Quite Honestly

by John Mortimer

  ‘Oh yes, it does. You see, you’re the thief, Terry.’

  ‘I’ve got to admit that.’ I didn’t want to go into further detail.

  ‘You’re the thief and not Lucy.’

  ‘Me and Lucy. I just told you.’

  ‘You told me because that’s what you want to believe. You probably need to.’

  ‘I don’t want to believe it. In fact I’d far rather not believe it.’

  ‘You’d rather not have it, this guilt. So of course this is where our old friend Freud comes in.’

  Freud, I thought, was no old friend of mine and I only wished he’d keep out of it. But I couldn’t stop the bishop, who was now rubbing his knees in excitement.

  ‘It’s a classic case! The transference of guilt!’

  ‘Transference of what?’

  ‘You don’t like your guilt. That’s all perfectly natural. Guilt’s not a very nice thing to have. Like gastric flu or sciatica. Anyway, you don’t want your guilt, of course you don’t, so you hand it on to my daughter.’

  ‘But I came down here to see you. So you could help. Isn’t that what they’re there for, bishops?’

  ‘Of course you need help and I’m going to help you, Terry. Claude Dauncey, author of God on the Psychiatrist’s Couch, lives in Guildford. Brilliant man! You can mention my name when you ask for an appointment.’

  There was a burst of music and the kids up by the altar started singing again. The bishop stood and told me, ‘Robin Thirkell came to see me with some ridiculous story about Lucy stealing old coins from Christopher Smith-Aldeney. No doubt you’d been spreading rumours. My advice to you, Terry, is to keep your guilt to yourself. Oh, and get an urgent appointment with Claude Dauncey. Now I must go and see to our “Family Values” special service. Next Sunday on Radio 4, if you happen to be listening. It’s all God’s work.’

  After he’d gone I sat for a while looking at the grey walls and marble boxes full of old bones. I thought that Lucy’s dad knew a good deal about Freud and God, but he didn’t seem to have much understanding of his daughter.

  21

  He told me he’d been down to see my dad about reforming me and of course I was furious. I remembered how far apart we’d been when I was trying to be the reformer, and how much he’d hated me for it. Dad, being Dad, hadn’t taken much notice of what Terry told him and came out with some wild idea about the transference of guilt which gave him the comfort of believing that his one and only daughter couldn’t possibly have taken up the habit of nicking small objects of value from other people’s homes. I didn’t want to disillusion Dad any more than I’d have whispered in his ear, ‘There’s no one upstairs!’ just as he was putting on his mitre.

  But something had to be done about it and it was at this time, i.e. very soon after my rapid flight from Robin Thirkell’s bedroom, that I had what I called ‘the Great Idea’.

  The more I thought about the idea the greater it became. At least it would wipe off that patronizing, worried little smile that arrived far too often on Terry’s face. At best it would bind us together for always, equals with a full understanding of each other. We’d be real partners, and not that come-and-go sort of partner people like Deirdre call whoever they happen to be sleeping with at the time.

  Speaking of Deirdre, she still phoned me at work from time to time. When Terry was out one evening on business he wasn’t going to tell me about (well, when I got the Great Idea going, all that would have to change) I promised to meet her again for a drink after work in the Close-Up Club.

  So there she was as usual, looking extremely pleased with herself, together with Ishmael, who had entertained the dinner guests at her Uncle Charles’s spread in Ascot with some of his more outrageous rap while I knocked off a few articles. We sat at the bar fingering our glasses of white wine and all around us people were greeting each other with loud cries of ‘Hi!’ and boasting of astonishing film and television deals which would probably never come off.

  ‘Hello, praeceptor!’ Deirdre had greeted me. ‘How’s the little crook you’re busy turning into a little angel?’

  ‘I’m not a praeceptor any more actually.’ I had to say I was a bit miffed by her tone of voice. ‘And Terry’s certainly not an angel. He’s moved in with me now.’

  ‘Terry Keegan has moved in with you?’ Come to think of it, it was almost the first time that the rap singer had spoken directly to me. He either sat in silence or burst into songs which were most likely to offend. So his sudden interest surprised me.

  ‘Why? Do you know Terry Keegan?’ I asked him. For an answer Ishmael took a big gulp of white wine and muttered, ‘I may have heard of him.’ I suppose that in the underworld Ishmael inhabited quite a lot of people would have heard of Terry.

  ‘It’s a great relief he’s moved in,’ I told them. ‘Terry’s a good cook, so we don’t have to go to ridiculously expensive restaurants or that awful Beau Brummell Club he belongs to.’

  ‘Ah yes.’ Ishmael was nodding away, still smiling. ‘I know a few people who are members of that club.’

  He was still nodding, apparently wisely, when Deirdre said, ‘You remember that Gwenny told us never to sleep with anyone we met through SCRAP?’

  ‘She said it would have disastrous results,’ I agreed. ‘But it hasn’t, has it?’

  ‘Not so far!’ the suddenly loquacious rap artist cheerfully agreed. And then he ordered another bottle of New Zealand Chardonnay. It was an evening full of surprises.

  When we got down to the end of the bottle, I heard myself say to Deirdre, ‘It’s a problem, isn’t it? We come from such different worlds, Terry and me and you and Ishmael. Don’t you find it difficult to, well, sort of bridge the gap?’

  ‘Not really.’ Deirdre would never admit that there was anything the slightest bit difficult about her perfect existence. ‘Do you find it difficult to get close to Terry?’

  ‘Of course we’re close,’ I couldn’t help saying. ‘But I’ve got a great idea about how to get even closer. I mean, I want to understand exactly how he feels. I want to be part of his life. Not some superior sort of reformer.’

  ‘Really?’ The rap singer looked at me, apparently fascinated. ‘And we’d be so very interested to hear what that great idea is.’

  ‘I might tell you when it’s all over,’ was all I could say. ‘On the other hand, I might not.’ I raised my glass and drank a discreet toast to the future.

  It’s no good thinking now of what my Great Idea led to or all its results which I didn’t even consider at the time. I have to think myself back to when the Great Idea filled up my mind and I got more and more excited about it. I also found it exciting to keep it a secret from Terry, as though it was something special I was buying him for Christmas or his birthday, and I was saving it up as a huge surprise.

  My first thought in the early days of the Great Idea was to get myself really fit for the experience. Terry had talked about things like sky-diving, so I realized I had to go into training. I spent a lot of time in the Lysander Club, which I’d joined but only used to go to occasionally for a swim. I was a regular at the aerobics class, where the loud-voiced girl with the cropped top and the microphone fixed to her head shouted, ‘Tits, bums, stomachs, squeeze now, squeeze!’ her voice rising high above the dance music. There was I, working away in Lycra leggings, perfecting my core stability and doing cardiovascular exercises to make sure my heart was in the right place and strong enough to put the Great Idea into practice.

  At times an older, more serious woman arrived at the Lysander to give us Pilates lessons. So we stretched our legs in sort of elastic bands and my core stability became amazing and my legs, which I might have to depend on, were in first-rate condition. Terry wasn’t best pleased that I was spending so many evenings at the Lysander, but then, as I say, he had no idea that I was doing it entirely for him.

  When I felt fit and ready, I rang the SCRAP office and asked Gwenny if I could speak to Leonard McGrath. I did this because I didn’t want to meet him at the Co
nnaught Square maisonette, where my Great Idea would get known to everyone, including the ghastly secretary and, no doubt, eventually Terry.

  ‘You want to speak to our chair?’

  ‘If your chair happens to be around.’

  ‘Leonard’s extremely generous with his time.’

  ‘I’m sure he is.’

  ‘He gives us an hour and a half at lunchtime on Thursdays. We get through more work with him than Orlando seemed to manage all week.’

  ‘I’ll call in on Thursday then.’

  ‘Can I help? I mean, it must be about young Terry. Is he in trouble again?’

  ‘Not at all. So far as I know.’

  ‘You’ve managed to find him accommodation?’

  ‘Oh yes. I got him settled in a flat in Notting Hill Gate.’

  ‘Well done! And is he working?’

  ‘Regularly. Mainly at nights.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that pays better than day work.’

  ‘Yes, it seems to.’

  You see how confident I’d become since I had the idea? When I got to the SCRAP office early in my Thursday lunch hour I marched straight across to Orlando Wathen’s old room and into it in spite of Gwenny’s protests.

  The new chair was munching a sandwich, washing it down with a gulp of white wine and reading some no doubt boring SCRAP report.

  As he looked up at me I closed the door behind me and said, quite clearly, ‘Chippy, they say you’re doing a marvellous job at SCRAP.’

  He looked at me, clearly furious. He had his jacket off and I could see his distended stomach and, as I looked down on him, the bald patch in his hair. He’d kept out of prison, but I thought Terry had preserved his looks far better. ‘Don’t you ever call me that in here,’ he said in a furious whisper. ‘Don’t you ever call me that in here.’

  ‘Why not? I can’t wait to tell Gwenny that you planned the jobs Terry went to prison for. Of course, I might keep calling you “Leonard” if you’ll cooperate with me.’

  ‘What’s that mean? Money?’

  ‘Not at all. Just your help and the help of your other organization. ’ By this time I was sitting comfortably down beside the new chair.

  ‘What for? Something to do with Terry?’

  ‘Eventually perhaps. What I want your help for has more to do with Bonnard.’

  ‘Bonnard?’ Chippy was momentarily puzzled.

  ‘French painter,’ I explained.

  Chippy supplied the rest. ‘Influenced by Gauguin and Van Gogh,’ he said. ‘Founded the Salon d’Automne.’

  ‘You studied History of Art?’ I remembered people who had done that subject at Manchester. They weren’t in the least like Chippy. But he had now gone back to being Leonard McGrath, chair of SCRAP and distinguished private collector.

  ‘My art expert and I,’ he explained, with his curious little twisted smile, ‘have been on the lookout for a Bonnard.’

  ‘He painted a picture of a naked woman standing beside a bath and drying her thighs.’

  ‘That would be his wife, Marthe,’ Chippy told me. ‘He painted her lots of times, in and out of the bath. She was his favourite subject.’

  ‘So how much do you think a painting of Marthe might be worth?’

  ‘In or out of the bath?’

  ‘I told you. Out of it.’

  His fingers drummed on his desk. He pursed his lips and looked thoughtful.

  ‘The dealer said 400,000,’ I told him.

  Chippy looked impressed. ‘Is it in good condition?’

  ‘Perfect!’ Of course I didn’t really know whether it was or not.

  ‘I suppose it’s locked up in some museum or other?’ Chippy said after more thought.

  ‘No,’ I told him. ‘It’s hanging on a nail on someone’s bedroom wall.’

  And it was then, of course, I told him my Great Idea and he promised his full cooperation.

  On my way out, Gwenny looked up at me expectantly from her desk and asked if I’d had a good meeting with Chair.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It was an excellent meeting!’

  ‘And did he help you with Terry?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I told her. ‘He was a considerable help with Terry.’

  After work I knew that Terry was busy and out for the evening, so I went for a swim and a cranial massage. I was on my way across the gym to get an organic cheese and beetroot sandwich and have a read of the newspaper when I passed a familiar figure on the stationary bicycle which you have to pedal very hard to get nowhere.

  ‘Ishmael,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know you’d joined the Lysander Club.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ He gave me one of his sweetest smiles. ‘You have to keep fit in my job.’

  ‘Your job as a rap artist?’

  ‘Of course, my job as a rap artist. By the way, how’s that great idea of yours going?’

  I did nothing but smile and went on my way towards the health food bar. I wasn’t going to tell anyone except for Chippy McGrath about my idea. Not yet anyway.

  22

  Lucy had been angry when she found out I’d visited her father. She said I’d hated her when she was trying to reform me. ‘We only got close to each other when I stopped trying to change you,’ she said. When I told her I’d wanted to stop her stealing little things she told me she wasn’t going to steal little things any more, but she had a surprise for me which would make us really close for ever.

  When I said that’d be nice of her she said, ‘It won’t just be nice. It’ll be amazing!’ Then she told me not to worry her dad about anything to do with us any more. ‘Dad’s got enough on his plate, what with Mum and trying to explain why God doesn’t seem to take much interest in all the terrible things that happen in the world. No need to bother him with our little problems, which aren’t going to exist any more anyway.’

  That was all she said about it at the time, but of course I should have realized that something was going on. It wasn’t that Lucy changed towards me. Nothing like that at all. In fact she seemed nicer to me, what shall I call it, more loving than ever before. But she went around with a secret sort of smile on her face. So naturally, from time to time, I felt that something was going on, although I had no idea of quite what. I suppose everyone feels that, don’t they, when their girlfriend looks unusually happy. I suppose it’s a dangerous signal, one way or the other.

  I noticed a bit of a change in Chippy too since he became Leonard McGrath and chair of SCRAP. He also treated me to a lot of his twisted little smiles, as though he was busy with something I probably wouldn’t understand and which was, anyway, far too important for me to know about.

  Of course I still did jobs for him and when I called round to the maisonette there were the people I’d got used to working with - Screwtop Parkinson, the getaway driver, and Ozzy Desmond, the burglar alarm man, all the old lot who’d known Chippy, as I had, long before he came out as Leonard. But when I went to Connaught Square, they all seemed to stop talking when I went into a room and I had the feeling they had plans I wasn’t meant to know about.

  I told Lucy how I felt Chippy had changed. It was one Sunday morning and she was in bed beside me with all her clothes off, staring at the ceiling.

  ‘I think he’s rather wonderful,’ she told me.

  ‘What, pretending to be all law-abiding and reforming criminals when he’s running a whole bloody organization of cons!’

  ‘That’s brilliant! He’s got Gwenny and all that lot at SCRAP completely confused. He’s so daring! Like one of us.’

  ‘Daring? Is that what he is?’

  ‘Of course. And if you didn’t know that, you’ll soon find out.’

  Funny thing was that with all this feeling of things going on that I didn’t know about, and people not telling me, I began to feel more at home with Mr Markby on my regular calls to his office. Of course I had a few secrets from him, like the way I earned my living. I told him that I was helping round a couple of restaurants in Notting Hill, where I’d found a flat. He seemed to be happy with that
much explanation. Then he asked me how that friend of mine was doing, the one who’d fallen into the habit of stealing small articles of no great value.

  ‘I think I’ve stopped her doing that,’ I told him.

  ‘You mean you made it clear to her where such behaviour can land her?’

  ‘I think she got the message.’

  ‘Well, congratulations!’ There was a great delighted grin on my probation officer’s face, as though he was a man in a betting shop who’d just won a four selection accumulator on the horses. ‘You reformed her!’

  ‘I did my best.’ I tried to sound modest.

  ‘Reforming people is a real talent!’ The grin seemed to fall from Mr Markby’s face and he looked troubled. ‘I’m not sure I have the gift myself.’

  He looked so sad that I felt I had to do my best to cheer him up. ‘Oh, I’m sure you have,’ I told him.

  ‘So many people come through this office.’ He was sounding really sad. ‘They’ve just come out of prison and we’re here to help them reform. And what do they do? Something calculated to send them back for even longer in prison. When I was young and enthusiastic I used to believe prison was like the National Health. You were meant to go in to it bad and come out better. But what would doctors feel like if everyone who came out of hospital felt they had to go back there immediately?’

  ‘I suppose a bit depressed.’ I felt really sorry for him.

  ‘Depressed is the right word for it.’ Mr Markby was clearly in a mood to tell me all his troubles. ‘I have a Jack Russell dog called Rosemary.’

  ‘Female?’ I wasn’t clear how you could be both Jack and Rosemary, even if you were a dog.

  ‘Of course. An intelligent dog. I suppose I mean bitch, in as many ways. But if a strange man appears in the house she has an irresistible urge to bite the ends of his trousers.’

  I didn’t know what to say, but I did my best to look sympathetic.