I wanted to tell her about my new job, and chose the rather sticky day on which I handed in my notice to meet her at the Lyons Corner House in the Strand. Ever since college Barbara had worked for Rice and Claydon, a firm of bespoke tailors in Jermyn Street. At first I’d been rather uncharitably surprised that a business so dependent on appearances should have employed Barbara, a woman who cared so little about hers. But she had obviously made herself indispensable, and it dawned on me that perhaps drabness and reserve were important in a place habitually visited by gentlemen without their wives. Her thin figure suited the current fashions, and these days she was always, if not exactly chic, at least quite smart, in a neat costume, with her straggly hair bobbed to shoulder-length.
The weather had changed abruptly in the ten days since my interview, and I scurried down the Strand under an umbrella, thinking how grubby my stockings were getting and that I would have to wash them tonight because I had no others ready to wear. In the lobby of the Corner House I shook the worst of the wet off my umbrella and stood it with more than a dozen others just inside the door. Barbara was already there, at a table in the far corner, smoking a cigarette and gazing into space. She always had that ability to cut herself off from her surroundings so as to appear perfectly at ease in them. If I had been waiting for someone on my own I should have needed a newspaper or a book to occupy me, so as not to seem restless or forlorn, whereas Barbara gave the impression that she could have sat there all day, idle and detached, at one with herself.
I went over and we greeted each other casually, as if it had not been several months since our last meeting. A pot of tea and two cups were already on the table.
‘I took the liberty,’ said Barbara. ‘It only just came, and I knew you wouldn’t be late.’
‘Shall we order teacakes?’ I suggested. It was a sign of our improved circumstances that we now had one each.
‘They’re on their way. I asked them to begin toasting when you arrived.’
‘You’re so organised!’ I exclaimed.
She pulled her face. ‘It’s a case of having to be, these days.’
This was my cue to ask how her work was going. She always said laconically that it was just the same but then went on to mention various small things that had happened, mostly concerning the amusing goings-on of clients. In her dry way she was a good raconteur. I was prepared to bet that the gents-about-town who brought their custom to Rice and Claydon would never in a hundred years guess the conversational capital that was being made of them by Mr Rice’s thin, pale, spinsterish secretary.
When we’d polished off the teacakes, she lit another cigarette and said, glancing away from me as she did so: ‘So what was it you wanted to tell me?’
‘I’ve got a new job!’
I described to her the idiosyncratic advertisement and even more idiosyncratic interview. She listened attentively, where appropriate giving her small, sniffing approximation of a laugh.
When I’d finished, she asked: ‘So what exactly is it they want you to do?’
I shrugged, my eyes wide and excited. ‘I’ve still no idea, really – I’m jumping into the unknown!’
‘Watch out,’ she said. ‘Be careful. I’ve heard about these artistic types and what they expect from their employees. You’ll wind up as someone’s muse.’
I could think of worse fates, but didn’t like to say so. ‘He’s not an artist,’ I said, ‘he runs a gallery.’
‘Same difference. Artistic circles. What about her, what’s she like?’
‘I didn’t meet her, she wasn’t there.’
‘Perhaps there was a reason for that. Perhaps she was prowling the attic, scowling and slavering like Bertha Mason.’
I laughed. ‘I don’t think so! The impression I got was of a rather disorganised society hostess.’
‘They’re the worst,’ said Barbara. This time we both laughed.
By the time I left Osborne’s three weeks later, I would have been happy to clean public lavatories if it meant I could escape Max Darblay. If ever I needed proof that he relied on me, his fury at my departure provided it. He seemed to take it personally, not expressing the least interest in where I was going, and setting out to avenge himself on me for my impertinence. The importunings stopped, but the capricious bullying got worse. And without the need to hang on to my job, I found I was more susceptible to it. Only the knowledge that I would soon be away from this horrible man once and for all kept me going.
On my last day, Roddy Osborne, who was at least a gentleman, came into our office to wish me well. Darblay’s smile was a frozen snarl.
‘We shall miss you,’ said Roddy, ‘shan’t we, Max?’
‘Indeed we shall,’ said Darblay through gritted teeth.
‘That’s the trouble with really good staff,’ went on Roddy, ‘you can’t keep them. They seek fresh fields, and it’s right and proper that they should. Still, we’ve been lucky to have you these past two years, and I’m sure you’ll enjoy working at the Sumpter.’ I had mentioned Christopher Jarvis in the context of the gallery for simplicity’s sake.
Darblay’s face lit up with interest. His whole manner changed. ‘Oh, you’re going to work for Jarvis, are you?’
As soon as Roddy had gone, Darblay said: ‘Now then, Mrs Griffe, why don’t you let me take you to lunch as a mark of appreciation?’
I demurred, wary of this sudden change of heart, but he was insistent. He took me to a restaurant in Floral Street where I had often made bookings on his behalf for lunches with our more profitable authors, or those we were trying to woo away from bigger companies. It thought itself grand, and was certainly expensive. I disliked walking in there with Darblay, and disliked even more the possibility that I might be taken for one of his despised protégées (I knew from the way he spoke to them on the phone that he made no attempt to conceal this attitude from others). But it was worse than that. It became apparent from the moment we arrived that not only was I to be subjected to a farewell burst of lecherousness but that he was trying by implication to pass me off as a close woman friend, using phrases like ‘the lovely lady’, and ‘my charming companion’ when relaying my order to the waiter, and waving away the wine list with: ‘It must be champagne!’
The restaurant staff politely fell in with this pretence, but I was sure they had the measure of him, and would be discussing us unfavourably behind the scenes. I squirmed at the thought of what they must be saying about him, that boorish fellow from Osborne’s, and worse, about me, the opportunistic young woman happy to accept his heavy-handed attentions. Still, I told myself, after today I would be free of Darblay. I could put up with his nonsense just once more. It was even possible, I reminded myself, that he meant well and was attempting in his inept way to give me a treat.
I had cold consommé to begin with, he had asparagus, which he consumed with exaggerated relish, and much slurping and smacking of lips. At least the disgusting performance prevented him from talking too much. But when our main courses arrived – salmon for me and steak in pepper sauce for him – he finally revealed the reason for this whole charade.
‘So how did you find Mr Jarvis?’ he asked.
‘He seemed very pleasant,’ I replied. It didn’t seem appropriate to be discussing my future employer with my present one in quite these terms, but the finer points of etiquette had never bothered Darblay.
‘Pleasant, eh?’ He chuckled.
Sensing trouble, I remained silent, determined not to give him any more to chew on.
‘You don’t know much about him, do you?’ he asked.
‘I know enough,’ I said.
‘I doubt it!’ He charged his own glass, but I put my hand over mine. ‘I very much doubt it!’
It was obvious he was going to fill in the gaps in my knowledge whether I liked it or not. I concentrated on my salmon, which now seemed about as appetising as cardboard.
‘Jarvis is not pleasant,’ he announced. ‘Far from it. He’s queer as they come.’
I
had never heard the expression but from the context and Darblay’s manner I inferred that it was insulting.
‘I’m really not interested,’ I said primly.
‘There are a lot of nancy boys in the art world,’ he went on, through a glutinous mouthful of pepper sauce and potato. ‘If you want my opinion—’
‘I don’t, Mr Darblay.’
‘Listen.’ He became hectoring, leaning forward and wagging his fork at me. ‘This is good advice I’m giving you, young lady. Jarvis is a mucky piece of work, up to all sorts. Men and women. I’m sorry if that shocks you, but you ought to know.’
I was, in fact, a little shocked. I’d led a relatively sheltered life and although I knew that ‘all sorts’ went on in the wider and more sophisticated world (I had met the creators of Armand the Alligator) I never expected to come into contact with it myself.
I remembered something with which to refute Darblay’s unwelcome ‘information’.
‘Mr Jarvis is married,’ I said. ‘I shall be working for both him and Mrs Jarvis.’
Darblay laughed heartily at this. ‘I bet you will! Most of these queers are married, and the wives fall into two categories. Those who put up and shut up, and those who are, if you take my meaning, in on it.’
This was too much. If he had intended to upset me he’d succeeded, but I gathered all the resources accumulated over the past two years, got to my feet, and spoke not loudly, but firmly and clearly so that those at nearby tables could hear.
‘I refuse to put up with any more of this. You are a rude, revolting bully and I find your advances repulsive. And by the way,’ I took my purse out of my bag, removed a handful of notes – I have no idea how many – and slapped them down on the cloth, ‘your table manners are a disgrace.’
I closed my bag and walked from the room. There was a hush. Everyone watched me. I was not an exhibitionist, used to attracting the attention of others, so it was quite an ordeal. One of the waiters opened the door for me with a flourish, colluding in my grand exit.
Out on the pavement I was quite giddy with shock and relief. I managed to go fifty yards or so, far enough to be sure Darblay wasn’t coming after me, before stepping unsteadily into the doorway of a ladies’ clothes shop and leaning against the wall. Almost at once a middle-aged woman in a black dress emerged from the shop and said in a thoroughly unfriendly tone: ‘Are you all right, miss?’
I gasped that I was, but that I had felt rather strange on coming out of the restaurant up the road. She must have noted my flushed face and the champagne on my breath, because the eyes in her over-made-up face became hard as jet.
‘I’m afraid,’ she said, ‘that you can’t hang about here.’
I suddenly realised what she was thinking. I was being moved on! I started to laugh and couldn’t stop. I tottered back on to the pavement, the tears running down my cheeks. The woman stared with a furious mixture of disapproval and anxiety, her worst suspicions confirmed. I had never in my life excited so many contrasting and extreme reactions as I had in the past hour. I was still laughing as I went down the road, and people gave me a wide berth.
When I got back to the office I went to see Roddy Osborne and told him that I’d felt unwell during lunch, and would have to go home. He was kind and concerned and asked in his courteous way where Darblay was. I told him, in a small, suffering voice that as far as I knew my host was still in the restaurant. Osborne looked politely surprised. The notion that I had queered Darblay’s pitch with his superior put wings on my heels as I left Osborne’s for ever.
My elation was shortlived. Alone in my room that evening Darblay’s salacious warning came back to haunt me. What exactly had he meant by a ‘mucky piece of work, up to all sorts’? About the wife probably being ‘in on it’? In on what? It was infuriating that notwithstanding my brave and spirited behaviour earlier, the horrible man had succeeded in unsettling me. I was reminded that Barbara, too, had cast not entirely serious aspersions on ‘artistic circles’, amusing at the time but which now began to trouble me. The golden prospect of my new job in the sunlit uplands of Highgate was tarnished. But I had burned my boats, and could only go forward.
That was the Friday, and I was due to start work at Seven Crompton Terrace on the Monday. With my natural nervousness exacerbated by Darblay and, retrospectively, Barbara, it was hardly surprising that I found something to worry about that was within my control.
What on earth would I wear?
After my early tomboyishness, the appreciation of my femininity brought about by Matthew, and the grey indifference of widowhood, I had settled into a style that suited the life I led: one dominated by work, evenings in or at most out with a girlfriend, weekends spent catching up on chores, visiting museums and galleries, or at home with my parents. My small wardrobe comprised a sort of uniform, not quite drab but not stylish either, calculated to cut down the need for decisions. Each item would go with almost any of its companions, a policy designed for convenience rather than excitement. Subject to the requirements of laundry, dry-cleaners and mending-basket I could step into almost anything and be ready for the day.
Now, I was thrown into an agony of uncertainty. In spite of all Darblay had said I did not wish to appear prim, or schoolmarmish. I did not want Christopher Jarvis and his wife to be laughing at me behind my back. The awful thought occurred to me that perhaps I had been selected because I was dull. Then I remembered how certain remarks of mine at the interview had seemed to impress and amuse Jarvis – my feeling was that he had liked me, we had liked each other, my fears were groundless. On the other hand if he had perceived me as being in the least attractive, was that a good thing in all the circumstances Darblay had hinted at? And even if none of it were true, the practicalities of the job were still a mystery: I had no idea what would constitute my daily routine, or if there would be any routine at all. And then there was Seven Crompton Terrace itself, not an office but the Jarvises’ home. If Christopher Jarvis’s own sartorial style was anything to go by, little Pamela Griffe in her business suit might become an almost offensively provincial presence around the place.
This uncharacteristic panic destroyed all sense of proportion. The issue overshadowed everything else. It was a measure of my ridiculous fears that in the end I was driven to go downstairs and knock on the door of Louise Baron, in the room immediately below mine. She was a cheerful, glamorous girl but our lives – and hours – were very different and we had never progressed beyond friendly acquaintanceship. Now she was so long opening the door that I concluded she wasn’t in and was about to trudge back up the stairs in despair, when she appeared, wrapped in a red silk kimono, her blonde hair in disarray and her eyes smudged with makeup. ‘Hello!’ she mumbled drowsily.
‘I’m so sorry, I woke you up, it doesn’t matter,’ I gabbled, but she beckoned me over conspiratorially, and whispered through a haze of last night’s scent and smoke:
‘No, Pamela, it’s nice to see you, but can you give me five minutes?’
‘Of course! I didn’t mean to disturb you, it’s not important.’
‘But a cup of coffee is,’ she whispered. ‘And I’d much rather have it with you than him. You’re just the excuse I need to chuck him out. I’ll knock on the ceiling, is that all right?’
I agreed, and went back upstairs, telling myself I didn’t have to take Louise’s advice. I couldn’t help but admire her casual breaching of the no-men-in-the-rooms rule, but for a male companion still to be around at ten thirty in the morning posed problems which I didn’t envy. Our landlady didn’t live on the premises but the caretaker and his wife had a room by the main entrance and acted as her deputies and informants. They were merciless, and for Louise to be caught smuggling a man from the building would mean expulsion with immediate effect.
Just the same, there was a thud on my floor a few minutes later and I went back down. She was waiting for me in the doorway, still in her kimono, but with her eyes wiped and hair brushed, her face wreathed in smiles.
�
�Come in,’ she said, ‘sorry about just now.’
‘That’s all right, I shouldn’t have called so early.’
Her room, the same size as mine, had a higher ceiling which made it seem bigger. It was full of colour, and she’d thrown the window open. Admittedly there was no view except of the blank wall of the department store warehouse next door, but it was pleasant to have the early summer sunshine pouring in. An orchid corsage, of the sort to be purchased at vast expense from Moyses Stephens, stood in a jar of water on the bedside table. To my relief the bed itself was tidy, the counterpane pulled smoothly over the pillows and a threadbare stuffed badger slumped against the bedhead.
‘Brock,’ she explained. ‘The only faithful man in my life.’
She lit the gas ring and put on a kettle. ‘You will have some coffee, won’t you? I’m absolutely dying for one.’
‘Thanks, that’d be lovely.’
‘No milk and sugar I’m afraid.’ She assembled two cups, a china jug, a wooden spoon and a brown paper packet of coffee grounds. Then she took a packet of cigarettes from the drawer in the bedside table and offered me one. When I declined, she said:
‘Don’t worry, why d’you think I opened the window?’
‘It’s not that,’ I explained. ‘I don’t often smoke.’
She returned to the kettle and poured its contents into the jug, giving the mixture a stir with the spoon. As she waited for the grounds to settle, she said: ‘I hope you weren’t shocked, Pamela – about Miguel.’
‘Not at all,’ I replied, not quite honestly. ‘But I was a bit worried. How on earth did you get him out?’
‘I keep a selection of larger clothes. Not to mention a hat.’
‘What?’ I laughed incredulously. ‘He walked out of here dressed as a woman?’
‘Mm . . . Miguel became Maria.’ She handed me my coffee with a sly smile, but then burst out laughing herself. ‘He looked a picture!’
‘But what about when he’s outside?’ I said. ‘In the street?’
The Nightingale's Nest Page 6
