by Robert Gott
The proprietor of Latrobe Motors was a man in his late sixties. He was smartly dressed, and his small selection of cars were polished and looked to be in good order. He’d been in the business before the war, and, with the recent relaxation of regulations around the use and availability of commercial vehicles, he thought he’d reopen the enterprise. Uptake had been slow, he admitted. As they weren’t permitted to hire out cars for recreational purposes, they depended on businesses whose own vehicles had become unroadworthy or undrivable. He made a feint at checking Tom’s credentials, but allowed him to fumble in his wallet and declare he’d forgotten to bring his paperwork without pushing him too hard. He accepted Tom’s verbal assurance and the £10.00 above the hiring fee that Tom included.
Tom had chosen to visit Latrobe Motors close to 5.00 pm. He thought this might encourage the owner to squeeze in a sale before closing. He decided not to give Joe advance warning of his intentions, and drove out towards Kew without telephoning first.
15
CLARA WAS HALF-EXPECTING Adelaide Matthews to answer the door with a drink in her hand. As it happened, when she opened the door she wasn’t drunk, but she was definitely angry. In fact, she was so angry she didn’t speak. She simply retreated into the house with the expectation that Clara would follow. In the front room, Adelaide stood with her hands clenched at her sides, and composed herself.
‘I’m sorry, Clara, what must you think of me? You caught us at a bad time.’
‘Us?’
‘I’m afraid my children have been misbehaving, my son especially. He’s been impossible. I’ve sent them upstairs.’
She didn’t elaborate, and Clara didn’t press her to. Other people’s children were of little interest to her.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Adelaide said. Despite her best efforts, a small quiver of hot rage remained in her voice. ‘I’ll get the tea things.’
When she returned and began pouring the tea, she said, ‘The funeral was ghastly, really ghastly.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know the funeral had happened.’
‘It was yesterday. There was hardly anybody there, which isn’t surprising. Gerald didn’t have many friends, and I don’t think his colleagues liked him much. It was all rather grim. But at least it’s over and done with.’
‘It must have been difficult.’
‘To be perfectly honest, Clara, I was more embarrassed by the small turnout than upset.’
The brutal honesty of this remark embarrassed Clara. It was the kind of thing you might say to an intimate friend who would know you well enough to interpret it sympathetically.
‘How did your children manage?’
‘Well, they hardly knew their father, so I think they found it all rather boring. I didn’t bring them to the cemetery. What would have been the point of that?’
Clara had no answer. She saw that no pictures had been put up to replace the Norman Lindsays that had been taken down.
‘You haven’t chosen your pictures yet.’
Adelaide looked around the room.
‘No. I rather like the blank walls, actually. Gerald would have hated the way this room now looks.’
‘You must miss him.’
Adelaide laughed.
‘Oh, Clara. I don’t miss him at all. He’s dead and buried, and suddenly I like living in this house. I feel like I can breathe. I know I told you that he loved me and that he loved the children, but as soon as he was safely in the ground, I realised that he didn’t really.’
‘Surely he loved the children?’
Adelaide suddenly seemed slightly drunk, although Clara hadn’t seen her drink any alcohol.
‘He was pleased when Cornel was born. A boy, you see. He made no effort to hide his disappointment when Violet was born. He was so disdainful of females that he couldn’t see the point of them. Here was Violet, this beautiful child, and all Gerald could do was moan about the pointless expense of educating her. As Cornel began to grow up, Gerald dismissed him from his affections too. He got it into his head that Cornel was queer.’
‘How old is Cornel?’
‘He’s just turned ten. Gerald began to insist that he was homosexual when the poor child was only six. It was the way he held his cutlery, and then it was the way he walked, and how timid he was.’
Clara began to feel out of her depth as this confessional rush poured out of Adelaide. Surely this wasn’t the sort of thing you shared with someone on just a second meeting. It was so awful, and so private.
‘Adelaide, are you sure you want to tell me these things?’
The question startled Adelaide.
‘Why, of course. You’re the only person who really knows what sort of man my husband was. I know I can trust you, and if I don’t talk to someone I think I might burst into flames. You do see that, don’t you?’
Clara didn’t see that at all, and at this moment what she wanted most in the world was to be anywhere but here.
‘I didn’t really know Gerald,’ she said.
‘You know he hated you. So that’s something about Gerald we have in common. He hated me, too.’
‘His opinion of me honestly didn’t bother me.’
‘It bothered me.’
Adelaide seemed on the edge of hysteria. ‘He went on endlessly about you. Every night. You were like the third person in our marriage.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh please, don’t be sorry. The more he railed against you, the closer I felt to you, and I’d never even met you. It’s odd, isn’t it? I should keep my voice down. Cornel and Violet shouldn’t hear their mother talking about their father like this. They’re hanging onto the childish belief that Gerald loved them. I’m afraid I tried to disabuse them of this just before you arrived. Cornel said some awful things to me. I hate to say it, Clara, but I could hear Gerald in his voice, and I lost my temper.’
‘Are they all right?’
‘Oh yes. I’ll fix it all up after you leave.’
Clara began to feel slightly dizzy, and decided she couldn’t bear to be in the room with Adelaide Matthews a moment longer. She stood up, and said simply that she needed to get home in order to sleep. Adelaide stood, too, and made no attempt to detain her. She walked her to the door.
‘I’m afraid this hasn’t been very enjoyable,’ Adelaide said, ‘but I’m so grateful to you for listening. You will come around again, won’t you? We’ll only talk about amusing things, I promise.’
Clara said nothing, and offered only a weak smile. Adelaide kissed her on the cheek.
‘You will come again, won’t you?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Clara took the gamble that Helen might be in her office despite it being Saturday. As she made her way there, she cursed herself for having said, ‘Yes, of course,’ in answer to Adelaide Matthews’ question, instead of, ‘You have to be fucking kidding me.’
CLARA TOLD HELEN that if she drank any more tea her kidneys would collapse.
Helen made herself a cup while Clara told her about Bussell’s gift and his subsequent brutish note. Helen insisted, yet again, that Clara move into the Kew house until Bussell had been found, and Clara, yet again, refused.
‘He’s not going to drive me out of my home, Helen. Besides, he hasn’t actually threatened me, has he? He’s allegedly in love with me.’
‘It’s a dangerous kind of love, though, isn’t it?’
‘Speaking of dangerous kinds of love, how’s Joe?’
Helen let that pass, and said that she’d insisted he stay home. He’d said at breakfast that he had a slight headache, and, as he never complained of pain, Helen took this to mean that the headache was severe. Clara said that she was worried by this and that she’d like to check on him. They decided that she should sleep in the office for a few hours, and go home with Helen for dinner.
Clara tried t
o make her summary of afternoon tea with Adelaide Matthews amusing, but the unsettling nature of it resisted humour. Adelaide was as frightening in her way as Bussell.
‘I don’t know if her husband’s death has unhinged her, or if she was hingeless before he died. I’m pretty sure she’s an alcoholic. Her children are probably safer in their boarding school than they are at home.’
‘You think they’re in danger?’
Clara thought about this for a moment.
‘Not physical danger, no, but psychological danger, definitely. Those poor bloody kids. They really lost the lottery when it came to parents.’
‘You should have no further contact with her, Clar.’
‘Should I warn her about Kenneth Bussell?’
‘No, absolutely not. Why would you even think about doing that?’
‘I don’t know. In case he shifts his attention from me to her.’
‘He probably doesn’t even know she exists. Bussell killed Dr Matthews because of the way he treated you. He made that perfectly clear when he left that little trophy outside your door, and that book of sonnets just adds to the creepiness.’
‘I’m not having much luck with men, am I? You know I had dinner with Guy.’
‘I did not know that.’
‘I liked him. I would have gone out with him again, I think.’
Helen found this news rather astonishing.
‘Why didn’t you say something?’
‘Well, you know, it was all very tentative and uncertain, and then he died.’
They sat in silence for a moment.
‘He was a bit of a mess,’ Clara said. ‘Narcolepsy is a strange condition.’
‘He had the most terrible nightmares. I never said anything, but you could hear him crying out, all through the house.’
‘Does Joe have nightmares?’
‘I don’t know, Clar. I’ve never spent the night with him. If he does, they’re not loud enough to hear.’
‘Tell me, Helen, what do you see in Joe Sable?’
Only Clara could have asked that question and not been rebuffed.
‘I see a decent man, and I’ve seen him hold on to his decency in awful circumstances. He’s brave.’
‘Bravery matters to you, doesn’t it?’
‘Not if it means taking foolish risks. It’s old-fashioned, but one of the things I most admired about my father was his steadfastness.’
‘Now there’s a word you don’t hear very often.’
‘And before you jump to any amateur psychological conclusions, I don’t like Joe because he reminds me of my father. He doesn’t. He looks nothing like him, for a start.’
‘Is he good looking, do you think?’
Helen laughed.
‘Your tone suggests you don’t think he is.’
‘Guy was better looking, you have to admit.’
‘Well, Dr Dawson, your essential shallowness is finally out in the open.’
Clara shrugged.
‘I’m easily seduced by shiny things, Helen.’
‘And Joe isn’t sufficiently shiny for you?’
‘Well, he has no idea how to talk to women, and that takes the shine off.’
‘What do you mean? He’s never rude.’
‘That’s not what I meant. He’s awkward, like a schoolboy. I know he’s well educated and knows a lot about art and books, but honestly, have you ever had a proper, decent conversation with him?’
‘Of course I have.’
‘I don’t mean about work. I mean about, I don’t know, life.’
Helen’s silence made Clara think she’d gone too far. She wasn’t sure why she’d begun asking these questions.
‘I’m sorry. It’s really none of my business.’
‘You’re right, though, Clar. We only ever talk about work, but that’s not just Joe’s fault. It’s mine, too. I find it difficult not to correct other people’s opinions.’
Although this was said with seriousness, it provoked a burst of delighted laughter from Clara, and Helen joined her.
‘Oh, Helen, that is so fucking funny.’
‘I don’t think Joe finds it funny.’
‘If you wait for him to make a move, you’ll wait till hell freezes over. If you want anything to happen between you and Joe, you’re going to have to be grown-up about it and take charge.’
‘Oh, God, Clar, what if he’s appalled?’
‘Then you’ll know he’s a moron, and you can stop mooning over him.’
‘You’re a wise woman, Clara Dawson.’
AS TOM MACKENZIE walked up the path towards the Lord house, Joe called his name and emerged from behind a tree, a set of hedge-clippers in his hands.
‘Ah, the nobility of physical labour,’ Tom said. It was just before 5.00 pm, and the air was cool. It was getting darker earlier with each passing day, and a thick cloud-cover added to the gloom.
‘How can you see what you’re doing?’
‘I was just finishing up. What are you doing here? It’s good to see you. Come inside. I’ll clean myself up and we’ll have a drink. In fact, stay for dinner. Ros won’t mind, and Helen should be home any minute.’
Once inside, Joe went upstairs to wash and change his clothes. Ros Lord sat with Tom, and asked polite questions about his life and how it was all going. He decided to relieve her of the need to be discreet.
‘I’m almost fully recovered, Mrs Lord, apart from this.’ He held up the strapped fingers of his left hand. ‘This is annoyingly slow to heal.’
‘You look very well.’
‘Underneath this shirt is the unsightly legacy of a scald. It’s not painful anymore, except to look at.’
‘My husband had a dreadful burn scar across one shoulder. He was caught in a house fire when he was about 12 years old. I always thought it was a part of the biography of his body. He hated it. I couldn’t have imagined him without it.’
‘It’s hard to accept your own ruined flesh.’
‘I suppose that’s true. I’m very sorry about your friend, Guy Kirkham.’
‘He was Joe’s friend, really. I only met him a handful of times.’
Somehow this seemed mean-spirited, so he added, ‘I’m sure we would have become good friends, although he might have found my lack of culture irritating.’
‘I liked having him here in this house. It’s far too big for just Helen and me. Thank goodness Joe is here, but he’ll get his own place eventually. My brother, Peter, lived here on his own for years. I think he was very glad to take me and Helen in, though. He liked his own company, but he liked mine, too. We would talk and talk.’
‘You must miss him.’
‘Terribly. Every day. I know Joe misses Guy. He doesn’t talk about it, but you know, don’t you, when there’s sadness behind a person’s eyes? He’s angry, too, and anger sometimes makes people do reckless things.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Will you watch out for him, Tom?’
Tom marvelled at Ros Lord’s intuition. Somehow she knew that this wasn’t just a social visit. No wonder Helen’s intelligence was so sharp, given that she’d grown up in this woman’s orbit.
‘I’ll do my best, Mrs Lord.’
‘Promise me.’
‘I promise.’
Ros smiled and patted Tom’s knee. ‘Thank you. I’ll get some sherry.’ As she walked away, she turned and said, ‘Don’t be too hard on yourself when you break that promise, Tom. I’ll put the sherry in the library.’
When Joe came into the library he was wearing clothes that were both casual and expensive.
‘I thought you lost all your coupons when your flat burned down.’
‘Peter Lillee doesn’t own any cheap clothes. I’ve just assumed complete control of his wardrobe now. As Helen said, trousers and suits don’t look good on her.’
Ros Lord returned with the sherry, and then discreetly left the two men alone.
‘I’d never drunk sherry in my life,’ Tom said, ‘until I visited this house.’
‘Neither had I. It’s amazing how quickly it seems essential to daily life. How are you, Tom?’
‘It’s you with the bandage around your head. How are you?’
‘I’m fine, I think. I woke up with a pounding headache, but it’s pretty much gone now.’
They talked about Guy, with Joe acknowledging that Guy’s mental state had been fragile.
‘He was almost the same Guy Kirkham who I knew at university, but he wasn’t quite.’
‘There was that incident in New Guinea, wasn’t there? An accident.’
‘Yes, but there’d been something before that, something he never told me about. It gave him night terrors, and it may have precipitated his narcolepsy. He was drinking quite heavily, but he was getting back to something like his old self, I thought.’
‘I would have liked to get to know him better.’
‘I want to catch the man who killed him, Tom. I mean, I don’t just want him caught, I want to catch him.’
Tom leaned forward in his chair and told Joe why he’d come. Joe’s face showed his excitement.
‘Helen won’t lend us the car unless we can convince her to come with us, and I’m not sure she’ll agree. She’s very down on herself about Guy’s death, and I feel like she’s wrapping me in cottonwool.’
‘I have a car. I hired one, would you believe?’
In order to avoid Helen’s opposition to a visit to Prescott’s orchard, they decided to leave for Nunawading then and there. Joe let Ros know that they wouldn’t be in for dinner after all. She didn’t ask why. The manner in which Tom avoided catching her eye told her they were doing more than just ‘going for a spin in a hire car’.
