“Eff off,” whispered Procne.
The nanny surged round from her far side.
“No talking to the prisoner, if you please,” she said.
One tenet of Lydia’s anti-authority creed was that underlings are victims too. She turned sympathetically to the warder.
“I thought Miss Newbury would like to hear about how her mother got on during the last few months,” she said. “I saw quite a bit of her.”
A policeman, hitherto unnoticed, loomed into the periphery of Lydia’s vision.
“You can’t do that here,” said the warder. “If the prisoner wants a visit you’ll have to arrange it through welfare.”
At a nudge from her elbow Procne turned away and the two of them moved off towards a dark car which had been waiting further along the driveway. The policeman stayed where he was, watchful, as if suspecting the Livonian Government in Exile of being a cover organisation for a group bent on rescuing tarts from prison. One of the photographers blocked Lydia’s view.
“I’d better have your name,” he said. “They might want the one with you in it.”
He had a trivial beard and looked as though he hated mankind. “Timms, L.”
“Miss or Mrs?”
“Neither.”
He was making an Oh-God face when Lydia heard a shout of “I’d like a visit, please, Miss.” She stood clear and saw Procne climbing into the car. She waved to show she’d understood. Two more policemen emerged from behind tombs and climbed in also. Lydia smiled, thinking how thrilled Mrs Newbury would have been to know that her daughter had come to her funeral so grandly escorted.
“A very important prisoner,” said Mr Vaklins at her elbow.
“Oh, I suppose there might have been a mob of sight-seers.” said Lydia. “There are always people who will stand around for hours just to goggle at someone like that for a few minutes. Heavens, what wreaths! She’d have loved that.”
They were hideous, piled in sheaves along the bank of artificial grass which covered the mound of sticky yellow clay from the grave. One or two seemed to be unconventional in shape, until Lydia realised that they were representations of the Viking horn which was the crest of the Livonian Republic. Now that the mummery was over Lydia almost smiled again—they seemed such absurdly appropriate ornaments for the tomb of an old battle-axe who had died drunk.
Chapter 4
“You will give me to a hospital, won’t you? Promise. None of this rubbish about the family vault. Honestly, I’d rather be turned into pet-food.”
“I’ll think about it, darling. Would you haunt me if I didn’t? You’d make a very bad ghost—not your style at all.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know you are. When you’re serious your voice drops and you speak very slowly, as though I’d suddenly gone soft in the head. But I can’t take it seriously—I mean, if you think like you do, what does it matter what’s done to you afterwards? The dead have a duty towards the living. Anyway, I want a great big marble slab on the wall of the church at Duxbury with eighteenth-century lettering—early eighteenth-century, please—enumerating my virtues and palliating my vices, and finishing with a bit of verse in Latin embodying a metaphysical conceit about …”
“Richard.”
Beside her in the dark she felt the faint, almost Pavlovian response of tension in his muscles. She sighed to herself, remembering the time before his breakdown when they’d both merely thought it funny that that was his reaction to her use of his Christian name.
“It’s all right,” she said. “I’m not going to ask you to think about anything you don’t want to. Just let’s talk about something else. I shouldn’t have started it.”
“You don’t think you ought to talk it out, if it’s bothering you?”
“No. Listen, about Mrs N’s room, have you any views?”
“What was she paying?”
“One pound fifty. She was controlled. I daresay I could have gone to the rent people and squeezed it up a bit, but I hadn’t the heart. Now this Vaklins bloke wants it.”
“Ask twelve.”
“That’s not the point. I mean, there’s hundreds of people who need it more than he does. I could find some old biddy …”
“And ask one fifty?”
“No, she’d have to be able to afford four, somehow. I’d like her to come from somewhere round here, too.”
“How much are they asking for the new flats at forty-six?”
“Forty for the basement, Mrs Tevell said, but that’s not the point. They oughtn’t to have been made into that sort of flat—it was monstrous. It was a typical Dice and Dottridge transaction.”
“But they’re estate agents. They aren’t allowed to own property.”
“Don’t you believe it, darling. They’re everywhere. They used a holding company. But don’t you remember the Hoods who used to live there? That old man with the racing pigeons—his wife who used to scamper out with a carrot for the rag-and-bone man’s horse?”
“Vaguely. They had a daughter in Canada.”
“That’s right. Dice and Dottridge gave them a silly little lump sum to move out and found them a high-rise flat in Acton. Mr Hood’s dead. She’s in a home.”
“Poor old ducks. But the world’s changing, Liz—you can’t stop it.”
“I can.”
She slid her hand down his arm and twisted her fingers into his. She knew that he would let her do what she wanted, and wouldn’t complain, even if it meant tap-water and scrag-end stews for months. So it was only fair to try to do things in a way which he too thought was reasonable.
“Suppose Mr Hood would have died anyway,” she said, “and Mrs Hood gone into that home. Even so they must have had a time—eighteen months, two years—when they were completely miserable. If they’d been able to stay here, where they knew people …”
He squeezed her hand and chuckled.
“I love you,” he said. “How are you going to phrase your ad for the new tenant? How are you going to screen the applicants for worthiness? Pay the rag-and-bone man to drive past and watch whether they reach for the carrots?”
Lydia was already worried about that. She hated the idea of using her power as a property-owner to discriminate between the needs of two or more people—it would be like choosing a puppy in a pet-shop window.
“Suppose I don’t let Mrs N’s room at all,” she said.
“Just keep it as a memorial to her?”
“No! Shut up! Listen. I get that beam out to-morrow. The dry-rot people come next week, and the damp-course people the week after. When they’d gone I was going to finish those rooms, move us in there and do these two. But suppose I simply get the beam back in—I’ve still got the floors to check, too—and then leave it and do Mrs N’s room. I’ll have to move the sink, but I can put a proper cooker in there if I don’t tell the Council. Then I can persuade Mrs Pumice to move up. She’s always behind with her rent because Don—Mr Pumice—is a swine about the maintenance, and if he’s not here she doesn’t need that extra room. Leave Doctor Ng where he is. The Pelletiers’ tenancy runs out next month, and from one or two things she’s said I know she’s dead scared about what I’m going to ask for the new agreement, and with Stan married they don’t need that little back room; so I think they’ll be happy to go up into Mrs Pumice’s and pay what they’re paying now. That clears the first floor for the Evanses. I can put a bath and loo into Stan’s old room, which’ll mean they’ll have their own bathroom and be all on one floor, and I know they won’t mind paying a bit more for that. The men said the dry rot wasn’t too bad in those two ground floor rooms, so we can move up to the ground floor …”
“We’ll have it all to ourselves?”
“That’s right. We’ll need it. As soon as I’ve got the basement really nice and self-contained and bringing in some income I want to start having a baby.”
“Oh … what sex?”
She rolled on her side to kick him, but either he misinterpreted her movement or his reactions were more dextrous than sometimes; at any rate the kick missed and his legs tangled round hers as his arm slid under her neck. The Timmses didn’t make love one quarter as often as the sex-pundits say decent people should; Lydia liked it when things went right, but they didn’t always, and quite often this was her fault. It wasn’t that she resented her role, but she could never be sure when they began whether she was going to be able to melt herself into it. To-night, half-way through a first quite promising kiss, something fizzed inside her mind and spat out a gritty little thought; she knew it would be useless to go on until she’d said it aloud, so she eased her mouth free.
“It all depends on not finding any more horrors anywhere else,” she said.
Chapter 5
The big beam in the back room, after a first few minutes of total obstinacy, came out with less trouble than Lydia had expected, as though it were tired of supporting the whole garden façade and were glad of a rest. Cataracts of fine mortar dust fell continuously along most of its length as Lydia levered it inchmeal onto the cradle of scaffolding she had built. The room smoked with the ancient, pinky-grey powder, but she’d known it would be like that so she was wearing a smog-mask over her nose and mouth. Four or five bricks came loose, making the beginnings of a ragged arch, but the Acrow hoists supported the ceiling so well that not a crack showed.
The beam must have weighed three hundredweight. At the tricky instant when it was balanced half on the brickwork and half on the cradle, a man coughed in the room behind her. No doubt he’d done it just to call attention to his presence, but once he’d started he was unable to stop; at each gasp his lungs sucked in fresh supplies of dust to aggravate the next spasm.
“Sorry,” called Lydia, unable to look round. “I had to start without you. Why don’t you wait in the passage till the dust clears. I’ll be out in a couple of minutes.”
But the man stayed where he was, gradually mastering his gullet once the beam was clear of the wall and ceased to drag out mortar as it came. The coughs diminished on a surprisingly deep note, like the retreating grumble of a thunderstorm. As soon as she was sure that the beam was firmly on the cradle Lydia turned.
He loomed through the dust-cloud, an enormous Indian in a linen suit, black shirt and yellow tie and turban. He was holding a bright pink handkerchief to his face.
“You are the man from the Council?” asked Lydia.
He grunted.
“I couldn’t wait, you see,” she said. “I wasn’t sure that you’d be coming at all, and I had to get on. It’s quite safe, if you want to come and check. The joists above run north-and-south so the hoists take the weight there, and the wall really bears on the concrete lintel on the outside. Look, you can see clearly now.”
He stepped prissily over and peered into the smoking cavity with bloodshot, bulbous eyes.
“All right?” said Lydia, suddenly anxious at his long silence.
“I know nothing about such matters,” he said. “If it falls, that is God’s will.”
His eyes swivelled towards her, as if cueing her for the Amen. She could see the white all the way round each iris.
“I thought you said you were the man from the Council.”
“I am the man from a Council. A man from the Council. Let’s get out of here.”
Lydia had already promised herself a cup of coffee as soon as she got the beam clear, so she led the way to the front room.
“You’ll have to sit on the bed,” she said as she put the kettle on. “We’re living all in one room at the moment, while I get the rest of the basement sorted out. If you aren’t from the Borough Council, who are you?”
She spoke sharply, because she resented this man who had materialised like a genie out of the smoke, first misleading her and then somehow taking charge of the situation, as if he had the right.
“I came to tell you about Bob Roberts. My name is Ambrose.”
“Mine’s Lydia,” said Lydia, who approved strongly of instant first-name terms.
“Ah, in that case mine is Jack Ambrose. I will have hot milk, please. I must keep up my strength for my work.”
Again Lydia had that sense of sleight-of-mind, as though he were deliberately strewing conclusions around for her to jump to. Despite the turban he didn’t look or sound like an Indian. He had the feel of a ham actor, a heavy, one of those would-be giants of the stage who make up for their total lack of skill by imposing their own personality on the material. Mr Ambrose had a personality to impose, at least.
She looked at him, full face. He looked back, unsmiling but bland. Powdered with the pale mortar-dust he might have been made of milk chocolate the whole way through. He wore several signet rings on each hand, like knuckle-dusters. But there was plenty of milk, so she fetched it out of the fridge and put some in a saucepan.
“And who’s Mr Roberts?” she said.
“A friend. You spoke to him about your garden.”
“Oh, yes! I asked if he could come back to-morrow morning, but it was a bit vague, so I didn’t really …”
“Of course. Bob is a good gardener. What is your proposal?”
“Well, I don’t know how much time he’s got. There isn’t more to do here than would take a man one morning a week. But I know several of my neighbours would like a gardener too, so if he wanted more time than that …”
“Money?”
“The rate round here is eighty pence an hour, but if he’s really a skilled gardener … I couldn’t afford more than three pounds a week, in any case.”
He didn’t answer, but turned away and stood with his back to her, running his mailed fingers up and down the folds of his neck-muscles. The kettle screamed. Lydia switched off the gas, poured water on the coffee-powder, added a little cold milk and lifted the mug to her lips, only to find that she was still wearing her face-mask. This irritated her more than anything, because it was not like her to make such a mistake. It was Mr Ambrose’s fault. He lay like an iron bar, thrown by hooligans across the smooth track of the morning. What’s more, she damn near let his milk boil over too.
“Here you are,” she snapped. “What’s the problem? If he’s a good gardener he can get twice that amount almost anywhere, so you needn’t worry about turning me down.”
“Ah, thank you for the milk,” said Mr Ambrose, swinging round. “I will help myself to sugar, please. My strength, you know. The problem, Lydia, is our friend Bob. He has had, well, a certain amount of difficulty in recent years.”
“Been inside, you mean,” said Lydia. “I don’t mind, provided it’s not for molesting kids. I’ve got a small son. Otherwise I’d be glad to help.”
“Ah, a social conscience,” said Mr Ambrose, stirring his eighth spoonful of sugar into his milk. He sounded faintly mocking.
“Yes,” said Lydia.
“Bob is a bit inadequate, it is true,” said Mr Ambrose, after a pause. “He needs help and support. But he is honest, and a good gardener. That is all. He will be here on Monday morning at nine. I will leave it to you to make arrangements with your neighbours.”
He sucked the scalding milk down in two gulps, smacked his lips and put the mug on the draining board.
“Eighty pence an hour, OK,” he said. “Try to arrange five mornings a week. Bob will be here on Monday. Routine, routine. Good-bye. Thank you for the milk.”
Huge though he was he seemed to glide away and had reached the door and gone before Lydia realised that the interview was over. She heard him climb the stairs, light-footed, three at a time.
She sat on the kitchen stool, becoming herself again, sipping slowly at her coffee and at first deliberately trying not to think about her own reactions to Mr Ambrose. This proved impossible, so as the coffee sank in the mug she settled down to organising her
anger into parcels which she could cope with. Part of the problem was the shame of disliking a coloured man so strongly and instantly. Richard maintained that even in the most saintly and unprejudiced of mankind there is a sociological id, a demon of racial spite, which the sociological ego controls and represses. For the first time Lydia was afraid that he might be right. She asked herself whether, supposing he had been a white man but otherwise the same—as gross, as offhand, as masterful—she would have treated him just the same. No—she would have counter-attacked, demanded to know what his interest was, refused him milk, even. (Milk? Why did she resent that so?)
But would she? Or would she have given in just as easily? Was her anger really no more than spite at being told what to do, having arrangements made for her, in her own house, by a man? Furthermore the man was somebody she ought in theory to approve of, helping the inadequate to find a place of comfort among the grinding cogs and trundling levers of the social system. Perhaps benevolence towards the underdog tends to balance out into insolence towards the comfortable, which the comfortable must tolerate and respect. A saint is entitled to his own bad breath, surely.
Coffee finished, Lydia rose with a sigh, tied her mask on again and went back to work. Most of the visible dust had settled, but minute particles still prickled in the air. She plugged in her inspection lamp and studied the beam, inch by inch. A little woodworm had attacked one corner, but she could find no trace of rot anywhere along it, nor in the cavity from which it came. All it needed was a good double dose of protective fluid and a blitz on the wood worm, and then it could simply go back. Thirty pounds saved! Three days gained!
She should have been singing, but as she cleaned up the dust, sprayed on the fluid and mixed a little cement to re-point the brickwork of the cavity, the ghost of Mr Ambrose seemed to stand behind her shoulder, ready to cough again.
Chapter 6
The beam came out on Thursday. Friday was spent getting it back and making good. Early on Saturday morning Richard sat up in bed, stretched and said, “Let’s go somewhere.”
The Lively Dead Page 3
