He tries to explain to a woman next to him about the dangers of tram tracks and bicycle wheels, and the unfortunate coincidence that they are of a very similar width. His speech is too slurry, his thoughts fragmented, and he can tell he’s boring her. After a while he excuses himself, draws a line over his lips with an unsteady finger, and resumes his mapping of the streets. Eventually he comes back in and walks over to the booth where Silas sits laughing with Sebastian, now sporting a feather tiara. The men are leaning in close, and Paul decides to leave while he can still walk.
By looking carefully at the ground before he decides where to put his foot, he navigates the stairs and comes out at street level. He moves away from the crowds at Piccadilly Circus. He makes it all the way to St James’s Square before he’s violently sick. He puts his head against a cool lamppost, revelling in the sensation of something in the world standing still. He even considers putting his tongue to the lamppost, despite the low temperature, to wash the taste of the party off his mouth. Before he has time to act on his impulse he falls over, narrowly missing the flowers he has just defaced.
The shock and the taste of blood in his mouth help a little. His split lower lip stings as he takes great gulps of cold air. He raises himself up on his elbows and then, using the fence, drags himself up. He walks on foal’s legs until his head clears a little. By then he’s not far from Hampstead Heath and the baths. He’s quite happy with the quick progress of the sobering up. That’s until he starts singing ‘You’re the coffee in my cream’, outside Miriam’s window. He’s unsure of the tune even when sober, off-key at the best of times. He thought he was sober, but realises he’s not. Still he can’t stop singing. It seems like the funniest thing he’s ever done. Standing outside. A shouting tomcat with red ears from the cold, and a red nose from the spirits.
Nothing happens, Miriam doesn’t open her window, so he walks over to the main entrance. There he tries to speak to Suzanne who is sitting on a chair reading behind the door in the reception.
‘Good evening,’ he says, rapping his knuckles on the glass of the door.
‘Hello, good morning. How are you Paul?’
‘Why are you here?’ he says. He’s having to concentrate very hard on every syllable, and still mumbles and mispronounces things, like a foreigner.
Suzanne smiles and says, ‘Last year we had some trouble with break-ins around this time of year. I don’t mind, they’re giving me triple pay, and I’ve got children. These days I prefer money to a hangover.’
‘I’m looking for Miriam.’
‘I know. But she’s not in.’
‘Where is she?’
‘How should I know? Working, dancing, celebrating,’ she says, shrugging her shoulders.
‘Can you let me into her apartment?’
‘No, sorry. But I can give you a cup of tea and you can wait here if you like.’
‘Thank you, that’s very kind, but I think I need to lie down.’
‘I bet you do.’
‘Why can’t you just let me in?’
‘I don’t have the key, simple as that.’
‘You have a ladder? She usually leaves the bedroom window open,’ Paul says, measuring a shaky inch between his fingers.
‘That’s more information than I needed to know, but yes there’s a ladder at the back.’
‘Can I borrow it?’ Paul says, animated.
‘You shouldn’t be on it.’
‘But I will.’
‘I know. Let me go get it.’
With Suzanne holding the ladder, giggling like a schoolgirl, Paul climbs up and into Miriam’s bedroom. He undresses, tries to fold his clothes neatly but can’t, goes to the toilet and ends up shadowboxing the long string for the cistern.
Once in bed he smiles at his ingenuity, and the surprise Miriam will get when she comes home. Humming the tune from outside he sends himself to sleep, the window still fully open. A cold wind, the first storm of the year, blowing in.
***
‘Paul!’ Miriam shrieks when she comes into the room. At eight in the morning. ‘I almost killed you.’ She puts down the knife she’s gotten out of a hidden pocket in her dress.
‘Didn’t Suzanne tell you I was here?’ he says sleepily from the depths of the bed.
‘She wasn’t there. It was Benjamin on reception.’
‘She must have gone home,’ he says sleepily into the pillow.
‘It’s freezing in here.’
‘Can you speak a little quieter?’ he says, his voice hoarse.
‘Paul, you can’t just come here, I’m serious, Mr Morton’s not joking you know. He would have you killed in a heartbeat if he knew what we were up to.’
‘I’m sorry. I just wanted to surprise you.’ He sits up, only now realising how upset she is.
‘Well you achieved that. And don’t misunderstand me, I like having you here, but this cannot continue. What if he realises you come here? What if he realises how much you mean to me?’
‘I didn’t mean to scare you. I was outside singing in the night and everything, hoped you’d be home, but you were somewhere dancing.’
‘I was not out dancing. I was working, and I’m very tired now. My feet are in pieces.’ Then she starts to cry. Paul comes out from under the covers and walks over to her. Holds her.
‘Paul,’ she says, ‘we have to be more careful. He has eyes everywhere. I can’t live with this permanent fear. This is the one place I can come to that Mr Morton doesn’t know about. I’ve taken care to keep it secret. I always cover my tracks when I come here. I need you to do the same. To take this seriously. I know you’re fast on the bike, but I need you to be faster. Sneakier. Take long detours, narrow lanes, watch your back. Never mention this place to anyone. Not even, in fact especially not, Silas.’
‘What a way to start the New Year. I’m sorry.’
‘Me too. It’s not the way I want it to be, it’s just the way it is.’
‘Well if we don’t like it I think we should think of a way to change our situation.’
‘If only it was that easy.’
‘I know it’s not, I just mean, I can’t not see you.’
‘We’ll think of something. And till then you be careful, always go the long way, stay out of sight, and so will I.’
‘Can you trust Suzanne and Benjamin?’
‘As far as they know, I look after the pets of a very wealthy man in Richmond. I usually stay over at his mansion, but sometimes I’m here.’
‘Who do they think I am?’
‘The gardener.’
They go to bed. It’s too cold in the room to stand and cry.
‘Where were you?’ she asks once they’ve settled under the covers.
‘At the Peacock.’
‘With Silas?’
‘Yes.’
‘You should stay away from it, and from drinking with Silas’ friends.’
‘I will never drink again I promise.’
‘You must still be drunk otherwise you’d be more scared of me.’
‘I am.’
‘Which?’
‘Both.’ She snuggles up to him, then he says, ‘He’s dead.’
‘What? Who? Silas?’
‘No, my father.’
‘Oh Paul, I’m sorry. What happened to him?’
‘Heart attack. He drank a lot. That’s why I don’t. Except last night.’
‘Are you alright?’
‘Fine. Sad that I’m not sadder. And I’ve missed the funeral.’
‘Can I do anything?’
‘No, just do what you do. I’m fine, really.’
She puts a hand in his hair and plants a big, wet kiss on his forehead, then she asks, ‘Did you climb up?’
‘Ladder. Suzanne.’
‘I’m going to have a word with her.’
‘Shush, just come here.’
***
When they wake up it’s the afternoon and Paul has stopped being cheeky. His head is exploding, and his tongue feels like it’s made of
sandpaper. He’s cold, then hot, then sick.
When he comes back from the bathroom looking sheepish, Miriam gets up too. Not to be sick, but to call down for eggs and a huge pot of coffee. Then she dresses in a big fur coat, and helps Paul into his jacket too.
‘Come on you big oaf. I’m going to cure you. It will hurt, but it’s better than having this linger for days.’
She leads him down the stairs and out to the big frozen ponds. They stroll out on a frosty jetty, and then without a word of warning she pushes him off the edge. He comes up spluttering and swearing. At first he tries to swim, then putting his legs under him he realises the water is only knee-deep. His jacket clings to him.
‘Shock, adrenaline, cold water, anger, it all helps,’ Miriam says from the safety of the jetty. With a roar he pushes himself out of the water and sets off after her. Soon his teeth are chattering so much he can’t even shout the revenge plans he thinks up while running. She sprints back to the Baths and up the stairs. Throwing off her fur coat and her shoes she dives into bed. He stands on the doormat and smiles. Miriam’s cheeks are flushed, her hair is wild, the sun shining in on the bed picking out tiny diamonds of frost in her curls. She smiles, she’s panting from the run and the excitement. Without coming out from under the covers she sheds layer after layer of clothes. She makes sure Paul, who’s standing dripping, smiling wider and wider, can see exactly what it is she takes off.
‘Paul, get out of your clothes before you catch pneumonia,’ she says.
‘Are we even now?’ he manages to say between shattering teeth.
‘Almost.’
He wrestles out of his clothes, keeping his eyes on her.
‘You enjoying this?’ he asks her.
‘Immensely.’
He’s soon down to vest and pants.
‘Would you be a darling and bring the coffee and the eggs with you when you come to bed?’ she asks.
Benjamin has placed a tray laden with coffee, cream, cups, sugar lumps and six fresh eggs, outside the door and Paul carries it over to the bed, his skin burning.
‘None of your wet clothes in here please,’ she says, taking the tray. Then she almost averts her gaze. Then they are seated. Arm to arm, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. She puts a foot on his and then shouts, ‘You’re freezing.’
‘Now you know how I feel.’
‘My feet are never cold.’
‘Your feet would be cold in the Sahara.’
‘Quiet and drink your coffee.’
After sipping a cup each in silence, she turns to him and says, ‘Feeling better now?’
‘I do. Actually I do.’
‘Here’s the last chapter in my recovery plan,’ she says, and gets an egg out of the carton. She cracks one into her empty coffee cup, then another, then mixes in cream. She pours the mixture into his empty cup, then tops it with a little coffee.
‘Drink this,’ she says thrusting the cup at him.
‘Why?’
‘It’s good for you.’
‘How?’
‘Well it’s good for the hangover and...’
‘And?’
‘It’s good for certain other bits too.’
He feels himself blushing, but dutifully downs the mixture. It’s revolting, and he quickly pours more coffee into his cup, followed by two sugar lumps. In the meantime Miriam has slipped out of bed and has closed the curtains enough to only let in a shaft of sunshine. Then she turns to him.
***
They are still in bed when the evening comes. Which admittedly is very early in January. He’s propped up, sitting with his back to the wall, and she’s lying on her side, away from him, nestled into his right leg.
‘Will you read me something from my book?’
‘Of course. Where is it?’
‘Here,’ she reaches in under the mattress and pulls out the thin notebook. He reads her one or two poems, but he is finding it hard to concentrate.
‘That’s enough Paul. Let’s leave it for another time,’ she says, smiling.
He puts the book by the side of the bed and turns to her. He’s warm now. His head feels better. The New Year has treated him well so far. Soon they’re very warm and sleepy again.
Chapter 34
His brief holiday ends and the usual summons come from Mr Morton. In rain, sleet and snow Paul delivers and picks up. Avoids and outraces the police. January passes with fewer races, as the crowds are less willing to stand outside, but more deliveries as more people owe Mr Morton money after the holidays.
One lunch time, early February, Paul cycles past Belinda’s place. Realising he’s hungry he doubles back on himself. It’s the thought of a friendly face rather than the food that draws him in. He is directed to a freshly wiped table by one of the girls. Then Belinda comes over, one arm on her hip, the other in her hair.
‘How are you Paul? It’s been a long time.’
‘I’m fine. Busy. I’ve been out and about on that bike for hours.’
‘I can see you keep yourself fit.’ She looks him up and down. ‘You racing tonight?’
‘No, not tonight.’
‘What are you doing with your night off?’
‘Look, I’m sorry Belinda. You know, you’re a delightful woman, really, but I can’t. I’ve got a girlfriend.’
‘Oh Paul, you daft boy, I was just making conversation. I’ve been married for almost six years. He’s an older man, with some money, no demands really. A nice man.’
‘But Silas…’
‘Silas what?’ Belinda smiles a wide smile.
‘He told me you were quite keen on me. On men.’
‘Well, I am. But not that way.’
‘What way then?’
‘I like people. I like chatting. That’s all.
‘I don’t know what to say.’ Paul sits back in his chair, feeling his face go red.
‘So what Silas has said about you trying to get me to marry you?’ he says.
‘It’s rubbish,’ she smiles.
‘And the letters you are always showing me? Were they not to make me jealous?’
‘Not at all. He’s a friend of my brother’s. I’ve always liked him, but I’ve not seen him for twenty years. I told you for no reason.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m a chatterbox, so I’m sure I’ve told Silas a lot of stuff he thinks is private. He’s the sort of man who likes to feel like he knows everything about everybody.’
‘That’s true.’
‘He’s a lovely man, don’t get me wrong. He tips well, he’s dapper, polite, and many years ago, he really helped me out. Lent me enough money to get me out of trouble with a horrible man. Then let me pay back in instalments, no interest.’
‘But you’re saying he’s a bit of a gossip?’ Paul says, now smiling.
‘The biggest one you’ll ever meet. And that’s how he’s survived his arrangement with that Mr Morton, and how he manages to do so well on the horses. Jockeys and trainers and bookkeepers and owners, they all talk.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘I bet he doesn’t know everything about you.’
‘I don’t know?’
‘I bet there’s a special place where you go for a drink, where you can sit with your back to the door and still feel safe. I bet there’s a little lady somewhere, someone who makes you feel at home. Maybe even two or three, judging by the pomade.’
Paul self-consciously pats his hair.
‘Only joking love, you look fine,’ she says laughing. ‘If I was ten years younger and not married, I would have made sure you noticed me. As it is I enjoy my games with Silas and the long string of suitors he keeps bringing here. All trying to save me. It’s good for business.’
‘I won’t tell him.’
Belinda lets out a big chortle and smacks him on the shoulder. She keeps her hand there, and says, ‘Right what can I get you? On the house?’
‘A big portion. But not eel, something else please.’
She walks off,
still laughing and starts telling the younger girls what to do. Paul just sits, looks out through the window, delighted to be inside, away from the weather, and relieved not to be moving. Then the food arrives. Cod and mash.
Just as he’s about to tuck into the mound of potato one of the little messenger boys comes up with a note saying he’s wanted at the greengrocer’s around the corner from Copenhagen Street. Excusing himself, and telling Belinda to give his food to someone who’s struggling to pay, he walks out of the café. He’s so hungry he’s seeing stars, but he can’t risk not obeying orders immediately.
Once Paul gets to the fruit and veg man he’s asked to deliver a heavy sack of potatoes, a sirloin steak folded into waxed paper, as well as an apple, a slice of cheddar and a handful of beetroots to Bergholt Crescent, Stamford Hill. This is a lot more weight and mass than he’s used to.
When Paul asks who the delivery is for the man barely nods, just scuttles back down into the basement.
Paul has to stop every now and then to retie the straps across his back and chest.
The house he gets to is small, but clean. The little white gate stands open, and he walks down a crunchy gravel path, his weight, plus all the things he’s carrying, making deep imprints in the path.
There’s smoke coming from the chimney, and there’s a candleholder with nine arms, four on each side and one taller in the middle, in the window next to the door. Next to the knocker on the door he notices a small gold rectangle set on a slant with strange letters on it.
Paul lifts the knocker, and is about to swing it when the door opens. In front of him stands an ancient woman, wrinkled like a plum. She wears a fringed scarf wrapped around her face and a dizzying amount of layers, ending in fur boots. She says something in a language he doesn’t understand and smiles a smile so void of teeth it looks like a newborn’s. She waves him inside.
He bows low, the doorway no higher than his shoulders, enters and puts the sack food on the floor.
A younger woman in her late forties, in a bright, but old-fashioned and foreign dress, comes out from behind a screen and starts wringing her hands. Just inside the door a pair of riding boots, polished to a sheen like a still loch.
Paul tells her she doesn’t owe him any money, but the woman doesn’t react. When he asks if everything is alright, if the delivery is what she expected, the younger woman just replies in the same sibilant language as the older, still beyond Paul’s understanding.
Devil Take the Hindmost Page 24
