Mr. Chartwell

by Rebecca Hunt

  On the wall above the desk was the small pale square of a removed photograph. Mr. Chartwell continued to stare at this pale patch as Esther spoke.

  “This room used to be a study. That’s why the desk is here.”

  Mr. Chartwell turned from the absent photograph, fidgeting with his dewlap while he considered everything. He said after a time, “What about use of the car? Would I have occasional access?”

  “No,” Esther lied firmly. “The lodger would have absolutely no use of the car.”

  He looked at her, knowing she was lying. The dewlap was pulled this way and that. His eyes roved across the ceiling. “And the neighbours, what are they like?”

  “Okay, I guess,” said Esther. “I don’t really see them much.” Then, as an afterthought, “They do have a cat though, so I don’t know if that would be a problem—”

  Mr. Chartwell gave her a sarcastic look. “Is the cat a problem for you?”

  “No,” said Esther. “I just thought that—” She didn’t bother to tell him what she’d thought.

  “And there are other lodgers staying here?” said Mr. Chartwell.

  “No, you’d be the only one,” said Esther.

  “I’d be the only one?” Mr. Chartwell said, full of hope, assuming this was an invitation.

  Esther quickly corrected herself. “There’d only be one lodger, I mean.”

  “And that would be me?” said Mr. Chartwell.

  “Umm …”

  A nauseating silent period passed.

  Esther said, with exaggerated diplomacy, “Mr. Chartwell, I don’t mean to imply that I’m not interested in your offer, or that I think you wouldn’t make a very considerate tenant, but I’m not convinced this is going to work out. I was really looking for someone who was more—well, a bit more—”

  “You don’t like dogs, Mrs. Hammerhans?” asked Mr. Chartwell.

  “No,” Esther answered, “I do like dogs. Dogs are fine. I’m just not used to them as lodgers. I’m more familiar with them”—and it came out before she could stop it—“on a pet basis.”

  “I’m not a pet,” Mr. Chartwell told her.

  “I can see that.”

  Mr. Chartwell’s vacant expression suggested he still didn’t follow, so she tried to explain. “I’m thinking primarily about our relationship, about the aspects of that relationship. Say for example you were going to take the room …” The delivery of the next line wasn’t easy. “What about if someone gets hurt?”

  “Wait, who’s getting hurt?” said Mr. Chartwell.

  Nearly impossible to say: “Someone who has been mauled.”

  Mr. Chartwell’s voice hit an unpleasant note. “And why do you suppose anyone would get mauled?”

  “… Because perhaps—”

  Mr. Chartwell sighed like an old man, sick of the game. “Our relationship would be the same as any other landlady and tenant, insofar as I rent the room which you provide. Our responsibilities to each other are strictly limited to this professional understanding. Other than this we won’t have anything to do with each other’s lives.”

  “Right,” Esther said, ashamed, “right, of course.” She changed the subject. “Have you lodged anywhere before?”

  “Lots of times,” replied Mr. Chartwell. “I have to for work.”

  “You work?” said Esther, overwhelmed at the thought. “What do you do?”

  Mr. Chartwell ignored her question. “I do have to reside in this area sporadically, otherwise the commute is a bitch.” He started a comradely conversation about the horrors of a long commute. Esther was still hypnotised by the notion of his working. She asked, “Your job is here?”

  “Sometimes … sometimes it is. But it varies. I’m freelance, so I have to travel around to visit my clients.”

  “Your clients?” Esther said, curiosity growing in flames.

  Mr. Chartwell breezed over this. “So what’s your decision about the room?”

  Esther pressed her lips together as if rubbing in balm. She didn’t have a decision. The morning sun was already strong enough for sunglasses. The trees in the garden grouped against a holiday-blue sky. The calling of birds rang out. It was going to be a nice afternoon to sit with a gin and tonic. Esther thought about gin, the bottle in the cupboard singing like a mermaid.

  Mr. Chartwell saw she was deliberating. He wasn’t the deliberating type, preferring action. “Okay, Mrs. Hammerhans, listen, what about if you think it through? You probably want to talk it over with your husband.” The sentence was gas, hanging in the air and poisonous.

  Esther felt a wave of emotion and recovered herself. “My husband isn’t here at the moment. It’ll be my decision.”

  “When will he be back?”

  Never, Esther thought. “Later,” she said.

  “Right,” Mr. Chartwell said. A spark in his face caught her.

  “He’ll be back later,” Esther said again, watching to see if he believed it.

  Mr. Chartwell studied her in the same way he had when she had told him about the car, his ugly eyes unrelenting and deliberate. There was a sharp desire to ask what he knew about the situation; he seemed to know something. But what could he know? Instead she said, “I have to go to work now, so … We’ve got a lot on. A large deadline is approaching and everyone is …” She stopped talking about her job; it wouldn’t matter to a dog.

  “Ah well,” Mr. Chartwell said, “I’ve got to go to work too.”

  What do you do? Esther thought, blazing with curiosity.

  Mr. Chartwell spoke: “Do you have any plans tonight?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I could pop round this evening. We can talk about it again.”

  “I’ve got plans.” She didn’t.

  He said callously, “You’ve actually got plans?”

  “No.” Esther said it stiffly. “But I might organise—”

  Mr. Chartwell didn’t wait to hear the rest. “Fine then. See you this evening.”

  “Oh. Umm …” She was defeated, unable to find the courage to argue. “Okay, but this is not a promise of any kind.” She said in a pathetic voice, “Don’t get your hopes up.”

  “Definitely won’t,” said Mr. Chartwell.

  Back at the front door there was an uncomfortable pause. Mr. Chartwell put out a paw. Esther’s reluctant hand held the paw as if clasping a grenade. They engaged in a weird handshake.

  “So—” she said, Mr. Chartwell speaking at the same time. They did the dance of halting awkwardness, the normal chemistry of conversation wildly absent. “Right,” said Mr. Chartwell, and Esther said, “Oka—”

  “Right,” he said again.

  Then Mr. Chartwell shook his head vigorously, the ruff round his neck slinging about, a good wet noise coming from his loose cheeks as they slapped against his gums. “Well, good-bye,” he said, and closed the door behind him. Esther listened to him thump down onto four feet, the sound of claws on concrete, and then the heavy, meaty sound of a powerful animal tanking forward with determination.

  CHAPTER 4

  11.37 a.m.

  Churchill was outside near the lake in the lower grounds. Standing above on the tiered garden slopes, the house watched. A tall, lonely lookout, its red bricks were stark against the darkness of the ivy-webbed forest which pushed hard against it. The tranquillity of Churchill’s lawns and gardens belied the enduring battle against the medieval forest’s attempts to reclaim them. Growing from a brown carpet of leaves crosshatched with animal tracks, an army of trunks and branches advanced together. Fallen oaks and pines exposed huge plates of knotted roots covered in rust-red earth, juvenile troops sending out shoots the colour of celery.

  Churchill was at the lake to paint a picture of the scenery, a task that required he wear his shapeless artist’s smock and a sombrero. A selection of battered paintbrushes and jars, pencils and paints lay on the grass around him. He preferred to stand when he painted; it gave him a freedom of movement that sitting didn’t allow. Not that this freedom meant anything, becaus
e he was standing motionless in front of the easel, arms hanging at his sides. The small canvas balanced on the easel was untouched.

  He muttered a phrase he had often repeated: “Happy are the painters, for they shall not be lonely.” This seemed absurd to him now, as he did not feel it.

  Churchill frowned, his lower jaw thrust over his collar. From the sombrero’s shadow his eyes followed a pair of American black swans circling in the water. They had come over to him, expecting bread, necks high, but finding none had drifted off. A coot let out a sharp shriek from the bulrushes. A gust of wind moved an old Scots pine nearby, shaking its needles and losing a few infant cones. Ripples moved across the lake, distorting the reflection of the cloudless sky. Churchill’s companion, a brown poodle named Rufus, had long since disappeared, heading off to the orchards where the servants’ cottages were, spooked and unwilling to stay at his side. Churchill knew what worried him. And then there it was.

  Behind him it whispered ardently in his ear, “You can’t hide from me. And you look ridiculous in that smock. You look like an old toad.”

  Churchill didn’t answer.

  “Ribbit,” said the voice. It broke away to snigger madly to itself, then returned. “Ribbit,” it said with perverse menace.

  The swans blurred as Churchill’s eyes misted. This was an involuntary reaction, an unwelcome one. He put his left thumb in the palm and crushed it.

  “You’ve been expecting me,” said the heartless voice. “You’ve been waiting for me, I could hear you waiting.”

  Churchill thought of his meeting that afternoon, willing the time to fold, wishing to escape the gruelling static of the hours in between. He thought of the meeting and clung to it, trying to block out the voice.

  It spoke again, quieter and closer now, close enough for him to feel that warm, carnivorous breath. “We both know why I’m here.”

  “Bugger off, you tiresome bastard,” Churchill said viciously.

  The hot breath blew across his cheek, across his neck. “We have an appointment.”

  CHAPTER 5

  1.00 p.m.

  Esther hid behind a partition of books in room B, a high, wood-panelled reading room in the House of Commons Library. Around her the shelves were filled with many thousands of books. In the centre of one wall was a wide stone fireplace with an ornamental fireguard. The London outside was white, pale blue, and boisterous. Not here. Room B was sombre and chaste, a scholarly cathedral of dark wood, richly patterned carpet, and green leather. Discreet ladders leant in places, the oak glossed with years of use. A heroic climb took the library clerks to the top-roosting books, then a worse one-handed climb down. Understated chandeliers with glass shades were suspended from brass chains. Two lead-latticed windows at the far end of the room gazed out on a Thames lit cardboard-brown in the sun.

  The library was laid out like a gallery in a Tudor house. A long corridor ran through the centre of each room. Behind Esther an arched wooden doorway led to other, more peopled areas of the library—reading rooms C and D, the Reference Room and Oriel Room, room A ahead. Sounds of life drifted towards her.

  That deserted haven, room B. Esther was hunched over her desk, the surface stacked with books, needing to concentrate. Thoughts of Mr. Chartwell and his visit were a wound which wanted its bandages quietly lifted to assess, stomach in flight, what lay underneath. An abomination, an abominable thing. Esther sat there dissecting the details.

  The noise of Beth Oliver shoving some books aside with her heavy hip as she sat on the desk startled Esther.

  Beth’s face was attractive and comfortable, with a smile full of natural sugars. She had a relaxed sensuality which expressed itself in an appetite for everything, including the carrot she was now admiring between bites. Trapping her wavy, bobbed hair behind an ear made no difference, the hair breaking free. Using the tip of the carrot to push it ended in hair stuck to the carrot.

  “Hi, Esther, what are you doing?”

  “Oh, nothing much, just my job or something,” Esther said in the sterile voice she used when she didn’t want to talk.

  “Ha, yeah,” said Beth, flicking distractedly through a book on top of the pile. It was titled Roman Architecture in the West Midlands of England. She let the pages run over her fingers. “So come on. Tell me.”

  Beth bumped herself further onto the table, causing a column of books to slide onto Esther’s lap. Esther caught the avalanche without comment and heaped it back. “Tell you what?”

  “Tell me all about the incarnation of your tiny boxy study into a luxury bedroom. That’s why I gave you that horrible old bed, isn’t it? So you could rent it to some unsuspecting victim.”

  “The bed’s not so bad with some new sheets on it.” Esther smiled at her. “As long as you don’t sit on it or lie on it, it looks quite nice.”

  “It looks quite nice? Those must be some miraculous sheets. Didn’t you say someone came to look at the room this morning?”

  Esther picked up a pen and toyed with it. “Someone did.”

  “Exciting! And when is this unlucky lodger moving in?”

  The pen lid was chewed and came away in her mouth. Esther spoke with the lid between her teeth. “Oh, I don’t know, I’m not sure yet.”

  But Beth had been distracted, grinning and doing something with her hands. Esther bent to see, leaning in her chair. The legs lifted as she craned round the doorway. It was the head of the library, John Dennis-John, hammering a typewriter in his characteristic warrior way at a desk in reception. Beth mimicked him, pretending to type with punching fists on a book. Dennis-John looked up with a snap, his instincts sonic. Esther ducked, her chair thumping down. Caught in his crossfire, Beth made an act of straightening her skirt. A good act, Esther thought, as she watched Beth fight off a smile.

  A snort of laughter from Esther, a match-flare of amusement which died instantly.

  Beth made a quick check on Dennis-John, stretching her neck. She waited for his typing to resume. She turned and studied Esther.

  “Es?” Beth locked an elbow, watching her. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, yep. Just a bit tired.” It wasn’t convincing.

  Beth’s posture developed a sarcastic accent. “Don’t tell me that, it won’t wash because I know you too well, Hammerhans. I know when you’re hiding something from me.”

  “I’m really busy, that’s all.”

  “Busy with what?” Beth tossed the books about, hunting for a theme. “With this?” The area outside suddenly bustled with bodies, a group of library clerks chattering as they entered from the three-mile maze of corridors in Westminster Palace. The gentle swell of conversation was punctuated by a shot of laughter, the plastic note of Sellotape being stretched and torn from its holder. A phone rang and was answered. Beth’s thumb tapped across the books and chose one for inspection. She lifted it by the cover, the pages hanging. “Saints of Ireland, England, Scotland, and Wales … what is this, Esther?”

  “I’ve got to type up some notes for the prime minister,” Esther lied, making notes, printing tiny letters in a notebook. “He needs me to do some research.”

  “Notes for Douglas-Home on saints? A very likely story.” Beth let the book fall. “Nope,” she said, “I think I recognise that secret look. Ah yes, I know what’s going on here.… Esther, have you met someone?”

  Esther clucked her tongue.

  “Have you been on a date?” Beth said this with joyous hope, excited by her own imagination, seeing Esther in a restaurant, candles and two spoons with dessert.

  “Nothing like that, unfortunately,” answered Esther. “It’s quite hard to explain exactly how unlike that …”

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Beth said with saucy solemnity, addressing an invisible crowd, “I present you with our coy exhibit, a dear friend who stands in contempt of the court if she fails to indulge the judge with every detail of her date.”

  “Stop it, there is no date.” Her voice was unintentionally cold.

  Pu
zzled at the reaction, Beth pulled away. A quality in Esther echoed, too faint to decipher. What? No, it faded, Beth mistaken.

  “I’m only playing around, Es.”

  Esther spoke to the notebook. “I don’t want to play.”

  Beth started a friendly argument and was stopped. “ ‘There is no date and I don’t want to play, Beth. Let’s just change the subject.’

  “Okay …” Beth rolled her chin in apology. “I’m sorry. For a second I thought you might have.” A hand lifted in a justifying flip, landing flat against the table. “Well, it’s not so ridiculous, is it? You’re not too hideous, Es.”

  Down among the books, Esther didn’t respond, carrying on with her notes. A quick and horrible feeling in the guts acknowledged that she was being unfair to Beth. And her mood couldn’t entirely be blamed on Mr. Chartwell. There was another reason, a darker, emptier one that ate through the calendar. A countdown of four days. Esther chastised herself for feeling disappointed that Beth hadn’t remembered, knowing she would soon. And she knew with a complicated knot in her chest that she would almost rather Beth didn’t.

  Beth curved her mouth, the sad bulldog, trying for a laugh and failing. “I’m only joking.” Esther’s attitude was a mystery. She spoke to the top of Esther’s head. “Come on, Es, I’m only joking. Don’t get in a twist.”

  Esther blew up her bangs. “It’s not funny, Beth. You know how I feel.”

  “Ksssss.” Beth made a noise in air between her teeth. “I know, I know, I know.”

  “Well then,” said Esther. She dropped the volume as a woman and a tall man walked into room B, the woman’s high heels ticking across the floor. The man followed awkwardly. “Don’t joke about it.”