by Mary Wesley
‘Afraid so—’
‘Downstairs people cook big curry with lots of rice, I think.’
‘Oh?’
‘Upstairs is turkey and plum pudding, Mrs Beeton whoever.’
‘Ah.’
‘Something called glühwein for the upstairs and white wine and spirits below. Beer, too.’
‘I see.’
‘I say beer with curry so they buy many cases.’
‘Well done.’
‘My wife say music begin already. We sell out of lemons but she keep you two.’
‘Please thank her.’
‘We shut shop now, I think. No more customers.’
‘No, sweetheart, do not pull his whiskers.’ Julia picked the baby off the floor and, wriggling her toes at the older child, waited for him to surrender her shoes. Then, joining the Patels in the shop, she said, ‘The magazines are sorted. Do you want help with the smellies on Sunday?’
‘Not to bother.’ Mr Patel looked weary. Mrs Patel was twisting the door sign which said Open on one side and Closed on the other; there were smudges of fatigue round her eyes. Julia handed her the baby. ‘I hope,’ she said, ‘that you will get some rest in the bosom of the Patels. Mind you see she rests,’ she advised Mr Patel.
Mr Patel laughed. ‘Fat chance! But she will be happy.’ And then he said, ‘And will you be OK?’ (How can I help? his eyes asked. This is your first Christmas without your child.)
‘I shall be fine.’ Julia touched the baby’s plump foot.
‘And the party? It is in your house.’
‘I’ll survive, don’t worry.’
She stood on the pavement watching the van diminish down the street. It was freezing and above the glow of London there would be stars. Joyful whimpered beside her. They set off walking towards the sound of jazz; someone was playing the saxophone rather well. Perhaps, Julia thought, I will be tired enough to sleep when I have fed Joyful. I will plug my ears with cotton wool. The street door was open and in the house people shouted from floor to floor. The party had begun.
At the turn of the stairs Julia edged past cartons of beer stacked in toppling piles. There was a heady smell of cooking, loud voices and clatter of pans. On the Eddisons’ landing, a middle-aged man with his hair in a pony-tail blew experimental notes on his sax, perrumph, perrumph, and as she sidled past he broke into ‘Night and day, you are the one’ while Angie, Peter and others in their flat raised their voices. Tum, tum, tum, tiddly under the sun, Whether near to you or far, We wonder where you are, And call to You-ooo, Night and daaay—’
‘Come in and get drunk,’ they shouted. ‘Food will be ready soon.’
With his tail between his legs Joyful broke into a run and was scratching at her door when, pushing past people sitting drinking on the stairs, Julia caught up with him, unlocked her door, let him in and, closing it, lessened the noise. ‘Poor fellow,’ she said, ‘poor fellow,’ and went to the window, which she had left ajar. Before she closed it, she leaned out to see revellers converging from both ends of the street.
A figure, detaching itself from a group running ahead, shouted, ‘We’ve got a very funny new game, Angie, a new game.’
‘What is it?’ Angie yelled; she had good lungs.
‘Where were you when Kennedy was shot?’
‘Doesn’t sound very funny to me,’ Angie yelled.
‘Hilarious after a few drinks. Is that glühwein I sniff? Super.’
Closing the window, Julia said, ‘This is going to be a rough night, Joyful. I can stuff my ears with cotton wool; what can I do for you?’ Then the saxophone started up again: I cover the waterfront—Shivering and whining Joyful raised his nose and warbled.
When the saxophone stopped, Julia heated herself some soup, fed the dog, undressed, had a bath, stuffed her ears with cotton wool and climbed into bed, pulling the duvet over her head. Since she was very tired, she fell asleep, but not for long; somebody with an electric guitar had joined the party and there was dancing.
Towards closing-time the party, which had shown signs of waning, gathered strength from an influx of people from the pubs. On the floor below the Eddisons turned up the volume of music and the whole house shook to the thump of Heavy Metal. Julia sat up in bed. The dog trembled.
The previous Christmas she had spent waitressing in an hotel while Christy and Giles stayed with Clodagh. The two years since she had endured the Eddisons’ annual bash had dulled her memory; now, huddled in bed with the dog, she remembered previous parties. The first year had been a relatively mild affair, Christmas Eve only, petering out by two; but by three years ago it had blossomed to full strength, starting on Christmas Eve and lasting over Boxing Day.
Crouching in bed she remembered how Giles, choosing to be in London either because of a tiff with Clodagh or because there was another party he wanted to go to, had returned to the flat drunk but good-tempered and was undressing when the full blast of the Eddison’s party struck. With the sweet reason of the inebriate he had charged downstairs shouting at the Eddisons to ‘Pipe down, shut that bloody noise, cool it’. There had been a shouting match, a fight, a reconciliation. He had joined the party and the noise had increased twofold. Next day he had called her a spoilsport and a wimp for not joining in. Why, he had shouted in hungover rage, had she not, if she objected to normal people having fun, taken herself off elsewhere? Imposed herself on friends as dismal and boring as herself? Unaware, it seemed, that their years of marriage had lost her what few friends she had once had. Certainly there were none by that time whom she could knock up at one in the morning. Miraculously Christy, a gifted sleeper, had not woken. But now?
‘We need not put up with this,’ Julia said to the dog. ‘We will go out.’ She sprang out of bed, dressed and, locking her door, negotiated her way to the street; elbowing past couples slumped on the stairs or dancing on the landings. The street when she reached it was silent and the air brittle with frost. ‘On the other hand,’ she said to the dog as they set off walking, ‘we have nowhere to go.’
The streets of any large city in the early hours of Christmas morning are pretty deserted; there was no traffic other than an occasional taxi or a cruising police car. Julia felt exposed and alone as she walked, and surprised herself wishing she had bought Joyful a collar and lead so that there could be between them a physical connection tighter than that of his occasional brushing against her legs as they walked. Had she held a lead their connection would be less tenuous, more comforting, and she would not mind the widening gap between them when he paused to lift his leg, nor feel obliged to stoop and touch his rough coat when he caught up.
Leaving Chelsea behind she crossed into Kensington and climbing Campden Hill into Notting Hill came to a stop in Holland Park Avenue where, beginning to tire, she turned about and began to retrace her steps. By this time, she thought, the party would have died down; she could snatch some sleep, feed the dog. It was stupid, she thought, that she had not asked the Patels for a key; they would have given her shelter. But the shop and flat were locked and closed for days. Would it be possible to let herself into the woman journalist’s flat? Take refuge there? Nap on the floor? The idea was idiotic; the woman was unpredictable, might come back any time. ‘No,’ she said out loud to the dog, ‘I must stick it out in my own place. There will be a lull in the party, they can’t keep it up. I am being ridiculous.’
Turning presently into her own street her spirit lifted. Three minicabs were leaving the kerb; voices within shouted goodbyes. But Angie Eddison on the doorstep waved and yelled, ‘See you soon then for the turkey and plum pud. Peter will have mixed a fresh lot of booze. See you!’ Julia watched her go back into the house, leaving the door hospitably open. There were lights in all the windows but the music was less loud; she slipped quickly in, followed by the dog.
The Fellowes’ flat door was open; somebody groaned and was sick. Janet’s voice cried, ‘Oh God, oh God.’ She pushed the light switch for the stairs but the lights had failed; the stairwell was dark, lit on
ly by a shaft of light from the Eddisons’ door. She climbed up cautiously. A couple deep in talk were propped against the wall on the Eddisons’ landing drinking coffee; they did not look up as Julia stepped over their outstretched legs. When the top light switch too failed to respond she fumbled in the dark for her key, and was feeling for her keyhole when a man detached himself from the floor and clutched her, dragging her close into the area of his breath, a mix of alcohol and tobacco.
‘Gotcha, Julia Piper.’ He held her. ‘I have waited long.’
‘Gerroff.’ She kicked out and drove her elbow into his stomach.
‘Now, now. Ouch! You deafened—Ouch! Christ! A fucking dog! Call it off—’ Then she was in through the door and slamming it shut, with Joyful whining and growling, his hair risen stiff along his back, listening to steps stumbling down the stairs and a yell. ‘I’ll be back.’
Opening a tin of dog food, her hand trembled and was cut by sharp tin. Holding the bleeding wound under the cold tap steadied her. ‘Any sensible person would go to her neighbours for help,’ she said out loud, ‘but I can’t.’
She watched the dog eat, gulping his food, upset, growling. She sat on the divan and watched the door, listened.
Much later she made herself some coffee, forced herself to eat, then left the house. It was lunchtime; the party was gathering momentum, swinging into a new phase, using its second wind. Someone cried, ‘Where were you when Kennedy was assassinated?’
Come unto Me all ye that travail and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. The notice was printed in black letters on a red background. She had passed the church before, or was this a similar church with the same notice? She kept walking to keep warm. Earlier in the day crowds of people had erupted from the Brompton Oratory, streaming out from morning Mass, fanning down the steps to make their way home for Christmas lunch. There had been no notice outside the Oratory; she had climbed the steps and almost reached the doors before losing her nerve and doubling back past the V & A (firmly closed) to trudge up Exhibition Road to the Park and there find a seat, sit, and rest her feet. But not for long; it was too cold. Better to keep moving. Circling back past the Albert Hall and down a flight of steps, she sighted another church and remembered the church where she had sat in the warmth of candles and eaten a sandwich and the priest had not minded. Where was it? She could not place it, except that the bus ride back was a long one, but perhaps this would do? She pushed at the door and almost immediately was sitting gleefully in warm and agreeable chiaroscuro with Joyful leaning against her leg.
But a tall verger in a black cassock loomed near. ‘This is a church,’ he mouthed over loose double chins. ‘You cannot bring a dog in here.’ He had a long thin nose.
‘He is quiet and good, as you see. He is doing no harm.’ Julia did not take to the verger.
‘That is not a Guide Dog,’ the man said. ‘There are of course exceptions for Guide Dogs.’
‘He is without sin.’ Julia counted the verger’s chins—one, two and a half.
‘And without a collar, you must take it out.’
‘What about the notices which say: “Come unto Me all that travail and are heavy laden?”’ Julia prevaricated, still seated.
‘You will not find those sort of notices outside this church.’ She had offended him.
‘Why not?’
‘That is for other denominations. Are you going to remove the animal?’ He swayed impatiently in his cassock, bony knees poking hillocks in the serge.
She said again, ‘He is without sin,’ and sat tight in her exhaustion.
The verger said, ‘So you say,’ and, raising his voice, ‘I know your sort. Out!’
‘And what sort is that?’ Her fatigue induced resistance.
‘The sort which cracks cheap jokes about G-O-D and D-O-G. I say O-U-T, out!’
Getting to her feet, Julia said ‘Oh dear, you reduce me to my last resort.’
The verger said angrily, ‘Do not threaten me with cheap suicide. Out!’ and followed them to the church door, which he closed behind her.
TWENTY-FOUR
SYLVESTER WAITED FOR HIS bags by the carousel. His journey had been dogged by delays and cancelled flights. He was weary. His legs ached from sitting cramped in crowded aircraft; he was in need of sleep and had indigestion. A fellow passenger standing near exclaimed, ‘Happy Christmas!’ in tones of exasperation and the girl yawning beside him said wearily, ‘I believe it’s Boxing Day or maybe it’s Sunday. Oh! There’s our case, catch it before it escapes, here!’ and, leaning forward so that a curtain of hair shielded her cheek, grabbed. Watching and yawning too, Sylvester saw that her hair was naturally fair, not the extreme blonde the Bratt women favoured. Their heads, bleached almost white, had resembled silkworms’ cocoons. What had possessed him to make a pass at that girl? Not only did she stink like Celia, she had this unnatural hair. He leaned forward to catch one of his bags as it filtered by and noticed disgustedly that in his haste on leaving the Bratts he had shut it carelessly and nipped the fellow to the underpants left in Sal’s bed in the zip. ‘I bet they’re torn as well as dirty,’ he said out loud. ‘Brooks Brothers’ best!’ The girl in the act of capturing luggage—she was nippier than her companion—looked at him curiously. She was rather plain, he thought, and forgot her immediately as he wrestled with the zip and pushed the offending undergarment inside, noticing as he did so that it was indeed irrevocably torn.
Wheeling his luggage towards the exit, he decided to have no more dealings with Bratt, to let his partner John deal with the man. Yet, he thought as he hailed a taxi, it would be a pleasure to write an introduction.
‘Is it Christmas Day or Boxing Day?’ he asked the driver as he got into the cab.
‘It’s Sunday, innit?’ The driver was burly and dark but not what Bratt would have called ‘tinted’.
‘I want to stop at a carpet shop in Chiswick.’ Sylvester leaned forward and spoke through the glass behind the man’s head. ‘It’s more or less on the way.’
‘Be shut, wonnit?’ The driver swung out onto the M4 and trod on the accelerator.
‘The owner lives above the shop, it’s worth a try,’ Sylvester shouted.
‘Suit yourself,’ the driver answered indifferently.
Still vaguely haunted by Marvin Bratt, Sylvester asked, ‘Do you believe in social engineering?’
‘What’s that, then?’
‘Holocaust of Red Indians.’
‘Don’t know nothing about that.’
‘Or the Jewish Holocaust,’, Sylvester persisted.
‘That’s history, innit? Like the Crusades. You want to read H. G. Wells,’ said the driver, ‘get a sense of proportion.’
‘Do you listen to Alistair Cooke? He says taxi drivers know everything.’
The driver laughed. ‘Not everything. Where’s this carpet shop, then?’
Sylvester told him.
‘It’ll be shut,’ said the driver and switched on his radio, distancing himself from his fare.
Sylvester pulled down the window and let the icy air rush in; it pleased him, as did a lowering sky presaging rain. He was glad to be home.
Bowling up the almost empty motorway he remembered other returns. When they were first married Celia had volunteered to meet him, then not turned up. He had worried, fearing she might be ill, have had an accident, and finally he had rung up. Answering the phone, she expressed surprise. ‘Oh, you’ve arrived! No, I did not feel like coming, it’s such a rotten day. I imagined you’d take a taxi.’ On another occasion he had taken a taxi and returned to an empty house. She had gone to a party. With Andrew Battersby, he later discovered. Thank you for not smoking. Sylvester read the notice. ‘And thank you for leaving me,’ he said out loud, looking forward to an empty house and his own space.
They left the motorway. The driver slowed. ‘This the street, then?’
‘Yes, thanks. That shop on the left which says Oriental Carpets.’
‘Closed,’ said the driver, stopping outside.
Sylvester got out, rang the bell and waited. When the owner of the shop opened the door and invited him in, he said, ‘Do you mind waiting?’ and the driver, shrugging, said, ‘You can’t win ’em all,’ and almost smiled.
‘I have not packed them, I want you to see how they have cleaned well. You will have a cup of coffee?’ The dealer drew him inside. ‘Sit down, please.’ He offered a chair. ‘My wife brings coffee.’
Sylvester watched the man spread the rugs. ‘Are these mine?’ He was delighted by the subtle faded colours. ‘I had forgotten how lovely they are. They will turn my house into a palace. Is this your wife?’ He shook hands and accepted coffee. ‘And your daughter?’ A little girl stood by his knee; she was beautifully ‘tinted’, as were her parents. She thrust a toy into his hand. ‘For you,’ she shouted. ‘You!’
Sylvester said, ‘Oh, but I—’ holding his cup in one hand, the toy in the other.
‘You must keep it or she will be insulted,’ said the child’s father. ‘She has many others.’
‘And I have none. Thank you very much.’
The child, satisfied, ran out of the room. Sylvester finished his coffee. The dealer rolled up the rugs and carried them to the taxi.
‘I know I’m pushing my luck,’ said Sylvester, ‘but there’s a shop called Patel’s Corner Shop quite near me; it just might be open. Please, stop there.’
‘That’ll be the lot, then?’ asked the driver.
Sylvester said, ‘Yes.’ He felt very happy. He would order the papers, get a carton of milk—there was only dried milk in the cupboard—hole up and sleep off his jet lag. He hummed as they drove through the late-evening streets, noticing Christmas trees alight in ground-floor windows and holly wreaths hanging on doors. But Patel’s Corner Shop was closed and dark when they arrived. His driver was almost sympathetic. ‘You can’t win ’em all,’ he said again. ‘Back into the King’s Road and second on the left, innit?’
Sylvester said, ‘Yes,’ and was soon standing on his doorstep with the rugs and his bags round his feet, watching the taxi drive away while he fumbled for his key.
