Sweets From Morocco

by Jo Verity

  Lewis listened for returning footsteps and, hearing nothing, he peered at the floor beneath the cane chair, scrutinising the stained floorboards, seeing no trace of feathers, millet seed or sunflower husks, only dust and the pale grey corpses of woodlice, like empty suits of armour. He tiptoed across to the dresser, eased open the right-hand drawer and peeped in. It was empty but he ran his hand around it in case a toffee or a Minto lurked in a dark corner. Nothing.

  By the time Mrs Channing returned, he was back in the armchair. ‘Did you have a good look around?’ she asked.

  He blushed.

  ‘I’ve always held that curiosity is a virtue and greatly undervalued. Creativity and curiosity. Forget all that faith, hope and charity humbug.’

  Reassured by this statement, he admitted, ‘I did, actually. It’s the same, but different, somehow. I’m not sure whether I’ve remembered it wrong—’

  ‘Wrongly. Or incorrectly. Adverb not adjective.’ Her tone was gentle and her smile bright and she looked, to Lewis, like a little bird, a brilliantly coloured bird from the rainforest or a tropical island.

  ‘Can I let you in on a secret? Memories are always correct. It’s what’s going on before our eyes that we misinterpret.’ She winked. ‘Now, I expect there are several things you would like to know but are too polite to mention. Shall I start you off? Yes, poor Blanche is dead. I came down one morning and she was dangling from her perch by her leg chain. Stiff as a board. We debated having her stuffed but, as I never liked the wretched parrot, it seemed an unnecessary expense.’

  ‘What did you do with her?’

  ‘We put her in the dustbin.’

  Lewis couldn’t help laughing. ‘That’s a terrible thing to do.’

  ‘Not at all. We might have buried her in the garden, I suppose, but it would have amounted to the same thing. She would still have ended up in a hole in the ground.’

  Lewis settled back in the chair. ‘You said ‘we’. Did you mean you and Mr Zeal?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Is he…?’

  ‘Yes.’ She stood at the big circular table, tidying the envelopes and newspapers piled on it. ‘Last year. November the seventeenth. A week before his eightieth birthday.’

  ‘I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to…’ Lewis had never before been required to offer sympathy for a death and he could think of nothing to say. ‘It’s horrid.’

  ‘It is. Horrid and irreversible and inevitable.’

  Lewis left what he considered to be a decent interval before asking. ‘Who was he exactly? Tessa thought he was a lodger.’

  She shook her head. ‘Henry wasn’t a lodger. He was my cousin. Our mothers were sisters. We were born within a year of each other. I am, correction, I was the older. And we spent a great deal of time together during our childhood, mainly because my mother was incapable of looking after me. But that’s a story for another day. Anyway, when my husband abandoned me, Henry came to my rescue.’

  ‘Oh. Sort of like a brother?’

  ‘No. Not in the least like a brother.’ She pulled her kimono around her slight frame, making it clear that this particular conversation was over.

  Chapter 13

  It was as if the mental and physical elements constituting Tessa Swinburne were becoming disengaged; her will no longer controlled her actions. She was behaving like a puppet, manipulated by Rundle the puppet master. It was pathetic. Had she been able to escape from the stuffy room for a while she might have snapped back into herself but he had disappeared without leaving her a set of keys. When she opened the window to check whether it was a possible means of exit and re-entry, she was confronted by a row of vicious railings topping the front wall six or seven feet below, a gruesome accident in the making.

  Looking for something to read, she examined Rundle’s bookshelves but the books were all science fiction or travel writing and nothing appealed to her. He had a terrific record collection but his record player was complicated-looking and she was afraid to touch it. Eventually she spotted a pack of playing cards on the kitchen windowsill and laid out a game of patience but, even when she cheated, she couldn’t make it come out. Besides, she had enough puzzles to solve. Lewis. Her mother. Whatever was going on between her and Rundle. Money. Somewhere to live. And back to Lewis again. She must speak to him. She could waylay him on his paper round or better still, catch him at the newsagent’s when he collected his papers.

  Tessa was surprised to see the Weekly Gazette, a newspaper she considered to be reading matter for old fogies, folded neatly on the table next to the bed. As usual it was full of ‘news’ about cats stuck up trees, increased car parking charges and local councillors opening youth centres. The only interesting pages were what Gran referred to as ‘the small ads’.

  Her grandmother spent hours trawling through this section of the paper, searching the ‘For Sale’ columns for bargains that she had no intention of buying. When they were younger, whilst Gran was tutting at the price of things she didn’t want, she and Lewis read the ‘Pets’ section, on the lookout for a replacement for the short-lived Pete. When they spotted a likely candidate, the stock reply would inevitably come back from their father, ‘Dogs are a tie. They stop you going anywhere.’ ‘But we never go anywhere, anyway,’ she would complain, ‘and Mum would love a pet to keep her company. Wouldn’t you, Mum?’ It hadn’t worked.

  Rundle had ringed a couple of items under the section headed ‘Music’. ‘Alto saxophone – suit beginner.’ and ‘Full set of drums – owner emigrating.’ Satisfied that she had discovered his reason for buying the newspaper, she was on the point of discarding it when she spotted ‘Situations Vacant’. Folding the page back, she worked her way down the list. ‘Car Mechanic.’ No. ‘Insurance salesman – commission basis.’ No. ‘Dental Nurse – training given.’ Yuck. ‘Nanny, to help with girl (4) boy (3) through summer holidays. Live in.’ Live in. How difficult could it be to look after two children? She could put up with anything for a month or so, until she found something more worthwhile. It was the perfect temporary solution.

  She found a ballpoint pen and copied the telephone number on to the back of her hand. Slipping the catch on the door to Tony’s room, she ran downstairs, doing the same with the street door. Hell, she would only be gone for a matter of minutes and she could keep an eye on the front door from the phone box.

  She inserted her pennies in the slot and dialled the number. ‘Hello. I’m phoning about the job advertised in yesterday’s Gazette. Has it gone?’ She tried to speak slowly and to deepen her voice so that she sounded less like a schoolgirl who didn’t know one end of a child from the other.

  ‘No. No, it hasn’t.’ The woman’s voice was husky and interesting and Tessa detected the hint of an Irish accent. ‘Could you hang on for a sec? I’ll close the door.’ The sound of children screeching and laughing was suddenly muffled. ‘That’s better. Little hooligans.’ She laughed. ‘God forbid I’m putting you off. They’re little darlings, honest they are. So, would you be able to start right away?’

  ‘Shouldn’t you interview me? Ask me questions?’

  ‘There’s no point in doing that if you can’t start next week. We’re going away, you see. To Cornwall. And I’d need you to come with us.’

  ‘Well, I could start on Monday if you think I’m suitable.’ The whole business was ridiculous but it was also thrilling. ‘You really should ask me a few things, you know.’

  ‘You’re right, of course. Okay. Ummm. Are you a child murderer? Or molester?’

  Tessa giggled. ‘No. Of course not.’ The woman was clearly mad.

  ‘Perfect credentials.’ There was a crash and a howl in the background. ‘Oh, God. Will you listen to that? I’ve got to go. Come on Monday. Please.’

  ‘But where shall I come. And what’s your name?’

  The woman gave her an address on the outskirts of the town. ‘I’m Liza. Liza Flynn. See you on Monday, whoever you are.’ And the phone went down before Tessa had a chance to tell her.

&
nbsp; The sensible thing was to go home. If she apologised, she would get a lecture from her father and lots of tears from her mother, then the whole business would blow over and they would have all Sunday to get back to normal. That’s what the Diane Stoddys, the virgins of this world, would do.

  When she thought about her parents – her father dogmatic and unimaginative, erecting high walls around the family to isolate them from some unspecified awfulness and her mother, trapped inside, pale and quivery like a nervous poodle – she wanted to cry. So she put them right to the back of her mind.

  Lewis was a different matter. She’d taken his money and left without saying goodbye. He could be a pain in the bum but her going, especially like this, would wound him as badly as an amputation and the thought distressed her. Still, it was probably best to make a clean break. This way he would be distraught for a couple of days and then he’d sort of slip his feelings into neutral gear – he was good at that – and carry on. She’d contact him the moment she’d found a proper job and a place to live.

  She was in bed when Rundle returned, well into the early hours of Sunday morning. He stank of beer and cigarette smoke. ‘I’ve found him.’ He poured two glasses of whisky and thrust one at her. ‘Let’s drink to it.’

  ‘Found who?’

  ‘A drummer. He’s going to sit in with us next week. See how it works.’ He undressed quickly, sliding under the sheets next to her and running his hand up between her legs.

  Lewis was in a state of high excitement. He had been back to Cranwell Lodge. The police investigation – the thing that had for so long made a visit unthinkable – had not been mentioned but Mrs Channing would not have welcomed him so warmly had she borne a grudge. He’d solved the mystery – or partially solved it – of Mr Zeal but, from her tone of voice, he guessed that there was a great deal more to discover. And he’d promised to return next weekend.

  Setting out on his Saturday evening paper round, he wondered what to tell Kirsty. He was embarrassed by the circumstances surrounding Tessa’s departure. How could he explain without it sounding as though his sister were depraved? It would be safer not to mention it at all but, were the whole matter to come out later, Kirsty would be hurt and disappointed in him.

  When he got to the Ross’s house, Kirsty was sitting on the front wall, waiting for him to appear round the corner. She was wearing a dark skirt, a white lacy blouse and delicate pink slip-on shoes. Her hair hung in one neat plait threaded through with pink ribbon.

  She grimaced and jumped off the wall. ‘Do I look a complete freak?’

  ‘No. You look…’ He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. ‘You look not like you.’

  ‘I feel not like me. We’re going out with some new friends of my parents – to a posh restaurant – and Mum said she was sick of me looking like second-hand Rose. Or rather second-hand Robert.’

  ‘But I like the way you dress.’

  ‘Thanks, Lewis. Dad wants to impress these people for some reason – work I suppose – so I’m going along with it. It’s bound to be deadly dull but the food might be okay. And apparently they’ve got a son about our age so at least I’ll have someone to talk to.’

  A son about our age. Her words pounded into his guts like cannon balls.

  ‘Oh.’ He looked down, avoiding her eyes, then stamped on a caterpillar which was undulating its way across the pavement. ‘Don’t let me keep you from your new friend.’

  Kirsty stood squarely in front of him, her face serious, and placed her hands on his shoulders. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong but there’s no need to take it out on an innocent caterpillar.’

  Without considering that it was broad daylight or that they were standing in full view of the Ross’s house, he lunged forward and kissed her on the lips. It was over so quickly that, as she ran up the path towards the house, all he could remember was the smell of freshly washed hair. It was only when he was half way home that he noticed the undelivered newspaper in the bottom of his bag.

  Uncle Frank and his father were in the garden, sitting on the wall outside the back door. He didn’t feel up to his Uncle’s bonhomie, or his father’s pessimism, and, leaning his bicycle against the side wall of the house, he eased the front door key out of his pocket, hoping that he could sneak in without being spotted. He was unlucky.

  ‘Here he is. The man himself.’ Frank Swinburne stood up.

  ‘Hi, Uncle Frank. Can’t stop. Need a pee.’ Lewis jiggled about reinforcing the reason for his haste.

  Tea that evening was a dismal affair. The four of them sat in the kitchen, Frank Swinburne taking Tessa’s place at the table. There was no sign of a hot meal and they made do with jam sandwiches and slices of Swiss roll, whilst Uncle Frank told them an involved tale about a pack of dogs that had chased his car. Lewis noticed that his mother’s mouth was fixed in an unvarying smile, the food untouched on her plate, whilst his father laughed too loudly at his brother’s tired jokes.

  ‘And how’s my favourite nephew?’ Uncle Frank asked when he had run out of anecdotes.

  ‘Fine thanks.’

  ‘Not working too hard, I hope. You know what they say.’

  Lewis concentrated on unravelling his slice of Swiss roll, wondering whether, given its circumference, there was a mathematical equation to calculate its uncoiled length.

  ‘That sister of yours has flown the coop, I hear. A week or two in a bedsit – no hot water or cold milk – and she’ll be back.’ He nudged his saucer towards his sister-in-law who, unbidden, re-filled his cup. ‘Ta, Peg.’

  Lewis gripped the edge of the tablecloth, imagining what it would feel like to yank it up and send cups, teapot and cake, the whole cosy lot, hurtling through the air.

  ‘See you around, then,’ Rundle muttered as he stood on the landing watching her struggle down the stairs with her bags.

  ‘Maybe.’

  She closed the door firmly behind her.

  When the bus came it was packed with passengers on their way to work. Tessa found a seat next to a young woman barely older than she was. The woman’s hair was fixed in a tight Hepburn pleat and Tessa could smell the lacquer that was holding it in place. She wore a cotton frock and a white cardigan and she was fiddling with an engagement ring, its tiny diamond appearing the more insignificant for its elaborate setting. A secretary or a filing clerk? Something boring like that.

  Tessa looked around her. Rundle was better-looking than any of the men sitting on the lower deck of the bus. Friday night might not have been the stuff of schoolgirl dreams but, after a couple more ‘goes’ over the weekend she felt she was getting the hang of sexual intercourse. Rundle had been if not gentler then more patient, guiding her through it. Last night she’d reached her first orgasm. It had been wonderful but what surprised her was how it took a grip of her, driving her spiralling into herself. It was nothing at all to do with the giving and sharing that she’d imagined it would be, but more two people set on gaining their own satisfaction.

  She’d found out other things, too. How to drink her coffee black; that it was possible to wash knickers using a bar of soap; how to cry silently in the dark. And that sex was messy and need have nothing to do with love.

  The lacquered girl smiled. ‘’Scuse me.’

  Tessa stood up to let her pass, watching as she stepped down from the platform of the bus and tottered down the pavement towards her dull life.

  When she wrote her memoirs, her deflowering by bad lad Rundle and her subsequent exodus from Salisbury Road would make an infinitely more dramatic tale than if she’d lost her virginity to the likes of Geoffrey.

  The address Liza Flynn had given Tessa took her to an area of the town that she had never visited. The houses here had obviously been built for people of wealth and standing, many of them were detached with wide driveways and large gardens; mature trees towered above elaborate tiled roofs and, in some of the front gardens, classical figures kept watch over ornamental ponds. Tessa pictured Edwardian women in feathered hats and men twiddling waxed m
oustaches strolling along the wide pavements but the woman who answered her knock didn’t look in the least old-fashioned.

  Liza Flynn was alarmingly beautiful. She had grey eyes, a perfectly straight nose and her blue-black hair, no more than an inch long, covered her head like a furry cap. At first sight, she had an exceptionally high forehead but, when Tessa had time to study it more closely, she saw that the hair had been shaved to an even hairline. She wore a short, white shift dress which showed off her tanned arms and legs. The fabric of the dress was sheer and it was apparent that she was wearing nothing beneath it.

  The children, Valmai and Connor, were beautiful too, dark-haired and energetic, like two little imps. As soon as they saw Tessa they grabbed her hands, dragging her into the garden to show her the row of mud pies they were assembling along the path. Aware that Liza was watching and that these first few moments with the children were vital to her escape plan, she did her best to appear enchanted with the precocious pair.

  ‘You’re a natural,’ Liza assured Tessa, rescuing her from the muddy clutches of her charges.

  They sat in the garden and Tessa gave Liza a sketchy version of her recent history, saying that she had fallen out with her parents over trivialities but not mentioning her weekend with Tony Rundle.

  Liza explained that the children’s father, Jay, had come in to some money when his grandfather died. ‘He was a sweet old man but I must admit he did us a favour by dropping dead. We were renting a few rooms down near the docks – painters don’t make a great deal of money, you know – so when his will was read, and we heard that he’d left Jay this house, it was a miracle. I don’t think the neighbours are particularly delighted, but I have the feeling we won’t be here for long. It’s all a bit too grown up for my liking.’

  ‘Your husband’s a painter? As in artist?’

  ‘Yes. But Jay Costello isn’t my husband. None of that petit bourgeois rubbish for us. C’mon. I’ll show you your room.’

  Liza filled her in on the family’s plans. They were off to St Ives in a few days time, to join a crowd of painters who were renting a large house for the whole of the summer. ‘I used to earn quite a few commissions. But it’s impossible to get anything done with these two.’ She nodded at the children, bouncing and screaming on the bed. ‘I need some help with the kids so that I can paint. That’s the idea, anyway. But I’ll be happy to laze in the sun. It’s years since we had a proper holiday.’