‘Turkish or Italian?’ she asked when they reached a gap between a ballet shop and an antiquarian bookseller’s.
‘Turkish, definitely.’ They turned into the gap and down a paved alley that became broader the further along they went. Here there were a couple of shops selling coins and stamps, but they appeared dusty and lifeless. Acar’s further on was a different matter – under a green awning was a collection of tables occupied by men smoking and drinking coffee and, although Grace could not understand more than a few words of Turkish, it was obvious that life was being chewed over, sometimes vehemently.
‘Would you mind?’ Gilbert gestured towards an empty table and patted his other jacket pocket. It was a pat that meant he wanted to smoke. ‘Of course not,’ she said, and before she had even got her bottom into contact with the seat, a young waiter appeared. He was carrying a tray on which were two china cups, a conical copper jug with a narrow saucepan-like handle, and a small glass plate holding baklava and revani.
The waiter put the tray down on the table. ‘All right there, Gilbert?’
‘Not really, Hakan.’
There was a sympathetic laugh. ‘Like that, is it? Never mind, this’ll bring you back to life.’ Hakan spooned out the dense foam from the top of the jug into each cup and then delicately poured a stream of thick, rich coffee on top of it. He placed one cup in front of Gilbert and handed the other to Grace, asking her, as he did so, how she was doing.
‘Oh, I’m fine … are those for us?’ She nodded at the glass plate still on the tray.
Hakan darted a look at a large guy in a striped shirt that was straining at its buttons. He was, for the moment, engrossed in his game of backgammon.
‘They’re meant for him, but you can have them. Reckon he can live off his blubber a bit longer.’ That seemed to amuse Hakan greatly and he put the plate down with a great show of rebellion before gathering up the tray, holding it in front of him like a steering wheel and driving himself back inside the restaurant.
‘Bottoms up,’ Gilbert said without much emotion, and, raising the cup to his mouth, sipped rapidly. Grace let her coffee sit a while before sipping at the cardamom-infused sweetness. For a time there was only the sound of the others talking and the clunk of backgammon pieces on board, but she could tell the coffee was refuelling Gilbert and that soon he would speak.
When he did, he said, ‘Had all the kitchen cupboards out yesterday,’ and Grace did not need to ask who had. ‘Scrubbed them clean, washed all the jars and tins and packets. Convinced there are mice in the house. I have instructions to return home bearing traps and poison.’
Grace knew better than to start any question about Violet with the word ‘why’ as it suggested there might be a logical explanation for her actions. ‘She’s seen droppings then? Caught sight of something furry?’ she tried.
Gilbert gave her a look that suggested even her careful choice of question was way off the mark.
‘My sister, as you know, has highly sensitive hearing. She has heard them talking – not scrabbling and squeaking, mind you, but actually discussing our food supplies.’ He picked up his coffee cup again and made to lift it to his lips, but paused. ‘If they start bloody dancing, I shall ring Hollywood.’
She allowed herself to laugh at that, knowing Gilbert would not find it insensitive – she was one of the few people to whom he confided about Violet and her ever-shifting patterns of phobias and neuroses. Grace suspected that this was because she did not offer him platitudes or possible solutions. Also, when he told her about some particularly bizarre behaviour – only eating food that started with ‘f’ being one of the most extreme ones – Grace did not try to smooth out his worries and pretend it was ‘nothing’. Having seen other people do this, she knew it simply made him angry and once or twice had caused him to doubt whether it wasn’t he who had the problem, not Violet.
One other thing she had learned never to do was use the word ‘issues’ – it transformed Gilbert from cultured gentleman to carpet-chewing maniac. Once Grace had been present in the house during a visit from a well-meaning soul from the borough’s social services department. They had not only uttered the dreaded phrase ‘Violet’s issues’ but used their fingers to make inverted comma shapes in the air around it. Grace had taken herself upstairs to the bathroom, but had still been able to hear Gilbert hectoring the offending person and telling them to ‘stop soft-soaping everything with that namby-pamby baby talk.’
Gilbert was perhaps the only man in London who could use the expression ‘namby-pamby’ and make it sound like hideous swearing.
Grace picked up a revani, and while endeavouring to get it to her mouth without the syrup dribbling down her hand, also tried to navigate a route through Gilbert’s black mood. ‘So, the clearing out of cupboards? Discover anything?’
‘No. Except … except … that’s not strictly true. I found the rail ticket to Cambridge I bought for that weekend away that Violet did not want me to go on, some empty bottles of sherry that she’s embarrassed about me taking for recycling, and, oh yes, I discovered that if you wash packets vigorously enough, they disintegrate, and labels on tins start to come off, which means that no doubt I will find myself eating rice pudding on toast one of these days.’ Gilbert picked up a piece of baklava and broke it apart. ‘I also discovered that if you stay up till 2 a.m. poking the sofa with a knitting needle just in case mice are nesting in there, the next day you can feel more than a little churlish about life.’ Both parts of the broken baklava were put in his mouth and chewed and Grace hoped that the honey would sweeten his mood. When he spoke again, he said, ‘Sorry, I’m being a pain and I’m being disloyal to Violet. I shouldn’t make fun of her.’
‘You’re not. You’re poking fun at the situation, aren’t you?’
‘Dear girl.’ Gilbert gave her a brave smile and then rooted about in his jacket pocket and brought out a pack of thin cigars. He put one to his lips and, scanning the men at the tables either side of them, stood up and went and asked for a light.
‘Not getting too cold are you?’ he asked, sitting back down.
‘No, I’m fine … and Gilbert, if you fancy a bit of a break this weekend, I could possibly pop round. If she’d let me.’
Gilbert smoked without speaking and Grace knew he would be weighing up how likely it was that Violet would contemplate a change to her routine. She had not been out of the house she and Gilbert shared for many years and would allow few visitors because visitors brought in dirt, a constant source of vexation. Grace had, however, been summoned there for the first time, quite out of the blue, not long after she joined Picture London. During that initial visit it had been obvious that Violet had wanted to ascertain if Grace had romantic designs on Gilbert. That his own sister did not understand Grace was completely the wrong sex for Gilbert had made Grace feel even sorrier for him than she already did.
‘It’s a very kind offer,’ Gilbert said, as he stubbed out his cigar. ‘But there may be a tiny light at the end of the tunnel this weekend. Vi is, when not worrying about mice, back on her research project. As well as traps and poison, I will be bearing home some virginal scrapbooks and travel literature from Chinatown’s finest bookstores.’
‘Ah, so she’s finished America.’
‘Yes. And now it is China’s turn.’ Gilbert waved towards the door of the café and did the universal writing-on-hand mime to call for the bill.
Grace suspected that Violet’s interest in other countries was a way of compensating for the fact that her own world had shrunk to a three-bedroom semi and a small back garden with pots.
Gilbert reached for his wallet and waved away Grace’s suggestion that they should split the bill. ‘I am hopeful that if the mouse thing calms down, I could manage a couple of hours out and about on Sunday while she cuts and pastes her way around Beijing. I thought I might go and see a film, have a walk along the South Bank, browse the book market.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Stupid place to go really. Too many memories of Tony.’
>
‘Oh, Gilbert,’ she started to say, but Hakan appeared with the bill. They did not speak again until they had retraced their route down the alley and back to the street. Gilbert fleetingly touched her arm and said, ‘Ignore me, Grace. It’s just summer going, autumn, then winter … you know.’ He was looking around at the darkness coming in and Grace felt that even with the street lamps on and the light from the shop windows blooming across the pavement, Gilbert’s mood was darkening again.
‘There will be other Tonys,’ she said, wanting to mention Samuel and that soft watchful way he had been looking at Gilbert, but knowing she had to pick absolutely the right moment. Besides, Gilbert was talking again.
‘I doubt there will be other Tonys,’ he said. ‘I’m not much of a catch these days, and I come with baggage, if you’ll forgive me referring to Vi in such terms.’ He stopped to button up his jacket and lifted his chin. ‘No, I’ve put all that behind me, if you’ll pardon the pun. Anyway, enough of that … how’s Mark?’
‘Fine. Back for a few days end of next week, then off again for a couple of months.’
‘Returning to Brazil?’
‘No, one of the stans … Tajikistan, I think. Or it could be Uzbekistan. Hard to keep track.’
The noise of traffic and the crush of people made it difficult to say any more, but when they finally broke away from the main thoroughfare again, Grace felt that she should try to cheer Gilbert up before they got back to the office.
‘I’ve had a trying time today too – a weird shadower, floater, whatever you want to call them. An obnoxious, opinionated American. Looked like a surfer, dressed like some demented Fred Astaire complete with dinner suit and biker boots. First of all he acted as if I was boring him to death, then he kept butting in. Had to keep him and that couple called the Baldridges apart. And cheek, he also made it clear that he thought I ought to be giving the clients a taste of edgier, more contemporary stuff.’
‘God spare us,’ Gilbert said in a dowager voice, ‘from having to enthuse about bits of burned wood and melted plastic and cool ideas expressed in neon. Or video installations of a woman trying to iron a shoe. While it’s still on her foot. People climbing up and down a fire escape with paper bags on their heads.’ He was getting into his stride, already sounding more perked up. ‘Save me too from things floating in jelly. Things made from poo. Old bits of tyre with diamonds pushed into them. Broken dolls’ heads made into coats.’
‘Gilbert, you’re dreadful. There’s more to modern art than that.’
‘Wouldn’t swap a warehouse full of it for one Titian.’ He suddenly had hold of her arm. ‘And for pity’s sake, don’t mention this to Alistair. He’ll have us trotting out to Hackney to explore crappy galleries run by dreadful women with asymmetrical fringes.’
‘Oh, Gilbert, have I ever mentioned how fond I am of you? You just say exactly what you think.’
‘Now, now, don’t start on with all that modern huggykissy business. I depend on you never to embarrass me with that kind of thing. You’re far too sensible and down to earth.’ He pulled out his watch. ‘Come on, Alistair will be wearing a groove in the floor waiting for you to return. Fancy a wager on what his first words will be when we open the door?’
‘No.’
‘Spoilsport. I was going to take a hazard on “Grace, you have only twenty-four hours to save my company from a meteor!”’
‘Idiot.’
Even as she laughed, Grace knew that Alistair would have some problem or another waiting for her. It seemed that these days she spent as much time sorting out his mistakes or, as he referred to them, ‘oversights’, as she did explaining the major movements in western art.
Picture London occupied the second floor of a three-storey building in a street just far enough away from Covent Garden not to be funky or fashionable or even particularly attractive. Here the buildings were of old London brick and only a measure of squinting was needed to cut out the traffic and imagine yourself back in Dickensian times. On the ground floor was Far & Away, a travel agency, and on the top floor a shop that offered watch and camera repairs. Alistair liked to make a clumsy joke about Time and Travel, into which he then tried to jemmy an art reference. Both Gilbert and Grace had heard this joke repeated so often that the pain was almost wearing off.
How Alistair could afford premises in this part of London had been a mystery to Grace until she had become friendly with Bernice, whose family owned the travel agent’s. According to her, the building belonged to the dour Frank, the watch and camera mender on the top floor. His daughter had been Alistair’s first wife, a fact that Alistair kept very quiet. Evidently, the lease for the floor occupied by Picture London came to Alistair as part of the divorce settlement, but how long it was his, or on what terms, were still unknowns.
As they approached the large window at the front of the building, Gilbert’s progress faltered.
‘Remind me what day it is?’ he said craning his neck to try to peer into Far & Away’s window before his feet reached it.
‘You’re safe, early closing. No Bernice.’
Gilbert stopped craning his neck and sauntered past the darkened window and the posters advertising individually tailored itineraries.
‘Thank God for that,’ he said. ‘The eighteen-month buildup to the wedding I could just about cope with, but if I have to hear any more about the house restoration, about cornices and picture rails and damp courses I … well, I may book myself on one of her holidays and never return.’
He held the door open for Grace.
‘Leave Bernice alone.’ She walked along the hallway, past the glass-panelled door of the travel agency and then up the stairs. ‘She’s just enthusiastic about everything to do with her and Sol’s life together. I like hearing about it. And, you know, she’d be as enthusiastic about Violet’s projects if you only told her about them. She could get you some really good stuff on China – you wouldn’t have to buy all those expensive travel guides. Why don’t you ask?’
‘Not likely.’ Gilbert’s tone was so sharp that she turned on the stairs to look down at him.
‘Really? That’s a shame because while you were talking to Bernice about China, you could also apologise for crawling past her door on your stomach earlier in the week so she wouldn’t see you.’
‘I’ve never done such a thing.’ Gilbert executed an impression of an innocent man before patting his stomach. ‘How would that even be possible?’
‘How indeed?’ She resumed the climb up the stairs until she reached the first turn where there was a window and, more importantly, a wide window sill where Gilbert liked to stop. He said it was to look at the view, but they both knew it was to get his breath back. She waited for him to puff into place and, when he had, he flicked the latch and pushed open the window. The sound of someone warming up their voice, running first up and then down a range of scales, drifted across from the dressing rooms of the nearest theatre.
‘Did Bernice really spot me?’ Gilbert asked, still looking out of the window. ‘Has she said something?’
‘No, I saw you; just happened to look down the stairwell. But it could very well have been her.’
‘Point taken, Mum.’ Gilbert closed the window again, but seemed in no hurry to set off up the remaining flight of twelve stairs that led to Picture London’s front door. From here they could see the white lettering on the black paint and the wonky drawing of the London skyline that Alistair swore was ‘refreshingly naïve’. Gilbert and Grace felt, with the way Big Ben was afforded such prominence, that it was vaguely rude, as though a gargantuan and very wonky penis were menacing the capital.
‘So,’ Gilbert gave her a gentle prod, ‘last chance to bet on Alistair’s current crisis. On what is now unfolding behind that black door.’
‘Stop it, Gilbert.’
‘Oh, Grace, Grace. Just for once you should let him disappear in his own paper storm; work your contracted hours and see where that leaves him. Or at least point out that making sure his backside
engages with his office chair more often might improve things.’ Gilbert’s expression became more knowing. ‘And another thing: where does he keep nipping off to these days? And why has he started locking his office door? Has he got another woman?’
‘Hardly. He and Emma seem very happy.’
‘Ah, yes, your friend Emma. Gives every appearance of being normal and then goes and does something stupid like marrying Alistair.’
‘Ignoring you, Gilbert,’ Grace said, going on ahead. She heard him get up and slowly follow her to the door.
‘Right, last chance,’ he whispered. ‘I am going to put my bet on Alistair screeching, “Grace, I appear to have a spare trouser leg and keep toppling over.”’
Despite trying to maintain a disapproving expression, she laughed at the picture of Alistair with both feet crammed down one leg of his chinos. Gilbert laughed too before placing one hand flat on the door and one on his forehead, suggesting it enabled him to tune into what was happening inside the office.
‘No, no,’ he said in a stage whisper, ‘I was wrong about the trousers … hang on, it’s coming through, yes, what he’s actually going to say is, “My God, Grace, we haven’t paid this bill, the bailiffs could arrive at any minute to strip the place.”’
Playing Grace Page 4
