there was mild sun ruffling the coloured backs of the waterbirds on the big park pond. The trees were becoming broad, brimming with green buds; crocuses were bright and daffodils opening. People walked in a new way.
‘Why don’t we take up jogging,’ suggested Korky. ‘We can both jog. Walking’s not the same.’
‘I did enough jogging in the army,’ he answered. ‘Quite a lot of it on the spot. I think I’d rather walk.’
‘Why did you have to jog on the spot? You don’t go anywhere.’
‘It was the army way of doing it.’
Korky had gone towards the edge of the pond and was pretending to berate the geese who, accustomed to more sympathetic human sounds, turned their beaks towards her like fingers pointing her out. She returned to Savage. ‘Everybody’s so nice to them,’ she said. ‘They don’t even know when they’re being shouted at.’ Their eyes were ahead as they continued to walk separately. ‘You’ll soon be able to get shot of me,’ she asserted.
‘It’s not a case of getting shot of you,’ he said eventually. ‘But we’ll have to sort it out at some time.’
‘I know! I’ve got it! I could get a job.’ She clutched his elbow. ‘And I could pay you rent for my room.’
Savage halted and faced her. ‘You know that’s not going to work, Korky. I moved into that flat so . . .’ Her mimicking voice cut him short: ‘ . . . That I could be all on my own. So that I could be quiet.’ They continued to walk a yard further apart and both again looking ahead. Slyly she added: ‘So that I could have my own little world.’
Again he stopped and this time turned her to him. There was no one near and from a distance they could have been lovers of different sizes about to embrace in the emptiness of the park. ‘Yes,’ he responded firmly. ‘So that I could be alone, be quiet, and have my own little world.’ He continued walking; she caught him up.
‘Excuse me for putting you out,’ she sniffed sulkily. ‘Excuse me for being ill and nearly dying on your doorstep.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ he replied evenly. ‘It was no trouble.’ He was learning to deal with her. ‘But now you’re recovered, we’ve got to sort things out.’ He looked at her unconvincingly. ‘Korky, I want to get back to my work.’
‘You are working. You’ve been working all the time. Writing down all those dull island things.’
‘They’re not dull,’ he said defensively.
‘They’re bloody dull,’ she reaffirmed. ‘Why don’t you make them a bit interesting?’ She drew an outline in the afternoon air with her finger. ‘This is the island of Plonky-Poo,’ she announced in a tight squawk. ‘The natives here fuck each other every three weeks. The rest of the time they’re fucking . . .’
He caught her arm firmly. ‘Pack it in,’ he said.
She gave him a hard look. ‘All right. I’ll move out as soon as I can find my gerbil.’
‘You know where he is. He’s in the guts of the sofa.’
Disarmingly she giggled. ‘We’ll put a trap down for him. When he comes out for his food at night. Bang! We’ll grab him. I’ll stick him in a bag and off we’ll go.’
‘Right. Fine.’
Walking at his side she moved her nose slowly towards him. ‘Don’t you want to know what I plan to do?’
‘All right. What are your plans?’
‘I’m going to get a place and go on the game,’ she announced flatly.
He did not believe her for a moment. He drew a deep, ill-tempered, breath. ‘Very nice. What makes you think you’ll make a living doing that?’
‘Thanks very much. Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ She moved away from him and pantomimed a seductive walk along the grey pond’s edge. ‘Oooh, look at me,’ she cooed brazenly. ‘A hundred quid for a short time. Yes sir, come on up to my flat for a quickie. We’ll have some dirty fun.’ She performed a blatant pirouette and shouted towards a puzzled mallard: ‘Hello duck, want a fuck?’
The duck glanced her way as if considering the offer but then floated on. ‘That duck wouldn’t know a fuck if it was free,’ she said determined to aggravate him. ‘A quickie for a quacky.’ She watched the effect. Savage’s face had gone dark. ‘Don’t . . .’ he managed to say. ‘Don’t you . . .’ He raised an abrupt hand. ‘Don’t . . .’
‘Don’t you hit me,’ the girl concluded for him. ‘Hit me and I’ll tell Mr Kostelanetz.’
‘All right then. How do you know Mr Kostelanetz?’ he asked an hour later when they were back in the apartment.
Airily she wagged her head. ‘Oh, I’ve seen him around, before you ever found me, Savage. And a couple of days ago he came up here.’
Savage was astonished. ‘You didn’t tell me,’ he said.
‘I am telling you. He came up when you were at the library. Just to see that his pad was all right, I suppose. He didn’t get heavy or anything, but he was interested in me. He said he was and I could see. He just said that if I wanted a job . . . a position, he called it . . .’
‘A position, more like it.’
‘Don’t be shitty, Savage. He was only being friendly. He said he would like to help me.’
Savage sat down. ‘All right, take up his offer,’ he said fractiously. ‘Go for this position.’
‘I didn’t say I would,’ she pointed out. ‘You’re only saying that because it suits you, because it lets you off the hook. When I go I’ll make my own arrangements, thank you. Mr Kostelanetz is only one of my options.’
‘Tell me the others.’
Korky pouted, hardly expanding her cheeks. ‘Mind your own business,’ she said. ‘As long as I’m not bothering you, disturbing you in your little ivy tower . . .’
‘Ivory tower,’ he said.
‘That’s it, go on, put me right. Tell me I’m just a nerd come in from the cold. I know that already.’ Her face suddenly collapsed and she began to weep copiously. ‘Oh, Savage,’ she said stumbling dramatically towards him, dropping on to her knees and putting her head on his lap. Her now shining hair fell over his trousers. ‘Oh, don’t send me away.’
He was getting to know her by now. Gently he lifted her head, the hair now growing touches of dark auburn falling over his hands. ‘Korky,’ he said just as gently. ‘We can’t live together like this. It’s not going to work.’
‘Because you don’t want it to work.’ The wet cheeks, upturned to him, reflected the light of the reading lamp beside the sofa.
‘It’s not going to work,’ he repeated flatly. ‘There are reasons.’
‘You want to be on your own.’
‘That’s one of them. That’s why I came here.’
Her expression became more interested. ‘You’re afraid you’ll have one of your mad turns,’ she surmised. ‘You’re afraid you’ll attack me. Jump up and down on me.’
‘It could happen,’ he said seriously.
‘You haven’t gone mad since I’ve been here.’
‘Perhaps I’ve had too much to think about,’ he said.
‘There! That shows I’m good for you.’
‘Korky, you’re not staying.’
Her features creased to sullenness. From within the sofa came the mutterings of the gerbil. It often protested if anyone continued to sit above it. ‘All right,’ she said with finality. ‘I’ll go.’
‘I will help you to find somewhere to live,’ he promised firmly. ‘I’m not just throwing you out like that.’
‘I might turn up on your doorstep again. Dying.’
He studied her patiently. ‘I will make sure that you have somewhere to live,’ he repeated. ‘And a job.’
‘The same as Mr Kostelanetz?’ she shr
ugged mischievously. She saw his reaction and went on hurriedly. ‘I’ll go, don’t worry. I’ll make arrangements . . .’
‘I don’t think you should take Mr Kostelanetz too seriously.’
‘Well, I’m just saying what he told me. I could have a good place. Like Miss Bombazine.’
‘Korky, you’re talking crap. And you know it.’
She wriggled her body. ‘Don’t you think men would like me?’
‘No,’ he said with desperation. ‘You’re not the type.’
‘How would you know?’ she enquired hotly. ‘Miss Bombazine’s got a bum like a horse. I’ve seen it.’
‘How? Oh, I know. She left her curtains open.’
‘And I’ve been in that room for a month. It was all I had to look at. Her bum and the sky.’ Her eyes lit. ‘Savage, I’ve seen her operating. At it. The back view is unbelievable.’
Savage struggled. ‘Men like big women like her,’ he tried.
‘So I’m too skinny. Listen, mate, men are not all the same. I could dress up as a schoolgirl.’
‘Shut up!’ he shouted at her. ‘Don’t talk like a scrubber!’
‘But you won’t have me staying here.’
‘No. It’s not good for either of us. You don’t have to move right away. First we must get you a job.’
‘There’s lots of them around,’ she said caustically.
‘There are in London.’
‘I could go home to my stepfather,’ she said, again with a little taunt. ‘Good old Merlin. He’ll have me back.’
‘Korky, shut up.’ He studied her sweater and jeans. ‘You’ll need some more clothes.’
‘You’ll buy me some and I’ll pay you back when I’m earning,’ she forecast without enthusiasm. ‘All right. Thanks. I’ll have to look decent.’
She sighed and rose from her kneeling position. ‘You’ll miss me,’ she forecast like a threat.
‘I know. But we can’t duck this now. We’ll end up fighting.’
‘All right,’ she sighed with a further onset of finality. ‘I’ll take my gerbil and go.’
As if it recognised the mention the animal began to squeak more insistently from the echoing interior of the sofa. ‘There,’ said Korky. ‘He heard.’ Her expression suddenly froze. ‘Oh, Savage, get up! Get up! You’re sitting right on him. You’re squashing him!’
She tugged him from his sitting position. The gerbil appeared in a hurry, thrusting its nose from the crevice between the seat and the back of the sofa. It flailed its feet in panic. In pulling Savage upright the girl had brought him against her. They were touching. Their arms went about each other. They were laughing, almost weeping. John the gerbil, free from his hideaway, ran across the sofa down to the floor and swerved between their legs. Laughing, they held their faces together. Korky’s cheeks were wet again. They drew back and regarded each other silent and still. She studied his expression and then her shoulders slumped. ‘I’m still going, am I?’ she said.
‘Yes, Korky, you have to go. It’s not right. We’re different.’
‘We’re the same,’ she argued. ‘I think we are.’
‘It’s not just the matter of our ages.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s all sorts of things. We shouldn’t live under the same roof. It’s too difficult. We can’t go on like this.’
Ten
She went, as she had done before, early in the morning while he was asleep. Her bed was neatly made and the contents of the refrigerator were missing. He picked up the note on the bedside table. She had taken her last two bottles of medicine with her as well. ‘Dear Savage,’ he read aloud as though he were not alone. ‘All right. I’ve gone. As you can see. Don’t worry I won’t end up dressed in a gymslip. Thanks for saving my life. Love, Korky.’
He muttered: ‘Shit,’ and sat down on her bed. From there he had the view across to Miss Bombazine’s apartment. He studied it more carefully than usual. Surely Korky wasn’t over there. Like an answer the curtains were energetically flung back and the window opened. Miss Bombazine, in a black nightdress, stood breathing in the March morning air as though in relief, her majestic bust projecting over the sill. Savage stood up and took the step towards his own window. She saw him immediately and waved cheerily like a housewife. He half-lifted his hand to return the wave but instead opened his own window.
‘Good morning,’ he called across the divide. He had never spoken to her before, only passing within nodding distance outside the block or in the corridor. Once he had seen her puffing up Kensington Church Street with three bags from British Home Stores.
‘Hello there!’ she called in an assumed voice, accentuating the aspirate. She dropped the tone at once. Perhaps she used it professionally. ‘I’m doing some spring cleaning,’ she cooed. ‘It gets a bit dirty in here.’
He prevented himself saying that he imagined it did and instead asked, trying to sound casual: ‘You haven’t seen Kathleen, have you? Kathleen Wilson. She’s been staying here.’
‘That Korky, you mean?’ responded Miss Bombazine unhesitatingly. ‘No, I haven’t. Has she done a runner? Silly girl.’ Savage took time to absorb the familiarity in the reference. ‘Well, she’s . . . gone,’ he answered.
‘Listen,’ Miss Bombazine confided, her bulging, black, silken-held breast thrusting from the window as she clung on to the handle. ‘It’s no use us talking like this. Why don’t you come over? It’s only down the passage. I’ll make us a cup of coffee.’
Without waiting for an answer she closed the window and retreated. Savage hesitated. Another rampart of his privacy was about to tumble. He swore silently. Inside his own door he again paused but then opened it, closed it behind him, and went with a furtive step past the lift and on down the carpeted corridor where Mr Tomelty was mysteriously cleaning a fire extinguisher fixed to the wall.
‘Ah now, sir,’ he said with a hint of triumph. ‘You’ve missed the lift. Taken the wrong turning.’
Savage decided against subterfuge. ‘I’m going to see Miss Bombazine,’ he told the caretaker doggedly.
‘Number six-o-one, sir,’ provided Tomelty. He looked at his watch as though thinking the visit was on the early side. ‘As you probably know.’
‘I don’t actually,’ denied Savage primly. ‘I’m going to have a cup of coffee.’
‘And why not?’ said Tomelty lifting his duster. ‘A civilised occupation.’
‘Kathleen has gone,’ he told the porter. ‘Korky. I thought this lady might have some idea where she went.’
‘Gone? Korky?’ said Tomelty genuinely surprised. ‘Now there’s a thing. You’d have thought she would have been comfortable there.’
‘Well, she had to go some time,’ said Savage awkwardly.
‘But now you’re looking worried for her.’
‘I didn’t expect her to just vanish. I thought she’d get a job and then find a place to live.’
‘Ah, I see now why you’re heading for six-o-one,’ nodded the Irishman. ‘Well, that makes sense. For some sin is a safe refuge.’
Savage scrutinised him in a hurt fashion. This was lost on the porter who recommenced polishing. ‘I just thought Miss Bombazine might know,’ Savage said over his shoulder as he continued down the corridor. Tomelty began to hum as he polished but Savage heard the tune halt as he went around the corner and rang the bell.
Miss Bombazine came to the door. She now wore an airy pink negligee over her black nightdress. The folds and flutes ran down her body. She was a tall, large, apparently handsome woman with a massive smile of welcome. To Savage, seeing her at close quarters offered a quick relief. Korky could never be like that. ‘Please do come in,’ breathed Miss Bombazine. ‘I have the coffee bubbling.’ Tentatively Savage stepped through the doorway into a room of uncertain taste.
‘It’s nice and warm in here,’ he said fumbling for something to say and prodding the thickness of the carpet with his feet.
‘Some of them only come in from the cold,’ said Miss Bombazine frankly. ‘I try to keep it comfortable. They wan
t a good home more than a good . . . intercourse.’
Fussily she sat him on a damask sofa with oriental antimacassars protecting the back. She saw he had noticed. ‘Some men still wear hair oil,’ she revealed. ‘The older ones.’ She went toward the coffee percolator and returned with two cups, a milk jug and a sugar bowl on a tray covered with a doily. ‘This is cosy,’ she enthused genuinely. ‘Very neighbourly.’
She treated him to a swift, professional survey. ‘Didn’t you have long hair once? Was it you? I’ve only seen you in the distance.’
Savage said simply: ‘I had it cut.’
‘I should have mine cut,’ she mused. ‘It would be more comfortable. But they like it long, most of them.’
He could see now how worn her face was, the pouches below the eyes, the folds at the edges of the lips. ‘What is your proper name?’ he asked.
‘Geraldine,’ she responded as if glad he had asked. ‘I’ve had some funny surnames including Madbladder, because I’ve been married a few times. Miss Bombazine is just a professional name, you understand.’
Savage said he did and she added: ‘It’s because I always wear black. I even had a black bed at one time but it depressed me.’
‘You know everybody in the block?’ he asked.
‘Almost. I’ve been here six years and you get to know them all in time, more or less. Even the people who are out all day at business. They’re all very neighbourly, although some of them are a bit doolally. And I’m very discreet, or I try to be, although I do sometimes forget to draw the curtains, as you might have noticed. And I’m quite particular. I work from a couple of clubs in the West End and I advertise privately, and I tell everybody in the flats I’m a chanteuse, although nobody actually believes it. I can’t squawk let alone sing, not now, since I had my throat done.’ Her expression altered. ‘Why have you got a gun under your bed?’ she enquired.
Savage choked and spilled his coffee. Like a mother she leaned across and dutifully mopped him with a lace handkerchief. ‘How do you know I have?’ he said.
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