by Bella Pollen
‘No, no, please, Lady Harcourt, I beg you, don’t start crying again. Let me have a word with Benj, I’m sure we can sort something out.’ He endures a few more tearful burblings before he lucks out with the dialling tone.
‘Where the fuck is Benj?’ He slams out of the office. ‘I told him to go with them. Lady Harcourt is not used to dealing with, and I quote, “The Great Unwashed”. She’s a die-hard Grade One for crying out loud.’
Grade One and Grade Two in Stately Locations does not imply, as you might be forgiven for thinking, the architectural integrity of clients’ houses, but rather, their owners’ level of skill in dealing with the General Public – Grade One being the most inept. Rory looks with exasperation at Benj’s empty desk, overflowing with coffee-ringed paperwork. ‘Why am I insane enough to employ him?’
‘Because certain of our clients find me rather reassuring,’ Benj says. He has been unwilling, during Rory’s tantrum, to move from his position on the floor, primarily because it affords him a great view up Alison’s skirt. This has to be one of the better early morning views Benj has enjoyed for quite some time.
He’s not in a good way my cousin, Benj. He’s been a fuck-up all his life, who wouldn’t be with his background. An only child, the product of generations of stifled upbringing, it’s not surprising he’s lost and feckless; what is surprising is that he’s lost and feckless with quite so much charm. He’s always had a drinking habit, but recently this habit has sloshed over into the more hazardous category of dipsomania. Most evenings he quaffs himself into a stupor then wakes the next morning in a strange place, no memory whatsoever of how he got there. When this happens people tend to rescue him. Like a puppy, they feed him, check the name on his leash and someone, usually Rory, is called to fetch him home.
A few months ago, having driven all the way to Wimbledon Greyhound Track, only to find half a dozen canteen ladies ironing Benj’s rumpled jacket and frying him a second egg, Rory decided enough was enough. He bought him a desk, gave him a chair and forced him into some compulsory hard labour.
‘Well most of our clients can’t find you at all,’ Rory says, grabbing him under the arms, ‘you’re about as bloody competent as a bag of snot.’
‘Yes, you’re quite right, Rory,’ Benj allows himself to be heaved into a sitting position. He rummages in his coat, whose pocket bag has finally given way and deposited its contents; a corkscrew, one honeyed date and a paperback edition of Lord of the Flies into the lining where they now sit, evenly distributed along the hem like old-fashioned tailors’ weights.
‘Did he sleep on the floor?’ Alison whispers. Not privy to the full depravity of Benj’s lifestyle she is aghast at such a notion, ‘Has he been drinking?’
And for a moment Rory looks helpless.
Had he been drinking? They’d asked him the same question at the morgue. The problem is you can’t breathalyse the dead. A post-mortem reveals me to be only twice over the limit but over whose limit pray? Was it not Winston Churchill who said, ‘I have always taken more out of alcohol than it has taken out of me.’ Considering all the lethal things you get up to when really plastered, to be exiled from life when you’re only partially tipsy surely qualifies for the cliché of being hanged for the crimes you don’t commit.
Benj has now found the remains of a kebab he’d stowed in his coat last night. He fails to notice the disgusted expression on Rory’s face until he’s mid-chew.
‘Sorry, Rory,’ he says meekly, offering it up as though it were a quarter pound of fine Iranian sevruga. ‘Have you had breakfast?’
Rory grabs the kebab from Benj and hurls it to the other side of the studio – at which precise point the outside door to the office opens and a girl walks in. Benj and Alison stand open-mouthed, like a couple of wax dummies. The kebab looks set to hit her but she dodges athletically and it smacks against the wall leaving a grease mark on the paint. Rory recovers first. He looks at the girl by the door, then double takes and stares at her. Despite the messy ponytail, the face scraped clean of make-up, she is unusually pretty for an accountant. ‘Yes?’ he says, sickeningly pleasant all of a sudden. ‘Can I help you?’
* * *
He sits her down at the chair in front of his desk. ‘So…’ he begins then stops almost at once, at a loss apparently for an intelligible follow-on. Mechanically his finger goes into the bread and butter pudding. ‘You’re an American!’
‘Uh. Yeah,’ she says, eyes busy taking in the damp shirt, the bare legs sprawling loosely under the desk.
‘Been in London long?’
‘Uh, no. Not that long.’
‘Like it so far?’
‘Oh sure … it’s great.’
‘It’s a good city to live in and…’ he trails off, seemingly mesmerized by a tiny piece of skin on the left-hand side of her neck, ‘But ah … you’re all legit and everything I assume.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I mean you’ve got your papers and everything?’
‘Well I’ve got everything I need right here,’ she pulls her knapsack onto her lap, ‘if that’s what you mean.’
‘Good, perfect,’ Rory says, ‘because we don’t want customs and immigration dragging you off your first day do we?’
‘Uh…’ she narrows her eyes questioningly, ‘no … not really.’ There’s a long pause. Her ponytail has worked its way loose. She sweeps her hair into a knot and secures it with the elastic. ‘The thing is,’ she says carefully, as though weighing up the possibility that she’s dealing with the village idiot, ‘I’ll be pretty much ready to get going in the next few days. So I was wondering, really, well … is everything under control, I mean … are you organized?’
‘Organized?’ Rory queries. ‘Well, no, not really. In fact I would have to say, truthfully … not at all.’ He leans over the desk, ‘You see if we were organized chances are we wouldn’t really need you now would we?’
She’s openly staring at him now, clearly thinking that her original assessment was correct – he is a little simple … then suddenly she twigs.
‘You have absolutely no idea why I’m here do you?’
‘I…’ Rory is completely thrown. ‘Of course I do.’ but he’s looking at the wide forehead, at those strange eyes, brown, even hazel in the light and almost slanted really and he’s thinking, Forget no work papers, forget customs, it would be plain distracting to have her around the office.
The telephone starts ringing. ‘They’ll get that next door.’ Rory shifts uneasily in his chair
They don’t.
The ringing continues.
Rory straightens a single piece of paper on his desk in an effort to regain control of the meeting – and still the ringing continues. The girl’s eyes slide towards the telephone.
Rory snatches it up. ‘Yes.’
‘Benj here,’ comes the stage whisper. Benj is sitting on the floor in the reception area, his body hunched around the receiver. ‘I’m actually still on the premises … and I realize of course that you’re busy.’
‘Yes.’ Rory swivels his chair towards the wall.
‘I was just wondering whether now would be a good time to tell you that—’
‘Yes.’ From the corner of his eye Rory watches the girl as she wanders over to the bookshelf and begins inspecting the spines of his archaeological books.
‘Those uh … Americans are coming for their itinerary today as opposed to uh … tomorrow.’ Benj clears his throat. ‘As I might have perhaps originally led you to believe.’
‘I see, how very helpful of you, thank you so very much.’ Fuming, Rory places the receiver down. He tips his chair back and gropes for a package in the in tray on the ledge behind him. ‘Maggie Munroe.’ He reads off the label. The girl turns from the bookcase. She’s wearing khaki combat trousers and a standard white T-shirt. Up until this point Rory has been oblivious to his own rather more eccentric form of dress. Grimly he tightens the towel around his waist. ‘Robert Jones,’ he says, putting out a hand, ‘well, Ro
ry most people call me. Maybe we’d better start again.’
‘Fine by me,’ she shakes it. Then things get a little awkward. He has of course meant to let go of her hand in the traditional manner but as she sits down he finds he’s still holding on to it – moreover for a short moment it looks like it’s all he can do not to clamber over the desk and sink his teeth into her neck. In the nick of time he pulls himself together.
‘Right then,’ he gives his head a little shake, ‘you’re with Newsline, and you’re here to do a piece about the aristocracy for which you have given us … ah yes,’ his eyes scan the paperwork, ‘the usual brief – pomp, circumstance, some grand interiors and a duke or two.’
‘You seem a little surprised.’
‘Let’s just say you weren’t exactly who, or rather what, I was expecting.’
‘Really,’ she smiles, ‘what were you expecting?’
Well for this not to be batted back at him for a start. He is now confused. Is she being direct, or is she flirting? He’s played this game before of course, it’s just that he’s forgotten the rules. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he says, ‘you’re a great deal older than I was expecting and frankly a lot uglier.’
There’s a flash of a grin, but so quick he can’t be sure. ‘How disappointing for you.’
She crosses her legs.
‘Disappointment has become something of a hazard in this job.’
‘In that case should we maybe dispense with the … uh … well … whatever, and get down to business?’ She pulls a black file from her knapsack.
‘Fine by me,’ Rory shuffles through the paperwork in his hand. ‘I’ve done a bit of work on the list you sent in and so far, of the people you requested, the Roxmeres have turned us down.’
‘Pity.’ She draws a line through their name.
‘Balmoral is a little unlikely, as you might have guessed. Blenheim’s a definite no.’ He looks up, ‘Where on earth did you get this list from?’
‘Why. What’s wrong with it?’
‘You don’t think you set your expectations just a little high?’
‘I was told you could get a foot through the door.’
‘Well, yes, some doors and it depends whose foot. Most of these people would rather have red hot needles poked in their eyes than be filmed.’
‘Maybe so … but we have twenty million viewers and that kind of advertising you can’t buy.’
‘Hmm.’ He looks at her closely, ‘OK, well Hartingdon is actually not on our books, but I’ve called them – they might be interested.’
‘Wait a minute, you missed one.’ She frowns. ‘Page four?’
‘Hartingdon is page four.’
‘Bevan is my page four.’ She turns the papers to show him a photocopy of a newspaper article. A couple standing on the steps of an imposing eighteenth-century house. ‘The Earl of Bevan? The queen’s cousin?’
Before Rory is forced to respond, Benj provides a handy diversion by pushing through the door with a large tray. He’s lost weight, Benj has. When he walks his trousers flap against his bony shins as if they’re hanging on a washing line.
‘Morning,’ he says cheerfully. ‘Coffee?’ He positions a cup in front of Rory and a mug in front of the girl. ‘One espresso and one Americano.’ He utters Americano with great flourish, as if he were announcing the name of a Broadway musical. ‘Benjamin,’ he introduces himself.
‘Maggie,’ she says. ‘Hi.’
Benj perches on the edge of the desk. ‘Do carry on,’ he says graciously, wrapping his grandfather’s checked overcoat around him. Like most drunks, Benj is permanently cold.
‘So, Bevan … cousin of the queen,’ The girl turns back to Rory, ‘famously beautiful house.’
‘Er, right, Bevan,’ Rory interrupts, ‘actually Bevan is not a possibility because the house is,’ he pauses, ‘well as a matter of fact the house is—’
‘Closed,’ Benj says.
‘Closed … right,’ Rory repeats gratefully. ‘Exactly. Thank you. The house is closed.’
‘Couldn’t we set something up with the Earl? From what I hear, he’s some character.’
‘Some character … Is that what they say?’ he mutters.
‘Yes, what do you reckon? Can you fix something up?’
‘No.’
She blinks at him.
‘The fact is,’ Rory casts around, ‘he’s not … look the Earl is not—’
‘There,’ Benj says.
She looks from one to the other.
‘The Earl’s not there,’ Rory repeats slowly, ‘because he and his wife have gone—’
‘Mad,’ Benj says simply.
‘What?’ the girl says. ‘Both of them?’
Rory glares at Benj.
‘Both of them,’ Benj ignores him. ‘Mad as baboons.’ He hugs his arms round himself as if in a strait jacket and makes a gormless face.
Maggie Munroe starts packing away her things. ‘Look,’ she says, exasperation creeping into her voice, ‘I don’t have a lot of it, but you guys clearly need more time.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Rory shovels the last of the bread and butter pudding into his mouth and follows her through to the main office. ‘The truth is one or two people have let me down recently.’ He sends a draconian look back at Benj before wrenching open the door. ‘But I’ll deliver everything to you tomorrow. I promise.’
Outside the rain has stopped. A tiny ray of sun shines up the wet tops of the buildings. ‘To your hotel,’ he adds. His feet are turning blue on the wet pavement. ‘Deal?’
But the girl is distracted by something. ‘Jesus,’ she says, apparently revolted, ‘I wouldn’t want your neighbours.’ Rory inclines his head. Suspended by the neck, two dead birds are spinning slowly at the end of a rope attached to the door frame of the house next door. This, as it happens, is the other half of the mews building, where Rory lives. The pigeons, shot at the weekend, have been hanging for a couple of days and Rory wonders whether they are ready for plucking.
‘January’s a dismal month,’ he suggests. ‘Perhaps they were depressed.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Look.’ Rory drops the empty foil container in the bin. ‘I’m truly sorry for the delay, I hope we don’t seem too unprofessional.’
‘Well,’ the girl considers him, ‘you didn’t know I was coming, you haven’t got my itinerary, you’re wearing a skirt printed with,’ she peers closer, ‘some kind of rodent, and you’ve been eating something I wouldn’t allow in my apartment, let alone my stomach. I can’t imagine why I might have that impression.’ Then she smiles prettily and sashays off leaving Rory staring after her, clutching his damp towel, looking not unlike a disgraced Roman legionnaire stripped of his shield.
* * *
Benj sits at his desk eating stem ginger.
‘Fat lot of help you were,’ Rory says, swiping the jar from him and digging out a chunk.
‘I thought we didn’t do “fly on the wall”,’ Benj says.
‘We do this time.’ Rory licks his dripping fingers then retrieves his trousers from the radiator.
‘Why?’
‘Rich flies.’
‘How much?’
‘Plenty much.’ Rory rubs his thumb and forefinger together.
‘Goodee.’ Benj screws the lid back on the jar. ‘In that case what’s your problem with Bevan? Why can’t they be normal clients like any others?’
‘Because, as you so subtly put it earlier, they’re not really very normal are they?’
‘So,’ Benj says, ‘none of our clients are normal.’ He leaves the ringing telephone for Alison. ‘Presumably you’ve checked out the luscious Miss Munroe, and it’s not like they couldn’t do with the cash?’
Alison murmurs something then puts her hand over the receiver. ‘Rory?’ she says tentatively.
‘You’re actually suggesting putting them in front of a camera,’ Rory says.
‘Why not?’
‘You don’t think that might be just a tiny bit foolish?�
��
‘Rory?’ Alison tries again.
‘What you have to understand, Rory, is that the kind of Americans we deal with love the aristocracy,’ Benj says. ‘They can’t help themselves, it’s a sort of compulsion to be impressed by breeding and culture, I mean the word “lord” is so dazzling to them they can’t see the woods for the trees as it were. If I were you, I’d take any money you can get for Bevan.’
‘Rory,’ Alison interrupts timidly.
‘What?’ he snaps and takes the receiver she’s holding out to him.
‘You’ve always been a little over-sensitive about Bevan,’ Benj continues oblivious to the darkening look on his cousin’s face.
‘After all, how embarrassing could it be?’
* * *
The definition of a waste of time must surely be getting people repeatedly out of trouble. As Rory noses the Rover onto the dual carriageway he feels like he’s being regularly screwed out of time and energy. The police hadn’t been specific on the phone but they didn’t need to be. Their tone was familiar enough.
There isn’t much traffic on the M1 and he finds himself close to the exit for Stockton on Tees roughly three hours later. A flashing sign over the bridge announces the reduction of the speed limit to 20 miles an hour. Cars have slowed to a crawl. Rory’s thoughts turn instead to the girl. OK so she might have been a witch but she’d had a smile that serious face hadn’t prepared him for. When she’d grinned it had been wide and wicked, like someone had just told her an unbelievably dirty joke. Then he rounds the bend and all thoughts of her disappear. A line of bollards cordon off the slow lane in which, to Rory’s growing apprehension, he sees three cars welded together in a mess of disfigured metal. Angry drivers stand beside the vehicles, gesticulating furiously to policemen who, in turn, are taking notes. Ahead, an RAC truck turns through the gap in the bollards. Rory follows suit. A policemen shoves his hand in front of the windscreen. Rory gives his name and the name of the detective he spoke to earlier. The bollards are moved aside and a quarter of a mile further on Rory parks the Rover next to a service truck. Slamming the door shut, he notices that the bank to his left has been torn up, the bushes on the top flattened to reveal a ploughed field where a dozen uniformed men from the Motorway Services Department are milling around. Two more policemen stand on the edge of the hard shoulder, charting their progress and barking unintelligibly into walkie-talkies.
