Jumping the Queue

by Mary Wesley

  ‘There is nobody to ring up. I live solo.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Don’t advise me to marry again.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  ‘Louise, Mark, Anabel and Claud have.’

  ‘Fools.’

  ‘And you’re an angel.’

  ‘With foibles.’ They had reached John’s house and he reached for his key. ‘A nightcap? Brandy?’

  ‘No. Bed for me. Thank you, I’ve had a lovely evening.’ Matilda left him and later in bed wondered whether he did or did not sleep with a revolver under his pillow. She felt anxious and disturbed, wishing she were at home.

  In his room John read for a while, checked that his revolver was correctly placed before turning off the bedside lamp. He lay smiling. Matilda was splendidly naïve. He thought and wondered, without being more than mildly amused, what sort of fellow she was shacked up with and why she should be toting his shoes around in a carrier bag. Larger feet than Tom’s, not Mark’s or Claud’s style. It was probably somebody quite unpresentable. He switched his mind to his trip to Prague. There were various conundrums which might be clearer after a night’s sleep. It was aggravating that he had to do so many little jobs himself. Tom Poliport had proved irreplaceable, small cog though he had been.

  Restless and unable to sleep, Matilda remembered Hugh’s shoes. She had left the carrier bag in the hall. My Christ! What stupidity, she thought, tiptoeing down to fetch them. What a daft thing to do, though Mrs Green would not be in until morning.

  18

  MATILDA WAS IN good spirits at breakfast. John put his head round the door.

  ‘Dinner tonight?’

  ‘Yes, looking forward to it, Piers.’

  ‘What are you doing today?’

  ‘Lunching with Lalage. Some shopping. We won’t lunch till late, knowing her.’

  ‘Give her my regards.’

  ‘I will.’

  Later she set off, taking a quick look round Habitat and Peter Jones before taking a bus to Piccadilly. She crossed the street, looked in at Hatchard’s on her way to what Tom called ‘St Fortnum’s, Piccadilly’. They had bought one another presents there when courting but today the memory did not bother her. She had discarded yesterday’s high-heeled shoes and strode along in espadrilles. She bought a paté for Claud, arranging to have it sent to his New York apartment. The salesman gave her a card on which she wrote: Eat this in memory of me. Mama. He would eat it with his lover if it had not gone bad, which she rather hoped it would. She paid by cheque.

  A short step into Jermyn Street, The careful choosing of a shirt for Louise at Turnbull and Asser. Louise would prefer something else and lend it to her husband whose colouring would be better suited to the shirt than Louise’s. Matilda knew Louise would wonder whether her mother had chosen the shirt with this in view and tell herself her mother was not sophisticated enough to do anything so mean. She paid by cheque and had it sent to Paris.

  She walked briskly to Liberty’s where she chose two scarves for Anabel to match her most frequent moods, lust and satiation. Anabel would know what was meant. Here too she paid by cheque. A taxi to Foyle’s where she bought the latest Russian poet in translation who had defected to the West and had it sent to Mark who would put it on his coffee table. She paid by cheque.

  The shopping elevated her spirits to the necessary pitch to meet Lalage with a fair degree of calm, arriving for lunch a calculated ten minutes late.

  ‘Darling, you are late! What on earth have you got on your feet?’ Lalage kissed the side of Matilda’s face, managing to look her over from head to foot. ‘Darling, come in. I see you’ve been to Paul’s. His prices are getting more astronomical every week.’

  ‘Pretty steep,’ Matilda agreed. ‘How does it feel to be blonde then?’

  ‘Oh sweetie, it’s my natural colour. You must remember that. Your father used to call me Blondie.’

  ‘That ’thirties cartoon?’

  ‘Don’t be naughty. Come in and tell all.’

  Over lunch Matilda listened. Lalage chattered, her mouth full, about herself. In the time spent on drinks and the first course she told Matilda in immense detail about her face lift, each stitch, each pleat, and the price.

  ‘I thought after the last lot you would not need to have it done again. That’s what you said.’

  ‘It didn’t work out that way. I had a gallop. Swear you won’t tell? It got damaged.’

  ‘Who should I tell?’

  ‘You might tell John, you’re staying with him.’

  ‘I won’t if you don’t want me to.’

  ‘I don’t mind really. It’s just who I had the gallop with. After what he did my face fell so I had to have it pulled up again.’

  ‘Who was the galloping Major then?’

  ‘Not the Major, sweetie, the brother. The one who killed his mother. You must know him – Warner.’

  Matilda swallowed her soup and laughed.

  ‘Lalage, come off it. He murdered his mother four weeks ago. You can’t have been sleeping with him, had your face done and recovered in that short time.’

  ‘You’ve got your dates mixed. How do you know, anyway?’ Lalage, her expression limited by the amount of slack taken in, managed to look cross.

  ‘I read the papers, watch the box, listen to the radio.’

  Lalage, not put out, grinned. ‘I’ll use that one in a few months. All right, it was someone else. I did meet Hugh Warner once. I thought him very dishy. The huge nose is so sexy. Have you ever met him? His brother’s a bit of a bore.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I fear he’s dead, must be or he would have been caught.’

  ‘They don’t catch them all.’ Matilda was pleased by the steadiness of her voice. ‘They never caught Jack the Ripper.’

  ‘Well, he went for tarts, that was different. I don’t suppose they really bothered. One’s mother is different.’

  Matilda grunted. ‘Who were you galloping with then?’

  ‘Ah, he’s at the German embassy. He knows Anabel.’ Lalage’s glance was barbed.

  ‘Lots of people know Anabel. She hasn’t necessarily slept with them. She isn’t a tart.’

  ‘Steady on, love, I never said she was.’

  ‘You implied by voice.’

  ‘No, darling, no. Anabel’s lovely. She gets around a lot. She’s so pretty people are bound to talk about her. It’s a pity about her hair.’

  ‘She’s young, it doesn’t matter what she does to her hair.’ How fast, Matilda thought sadly, one catches the breeze. What am I doing here talking to this spiteful old bag, she isn’t my friend at all.

  ‘I always loved Tom’s hair, the way it flopped forward.’ Lalage was removing their plates, fetching the next course. ‘The same colour as Anabel’s exactly, wasn’t it?’

  Lalage had her back to Matilda who sat forcing herself to be quiet, forcing herself not to get up and hit that freshly lifted face that knew that Tom’s hair only flopped forward when he bent over making love. Then it flopped, but at no other time. She was surprised how mild her feelings were at having what had been a suspicion verified. So what? If he had slept with Lalage it didn’t matter. Once she would have tried to kill Lalage; now she would not even slap her.

  They finished the meal to the tune of Lalage’s other affairs, her new fur coat, her new car, a hoped for diamond. As she combed her hair in Lalage’s bedroom Matilda, her feet comfortable in their espadrilles, was able to say with easy laughter:

  ‘Everything new, darling, face, clothes, car, lovers, everything except old moneybags. You are so clever to hang on to him.’

  ‘My husband’s not just an old moneybags, Matilda. You are a bitch.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Thanks for the lunch. Take care of yourself. Give him my love. I suppose he’s a veritable Kojak by now, poor Bertie.’

  Matilda crossed Oxford Street and walked down to the Curzon cinema where there was an erotic German film showing. As she settled in her seat she th
ought idly, Tom must have been sloshed to sleep with Lalage. There was no doubt in her mind that he had. She was surprised she did not care. She dozed off after the first half of the film, took a taxi back to John’s house, soaked agreeably in a boiling bath before dressing to go out. If Tom had slept with her friends then life was a little diminished. Time to go, time for the picnic.

  ‘Would you like to have dinner at the Mirabelle or The Connaught?’ John’s voice called from the landing.

  ‘You choose John, Piers I mean.’

  ‘The Mirabelle then, and The Connaught tomorrow.’

  ‘You spoil me.’ Matilda ran more water in the bath. Staying with John was like having a rich, undemanding husband, though perhaps as a husband he might have demanded more? Somewhere at the back of her mind Matilda knew what he would demand. She decided to entertain him during dinner with a spiced up version of lunch at Lalage’s.

  John surprised her by taking her to a concert at the Festival Hall before dinner.

  ‘You can rest your tootsies while I listen to music.’

  ‘I do like music too you know –’

  ‘You never used to.’ He drove well, nosing his car easily through the traffic.

  ‘Since Tom’s death I’ve listened a lot to the radio. One can’t help getting to know, recognize, love music.’

  ‘Very bad for your ear unless you have a really good radio.’

  ‘I haven’t. All the same I’ve learned some music and a lot about current affairs. Sometimes I listen all day, it helps me.’

  ‘Helps what?’ John was parking the car, hoping Matilda wouldn’t drop off during the concert.

  ‘Helps me keep alive while I must.’

  ‘Of course you must. You are not a suicidal character.’

  That’s what he thinks, poor old sod. Matilda was glad the concert was to be Mozart, a great cheerer-upper. Beethoven, John’s favourite, was inclined to depress. She did not wish to drip tears onto Anabel’s frock. She annoyed John by sitting alert and upright through the concert without nodding her head or toe-tapping, making several knowledgeable and intuitive remarks about the conductor. When at the end she turned and gave him a huge smile of thanks he was astonished to find how touchingly like she was to the Matilda he had known before her marriage. Driving her to the restaurant he felt kind and indulgent. She wasn’t bad company; certainly tonight she looked presentable.

  Eating dinner Matilda told John what Lalage had said or hinted about Anabel.

  ‘She’s like that, I shouldn’t pay any attention. She’s jealous of you, that’s all.’

  ‘Jealous of me?’

  ‘Yes. Poor Bertie is the dreariest of bores. No wonder her face falls and has to be lifted.’

  ‘But so rich.’

  ‘I grant you that. He’s disgustingly rich, does nothing interesting with it, just makes more money for Lalage to spend.’

  ‘No need for her to pick on Anabel. How could she be sleeping with this German when he’s in London and she’s in Frankfurt?’

  ‘There’s that modern invention the aeroplane.’

  ‘So it’s true, then?’

  ‘What if it was?’ John, having seen Anabel with the German quite frequently, was not prepared to deny.

  ‘I shouldn’t mind.’ Matilda looked around the restaurant. ‘She’s a beautiful girl. For aught I know she sleeps around a lot. She should be here, not me, it’s a good setting for her. I don’t belong anymore. The pavements are a disaster to my feet and I feel out of place. Anabel belongs, I don’t.’

  ‘Did Lalage suggest she had slept with Tom?’

  ‘No,’ said Matilda, too quickly, reinforcing John’s knowledge.

  ‘Have a brandy?’

  ‘No, thank you, it would keep me awake.’

  ‘Did you sleep well last night?’

  Matilda wondered whether he had heard her creeping down for Hugh’s shoes. ‘Oh, I always use Claud’s cure if I can’t sleep.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Composing letters to The Times about the Queen’s hats. You have to write a letter which is not derogatory to the Monarchy but expresses your distaste for her headgear. Without appearing unpatriotic it’s not possible. In despair you drop off and snore.’ Matilda laughed as John grinned at her.

  ‘Sure you won’t have a brandy? D’you mind if I do?’

  ‘Of course not. A brandy will suit you sitting there in your super pin-stripe. The onslaught of years has made you very distinguished, Piers.’ Matilda liked serving the occasional flattery.

  ‘You are looking very pretty yourself.’

  ‘It’s the brief whiff of London you are treating me to.’

  ‘Stay longer. Aren’t you lonely in your cottage all on your own?’

  ‘I’ve got a dog and a gander. I am a country bumpkin.’

  ‘But not a lonely one?’ She’s being very secretive about this chap, John thought as he ordered brandy. I expect he’s good in bed but drops his aitches.

  ‘Not lonely at all. I won’t mind going home on Thursday.’

  He must be good, thought John. When I have the time I must find out who he is.

  What a boring conversation this is. I prefer Gus any day. Matilda swallowed a yawn. It was long past her bedtime.

  ‘You used to have a cat.’

  ‘She died.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No use being sorry. Death is death. Tom’s dead and our cat’s dead. It won’t be long before I’m dead too. Most of me died when Tom died. We had planned to die together.’

  ‘Death control.’

  ‘Yes. Did Tom tell you?’

  ‘He must have. He wanted to go while the going was good. He got his wish.’ John sniffed his brandy. If Tom had wished to die young the heart attack in the rue Jacob was really of little consequence. If I felt guilty which I don’t, thought John, I should have no need to.

  ‘Well, it was our wish. I got left. It’s bloody hell,’ Matilda snapped, anger making her look rather beautiful.

  Whoever fits those shoes is lucky, if you like that sort of thing, which I happen to know she does. John watched her colour rise, pleased that Matilda believed in the heart attack, that there was no need to arrange one for her.

  ‘You and Anabel are very alike.’ He swallowed the brandy.

  ‘Anabel and I? Goodness no.’

  ‘Not in looks perhaps. Sexually.’

  ‘What an extraordinary –’ Matilda paused.

  ‘Accusation?’

  ‘Yes. I never slept around.’

  ‘You might very easily have gone that way if Tom had let you out of his sight.’

  Matilda let that pass, relieved that John was about to pay the bill.

  ‘I’m lunching with Anne tomorrow. I wonder what she will have to say.’

  ‘She will pick on Louise, you had Anabel today. Louise is also very beautiful, though not as sexy.’

  ‘I shall try and be ready for her.’

  ‘I’d let the girls protect themselves if they were mine.’

  But they are not, thought Matilda, feeling sorry for John, unmarried, childless, sexless. What did he do on long winter evenings?

  ‘You are an enigma,’ she said later when she kissed his cheek goodnight. John felt complimented but not pleased and before going to bed checked his engagement diary and was annoyed to find there was no way of getting down to see Matilda until November. Big Feet must wait, he thought, switching off the light, feeling for his revolver.

  In her room Matilda was not composing letters to The Times but congratulating herself on the fact that by the time the cheques she had written that day had bounced she would be dead. Let Mark worry. It would do him good to feel he had always been right in his opinion of his parents as unworldly, feckless people. As for her host John, if he had thought earlier of calling himself Piers a feast of confusion and derision would have been lost to anyone interested in her entourage, such as Claud. Matilda liked the words ‘interested in her entourage’ and mulled them over gently before sno
ring.

  Listening to the snores, John lay thinking about Matilda, remembering their youth. It had been too late to hold her, even if he had wanted to, when she had come running to him after killing Felicity. He had been glad she had killed Felicity, who was a nuisance. Desperate Matilda, so upset so long ago. ‘I was so frightened I peed in the snow. It was so cold –’ She had minded the cold more than killing. He had made her drink brandy, taken her along to Tom. And now, he thought, she’s past fifty and snores like the devil.

  19

  ON HER WAY to lunch with Anne, Matilda strolled from Chelsea to Harrods. It had occurred to her to surprise Anabel by leaving a really beautiful dress worn only once. She would choose a dress which would suit both Anabel and Louise. They would find it, be aware of its cost, both want it. They would quarrel over who should have it. Anabel, the more ruthless and determined, would get it. Adrenaline would flow, brisk up the funeral. Later Louise would make her husband buy her an even more expensive dress and the anger would spread to him while Mark, who by this time would have visited the bank manager, would be furious. Only Claud would be delighted. Of all my children I love Claud the best, Matilda thought, as she walked into Harrods by the Hans Place entrance and strolled through the men’s department to the lifts.

  She enjoyed trying on and making up her mind. She was helped by an assistant who was not yet unkind to middle-aged ladies. Matilda confided that the dress was to be for Anabel after she had worn it once.

  ‘I shall wear it tonight, then my daughter can have it.’

  Matilda decided against white or black, havered a bit over a lime green which would suit Anabel but looked distressing with her white hair.

  ‘There is a deep rose which would suit you.’

  ‘Let me see it.’

  The rose dress did suit. ‘I shall have it. Anabel will look marvellous in it.’

  ‘What about the length?’ Matilda was wearing her espadrilles. ‘It will be rather short with heels.’

  ‘I loathe heels, they hurt. I’m wearing these things to save pain. What shall I do?’ She was distressed. She wanted the dress. With heels it would look ridiculous, too short.

  ‘If you tried in the shoe department you might find a pair of dancing shoes. They are quite flat. I wear them often after a long day at work. My feet swell.’