‘You mean pinching things?’ It was the longest speech he’d ever made to me.
‘All right then. Pinching things. Even taking Rev. Timbo’s bloody boxing cup gave me a little bit of a thrill when I nicked it.’
‘Now you’re giving it back.’
‘Of course.’ Terry sighed as though I was extremely slow on the uptake. ‘It was taking it that was worthwhile. The pot’s hardly worth trying to flog down the pub on a Saturday night.’
‘You mean you’ve found other crimes much more exciting?’
‘Tell you a story,’ Terry said. ‘I remember what my old Uncle Arthur told me about his friend Springy Malone, so called because he could hop across roofs and so forth. Well, Springy did serious crime until he got reformed and took up religion. But he told Arthur how disappointing it was when he went to the bank to draw out a pile of money for his house repairs or his wife support or something. He stood watching the cashier count it out and he thought, in the good old days I’d have pulled out a shooter and taken the lot off you. How dull life has become! Can you understand that?’
‘I might try to.’
‘Forget all the mountain climbing and falling out of aeroplanes and all that. Being in someone else’s house at night. Getting the silver out of the drawers and the money out of the safe and the pictures off the walls and wondering all the time if they’re going to wake up and you’ll be caught and put away for another few years or so. I tell you, Lucy, there’s nothing so exciting. People can’t get cured of it.’
‘You mean you can’t.’
‘You still don’t understand it,’ he said, not angrily, but smiling. Then he picked up his cuff to display a classy sort of watch which I hadn’t seen before. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said, ‘I’ve got an appointment.’
‘With Environmentally Friendly Investments?’
‘Something like that, yes.’ It was not really that he seemed, at that moment, better-looking, more in control, than he ever had before. It was like, quite honestly, that he was going off into a world in which there was no place for me at all.
‘But like I said,’ he went on, ‘you lot will never understand it. You may have given up trying to reform me. But you’ll never understand why we want to do it. Got to go now.’ And then he smiled unexpectedly. ‘We might do this again. Some time soon.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘some time soon.’
He left me then. I had a moment’s fear that he might have landed me with the bill, but no, it had all been paid for.
On my way out I passed Sandy and saw a great pile of his chips being raked away on the roulette table. In spite of his bad luck, he waved a cheerful goodbye. I waved back, happy to feel at that moment a small part of Terry’s world. The truly worrying thing, I realized, was that I had done what no decent praeceptor should ever do - fallen in love with the client.
12
‘I just rang to see how you were getting on with your client. It’s young Terry Keegan, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is. I think we’ve reached a pretty good understanding.’
‘He’s kept out of trouble?’
‘So far, yes. I don’t think he’s in any trouble at all.’
Gwenny had called me at Pitcher’s and, for the moment, I seemed able to give satisfactory answers to all her questions. Then she said, ‘We’re having a bit of trouble here at SCRAP.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Orlando Wathen resigned. He suddenly announced that the main cause of crime was the soft and soppy liberal view we took of it in the sixties.’
‘Is that true?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t begin to think about it now. Anyway, Orlando wrote to the Daily Telegraph calling for life sentences for a second conviction for house-breaking.’
‘Did that have something to do with the fact that his house was broken into?’
‘I think it may have done. Anyway, we couldn’t have the head of SCRAP saying things like that, so he resigned and we’re looking for a replacement. That’s why I rang you actually.’
‘Why?’
‘Alex Markby said there’s a wonderful chap called Leonard McGrath. Apparently he’s done good things for the environment. But he also said that he’d found a job for your client, Terry Keegan, and helped him go straight since he came out of the Scrubs. Do you know anything about him?’
‘Oh yes. I know quite a lot about Leonard McGrath.’
‘Alex thinks he has great organizing ability. Is that right?’
‘I should say his organizing ability is terrific.’
‘That’s good to know. You haven’t met him, have you?’
‘Oh yes. I’ve met him.’
‘Do you think he’d be interested in helping young criminals? Will you have a word with him?’
‘Yes, I will. And I think he might be very interested.’ I had to put the phone down before I started to giggle.
Anyway, I had more important things to do than talk to Gwenny when I felt, quite honestly, more than a little guilty having broken the first rule of a praeceptor. I had to go down to my parents in Aldershot because it was the weekend and I meant to restore at least one of Terry’s ill-gotten gains to its rightful owner.
‘Timbo will be delighted,’ Robert said when I got down to Aldershot.
‘Delighted to get his pot back?’
‘Delighted that young Terry repented. There is more joy in heaven over one sinner that repents than over ninety and nine just persons who need no repentance.’
‘I’m not so sure about his repenting. Apparently he couldn’t get much for the cup, even down the pub on a Saturday night.’ I was trying to bring Robert down to the harsh reality of the situation, but he was off on another ‘Thought for the Day’.
‘Rather odd that, you may think. I mean, it seems, on the face of it, a bit unfair on the ninety and nine just persons who don’t get God’s attention at all. What He really likes are the sinners. Are we to understand that He created them in order that He might have the pleasure of seeing them repent? How many of us are troubled, deeply troubled, by that thought?’
‘Not many of us,’ would have been my answer. ‘In fact hardly anyone at all.’ But I didn’t want to spoil what Robert told me would be the theme of his Sunday sermon in the cathedral. Then he changed the subject.
‘So you have done a splendid job with young Terry, Lucy. And I’m sure both God and my chaplain are extremely grateful.’
I could have woken Robert up to the reality of life as led by members of the Beau Brummell Club, but this would have been unnecessarily cruel. ‘And tonight we’re invited for drinks with the dear Smith-Aldeneys,’ my dad told me. ‘You remember them, don’t you, Lucy?’
‘Of course. I used to go to pony club with Persephone.’
‘They’re good people. She does a lot for charity and he’s chair of the Save the Cathedral Committee. They do excellent work, but I’m afraid they’re part of the ninety and nine just persons who bore God. They bore me too, if I have to be entirely honest about it.’
‘But we’re going to drinks with them?’
‘In this life, Lucy, we must take the rough with the smooth,’ my dad told me. ‘We can only pray for something more entertaining in the life to come.’
There was nothing really wrong with the Smith-Aldeneys. In fact they did everything right. They lived in just the right size of converted farmhouse to the south, that is to say the better, side of Aldershot. They had just the right amount of land, a large garden and a paddock for the ponies. They had just the right amount of money since Christopher Smith-Aldeney worked for a City bank, and the right number of children. Persephone, who was my age and just returned from backpacking in Cambodia, an experience which seemed to have changed her not at all, and a younger son, Billy, who was reading economics at Cardiff. Their mother, Olive Smith-Aldeney, controlled the whole family with determined charm. You could be quite sure at a party of the Smith-Aldeneys that nothing embarrassing or outrageous would occur and probably
nothing very interesting either.
Then the usual harmless calm of drinks with the Smith-Aldeneys was broken, of course, by Robin, who said, ‘There’s a sort of glow about you, Lucy. Have you been fucking that little criminal of yours?’
‘Of course not! Don’t be ridiculous!’ I told him. Fortunately Persephone came up to us and wanted to discuss three-day eventing and the time when we were all at pony camp together, and Robin drifted away before he could come out with any more stupid and unfounded accusations.
And then of course Christopher Smith-Aldeney came up and asked if I’d like to see his collection of ancient coins and ‘my new acquisition’. Long ago, when I was about fourteen, I’d shown a sort of polite interest when Christopher showed me his coins and he had been sure that I was a budding numismatist, if that’s the right word. So I never visited Fallowfield, the Smith-Aldeneys’ home, without Christopher opening his glass cases and taking me on a brisk tour through the ducats and Louis d’ors, the crowns and the florins, the Arab coins stamped with Christ by the crusaders, the first pounds of the British Raj in India and the ancient coinage of Mesopotamia centuries before it had been turned into Iraq, as Christopher was never tired of telling me. But now there was something entirely new - a Roman coin with the head of the Emperor Claudius discovered by a metal detector in a field near St Albans. He told me what he’d paid for it and said it had given an entire lift to his collection.
‘Don’t you think it’s beautiful, Lucy?’ Christopher said, and although it seemed a rather ordinary bit of bronze to me, I agreed that it brought the whole history of the Roman Empire back to the drinks party in Fallowfield. With that he gave me the squeeze which brought him into close contact with my tits and the sort of distinctly damp kiss I used to get when I came back to the farmhouse after gymkhanas and pony club events with Persephone.
However, just as Christopher was uttering the corniest of lines and giving me the usual not entirely welcome squeeze, Mrs Smith-Aldeney came up considerably worried, not about her husband’s squeezing but about the conduct of my mother. ‘Sylvia says she didn’t come out to drink sherry in glasses the size of eggcups and could she have a G&T. I told her I’d ask you to find something or other.’ At which her husband put his Claudius coin down on the table beside his glass cases and went buzzing off in search of a bottle of gin.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I told Olive after Christopher had gone.
‘What’ve you got to be sorry about, Lucinda?’ Olive wasn’t in the best of tempers.
‘My mum,’ I told her.
‘Oh, don’t you worry.’ Olive became most sympathetic. ‘We’ve got used to her.’
I left the party as Christopher was administering a large gin to my mother, and I drove myself straight back to London as I had to be up early for a breakfast meeting with the Tell-All Beachwear account. I’d hardly started when my mobile rang its little tune (‘Toreador’) and Christopher was sounding desperate.
‘Lucy!’ he said. ‘I’ve lost the Claudius coin.’
‘You can’t have done.’
‘I thought I put it back in the case. But when I’d given your mother her drink and talked to a few people and the party was nearly over I looked and it wasn’t there.’
‘How extraordinary!’
‘You didn’t see what I did with it?’
‘I’m afraid not. But I’m sure it will turn up somewhere.’
‘I’ve searched every corner of the room.’
‘And you couldn’t find it?’
‘Nothing so far. It’s a complete mystery.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose it is.’
13
‘Let me see now. You’re still working with Environmentally Friendly Investments?’
‘Oh yes, I am.’ I told Mr Markby, my probation officer, nothing but the truth.
‘Good! I’m glad to hear it. There’s nothing more vitally important in our world today than global warming.’
‘Oh, I agree. It’s in my thoughts twenty-four hours a day.’
This was a bit of a lie, because global warming scarcely ever crosses my mind. But Mr Markby looked pleased and said, ‘Good, very good!’ and ticked another box on his form.
‘I sometimes wonder how you managed to land a job with Mr McGrath. Have you had any training in business studies?’
‘Not much,’ I had to admit. ‘I think he took me on as a favour.’
‘Leonard McGrath wanted to help you go straight!’ Mr Markby seemed deeply impressed. ‘How long have you known him?’
‘I was at school with his young brother.’
‘At school with Leonard McGrath’s brother?’ Mr Markby was being a bit of an echo.
‘Yes, I was.’
‘Well, look what he’s made of his life. Runs his own important business. That should’ve been an example to you.’
‘Well yes. It has been in a way.’
‘Good. Excellent.’ Mr Markby seemed easy to please that day. ‘They’re looking for a new man to head up SCRAP. I put Leonard McGrath’s name forward. I hope he won’t mind.’
‘I’m sure he’ll be pleased.’ Of course I could see the funny side of it. Then my probation officer leaned back in his chair and said, ‘By the way, are you seeing any more of your so-called praeceptor, that Miss Purefoy?’
‘Not much.’ I lied again. I didn’t think he needed to know about my friends.
‘Good. I’m glad of that. Those girls rush in where we probation officers are careful where we tread. She was obviously misinformed as to your place of residence. She said you were staying on some farm somewhere. You weren’t, were you?’
‘Never.’
‘I thought not. Well, my advice to you is to give that Miss Purefoy a wide berth.’
‘All right then.’
‘So long as you hold down your job with Mr Leonard McGrath . . .’
‘That’s just what I mean to do.’
‘And report to me regularly, I’m quite happy.’
I’d never really forgiven Mr Markby for delaying my parole, although he seemed a good deal more friendly since I moved in with Chippy. There was one piece of his advice, however, that I was determined not to take, and that was the bit about giving Lucy ‘a wide berth’, which I suppose meant I mustn’t see her again.
Well, the hell with that, Mr Markby. It was a bit surprising at the time, but it seemed that I wanted to see Lucy more than ever I had before. I suppose life’s like that, isn’t it? When she was busy trying to reform me I wanted to get as far away from her as possible. But when she said she’d given me up as a bad job I felt I couldn’t get enough of her. It wasn’t just the way she looked, I swear to you it wasn’t. Of course she looked the sort of girl you’re proud to have sitting next to you at the bar of the Beau Brummell. I’d found out you could have a good conversation with her, and good conversations weren’t easy to come by around the maisonette.
So I was seriously thinking of giving Lucy a bell again, but before I got round to doing that she rang me at the maisonette and sounded, I thought, a bit less confident and sure of herself than usual.
‘I wonder if you’d like to go out with me some time. Have dinner together or something?’ You see what I mean? That wasn’t the usual Lucy, who knew exactly what she wanted. It also reminded me of the different sort of worlds we came from. When I was a kid, ‘dinner’ was something you only got on Sundays if you were lucky. What you had in the evening was your ‘tea’. Now I’d drifted up in the world of dinner eaters, like Chippy McGrath and Lucy Purefoy.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ll take you out.’ Let her pay a bill, I thought, and she’ll be back feeling she’s in control and trying to reform me. ‘Shall we say Thursday?’ That wasn’t too soon, although I wasn’t doing anything in particular on the other nights of that week.
‘I’d love to see you on Thursday.’ She seemed to be genuinely pleased.
‘All right, I’ll ring you. Time and place. I’ll pick a good one.’
The truth was that I
had no idea where to pick. I had to consult a well-known member of the smart set - Mr Leonard McGrath.
‘The in place now is definitely La Maison Jean Pierre,’ Chippy told me. ‘Jean Pierre is a personal friend. Your girlfriend’s going to love it.’
‘All right then, but she’s not my girlfriend.’
‘Only trouble is . . . you won’t get a table in less than six months’ time.’
‘We can’t go there then.’
‘Unless we ask for it in my name. Lift the phone, would you, Diane? When do you want to go?’
‘Say . . . Thursday?’
‘Oh, it’s Leonard McGrath’s office here,’ Diane told the ‘in place’. ‘Mr McGrath would like a table for two on Thursday. Yes, dinner. Shall we say eight o’clock? Cool.’ She put down the phone. ‘They’re looking forward to seeing us.’
‘But they’ll be seeing me.’
‘Just say I came down with a heavy cold,’ Chippy told me, ‘so I sent you to take my place as you run my accounts department and it’s your birthday.’
I rang Lucy in her office as I couldn’t get an answer from her flat. ‘I’ll pick you up at your place in a taxi,’ I told her.
‘No, no, don’t do that. I’ll meet you at the restaurant. Where are we going?’
‘La Maison Jean Pierre.’
‘You’re not serious?’
‘I may not be, but I’m still taking you to La Maison Jean Pierre. Apparently it’s the in place nowadays.’
‘Who told you that? Leonard McGrath at Environmentally Friendly Investments?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘All right then, I’ll meet you there.’ She was laughing. I couldn’t tell why us going to this place to eat had amused her so much.
The restaurant, when we got into it, wasn’t all that funny either. It was in a room with white walls and steel furniture, like the sort of place you expect to see on a hospital wing. There were a few pictures on the walls, but they didn’t seem to be pictures of anything, just plain colours. They were the sort of thing I’d have left on the walls of any house I’d broken into. It’s true the place was very full and busy and it was quite a while before some sort of top waiter arrived and told us what to order. ‘Tonight, Jean Pierre recommends,’ he said, and made it clear that it was what we’d choose unless we were a couple of idiots who’d never seen the inside of a five-star restaurant before. He had tight lips and was just as determined to control my choices as Mr Markby, my probation officer.
Quite Honestly Page 8
