She dug one bag out of the freezer and lugged it to the counter where Bhimani was perched, awaiting another opportunity to pound upon the keys of the new till that not only chimed like Big Ben when the total was presented but also informed her in bright blue numbers the exact amount of change she was supposed to hand over to the customer. As always, the purchase was made in silence, with Bhimani ringing up the price, smiling close-lipped, and nodding eagerly at the total when it appeared on the digital screen.
She never spoke. Barbara had thought at first that she was mute. But one evening she had caught the girl in the middle of a yawn and got a glimpse of the gold that capped most of her teeth. She’d wondered since then if Bhimani didn’t smile because she wished to conceal the value of her dental work or because, in coming to England and observing the common man, she’d realised how unusual it was and didn’t care to display it.
Barbara said, “Thanks. See you,” and scooped up her ice once Bhimani had presented her with seventy-five pence in change. She hauled her shoulder bag up her arm, locked the ice onto her hip, and went back to the street.
She continued up the road. She passed the local pub on the opposite pavement, and she gave brief thought to squeezing in among the boozers, ice and all. They appeared to be at least a depressing decade her junior, but she hadn’t had her weekly pint of Bass yet and its seductive call made her theorise about how much energy it would take to inch inside to the bar, order the pint, light up a fag, and act friendly. The ice could act as a conversation piece, couldn’t it? And how much of it would realistically melt if she took quarter of an hour to mingle with the Friday-after-work crowd? Who knew what could come of it? She might strike up an acquaintance with someone. She might make a friend. Even if she didn’t, she was feeling parched as the desert. She needed some liquid. She could do with a spirit-lifter as well. She was feeling tired from the day and thirsty from the walk and hot from the tube. A relatively cool drink would be perfect. Wouldn’t it?
She paused and gazed across the street. Three men were surrounding a long-legged girl, all four of them laughing, all four of them drinking. The girl, standing with her hips against a window-sill of the pub, lifted and drained her glass. Two of the men reached for it simultaneously. The girl laughed and tossed her head. Her thick hair rippled like a horse’s mane, and the men moved in closer.
Perhaps another night, Barbara decided.
She plodded on, keeping her head down, making her eyes concentrate on the pavement. Step on a crack, break your mother’s back. Step on a line, break your mother’s…No. It wasn’t the topic she wished to dwell on at the moment. She cleared her head of the doggerel by whistling. She chose the first tune that came into her mind: “Get Me to the Church on Time.” It wasn’t exactly appropriate to her situation, but it served its purpose. And as she whistled she realised that she must have thought of it because of Inspector Lynley’s big plan for Popping the Question tonight. She chortled inwardly at the thought of his expression of surprise—and dismay, of course, since he didn’t exactly want his plans to be public information—when she’d stopped by his office and said, “Good luck. I hope she says yes this time,” before she left the Yard. At first, he’d attempted to act nonplussed by her comment, but she’d heard him phoning round for concert tickets all week and she’d witnessed his grilling of fellow officers in an attempt to discover the perfect Thai restaurant, and since she knew that Strauss and Thai food meant an evening designed to please Lady Helen Clyde, she deduced the rest. “Elementary,” she’d said into his startled silence. “I know you hate Strauss.” She waggled her fingers at him in farewell. “My, my, Inspector. What we do for love.”
She made the turn into Steele’s Road and passed beneath the newly leafing lime trees. In them, birds were settling for the evening as were the families in the grit-stained brick houses that lined the street. When she reached Eton Villas, she turned yet again. She hiked the ice bag higher on her hip and cheered herself with the thought that, her abysmal social circumstances aside, at least this was the final time she would have to haul ice from Jaffri’s Fine Groceries.
For three weeks she had lived in her digs without aid of modern refrigeration, stowing her milk, her butter, her eggs, and her cheese in a metal bucket. She had spent those three weeks—evenings and weekends and the odd lunch hour—in search of a refrigerator that she could afford. She’d finally located it last Sunday afternoon, the perfect appliance that fit the size of her cottage and the size of her purse. It wasn’t exactly what she’d been looking for: barely a metre tall and decorated with hideous, yellowing floral transfers. But when she handed over the cash and established ownership over the appliance, which—in addition to its unappealing decoration of roses, daisies, fuchsias, and flax—also gave a portentous crankle-clank whenever its door was slammed, Barbara had thought philosophically about beggars and choosers. The move from Acton to Chalk Farm had cost her more than she had anticipated, she needed to economise, the refrigerator would do. And since the owner’s son had a son who drove an open-back lorry for a gardening service, and since that son’s son was willing to drop by his dear old gran’s at the weekend and pick up the refrigerator and transport it all the way up to Chalk Farm from Fulham for a mere ten quid, Barbara had been willing to overlook the fact that not only did the appliance probably have a limited life span, but also that she would have to spend a good six hours scraping off dear old gran’s transfers. Anything for a bargain.
She used her knee to open the gate of the semi-detached Edwardian house in Eton Villas behind which her small cottage stood. The house was yellow, with a cinnamon door recessed into a white front porch. This was overhung with wisteria that climbed from a small square of earth next to the french doors of the ground floor flat. Through the doors this evening, Barbara could see a small, dark girl laying plates on a table. She wore a school uniform and her waist-length hair had been plaited neatly and tied up with tiny ribbons at the end. She was chatting to someone over her shoulder and as Barbara watched, she skipped happily out of sight. Family dinner, Barbara thought. Then she deleted the modifier, set her shoulders, and headed down the concrete path that ran next to the house and led to the garden.
Her cottage abutted the wall at the bottom of the garden, with a false acacia tree looming above it and four casement windows looking out on the grass. It was small, built of brick, with woodwork painted the same yellow that had been used on the main house, and a new slate roof that sloped up to a terra-cotta chimney. The building was a square that had been elongated to a rectangle through the addition of a tiny kitchen and an even tinier bathroom.
Barbara unlocked the door and flipped on the ceiling light. It was dim. She kept forgetting to buy a stronger bulb.
She set her shoulder bag on the table and her ice on the work top. She gave a grunt as she lifted the bucket from beneath the sink, and she waddled with it towards the door and cursed when some of the cool water sloshed onto her shoe. She emptied it, carried it back to the kitchen, and began repacking it and thinking about dinner.
She assembled her meal quickly—ham salad, a two-day-old roll, and the rest of a tin of beetroot—then went to the bookshelves that stood on either side of the minuscule fireplace. She’d left her book there before turning off her light last night and as she recalled the hero Flint Southern was just about to sweep the sassy heroine Star Flaxen into his arms where she was going to feel not only his muscular thighs encased in tight blue jeans but also his throbbing member, which, of course, was throbbing and had always throbbed only for her. They would consummate this desperate throbbing within the next few pages, accompanied by hardening nipples and birds taking flight, after which they would lie in each other’s arms and wonder why it had taken them one hundred and eighty pages to reach this miraculous moment. There was nothing like great literature to accompany a fine meal.
Barbara grabbed the novel and was about to head back to the table when she saw that her answering machine was blinking. One blink, one call. She watch
ed it for a moment.
She was on rota this weekend, but it was hard to believe that she was being called back to work less than two hours after having left it. That being the case and her number being ex-directory, the only other caller would be Florence Magentry, Mrs. Flo, her mother’s keeper.
Barbara meditated on the possibilities presented by pushing the button and listening to the message. If it was the Yard, she was back at work with barely time to cool her heels or eat her meal. If it was Mrs. Flo, she would be embarking on another trip on the Great Guilt Railway. Barbara hadn’t gone to Greenford last weekend to see her mother as scheduled. She hadn’t gone to Greenford the weekend before. She knew that she had to go this weekend if she was to continue to live with herself, but she didn’t want to, she didn’t want to think why she didn’t want to, and talking to Florence Magentry—even listening to her voice on the machine—would lead her to consider the nature of her avoidance and ask her to begin assigning it the appropriate labels: selfishness, thoughtlessness, and all the rest.
Her mother had been in Hawthorne Lodge for nearly six months now. Barbara had managed a visit at least every two weeks. The move to Chalk Farm had finally provided her with an excuse not to go and she’d grabbed on to it happily, substituting her presence with telephone calls in which she catalogued for Mrs. Flo all the reasons why there would have to be yet another unfortunate delay in her regularly scheduled appearances in Greenford. And they were good reasons, as Mrs. Flo herself assured Barbara during one or another of their usual Monday/Thursday chats. Barbie wasn’t to pick at herself if she wasn’t able to get out to Mum right away. Barbie had a life as well, dear, and no one expected her to try not to live it. “You get yourself settled into that new house of yours,” Mrs. Flo said. “Mum’ll do just fine in the meanwhile, Barbie. See if she won’t.”
Barbara hit the play button on her answering machine and returned to the table where her ham salad waited.
“Hello, Barbie.” The greeting was spoken by the soporific read-me-a-bedtime-story voice of Mrs. Flo. “I wanted to let you know that Mum’s a touch under the weather, dear. I thought it best to phone and tell you at once.”
Barbara hurried back to the telephone, ready to punch in Mrs. Flo’s number. As if anticipating this, Mrs. Flo continued.
“Now, I don’t think a doctor’s visit is called for in the least, Barbie, but Mum’s temperature is up two degrees and she’s had herself a bit of a cough these last few days…” There was a pause during which Barbara could hear one of Mrs. Flo’s other houseguests singing along with Deborah Kerr, who was in the process of inviting Yul Brynner to dance. It had to be Mrs. Salkild. The King and I was her favourite video, and she insisted upon seeing it at least once a week. “Actually, dear,” Mrs. Flo went on carefully, “Mum’s been asking for you as well. It’s just been since lunchtime, so I don’t want you to put yourself into a dither over this, but since she so rarely mentions anyone by name, I thought it might cheer Mum up to hear your voice. You know how it is when one’s not quite feeling one hundred percent, don’t you, dear? Do ring if you can. Cheerie bye, Barbie.”
Barbara reached for the phone.
“How lovely that you called, dear,” Mrs. Flo said when she heard Barbara’s voice, as if she hadn’t telephoned first to prompt the call.
“How is she?” Barbara asked.
“I’ve just now come from having a peep in her room, and she’s sleeping like a lamb.”
Barbara held her wrist up to the dim cottage light. It was not yet eight o’clock. “Sleeping? But why’s she in bed? She doesn’t usually go to bed this early. Are you sure—”
“She was off her food at dinner, dear, so we both decided that a bit of a lie down with the music box playing would be just the thing to settle her tummy. So she had herself a nice listen and drifted off as sweet as could be. You know how she loves that music box.”
“Look,” Barbara said, “I could be out there by half past eight. Or quarter to nine. Traffic didn’t look so bad this evening. I’ll drive it.”
“After a long day at work? Don’t be foolish, Barbie. Mum’s fine as can be and since she’s asleep, she won’t even know that you’re here, will she? But I’ll tell her you’ve phoned.”
“She won’t know who you mean,” Barbara protested. Unless she was given the visual stimulus of a photograph or the auditory stimulus of a voice on the phone, the name Barbara meant virtually nothing to Mrs. Havers at this point. Even with visual or auditory back-up, whether she recognised her only daughter was still a coin toss.
“Barbie,” Mrs. Flo said with gentle firmness, “I shall make certain she knows who I mean. She mentioned you several times this afternoon, so she’ll know who Barbara is when I tell her you rang.”
But knowing who Barbara was on Friday afternoon didn’t mean Mrs. Havers would have any idea who Barbara was on Saturday morning over poached eggs and toast. “I’ll be out tomorrow,” Barbara said. “In the morning. I’ve collected some brochures on New Zealand. Will you tell her that? Tell her we’ll plan another holiday for her album.”
“Of course, my dear.”
“And ring if she asks for me again. I don’t care what time it is. Will you ring me, Mrs. Flo?”
Of course she would ring, Mrs. Flo said. Barbie was to eat a nice meal, to put her feet on the hassock, to have a quiet evening so that she would be right as rain to make the trip out to Greenford tomorrow.
“Mum will look forward to that,” Mrs. Flo said. “I dare say that’ll take care of her tummy.”
They rang off. Barbara went back to her meal. The slice of ham looked even less appealing than it had done when she first slapped it onto the plate. The beetroot, spooned from the tin and arranged like a hand of five-card stud, appeared in the light to bear a greenish tinge. And the leaves of lettuce, which lay like open palms cradling both the ham and the beetroot, were limp from exposure to water and black at the edges from too close contact with the ice in the pail. So much for dinner, Barbara thought. She shoved the plate away and thought about walking to the falafel house back on Chalk Farm Road. Or treating herself to a Chinese dinner, sitting at a table in the restaurant like a real person. Or going back to that pub for bangers or shepherd’s pie….
She brought herself up sharply. What the hell was she thinking of? Her mother wasn’t well. No matter Mrs. Flo’s words, her mother needed to see her. Now. So she would climb in the Mini and drive to Greenford. And if her mother was still asleep, she’d sit by the bed until she awoke. Even if it took until morning. Because that’s what daughters did for their mothers, especially if more than three weeks had passed since they’d last laid eyes on them.
As Barbara reached for her shoulder bag and her keys, the phone rang again. She froze for an instant. She thought inanely, No, my God, she couldn’t have, not that quickly. And she walked with dread to answer it.
“We’re on,” Lynley said at the other end of the line when he heard her voice.
“Hell.”
“I agree. I hope I’ve not interrupted anything particularly interesting in your life.”
“No. I was heading out to see Mum. And hoping for dinner.”
“The first, I can’t help you with, rota being what it is. The second can be remedied with a quick sashay through the officers’ canteen.”
“Now there’s a real stimulant to the appetite.”
“I’ve always seen it that way. How much time do you need?”
“A good thirty minutes if the traffic’s bad near Tottenham Court Road.”
“And when isn’t it?” he asked pleasantly. “I’ll keep your beans on toast warm at this end.”
“Great. I love spending time with a real gent.”
He laughed and rang off.
Barbara did likewise. Tomorrow, she thought. First thing in the morning. Tomorrow she would make the trip out to Greenford.
She left her Mini in the underground car park of New Scotland Yard after flashing her identification at the uniformed constable who look
ed up from his magazine long enough to yawn and make sure he wasn’t entertaining a visit from the IRA. She pulled next to Lynley’s silver Bentley. She managed to squeeze in as close as possible, snickering at how he would shudder at the idea of her car door possibly nicking the precious paint job on his.
She punched the button for the lift and rustled up a cigarette. She smoked it as furiously as possible, to bulk up on the nicotine before she was forced to enter Lynley’s piously smoke-free domain. She’d been trying to woo him back to the siren weed for more than a year, believing that it would make their partnership so much easier if they shared at least one loathsome habit. But she’d got no further than one or two moans of addicted anguish when she blew smoke in his face during the first six months of his abstinence. It had been sixteen months now since he’d given up tobacco, and he was beginning to act like the newly converted.
She found him in his office, elegantly dressed for his aborted romantic evening with Helen Clyde. He was sitting behind his desk, drinking black coffee. He wasn’t alone, however, and at the sight of his companion, Barbara frowned and paused in the doorway.
Two chairs were drawn up to the front of his desk, and a woman sat in one of them. She was youthful looking, with long legs that she kept uncrossed. She wore fawn trousers and a herringbone jacket, she wore an ivory blouse and well-polished pumps with sensible heels. She sipped something from a plastic cup and watched gravely as Lynley read through a sheaf of papers. As Barbara took stock of her and wondered who the hell she was and what the hell she was doing in New Scotland Yard on a Friday night, the woman paused in her drinking to shake from her cheek a wing-shaped lock of amber hair that had fallen out of place. It was a sensual gesture that raised Barbara’s hackles. Automatically, she looked to the row of filing cabinets against the far wall, assuring herself that Lynley had not surreptitiously removed the photograph of Helen prior to waltzing Miss Deluxe Fashionplate into his office. The photo was in place. So exactly what the hell was going on?
Playing for the Ashes Page 6
