The Nightingale's Nest

by Sarah Harrison

  We disembarked on Platform Ten a little bleary-eyed, but outside the station it was a beautiful Sunday morning. We had undergone a long journey together in every sense and now we could feel our separate lives beginning to pull us apart, and began to speak at once.

  ‘Pamela—’

  ‘Please—’

  We both laughed, and Alan said: ‘Your go.’

  ‘I was going to say please tell me the moment you hear anything.’

  ‘You’ll be the first.’

  ‘Now you.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know really. Just remember that I love you, and that you can call upon me any time. For anything.’

  ‘Of course.’ I felt a flap of panic. ‘But we’ll see each other this week, as usual?’

  ‘I expect so,’ he said, but I didn’t miss his momentary hesitation.

  We said goodbye and exchanged a hug – or half a hug, for we were still holding our suitcases. The church bells were ringing as we parted company, and a clatter of pigeons flew up towards the vaulted station roof.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Because it had been a hot, fine summer, autumn in England was long and glorious that year. The trees on the Heath, along the pavements, and in the gardens of Crompton Terrace became great bouquets of red, gold and amber, holding the rich, low sunlight as the days grew short. But as the glowing leaves drifted down to form dank brown floes in the gutter, it wasn’t only the bare branches that were revealed. A pattern of events emerged, every bit as inevitable as the turn of the year.

  Alan and I continued to see each other, but much less often. My mother was quick to pick up on the change that had taken place.

  ‘Is everything all right between you two?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Only he doesn’t come in and chat like he used to.’

  ‘He’s very busy, Mum.’

  ‘He was busy before.’

  ‘Well – he’s had the interview, in Edinburgh, the one I told you about. He’s waiting to hear from them, so naturally he’s a bit preoccupied.’

  She wasn’t satisfied, but there was nothing else I could say. Gradually but inexorably Alan and I were letting one another go, and the process still felt too painful for me to want to discuss it with her.

  My mother wasn’t the only one. John Ashe had noticed the change as well.

  ‘I haven’t seen your young man waiting in the square for a while,’ he remarked one afternoon as I was leaving.

  ‘No – he hasn’t been able to get away.’

  ‘Not neglecting you, I hope.’

  ‘No,’ I said. And then added, I don’t know why: ‘It’s rather the other way round.’

  ‘I see.’

  The lift arrived and he went to the door. But instead of opening it he stood blocking my way. I could smell his clean-linen smell, as dry, fresh and sweet laundry cupboard.

  ‘Must you dash off?’

  ‘No.’ It was a reflexive answer which left me nowhere to go, and by the time my lips were forming a cautious qualification, he’d asked:

  ‘Would you care for a drink before you go? To mark your emerging from the probationary period with flying colours?’

  ‘I didn’t realise I was on probation.’

  He smiled and touched my elbow briefly to steer me back towards his office.

  ‘Only in the most informal sense. Generally speaking I’m against mixing business with pleasure but in your case I shall make an exception.’

  He led the way into the white room. ‘Sit down, do. I have sherry or whisky.’

  ‘Sherry, thank you.’

  He opened one of the low, white cupboards and poured sherry for me, and a whisky for himself. He gave me my drink and sat down opposite.

  ‘How do you like working here, Mrs Griffe?’

  ‘Very much,’ I replied.

  ‘A bit different from Christopher Jarvis’s place . . .’

  ‘Yes.’ I refrained from elaborating, even though he had done so himself in the past. Better to be dull than risk offence.

  ‘As I’ve said in the past, he revels in a certain casualness. I prefer formality. It’s a difference in style.’

  ‘I realise that.’

  ‘You will also have realised –’ he stretched forward to put his glass on the table and as he did so his gleaming white cuff pulled back to reveal the black hair on his wrist – ‘that my business is very unlike that of the Sumpter Gallery.’

  ‘I know very little about it,’ I said.

  ‘Officially. But you’re an intelligent woman, Mrs Griffe, and an observant one. You can’t fail to have noticed that I deal with some fairly disreputable people.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d have used that word.’

  ‘No, because among your other excellent qualities you’re also discreet. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. The important thing is that we work well together.’

  I agreed. And I was undeniably flattered. The idea that Ashe and I worked ‘together’ was pleasing to me, as he intended it should be. So I was a little more than his employee, I was his colleague.

  I was also a fool.

  ‘Like many people with no special talent, I deal in human nature,’ he went on placidly. ‘Christopher Jarvis does, too, I suppose. We’re both entrepreneurs in our different ways.’

  Warily, I sipped my sherry. ‘I can see that.’

  ‘Of course, in Christopher’s case he is dealing with artists, individuals who have a specific creative gift. But he has the ability to turn that gift into hard cash – by persuading others, with no such gift, that they are people of taste and discernment.’

  ‘Like the Emperor’s New Clothes.’

  He didn’t smile. ‘That’s an incorrect analogy. He’s not in the business of inviting people to admire what isn’t there, but of making what is there desirable. And he does so very effectively. In my case the exercise is just as complex and subtle but a good deal less respectable.’

  ‘I see.’

  He gazed impassively at me. ‘If there’s anything you want to ask, please do.’

  I hesitated. He had taken me right to the brink, but no further. I was being offered a rare opportunity to satisfy my curiosity, but I also knew that there were right and wrong ways of doing so, and only Ashe knew which was which.

  ‘I’ve often wondered . . . What happens in the other room here?’

  My voice seemed to echo slightly, the words hanging in the air after they were spoken. John Ashe got to his feet. My face went sickly cold – had I got it wrong?

  ‘Let me show you,’ he said.

  I rose, and followed him out of the office and across the hallway. The door of the red room was closed as always but not, on this occasion, locked. He opened it and held it back for me with his arm, so that I could go in first.

  ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘My little photographic studio.

  I entered, and felt a sharp jolt of disorientation, as though I’d just woken from a vividly realistic dream. Where was the sinister, voluptuous, red and black cave that I was sure I’d glimpsed before? Ashe was right – this was simply a photographic studio, as neat and plain as the other rooms on this floor. There were shelves and cupboards covering the wall next to the door, a low platform to the right, and a window opposite giving on to the central well of the building. Rust-red curtains hung at the window, but they were drawn back. A camera on a tripod stood in the corner, flanked by two stands with spotlights like round metal flowers blooming on their black metal stems. Besides this equipment there were two upright armchairs, one on the platform and one in the centre of the room, and a chaise longue against the left-hand wall, on which I could see a fringed crimson shawl, neatly folded, and a row of matching cushions. A round mirror hung above the chaise longue. The floor was simple polished boards. The overall effect was light and businesslike.

  I waited, pretending to look round, until I was sure I wouldn’t betray any surprise. When I turned back, Ashe was still standing in the open doorway, his broad frame filling the space, h
is hands in his pockets.

  ‘So you’re a photographer,’ I remarked.

  ‘Of a sort. For my own amusement.’

  ‘What do you photograph?’

  ‘People.’ He took a step forward and the door swung gently half-shut behind him. ‘Women. They interest me.’

  I had the curious feeling that for reasons of his own he was disposed to answer anything I cared to ask. ‘What kind of women?’

  ‘Any. All. Beauty isn’t a prerequisite. But naturally they have to be willing to be photographed.’

  I thought of Parkes.

  ‘You may have seen Parkes here once or twice,’ he said.

  I went cold. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were shocked, I dare say.’

  ‘No—’ He tilted his head quizzically. ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘It would have been astonishing if you weren’t. But I can assure you that nothing happens here without everyone’s full consent.’

  I struggled for words. ‘But Parkes is your chauffeur.’

  ‘Certainly. And a good one. I don’t care to drive.’

  ‘I thought that – she – was a man.’

  ‘That was the general idea.’

  ‘Is she happy?’ I asked.

  ‘As far as I know,’ he said, as though the question of her happiness had never occurred to him. ‘I’ve had no complaints. She’s well paid to do a job she enjoys. One of the conditions of her employment is that she assume a disguise, of sorts, during working hours.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because it pleases me,’ he said. His tone was silky, but implied enough.

  I would have left the room at this point, but he stood by the door. There was no indication that he was intentionally barring my way, but the polite ‘Excuse me’ required to make him step aside simply would not form on my lips. Instead I pretended that I had no intention of leaving, and affected a keen interest in the camera.

  ‘Do you know anything about photography?’ he asked.

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘Would you like me to take your picture?’

  ‘No!’ I snapped. And then, taking a hold of myself: ‘No thank you. I dislike myself in photographs.’

  ‘Most people do . . .’ He strolled over and laid a hand on the camera. ‘To begin with. Until they see what the camera’s capable of.’

  ‘I thought it was supposed never to lie.’

  ‘That’s true, in the sense that it can only record what it sees. But what people don’t always appreciate is that it can be made to see in many different ways. It’s the conduit between photographer and subject. It records a particular vision.’

  Suddenly, I was absolutely terrified that he would insist on taking my picture. To divert attention from myself, I said: ‘May I see some of your work?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. Sit down for a moment.’

  I did so, being sure to choose the chair that was not on the platform. He took a folder off one of the shelves near the door, looked at it, replaced it, and repeated the exercise with a couple more before bringing one over and placing it in my lap.

  ‘Help yourself.’

  As I opened the folder he sat down on the other chair, hands resting loosely on the arms, legs apart. I felt like an examinee with an invigilator. A moment ago he had all but read my mind with his mention of Parkes. I did hope he couldn’t do so now. Whatever criterion he had used to show me this particular portfolio, it surely could not have been its inoffensiveness. I stared at the first one . . . the second . . . turned the pages quickly to see if there was to be any relief. My cheeks burned with embarrassment, and humiliation.

  I closed the folder and laid it on the floor.

  ‘You’ve grasped the idea,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered.

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘I don’t care for them,’ I said. ‘But then, they’re not for me.’

  ‘Quite. As I say, they’re principally for me. And anyone interested in owning them, for whatever reason and for a fair price.’ He got up and replaced the folder on the shelf. ‘The negatives, of course, are beyond price.’ I heard the door open and realised that he was standing there, waiting to show me out. ‘Did you spot your little friend Louise?’

  I pretended I hadn’t heard him. I had not seen Louise, but I couldn’t bear to think of her trapped in that vile book, like an animal in a zoo.

  ‘She has nothing to fear,’ Ashe said, it’s those who consider they have a reputation who are eager to begin with and then have second thoughts.’

  He closed the door with a soft click behind us. ‘So much for Bluebeard’s Chamber.’

  If this was his idea of a joke, it was a bad one. ‘I’d better be going,’ I said.

  ‘In that case, I shall see you next week.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  I entered the lift, but he held back the outer door for a moment. ‘Don’t be too hard on your young man, will you?’

  I wanted to say that it was none of his business, but I was too shaken, and remained silent.

  I stepped out into the street gulping for air, dark spots before my eyes. I braced my hand against the wall to steady myself. Parkes had been sitting in the car and now she got out and came over to me.

  ‘All right, madam?’

  ‘I will be . . .’

  ‘Want to sit in the car for a moment, catch your breath?’

  I looked into her face, which showed nothing but concern. I should have liked to sit down in the car’s soft leather interior and ask her everything I wanted to know. But the thought that Ashe might be looking out of his window even as we stood there was so unpleasant that I managed to get my head up, draw a deep breath, and say: ‘No, really – I’ll be fine.’

  She kept her hand on my arm for a second. ‘Look after yourself.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  As I walked away her last words stayed with me, not because of their simple message, but because of the way they’d been spoken: without the usual ‘madam’, the charming deference, but straight and intense, as to a friend. I glanced over my shoulder and saw her standing by the open driver’s door, watching me intently. Neither of us waved, but I felt the current of understanding pass between us.

  Not long after that, Louise left her room on the floor below me. Before she went, she came up with some clothes she no longer wanted.

  ‘Don’t be offended, but if there’s anything you’d like, you’re welcome.’ She tossed them down, a puddle of colour on the pale bedspread. ‘Otherwise put them in the dustbin, I’ve finished with them.’

  I thanked her, and out of habit began shaking out the clothes and folding them in a neat pile. Something sad struck me about these fine feathers of hers, summarily discarded, the more so because I could tell at a glance there was nothing in which I wouldn’t have looked ridiculous.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve got a flat in Sussex Gardens. Not far from the park. All to myself!’

  ‘Louise . . . You must be doing well.’

  ‘Not so bad, thank you. Better for not being with John Ashe.’

  ‘That’s over?’

  She drew sharply on her cigarette with a toss of the head. ‘Certainly is.’

  ‘And you’re— that didn’t cause any trouble?’

  She shrugged. ‘Depends what you mean. I’m not working at the Apache any more. A nice clean break. But while I was there I met a sweet man, who adores me and been after me for ages, and all I had to do was send a speaking look in his direction . . .’ (she demonstrated) ‘so all’s well that end’s well!’

  ‘Are you working at all?’

  ‘No!’ She darted her head at me teasingly. ‘Oh Pamela, isn’t that too awful? Shameful.’

  ‘I didn’t mean—’

  ‘I’m just doing what thousands of married women do all the time, including that frigid bitch Felicia Ashe, which is precisely nothing, except of course to make Roly happier than he’s been in the whole of his poor little dep
rived life.’

  Her tone was no longer teasing, but quite savage – she could still be hurt.

  ‘I do wish you well, Louise,’ I said quietly. ‘I shall miss you.’

  At once she softened. I was forgiven. ‘I’ll miss you, too. But we mustn’t lose touch. What about you, are you still typing away for that arrogant monster?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Rather you than me. Not that anyone with half a brain would employ me to do their typing!’

  ‘I think you’re right.’

  We laughed; there was relief in my laughter. It appeared I had underestimated Louise, who had got out in time, with her head held high. Maybe she really could look after herself, as she was always telling me. There remained the matter of the photograph, tucked away where only Ashe could see it, but I did not intend to spoil the moment by mentioning that now. She was so full of hope and high spirits, perched on the end of my bed with one slim leg swinging beneath her.

  ‘If I was a bad, wicked fairy, do you know what my wish would be?’

  ‘No,’ I said warily. ‘What?’

  ‘I’d wish that Ashe would conceive a mad, hopeless passion for you, to which you would be massively indifferent, and you would spurn him as you would a mongrel cur!’

  This idea was so wonderfully ridiculous that we both began to laugh again, and continued to do so till we were breathless and clutching our stomachs.

  ‘Yes, and pigs might fly!’ I spluttered when I could speak.

  ‘Oh, God!’ Louise wiped her eyes with the corner of the bedspread. ‘But it’s not that strange when you come to think of it. I bet he’s inflamed by your demure appearance and upright nature. In the popular novel, that’s what would happen – think of Mr Rochester!’