The Nightingale's Nest

by Sarah Harrison

  The service was on Tuesday at two p.m. The Jarvises willingly gave me the afternoon off, though I still intended to go into Ashe Enterprises later on. In the face of their sympathetic enquiries and expressions of understanding I couldn’t bring myself to tell them about the connection between this event and the one which had made Georgina late the week before. I presented the funeral as a simple issue of duty.

  There were only a handful of mourners present: myself, my mother (who had insisted on coming), Alan, Messrs Rice and Claydon from the tailor’s; the warden and another woman from the hostel; and half a dozen habitués of the church, both helpers and visitors. Quite a number of the others sat round the edges as they had on Sunday, but I felt that their slightly restless presence gave the proceedings a much-needed vitality. Barbara had been a young woman, taken in the midst of life, and in the midst of life we were saying our farewells. We sang ‘Who would true valour see’ because it was one of the few hymns I knew, and I wanted to remember her not as lonely and put-upon but as courageous. With tears blurring the words on the page, I found myself remembering what Georgina had said, how whoever-it-was might have had the courtesy to stay at home quietly and cut her wrists. Good for Barbara, I cheered inwardly. No hole-in-the-corner stuff for her – she held up the trains!

  The vicar summoned up a team of his regulars as pall-bearers and the small, plain coffin was carried unsteadily, to the accompaniment of groans and coughs, out into the small, crowded churchyard. There was just room for Barbara in the far corner.

  Afterwards we remained in the church for a little while and had tea. The women had made a delicious chocolate cake, of which my mother approved. But she was silent and tight-lipped, discomforted by the occasion and her surroundings. Mr Rice made a point of coming over to me and saying what a loss Barbara would be to them.

  ‘I confess we took her for granted, and knew very little about her.’

  ‘Not only you,’ I said. ‘She didn’t want to be known. I met her years ago, but most of her life was a closed book to me.’

  ‘She will be extremely hard to replace,’ said Mr Rice.

  After that Alan, who had to be back for evening surgery, drove my mother home. I said goodbye to the others. The vicar went into the vestry and disrobed, appearing five minutes later to take up his place behind the urn while the usual queue formed. Wet clothing dripped and gave off a pungent smell. It was only three o’clock but the rain had intensified and it made the atmosphere dingy. The lights were on in the nave and the transept, and the altar candles had been left alight.

  Nobody paid me any attention now; the normal life of the church was resumed, and I was glad of it. For the first time in a week I had the sense of a good job well done. Barbara would have been pleased.

  Finding myself with time on my hands I went down into the crypt, not from any desire to gawp at those less fortunate than myself, but to see how things had been arranged down there. I imagined that at this time in the afternoon there were unlikely to be many customers, anyway.

  I was right. The long, low room was lit by a single oil lamp and in the semi-darkness I thought at first that it was empty. About a dozen narrow wooden pallet beds were lined up, six to a side, each with two army blankets, one folded lengthwise to form a thin mattress, the other in a neat square on top. At either end of the central aisle stood galvanised iron buckets whose purpose I could guess at. Just inside the door, to the right of where I stood, was a table and chair, and a tall cupboard with a padlocked door. Two metal grilles in the ceiling provided the only ventilation – one to the church above and the other to the pavement outside – and the stairs down which I’d come. An overpowering smell of paraffin hung in the air, as well as that of some strong cleaning fluid, which was probably preferable to the alternative.

  Not much to see, and I was about to turn back up the stairs when my eyes became used to the dim light and I noticed two other people in the room. In the bed furthest away on the right-hand, inner wall, someone lay beneath the blanket. He was a small, skinny man; his feet reached nowhere near the end and his shoulder stuck up above the edge of the blanket in a bony point. Next to him, on a low stool, sat a second man, a much more substantial figure in a dark overcoat, the collar turned up. He was leaning forward as if talking under his breath, or perhaps listening intently, and as I looked he stretched out a hand and touched the head of the man on the bed in a tender gesture that was almost maternal. Then he stood up. Ashamed of staring I turned to go, but not before I’d caught sight of his face in the faint light of the paraffin lamp. It was John Ashe.

  I positively flew back up the steps and crossed the church just below the chancel without a second glance at the altar, before taking refuge, breathless and fearful, in a pew on the far side, tight against the wall. A moment later Ashe emerged. I was terrified that he would choose to leave by the centre aisle, and have to walk towards me. He nodded a goodbye to the vicar, and buttoned his coat. There were still a few men waiting for tea, and he paused by one of them, placing a solicitous hand on the man’s shoulder as he spoke to him. Then, to my unspeakable relief, he stalked down the north aisle and was gone.

  Like a child spooked by an invisible bogeyman I peered, and hesitated and peered again before daring to get to my feet. I felt like a spy, though God knows it was the merest accident that I’d seen him. I wondered if he had been down there in the semi-darkness of the crypt all the time, while Barbara’s funeral was taking place up here. The thought made me shiver.

  When I was absolutely certain he had gone I went back over to the tea table. There were only a couple of people left to serve and one of the women was washing used cups in a bowl of soapy water.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘I just wondered – the man who left just now, the one who was downstairs, I thought I recognised him, but I wasn’t sure . . .’

  ‘Mr Jameson, our philanthropist, really? Is he a friend of yours?’

  ‘Oh. No, my mistake. I only saw him briefly and I thought . . . But I was wrong.’

  ‘He comes here often,’ she said, swilling the cups and setting them upside down on a spread tea towel to drain. ‘He takes a special interest in the war veterans who’ve fallen on hard times. Listens to their stories, gives them food, tobacco, money even. But mostly time – he has all the time in the world for them.’

  I knew I had not been wrong, that it had been Ashe, and yet she was describing someone very different from the man I thought I knew. I expressed my admiration and she warmed to her theme.

  ‘Yes, he’s pretty well responsible for us setting up the arrangement here, gave us the money for the furniture and extra lighting and heating . . .’ She smiled. ‘Ministering angels come in all shapes and sizes. Mr Jameson is ours.’

  I left by the north door and went to say a last goodbye to Barbara, who in the shock of seeing Ashe I’d almost forgotten. My own small spray of flowers was dwarfed by Rice and Claydon’s rather pompous wreath. She had no headstone yet, though I hoped to get her one, and her grave was a mound of fresh earth, marked by a simple wooden cross bearing her initials and the date, like someone fallen in battle. Which in a way she had been, though not of the kind to whom John Ashe was an angel.

  I made particularly sure on this occasion not to arrive even a minute early. When I did get there everything was exactly as it always was, and Ashe his usual civil, quiet-spoken self. I’d half expected to notice some telltale sign of where he’d been and what he’d been doing, but of course there was nothing; not even the smell of the place hung about him. That black coat must have been shut away somewhere, until the next time.

  Among the correspondence I typed that afternoon were letters to Charles Swynford-Hayes and Miles Easter, with appointments to call at Ashe Enterprises on Thursday morning. From the peremptory wording of the letters I had the strong sense that the meetings would not be to their advantage.

  Over the following days I felt completely exhausted – drained by everything that had happened. My tiredness was more than just physical
, I found it hard to concentrate and was often close to tears. Fortunately no one at Seven Crompton Terrace noticed; they were far too preoccupied with the launch of the Sullivan exhibition, due to take place with fanfares and champagne the following Friday. Christopher Jarvis was like a dog with two tails and there was a lot of joshing, and drinking and laughter. Much of my day was taken up with associated matters: contacting those members of the press who had not replied, checking with the caterer, going back and forth to the gallery on various commissions. I felt as if I were sleepwalking through it all, and prayed I wouldn’t overlook anything important. But Amanda, mindful no doubt of the death of my friend so soon after the loss of my father, was even sweeter than usual.

  I don’t know which of us was the more horrified when one morning she discovered me sitting at my desk, my coat still on, and my head in my hands.

  ‘Pamela? Are you all right?’

  I jerked up. ‘Oh – yes, Mrs Jarvis, perfectly. I’m so sorry, I’m rather tired.’

  ‘You must be, poor girl . . . so much has happened. Are you sure you should be here at all? We joke about you being indispensable, but we muddled along before, and can always do so again for a while, you know.’

  ‘No, thank you, but I’d much rather be here,’ I said truthfully.

  On my desk when I returned from the village at lunchtime lay a large white envelope containing a formal invitation to the launch. It was addressed to me, but Christopher Jarvis impressed upon me in person that I was welcome to bring a guest.

  ‘Your mother, for instance!’ he suggested, with the delighted expression of someone who had been struck by a sudden happy and charitable thought. ‘If you think she would enjoy it.’

  ‘She might,’ I said doubtfully. ‘It’s very kind of you.’ I knew my mother would hate such an event, and had probably exhausted her limited social energies by attending Barbara’s funeral.

  ‘Or someone else, of course,’ Jarvis went on affably. ‘Just let us know the name of your guest by the day before, so that we can ensure that they’re on the list.’

  I hesitated. ‘Could I perhaps ask my – my young man?’ They didn’t know about Alan, and I wasn’t sure how to refer to him. I supposed he was my fiancé, but we hadn’t as yet bought a ring. ‘Dr Alan Mayes,’ I added, to emphasise his respectable professional status.

  Jarvis’s face lit up. ‘But of course! Nothing better. Let’s hope he can come.’

  But Alan could take no more time off and was on call that evening.

  ‘Damn, what a pity, I’d have enjoyed being your escort – and meeting all these people I’ve heard about. Will John Ashe be there?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Him especially.’ He laughed. ‘What an opportunity lost.’

  I didn’t know if I could face going on my own. Dorothy of course hadn’t the slightest doubt.

  ‘Go on, Mrs G, you must! I want to hear all about it.’

  ‘Who on earth would I talk to?’

  ‘Lots of people – anybody! Wish I could go, just let me at ’em.’

  ‘I wish you could,’ I said, ‘instead of me. They’d adore you, I know they would.’

  She flapped a hand at me. ‘Go on, I’m far too common.’

  I wanted to tell her she was one of the most uncommon people I knew, and perhaps I should have done. Instead I said: ‘How’s Jimmy?’

  Her face quietened at once, and her voice became gentler. ‘Not long now. He goes back to Ireland in a week.’

  ‘You’re going to miss him.’

  She nodded, and busied herself at the sink. For the first and only time I sensed she was close to tears. Paralysed by uncertainty I did nothing, and then Chef was back in the kitchen and the moment had passed.

  That evening Louise knocked on my door. She was in her kimono, the one she’d been wearing when we first met, with no make-up and a cigarette in her hand. In the other she carried an open bottle of champagne and two tumblers.

  ‘Have you got time for a quick celebration?’ It was clear from her manner that she’d already made a start.

  ‘You know I have.’ I checked my watch. ‘But do you?’

  She waved the bottle airily as she came in. ‘What the hell, I can be late . . .’

  With the cigarette between her lips she put the bottle and glasses on the mantelpiece, sloshed in a couple of fizzing measures, handed me mine and then flopped down on the bed as she would have done in her own room. I perched on the windowsill.

  ‘What are we celebrating?’

  She raised her glass. ‘Well, old thing, I did it!’

  She didn’t have to explain. I knew at once what she meant: her conquest, if that’s what it was, of John Ashe. I raised my own glass with rather less of a flourish.

  ‘Come on, do!’ exclaimed Louise. ‘Say something, if it’s only goodbye!’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  Even my half-heartedness couldn’t dampen her spirits. ‘It was so easy! I told you that wife of his couldn’t keep him happy.’

  Here at least was a subject on which I could agree with her. ‘I met her the other day, and I think you may right.’

  ‘What?’ Her mouth literally fell open. ‘You did, you met the ice queen? What was she like?’

  ‘As you predicted. Icy.’

  ‘Jee-pers . . . I was only guessing, you know. Shooting a line as usual . . .’ She took out another cigarette and lit it from the stub of the first. ‘More, tell me more!’

  ‘She’s extremely elegant and glamorous, in a way. But I didn’t like her. She was artificial and charmless and she patronised me.’

  ‘Attagirl!’ Louise shrieked and then added ferociously: ‘The bitch!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No, for God’s sake don’t let there be a but!’

  ‘But,’ I went on, determined to make my point, ‘my guess for what it’s worth is that they have an understanding. An accommodation, isn’t that what people call it?’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t suppose he was begging her, or anything,’ said Louise airily. ‘He’s not the type. Just that I’m not surprised he looks for his pleasures elsewhere.’

  Studying Louise, so worldly-wise and self-confident with her glass and her cigarette, her kimono parted to reveal long, slender, gleaming white legs, I wondered which of us could claim to know John Ashe better. In spite of everything I concluded, in all honesty, that I did. Louise was infinitely more experienced than I in the game between the sexes, its terms, its rules, its moves and how to interpret them. Ashe, I was sure, made her look like a beginner. They were worthy of each other’s steel. But I had seen other sides of him; was gradually, albeit imperfectly, forming an impression of the whole man. There was plenty that I still did not know, and even more that I did not understand – but at least I recognised and acknowledged my ignorance and lack of understanding. Whereas Louise was sublimely unaware of how little she knew, as this ad hoc celebration proved.

  ‘. . . still feel sorry for him,’ she was saying. ‘I can’t imagine anything more ghastly than being stuck in a loveless marriage. Correction, a sexless marriage.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tell me!’ She scooped her legs up in front of her, treating me to a flash of mouse-coloured private hair. ‘Tell me – has he seen you in the dress?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And, and? You’re such a miser with gossip, Pamela.’

  ‘He complimented me on it, eventually.’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it. You must wear it often. Change the way the world sees you.’

  ‘I’m quite happy with the way it sees me,’ I said. This wasn’t wholly true; I had always been uncomfortable with Louise’s assumption of my dull, virtuous respectability, and her assumption, too, of the role of Svengali to my blameless Trilby.

  But tonight Louise wasn’t interested in what I had to say. She was detached and buoyant, afloat on her own success.

  ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I’m beginning to think that all my life I’ve been in training t
o become a rich man’s plaything. I shouldn’t in the least mind being set up in a pretty little flat in Mayfair and kept for best.’

  ‘Is that what you expect to happen?’ I asked. I was genuinely curious. I myself could think of nothing worse than the sort of pampered captivity she described with such relish, but it had nothing to do with prudishness. The passivity, the acceding to another’s will which such a situation implied, was anathema to me.

  ‘I’m not saying I expect it, but it’s not impossible. I am his mistress, after all.’

  I didn’t like to say that the term ‘mistress’ implied an exclusivity which I was sure Louise did not enjoy. Instead I asked: ‘What happens when he finds someone else?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ll find someone else too. I shall have had some fun, and enjoyed the attention. No hard feelings.’

  ‘I can’t imagine it.’

  ‘But I have to, don’t I?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  She looked as if she were focusing on me for the first time. ‘Don’t be disapproving, Pamela. Please.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘We’re friends, aren’t we?’

  I was touched, and not a little shocked by this. We were certainly on good terms, or she wouldn’t have been confiding in me now, but whether we could truly be said to have a friendship based on half a dozen conversations and a shopping spree, I was doubtful.

  ‘I think so.’ I saw something like dismay in her eyes, and added: ‘Yes, of course we are.’

  ‘I’m not some poor little thing, you know,’ she went on more spiritedly, ‘I won’t be taken advantage of, even by Ashe. Especially by him.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘It’s just so – so – exciting!’ she said. ‘Such fun! And if he’s a bit of an unknown quantity that makes it more exciting and more fun. For the first time in my life I feel like someone special and important. People look at me and know, and they wonder . . . And I’m not going to tell anyone about what goes on. That’s between him and me. Can you understand that?’