by Alan Clark
I suddenly realized that I felt absolutely knackered. Not to mention pretty fucking upset. Why was I sitting on a chilly bench eating fish and chips? Why wasn’t I in some club with my so-called partner on his birthday? Because he’d pissed off and left me, that’s why. And not more than two seconds after I’d actually started to believe he might be the one, a blessing from my own humanist god. Nice timing, Paki boy.
I began to feel a Milton coming over me like a big black cartoon cloud, so I sat back quietly and let Vic rabbit on. All you had to do to make Vic happy was give him an audience, wind him up and watch him go. He wasn’t bothered how small it was as long as he got a good review. Tonight it was Rat Pack anecdotes. Big Frankie was clearly dazzled that Vic had known them all personally and had once resisted the advances of Lauren Bacall.
Elspeth sat silently nibbling her chips. Was she possibly in mild shock, having been single-handedly responsible for a major terrorist alert? But no, she was hanging on Vic’s every word as he painted pictures of worlds that had never touched her. That day when she’d agreed to take the job, she’d gone on a later train back to Scotland. I’d wondered if we’d ever see her again; half-hoped, shamefully, that we wouldn’t, that the sight of the hills of Bute might calm her apparent brain-storm. But maybe it was one of those Lowland days when the clouds are no higher than the bus-stops and for which the anti-depressant has yet to be invented. Anyway, inside a fortnight she’d packed her bags, rented out her cottage, left her Sunday school kids to Satan and was back in NW3. Perhaps this was her Nureyev moment, leaping the border like he’d leapt the barrier at Le Bourget.
Vic was now teasing her gently, demanding to know which of his songs she’d danced to. When she answered none, he overstepped the mark.
‘Okay, which have you made love to then?’
‘Dearie me Mr d’Orsay, I’m a maiden lady.’
‘I only meant a kiss and a cuddle Miss Wishart, nothing more.’
‘Not even that I’m afraid,’ said Elspeth, flustered, dabbing at her lips with a paper napkin, as if trying to wipe away his imputations. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
Vic looked genuinely sad.
‘Jeez, you do disappoint me, Miss Wishart. The last slow dance, strong arms around you, me on the turntable singing Moonlight In Amalfi.’
‘A wee bitty late now,’ said Elspeth.
‘Nonsense honey,’ he replied, seizing her spindly wrist ‘You just come here with me.’
He dragged her to where the terrace jutted right out over the river. The disco boats, over-laden with fairy lights, lurched across the swell and the dome of St Paul’s, floodlit like some bloody great tureen, still managed to dwarf the pretentious pinnacles that soared around it.
‘Look at that,’ Vic shouted, throwing his arms wide to embrace the panorama. ‘London. The centre of the world. Dirty, dangerous, expensive, exhausting. But throbbing with people being who they want to be and to hell with what anybody else thinks. A place to make a fresh start Miss Wishart, even at our age. While you’ve still got time, there’s everything to play for.’
‘I’m not sure who I want to be Mr d’Orsay,’ Elspeth said. ‘It hadn’t occurred to me I could be anybody else now. Anyway I’ve been reasonably content being Elspeth Wishart, school matron.’
‘Content? But you’ve never been held tightly and danced to Vic d’Orsay singing Moonlight In Amalfi? Well, you’re going to now.’
Vic grabbed Elspeth round the waist. She was too surprised to resist. He began to sing some horrendous Fifties crap about fishing-boats bobbing, seabirds swooping and a girl with eyes like amethysts. It was obvious that Elspeth had hardly danced in her life, but Vic’s skill carried them both. Her eyes stayed mostly on the ground like some teenage wallflower, only occasionally meeting his with an embarrassed grimace, as anybody would when being sung at full in the face. As he steered her around the terrace, I stopped noticing that they were old; that he was fat and she was dowdy. Okay, we weren’t talking Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse but, by some alchemy, they began to look almost beautiful. We could all see it; Big Frankie stopped eating his chips, Dolores Potts let the cigarette burn away between her fingers. At the end of the song, Vic kissed Elspeth’s hand, bowed to a few applauding tourists and give two fingers to a hoodie on a skateboard who’d yelled abuse. Big Frankie leapt up and whooped, his huge arse vibrating like a tumble-drier on maximum spin.
‘That’s friggin’ star quality, ain’t it boss?’
‘I guess it is,’ I said.
Dolores now demanded to be danced with too and the performance was encored. I didn’t imagine any of the strolling tourists knew who Vic was, but they knew he was Somebody. He certainly wasn’t like elderly men were supposed to be. It had obviously never occurred to him to disengage with the world, to step back and leave life to the younger generation. He never stood on his dignity either so somehow, however he behaved, he kept it. When I’d first met him, he’d seemed quite a simple character; impossible to imagine Vic d’Orsay in the eau-de-nil room as Ms Prada peeled off the geniality in search of the layers underneath. But over the last three years, I’d come to sense that those layers were present, even if I had no idea what they were. Ours was an odd association, based on a chance meeting, cemented by a well-intentioned crime. And now I saw him every day in life. We rubbed along like Elspeth’s blasted knitting needles, putting together this odd enterprise of ours. I’d tried to maintain a certain distance though; I’d not been used to rubbing along with anybody much. My private life was mine and his, whatever it might be, was his. There were no net curtains twitching around the East Court. Nevertheless I could no longer quite picture Mount Royal without him. Like Granny, he had surrendered to the house, painted himself into its canvas, as much a fixture now as the statue of Old Father Thyme or the fluted pilasters that framed the great front doors. As Vic twirled Dolores round the terrace, I was glad of that.
I looked past them at the forest of lights across the river and wondered where exactly Faisal was. Perhaps he was dancing too, with Ruby or one of the Siamese Children. He’d refused to dance for me when we’d gone to that club, but it was his birthday after all, so maybe he’d do it for them. I was aware of an odd feeling in the pit of my stomach. Not the bloody gastric reflux thing, but something else. I missed him that was all.
We climbed up the steps onto Waterloo Bridge, Big Frankie offering Elspeth the assistance of his monumental arm. To my surprise she accepted and I worried in case tonight had been too much for her. No doubt the usual excitement of her day was the paddle steamers passing the Isle of Bute.
I ran ahead to flag down an approaching cab, but saw it was occupied. As it went past, the woman passenger peered out, long straight hair and cadaverous cheekbones, a dead spit for the great Joni Mitchell, Canada’s only decent export till Keanu Reeves. One of Joni’s best songs surfaced in my mind; about relationships being like snakes and ladders. Just when you think you’ve finally got up there, some shite happens and you slither all the way back down again. So you drag yourself up one more time then hey, guess what? She’d never been a looker old Joni, but she knew her stuff all right.
EIGHT
‘TERROR GRANNY HALTS THE EYE’ – Guardian
‘KNITWIT NEEDLES LONDON’ – Daily Mail
‘GREAT BALLS OF WOOL!’ – Sun
I spread the papers over the breakfast table. Elspeth’s coverage was quite extensive. If she’d left her knitting outside Tesco on Heath Street she’d have got a small para on Page 12, but she’d gone for an iconic target on her first time out. You had to hand it to her.
I wasn’t sure whether to show her or not. She’d refused to have a telly in her wee flat. A cesspit of stupidity she’d called it, an insult to the genius of John Logie Baird. But she was addicted to what she called the Home Service, so I imagined she’d have heard at least some of the fuss. Her first night out in London had been quite something; causing a major bomb scare, waltzing with the King Of Croon. I’d pop over later and see if she was ok
ay.
Though it was past ten, I was breakfasting alone. Faisal, usually up with the rooks, hadn’t yet emerged from the spare room. I’d heard him come in at god-knows-when, soon followed by the retching, honking and flushing. So how was I going to deal with last night then? I considered the options over my salty porridge. Option One was to delete it from my memory and go forward as if nothing had happened. Option Two was the wounded fawn rou-tine. Option Three was the all-guns-blazing, tits-out row. Which road would the well-balanced, anger-managed person have taken, the one Ms Prada would have applauded? Probably Option One, realizing that the other party is as flawed as oneself and forgiving them. Except hang on, Faisal was Mother Teresa wasn’t he? He wasn’t supposed to have flaws; his job was to point out mine. Option Two, the sad victim number, exposed your vulnerability, letting them know they had the power to hurt you. A dodgy strategy but with the possible advantage of speeding the healing process and walking into the sunset hand in hand. Or there was Option Three, which could make things infinitely worse, the immature, pointless and stupid option. I just loved Option Three.
‘About a thousand quid, give or take a tenner.’
‘Sorry?’ said Faisal, who’d just crept up the glass staircase and headed for the Douwe Egberts.
‘The invoice from the London Eye. What your birthday shindig cost me last night.’
‘Wow,’ he said, his eyes half-shuttered against the morning sun. ‘Big hug. Very grateful.’
‘Really? Then why did you fuck off?’
He grimaced; but there was resignation in it. Like when the dentist finally hits the nerve; you know it’s coming but it still hurts.
‘Don’t put it like that, Rory. The evening had been a bit spoiled for everyone, so when Ruby suggested going on somewhere, I felt I had to go.’
‘I realized your dilemma, Faisal,’ I said, ‘but the nasty truth is that your buddies didn’t want me, or any of the other oldies, along. It was hanging in the air like one of Vic’s farts. And you smelt it didn’t you? Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m wrong. You had a choice to make. Right there, right that second. And you chose to go with them.’
He came over to the table with the cafetière and his bowl of organic muesli.
‘Yes I know,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve been lying awake half the night.’
‘Bollocks. You’ve been snoring half the night,’ I said. ‘Look Faisal, if you’re going to dump me sooner or later, because of the age thing or any of my other inadequacies, then do it sooner and let’s get it over with.’
‘Oh Rory, stop over-reacting. I don’t care about the age thing.’
‘Well you let it separate us last night, a night when we should have been together. Was that fat cow Ruby behind it then?’
‘Hey, that’s not fair.’
‘Fair? She wasn’t very fair to me. Before she’d even met me, she’d decided I wasn’t right for you. Is that the vibe the others were giving you too? Last night, I felt like a poodle on parade at Crufts. I obviously didn’t get very good marks either.’
Faisal sprinted from the table and deposited his organic muesli into the sink. I flung open a window. I knew I should probably stop there but I also knew I couldn’t.
‘I’ve committed myself to you Faisal,’ I yelled at his heaving back. ‘Do you have any idea how long it is since I did that?’
He pulled his head from the sink and dabbed his beard with kitchen roll.
‘Committed? Really? So what about that night last month when you came home smelling of piss? And … and … if you’re so committed to me, how come your profile is still on fucking Dinkydudes?’
Oh dear. Faisal never ever swore.
‘I forgot to take it off. And why were you on there anyway?’
‘Checking to see if you were, and yes, there you still are! “Scotstud. Age Forty.” Ha! “Looking to play with like-minded guys. No holes barred. I don’t bite unless you want me to.” I know it by heart. And don’t tell me you forgot to remove it. That site shows when the user last logged on. You were there three days ago.’
He was glaring up at me, tugging at his beard, oblivious to the bits of sick still nesting there.
‘You walked away from me last night Faisal,’ I blustered back. ‘You walked away.’
I swept the cafetière off the table; I’d always been one for the grand gesture. Unfortunately, the contents sprayed all over a Berber rug that Faisal had owned for years and was very fond of. But I didn’t care. No, that’s not honest. At that moment, I was happy to be causing him pain.
I flew out into the East Court, slamming the door with such force that some dozy doves having a lie-in came wheeling out of the Clock Tower and precision-bombed the Merc. I tripped over a reel of cable an electrician had left there days ago. I snatched it up, tracked him down in the Gilded Hall and flung it at him. He walked off the job on the spot. Fine. Fuck him. I roamed the house, looking for people to growl at. Robin Bradbury-Ross was up a ladder in the Chapel cleaning one of the fat marble putti on the reredos. A pile of mucky tissues was scattered on the floor, as if he’d been changing its nappy.
‘We need to talk about the lift my sweet,’ he called down. ‘English Heritage has more issues.’
‘I thought we’d resolved all those,’ I shouted up. ‘Over that desk in the Library? Don’t you remember?’
‘I remember all right,’ he smiled, ‘but Simon Jenkins has written a letter.’
‘Fuck Simon Jenkins.’
‘Who’s a grumpy girl today then?’ he yelled at my back.
I strode outside to the Great Fountain and threw pebbles at my new Koi carp till it struck me that they might be traumatized; they’d cost an arm and a leg. I sat down on a bench and did one of Ms Prada’s relaxation exercises. I had to imagine all my troubles trapped inside a cheery yellow balloon which I could then release and watch disappear into space. It didn’t work very well today, but the peace of the gardens helped. The re-seeded lawns were sprouting fast and the giant urns dotted across them were now inhabited by pyramids of box, fringed with purple pansies and white tulips. Along the perimeter walls, the lines of small topiary yews, sitting it out like matrons at a ball, had had their crinolines clipped and spruced up. Dolores Potts had made order out of chaos in an amazingly short time. Perhaps she could teach me the principles so I could apply them to my life.
‘Would you fancy a wee walk out on the Heath?’ asked a voice just behind me. That had always been one of Elspeth’s tricks; materializing suddenly beside you like Mrs Danvers in Rebecca.
But Elspeth’s wee walk turned into a marathon. After a lifetime of climbing hillsides up to her arse in heather, she took the pathetic undulations of Hampstead in her steely stride. It had warmed up into a lovely May morning and the place was knee-deep in psychotic roller-bladers and Filipino nannies with screaming brats. For a while we trekked along without talking. I didn’t feel much like chatting and she seemed to sense that, just like she’d always done.
I carelessly led her to the brim of Parliament Hill to take in the view. A mistake really, because it was impossible to miss the bloody London Eye. I asked how she was feeling this morning. She sighed. She’d heard the radio she said, but she’d already apologized to the ‘top brass’ before getting into bed and it seemed superfluous to repeat it to anyone of lesser rank like the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. She wondered if there was any way of getting her knitting back. I said I thought it best to let sleeping balaclavas lie.
We turned and wandered up the east side of the Heath to the wedding-cake walls of Kenwood. The only empty bench was engraved with the words ‘In fond memory of Augustus and Mollie Parker-Smith. They loved this view.’ It felt impertinent to sit down and block it, but I was tired, I’d not slept well. Elspeth announced an urge for ‘a wee pokey hat’, so I bought two small but outrageously expensive ice-creams. We licked in silence, contemplating the lake with its daft fake bridge. Past us paraded the matrons of Hampstead and Highgate, the ladies who strolled then lunch
ed; huge hair, high heels, make-up you’d need to sand-blast off. I saw Elspeth eyeing them and wondered if, deep inside the soul of the spinster, there was a yearning for a facial, a mud-wrap and a couple of hours in Harvey Nicks with an Amex Platinum.
If I glanced over my shoulder I could see into Robert Adam’s sensational Library. At Mount Royal, only the Gilded Hall and the Saloon were in its league. But everything here seemed lifeless, a great dead house lying on a slab of grass. At least, I was saving Mount Royal from the cafés, the litter-bins and the ghosts of Augustus and Mollie Parker-Smith.
‘You’ve not had a good day so far, I’m thinking,’ Elspeth said eventually. Her flat was at right angles to ours and her windows were often open. She’d probably heard most of the row.
‘Well Rory Blaine, it’s not my place to comment so I will let the Lord do it for me. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And you’re not without trespasses I’d imagine.’
‘No, Miss Wishart.’
She could see I didn’t want to discuss it. She was an odd mixture old Elspeth; briskly insensitive one minute, the antennae of a Lakeland poet the next.
‘Tell me more about the last thirty years then,’ she said, changing the subject with a great crashing of gears. ‘I know the outline of course, but there’s not much room on a Christmas card is there?’
So I found myself on an unexpected canter across my five years in Australia, making a name as a hot kid-copywriter, winning every award going, then getting an offer I couldn’t refuse from a big agency back in London, at that time the world capital of creative advertising. I told her about starting up Blaine Rampling and gradually becoming a big cheese in the business. Elspeth listened with slightly baffled attention.
‘And did all that make you happy?’ she asked. Calvinists always cut to the chase.
‘When I was younger it was fun, glamorous even. Sometimes you even think it matters, then it dawns that it’s not much of a job for a grown-man.’
