“It’s Montilla, actually. Yes, it’s nice and dry. Well, since we have the time –” and he tops up our glasses.
“How are things in your office?”
“Oh, a bit hectic … much gossip about. One of our Law Society members has apparently been swindling a client of his – a poor old lady in a wheelchair.”
“That doesn’t sound very nice.”
He gives a faint chuckle. “No, but the fact is, this particular old lady is literally hell on wheels. She came as near as dammit to hitting me with her cane the other day when I was getting her affidavit. I can’t help sort of sympathizing with anybody who – now where are those people with our meal? You must be starving.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Tropical air smelling faintly of machines pumps into the room from the ceiling registers. I unbutton my cardigan.
“Nothing much else is new on Bay Street. Except for my poor secretary Elaine – the one with the baby, you know? Her husband’s left her. Not for another woman, which poor Elaine says she could understand, even if she didn’t like it – but because he wants to go to India to study Hinduism. He converted to Catholicism a few years ago, but this is a bit much. It’s really rough on Elaine, poor kid.”
I murmur something affirmative as the buzzer sounds. Cuthbert hurries to the door and opens it to a deliveryman who sways lightly to the unheard music in his headphones. Cuthbert carries the stack of cartons out to the kitchen, calling back, “This stuff is barely warm – I’ll just stick it in the microwave. Won’t be a minute. As you know, I can’t cook, and I was sure you’d rather eat quietly here than go to a restaurant.”
Well, you were wrong, dear, I think genially.
“Now a drop more sherry while we wait,” he says, bustling back. He refills both glasses before I can stop him.
“Anyhow, I’m acting for Elaine to be sure she gets support money for the baby and so on. She’s in an awful state about it, though if he really feels like that, she’s better off without him. I can hardly tell her that, though, can I?”
“How old is Elaine?”
“Just twenty-nine. Pretty girl, too.”
I finish off my sherry thoughtfully. “Easier to adapt at her age than at ours. As for sex, I’m developing a new respect for it, you know. I mean it’s connected to so many other things … to almost everything, in fact. Like the human condition. I’m becoming quite a philosopher in my old age, which is surprising, isn’t it, even for an introvert like me. Maybe it’s the sherry talking, but d’you think perhaps one reason we’re here at all – if there is a reason – could be to figure out the connection between sex and all the rest of it?”
Something beeps in the kitchen and Cuthbert excuses himself to hurry away again. Possibly he is not sorry to have this particular discussion cut short. I wander around the table, which has been neatly set beforehand with Danish cutlery and blue linen place mats. Looking more closely at these, I see that they are handwoven. An oval sticker under one corner reads “Handmade for Devices and Desires, Queen Street West.” I pry it free and slip it into my cardigan pocket.
“Now here we are at last,” announces Cuthbert, bustling in with several steaming bowls on a tray. “Could you just grab a couple of paper napkins out of that drawer, Rowena? Great. Now I have something nice to go with this.” And he produces a long-necked brown bottle. “Lacrima Christi. I don’t think Tom would disapprove, do you?”
“No, but I’m afraid I’d better pass, Cuthbert; I’ve really had –”
“Mustn’t be a cowardy custard,” he chides me, and firmly fills both wineglasses. “It’s mild as milk, I promise you. All through poor Mother’s illness, I found I could hardly eat a thing unless I had a glass or two of this to help it down. Maybe it’s the road to ruin, but if so, I don’t really care that much. Now cheers.”
The various Black Pearl dishes taste of nothing very much except fried rice and the cartons it all came in, but I think it prudent to blot up the sherry with as much food as I can manage. By sipping my wine, only at widely spaced intervals, I find I can keep the room more or less in equilibrium, but Cuthbert more than once cheerfully refills his own glass.
“Have you had enough to eat? Another fortune cookie? Mine says, ‘You will move forward with confidence.’ ”
“Mine says, ‘You will be direct in romance.’ ”
“Rosy futures, eh? I never know whether they’re meant for warning or advice. Let’s listen to some music.”
He goes over to a bank of expensive electronic equipment and pushes some buttons. At once a sprightly Vivaldi concerto springs into the air.
“Odd, with all that exuberance, it’s hard to remember he was actually a priest,” I say. “Though maybe that’s not as contradictory as it sounds. He’s celebrating life. Am I talking rather a lot?”
“Will you have a bit more wine? Well, I’ll just finish it off, then.”
I sit down carefully on the blond-wood, sparely upholstered sofa. “It was sweet of you to ask me over, Cuthbert. Thanks for the treat.”
“Dear Rowena, you deserve a little treat, if ever anyone did. Here, I’ll just cover Basil’s cage. I think he should have an early night. These last weeks have been a strain on him.”
“Naturally,” I say, trying not to smile. He sits down beside me, opening the top button of his jacket. When he leans aside to put his glass on an end table, the bald crown of his head glitters in the light from the overhead track lamps.
“Well, if we get what we deserve, Cuthbert, you ought to be in line for something pretty good yourself. Crowds of beautiful women fighting over you like wolves, for instance.”
He rubs his forehead ruefully. “Well, the uproar sure hasn’t broken out yet.”
“You just hang in there. It may, any time now.”
“Why now, when it never has before?”
“I don’t know, but upheavals like death create all kinds of peculiar waves. Strange, unexpected things happen.”
“Do they?” He glances at me sidelong.
“Yes.”
“To you?”
“Yes.”
“Really?” He pulls off his thick glasses and polishes them on his handkerchief.
“Believe me.”
“Well, nothing like that is going to happen to me.”
“That’s what I thought, Cuthbert.”
“Did you?”
By way of reply, I give his hand a friendly little squeeze, and as if absent-mindedly, he puts his arm around me. There is a silence during which Vivaldi continues to celebrate life. Then, still with an air of detachment, as if to convince himself or me that nothing of consequence is happening, he kisses my cheek. I turn his face to a convenient angle and put my lips to his. This act of assertion surprises me even more than it does him; but he responds with enthusiasm. Then, seconds later, he mutters, “No – I promised myself –” and draws away.
“Sorry.”
“It’s only that – dear Rowena, I mustn’t do this. You know we –”
“Cuthbert. Sh.” We have clearly reached a point where one of us has to make a decision, and there seems no reason why it shouldn’t be me. I open a button of his shirt and slip my hand inside. His chest is quite amazingly hairy. He groans and, turning, hastily unbuttons me in turn. We sink into a reclining position. He says breathlessly, “Look – we’ve got to – remember last time – say you’ll marry me.”
“Anything,” I mutter.
“You’ll marry me. We’re engaged.”
“Whatever. Don’t stop.”
“Ah. Yes. Oh.”
“Easy, love. Not so fast.”
“Now. Slowly.”
“Oh.”
“That’s right. Easy does it. Lovely.”
The priest’s music flows on serenely. Basil, protected from trauma behind his cover, sleeps. Eventually, so do we.
“I’m waiting,” the Prince says grimly.
“What for? I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
“Oh, yes, you do. Either that or explain me
to yourself. You needn’t be afraid of boring me – not after all the speeches I’ve sat through. Come on, I haven’t got all day.”
I kick the bedclothes rather sulkily. He has woken me up, and a faint taste of Lacrima Christi lingers sourly at the back of my mouth. A pale winter sun is just whitening the window blind; it is barely seven o’clock.
“Well?”
“Well what? I do wish you wouldn’t nag, Charles.”
“You seduced that little man.”
“Well, yes, but he was a consenting adult – to put it mildly.”
Charles sits down on the end of the bed, pushing his hands into the pockets of his double-breasted suit. After the silence has gone on for some time, I add with dignity, “Anyhow, it’s a private matter. Nobody’s business but ours. I refuse absolutely to feel guilty about it in any way.”
“And I suppose you’re going to tell me that drink had nothing to do with it?”
“Well, it didn’t. Not much, anyway. Come to that, it’s not our fault if we have inhibitions to overcome.”
“And Tom’s recent absence? Are you going to tell me the fact that you’ve missed his, er, attentions recently had nothing to do with –”
“That is not true,” I say loudly.
“Knickers,” he says.
“Look, it was simply a small, harmless act of loving kindness. Cuthbert’s such a dear. I’m truly fond of him. And it was high time he –”
Suddenly his normally pensive face breaks into a smile. “Rowena,” he says, “call it a celebration of life or an act of kindness – call it what you like – as long as you’re completely honest with both of us. And that means facing the whole truth about this little episode, including good old Tom’s tutorials, and the wine. More to the point, admit there’s profound satisfaction in the vision of Edwin somewhere up there in a state of outrage … You’ve tied the score, haven’t you?” And with that he tosses me a royal wave and disappears.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Shifting the black bulk of Wittgenstein slightly, I push the Wrights’ doorbell. A beribboned Christmas wreath, its tinsel blinking in the sun, is already rather crookedly tied to their knocker.
“Rowena!” cries Pamela, flinging the door wide. “Come along in. So glad you’re here – now I can stop doing this. What a revolting way to spend a Sunday, but needs must now I have a job.” She kicks aside an entanglement of vacuum-cleaner cord and hose, and glancing briefly at the cat says, “Is this our Witty, then? Has he been bothering you?”
I put him down and he immediately shoots under the sofa with a hiss.
“He keeps coming to my door, Pam, crying to be let in, and in this weather I hate to say no, since you’re out so much. But please don’t think I mind. Actually I’m flattered he seems to like me that much. Only I didn’t want you worrying where he might be.”
“Yes, well, I’m working part-time now in a dress shop. And he’s feeling very sorry for himself these days, is Witty. Give me your coat; we’ll have some coffee.” Here she pulls off the crimson scarf tying back her hair and leads me to the kitchen where I climb onto a bar stool. Sitting in the sunny window washing its face with a white paw is a fluffy, peach-coloured kitten.
“Somebody gave this creature to Colin a few weeks ago,” she says, scooping coffee lavishly into the basket of a large percolator. “We really couldn’t resist her, she’s so fetching; but Wittgenstein has taken fearful umbrage. He’s pretending to be insulted and not speaking to us, but the shaming truth is he’s frightened out of his mind of LaVerne, she bullies him dreadfully, isn’t she attractive, though, with all those frills and ruffles, but tough as old boot under it all. We think she belongs in some feline chorus line, hence LaVerne. How do you like your coffee, I think there’s some cream somewhere, I adore cholesterol myself, and what have you been doing these days anyway?”
This doesn’t seem to be quite the right time to go into detail about what I have been doing, though I have a feeling Pam would not only be fascinated, but would highly approve. Instead I say, “Not much, actually. Tell me, how do you think your father’s doing these days?”
“Oh, he seems about the same – you know, depressed and tiresome, grumbling about everything. The damn toe is taking forever to heal or knit or whatever bones do, I suppose at his age it’s natural, and it’s boring for him, not being able to get around, poor old bugger. Not that anybody in their senses would want to go anywhere much in this weather, I often wish I could break a hip or something and just stay cosily in bed all winter.”
“I’ve been to see him a couple of times this last week or two.”
“Have you? – Yes, he’s mentioned it, actually. How noble of you. A pity he doesn’t care for dogs, maybe a pet would take his mind off things, though they are madly inconvenient sometimes, look at Arthur at the vet for ages now, running up the most enormous bill and giving us awful pangs because he looks so pathetic with his yellow turn – he has hepatitis, of all things. For a while we thought he was going to die, John nearly cried, and as for me, floods.”
I shift a little on my stool. I have not come here to discuss pets, but Pamela’s personality – or her persona – has a certain irresistible force.
“About Sebastian –” I say hopefully.
“Ah, this is ready at last, do let’s go through where we can sit like ladies of pleasure off duty, you know those Lautrec paintings of half-dressed whores in plushy parlours, whatever one does at night, it’s deliriously depraved to be idle in the morning, it’s almost my favourite thing.”
I fall in behind her, glad to conceal the self-conscious grin prompted by this remark. Pamela clears an armchair for me by removing three books, a sweater and a Coke tin from the seat. “Why are men so madly untidy,” she grumbles, “is it testosterone or what, women never create such litter, not that I prize neatness all that much, it’s rather a dreary virtue.”
The black nose of Wittgenstein emerges cautiously from under the chintz skirt of the sofa, then withdraws abruptly as the kitten strolls into the room. LaVerne glances around with a calm air of ownership and begins to sharpen her claws on the rug.
“As a matter of fact, Pam, I wonder – I hope you won’t mind my mentioning this, because of course it’s not my business at all, and the last thing I want to do is interfere in any way, but –” I stir my coffee, trying to muster the courage to go on.
“You’re going to tell me something unpleasant,” says Pamela. “That kind of preamble always means trouble.”
“Well, forgive me ahead of time, then.”
“Oh, all right. Let’s have it. Something about my wretched old parent, I suppose.”
“Yes, well, actually it’s about his housekeeper.”
“What about her? She’s repulsive, I know, but necessary – a bit like a truss.”
“Well, yes, but she really – I mean, it –”
“Do spit it out, Rowena.”
“What I mean is this. I’m allowing for the fact she doesn’t like my visits, so it’s not her rudeness that bothers me … I don’t know just how to put this without sounding …”
“Look, you are making me really nervous. Get on with it.”
The kitten has curled up to sleep on the sofa and Wittgenstein’s whiskers reappear. With infinite caution his head and shoulders ooze forth from his retreat.
“Well, Pam, it’s just that last time I was there, I got the impression that Sebastian was – I know this sounds a bit far-fetched – but it seemed to me he was afraid of her.”
“What, Dad? Afraid of Mrs. Blot? You must be joking!”
“I know it sounds –”
“Oh, my dear, wildly improbable, don’t you really think? I mean he’s so fearsome himself, an ogre with fangs is simply nowhere, I can assure you, when he’s in form.”
“But these days he isn’t really in form, is he?”
“Oh, come, now, what could he possibly find to be frightened of in Mrs. B., unless you count those ghastly slippers and the things she does to the English langu
age.”
“I can’t put my finger on it, Pam, but it’s there, I really think, just the same, and –”
“Well, you haven’t seen her slapping him about the head, have you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Or starving him or anything?”
“No, no, but …” I think of the lukewarm tea produced on my last visit, and the torn-open packet of biscuits on the ring-marked tray, and my voice trails away in defeat.
“I mean it’s sweet of you to take an interest and all that, Rowena, but you do realize he can be pretty impossible, don’t you, and nine people out of ten wouldn’t put up with him for any money, so Mrs. B. has to be regarded as something of a treasure. This has been the story of his life, you know. He’s not only difficult in every way, but absolutely unpredictable as well. You never know where you are with him, you simply have no idea what it was like as children having him for a father, one minute roller-skating with us (which we actually found dreadfully embarrassing), and the next raging like Attila the Hun about some minor lapse like saying lie when you meant lay, or the other way round. I’ve seen him create the most frightful hoo appropriate to murder or treason because one of us said ‘between you and I.’ Actually it was my brother who received the blast that time, though Dad adored Geoff, practically idolized him, and never really got over him getting killed like that in Korea, so you see it’s no wonder both his marriages broke up, and in fact the truth is, if it comes to fear, I’ve always been mildly terrified of him myself.”
“Yes, well, I do see your point. It’s only that the last time I was there I had the feeling he was going downhill, somehow. He had nothing much to say, and …”
Soundlessly, belly to the floor, Wittgenstein inches forth. His baleful eyes are fixed on the sleeping LaVerne, who curls a paw over her nose and dozes on.
“Well, what exactly happened to give you this feeling?” Pam sets down her coffee cup on an end table with a sharp little clack, and Wittgenstein freezes once more.
“It sounds like nothing much, I know. She brought up the tea and dumped down the tray, and he asked her – in a perfectly polite way – if she’d mind bringing up the whisky later. And she said, ‘No good for you.’ He said, ‘Please bring it up anyway, Mrs. Blot,’ and she went off without answering. A bit later when he called down and asked for it again, she didn’t answer. He tried again. No reply. Then he actually got up on his crutches to call again from the head of the stairs; and this time she yelled back, ‘You be quiet!’ and he came back to his chair and sat down, all out of breath and a bad colour, and he didn’t look fearsome then, Pamela, he looked afraid.”
A Serious Widow Page 14
