‘But the boy wasn’t having it,’ she prompts again. ‘And the girl –?’
‘The girl put up occasional resistance, but she slogged on.’
‘More easily bullied.’
‘Less easily discouraged, I’d say. Anyway, she slogged on and in the end, thanks to her cranky father, she found her vocation.’
‘How come?’
‘Because one of her father’s heroes became her hero. One of the bedtime stories was the voyage of the Beagle and she was enthralled. It was as exciting as the Odyssey for her. Charles Darwin was her Odysseus. Inspired by him, she became a marine biologist.’
‘And the boy?’ asks her father.
‘The boy works in a bank,’ Mr Morton concludes.
Her father, looking uncomfortable with the subject of fathers, seems to be trying to think of a way of changing the subject. An idea occurs to him, but as he opens his mouth Mr Morton speaks.
‘The point of all that was that I was saying to Stephanie that this Italian professor would have loved the Oak,’ he explains. ‘He loves everything English. Wears English shoes and Burberry trenchcoats, reads The Times, almost enjoys cricket.’
‘The Oak would have been just his cup of tea,’ says her father.
‘Drinks Twining’s as well,’ Mr Morton smiles.
‘Actually,’ her father continues, now introducing whatever it was that he’d thought of, ‘the Oak has an Italian connection. You know the chandelier in the Randall Room?’ He pauses, looking eagerly at both of them. ‘Well, it was manufactured by the Salviati company, and Salviati was an Anglo-Italian venture when it began, back in the 1850s, because when Antonio Salviati founded his firm on the island of Murano, in Venice, to make glass tiles for mosaics, his associates were English, English businessmen. You go to Venice now and you see Venetian glass all over the place, but the industry was dead until Antonio and his gang of Englishmen came along. And then things came full circle, you see,’ he goes on, making the most of this last opportunity to share his stories about the Oak, ‘because very soon, three years in fact, after Salviati and his friends started making glass in Venice there was the International Exhibition in London, in 1862, where a lot of Venetian glass was on show. And one consequence of the exhibition was that British designers were inspired by the Venetian work they saw there, so you find a Venetian influence coming through in British design. So it feeds back in, you see?’ and then he’s going on about furniture and ceramics and wallpaper and the Crystal Palace and Walter Croombe, a stream of information that has been bottled up for years, awaiting an appreciative audience, and Mr Morton is leaning forward, making the right noises, while behind him the old couple from the garden are staring into their empty wineglasses, having nothing left to say to each other, and over by the window the man whose collar is so tight he looks like a throttled pig keeps leering at her, as if she’s sitting here stark naked. She cannot comprehend how anyone can make a career out of demeaning himself to people like these, and her father is looking at her now. ‘Fast forward, Dad,’ he says. ‘You used to say that, when you were small. Something of a catch phrase, it was.’
The red-faced man at Mr Gillies’ table clicks his fingers as she passes. ‘Excuse me,’ he calls, waving his hand high, as if she had been ignoring him. ‘Excuse me.’
‘Yes,’ she answers.
‘I asked for a Rémy Martin.’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t think this is Rémy Martin.’
‘Yes. That is what it is. It is brandy.’
‘It’s brandy, yes.’
‘Cognac.’
‘Yes. I know that. But it’s not Rémy Martin.’
‘Yes. It is what you want.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he says, with a nasty slit of a smile. ‘In fact, I’m sure not.’
Mr Gillies looks at her and does a tightening of his eyebrows, pressing his mouth shut. His wife is pretending that there is something wrong with her bracelet.
‘You like me to bring it again?’ she asks.
‘Not again, no. I would like the one I ordered. A Rémy Martin.’
‘Another one, OK.’
As if he is very tired he rubs his eyelids, so hard that the skin makes a small wet squeaking sound. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘why don’t you just bring me the bottle? The bottle of Rémy Martin. Could you bring it here, to the table? Then I can pour it myself.’
Mrs Gillies, fiddling again with the bracelet, gives her a sorry look.
‘Thank you,’ says the red-faced man. ‘And a glass.’
‘A glass?’
‘Yes,’ he says sharply. ‘A clean glass.’
At the side of her eye she sees Mr Caldecott getting up from his daughter’s table and coming over. With a shake of her head she warns him away.
No sooner has her father gone through the kitchen door than it opens again and David appears, carrying a glass. He takes it to the throttled pig and sets it down in front of him, precisely, as if offering a priceless antique for inspection. Turning away, he winks at her.
‘I need some more water,’ she says to Mr Morton, beckoning to David. ‘Anything for you?’
‘I’ll have a whisky.’
David saunters towards their table, his head tilted interrogatively, his smile sly. ‘May I be of assistance, madam?’ he grovels, kneading his hands.
‘Could we have a whisky here?’
‘Of course.’
‘And some water. Fizzy.’
‘Of course, madam,’ he says, then his smile disappears, and his eyes fasten on hers for an instant, questioning.
‘Thank you,’ she replies, responding with a look as direct as his, which he accepts with a little bow. Watching him go back to the kitchen, she catches her breath in a moment of excitement and misgiving, as if she’s made a promise that cannot now be retracted. Gallantly he holds the kitchen door open for Annie to pass, and winks again.
‘Have you been in the pool, Mr Morton?’ she asks.
‘Not something I enjoy very much, swimming. I tend to flounder. It makes me feel uneasy, being weightless.’
‘I love the water,’ she says. ‘I’m a good floater. Being a big girl.’ Mr Morton’s eyebrows jump with surprise. ‘Is that not how you’d imagined me?’
‘I hadn’t really imagined anything precise. Neither big nor small.’
‘I’m not a tub. But I do carry a bit of excess baggage, which helps the buoyancy. Skinnies sink, in my experience.’
‘Excess as far as you’re concerned, or by magazine standards?’
‘The latter. I’m happily heavy.’
‘Good. Happily heavy,’ he repeats, grinning. Stroking his jaw, he directs his eyes at the ceiling, then a laugh bursts out.
‘Share?’ she requests.
‘Sorry,’ he says, nipping his lip abashedly. ‘I’ve just been reminded of something.’
‘What?’
‘An incident in a swimming pool. A misunderstanding.’
‘Tell.’
‘It’s slightly risqué. But funny. Well, I think it’s funny. Quite funny.’
‘Excellent.’
‘I don’t know if I should tell you. Shall I tell you?’
‘I think you should.’
‘I’m a little tipsy, I have to say. Distinctly inebriated. I’ll tell you,’ he decides, dropping his voice. ‘This is before the optical apparatus had shut down completely. During the twilight’s last gleaming.’
‘OK.’
‘My girlfriend at the time, Barbara, was an athletic girl, good swimmer. Very good swimmer. She persuaded me to go to the pool with her. A Thursday morning, mid-morning. Very quiet. The place was empty, in fact.’ He pauses, and dips his head closer to her. ‘There was nobody else in the water, but lanes had been roped off. Barbara took the fast lane. Off she goes, bombing up and down. I’m alongside, pootling up and down,’ he goes on, his arms moving in a slow-motion breaststroke. ‘After half an hour I’m finished. Barbara’s just getting into her rhythm. Up down, up down, up down.
I’m hanging off the rope and I get it into my head that I’ll ambush her the next time she goes past. I hear the splashing getting louder. I wait until she’s level with me, then, “Gotcha!”’ he cries in a whisper, cupping his hands. ‘But what I’m holding is not Barbara. No question about it: too much flesh. I’ve got the wrong woman. God knows where she came from, but she’s not Barbara.’
‘And what happened?’ she asks, a little embarrassed, and also a little ashamed that she should have been surprised to hear Mr Morton talk of a girlfriend.
‘Bedlam. I’m flapping about, telling the poor woman that I’m very sorry but I thought she was my girlfriend, and she gives me a hefty shove on the face, which I don’t see coming, so it catches me by surprise and I go under. I’ve got a noseful of water and I think I’m going to drown, so I grab whatever is at hand, and what’s at hand is a portion of leg, and then the lifeguard’s blowing his whistle,’ he laughs. ‘Utter bedlam.’
‘Our drinks,’ she interrupts, seeing Eloni approaching with a tray, and Mr Morton, sitting upright, composes his face into an expression of serene receptivity.
Eloni puts the bottle of water in the middle of the table, offering her a timid smile. She slides the glass of whisky across the tablecoth towards Mr Morton’s opened hand.
‘Thank you, Eloni,’ he says, closing his fingers on the glass.
‘Mr Morton,’ she responds, as though their words were part of a practised routine.
Her father, stooping to listen to the flattery of an old woman with violet hair, watches Eloni crossing the room at a trot. The kitchen door swings shut, and he smiles compliantly at a remark from the old woman.
‘I reckon she has an admirer,’ she observes. ‘Our waitress.’
Frowning, Mr Morton considers her comment. ‘I like her manner,’ he admits. ‘She has an unusual voice.’
‘No. I mean my father.’
‘Oh.’
‘I think he might fancy her.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘The look he gives her.’
‘Is she pleasing to the eye?’
‘Quite.’
‘Does it bother you?’
‘No,’ she says, wishing that it did, and her father looks at them as if somehow he’s overheard their conversation.
‘It sounds as if it does,’ says Mr Morton.
‘No. It doesn’t.’
Nodding, clearly not believing her, he takes a sip of his whisky and starts at the kick of it. ‘Do you think you could get him to come over?’ he asks. ‘I need a favour.’
Graciously the woman with the violet hair permits her father to leave her, but only for a minute, her wagging finger seems to tell him.
‘I could do with an escort, Malcolm,’ says Mr Morton, reaching for her father’s arm. ‘I’m not totally stable, I should warn you,’ and he does indeed lurch a little when they swerve past the table of the woman with the violet hair, who simpers at them as they pass, and simpers again when her father comes back.
‘I think Mr Morton has enjoyed the evening,’ he says, congratulating her. ‘He likes you.’
‘And she likes you,’ she counters.
‘Who?’
‘Mrs Purplehead.’
‘She does, God bless her. Mrs Neary. The record holder. Her fourteenth visit while I’ve been here.’
‘Mr Neary?’
‘Deceased, many years ago.’
‘And you remind her of him, I bet?’
‘I doubt it. I think I’m more like a favourite nephew than a surrogate husband,’ he says, reciprocating the smile with which Mrs Neary is indicating how touched she is by the presence of his daughter. ‘Anyway, have you enjoyed this evening?’
‘It was interesting.’
‘Enjoyably interesting?’
‘Yes.’
‘Food to your liking?’
‘It was good.’
‘And good company as well,’ he observes, making the statement sound like a leading question.
‘Yes,’ she says neutrally.
With an expression of rueful satisfaction he surveys the room. At one table people are getting up to leave. With a flurry of hand signals one of the men tells her father that he’d like a word and will wait for him in the hall. Her father gives a thumbs-up, then he notices the champagne dregs. ‘Is that what I think it is?’ he asks, tapping the glass.
‘It is. Just the one.’
‘Not what we agreed, is it?’
‘Don’t make a fuss. You gave me a glass yourself.’
‘That was at home. This is in public.’
‘I look older than I am.’
‘Hardly the point, Stephanie.’
‘It doesn’t matter now, does it?’
The kitchen door flaps open and Eloni comes out, carrying a tray of coffee cups, and her father cannot stop himself giving her a sidelong glance as she hurries between the tables, blowing at the loop of hair that has fallen across her face.
‘Anyway. What about you?’ she asks him. ‘Did you enjoy it? Seemed to go well, from where I was sitting.’
‘I think it did,’ he replies, again glancing at Eloni.
‘No mishaps?’
‘Nothing major.’
‘Good,’ she says.
She looks down the wide track of carpet that divides the room. It’s like sitting beside one of her parents’ friends at the end of a dinner party and then, relieved, she sees Mr Morton returning.
‘No coffee for me, thanks. I’m whacked,’ Stephanie answers her father, shifting her chair. ‘I’m turning in. Goodnight, Mr Morton. See you in the morning. Do you know what time train you’re taking back?’
‘There’s one at eleven,’ he replies.
‘Perhaps we could travel together?’
‘That would be nice,’ he says, and she touches his shoulder.
‘’Night,’ she says. The flapping of her jeans recedes, and he has the impression that Malcolm is watching her go.
‘Would that be all right with you?’ Malcolm asks.
‘Of course.’
‘If you’d rather travel on your own, do say. I know you have work to do. I’ll have a word with her.’
‘Really, it’s OK. More than OK. Positively to my advantage. No problems finding a seat with Stephanie around.’
‘That’s true,’ Malcolm agrees with a wry snort. There is a pensive-seeming pause, then he adds: ‘I should thank you. You’ve done me a favour.’
‘In what way?’
‘With Stephanie. You’ve made things easier than they might have been.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘No, I’m sure it’s true. Your being here has helped. A lot.’
‘Well –’
‘I’m grateful.’
‘I’ve enjoyed her company. If you think there’s been a benefit to you, I’m very glad.’
‘There has been. And I’m not letting you pay for your room.’
‘But –’ He breaks off, hearing rapid soft footsteps, which must be Eloni’s.
‘Two coffees, please,’ Malcolm requests. ‘A filter for me. Edward?’
‘The same, thank you.’
‘Two filter coffees, then. Thank you.’ Malcolm’s cadence perhaps betrays affection, just as Eloni’s voice seemed to, yesterday, when she said that Stephanie was here.
‘Was that Eloni?’ he asks.
‘Yes, it was,’ Malcolm replies, in a tone that is colourless. ‘Will you excuse me, just for a minute or two? I’m being summoned.’
Holding on to the step, lying on the water, Stephanie listens for noises from upstairs, but the pool is as silent as a sea at night. She stares into the space above her, at the patterns of stars she knows are there. Staring harder, she feels the shape of her eyelids changing, but sees nothing. She closes her eyes, and there is no difference in what she can see. She lies still, her eyes closed. Her back is in the coolness of the water and her belly is in the coolness of the air, but she cannot feel the boundary where air and water meet. Sh
e strides against the water, slowly, and softly the current rakes her thighs. Wavelets lick against the gutter, making a ticking sound. When it ceases she can hear the beating of her pulse on the drums of her ears, like the thumping of a drum full of sand. Then a sallow light breaks in, from beyond the changing rooms, and the turquoise glistens murkily. At the clunk of the door it is dark again. A bolt scrapes, and David whispers ‘Hello?’ In answer she coughs. ‘I can’t see a bloody thing,’ he says, smacking the wall as he edges closer. ‘Where are you? You in?’ She pats the surface of the water. ‘Madwoman,’ he says, then a buckle jingles. She hears the slither of his shirt, the knock of his shoes on the ground, the scuff of his bare feet. It sounds as if she could touch him if she reached up. He whisks the water, only a yard or two from her face, then he is sitting down. The roughened edges of the tiles rasp on his skin as he slides down. She holds her breath, straining to see him. ‘The search begins,’ he announces. The water surges as he swims away, and in his wake she creeps down the pool, pulling herself along by the lip of the gutter. He turns and swims back, raising a wake that laps at her throat. ‘I give up,’ he laughs, from the end of the pool.
‘Here,’ she replies. ‘Here.’ With slow strokes, barely disturbing the water, he approaches. She moves aside so that he misses her and a wave, as he passes, moves lightly over her breasts. ‘Here,’ she says and he stops. The water settles and in the darkness she can hear his breath, can sense him listening. A ripple rises on her neck, then on her thigh his hand touches her, shocking her like a cut. She is kissing him and the water is kissing her whole body in the darkness. His skin is on her skin and the water is on her skin and she is here, and there is nothing beyond her body and his.
Standing underneath the bare bulb, Mr Caldecott looks suddenly much older. The light takes the colour from his face and the shadows make his skin seem to sag. As he bends towards her, his scalp shines through his hair. ‘You can stay in my house,’ he says. ‘For a few days. A few weeks if you like. You can have the room you had before. Nobody will find you there, Eloni. For a few days. We can make some more calls.’
‘Thank you,’ she says, meaning no, and he knows this is what she means, because with his forefinger he rubs at the furrows between his eyebrows.
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