The Nightingale's Nest

by Sarah Harrison

  ‘Perfectly,’ she said. ‘I know Christopher would like it, and I certainly would.’ Seeing my disconcerted expression she added with an uncharacteristic hint of mischief: ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be able to make yourself useful, even if that means mopping up the bores for us.’

  This, as intended, made me laugh. ‘If you put it like that, what can I say? Thank you, I’d love to.’

  I couldn’t imagine that there would be any bores at the party, or even that the Jarvises numbered any among their acquaintance. But on the bus home I experienced a thrill of nervous excitement. Whoever was going to be there, I would meet them! My life had changed out of all recognition.

  The following day it was equally hot and, even though Mr Jarvis was back, nobody felt inclined to work. Once we’d done the correspondence and I’d brought him up to date on the previous day’s developments, he retreated to the garden, and I occupied myself with leafing through a pile of Sumpter’s back catalogues. I told myself that this was to better acquaint myself with the gallery, and the taste of its owner, but all the time I was looking for more pictures by S.R. Murchie.

  There were only two, in an exhibition held exactly a year ago, and they didn’t disappoint. One was called ‘The Garden’. It showed a small, walled garden viewed from above, as if (I found myself thinking) from an attic room. The garden itself was one of many, a whole terrace of such gardens, with more beyond, none of them elegant or well kept, or even romantically neglected like the one here. These were not the gardens of the self-indulgent well-to-do, but the backyards of people with little time for flowers or sitting in the sun. Most had some sort of vegetable patch – rows of cabbages, bean-sticks, carrots and potatoes – with the rest of the space, whether grass or concrete, given over to bicycle-maintenance, washing lines, prams, dogs, cats and dustbins.

  What marked out the nearest garden from its neighbours was its emptiness, as though this was a house where no one lived. The whole area consisted of nothing more than long, scorched-looking grass, as I imagined the African veldt to be, with here and there great stooks of fierce-looking weeds that had pushed their way through. Its air of desolation was unutterably sad.

  No figures featured in the painting: despite all the evidence of teeming occupancy, not a single person could be seen. The only sign of human life was a hand, or part of a hand, in the bottom right-hand corner of the canvas. The effect of this, even on the printed page, was to make me feel that I was actually there, that it was my own hand, resting on the sill as I peered down into that empty garden. I shivered.

  The second picture, ‘Summer, 1927’, was gentler than the other Murchies I’d seen. It showed the interior of a large, sparsely furnished room. The time I guessed to be a summer’s afternoon, something like this one. A half-curtained French window admitted a soft panel of light, but the rest of the room was not dark. A girl and a dog lay together on a sofa. She was furthest away, and with her back to the artist, not posed but curled in childish sleep, with rounded shoulders and legs bent up. Her shoes, pink, with a small heel, lay on the floor. The dog, a greyhound, had somehow managed to gather its lanky limbs into the remaining space, but its whiplike tail and pointed head hung over the edge of the sofa, and its eyes gazed soulfully out at me. The effect was of two companions, overcome by the lassitude of a hot day, who neither knew nor cared how they looked.

  I wondered how this effect was achieved. Had Murchie taken a photograph of such a scene, and worked from that? Had he worked from memory? Or had he been there? I liked to think it was the last, because there was something trusting in the girl’s carelessly hunched figure and rumpled hair. Neither she nor her dog minded being watched by the artist as they dozed off.

  At four o’clock Jarvis came in, and suggested that I go home.

  ‘Nothing doing here,’ he said. ‘You might as well. Good work in the garden, by the way.’

  ‘I enjoyed it,’ I said.

  He nodded at my desk. ‘I see you’ve been doing some homework.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, I saw them on the shelf—’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind; on the contrary, I’m delighted you’re interested. Did you find the Murchies?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The girl with the dog is my god-daughter. You’ll meet her on Thursday.’

  From this I inferred that his wife had told him she’d invited me. ‘I’ll look forward to that. It’s a lovely picture – happier than the others.’

  ‘I think so,’ he agreed, adding: ‘You might meet the artist, too.’

  ‘That would be wonderful!’ I was genuinely thrilled. ‘There’s so much I’d like to ask him.’

  ‘We’ll have to see what we can do,’ said Jarvis with a smile. ‘Now you cut along home. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  He withdrew into the garden again. As I came out of the office I saw Dorothy in the drawing room, topping up the flower water with a long-spouted can. There was no chance of slipping away unnoticed; she spotted me at once and came over with that gleeful expression so typical of her.

  ‘What’s all this?’ she asked sotto voce.

  ‘All what?’ She was cheeky and we both knew it. I always resolved to be more aloof with her, but could never keep it up.

  ‘Out in the garden,’ she said, raising her eyebrows and pouting. ‘Invited to the luncheon party? What you been up to?’

  ‘I haven’t been up to anything, as you put it. But Mr and Mrs Jarvis have been very kind, it’s true.’

  ‘Kind?’ She put her head on one side. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘I think it was kind. Perhaps they wanted their guests to meet the person who answers the telephone.’

  I could hear my note of self-justification, and knew it was quite unnecessary. Why should I have to justify anything to the Jarvises’ parlourmaid? But I could never escape the feeling that Dorothy’s experience here was longer than mine, and she was possessed of a sound intuition.

  Now she said, a touch self-importantly: ‘There’ll be more to it than that, take it from me.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Dorothy . . . Such as what?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I? But he always has his reasons.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘let’s see, shall we?’

  Dorothy made a face that said indeed we would, and returned to her watering. She really was incorrigible. I dared not give up my feeble attempt at dignity, for fear of being taken over altogether by this likeable, manipulative madam.

  In the porch, I noticed that one of the baby swallows was perched on the edge of the nest. There was no sign of its parents, but it was clear that flying lessons were about to start. Several droppings spattered the tiles. Dorothy would have to clear them up before Thursday. I hoped that she would neither use the bread-and-butter knife nor disturb the birds: she had a robust working-class attitude towards God’s creatures – broadly speaking it was that they were all right in their place but in the case of the swallows, this wasn’t it.

  There was a woman walking down the hill towards me. She wore a long cotton skirt, a loose black shirt, sandals and a frayed, broad-brimmed straw hat. Over one shoulder hung a long-handled raffia basket. She’d bundled most of her long hair up into the hat, but several strands had escaped and trailed over her shoulders. She looked like a gypsy except that as she got closer I could see how pale she was.

  I was almost sure this was Suzannah, the guest from the top floor. But I wasn’t sufficiently confident to say anything to her as she went past. For her part, she didn’t seem to notice me at all. She appeared entirely preoccupied, in a world of her own.

  To satisfy my curiosity, I glanced over my shoulder when she’d gone by, and saw her open the gate of Number Seven, and go through. Some instinct must have told her she was being watched, for quite suddenly she turned her head and looked directly at me. It was no casual glance; I could feel the intentness of that look. For a second – less than a second, before I hurried on my way – I had the uncomfortable sensation of being the whole focus o
f a stranger’s attention.

  When I got home, Louise was on her way out, done up to the nines, and disposed to stop and chat. I’m afraid I wasn’t concentrating overmuch on what she had to say, but apparently she had a new job.

  ‘I’m not going to give up the other one,’ she told me, ‘because this one will be nights, and not even every night to begin with, so I’ll see how I get on, but it’ll mean twice the pay and huge tips . . .’

  I was pleased for her of course, but I couldn’t really take it in. Increasingly, even when I wasn’t there, I inhabited Seven Crompton Terrace. The house in Highgate had become my reality, and everything outside it muffled, distant, indistinct.

  The next day couldn’t come soon enough for me.

  Chapter Seven

  All that week it was hot. Too hot. As the days went by, the blue sky faded to the colour of pewter, and beneath it London seethed and simmered. Sunshine smiles gave way to a trudging, sweaty stoicism.

  At Seven Crompton Terrace only Dorothy, never the most punctilious worker, maintained her usual pace, though complaining loudly of the heat. Everyone else in the house was lethargic. We kept the curtains at the front drawn from midday onwards. Amanda stayed indoors, and her husband was uncharacteristically tetchy, not with me, but with the world in general – short with people on the phone and inveighing against recalcitrant transporters, temperamental clients, and politicians who had failed to foresee the problems of peace.

  Jarvis had never spoken of his wartime experiences, and I’d never asked, both because it was not my place and because such conversations made me too sad. Now, in passing, I learned that he had served in the desert in Mesopotamia.

  ‘You know, I thought I could tolerate heat till I went over there,’ he told me. ‘I’d always flourished in high temperatures, hot sunshine made me cheerful and energetic. I flattered myself I should have been born an Italian. But there . . .’ He closed his eyes and shook his head at the memory. ‘It was like nothing I’d ever come across before. Solid, ceaseless, like a blast-furnace. I’d say intolerable, except that there was no choice but to tolerate it.’

  ‘So this,’ I suggested with caution, ‘must be nothing to you.’

  ‘It’s certainly nothing to that,’ he said. ‘But I don’t care for these protracted spells of hot weather any more. Unless I’m on holiday with nothing to do but sit under an olive tree with a jug of wine. They remind me too much of the damn desert. And everything that went with it.’

  His face had grown quite bleak and pinched. To take his mind off the war, and those aspects of it which I didn’t want to discuss any more than him, I asked: ‘What did you do before you joined up?’

  ‘I practised,’ he said, and seeing my baffled expression added: ‘I was already a professional soldier.’

  If he had wanted to astonish me, he succeeded. I mumbled something gauche about having had no idea.

  ‘Well of course you didn’t. And it’s of no great interest now, anyway.’

  In spite or perhaps because of his uncertain mood I sensed that he was disposed to talk. There was no escaping the area I’d wished to avoid. I remarked, respectfully, on the great difference between soldiering as a career, and the art world in which he operated now.

  ‘Not so great,’ he said. ‘Look at all those remarkable poets who found their voice in the trenches. Soldiers are individuals like anybody else.’

  ‘Not quite like, surely,’ I suggested. ‘You could say that of any group of people. We all make our choices.’

  ‘Or war makes them for us,’ he said curtly.

  ‘Was it not your own decision, then – to join the army?’

  ‘Hardly.’ He shook his head. ‘I was carried along on a tide of family tradition, expectation, and misplaced patriotism.’

  ‘Misplaced?’ I asked, and realised as I said it how impertinent that sounded. But he seemed the opposite of put out – in fact for the first time in the conversation he smiled wryly.

  ‘I might have known I wouldn’t be allowed to get away with that! Perhaps true patriotism is never misplaced, but the notion that there is anything in the least sweet or right about naïve young men gargling their last on foreign soil to satisfy the grandiose whims of a bunch of hidebound halfwits is nothing short of preposterous. It would be ludicrous if it wasn’t so damned tragic— I’m sorry.’

  I couldn’t speak. The memories which I’d thought were receding rushed back and snatched my voice away. My eyes stung; I covered my mouth with my hand. After a long moment of reflective silence, it was Jarvis who recovered first.

  ‘I apologise,’ he said again, and then caught sight of my face. ‘Mrs Griffe – Pamela – are you all right?’ I nodded dumbly. He was all concern. ‘What a rude devil I was to go ranting on like that. I dare say you have your own painful memories. Who doesn’t? Please don’t think for a moment that I was belittling what men did out there, I saw it with my own eyes – the selfless courage, the devotion, the grace: It was astonishing. It still astonishes me. It’s the arrogance and wastefulness of the old men that I can’t forgive.’

  I pushed my chair back. ‘I think if I may – I need some fresh air.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ He hurried over, opened the door, took my arm. ‘May I get you something? Would you like a glass of water?’

  ‘No. Thank you . . .’ I didn’t want his sympathy, his solicitous hand or his offers of assistance however kindly meant. I wanted only to be alone. To his credit he realised this and stepped back.

  ‘Please don’t think of returning till you’re ready,’ he said. ‘I’m here if you need anything.’ Quietly he pushed the door to, but not shut, after me.

  I would have gone into the back garden, where it was cooler, but I could see Rintoul lying flat on his back on the grass with his hat over his eyes. From the kitchen came the sound of Dorothy and Chef talking desultorily as they went about their business. A cold drink would have been welcome, but I couldn’t face Dorothy’s bright, perceptive questioning. Instead I crept unsteadily up the stairs and swallowed a few mouthfuls from the tap in the bathroom, using my cupped hands. Then I came down and went out into the porch. Even the swallows were stunned by the heat, so no flying lessons were in progress, and there was a little shade here. I leaned against one of the wooden uprights, breathing deeply.

  I was overcome with shame. Until now I flattered myself that I had kept my composure, and remained self-possessed. Any anxiety I’d had about my new job had stayed well hidden. And I had managed to learn quite a lot about the people round me while not giving anything away about myself. But this moment’s weakness would have undone all that. My reputation for iron unflappability was a goner.

  I mustn’t leave it too long before returning to my desk – getting back in the saddle, my father (who had no knowledge whatever of horses or riding), would have said. My legs still felt rather shaky, so I embarked on a few turns to the gate and back. On my second return journey something at the top of the house caught my eye and I looked up to see Suzannah at the top-floor window. She gave no sign of recognition, and disappeared almost at once as though embarrassed at being seen.

  Seconds later the front door opened and she came out, closing it behind her. She was wearing the same long skirt I’d seen her in the other day, with her stained painter’s overall over the top. Her silvery-brown hair was in two thick plaits, but since it wasn’t completely straight many hairs had escaped and stuck out like fine wires. Her face and collarbones, though pale as ever, gleamed with sweat.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I wanted to say thank you.’

  Her voice was light and soft, her tone inconsequential. It was like a young boy’s voice.

  ‘What for?’ I asked.

  ‘My hairslide, that I dropped in the garden.’

  ‘I didn’t know whose it was,’ I said. ‘But Mrs Jarvis thought it must be yours. I’m glad you’ve got it back.’

  That was clearly that so far as the hairslide went, but she didn’t go right away, and perched on the l
ow wall between the porch and the office window. I took advantage of the pause to come back into the shade.

  ‘We haven’t been introduced,’ I said, rather stiffly. ‘I’m Pamela Griffe. I started work for Mr and Mrs Jarvis a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Yes, I know’ She seemed to assume, correctly, that I already knew her name. ‘How are you?’

  I answered what I took to be a formulaic question in a formulaic way. ‘Very well thank you.’

  ‘I mean are you feeling better?’

  Now I remembered that she had seen me tottering back and forth to the gate.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry – yes, thank you. It must have been the heat.’

  ‘Ghastly, isn’t it? I work in my room up at the top and it’s complete hell in this weather. Edward – my sitter – bought us an electric fan, but he’s on strike today until it gets cooler.’

  ‘I saw him out on the grass.’

  ‘I’m having to get on with other things.’ She stopped and gave me a searching look. Her eyes were very light, almost transparent; looking at them was like looking into water, or clear glass. ‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘you will have seen what I’m doing up there?’

  Of course, she knew I’d been into the room to return the hairslide, but I still answered cautiously: ‘I could tell it was Mr Rintoul on the easel.’

  ‘Not that,’ she said dismissively. ‘The mural.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I did notice.’

  ‘Good, because that’s much more important.’ She gave me another quick, sharp, glance. ‘You do realise it’s a secret – a surprise?’

  ‘I didn’t, actually, but I haven’t told anyone.’

  ‘I made Chris and Amanda promise they wouldn’t go in, and as far as I know they’ve kept their word.’

  For someone so fey and reclusive she was amazingly confident of the mural’s effect. I hoped for her sake that the ‘surprise’ would be a pleasant one for the Jarvises – but then she knew them much better than me.