by Mary Wesley
It had not really been necessary for Elvira to say by way of introduction, ‘This is Sal. You two will have a lot in common. Sal was two-timed by her husband,’ or for Sal to squeeze his fingers as they shook hands. ‘Hi,’ she had said as though sealing an agreement. ‘Hi.’ And, ‘So your wife walked out on you?’
Both of them had said, ‘How could she?’ and, ‘How could he?’ in chorus.
Well (he remembered in the plane), well, he had thought, this part of the programme will be easy. This part will be fun, this will counterbalance Bratt’s awful book. And he had squeezed her fingers in reply.
‘Sylvester’s a sheep freak,’ Marvin had said, ‘fell in love with a sheep from a train window.’ He told the story, garbling it. ‘He needs treatment.’ And Sal, demurely answering for them both, ‘We will see what we can do, shall we?’
It had seemed an easy and agreeable assignation at the time.
But he had said, ‘Work first,’ or words to that effect.
Elvira said, ‘Of course, Marvin’s book. I hope you can read it tonight? Marvin is anxious you people should like it in Europe. It has a message.’
Sylvester said, hoping he did not sound crass, ‘I did notice.’ But what he noticed at the time was a livening in his loins from the message he was receiving from his fellow guest such as he had not experienced for a long time.
TWENTY-ONE
IN THE PLANE SYLVESTER remembered that in his bath before dinner at the Bratts’ he had considered prolonging discussion of Marvin’s book so that he could stay for two nights, for one tussle with the delectable Sal would only whet an appetite long starved. He recollected too that, soaking in the bath, he had considered and almost decided on inviting Sal to stay in London. He would fly ahead to make a welcome, lay in exotic foods and wine, buy flowers and liven the house which Celia had denuded—he liked it that way but a girl like Sal would not. On his way in from Heathrow he would not only collect the rugs from the cleaners but stop the taxi at Patel’s Corner-Shop and order the newspapers so that on Sunday morning they could lie in bed and leaf through the papers—or not, according to mood.
At dinner he had sat opposite Sal so that while talking to Elvira and her daughter (whose name momentarily escaped him) it had been possible to exercise eye contact. Droning across the Atlantic he could not remember the conversation except that he had side-stepped giving details of his own divorce but heard full details of Sal’s, which were as far as he could now remember pretty mundane. However, the message she transmitted without exactly wording it was another matter entirely.
There had been a lot to drink. Marvin had played the charming host; one forgot the sinister group photograph and appreciated the harmony which obtruded, there was no other word, between Marvin and Elvira and their daughter and son-in-law, all four giving the impression of being contentedly marinated in sexual juices.
After dinner he had excused himself; he must read Marvin’s manuscript. He had said, ‘See you all tomorrow,’ and, ‘Good night,’ catching Sal’s eye: for tomorrow, read tonight.
In the library Marvin handed over the manuscript and walked with him to his room. He had drunk several glasses of water and put his head under the cold tap (I must have been pissed, but quite sober when the manuscript was finished).
The White Continent by Marvin Bratt (it was here at his feet in his briefcase). A complex plan for disentangling genes. A plan to regenerate the White race. (Same old story, different plot.) The White Elite would ship back to their countries of origins all Blacks, Hispanics and Asians who were willing to go. The unwilling would be sterilized so that they could enjoy sex without increasing the coloured population which would, over the years, dwindle to nothing. There must be no repetition of Hitler’s mistakes, no violence or unnecessary coercion. Marvin had contingency plans to avoid this, extra finance, a system of benefits for ‘tinted peoples’. (There was considerable use of the expression ‘tinted’.) This regeneration might take more than one generation, but it would solve the problems of poverty and unemployment and the end result would be a pristine White United States of America. How this was to be achieved was worked out in lengthy and intricate detail, some of it so complicated it would take a genius to unravel.
In the plane Sylvester remembered that when he finished reading he had gone to the bathroom and cleaned his teeth. Then, returning to his room, he read his notes.
Is Marvin Bratt sane? Malevolent? Infantile?
Definitely not for our list, this book.
Dust jacket KKK photograph?
Too downmarket for us?
NB If we don’t, Narrowlane and Jinks will.
Publish with Introduction? (Bags I write it.)
Vomit, vomit.
Could it not be rewritten? As joke??
If debunking JC and Virgin M. makes bestseller, why not this?
Definitely wrong to suppress it, worth the risk?
He had returned the manuscript to its folder, opened the window, looked out at the stars. There was a light in his fellow guest’s room; when he knocked on her door she said, ‘What took you so long?’
He had mumbled something about Marvin’s book. She was very pretty, very sexy.
She had said, ‘Boring.’
He had said, ‘Have you read it?’
She said, ‘He’s been talking about it for years, it’s kids’ stuff. My father’s that way too.’ She took his hand. ‘Want a drink? I’ve got a bottle here.’
‘Ku Klux Klan boring?’ He had gaped.
‘It’s only dressing-up spooky.’
‘And hanging people.’
‘Not often. It’s little boys’ stuff.’ She had shut the door, held his hand. ‘Boys only.’
(Anybody with their wits about them would have gone into reverse.)
‘What I like,’ she had said, ‘is boys and girls.’
‘Oh God,’ Sylvester said out loud on the plane.
Their mouths had met in a long preamble. They had stumbled backwards towards the bed. She had said, ‘Hey, you’re hungry,’ and, ‘Steady there,’ in breathless Marilyn Monroe vein, but helped him out of his trousers with practised hands.
He had said, ‘Aaah, don’t touch—It’s been bloody ages,’ grabbing at her while she slithered elflike away, gasped something about ‘bathroom’ and, ‘won’t be long’. She had returned, nestled close. ‘Didya miss me?’ He had sprung away, exclaiming, ‘Yuk! Disgusting! You stink!’ Made a grab for his trousers, scarcely noticed his humbling detumescence.
As he reached the door she had shouted, ‘“Emotion” costs two hundred dollars an ounce!’
Marvin was in his room reading the notes which he had left by the manuscript. He made no apology for snooping. He had said, ‘So you think it would be wrong to suppress my book?’
Dry-throated, Sylvester had said, ‘Yes, I do.’
‘And you think it will make a bestseller?’ He had only taken to heart the complimentary bits.
Sylvester managed, ‘That is my opinion.’
Marvin replaced the notes by the manuscript. ‘I told you it was dynamite.’ He had smiled.
There had been some guff about immediacy. A need for urgency, getting in touch with John, with Marvin’s agent, catching a plane soonest. Whilst talking he had packed his bags, packed the manuscript. Marvin had not tried to detain him, had not mentioned the fellow house guest. Now on the plane Sylvester laughed out loud.
‘Like to share your joke?’ He had woken his neighbour.
‘I left a pair of Brooks Brothers shorts in a girl’s bed.’
‘And you find that funny?’
TWENTY-TWO
‘BUILDING UP FOR CHRISTMAS?’ Angie Eddison overtook Janet. Janet was burdened with carrier bags.
‘Sort of.’ Janet transferred the heaviest bag from right hand to left.
‘You two going away?’ Angie enquired.
‘We were, but there’s been a sort of mix-up.’
‘Oh?’
‘My mother has had a last-minute, well, s
he says it’s last-minute, invitation to join my aunt on a cruise. And Tim’s parents are full up with all his brothers and sisters, husbands and wives and kids, so there’s no room for us. We were asked,’ said Janet untruthfully, blocking from her mind the letter which had said how welcome she would be ‘when married’, but that not being married to Tim ‘made things difficult’. ‘We refused,’ she said, ‘because we were going, we thought, to my mum, so it’s a bit of a mess.’
‘Disappointed?’ Angie looked appraisingly at Janet. ‘It’s OK,’ she said, ‘I’ve got the key.’ They had reached the street door. ‘We,’ she said, ‘never go away. Spending Christmas with relations is hell, guaranteed to make bad blood, herding together and overeating, not to speak of drink.’ She put the key in the lock. ‘Why don’t you be civilized and do what we do?’
‘What’s that?’ Janet stepped sideways into the hall and put down her bags.
‘Keep open house Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing Day. Lots to eat, lots to drink and lots of music. I can’t remember sleeping over the last two Christmases. You’d be surprised,’ she said, ‘how many people like us do not go away.’
Janet said, ‘It’s certainly an idea, I’ll put it to Tim.’
‘It gets everyone done one remotely owes what the French call la vaisselle.’
‘That means washing-up.’ Janet too understood French.
‘Yes, love, and it’s slang for our sort of party. My cousin, who worked in the French Embassy in Madrid, said that’s what they called their parties for assorted odds and sods.’
‘It’s an idea,’ Janet repeated.
‘Sent your Christmas cards yet?’
‘No.’
‘Well, do what we do, put “Open House, bring a bottle”. It’s a lot of fun, I assure you.’ Angie kicked back to slam the street door shut. ‘No need to worry about the music,’ she said. ‘Peter organizes that.’
‘What about the noise if it goes on all night?’
‘That’s OK. All the old biddies who might complain will have gone away.’
‘The Piper woman?’ Janet jerked her head upwards.
‘She can’t complain of noise!’
‘It’s been very quiet lately,’ said Janet.
‘It has not,’ said Angie. ‘She blew that bloody whistle at 2 a.m. the other night. Woke us both up.’
‘Shall you invite her?’
Angie said, ‘No-one with any nous invites a woman whose partner’s a drunk.’
‘But he’s dead,’ said Janet.
Angie said, ‘They came once in the early days. He was belligerent, bopped someone on the nose, nobody we cared about luckily, but Peter said we mustn’t ask them again. They were contrary to the Christmas spirit.’
‘D’you ever speak to her?’ Janet asked.
‘I say hallo if I meet her on the stairs.’
Janet said, ‘Oh.’
‘She doesn’t speak to people.’ Angie was defensive. ‘Unless you count the Patels at the shop,’ she said, laughing.
‘And she doesn’t speak English.’ Janet laughed too.
‘So will you join our Christmas bash?’
‘I’ll see what Tim thinks,’ said Janet. ‘I rather warm to the idea.’ Then, halfway inside her door, she said, ‘What do you do about church?’
Angie said, ‘What?’
‘You know, Midnight Mass or Christmas morning, all that.’
‘My dear,’ said Angie, ‘that’s part of the avoidance, one of the things we seek refuge from. Don’t tell me you and Tim want to go to church?’
‘No, no,’ Janet exclaimed. ‘It’s just that it’s one of the things one’s always done. Not to go seems funny.’
‘No funnier than when you stop needing them to live without nappies,’ said Angie briskly.
‘Gosh. I’d never thought of it that way.’ Janet was admiring.
‘Nothing to stop you halfway through the party nipping off to the Brompton Oratory or wherever,’ said Angie, ‘and come back shriven to Heavy Metal.’
Janet said, ‘Gosh,’ again and, ‘Do we have Heavy Metal?’
‘Among other things. It rejuvenates people when their libidos get slack.’
‘Oh.’
‘We have other stuff, too, smoochy tunes like stand up and hug.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Thirties stuff, Noël Coward, all that. We even have waltzes, if Peter feels like it.’
‘How do we manage between your flat and ours?’
‘There are the stairs, there are the landings; we use all the space we can get. It’ll be useful, too,’ said Angie, ‘to have your loo as well as ours.’
Quailing but hooked, Janet said, ‘Of course.’ She unlocked her door and bundled her shopping inside. Angie’s voice from halfway up the stairs called, ‘Peter has a chum who plays the saxophone. He’s coming—’
Maurice Benson stood by the bar watching his fellow customers. No lover of Christmas, he supposed he should be grateful, in the noisy pub, for what he hoped was a temporary deafness which deadened taped carols and raucous conversation. ‘I wish I could get away,’ he said to anyone who would listen. ‘I hate this time of year.’
‘Lonely?’ enquired the barman. ‘Got no-one to go and visit? No old biddy to give you Christmas lunch and be grateful to you?’
‘Not really, no.’ Benson reviewed his sparse and inhospitable acquaintance. Then, ‘Hold it!’ he exclaimed. ‘I just might have. Where’s your phone?’
The man gestured through the bar. ‘At the back. You got change?’
‘Thanks, yes.’ Benson riffled through his pocketbook and made his way to the telephone. ‘I rang you a few days ago,’ he said when Madge Brownlow answered, ‘and you were out.’
‘Who’s that? Who’s that speaking? Do I know you?’
‘I’m the twitcher, friend of Giles Piper. You kindly gave me tea and Julia’s number.’
‘I rather regretted that. We are not in touch.’
‘So I gathered.’
‘You are the man who likes magpies. What d’you want? After you’d gone Clodagh wondered what you were after, since we couldn’t put you in touch with—’
‘Giles?’ Maurice Benson leaned against the wall.
‘Are you ringing from a pub? I hear pub noises.’
Maurice said, ‘Actually, yes.’
‘Giles used to ring from pubs.’
‘I suppose he would have.’
‘There’s been a blitz on the magpies. Somebody shot them, said he did it in the spirit of Christmas.’ Madge Brownlow laughed harshly.
‘I am more interested in rare birds,’ said Maurice ingratiatingly. ‘I was thinking of coming your way.’
‘Really?’ There was no welcome in Madge’s tone.
‘Got some news of Julia which might be of interest.’
‘I doubt that,’ said Madge Brownlow. Then, ‘What is it?’
‘She tried, no, succeeded in deafening me.’
‘How comical.’ Madge Brownlow laughed.
‘Glad you think so,’ said Maurice. ‘I—’
‘Tell you what.’ Madge Brownlow’s voice changed. ‘If you really are interested in rare birds, I can show you where a pair of ospreys come every year on their migratory route.’
‘Where’s that?’ Maurice stopped lounging against the wall. ‘I know they stop off at Slapton Ley,’ he said.
‘This is a lake in Somerset, Julia’s secret. Nobody knows except the people she worked for. I only found out by chance.’
‘You read her diary,’ said Maurice.
Madge giggled and said, ‘Interested?’
‘Very. I was planning to come your way,’ Maurice said. ‘Could I drop in?’
‘When would that be?’
‘Now, next few days.’
‘Not over Christmas. Clodagh wants a quiet time with her memories—’
‘Christy’s toys?’ He remembered the row on the sofa.
‘And the photographs, and the grave.’
‘Not ve
ry jolly for you, but what about this lake? Should I ask Julia myself?’ Maurice teased.
‘Julia would never tell you,’ said Madge.
‘Ah,’ said Maurice. ‘Ah—’
‘Come later on,’ said Madge firmly. ‘And if I think it’s the right thing to do I’ll take you there. Goodbye,’ and she rang off.
Maurice said, ‘Bloody inhospitable old bitch,’ and returned to the bar. He was ordering himself another beer when Peter Eddison and Tim Fellowes caught sight of him and, since they were feeling convivial, invited him to join the Christmas party.
TWENTY-THREE
IT TOOK AN EFFORT of will for Julia Piper to help with the magazines. It being Christmas Eve, both Patels were busy in the shop. As in previous years they would keep working until the last late customer was served before packing their children into the van and driving across London to spend Christmas with Mr Patel’s extended family. Julia knew that an hour spent unpacking and sorting the New Year magazines would save the weary Patels that much time. In previous years, when she had volunteered to do the job, Christy had been company for his friend who now played alone, tottering around her, his minute feet thrust into the shoes she had tiredly kicked off when coming back from her cleaning jobs earlier in the evening. As he lurched about and fell with shrieks of enchanted amusement, she gritted her teeth against the memory of Christy, who had instigated the game. She tried instead to sympathize with Joyful sitting nervously, uncertain of his role, lifting a whiskery nose out of reach of the baby who, able to crawl but not yet old enough to play the game with the shoes, cherished an ambition to seize and painfully twist his nose. From time to time, as the dog’s patience seemed about to break, Julia stopped her work to hug the baby, who fought for freedom, arched his back and slid back onto the floor. His brother, flinging his arms round her neck, goggled up with lucent black eyes demanding her attention also.
‘Everything OK?’ Mr Patel’s head poked round the door and vanished as quickly as it appeared.
‘Yes, fine,’ Julia shouted. ‘Nearly finished.’
‘Big party to be in your house tonight—’
