Of late, Studdy had been observing Miss Clerricot and he greatly regretted this interruption, these three days hidden away on his own. Since the night Major Eele had passed on to him the information that she had been taken aback by the advent of Mrs le Tor in the television lounge, Miss Clerricot had been a source of mounting interest. Before his accident he had begun to watch her closely, and he thought he recognized a new liveliness about her eyes. ‘That woman is up to something,’ said Studdy to himself, and on the first day that he allowed himself to be seen in public again he pursued her to her place of work.
Studdy was used to following people about. Often on the street he would notice a man or a woman with a guilty look about the face and would follow his suspect for an hour or so, into shops, on to buses, sometimes to a distant suburb. Once he had followed a man who was acting in what he considered to be a dubious manner, sidling along close to shop-fronts, peeping around pillar-boxes, walking slowly and quickly in turn. This man, it had turned out, was himself following another man, and the three of them ended up sitting side by side in a news cinema.
Miss Clerricot turned into a large building, and Studdy remained outside. He stood about for a while, watching other employees arrive. A few of them looked at him, a notable figure on a hot August day: a man in an overcoat with the collar turned up, with a hat, and a scarf that obscured part of his chin. He kept looking at his watch as though waiting for someone, and after a few minutes he drank a cup of tea at a cafe near by. He paid for this with a two-shilling piece and questioned the change, stating at once that he had handed over half-a-crown. In the end the cup of tea, priced at sevenpence, cost Studdy a penny. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said as he left, and the girl behind the counter said not at all, it was her mistake. She seemed so sure that it was she who had been in error, and smiled so affably, that for a moment he considered trying the ploy again. He contented himself with commenting on the high quality of the tea, adding that he would certainly return one day. ‘Always delighted,’ said the girl, and Studdy left.
He walked for a while, piecing together a plan of campaign. At eleven-thirty he approached the reception area of the building that Miss Clerricot had entered. ‘Have you got a Miss Clerricot at work here?’ he questioned, taking care to keep his voice low in case the woman should suddenly appear.
‘Certainly, sir,’ the receptionist said briskly. ‘You have an appointment?’
‘No, no. No, I don’t wish to see her today; it’s just I was establishing her place of work.’
‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘Ah no. It’s just a little surprise we’re arranging for Miss Clerricot’s birthday. D’you know what I mean?’
The woman behind the reception desk raised dark eyebrows and did not smile. She said she did not know what Studdy meant.
‘Miss Clerricot passes out here at lunchtime, does she?’
‘Why ever should she not?’
‘No reason, missus–’
‘Excuse me, sir, if you wish to see or speak to Miss Clerricot I can phone through. Otherwise–’
‘Ah no. No, it’s a little surprise we’ve all got together at her place of residence for Miss Clerricot’s birthday. Only you see, I thought I’d come down here and see what the situation was. We’re all going to be waiting for her outside the entrance there on the big day. In two taxi-cabs–’
‘Well, that will be nice for Miss Clerricot. Now, sir …’
Studdy saluted the woman, bringing his open hand smartly up to his forehead. He spent the rest of the morning watching the entrance from the other side of the street.
At one o’clock Miss Clerricot appeared, accompanied by a man of advanced middle age. The latter hailed a taxi. Studdy, with no means to follow them except by the hire of such a vehicle himself, watched the cab move off, mechanically noting its number. He crossed the street and inquired of the woman in the reception area if Miss Clerricot had left. ‘I thought I had seen her,’ he explained, ‘only I wasn’t sure. I called after the taxi-cab. Was that Sir John with her?’
‘Sir John?’
‘The gentleman who was with Miss Clerricot. I thought he looked like Sir John.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I know no Sir John.’
‘Ah well, no, I’m not saying you do. Only that the gentleman with Miss Clerricot there–’
‘That was Mr Sellwood, sir.’
‘Sellwood. Mr Sellwood. Ah, of course it was. Good-bye now.’
Studdy hastened away.
‘The Pearl Assurance Company,’ said Mr Sellwood, ‘has branches all over the country, yet its organization is extremely simple and extremely efficient.’
Miss Clerricot thought about that, but found it hard to formulate a reply. Then she said:
‘I see.’
‘Now, what will you take to eat? Minestrone soup, chicken à la maison? I shall take fish myself. With fresh garden peas and new potatoes. Yes, I think that should do. What do you say, Miss Clerricot? The chicken? Well, that is that, then. Melon? Good. Oh, they know what they’re doing. at the Pearl.’
For a moment there was a silence. Mr Sellwood was making a calculation in his head. Miss Clerricot had seen him making calculations like this on and off for twelve years. She watched him reach a final figure.
‘Do you know how the Pearl Assurance Company works?’ Mr Sellwood asked.
‘You mean, how it plans its policies and decides on premiums?’
Mr Sellwood drove his fork deep into a slice of melon.
‘Decides on premiums? I think, you know, that that is a secret thing. Yes, I rather think that that is a matter that is not revealed. Business is like that, you understand. One cannot give away secrets. Business is built upon the other chap not knowing. You see?’
Miss Clerricot was thinking of his life in Sevenoaks, trying to visualize it, seeing him in an arm-chair in a sitting-room, his wife in the same room sewing a piece of cloth, his two sons reading boys’ magazines. She wondered what the family talked about: what Mrs Sellwood said to Mr Sellwood, what the boys said and what their interests were. She wondered whether the talk ever touched upon the Pearl Assurance Company.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I follow you.’
‘Private enterprise is like a military campaign.’
She imagined the two boys, years ago when they were small, hearing stories about private enterprises that were like military campaigns. Lloyd’s and Barclay’s, the Westminster and the Midland and the National Provincial. She had read somewhere recently that the National Provincial Sports Club had done well in a rowing competition. Perhaps that was something that the boys could join in about: perhaps they were interested in rowing and had followed the National Provincial to victory. She began to worry about the boys: what if they did not have a rowing interest, what then? How would they pass the hours and the years with their father out in Sevenoaks? How could a good relationship flourish?
‘The Pearl Assurance Company,’ said Mr Sellwood, ‘has branches throughout the country, in the major provincial towns. The Company is well distributed.’ He stopped and then continued: ‘I have to go to Leeds next week. Perhaps you would care to come? The food is excellent in Leeds; there are numerous kinds of local dishes. What do you say, Miss Clerricot?’
She did not know what to say. She felt a voice in her mind, struggling to gain ascendancy, whispering hoarsely that she was a fool even to consider the proposition, even to be here having lunch with her employer. It was the dead, lugubrious voice of Mr Bird, bidding her to say no, quoting Pope at her.
‘Oh, but,’ said Miss Clerricot, pausing after the two words, hoping for an interruption. But Mr Sellwood was eating a trout, making faces as he disentangled the flesh from the bones. So she ate some fish herself and let the unfinished sentence hang limply in the air.
‘Quite useful you’d be in Leeds,’ said Mr Sellwood with a bone caught in his teeth. He gave a nervous laugh, reminding her of Venables. It wasn’t fair, thought Miss Clerricot, to assume that the little bout of laughter w
as connected in any way with what he was saying. He was not, or so she assumed, laughing at the idea of her usefulness in Leeds. Later, over coffee, he said again:
‘I think–I rather think, you know, that if you were to accompany me to Leeds, Miss Clerricot, you could be quite useful.’
Miss Clerricot became carried away. What does he mean by ‘quite useful’? she wondered. He was asking her to go away with him to Leeds, for a night or two nights, she did not know which. She did not know what was in Mr Sellwood’s mind, but she knew, or guessed, what was in his subconscious. It would not be; she could not ever let it be. She could never take a man from a wife and from a family: that was not her role. Yet Mr Sellwood had made the gesture; he had issued an invitation and she had never before in her whole long life received such an invitation, or indeed any invitation that was couched so subtly.
‘I have made a study of the subject,’ Mr Bird had said. ‘I know what I am doing. I am open to criticism, that I admit, but at least I am abnormally honest.’ Mr Bird said he had studied the condition of loneliness, looking at people who were solitary for one reason or another as though examining a thing or an insect beneath a microscope. The memory of Mr Bird was bitter at that moment, and the words he spoke in her mind were unwelcome there, for they were cruel in their wisdom.
‘I have never been in Leeds,’ said Miss Clerricot.
‘Then you must join me next week. We can work together on the train.’
‘Yes,’ said Miss Clerricot.
‘You ventured out?’ enquired Nurse Clock, smiling. ‘You’re feeling OK, Mr Studdy?’
Studdy replied that he had never felt better.
‘Well, I have had a field day,’ Nurse Clock went on chattily. ‘After my calls I set to tidying in Mr Bird’s room.’
Studdy paused in the act of running his fingers over his bruised jowl. ‘Tidying,’ he said.
‘Shoes and clothes for the refugees, old magazines, trousers’ presses – you’ve never seen such a load. Gallelty and I tied cloths around our hair and did a great old turn-out.’
There were two suits of Mr Bird’s that Studdy coveted; two worsted suits with stripes, and a couple of pairs of shoes in excellent condition. He had often noticed them on the living man and had recalled them afterwards. They would not fit Studdy himself, nor could he very well wear them here in The Boarding-House, but he knew where he could dispose of such remains for a reasonable sum. He kept calm. He said:
‘You’ve made a pile of the old stuff, have you? I can borrow you a hand-cart to transfer it to the refugee woman. You didn’t burn anything? Some of those old mags might make a bit of interesting reading.’
‘Magazines for the hospitals, Mr Studdy. I have the whole thing organized. Mrs Trine is calling round tonight for the clothes.’
Studdy nodded. He fingered the point of his lapel. He said:
‘A decent woman, Mrs Trine. Excuse me now, Nurse.’
The time was five o’clock. The Boarding-House was empty save for Nurse Clock, Studdy and the two in the kitchen. Studdy climbed to the top of the house and entered the attic room of the late Mr Bird. The bed was stacked with clothes: suits and socks, ties, shirts, underclothes. On the floor, magazines were tied into bundles. Seeing all this, Studdy swore savagely. He lit a cigarette to calm himself. Caught between the pages of an old Wide World en route for a hospital was Mr Bird’s Notes on Residents.
Studdy sorted out the suits he required and looked about him for shoes. He found them, all with shoe-trees in them, in a large cardboard box. He tucked three pairs under his arm, picked up two suits still on their coat-hangers, a few pairs of socks and four shirts. He walked with care to his room.
He wrapped the clothes in sheets of newspaper and packed them into the back of his wardrobe. He put the shoes in one of the drawers of his dressing-table. Then he lay down on his bed for a moment, to think about the problem of replacing their bulk in Mr Bird’s room. It took him fourteen minutes to arrive at what appeared to be a workable solution.
Mr Scribbin had always seemed to Studdy to be a man who possessed a variety of clothes. Nurse Clock, he felt sure, had not made an inventory: it would be necessary only to add a couple of Mr Scribbin’s shirts and a suit to give the impression that the stack on Mr Bird’s bed had not depreciated.
Mr Scribbin’s room was on the same floor as Studdy’s. He crossed the landing to it, treading softly. He knocked in case the man should be inside, but received no response. He turned the door-handle and entered. The room was neat. The big gramophone was mounted on a stand close to the window, records were ranked in racks on either side of it. On the walls were many unframed photographs of railway engines. Studdy had never been in this room before; he found it interesting, but he moved at once towards the wardrobe, intent upon his task.
He chose a long blue suit with a white stripe, that seemed in need of sundry small repairs. Studdy wondered if Mrs Trine attended to such details before forwarding the clothes to the refugees. He selected two shirts, and as an afterthought slipped into Venables’ room for a pair of socks and three ties. It took him less than a minute to transfer everything to Mr Bird’s room and to pick up some magazines. He stretched himself on his bed and read a Pituregoer that had been issued in February 1937.
11
‘I shall be away next Tuesday night,’ said Miss Clerricot. ‘Possibly Wednesday too. I am going to Leeds on business.’
Studdy’s self-trained ear caught the statement, and his brain absorbed it with excitement. ‘Leeds, by dad,’ he murmured to himself.
‘Well, that will make a break for you,’ he heard Nurse Clock say, and then he coughed and descended the stairs.
‘Miss Clerricot’s going to Leeds on Tuesday,’ said Nurse Clock. ‘I’m saying that will make a break for her.’
Studdy smiled lazily. ‘A fine city,’ he said. ‘Better than many another. Happy times. Miss Clerricot.’
Miss Clerricot, he noticed, had gone the colour of a cut beetroot.
‘I have never been to Leeds,’ she said, and gripped the banister and ascended the stairs at speed.
From the television lounge came the sound of loud voices and the occasional chuckle from Major Eele. The door was half open: Studdy could see Mr Obd in his shirt-sleeves and Rose Cave knitting a length of grey wool into a rectangle.
‘A nice cream from top to bottom,’ said Nurse Clock.
Studdy was no longer looking at the half-open door of the television lounge; he was running the thumb-nail of his right hand beneath a finger-nail of his left. He shifted a small wedge of dirt which in turn became lodged behind the thumb-nail. He removed it from this latter with the little finger of his right hand.
‘A nice cream,’ repeated Nurse Clock, watching the grime move from finger to finger.
‘Cream?’ said Studdy.
‘I’m saying we should have the place done up, painted out a nice clean colour. You understand me?’
‘That would cost a fortune. Sure, the old place–’
‘Now, now, Mr Studdy.’
‘Ah, I’m only too pleased to meet you half way. I’m an obliging man, Nurse Clock. Only is there enough in the till for that kind of thing? I mean, we’d have to be careful now. No good trying to run before we can walk.’
‘We have a spare room now, Mr Studdy.’
‘We must consider that.’
‘We’ll burn a candle in there tomorrow; it’s the thing to do after a death; a fumigating candle to clear the air. Then a woman can scrub the place out. In no time at all it’ll be a comfy little den again.’
‘We might let it for a trifle more, after the trouble you’re going to. Isn’t it only fair to rent it at a price that covers the cost of candles and that?’
‘To be honest with you, I thought we’d let it to some poor soul, some case maybe I’d meet on my rounds.’
Hearing this, Studdy became at once alarmed. Nurse Clock, it seemed, was bent upon turning the place into a charitable institution. He questioned her at once.
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‘We would take a fair rent,’ explained Nurse Clock. ‘I am not trying to be unbusinesslike. We would charge what you and I deemed to be a fair and reasonable sum. All I am saying, Mr Studdy, is that the room would make a happy place for some poor soul.’
‘There’s people I know myself,’ said Studdy, ‘who would be glad of it. I must make a few enquiries.’
Nurse Clock, seeing awkwardness ahead, smiled to ease it away. She said, still smiling:
‘We must be careful not to let it in two different directions. Imagine you bringing up one of your cronies one night and finding some poor soul in bed there already! ‘
She implied a picture of Studdy, surrounded by good friends in a congenial setting, suddenly turning to one who was looking for new lodgings and generously offering what he had at hand. Her subtlety was lost on him; he said that that would never do and agreed that such a contretemps must be indeed avoided.
‘You must meet all sorts,’ he said.
‘Indeed I do. All sorts and every sort. Nursing is a varied life, and the nurse on the bike gets all that’s going.’
‘Rich and poor,’ said Studdy. ‘The elderly?’
‘Oh, many an elderly folk.’
‘Are a lot of them helpless? Tied to their beds, is that it?’
‘Not all that should be. You’d be surprised to see how many get up when they should be seeing their lives out on their backs.’
‘You have a hard time of it, Nurse, dealing with all that kind of thing.’
Nurse Clock replied that this was her vocation, that she had agreed to the work voluntarily.
‘You do a lot outside your duty, do you? Making a cup of tea in the kitchen, drying dishes and that? I’ve heard tell from Mrs Maylam.’
‘One does one’s small best, Mr Studdy.’
It surprised Nurse Clock that Studdy had apparently developed an interest in the nursing profession. She listened to him, wondering about it.
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