‘And a bike,’ he said.
She sat frowning at his typewriter. ‘This old thing,’ she said. ‘It’s cruel to keep banging away at it.’
‘It hasn’t complained to me.’
‘It’s probably too scared,’ she observed. She pressed her middle finger against the embossed letter of one of the keys and withdrew it to examine the inky imprint. ‘It’s an X,’ she reported. ‘A cry for help.’
‘I’ve never used anything else,’ said Savage. ‘It took me long enough to learn how to type.’
‘You’ll never get through to the end of your islands,’ she forecast. ‘This’ll be a pile of old metal before then.’ She eyed him. ‘I’ve told you before. You ought to have a word processor.’
‘I don’t want a word processor. I couldn’t fathom a word processor.’
‘I can. I was brilliant at school. I could teach you.’ Her enthusiasm seemed excessive. Then he knew the reason. ‘I’ve got this man coming around to demonstrate one to you. He’s . . .’
Savage stared at her. ‘Go on. Take over my work now. You’re trying to take over my whole life.’
Korky returned the challenge stoutly. ‘I’m not. I just want to bring you into the computer age, Savage.’ She caught hold of both his hands and examined the middle fingers. ‘And to stop you wearing out your fingers.’ Sadly she turned to the typewriter. ‘And this poor old bugger.’
‘When,’ he asked, ‘is this man coming?’
Korky checked the clock. ‘In five minutes.’
Immediately the lift sounded and the doorbell rang. ‘He’s desperate,’ grunted Savage.
‘Businesslike,’ sniffed Korky. She went to the door. The man, compact, neat, with a disconcerting blink, came in carrying two packages. ‘Hello,’ he said, his lids flickering. ‘Have I got something to show you.’
‘Good,’ said Savage flatly. Korky directed smiles of encouragement, first at the salesman and then at Savage. ‘Over here,’ she said. She led the way to the desk and the upright typewriter. ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said the visitor. ‘What do we have here?’
‘A typewriter,’ said Savage stiffly.
‘Yes, of course. I remember,’ said the man.
‘Let’s see what you’ve brought,’ put in Korky hurriedly.
The man began to open his packing, the cardboard first, then the polystyrene. He brought out a grey, flat case, which he laid on the desk. Korky approved: ‘No bigger than a sandwich. You could take that anywhere, Savage.’
‘I don’t go anywhere,’ replied Savage moodily. He tapped the typewriter as though reassuring it.
‘It’s pretty though, isn’t it,’ insisted the salesman. He eyed Korky who got his message and moved the typewriter to one side. ‘Just for the time being,’ she said gently, patting it also.
The salesman sat at the desk, like someone about to play a prim tune on the harmonium. He flexed his fingers and opened the lid. He pressed a button and a slow flash appeared on the screen accompanied by a metallic but musical sound. ‘Battery power,’ he said. A robotic face appeared. ‘He’s smiling at you,’ pointed Korky.
Doubt creasing his forehead, Savage stood bending over the demonstrator’s left shoulder; Korky smiling serenly stood behind his right. Now he was in front of the screen the man no longer blinked. He tapped the slight grey keys and images appeared, small notes sounded, the vision cleared and a grid occupied the screen. Lightly he tapped out a phrase which ran silently across the opal space: ‘Today is my birthday. I am thirty-four years of age. I live in Peckham.’
‘Is it really?’ asked Korky with a touch of kindness.
‘No,’ admitted the salesman. ‘I always write that. It makes people more receptive.’ He turned towards her and began to blink furiously again. ‘And I’m only twenty-nine. This is a hard job.’
He returned his attention to the screen.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, he wrote.
‘That’s nice,’ said Korky. ‘It was on television.’
‘I learned it at school,’ he shrugged.
He tapped again. Go lovely Rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me.
‘Very romantic.’ She smiled at Savage who remained impassive.
‘I learned that at school as well,’ said the salesman. ‘And what about this one: It was the schooner Hesperus that sailed on wintry sea.’
‘He knows a lot, doesn’t he, Savage?’ said Korky encouragingly.
‘But only odd lines,’ confessed the man. ‘That’s all I know.’ He appeared despondent. ‘I keep meaning to look them up, learn the rest, but I don’t get any time. I’m lucky if I get twenty minutes for lunch.’
‘Let me try,’ suggested Korky. ‘I was a whizz at computer studies.’ The salesman moved over and stood. Korky had to move the chair close. ‘Insert page break,’ she said. She worked the cursor around the screen. ‘Under Document,’ said the saleman. He smiled nervously at the watching Savage. ‘Really, it’s quite simple,’ he said.
Korky drew a dotted line across the screen. ‘Now what shall I write?’ she asked herself. Neither man helped. She turned winsomely to the salesman. ‘How do you spell incey?’ she enquired.
‘Incey. I don’t know.’ He recovered. ‘There’s a spell-check on it.’
‘Do you know, Savage?’ She revolved in the other direction.
‘In what context?’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. I’ll spell it like it sounds.’ With her long, light fingertips she began to tap the keys. The obedient letters danced onto the screen:
Incey, wincey, spider,
Climbing up the spout.
The salesman glanced at Savage who smiled seriously.
Down came the rain
And washed poor Incey out . . .
Korky turned. ‘There,’ she said. ‘Do you know the rest, Savage?’
‘I believe I remember.’
‘Go on, then. Write it.’ She rose from the chair and waved her hand at the seat. ‘It’s easy,’ she said.
Slowly he took his place in front of the screen. They stood behind him, Korky pleased, the salesman uncertain, puzzling about their relationship.
Savage poised his broad middle fingers over the keyboard. He found the letter o and touched it. The salesman said: ‘Touch this one first, for a capital.’ Korky glared at him. ‘There’s no need to be technical,’ she said. ‘I thought you were on my side.’
‘Oh, sorry, I am. You’re right.’
Savage said: ‘I might as well do it properly.’
Korky took his finger and guided it to Delete. She pressed it on to the key. The o vanished.
‘Which one now?’ enquired Savage.
She took his other wide middle finger between her frail finger and thumb. The salesman’s bemused eyes followed the movement. ‘This,’ Korky said softly. She placed her finger on the Shift key and said: ‘Now on the o. It’s the same as your old typewriter.’ Savage pressed down and a small smile of triumph creased his face. ‘You’ve done it,’ she said.
‘I have too.’
‘Next lower case u,’ offered the salesman not wanting to be left out. Savage did it and followed it with t.
‘You’ve written out,’ said Korky happily. ‘Now save it.’
‘Save one word?’ queried the salesman.
‘Just that one,’ said Korky frowning at him again. ‘It’s his first word.’
‘My baby said her first word the other day,’ said the salesman. ‘Dog.’ He beamed at them finishing on Savage. ‘And now you’ve done yours.’
They pushed and edged and guided him through the sentence, deleting, inserting and correcting until it was finished:
Out came the sunshine
And dried up all the rain.
Incey wincey spider
Went up the spout again.
Savage leaned back and, as though his fingers needed rest, placed them on his lap. Korky smiled and the salesman blinked furiously. ‘I bet your baby couldn’t manage that,’ she remarked.
/> The device’s presumption, its mechanical brashness, had irritated him at first; the smug chime, the square smiling robot. Even in the army he had shied away from computer innovations, preferring the simplicity of a gun. But the characteristics of the word processor screen quickly became familiar. He found himself acknowledging the empty greeting.
Korky kept the flat clean, did the shopping, and was what she called a good take-away cook. Each evening they ate pizza, Chinese or Indian take-away or fish and chips which she warmed in the oven. Mrs Tomelty’s initial scepticism dissolved. ‘It just shows, you can never tell,’ she said. ‘Deep down inside she’s a domesticated creature.’
She went out with Freddie Spencer-Hughes and Savage remained in the flat; an odd, selfish, loneliness came over him. On the first evening he watched her from the window walking youthfully away beneath the dimming trees. He could see her bright coat below the branches. She stopped and for a moment he thought she was going to turn back but then she strutted on. He poured himself a Scotch and put a steak and kidney pie she had bought from Marks & Spencer into the oven. He ate it moodily. Then he turned on the word processor. The telephone rang. It was his wife.
‘Frank, how are you?’ The concern was genuine.
‘Irene, I’m really fine thanks. And you?’
‘I’m all right. I’m telephoning from my mother’s so I don’t want to be long. She still listens. You sound fine.’
‘I am. I’ve had no real worries, no setbacks. It’s begun to work out very well.’
Her voice softened. ‘Are you still by yourself?’
‘If you mean do I have a romantic relationship,’ he answered cautiously, ‘I don’t.’
‘I see.’ There was an interval. ‘Frank, I’ve met someone.’
‘Oh . . . good. That’s very good.’
‘I’d like to meet up with you some time, if it’s all right. About a divorce.’
‘Yes, I see. Well, why don’t we?’
‘There’s no news about the house, I suppose?’
‘I’ve heard nothing. But down there in the middle of winter I don’t suppose much was selling at all. Now the weather’s changing it might be better. Come Easter then the whole house market will be booming.’
She laughed in a puzzled way. ‘You sound like an estate agent,’ she said.
Twelve
Irene was already sitting watchfully at the restaurant table when he arrived early. She was drinking a Campari, the glass just against her lips, when she saw him at the door. She lowered it to the cloth and smiled, but with a shadow of anxiety. He walked towards her and they kissed awkwardly. Sitting down he ordered whisky. ‘You’ve changed your drink,’ he said nodding towards her glass.
‘I’ve been trying to change a lot.’
‘Have you been here long? Sorry I was late.’
‘No,’ said Irene hurriedly. ‘It took less time than I thought. There’s a through-train.’
Her fingers reached for the back of his hand. ‘Frank, I’m very pleased you’re so much better. You look really well.’
The waiter returned and they ordered their meal. They were both grateful for his interruption. ‘It’s a nice place,’ she said looking about her.
‘I’ve not been here before,’ he said. ‘I’d noticed it.’
‘Do you go out much?’
‘Not much. But more than I used to.’
‘It doesn’t bother you now?’
‘No, not now.’ He smiled encouragement. ‘Is he nice?’
‘Oh, Graham. Yes, very nice. I think so. He’s an architect. He’s forty. His wife died.’ Her expression was intense. ‘I’m not living with him. We see each other. He’s happy to wait. Do you want me to marry him, Frank?’
He could only say: ‘Well . . . yes. Whatever you want.’
She regarded him with real sadness. ‘It was such a damned pity, wasn’t it. But perhaps it would never have worked out. We weren’t meant.’
Savage returned the touch. ‘It’s too late anyway,’ he replied quietly. ‘You can never go back.’
Slowly Irene took her hand away. ‘You’re right, of course. I’m just so glad that you’ve got better.’
‘There have been one or two bad . . . difficult . . . moments,’ he admitted. ‘But I’ve had plenty to occupy me . . . I . . .’
He was intending then to tell her about Korky when he saw Korky peering deeply at them from outside the window. She saw him and waved impishly beyond Irene’s back. Then she strolled the few paces to the door and stepped into the restaurant. Savage groaned inwardly. He saw her attract the waiter’s attention. ‘Can I have that place, please,’ he heard her ask winsomely. She pointed. His heart descended. ‘I am all by myself.’
Irene glanced around as the girl, in a mini skirt and tiny jacket, came across the restaurant. Savage was preparing himself to introduce her but she went angularly past with no recognition, her stalky legs projecting bare from the lampshade skirt. She sat at the table only three feet away, and gazed directly and deeply at Irene. Picking up the menu she peered over the top at her. ‘I’d like a red-coloured drink, please,’ she whispered loudly, her eyes only going to the waiter as he arrived. ‘Like that lady’s got there.’
Savage felt his teeth clamp. Irene smiled towards him and pretended she had not heard. Korky’s whisper rose again. ‘With ice, please. Just like hers.’
‘Soda, miss?’ asked the waiter.
‘Soda? Oh yes, please. Soda as well.’
She squinted intently at the menu as if she urgently needed glasses and Irene, a little puzzled by their pause in the conversation, said to Savage: ‘It’s a shame about the house not selling.’
‘They’ll be selling soon,’ interjected Korky blatantly from her table. ‘Don’t you worry. My boyfriend’s an estate agent and he says that when Easter comes the market will . . .’ Her voice altered in an attempt at refinement: ‘. . . Just buck up no end.’
Savage winced and kept his eyes away. Irene grinned slightly and nodded across the aisle. ‘Thank you very much.’
‘Very reassuring,’ added Savage turning and surveying Korky grimly. Now he could not tell Irene who she was. It was too late. Triumphantly Korky knew it too. She returned the expression with coyness. ‘That’s all right,’ she almost whispered. ‘So glad to be of help.’
Savage leaned across towards his wife. ‘Perhaps we ought to move,’ he grunted. ‘To another table.’
Irene shook her head. ‘Don’t worry. She’s only chatty.’
‘We have things to talk about,’ he said more loudly intending it as a warning to Korky.
‘Yes,’ Irene responded, lowering her voice. ‘We have.’
The waiter arrived with their food. Korky watched him approach. He also had her Campari. She grimaced as she sipped it. ‘What have you got?’ she enquired leaning over archly as he set the dishes down. Savage tightened his teeth. Irene remained patient.
‘I have mushrooms,’ she said touching hers with her fork. ‘And . . . my husband has smoked trout.’
Korky’s young eyes gleamed across to them. ‘That looks nice, really, really nice,’ she sighed. She had poured the Campari into the flowers on her table. ‘What are you having next?’ Savage did not dare lift his eyes from his plate. He sliced the smoked trout fiercely and bit just as unequivocally through a piece of brown bread. He would not allow himself to look towards her.
‘We’ve both ordered the lamb,’ Irene told Korky kindly.
‘Both together,’ sighed Korky. ‘You two look really nice with each other. Have you been married long?’
Savage muttered murderously: ‘Years.’
Korky had ordered a salad. The waiter brought it with a glass of white house wine. She sorted the salad around her plate. It appeared that she had withdrawn from the exchange but then she confided: ‘I’d like to get married. My boyfriend, the estate agent, he would like a shot, tomorrow, if I wanted, but there’s this man I know who’s quite a bit older than me.’
‘Married?’ guess
ed Irene still politely.
‘Y . . . yes married,’ stammered Korky. To Savage’s chagrin and Irene’s concern she began to cry. He wanted to order her to stop but the situation had gone too far. ‘Do you want to move to another table?’ he repeated to his wife. Irene handed her handkerchief across the gap between the tables. ‘Don’t be so mean, Frank,’ she whispered. ‘She’s only a kid.’
‘Sorry,’ sobbed Korky blatantly. ‘I shouldn’t have come here really. I was hoping to see him, my older lover. He’s with his wife, I know he is.’ She stood and drank the wine at three gulps rubbing her cheeks with Irene’s handkerchief. ‘I’ll have to go,’ she sniffled. ‘I’ve made myself miserable and I’ll only make you happy married people miserable too.’
‘Let me settle your bill,’ offered Savage hurriedly. The sooner she went the better.
‘Oooo, thank you. What a nice thought,’ said Korky smiling across her wet face. ‘My name’s Samantha, by the way. Sam Percival.’ She offered her skinny hand. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Frank and Irene Savage,’ provided Savage resolutely. He saw the waiter approach. Korky was on her feet. ‘I’ll get this young lady’s bill,’ Savage said.
‘Thanks ever so much,’ breathed Korky. She solemnly shook hands with both of them. ‘And goodbye,’ she concluded tragically. ‘Have a happy, happy life.’
Like a corkscrew she revolved and went towards the door, her hurrying bottom throwing the unsuitable mini skirt from side to side. They watched her leave. At the door she paused and for a moment Savage, heart descending, thought she was going to return. But all she did was make a little wave to them before going out into the sunny street.
‘That was very good of you, Frank,’ observed Irene.
‘Picking up her bill?’ said Savage. She studied him from her side of the table. ‘I just wanted to get rid of her. After all we came here to have a private talk.’
‘Poor kid,’ she said. ‘She seems very disturbed. I imagine she causes someone a lot of trouble.’
‘You can bet on that,’ agreed Savage.
‘All right, Korky,’ demanded Savage. ‘Why did you do it?’
Kensington Heights Page 17