by Mary Wesley
Rebecca stopped stroking the chair and looked about her. Something was different apart from the desk and the chair; there was a subtle change since her last visit. The sofa was posed as before and the armchair, the shelves lining the back wall were still stuffed with books and the mantelshelf bare, as was the floor. What was it?
Sylvester came back from the kitchen, carrying a tumbler in each hand. He handed Rebecca hers. ‘Do sit down.’ He indicated the sofa and sat in the chair by the desk, keeping his back to the window.
Rebecca said, ‘Delicious. You know exactly how I like it.’
Sylvester said nothing, crossed his feet at the ankles, sipped his drink.
‘If you are refurnishing, you should let me help you,’ Rebecca offered. ‘I am pretty hot on antiques.’ Sylvester thought, she never gives up. ‘For starters,’ Rebecca went on, ‘you will need some rugs. Those Persian rugs were lovely.’
Sylvester said, ‘Turkish.’
‘Of course, Turkish. Any hope of getting them back? Surely that’s the sort of thing Andrew Battersby would have lots of?’
Sylvester said, ‘I wouldn’t know.’
Rebecca said, ‘Well, you must have rugs. You can’t live with a bare floor, it’s so uncosy. I’ll look about. I know a man in Fulham who has an excellent collection at quite moderate prices.’
Sylvester said, ‘No.’
‘No? But—’
‘They are being cleaned.’
‘What are being cleaned?’
‘My rugs.’
‘So you’ve got some rugs?’ Rebecca flushed. ‘Your father’s?’
‘I bought them.’
‘Oh, lovely. Persian?’
‘No, Kelim.’
‘Oh,’ said Rebecca, ‘Kelim.’ She swallowed some of her whisky. He’s forgotten how I like it, she thought, this is weak. She looked at Sylvester, sitting with his back to the light in his father’s chair with his father’s writing table behind him. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I’m latching on. Now you have the house to yourself you’ve started on “the new novel”. You are shot of Celia and have time to write. That’s it, isn’t it? What’s the novel about?’
‘I am writing the life of Wellington’s valet,’ Sylvester improvised. (What animal is it, he asked himself, which, when it gets something in its jaws, can’t let go?)
‘Wellington’s valet? I didn’t know he had a valet. Well, I suppose he must have. There will be a lot of research, I can help you with that. And if you want typing done, you must come to me,’ said Rebecca.
‘I shall have a word processor.’
‘It will spoil the look of the room. You don’t want a word processor, just let me—I would like to help,’ Rebecca said bravely.
‘I know you would.’ Sylvester uncrossed his legs and stood up, holding his empty glass.
Rebecca perforce stood too. ‘You have done something to this room,’ she said, ‘something other than the desk and the chair. What is it?’
Sylvester took her empty glass and stood waiting, a glass in each hand. Then Rebecca exclaimed, ‘I know! It smells. It smells of beeswax. It’s clean. Look at the floor! It’s polished like a mirror. Did you get one of those firms with an electric floor polisher? Really, Sylvester, you should have asked me; some of those firms are daylight robbers. No, don’t tell me,’ she cried, laughing, ‘you did it yourself.’
Sylvester said, ‘My cleaning lady did it.’
‘Oh!’ cried Rebecca joyfully. ‘Mrs Andrews. I’m so glad you changed your mind. I told you she would look after you.’
‘Not Mrs Andrews.’
‘Not Mrs Andrews?’ Rebecca’s voice rose. ‘Who, then? What’s she called? What agency did you use? Was it reliable?’
‘I didn’t use an agency.’
‘Sylvester!’
‘I advertised in the Corner Shop.’
‘You what? You didn’t! I thought you were joking.’
‘It was a coincidence.’ Sylvester was patient. ‘I was paying for my papers—by the way, the service includes removal of horrible stinking advertisements from the colour mags—and I placed this advertisement and bingo, that was it.’ He laughed. ‘Works like a charm. As you see, the place is clean,’ he boasted.
‘What is the woman called?’
‘Mrs Piper.’
‘Mrs Piper?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a gypsy name. Oh, Sylvester, do be careful. What is she like? It sounds terribly risky.’
‘I haven’t seen her.’
‘What can you mean? You must have seen her, I saw Mrs Andrews for you. What are her references?’
‘No references.’
‘And you haven’t seen her!’ Rebecca rolled her magnificent eyes. ‘How d’you manage?’
‘If she wants anything, floor polish, Ajax, that sort of thing, she leaves a note. I leave the money for it with her money, and that’s it.’
‘How does she get in?’
‘With a key.’
‘And who gave her the key? You must have seen her when you gave her the key. Sylvester, you are teasing me.’
‘No, I am not. I gave the key to the Corner Shop; they gave it to her.’
‘You are winding me up,’ said Rebecca, aghast.
‘No, I am not.’
‘Sylvester, how can you be so trusting? Mark my words, she will steal the spoons.’
‘Celia took those.’ Sylvester leaned down and pecked Rebecca’s cheek. ‘Now I must get back to the Valet,’ he said gently, while indicating the door with a hand holding an empty glass. ‘I must not keep you. You were on your way somewhere.’
‘Yes,’ said Rebecca courageously. ‘I must not dally gossiping. I shall be late.’
Sylvester watched her go and, as he watched, he remembered that the animal who would not let go was supposed to be a pig. Once a pig had something clamped in its jaws, he had read, it chumped whatever it was up.
Perhaps I really could write the life of Wellington’s valet, he mused, sitting at his desk. Margaret Forster wrote a splendid life of Elizabeth Barrett-Browning’s maid. One would have to do a lot of daunting research, though, because if one did not and got contemporary details wrong, the experts would be down like a ton of bricks. Far better to stick to the novel; he knew all too well the details for that, though how, Sylvester asked himself as he stared blindly out of the window, would he rivet the attention of readers with his humiliating tale? ‘Oh, Mother,’ he said out loud, ‘if you were not dead I would come and complain, grumble that you put the idea in my mind, where it sticks like a burr.’
Remembering his mother, Sylvester stood up and began wandering about the room. ‘Write it all down, then I will read it,’ she had said. ‘Write the absolute truth. It will help you and may make me laugh. You will have worked your pain into fiction. I have always wanted you to be a writer. And don’t be discouraged,’ she had said when Celia had discouraged. She had enjoyed his only novel, Sylvester remembered, coming to a halt by the bookshelves; it made her laugh and cry. Only she recognized it as the truth, for all writing is in a sense autobiographical.
He eased his only and slender oeuvre from the shelf, then pushed it disgustedly back. I dedicated it to Celia, he thought, and she mocked it. I should have dedicated it to my mother. Blast Celia, he muttered, how am I to fashion her into fiction? And who, he wondered, would want to read about a man who falls hopelessly in love with another man’s wife and she apparently with him, who goes through all the trauma of her divorce (for it is not funny even in these days to be cited as co-respondent), who marries her and then after a short time the wife returns to the first husband, taking with her all her possessions and considerable quantities of loot belonging to husband number two.
‘I was fond of those spoons,’ Sylvester said out loud. Then, realizing that his mother would have found this amusing, he chuckled and said, ‘Thanks, Ma, it will be an indulgence to write the truth about Celia. And I will dedicate the novel to you.’
Feeling hungry, he went down to his kit
chen and made himself a sandwich of wholemeal bread and cold roast beef bought from a delicatessen on his way home. Ruminating about Celia he spread the beef with mustard, then poured himself a fresh whisky. Sipping it, he looked at the pad used by his cleaning lady to communicate messages. There were two. The first said: You need more bath soap. The second read rather bluntly: Your garden requires TLC.
Munching his sandwich, Sylvester went back upstairs to look through the french windows and note that the garden did indeed need attention; it was a mess. Among the compound of bits of paper, dead leaves, clumps of dandelion and rotting stalks of last year’s annuals perched an odious simpering cupid, imitation Renaissance, its plaster wings discoloured and cracked, its vacuous face smeared with sparrow droppings. There had been angry words when Celia had installed it, tears. She had learned, though, during their brief marriage, that the cupid would not suit Andrew Battersby’s Barnes set-up, so left it to linger as she had left the smell of ‘Emotion’, which the excellent Mrs Piper had by her polishing and scrubbing so successfully eliminated.
‘Soon put paid to you,’ Sylvester said out loud and, throwing open the french windows, he stepped out, wrenched the simpering cherub from its stand, carried it through the house and dumped it by the dustbin.
Returning to the kitchen, he wrote on the pad: I would be grateful for any suggestion re TLC for garden. It was possible, he thought as he finished his sandwich, that worthy Mrs Piper would suggest some honest and able-bodied pensioner or an out-of-work worthy who would take on the garden on a business basis. Between Mrs Piper and the corner-shop there probably flourished a grapevine of untapped labour. He would of course pay cash, just as he paid Mrs Piper, so deftly circumventing the Inland Revenue. Indeed, Sylvester thought, it was more than probable that the estimable Mrs Piper had someone in mind: an unemployed husband or son-in-law who would be glad of the job. Why else would she draw attention to the garden’s derelict condition?
ELEVEN
ON LEAVING SYLVESTER, REBECCA HAD tried not to feel rebuffed. The Sylvester she had worked for had changed. It’s all that blasted Celia, she told herself. Before Celia he relied on me, called me his Reliable Rebecca. In the office I was known as RR. If I had not been so reliable, not related Celia’s messages so faithfully, I could have put a stop to that disastrous marriage. And what a lot of pain that would have saved. But perhaps not, she thought; it would not have altered much. She remembered sadly that long-ago incident when, back in the office after a bibulous lunch, Sylvester had so nearly kissed her. He had been on the verge, held back, kept to the verge. At the time she had told herself he had too much respect, but the reality was that he shrank from her bossiness. I am too capable, too reliable, she told herself ruefully, and bossiness lost me that job; he eased me out. Look at this afternoon, she thought, he could not wait for me to leave.
But the habit of guarding Sylvester’s interests died hard and the way he was behaving now he was free of Celia was dangerously irresponsible. She would just cast an eye on this corner-shop, Rebecca decided, see what sort of seedy establishment it was that recommended gypsy cleaning women. She quickened her pace towards the narrow alleyway that led through the houses at the end of the street into the district beyond, and Maurice Benson, snooping at the corner of Sylvester’s street, followed her at a distance.
Not ready to use the telephone number Madge Brownlow had given him, and working on the assumption that Sylvester had made friends with Julia on the train, for why else would he have tried to trip him at Paddington if not to protect the girl, Maurice was waiting for Sylvester to lead him to Julia. If asked why he was interested in either Julia or Sylvester, he would have been hard pressed to say other than that he owed it to toffee-nosed Sylvester to queer his pitch, and that from what he had gathered of Julia she was fair game for a tease. Only if pressed hard would he have admitted to any sexual interest. Now without much enthusiasm he followed Rebecca, in case through her he could find some lead into Sylvester’s life.
Rebecca had never used the alleyway before and, finding herself in unfamiliar streets, took a while to locate the corner-shop. When she did she was unsure whether she was pleased or sorry. Expecting to find something seedy and louche, she was surprised by Patel’s Corner Shop. It was bright, clean and welcoming. Inside the shop divided into two halves, the one for papers, magazines and freezers for fish, meat, fruits and ice-creams, the other for shelves stacked with exotic groceries all imaginatively and agreeably arranged. The whole shop smelled of exciting spices and herbs.
Although it was after normal closing time the shop was full of customers and the owner, for it could be none other with that welcoming smile, stood behind the counter by a gleaming till wearing a spotless high-necked shirt whose whiteness enhanced his brown complexion, black hair and trousers so creased they exaggerated the stick-like quality of his legs. Leaning slightly across the counter, Mr Patel conversed with a customer while all about the shop people heaped their purchases into wire baskets. As they flitted among the beautifully stacked shelves they paused to block other people’s way, chat with acquaintances and greet friends. Rebecca was reminded of the atmosphere in the shops of the small market town where she had been brought up, where everyone knew one another at least by sight.
Interrupting Mr Patel’s conversation, a woman customer called out, ‘Can I pay, Mr Patel? I’m in a rush. My mother-in-law is coming to supper and you know what she’s like.’ She stood waving a ten-pound note, impatient yet friendly.
‘Pay tomorrow,’ said Mr Patel, unwilling to stop his chat.
‘No, no, no,’ the woman protested.
‘OK.’ Mr Patel called something over his shoulder and resumed his conversation, while through a beaded curtain which reminded Rebecca of shops in Italy came a small woman in a bright sari. She carried on her hip a baby and beside her, gripping her sari, trotted a little boy. She smiled as she took the proffered note and gravely gave change, but shyly she did not speak. The customer, satisfied, cried, ‘Thanks, Mrs P, thanks,’ and hurried out of the shop. Mrs Patel, observing that her husband remained engrossed in pleasurable conversation, stayed by the till to take money and give change.
Not wishing to be seen loitering, Rebecca took up a wire basket and explored the shop in the hope of finding the notice-board that Sylvester had so riskily used. As she perambulated she eyed the wares with astonishment. There was so much that was strange to her, though obviously not to the clientele, who nudged past her chattering, busily stacking their baskets with esoteric commodities she had never even heard of. Gingerly she helped herself to a jar of chutney, a packet of rice and, a little further along the shelf, a packet of Bombay duck; then at last she found the notice-board and avidly scanned the neatly written cards. The advertisements hardly differed from those in her home town. Accommodation was needed. Beds were for sale, so were cars, a bicycle and a child’s buggy. Massage was offered and reflexology; there was even a palmist. The board might have been hanging in a shop in the country. The only difference there might be were fewer homeless puppies, kittens and white rabbits on offer, though, strangely, there was a goat, which must surely, she thought, be a rarity in Chelsea.
Scanning the board, Rebecca felt sharp disappointment; the cards were so respectable, innocent and hopeful, it was impossible to take exception to any of them. She was even tempted to make use of the board herself, should she wish to exchange her typewriter for something more up-to-date. Sighing, she turned away and prepared to pay for her purchases when, moving towards the counter, she became aware of a commotion.
The baby was letting out a series of exhilarating crows and shrieks, jogging and kicking in its mother’s arms, fighting to leap or take flight towards a customer who had just come into the shop. Simultaneously the child who had perched on a stool while its mother worked the till, jumped down and rushed round the counter to clutch the newcomer round the knees.
The newcomer, a young woman, crouched down, put her arms around the child, hugged him, then lifted him
up and set him on the counter beside his smiling parents. Then she held out her arms and took the baby from its mother and held it close.
Rebecca watched the little group of parents, children, and the young woman who, oblivious of the people in the shop, appeared wrapped in an emotion stronger than that of any normal greeting. The children’s parents were smiling and joyful; the mother patted her baby’s plump leg, then stroked the woman’s hand; she did not speak but her eyes brimmed with feeling. What was going on between the Indian woman and the English girl?
Holding her packet of Bombay duck, Rebecca was conscious of a violence of emotion and an inexplicable rapport between the two; then, aware that she was staring, she forced herself to turn away and pick a jar of curry paste off a shelf while still keeping a surreptitious eye on the group by the counter.
She was no child lover, yet she found herself moved by the two women; there was generosity in the way the Indian gave her baby to be held and a curious tenderness in the other woman’s manner of taking the child, holding it close to her face, laying her cheek against the baby’s.
Watching her, Rebecca could imagine the silky feel of the child’s skin and surprised herself, smiling as it gripped the girl’s nose in a plump fist, then encircled her finger in a pudgy grip. But amusement changed to astonishment as she noticed that the baby’s mother had begun to weep, huge tears splashing onto the counter.
Now the girl handed the baby back and Rebecca heard her say, ‘It’s all right, Mrs Patel. Don’t cry, please,’ while she eased her finger free of the infant’s grip, leaned forward and kissed the weeping woman. Then she bent down, kissed the little boy, ruffled his hair and, turning, left the shop. As she left the larger child shouted indignantly and tried to follow but was held by his father, who then shepherded his wife and both children out of sight but wailing loudly through the bead curtain.
‘What was all that about?’ a man in front of Rebecca, waiting to pay for his basketful of goods, enquired belligerently. ‘He’s—’
