by Mavis Cheek
Sylvia had just acquired the house in Oxfordshire. It was at the beginning of her financial perfidy with Janice Gentle, and she wanted somewhere to keep completely separate from her London life - partly for the fun of it (when one game got dull she could switch to another), and partly for the serious aspect (if the perfidy was revealed one day, she would still have a home here). It was understood that, should anything befall Sylvia, Gretchen would inherit everything, and this worked to a perfect accord. If you know you are going to inherit something, you look after it especially well. Sylvia could trust Gretchen utterly. And Gretchen was content to sit and wait very happily with her knitting and her television, knowing that she was secure for ever. She knew nothing of London beyond how to contact Sylvia there if necessary, and she knew absolutely nothing of Mrs Perth's existence in Birmingham.
In Oxfordshire Gretchen was able to be herself, inclusive of moustache. And, in a reaction to the bows and pinnies of her waitressing days, she never wore anything designatedly feminine again. If anyone thought about it at all, they thought of her as masculine, but given the changing of the seasons, the farming and the pruning, the repainting and stabling that was going on all around, no one had much time to worry about sexing their neighbours. Pigs, yes. Horses, yes. Human beings, no.
Whenever it came to it, and it almost inevitably would, since there was a difference of more than twenty years between them, Gretchen O'Dowd planned to give Sylvia Perth a wonderful funeral. Memories of her father's last great day had made a deep impression on her, and she knew that she would be able to do the flowers a treat. Since in life Sylvia asked so little of her, it was a pleasing notion that in death Gretchen would be able to do her this final public honour.
Of course she had not reckoned with the responsibility falling upon her shoulders quite so soon. Yet, in those dark days following Sylvia Perth's decease, it was the planning of this that kept her spirits up. The garden was beautiful, a mass of summer flowers, and the wide stretch of lawn was perfect for a marquee. At last, and in her own right, Gretchen would be able to enact the one experience that the privacy of their sporadic life together had denied her. Having the neighbours in.
*
Nobody knew the whereabouts of Janice Gentle.
Rohanne had received a rather sharp telephone call from Morgan Pfeiffer early that morning which gave her cause to panic.
'Miss Bulbecker.'
'Mr Pfeiffer?'
'We had expected confirmation of signing by now, Miss Bulbecker.'
'Soon, Mr Pfeiffer.'
'You have not yet located Janice Gentle?' 'I am close, Mr Pfeiffer.'
'Good, Miss Bulbecker. And you will fax me a copy of -' 'The signed contract? I certainly will. Very soon. Mr Pfeiffer, I am almost there . . .'
'Would that I were,' she said, when she put down the phone. If ever there were a time for the calling up of friends, lovers, allies, it was now. Rohanne had never felt quite so near to defeat or tears, nor felt quite so alone. But her rule was absolute: to the world you showed only the face of success; whatever went on between you and your mirror in the dark, silent hours, you kept strictly to yourself.
Be resolute, she told herself, and slipping into her leathers and her Ray-Bans, she set off for Sylvia Perth deceased's office. She would try that dimbo of a secretary one more time before making her way to Dog Street. There must be some lead somewhere. It was all beginning to feel distinctly like one of those ancient fairy stories in which the damsel in the castle awaits rescuing by the courageous and bold. Well, Rohanne had never been short of either attribute. She wondered what Janice Gentle actually looked like. She had been able to trace no pictures at all. From the tone of her writing, she thought, as she hailed a taxi in Brook Street, she might well look like the princess in the thorn-covered tower.
*
Gretchen O'Dowd decided to be brave about it. She had told the Powers That Be she was not the next of kin (far too honestly, with hindsight), and the Powers That Be therefore refused to discuss the release of the body to her. Worse, they refused to give her any further information over the telephone. To their question 'Who are you?' Gretchen found herself answering in some confusion, since who she was was rather undelineated. She could hardly say companion, friend, housekeeper, sometime lover to this brusque voice. If she could have just simply said wife, it would have been better, but she was, after all, talking to authority, and it was a lie. She compromised by saying that she had known Sylvia Perth for many years and that she was her close companion. The voice at the other end of the telephone grunted. 'Well, what can I do?' she asked.
'Get in touch with the deceased's solicitor, if I was you.' And he gave her the address.
Gretchen knew that once she got Sylvia Perth (she couldn't yet think of her as a body) back with her in Oxfordshire everything would be all right. Perfectly all right. Honour would be done and then life could go on once more ...
There was no doubt about it, Gretchen would have to go up to London and see the legal people herself to sort everything out. Sylvia Perth must come back to her, it was only right and proper. Gretchen felt uncharacteristically positive about that. She made an appointment, the first available, for late that afternoon, and then, feeling restless, she decided to set off immediately. She had keys to the office and keys to the Dog Street apartment, and she was curious about these, having never visited either. She would go to the office first, then she would go to Dog Street. After that, she would visit the solicitor. A positive plan for the day helped considerably. There was nothing worse than feeling inadequate at this one moment in her life when she had planned to be so utterly and supremely the opposite. She ran a damp finger over her moustache and felt comforted. It was always there when she wanted it.
*
Janice Gentle packed various compartments in her clothing with a variety of little sustenances, picked up her carrier bag and, taking a deep breath, summoned the lift. She had to use it again one day, and today, when she was bound for Dog Street, seemed the most appropriate occasion. There had been no news or hint of a funeral, and Janice had privately made up her mind that, in the manner of those who would once put pennies on dead men's eyes, her grieving duty was to go to Sylvia Perth's apartment and switch off her answerphone, since there was something altogether indecent about the way Sylvia's voice continued while her life did not. But most certainly, she was not going by tube - Janice Gentle was going to walk there. It was a sunny day, she had plenty of time, and the tube would conjure up far too many memories to be worthwhile.
The lift did not arrive. She thought about reporting it but decided not to. It would mean engaging Mr Jones in conversation, and he might, as was the way of people, wish to bring up their previous and last encounter. She tiptoed past his basement door and noticed in his rubbish bag a quantity of jars containing what looked remarkably like innards pickled in their own blood. A strange man, she mused, and best left.
*
Gretchen O'Dowd was just locking the door behind her when the postman handed her a letter.
'Morning, Mr O'Dee,' he said, 'another lovely one. How's the missis?'
Gretchen was going to say, 'Dead,' but thought better of it. 'In London,' she said.
'No wonder you two get on so well,' he said, 'with her never here.' And he went whistling on his way.
She tucked the letter into her pocket and followed the postman's example. There was nothing so pleasant as these Oxfordshire lanes in high summer - the fussing pheasants darting around in the hedges, the cooing of pigeons, the crowing of rooks, and above her, wheeling and diving and squealing for attention, the plovers. She stopped to admire their antics. Brave birds. They would do anything to protect their young. She liked these best. Behind the beech trees and blackthorn, a farmer was harvesting. He waved, she waved back.
'Morning,' she said.
'Morning. How's the missis?'
'Dead, I'm afraid,' she replied. It never mattered how you answered him when he was perched up there. The noise of the tract
or drowned everything. Sylvia used to stand at the edge of the field and wave and smile while saying disgusting things, to which he would merely nod and smile back. Gretchen felt it was rather cruel, really.
'Good, good,' he said, and waved again.
In town, before boarding the train, she visited Mr Mole the undertaker. A few preliminary words on the subject of Sylvia Perth's remains were necessary. There was something prestigious about being in charge of a corpse and its ceremonials, and Gretchen was quite enjoying her growing sense of status and the prospect of a proper burial.
Mr Mole was heartening. 'We can make quite a lovely ceremony out of it, don't you worry, sir. And this coffin is our best. Our very best. It doesn't do to skimp on the handles, either. Oh, not at all. You must have the right accessories. You know what the ladies are, they do like to have the right accessories. I don't expect your good lady was any different?'
Gretchen, remembering how Sylvia valued her appearance, thought Mr Mole was wonderfully understanding. 'I want the best, of course,' she said. 'That coffin and those handles . . .'
'And the pure-white silk lining?'
'And the pure-white silk lining.'
Gretchen jotted down the prices and went on her way. The people in the big house had a garden party last year with a marquee. How she had envied the festivities . . .
*
Morgan Pfeiffer leaned back in his chair and pressed the ends of his fingers together. He looked pleased. Rohanne Bulbecker was hungry. If anyone could bring home the bacon, it was her.
On the other side of his office a weasel-faced man in a shiny suit put down the extension telephone, fingered his Rolex and returned the smile. This was Stoat, President of Marketing, and he was known to boast that he had never read a book in his life. He was, however, supremely good at packaging, and he was breathing deep for Janice Gentle, breathing deep and waiting to spring.
'Encouraging, Mr Pfeiffer.'
'I hope so, Stoat, I hope so.'
'Blue skies now,' said Stoat, 'blue skies all the way . . .'
On the train up to town and much buoyed by her enthusiastic encounter with Mr Mole, Gretchen O'Dowd dreamt on. A pity she had lost contact with her mother. She would have quite liked to have sent her photographs of the event. After all, she didn't hold a grudge against her for the ten-pound note and the spiritualistic auntie. Indeed, the reverse, she was rather grateful. At least when Mrs O'Dowd got senile dementia or merely became enfeebled with age, she wouldn't have to do anything about it. Her conscience was quite clear. That ten-pound note had been severance pay. Wherever Mrs O'Dowd fetched up on the rocky shores of life, Gretchen would not be obliged to put out a raft to save her. And that was a comforting thought.
Gretchen O'Dowd was looking forward to being financially independent. Money, she felt, would overcome many of the things that had been a burden to her, including, very probably, her personal proclivities and even her moustache. Sometimes she felt positively ashamed of the things she had done to remove or disguise it in the past. With her own Gold Barclaycard she was unlikely to be rejected for a little extra hair here and there. She fingered the area above her lip. If anything, she thought, it might be nice to darken it a little, make a feature of it, like some women changed the shape of their eyebrows or curled their lashes. Why not? What was one piece of facial hair to another? Why darken it? Why not bleach it pink? Or turn it multicoloured? Why, who knew what she couldn't do from now on? Anything she liked. Anything at all. It was a wonderful thought, like a dream come true . .. Dear Sylvia. She would miss her. But there certainly would be compensations.
She watched the neat countryside gradually change into urban sprawl and saw herself, after the black-plumed funeral, happily ensconced with some nice young woman. They would knit together, have long, hearty walks through muddy byways enjoying the plovers, discuss television programmes, watch old films, and eat delicacies that someone other than herself had prepared. The nice young woman could even continue with her bar work now and then - if she really wanted to . . .
It was a lovely vision, and the man sitting opposite her in the train could be forgiven for finding his proximity to the blank-eyed, vacant grin of a moustachioed woman (who periodically licked the tip of her finger and made a kind of Hercule Poirot gesture to her upper lip) discordant. Every so often Gretchen, unknowing, would mouth a word or make a gesture as the vision of the rosy future grew more real in her head.
At the point where she extended an inviting but empty hand towards her carriage companion and said beguilingly, 'Another smoked salmon sandwich, dear,' he got up and left. What was this grudge the Lord of Travellers had against him? Only recently he'd suffered the disgusting sight of one of the urban deranged on a tube train sucking at a piece of ham as if it were their own wayward tongue. He felt still very fragile about Melanie, and wasn't sleeping at all well nowadays — he seemed to travel around the bed and wake up empty-armed or, worse, hugging the pillow.
*
Erica von Hyatt, a little bleary-eyed from sleep but with her wits otherwise intact, sat up in bed. That was the noise she had been waiting for. The milk float. She needed a new plan for survival since the person below didn't seem to be having any further deliveries. The note in the milk bottle said, 'No deliveries until further notice.' Too open-ended for Erica; it could mean weeks. She rolled out of bed, grabbed the ten-pound note and shot out of the flat, leaving the door ajar. She caught the milkman as he was about to depart from the floor below.
'Could you,' she said, 'begin an account for the flat above?'
'Cash down?' said the milkman.
'Of course,' she replied primly, fluttering the money and feeling virtuous. Curious to be one of the legitimate paying multitude. She savoured the legitimacy. 'What can I buy?'
He told her. It sounded so good she felt herself start to dribble.
'Have to start tomorrow, though. Got to get the order in first.' 'Oh dear,' she said.
'Sorry, love,' he said, 'but that's the way it has to be . . .'
It crossed Erica von Hyatt's mind to overcome this difficulty in the best way she knew how, but somehow, what with the money making her feel real, the nice clean feeling from the bath and the robe, and upstairs being so specially hers, she didn't really want to disturb it all by doing that. Instead she held up a haughty hand to silence his apologies. 'I quite understand. But can't you at least let me have some milk?'
'One pint I got,' he said cheerfully. And, thinking for a moment, he added, 'I got a cut white loaf I can spare.'
'Butter?' she said hopefully.
'No butter. Chocolate milk drink? Could do you two of them.'
Her stomach gave a series of joyful rumbles. 'Fine,' she said. 'Thank you very much.'
Sated on bread dipped in chocolate milk tinged with Jack Daniel's, and following a long scented bath and a change into the pink robe with silver tassels, Erica von Hyatt spread herself on the damask ottoman and slept the sleep of the contented. Like a princess she lay, her golden hair laid out upon the coral softness of the pillows, her mouth half smiling, humming to herself as she dozed off and slipped into her twilight pleasure of food and warmth and time-being happiness.
*
Gretchen O'Dowd was a little surprised at the pale sparseness of Sylvia Perth's office. The whole was decorated in black and grey, offset by white or cream. Gretchen found it all rather intimidating, but then she had always found Sylvia intimidating, so she was not altogether surprised. Apart from a large blood-red couch at the far end, there was no colour at all. The outer room was not much better, containing little more than a light satinwood desk, pine shelves containing reference and telephone books, a tweed-covered typing chair and a near-dead unrecognizable plant. If she had hoped to find out a little more about her deceased employer and friend, she was disappointed. The only thing you could say about the place was that it was completely different from the English antique style of their Queen Anne house with its tapestry-covered dining chairs and carved oak settles. Odd, thou
ght Gretchen, I always thought she liked that kind of furnishing.
She crossed to the couch, which stood out like a wound. She touched it. It was velvet and very soft. The curtains, sateen-grey, were half pulled against the sunlight. The room was monochrome, soothing, particularly if Gretchen avoided the throbbing colour of the velvet by lying back on it. She did so. The journey had been quite a long one and the day was warm. She closed her eyes, she breathed deeply, she slept.
*
Mrs Lovitt wrote to the vicar of Cockermouth with a substantial donation taken from Guildford's general fund. The committee had agreed that, if the mighty were taking such a positive interest in the problems of Northern poverty, so should they. She stressed in her letter that Mrs Vicar had not broken one word of her confidence about her visit to Lambeth Palace, and she hoped that the notes taken on Mrs Vicar's behalf while she was away from the afternoon part of the conference were useful. If not, perhaps he would like to write to her directly for clarification.
*
The Little Blonde Secretary Bird collected her magazine and hurried down the tube-station steps. On the cover was a picture of an actress and her new baby. They both looked encouragingly wholesome and nice. The magazine feature that week was on fertility. At least it was less disturbing than that one on orgasm which had suggested feeling about down there to get to know yourself. She settied herself in her seat and began with the serial, which this time was set in Mexico. They gave you some very interesting locations nowadays, though she was quite happy just to read about them. Especially after that spicy foreign chicken.
*
Square Jaw was asked by the chap in the office next to his if anything was up. Square Jaw said no.
