The Nightingale's Nest

by Sarah Harrison

  That evening I tried ringing Barbara, but got no reply. Now that I could picture the large, dour hostel where she lived I found the persistent unanswered ringing an unbearably lonely sound. Surely, I thought, there must be others in the building, why didn’t they pick up the phone?

  First thing next morning I asked Amanda Jarvis whether I might make a short phone call, for which I would pay.

  ‘A very old friend was taken ill the other night,’ I explained, ‘and I haven’t been able to contact her at home. The place where she works might be able to tell me something.’

  ‘My dear, you must,’ cried Amanda. ‘Set your mind at rest, do . . . Use the telephone in the drawing room, why don’t you.’

  ‘I shan’t be more than a minute.’

  ‘Be as long as you like!’

  She was kind as always, but I anticipated only the briefest exchange with Rice and Claydon, a somewhat stuffy organisation which wouldn’t approve of personal calls in office hours. I tried, without actually lying, to sound as much as possible like a business caller.

  ‘I wonder if I might speak to Miss Chisholm.’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s not here,’ said the thinly civil male voice. ‘May I ask who this is?’

  ‘Pamela Griffe. I work for Mr Christopher Jarvis at the Sumpter Gallery.’

  ‘Can I be of any assistance? Does Mr Jarvis have an account with us?’

  ‘Not at the moment, no . . .’ Considering that this line of questioning could only end in confusion and embarrassment, I came to the point. ‘When will Miss Chisholm be coming back?’

  ‘Tomorrow I believe. She’s not been well.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, as unfeelingly as possible. ‘In that case I’ll catch up with her in due course.’ He began to speak again, but I cut him off with a brisk: ‘Sorry to have troubled you,’ and hung up.

  ‘How is your friend?’ enquired Amanda Jarvis as I emerged.

  ‘Better, apparently. Thank you for letting me use the phone. How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Not a thing, my dear . . . I’m glad all’s well.’

  My conscience wasn’t entirely clear after this conversation, but it was sufficiently salved for me to indulge in some retrospective self-justification: Barbara had always been secretive, and regretted her lapse; I had called and received no answer; her indisposition had not been severe or protracted; she would be back at work tomorrow. I promised myself that I would arrange to see her again soon.

  Dorothy was busy at the top of the house all morning, spring-cleaning the recently vacated spare bedroom. Suzannah herself had left a letter for the Jarvises directing them to the ‘present’ she had left for them, and they expressed great excitement about the mural. They were certainly unusual – I could detect not the smallest hint of dismay at having one of their walls painted over in this way. They even invited me up to the attic at lunchtime to admire it, which I was able to do quite naturally since I hadn’t seen it in its completed form.

  ‘So many people!’ I exclaimed. ‘Do you know them all?’

  ‘More or less,’ said Christopher. ‘They’re excellent likenesses, but there are one or two I don’t recognise, so they must be friends of hers she’s thrown in for good measure.’

  ‘Pamela . . .’ Amanda took my arm and led me closer to the mural. ‘Have you seen yourself?’

  ‘Oh good heavens!’

  It was the last thing I expected. My hands flew to my face and my cheeks burned. I was towards the bottom right-hand corner of the painting. Above the neat white collar of my blouse my face was serious, a little severe even, except for a hint of humorous disapproval around the mouth. I suspect it was the face I wore when addressing Dorothy.

  The Jarvises were both smiling indulgently at my discomfiture. ‘She’s definitely caught you,’ said Christopher Jarvis. ‘Or should I say one aspect of you.’

  ‘Pamela’s much prettier than that,’ said Amanda sweetly, ‘especially when she smiles.’

  ‘It’s true she hasn’t flattered you,’ said her husband. ‘Unlike her latest patron, whom for what I assume to be sound commercial reasons she’s treated most diplomatically.’

  I saw what they meant. John Ashe was on the far right of the painting, his clean profile presented to us, with the effect that he seemed to be turning away from everyone else.

  The person closest to him, at his shoulder, was me.

  That evening Louise knocked on my door on her way out to work. She was at her most dazzlingly glamorous, and I told her so – but not that we were now fellow employees.

  ‘It’s my uniform,’ she said airily, smoothing the turquoise lame over her slim hips. ‘I could hardly turn up in a wool two-piece.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ I agreed. Round her neck was a long string of cultured pearls, loosely knotted at the nape so that the loop hung down her bare back. Her hair was now an extraordinary pinkish-red that owed nothing to nature, its sleek finger-waves glossy as satin. Several inches of gossamer fringing shimmered at her hem, dipping to just above the knee on one side, slithering high enough on the other to reveal a flash of lace stocking-top.

  ‘That’s a beautiful dress,’ I commented admiringly. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Darling, isn’t it? Madame let me borrow it. No end of rich people come into the club, and I’m a sort of walking advertisement.’

  She was certainly something, though I couldn’t help wondering what the Apache’s lady customers would make of quite such a sumptuously turned-out hostess. Louise arrayed in Madame’s finest was not so much decoration as competition.

  ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘I only popped in to say hello, and to find out how you were.’

  ‘Thank you, I’m fine. I hardly like to ask you in in that outfit, but if you’d like something to drink—’

  ‘No.’ She held up perfectly manicured hands. ‘No. But quickly –’ I could tell she was coming to the real reason for her visit – ‘how’s the doctor?’

  ‘He’s fine too.’ I tried to be non-committal but my face must have given me away. Her own lit up as she took my wrist and squeezed it.

  ‘Pamela, I’m so pleased!’

  ‘It isn’t anything, really, we’re just getting to know one another.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, it’s written all over you!’

  ‘What is?’ I asked, beaming.

  ‘It! You’ve never looked better, honestly.’

  ‘Really?’ I glanced self-deprecatingly down at myself, then at her.

  ‘Yes! Anyway, forget all this!’ She flicked at the sparkling material.

  ‘Anyone can look good in an expensive dress. You know what the best beauty treatment is . . .’

  ‘No.’

  She leaned towards me and I was enveloped in a wave of flowery scent.

  ‘Love!’

  Later that evening Mrs Dent knocked on the door and said there was a young man on the telephone for me. The tone in which she conveyed the information suggested that I was displaying the first signs of an unsightly and contagious condition which, unchecked, would romp through her other tenants and bring her establishment into disrepute.

  ‘Try not to be long,’ she said as I flew down the stairs ahead of her. ‘It’s getting late.’

  ‘I can’t be long,’ said Alan, ‘but isn’t it tomorrow that you’re to visit Mr Ashe’s office?’

  ‘That’s right, after work.’

  ‘I managed to change my evening off – why don’t I meet you afterwards and you can tell me about it?’

  ‘Could you? But I don’t know how long it’ll take . . .’

  ‘Never mind that. Probably about an hour. Tell me where you’re going to be, and I’ll make sure I’m somewhere within spotting distance when you come out.’

  ‘All right.’ I gave him the address, and warned him jokingly: ‘It’s Soho, remember, be careful!’

  He laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll beat off the loose women. Must dash – ’bye!’

  As I put the phone down Mrs Dent was just closing her do
or. By the look on her face I could tell that my last remark had confirmed her darkest misgivings. I managed to get halfway up the stairs before bursting into laughter.

  Next day Christopher Jarvis asked me to accompany him to the gallery in the afternoon.

  ‘A few things need doing down there,’ he said, ‘and since you have to be in town anyway, I thought this might suit us both.’

  Again I sensed the lightest web of conspiracy, of being eased along a preordained path, but told myself it was nonsense. My employers were never anything but kind and charming, and all Mr Jarvis was doing now was proposing a plan for our mutual convenience.

  To my delight, we drove there in the Riley. As we roared down Highgate Hill with the top down, and the hot summer wind combed through my hair, my heart fluttered and strained in my chest like a flag – this was another of those moments which three short months ago I could never have imagined. I couldn’t help wondering what the groundlings on the pavement made of us. Would they guess that I was no more than this handsome man’s secretary? Or would they suppose I was his sister, wife – mistress? I tilted my chin up and adopted the slightly glazed, haughty half-smile that I had seen on the faces of smart women in sports cars.

  ‘Not too blowy for you?’ he asked, voice raised over the rush of air and engine.

  ‘No – no, not at all!’

  ‘Good! Some women worry about their hair, you know.’

  ‘Not me!’

  He turned and grinned. ‘One more way in which you differ from the herd!’

  All in all the drive made me feel so wonderful that I never wanted it to end, but when we reached the Sumpter and I looked at myself in the cloakroom mirror I was confronted with the awful truth. I did not look wonderful, I looked a fright; my hair was in wild disarray, my face reddened by sun and wind, and there were salty snail-tracks on my cheeks where my eyes had watered. The passers-by would not have been impressed.

  I restored order to my appearance with comb and cold water and joined Mr Jarvis in a rather more realistic frame of mind than the one in which I’d zoomed into town. The afternoon’s work centred around the imminent changeover from the current exhibition to that scheduled for the early autumn. But as usual I wasn’t given overmuch to do and worked quickly, so there was time for me to become more familiar with the gallery’s hinterland of offices, storage rooms, delivery bay and reception area and to take another look at the current exhibition which had so impressed me on my first visit. Since then, I noticed, many of the paintings bore the yellow sticker denoting that they had been sold. These included ‘Nobody’ by S.R. Murchie. I was pleased for Suzannah, of course, but sad that the picture would be going who knew where. Because I had met the artist so soon after seeing her work for the first time, I felt proprietary towards the painting, and resented its departure. It seemed unfair that it should go to someone whose only qualification for ownership was that they were rich enough to buy it – some shrewd, wealthy individual who was probably acquiring the paintings of this rising young artist as an investment. I refused to believe that the painting’s new owner understood it as I did. Mine was an arrogance born of ignorance, soon dented when Christopher Jarvis joined me as I stood gazing at ‘Nobody’.

  ‘Suzannah’s work speaks strongly to certain people,’ he said.

  And I’d been presumptuous enough to think it only spoke to me! Still, the ‘certain people’ helped preserve a sense of exclusivity.‘Yes,’ I said humbly. I can see that.’

  ‘Your new employer has bought this one. And the others you liked, that you saw in the back catalogue.’

  I don’t know why I should have been surprised. After all, John Ashe had liked what he saw enough to commission a portrait.

  ‘So Suzannah’s doing well.’

  ‘Quite well, and I’m pleased to have played a small part in her success, so far as it goes. But she’s not yet quite established in the art world’s consciousness, and she’s a slow worker, which can have one of two effects – either everyone goes wild for her and people fight like mad dogs over every picture because there are so few; or they get bored with waiting and start looking around for the next new thing.’

  ‘She worked hard all the time she was staying with you,’ I pointed out.

  He never seemed to mind my uninformed comments. ‘Oh, she worked hard, but what was she doing most of the time? That mural. Which, charming though it is, is scarcely a saleable commodity. It may even detract from the value of the house in years to come. Not everyone wants an entire wall covered in portraits of unknown people by an obscure artist.’

  ‘I should absolutely love it,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, but Pamela,’ he touched my shoulder confidentially as he used my Christian name. ‘You’re not typical. You liked Suzannah’s paintings right away.’

  My self-confidence fully restored, I glowed.

  At the end of the afternoon I set out for Soho. Christopher Jarvis offered to drive me, but I elected to walk. For one thing I wanted to shake off that lingering sense of being manoeuvred between these two clever, enigmatic men; and for another I needed the time to myself, to adjust to the meeting with John Ashe. After that, I reminded myself, Alan would be waiting for me; but as I drew closer to Soho Square his image seemed to retreat before me until it was as distant as the dark side of the moon.

  I felt very prim and buttoned-up – not to mention nervous – walking through this part of London, even on a sunny summer’s afternoon. The place was off duty at this time of day, but it gave off an air of an alley-cat indolence, watchful and knowing, that made me self-conscious in my neat suit and sensible shoes. I had allowed more than enough time, and moved at such a pace that I arrived with ten minutes to spare. Not wanting to hang about aimlessly, though goodness knows I’d have made an unlikely streetwalker, I filled the spare time with two brisk circuits of the square, eyes firmly on the pavement.

  Ashe Enterprises at Number Twelve was so discreetly advertised that I might have missed it altogether had it not been for John Ashe’s car parked outside. The door to the building was in a deep, narrow recess, and Ashe’s brass plate one of half a dozen on the wall next to it. I pressed the bell and a moment later his voice, from a speaker nearby, told me to push the door and take the lift to the second floor.

  He was waiting to greet me as the lift door opened. In contrast to his usual sombre, immaculate turnout he wore no jacket and was collarless, his tie loosened and his shirtsleeves held back with brass bands. A suggestion of dark hair showed at the neck of his shirt. All this made him seem younger, but the scars, in contrast, stood out more fiercely.

  He held out his hand. ‘Mrs Griffe. How nice to see you. And punctual to the second.’

  ‘I hate to be late.’ I slipped my hand in and out of his as swiftly as I could.

  ‘No difficulty in finding me, I hope?’

  ‘None at all.’

  ‘Come in and look around.’

  He opened wide the door behind him, and stood back to let me enter.

  My face must have been a study. The offices of Ashe Enterprises could not have been more different from what I had expected. Almost unconsciously, I’d imagined a rich, dark, pre-war heaviness, redolent of masculinity and wealth. But this room was more like the Sumpter Gallery – spacious, brilliant with light, empty. The few items of furniture were severely attenuated and modern, the walls bare except, oddly, for a long strip of mirror, about three feet deep at head height on either side. There were no pictures, nor any books that I could see, but I supposed a low white cupboard along the wall beneath one of the mirrors must contain some of the files, ledgers and papers generally associated with running a business.

  There was a moulded steel desk and a matching chair with its back to the window overlooking the square. Ashe’s black jacket hung over the back of the chair. The surface of the desk was empty apart from a telephone and a framed photograph facing away from the room. In the centre of the room four more chairs, in sculpted white leather, smooth as seashells, stood grouped
about a low, glass table bearing the single, startling splash of colour. In a matte black cylindrical vase three extraordinary scarlet blooms – tall, thick-stemmed, and vivid, their waxy petals open like mouths – revealed sooty-tipped orange stamens. I had no idea what sort of flowers they were; they looked strange enough to have come not just from another country, but from another world.

  If I had felt out of place in the streets of Soho, I felt even more so here.

  ‘What an unusual room,’ I said.

  ‘I hope so,’ he replied. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ I wondered of what possible interest my opinion could be. ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘I like peace, and order,’ said Ashe, as if an explanation were needed. ‘Or at least the appearance of order. I suspect that you’re the same.’

  ‘It makes life easier,’ I agreed. He smiled. The effect of the mirrors on either side of us was to remove all those little moments of privacy and secret observation normally present between people, particularly between people who don’t know each other well. We were visible, to ourselves and each other, the entire time.

  ‘For me, certainly,’ he said. ‘I’m baffled by people who are able to function no matter what the conditions. Your current employers are a good example of the genre. On the other hand they have you, now, to impose order.’

  I wanted to say that I imposed nothing, but simply worked within the system like everyone else at Seven Crompton Terrace, but this was not the moment for self-deprecation. Let him think what he liked.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘you’d like to see where you’ll be working.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He led the way back on to the landing, and opened a door on the right, opposite the stairs.