‘What was wrong with that?’
‘What passed as a boutique,’ she grumbled. ‘In any case you know clothes bore the pants off me. One of the neighbours who came from the country introduced me to a . . .’ She mimicked a Wessex burr: ‘. . . A suitable young man.’ The imitation pleased her and she continued with it. ‘Aaah, my lover, ’ow be you then . . .?’ She sighed. ‘Winnie Wilts shit.’
‘So you cleared out.’
‘While I was still sane.’
‘Did you tell your parents you were going?’
‘No, I didn’t mention it.’
‘Well, you’ve got to tell them where you are,’ he ordered her. ‘Phone them. Now.’
It was one of the few times he had seen the confidence drain from her. ‘Now?’ she asked. He nodded. She walked slowly to the telephone and dialled the number. Savage heard a woman’s voice answer. ‘Hello, Mum,’ said Korky. ‘It’s me.’
A squeak of delight and relief sounded and some gabbled words. Korky apologised for leaving. Her mother sounded concilitatory and tearful. Savage heard her say: ‘Where are you?’
‘Where am I, Savage?’ Korky challenged looking round at him. ‘Where shall I be?’
He avoided her face. ‘Here, I suppose,’ he said defeated. ‘You’re here. I’m taking the flat for another six months.’
She let the phone drop. It swung on its cord, the voice of her mother hanging with it.
‘Oh, Savage!’ she shouted joyously. ‘Oh, Savage. I’m back! I’m back!’
Savage retrieved the receiver and handed it pointedly to her.
‘Sorry, Mum,’ she said into it. ‘I’ve just had some good news. Yes, yes, I’ll tell you later. I’ll ring you, I’ll write to you. Promise on my life. I’ll keep in touch.’
She replaced the phone and turned, then jumped to him, flinging her thin arms about him, hugging him close and kissing him deeply on the mouth.
‘Oh, Savage . . . Savage,’ she sighed putting her forehead against his face.
‘Stop it, stop it,’ he said holding her to him. ‘Don’t.’
‘It’s for you,’ said Savage. He held the telephone towards her. A skein of rain lay across the window. It was evening and they had been watching television in domestic silence. She had carried the remains of the take-away pizza to the kitchen.
Korky took the phone. Savage went into the kitchen to make coffee. He eavesdropped expectantly. ‘Hello . . . oh, hello, Mr Furtwangler. Yes, yes . . . it’s me . . .’ Her eyes anxiously swivelled towards the kitchen. Her voice fell to a whisper: ‘Rosamunde.’
‘Von Fokker,’ added Savage his head coming around the door.
She went pink and shook her head irritably at him. He remained where he was and watched her sit with the telephone, her neat knees and long straight thighs exposed by the shortness of her skirt. The call had made her leave the remnants of the meal on the kitchen table. He went back and scraped them into the waste bin and put the kettle on. ‘Yes, Mr Furtwangler. I really would love to come back. My mother . . .?’ Her eyes travelled towards the kitchen door again. ‘Yes, well I’m afraid she passed away. Yes, Mr Furtwangler. Oh, don’t cry, Mr Furtwangler. I didn’t really know her all that well.’
Savage reappeared and lolled against the door jamb; she tried to avoid looking in his direction. ‘We must look on the bright side . . . Yes, of course. Right, I’ll be there on Monday. Yes, I’m glad too. I’ll be there at ten, Monday morning.’
Guiltily she replaced the receiver and revolved towards him. ‘My mother was ill, right?’ she enquired. ‘Very ill.’
‘Quite ill,’ he replied. ‘I had to give him some reason for your disappearance.’
‘I hope my real mum doesn’t go and die because of what you made me say,’ she threatened. ‘I’d never forgive you. Did Mr Furtwangler telephone?’
‘He did. And I went to see him. I took the books back. The ones you borrowed.’
Alarm altered her face. ‘You went to the shop? All that way? By yourself?’
He ignored her astonishment. ‘He’s a nice old man,’ he said. ‘He thinks a lot of you . . . Rosamunde.’
‘Stop being so shitty. His wife’s name was Rosamunde and she’s been dead for yonks and he says I remind him of her. That’s nice. It makes me feel a bit happier. There’s nothing wrong with making people happy by telling a few porkies.’
‘Another of your friends called around,’ mentioned Savage. He walked to the chair and sat opposite her looking directly into her face. The evening coming in from the window was adding a light patina to her skin. ‘He knows you as Anna something. Wife of a pop star.’
‘Anna Zubber,’ she provided. ‘Stephen. Well, he’s helping me as well.’
‘Towards a PhD, I gather.’
‘In that direction,’ she shrugged avoiding his gaze. ‘He works for a publishers and he said they may be interested in your encyclopaedia of islands.’ She flicked her eyelashes at him. ‘He’s deeply, deeply in love with me,’ she intoned. ‘Really deeply.’
‘I got that impression,’ agreed Savage.
‘He’s a scream to look at, isn’t he,’ she grinned. ‘Poor bloke. Everything about him is wrong. But he loves me, that’s one good thing in his favour.’
‘And you’ve certainly become popular here, in Kensington Heights,’ he told her. ‘All the neighbours wanted to know what had happened to you, where you’d gone. Wilhelmina Blenkinsop thought I had done you in.’
Korky squeaked and put her hand to her mouth. Her eyes shone above her fingers. ‘Done me in!’ she exclaimed joyfully. ‘She said that?’
‘She suggested it.’
‘That’s bloody priceless! She said that!’ She halted. ‘She wants me to help her with her spirit meetings.’ Her grin spread thoughtfully. ‘It might have been better if you had done me in. Then I could come back and really help her out.’
‘What does she want you to do?’
‘Give her a hand knocking on tables and stuff. Being a spirit guide. A sort of medium’s general help. She’s going to tell me.’
‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’
‘Don’t know. But she only does it to help people out. She only takes two quid fifty plus expenses for the gas and electricity and that doesn’t come to much, the lights are out most of the time. Like I said, Savage, telling a few porkies to make people happy is all right. She gives them a cup of tea afterwards and they go away feeling a bit better because they’ve had a natter with their dead gran.’
They changed the television channel and sat, reunited and silent, against each other on the sofa. The quiet was interrupted by the doorbell. Korky rose quickly and answered it. Over her slight shoulder Savage saw the beam spread over the face outside the door. ‘Ah, you’re back!’ exclaimed Mr Maddison. ‘We’ve all missed you.’
She invited him in. He shook hands fiercely with Savage as though congratulating him on winning an award. ‘Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful,’ he enthused. Dandruff bounced on his shoulders.
He gladly accepted a glass of wine. ‘Tickets,’ he said. ‘I have some tickets for the Albert Hall.’ He winked. ‘It pays to know people. Thursday. Beethoven. If you come she’ll probably behave.’ His expression shaded. ‘They’re doing the Pastoral, unfortunately, and she’s inclined to join in the cuckoo bit. But generally she keeps it quite soft so there probably won’t be any trouble.’ He beamed at them. ‘I hope you can both make it,’ he said.
Korky said: ‘It will be lovely. Oh we love our Beethoven, don’t we, Frank.’
There were some hot days in August; London, unsuited to heat, lay below haze. From Savage’s window the prospect was of dusky skies and soupy streets. The trees stood lifelessly. Drivers, far below, could be heard shouting. There were ice-cream men in Kensington High Street and people queued for the coolness of cinemas.
Korky, getting up on Sunday, saw Miss Bombazine facing the hot, gritty air from her half-open window. She went to her own window and waved.
‘Can’t breathe,�
� complained Miss Bombazine across the gap. ‘It’s like the East.’
‘Never been East,’ Korky called back cheerfully.
‘It’s no good for your chest, this weather,’ warned Miss Bombazine. Her pink-chemised bosom was lolling from the window as though separately gasping for air. ‘Especially one like mine.’
‘They’re important to you, I expect,’ sympathised Korky.
‘I have to look after them,’ responded Miss Bombazine seriously. ‘I can’t be wheezing. Somehow I’ll have to get some air today.’
‘Let’s go out,’ suggested Korky. ‘The three of us. We’ll go somewhere nice – where it’s clear.’
An hour later the trio boarded the bus at Notting Hill Gate and another at Chiswick. By one o’clock they were beside the Thames at Windsor. There was scarcely room to move along the towpath or in the town but they found a riverside place for lunch and sat down gratefully.
Miss Bombazine was in a light print dress. It was the first time that either Savage or Korky had seen her when she was not wearing black. ‘I don’t care,’ she said panting and pink from the dusty walking. ‘It’s lovely. Look at the water. I haven’t been here for years.’ Her face softened. ‘It’s funny now I come to think about it, I used to come to Windsor with this man.’
Korky fixed on her intently. ‘Were you in love?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I was,’ she said reflectively. ‘But I never fall in love now. It only makes you miserable.’ Her expression changed again. ‘Thank you so much for bringing me,’ she said.
There was a moment of embarrassment. Miss Bombazine broke it herself. ‘Generally on a Sunday I go for a walk,’ she said. ‘Anywhere.’ She laughed almost shyly. ‘I swore I’d never walk the streets,’ she said. ‘And now I do it in my time off.’
‘Let’s go on a boat,’ suggested Korky, her eyes going quickly to the window.
‘Who’ll do the rowing?’ said Savage.
‘You,’ she returned. ‘Come on, we’ll probably have to queue.’
They waited in the line for half an hour and Miss Bombazine bought them all ice-cream cones. It was very hot. Korky purchased cloth sun hats for herself and Savage. Miss Bombazine had a straw hat with a chiffon scarf tied around its crown. When it came to their turn they climbed giggling into the agitated rowing boat. Savage, attempting to look in control, took the oars and pulled out into the river with stiff, military movements. They rocked and Korky and Miss Bombazine squealed.
He succeeded in guiding the craft into the main stream where they joined the other boats bouncing on the thick green water. Pleasure steamers sent up heavy rolling waves that rocked them alarmingly and Savage’s inexpert rowing soaked everyone. ‘It’s a dead cert you weren’t in the navy,’ howled Miss Bombazine. They laughed wildly. The river sun shone. Savage perspired, Korky was getting red and Miss Bombazine’s straw hat kept slipping over her ears.
Ashore again they had a cup of tea. Then a Polaroid photographer badgered them and Korky insisted that they have their pictures taken. They posed, smiling in the bright light, Korky at the centre. When the photograph appeared the man beamed at it. ‘Look at that, Mum,’ he said to Miss Bombazine, handing her the still damp and curved exposure. ‘Best little family group you’ll ever see.’
A thin, long person, probably a man, was standing at the door of the pub in Portobello Road, dressed as a clown and with a collecting box. He was giving off low noises, a mix of moans and appeals, and occasionally people on their way out put a few coins in his box.
It had been raining again but the sun was beginning to show, there was steam on the windows and a thickening humidity in the bar. ‘Why have you suddenly started calling me Frank?’ he asked.
Korky seemed surprised he had noticed. ‘That’s your proper name,’ she whispered as if telling him something he did not know. ‘I’m going to keep calling you Savage – but only between ourselves. When it’s somebody else then it’s Frank. It’s part of our new relationship.’
‘What new relationship?’ he asked deliberately casually. ‘Nothing’s changed.’
‘Inside me I feel it’s a new relationship,’ she insisted leaning confidingly towards him. ‘And today I’m going to buy you a present for your birthday.’
‘My birthday is not for another four months.’
She withdrew her face. ‘Yes, but that’s only four months away.’
They left the bar. Korky put some change into the clown’s collecting box. ‘What’s he collecting for?’ Savage asked.
‘Clowns,’ she said. ‘Probably.’
The stewy market street was crowded, made narrow by the press of people. There were stalls down both sides, their canopies like the roofs of poorly erected tents; there were shouts and offers, vendors trading junk and insults; people moved unhurriedly and thickly down both pavements and in the road itself. Vapour hung casually, the sun fingering through it. Three dark girls leaned over the parapet of a flat roof making Cockney catcalls to a group of Asian youths below. One of the youths shouted: ‘Piss orf.’ The stalls were cluttered with faded bygones and brassy trinkets, leather and glasswork, holed books and cheap-framed prints. A grim man sizzled hot dogs. On a corner, the pavements drying below his boots, a young man was playing a Spanish guitar.
He looked wild, wearing tight jeans and leather boots and a tasselled shirt with a hat slung over his back. His expression was intense but distant, as though he had something on his mind, and his fingers picked out a deep tune which drew people to him. The youth began to sing in some sort of Spanish, low and howling like a dog. Savage and Korky paused with the crowd. Savage believed by then that nothing she ever did would surprise him. But he felt her go from his side and in a moment she was occupying the damp space in front of the guitar player and fluently whirling into a Spanish dance. Savage watched amazed. She could do it. Her chin dropped to her shoulder, her slim arms reached above her head and she snapped her fingers. Sharply her heels clicked on the pavement. The watchers joined in, clapping in triple time. The guitarist played on fiercely, vividly, not even looking at her, as though he had fully expected her to appear and the dance to happen.
Savage gazed. Sometimes he could not believe her. Her narrow face had become beautiful, rapt; her eyes were almost shut, her mouth barely open; the slim shoulders dipped and swayed, the head rose, the slight waist rocked, the arms curled, the fingers were flung out, as if she had been born to it.
At the final chord the crowd, by then so swollen that the police had become interested, applauded appreciatively. Korky performed a dramatically humble curtsey and flagrantly kissed the guitarist on his dark cheek. The youth’s remote expression did not alter and, after a quick, formal, but careless bow, he began to play another distant tune. The police and most of the crowd moved on.
‘I learned it in Benidorm,’ she explained in her cursory way when they continued along the street.
She led Savage in through one of the side doors to where there were stalls along interior walls and there were fewer people. He was still thinking of her dancing. The stallholders regarded them hopefully but Korky knew where she was going. The man she was seeking saw her and said: ‘I’ve still got it.’
‘I hope you have,’ she answered. ‘I just wanted to bring him . . .’ She gave Savage a light dig with her elbow. ‘To have a look. It’s his birthday.’
‘Happy birthday,’ said the vendor, a man with eyes of sharp blue and a bald head but a mass of gingery hair displayed under his open shirt. Savage did not argue. Korky pointed to the back wall. ‘There, that’s it,’ she said. The man was already unhooking the map.
‘Isle of Wight,’ he announced handing it across most reverently. ‘John Speed . . . well, after John Speed to be honest, as I always am. It’s a print. But it’s a nice one.’
Savage felt himself smile deeply. He studied the coloured map in its small wooden frame and then turned softly to Korky. ‘Do you like it, Savage?’ she asked.
‘It’s a print,’ repeated the stallholder fairly. �
��But it’s sound enough.’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Korky. She regarded Savage hopefully. ‘What d’you think?’
‘It’s very nice, Korky,’ he answered. The vendor, listening to their private names, looked from the young girl to the square-shouldered, middle-aged man. All he said was: ‘Fifteen pounds. It was twenty. And it’s a nice little frame.’
‘All right,’ said Korky impetuously. ‘Done.’ Her eyes went to Savage’s face again. ‘You do like it?’
‘Of course.’ He kissed her on the cheek while the stallholder wondered more about them. ‘But it’s not my birthday.’
A frown shaded the vendor’s face. ‘When is it then?’ he enquired.
‘Four months,’ provided Korky. She brightened. ‘But then it will be even older. More antique.’
‘Like me,’ laughed Savage. The stall man watched as he rubbed her upper arm under the flimsy sleeve. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I love it.’
They took it home, Korky carrying it in its newspaper wrapping as though it were some discovered treasure. She held it in both hands and when they were in the apartment laid it almost reverently on the table. ‘Savage,’ she said. ‘It’s the first thing we’ve bought together, apart from my clothes.’
He grimaced mildly and went into the kitchen to pour some wine. She folded back the newspaper and surveyed her purchase intently as if she feared it might have deteriorated. She picked it up, touched it and smelled it.
Savage poured two glasses of white wine and they raised them over the map. ‘Look at it,’ breathed Korky. ‘The colours. And look at this. It says “Wight Island” and “The British Sea”.’ He leaned over her, one of their moments of accidental intimacy. ‘And here,’ he pointed.
‘Part of England,’ Korky read slowly. ‘That makes it sound really abroad, just like a foreign country.’ She studied it, then turning back to him, breathed deeply and caught his arm. ‘Savage,’ she said like a conspirator directing her finger at the map. ‘The Isle of Wight. It could be your . . . our island. Savage, some time let’s go there. Soon.’ Then looking up at the long wall she said: ‘We’ll put it up there. Take down that picture that Mr Kostelanetz left. It’s ’orrible anyway.’
Kensington Heights Page 24