‘Oh, Henrietta!’ moaned Charles softly to the night air. So she’d gone home.
Charles looked across the cobbled courtyard to a battered orange sports car and peered at his watch, weighing his options. If he was lucky with a cab he might just make the last train back the Buckinghamshire, but it would be tight. But what would be the point? By the time he got there Henrietta would be asleep or – worse – still up and so drunk they’d be bound to have another row. Resigned to another night on his own, Charles pulled his collar up, and set off for Fleet Street.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘Charles?’ What on earth are you doing with that old jalopy?’
Charles withdrew his pounding head from under the rusty bonnet with some effort and squinted into the bright morning sunshine. It was the morning after the party. Back at the flat on Fetter Lane he’d opened a bottle of Scotch. He’d intended only to have a single drink, but by 2.00 am he had finished half the bottle. It then seemed like a good idea to phone Henrietta at the house to make sure she had reached home safely. There was no answer. Charles assumed she was either unconscious or more probably lying in bed deliberately not answering his call. So he decided to continue ringing every 10 minutes, which he did until he fell asleep in the armchair. Having failed to close the curtains he woke at daybreak and managed to stumble to the bed for another hour’s fitful sleep. Now he was awash with coffee and aspirin, and feeling awful.
The voice was that of Simon Ellison, walking down the steps from Chambers, a large bundle of papers tied with ribbon under his arm.
‘Oh, hello Simon,’ replied Charles. ‘Frankly, I begin to wonder. I can’t get the bloody thing to start.’
‘I saw it here last week,’ said Ellison, ‘and wondered whose it was. I didn’t know you tinkered with cars. They take a bit of looking after, these Austin Healeys. And it doesn’t look as though this one’s had much love and attention.’
‘I know, I know. It was a bit of an impulse buy. You know, a runaround for when I’m in town? The Inn said I could leave it here for a while till I organised permanent parking. But it’s been standing here for a fortnight now, and the bloody thing won’t start.’
‘Here, let me have a look.’
‘Do you know anything about these things?’ asked Charles hopefully.
‘Well, not about Sprites in particular, but a bit about cars,’ answered Ellison. He leaned into the car, dropped his papers onto the leather driving seat, and returned to look under the bonnet.
‘Have fun last night?’ he asked.
‘Not much. Henrietta took the Jag and stranded me.’
‘Oh, you poor sod,’ said Ellison sympathetically. ‘’Fraid I’ve no advice to offer there, old chap.’
‘But you and Jenny seem very happy. How do you manage it?’
‘No idea, Charles. I’ve just been very lucky. Let’s have a look at this…’
Charles watched as Ellison inspected the rusting metal to which the distributor was fixed. Ellison grunted with effort and finally shifted the distributor cap. He came out from under the bonnet and showed Charles.
‘I’m not surprised she won’t start. This thing hasn’t been serviced in years. The points are worn so badly they’re almost useless. Look,’ he said, pointing them out to Charles.
Charles looked over his shoulder. ‘Now I know why it was such a bargain.’
‘If you want my advice, get yourself a nice new Mini. I’m not sure you’re the sort of chap to be driving a neglected sports car.’
‘Here – use this,’ said Charles, handing Ellison a screwdriver. ‘You’ll never turn it with your fingernail.’
Ellison fiddled with the points for a minute.
‘There,’ said Ellison, ‘let’s try again.’ He leaned under the bonnet once again. ‘It may not get you as far as Bucks, though.’
‘I’ve only got to get it to the flat for the moment. 150 yards.’
‘I heard about your little London pad. Very convenient,’ said Ellison, nudging Charles in the ribs.
‘Nothing like that,’ said Charles with a laugh. ‘It’s just for those nights when I finish too late to get back. Or can’t get home for any reason. If I work ‘til ten or later there’s no point waiting half an hour for a train, and then getting home by midnight – by which time Henrietta’s in bed – just to get up again at six.’
‘Why move out so far then?’
‘Force majeure. Henrietta wanted to be nearer her pals, and her parents.’
‘You’re near Thame, aren’t you? I ride near there quite often,’ said Ellison.
‘You must pop in some time, then. We’d like to see you and Jenny.’
‘Just give us a date, tell us how to get there, and we’ll come.’
Ellison put the points back in the distributor and, without replacing the cap, sat in the car, and turned the engine over. Charles watched the distributor as he did so.
‘It’s opening,’ called Charles. ‘Let’s try starting her.’
Ellison got out again, and they both stood at the front of the car.
‘Been busy?’ asked Charles.
‘No. Far too quiet in fact. Keep it under your hat, but I may be leaving Chambers soon. I’ve applied for an appointment.’
‘What, you too?’
‘Yup,’ said Ellison.
‘Well, best of luck, your Honour,’ said Charles.
‘I’m not counting my chickens, but it’s looking promising. I got great support from McDowell J.’
‘How long before you know?’ asked Charles.
‘Shortly. Right,’ said Ellison, ‘do you want to get in and try starting her?’
Charles climbed in and turned the key. The car started immediately. He revved a few times, and leaned out, the engine running.
‘Well done!’ he shouted. ‘I owe you a pint! I’ll be off, before she stalls again,’ he said, and closed the door. He handed Ellison his papers through the open window and moved off. Ellison grinned as he watched the car’s spluttering progress towards the Temple gates, and shook his head as it disappeared.
•
Charles dropped the car keys on the shelf in the hall of his tiny apartment, reached immediately for the telephone and dialled.
‘Hello?’
‘Henrietta? It’s me.’
‘Yes, Charles.’
Charles paused to see if she would mention the night before and her premature departure from the party. She did not.
‘I’m just calling to see how you are.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you, dear. I’m very well, thank you. Are you still in London? I half expected you to call from the station.’
‘No. I…I had hoped we might spend the day together, here.’
‘No, sorry, Charles, but I have plans. I’m not coming back to town.’
Charles peered through the floor-to-ceiling blinds down at the sparse traffic on Fetter Lane. The city was wonderfully quiet at weekends, and he was disappointed. He’d planned everything: a lazy morning in bed with the papers, Brick Lane for fresh bagels, then the National Portrait Gallery followed by a walk by the river and a romantic meal at a new restaurant in Soho. Now the Healey was running they could even have a run out, to the Heath perhaps.
‘I did mention spending the day in London,’ he said gently.
‘You did mention it, yes. But I didn’t agree.’
‘But if you didn’t want to do it, why didn’t you say? We could’ve done something else.’
Charles heard her sigh. ‘I just didn’t want another fight.’
‘Fine. So if I come back to Thame you won’t be there anyway.’
‘Well, on and off, but basically, no. I’ve a tennis match this morning, and I said I pop into see mummy afterwards. You go and do whatever it is you wanted to do, and I’ll see you Monday night.’
‘Fine.’
‘And by the way, I’ve been meaning to tell you: I’ll be away next weekend. I’ve been invited to Shropshire.’
‘With whom?’
/> ‘With friends, Charles. I have some, you know? I’m not cross-examining you about your plans for this weekend, am 1?’
‘How is that the same?’ demanded Charles, his voice rising in frustration. ‘My plans for this weekend involved you. I want us to spend time together. You, on the other hand, are going away without me.’ He heard, and hated, the whine in his own voice.
‘Please don’t shout, Charles. I’m having a nice tranquil morning, and I don’t want any of that.’
Charles drew a deep breath, willing himself to remain calm. There was silence from the other end of the line. ‘Are you still there Henrietta?’
‘I’m here.’
‘Do you have nothing else to say?’
‘Not really, no. If there’s nothing else – ’
‘Oh, Etta -’
‘’Bye Charles.’
The line went dead.
Charles replaced the receiver. He stared out of the window for a while and then looked round at the papers on the small dining table, a two-day fraud listed for the following week. He made a decision, picked up his jacket and keys, and left the flat.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The walk along Lower Thames Street and past the Tower of London lifted Charles’s spirits. The day was fresh and sparkling and a warm breeze spoke of summer round the corner. Charles paused at the railings in front of the Tower and watched for a few moments as a squabbling unkindness of ravens hopped about the battlements. He was asked to take a photograph of an American tourist family, and obliged, and then walked on towards Whitechapel.
Blooms, the kosher restaurant at Aldgate, was doing a brisk trade. A group of black-hatted Hasidic men emerged onto the pavement as Charles passed, talking volubly in Yiddish and gesticulating, reminding Charles of the ravens, and he smiled to himself. Blooms, an East End institution, had been a special Sunday morning treat for Charles and his brother David when they were children. Millie and Harry Horowitz would take the boys, usually with another family or two from their bridge club, and they would push together three tables at the rear of the restaurant. The rudeness of the harassed waiters and the size of the enormous portions were legendary, and the group would dally for up to three hours over their chicken soup (“with everything”), cholent or Vienna sausages and chips for the children, lokshen pudding and tall glasses of sweet lemon tea. No one cared if the group of children at the far end of the table made a noise or got in the way of the waiters. It was often dusk by the time they emerged, their throats sore from cigar smoke and shouting over the din.
Charles passed Aldgate East station and turned north up Osborn Street and into Brick Lane. For a century this had been the hub of East End Jewish life as successive waves of immigrants had arrived from Russia and eastern Europe, but over the last couple of years Charles had noticed an increasing number of Pakistanis moving into the area, initially single men but now, three or four years later, entire families. The first curry house had opened a couple of months before and both the clothing of the people on the street and the produce in the shop windows were more multi-coloured and varied. Waves of different intriguing cooking smells assailed Charles as he walked north, and he was suddenly hungry. He quickened his pace.
Halfway up the Brick Lane he turned into a kosher bakery and joined the queue. The bakery served fresh-baked bread and bagels 24 hours a day, 7 days a week to an ever-changing population of builders, taxi drivers, nurses and policemen coming off duty, students and, late at night, opera-loving refugees from Covent Garden in top hats and tails.
Charles ordered two plain bagels, paid for them and was about to leave the shop when someone spoke to him.
‘Excuse me?’
Charles turned to see a slender dark haired woman in her late 20s with pale skin and very large almond-shaped eyes. She carried a grey duffel coat over her left arm, a plastic cup of coffee in her left hand, and a large bag of fresh bread clutched in the crook of her right arm. She was smiling and looked slightly embarrassed.
‘Yes?’ answered Charles.
The woman’s smile broadened, and she nodded. ‘Charlie Horowitz. I’ll be dammed. I thought it was you. And you don’t recognise me, do you?’
Charles frowned, and looked at her face more closely. There was indeed something familiar about her wide mouth and her large eyes, but Charles could not place her.
‘I forgive you,’ she said. ‘I expect I’ve changed in the last 16 years. I was 11 when we last met. You were 18, and just going off to University.’
‘I’m really sorry, but I can’t remember …’
‘Rachel,’ she said, managing to extricate her right hand and offer it to Charles. ‘Rachel Golding,’ she said.
Charles searched his memory. A very faint bell of recognition rang about the name – friends of his parents? – but not about its owner. She was very attractive, and he was sure he’d have remembered had he met her before.
‘We were at school together, and chaider,’ she said, referring to Jewish Sunday school. ‘Well, not together in truth, because you were a few years older than me. Still are, I expect.’
‘I’m sorry, Rachel, of course I do remember your name but…. how on earth did you recognise me after all this time?’
‘Perhaps it’s something to do with the dreadful crush I had on you,’ she said with disarming candour. Charles found her direct gaze unusual, and he was intrigued. ‘To you,’ she continued, ‘I was a plump little girl – if you noticed me at all. But you were the success of the school – Cambridge, wasn’t it? – and then a barrister. And our parents still meet at shul, so your name comes up every now and then. It’s “Holborne” now isn’t it?’
Charles smiled apologetically. ‘It is.’
They left the shop together. ‘Which way are you…?’ asked Charles.
Rachel looked at her watch. ‘I’ve only got another 15 minutes. So, back towards Whitechapel. You?’
‘I’m just wandering. Mind if I walk with you?’
‘That’d be nice.’
They set off southwards, back the way Charles had come. ‘Only 15 minutes?’ asked Charles. ‘Do you have an appointment?’ Charles hoped not; Rachel interested him.
‘I have to get back to work. This is my lunch hour.’
The bag of bread in Rachel’s hand tipped over suddenly but Charles caught it as it fell.
‘Thank you!’ said Rachel. ‘It’d be a lot easier if I put this on – ’ she indicated the coat on her other arm – ‘but I didn’t expect it to be this warm.’
‘That’s fine. I’ll carry them. So, what do you do?’
‘Well, I’m working in the Whitechapel Gallery for the moment.’
‘Oh, I read about that,’ replied Charles. ‘Haven’t you got that bloke…’
‘Hockney? Yes, the exhibition opened last week. You should come.’
‘Only if you explain it to me. What do they say? I don’t know anything about art, but I know what I like.’
‘You’re asking the wrong girl, Charlie. I know little more than you. It’s not my day job. I’m just filling in for a friend.’
‘Oh, OK. What is the day job?’
‘I dance. Well, I danced. I went to the Royal Ballet School.’
Charles heard the deep disappointment in her voice. ‘But?’
‘I was in the corps at the London Festival Ballet.’
‘And…’ prompted Charles.
‘Sorry – I assume everyone knows. Well, basically, they’re going bust, so most of us are out of a job. A friend offered me some hours at the gallery, but it’s only part-time, and only temporary. Unless something comes up soon, I’ll be back at Mum and Dad’s. I don’t have next month’s rent.’
They walked in silence for a while, Rachel taking careful sips of her coffee every few steps. ‘Anyway,’ she said, forcing a smile, ‘now I have before me the famous Charles Holborne, Barrister at Law. So how are you? Rich? Famous? Happy? Rich? Did I mention rich?’
Charles laughed. ‘You remind me of a joke dad used to tell, abo
ut a Jewish tailor knocked down crossing the road. A policeman runs over and puts a jacket under his head and asks him “Are you comfortable?” The tailor replies: “Well… I make a living.”’
Rachel laughed.
‘And, well,’ he shrugged, ‘I make a living.’
‘I like your dad,’ commended Rachel.
Charles nodded. ‘Yes, most people do.’
They turned left onto the main road. ‘But not you?’
‘It’s… complicated.’
Rachel stopped, and turned Charles to face her. ‘I heard. I’m so sorry, Charlie. That must have been really hard.’
Charles looked down at her thin, almost waif-like face, and her enormous brown eyes full of concern. He was about to make a glib comment, but as he inhaled to speak he felt a sob catch in his throat. ‘God, sorry, I really…’ he said, confused and embarrassed, ‘…that took me by surprise. It’s been a difficult few weeks. Few months actually.’
Rachel put a sympathetic hand on Charles’s arm. ‘I noted you didn’t say anything about happy.’
‘No. Maybe that’s it. Things are… like I said, difficult. At home.’
‘I’m so sorry. Look…I know that’s a terrible way to leave things, but I’ve got to go.’ She pointed, and Charles saw that they’d arrived outside the gallery.
‘No, of course,’ he said.
‘I feel so rude. I haven’t seen you in half a lifetime and I’ve managed to make you cry!’
‘I’m not crying,’ answered Charles, now flushing.
‘Don’t be embarrassed. Now I feel really terrible. Look… I know this is going to sound very forward but I’d really like to carry on talking – only if you want to, right? – so – ’
She darted over to a rubbish bin, threw her coffee cup in it, and returned to Charles’s side. She reached into her duffel coat pocket and pulled out a pen. ‘I haven’t got any paper…’
Charles put out a hand. ‘I’d like to. Put your number there.’
Rachel stared hard at Charles’s face, took his hand, and wrote a telephone number on his palm.
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