She picked up the receiver.
‘Hello.’
‘Is that you, Mrs Drayton?’
‘Yes, it’s me, Mrs Beggs.’
‘I’d like to have a word with Mr—’
‘I’m sorry, you’ve just missed him; you know, it’s Thursday night and he goes to the club.’
‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course. I’m so sorry, but I have a message for him from his aunt.’
‘Is she not at home?’
‘Oh yes; but, you see, Mr Drayton Senior has been in bed for the last two or three days. His gout has worsened and Mrs Drayton is sitting with him at present. She wondered if Mr Humphrey would be coming for a long weekend or just dropping in.’
‘I couldn’t tell you what arrangements he’s made for the weekend, but he’s usually there, isn’t he?’
‘Oh yes, yes. Oh yes; but . . . but sometimes he manages to make it a long weekend, coming on the Friday.’
‘Well, all I know, Mrs Beggs, is that he has a few days of his holiday left, but I don’t know what arrangements he’s made.’
It sounded so pedantic, but she couldn’t stand Mrs Beggs – the treasure, as Humphrey thought of her, in the Drayton Senior household.
‘Thank you. I’ll give his aunt the message.’
Hannah made no reply but put the phone down and for a moment stood looking at it. If he’d been going there tomorrow, surely he’d have said something; but then again, it was a foregone conclusion that he spend most of his Saturdays and Sundays in Worthing, and it was very rarely now that he asked her to accompany him, because he knew what her answer would be. On the Sunday night he would enquire how she had spent her weekend, and her reply would generally be, ‘The usual way. I went to the pictures on Saturday, and I had lunch with Janie and the family on Sunday.’ She never mentioned the time she spent writing and drawing, because that was how she filled up most of her weekends, that and walking in the park, even in the rain. She couldn’t stand that Mrs Beggs. Hannah’s dislike of Mrs Beggs was another reason why she avoided visiting Humphrey’s relatives.
Mrs Beggs ran the house in Worthing. She had done so for years, apparently. When Humphrey was ten she had come on the scene as a young widow with a small daughter, who was boarded at her sister’s. She was engaged as housemaid. Then, as the family was wealthy, there had been a cook and a kitchen maid in the indoor staff, a gardener and a boy outside. When the cook died (certainly not from overeating, Hannah imagined, for Mrs Drayton, she had seen, was still an expert at weighing out ingredients), and as Mrs Beggs was of like mind to her mistress, she gradually took on the position of housekeeper. Later, when her master had his periodic bouts of gout she thought nothing of acting as nurse too. Oh, indeed Mrs Beggs was a treasure.
Apparently Humphrey had been twenty-four and in his last year of accountancy training when Mrs Beggs’ daughter was brought into the house as her assistant. But Daisy must have been a great disappointment to her mother, for she went off and married the young gardener.
Whenever Humphrey spoke to Mrs Beggs on the phone, he would call her Beggie. He was almost deferential towards her. He had only once spoken about her and said she was a very good woman. He was very grateful to her because she had given most of her life to the old couple. She had worked for them for almost thirty years, and had looked after them and cared for them as few others would have done, because they were not everybody’s cup of tea, being of high moral opinions and still very narrow in many of their views in this enlightened time . . .
Hannah hurried out of the house, and was in the street before she muttered to herself, and not without disdain, ‘The treasure.’
Even the woman’s voice put her on edge.
It was a lovely night. There were few people about; those who were seemed to walk leisurely. It would be different after eight o’clock, and more so after ten. Oh, yes. She was glad of the taxi money: the concert wouldn’t likely be over until half-past nine or so and she didn’t like travelling alone at night.
The hall was almost full. Her seat was an end one in the third row from the back. There was hardly time to look round before the performance began.
It started with two Mozart piano sonatas. It wasn’t often she went to a concert of classical music. She classed her taste as middle-of-the-road music that would touch her emotionally.
Beethoven followed with the ‘Moonlight’ sonata. But what irritated her was a piece by a modern composer. To her it was all screech and discord, with odd silences suggesting it had come to the end. She heaved a sigh when the lights went up and there was a general stir towards the bar.
She would have liked a drink but she didn’t feel like going into the bar by herself. She stood up to let some people move into the aisle; then she sat down again, and was comforted somewhat to see that there were lots of people remaining seated. She looked at the next part of the programme and as she did so she wondered whether to stay because, if she was truthful, the second half looked considerably less inviting than the first.
‘Well, well!’ A man had been passing her in the aisle, although she was only aware of his lower half because her head was bowed over the programme. It was David Craventon.
She looked up, then smiled widely.
‘Now, isn’t this strange. Are you on your own?’ he said.
‘Yes. Yes.’
‘That’s stranger still. So am I. To meet in the morning and then in the evening. I think it portends something. A drink, don’t you think? Would you like a drink?’
‘Yes; yes, I would, but I didn’t want to go for one by myself.’
‘Come on, then.’ He bent over, then took her hand and raised her to her feet.
They were in the aisle when he asked, ‘D’you often come to these concerts?’
‘No. My husband bought two tickets, forgetting that it was Thursday night and the night for his weekly bridge session. He thought it was a shame to waste them, so here I am.’
‘Have you enjoyed it so far?’
She paused a moment before she said, ‘Mostly. I love some pieces, but when I suppose what you would call the real music begins I admit to becoming lost.’
‘Don’t express opinions without knowledge, madam.’ His tone was playful. ‘I’m a man who gets easily bored with all kinds of sounds from yapping dogs to endless birdsong. I’ve sworn never to hear another dawn chorus in my life.’
They were laughing together now as he led her to the far corner of the counter, where there was one stool free, and when she sat on it he said, ‘What’ll you have?’
‘Oh.’ Her eyes were laughing into his now as she said, ‘I never get beyond sherry; that is, usually.’
‘Which means, madam—’ he was now bending close to her and whispering, ‘you are asking for something stronger?’
And she returned his whisper, saying, ‘No, not stronger, please! Just different.’
‘Well, then, if you want something different, have you ever had . . . ’ – he straightened up and caught the attention of one of the young women serving behind the bar – ‘Pimm’s?’
‘Pimm’s? No, I’ve heard of it.’
‘It’s quite a fruity drink. Well, I say quite; we’ll try you with a No. 1. Two Pimm’s No. 1, please.’
A few minutes later she was guiding the half-slice of orange on its stick to the side of the glass as she sipped the drink, and her verdict came with a broad smile, ‘It’s lovely!’
They had both finished their drinks when the bell rang warning that the second part of the concert was about to begin.
He looked at her and asked, ‘Would you like another drink?’ and she answered, ‘No, thank you; that was lovely.’
His eyes still on her, he said, ‘Do you really want to hear the rest of this concert?’
The smile slid from her face as she asked, ‘Don�
�t you?’
And he answered, again playfully, ‘I’m not overwhelmed by a desire to return to my seat, but how do you feel?’
‘Well’ – she cocked her chin upwards – ‘I have no overwhelming desire either to go back in there.’
‘That’s settled then. It was a beautiful evening when we came in; if it’s still beautiful, would you like to take a walk? The city looks different at night; in fact all London looks different at night. It’s like a child saying, “I’ve done my lessons all day, now let’s play.”’
She had slid from the stool and was staring at him. He was so different from anyone she had ever spoken to. The word was refreshing, like the drink she had just had. She felt warm inside, sort of daredevilish. If he had said to her, ‘Take my hand and we’ll run out of here and through the streets,’ she would have done so . . .
They had been walking for some five minutes, and he had been pointing out places to her and explaining why they were there, and how long they had been there, or how they had changed. He was like a guide talking to a tourist, yet a personal guide . . . all hers.
Goodness! Fancy thinking things like that. She said suddenly, ‘What was in that drink, the Pimm’s?’ and he, turning to her, said, ‘The Pimm’s . . . ? Well, orange juice, lemon juice, a little bit of this, a little bit of that.’
When he paused, she said, ‘Yes, and what else?’
‘A drop of whisky, I suppose, or is it rum? or is it gin? There’s Pimm’s Nos 1, 2 and 3, you know. I don’t know how far they go on after that, but why do you ask?’
She bit on her lip and shook her head slightly before she answered, ‘I suppose I could say I’m feeling nice, different.’
‘Good. Good. Different from this morning?’
‘Oh, yes; different from this morning.’
‘You looked white and peaky this morning.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes, and, I could add, slightly sad, a little wary and sort of lost.’
The smile left her face. Had she looked like that? Yes, she supposed, she looked like that all the time; that’s what Janie often said to her: ‘Do something with yourself; you’re getting all skin and bone and you’re losing your looks. D’you know that you’re losing your looks? And I consider that a sin because they’re not given out to everybody. Look at me.’
Oh, Janie. Janie. Wait till she told her about this evening . . . about today.
There was silence between them for quite some minutes before he said softly, ‘Shall we have a walk in the park? It’s quiet there, at least more so than here in the streets. And look’ – he pointed upwards – ‘there’s a moon about to show its cheeky face.’
When she didn’t answer, he said, ‘Or would you rather have something to eat? Anywhere around here’ll be pretty busy by now, but ten minutes on the bus and we’ll be in Camden Town, and there’s a little restaurant there where Monsieur Harold, otherwise known as Micky McClean from the heart of Camden, will supply us with a fine five-course meal or anything else you like, down to bangers and mash or beans on toast, and that’s right up till two in the morning, mind you; and I can assure you that even if he’s full he’ll squeeze me in if it’s only into the back kitchen.’
Oh, he was funny; so . . . so light. Yes, that was the word for him, so light; like somebody from another planet, he was bodiless. When she stopped and stared at him, he said, ‘What is it?’ and she didn’t answer him for some seconds because she was thinking: His face, it was so appealing; not good-looking, yet . . . yet beautiful. His voice came again now, with some concern, ‘What is it? Do you want to go back?’
‘No! No!’ Her denial was so loud that even he laughed, the while looking from side to side at the passers-by. Then again he said, ‘Well, what is it?’
‘It’s only that . . . well, I ate earlier. But your description of Mr McClean’s place has given me an appetite. Oh, if I’m truthful it’s that I’m finding you very odd.’
‘Really?’
She nodded at him as a child might have done after being naughtily frank. ‘I’ve never met a man like you. I don’t meet men like you. What I mean is . . . well, I don’t meet many men, but those I do . . . well, are certainly not like you, or then again Mr Gillyman. Two strange men in one day is . . . rather overwhelming.’
He had to pull her to one side to allow a couple to pass them, and this brought her very close to him; his face now almost touching hers, he said, ‘Would it surprise you if I told you something similar, that I find you very odd? Odd, I mean, in the same way that you find Gilly and me odd. For instance, you came into our lives this morning and caused some commotion. Mrs Gilly had never before been ordered to receive a client upstairs for coffee. Nor had Gilly and I agreed so wholeheartedly over a book. Your book.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Yes, really. For it’s a very strange little book. It seems to have been written for children by a child. Oh, don’t mind me saying that, please!’
She did mind his saying that: that’s what Humphrey had said. But then she heard this different man saying, ‘It was as if you had to get into a child’s mind so as to put down what the child would understand and like, and you’ve succeeded. Perhaps not everybody would agree with us, but nevertheless you have.’
‘Oh, thank you. Thank you.’
She felt she was going to cry, and he knew this and so, quickly taking her arm, he said, ‘Come on, there’s a bus.’ And then they were running; and when he hoisted her up on to the platform they were both laughing, and ten minutes later, when they got off, they were still laughing . . .
The restaurant was beautifully clean but sparsely furnished. The tables had plastic covered tops concealed mostly by tartan patterned table mats. On each table stood a bottle of sauce, another of vinegar, a salt and pepper canister, and a stark notice that read, ‘No smoking, with or after meals’. No ‘please’ or ‘thank you’, a bald statement.
‘Aah! Mr Crav . . . enton. Nice to see you again; and you, madam.’
David Craventon, lowering his head, whispered, ‘Come off it, Micky; she’s a Londoner.’
‘Thank Gawd for that.’ The short, lean-faced and even leaner-bodied man grinned at Hannah, then winked and said, ‘All in the line of business, miss.’ Turning to David again, he said, ‘What can I get you? I’ll tell you what’s on tonight, and they’re good: lemon soles done in butter. They’re so fresh we had to take the hooks out of their mouths.’
Hannah laughed outright and Micky, thoroughly shaking his head at her, said, ‘It’s a fact, miss. A fact.’
‘All right, Micky, we’ll have the sole. That’s if it’ll suit you.’ David had turned to her, and she said, ‘Yes, thank you. I like fish.’
‘Now for a starter . . . Tell you what, there’s lovely fruit, fresh as fresh? On a bed of melon, there’s apricots, raspberries, peaches . . . you name it, you’ll find it on that bed, and it’s fit to be pictured and hung in the National Gallery.’
‘All right,’ said David; ‘the art gallery it is.’
‘Then for afters there’ll be a sweet tray as usual, but let me tell you’ – he was bending towards them now confidentially – ‘I’ve concocted a pudding. You’ll be the first to try it, it’s a cross between spotted dick and crêpe Suzette.’
Hannah found it a most wonderful meal. She couldn’t recall ever eating anything like it before. Humphrey sometimes took her out to dinner, but their usual first course was a prawn cocktail, sometimes followed by steak, sometimes by chicken; and the dessert always came from a trolley, with coffee to follow, and all very quietly eaten. Certainly no loud laughter, no hiccuping through merriment and no pudding that was a cross between Spotted Dick and Crêpe Suzette, which had turned out to be delightful. It was as well that Hannah had been too on edge to eat very much with Humphrey. They took almost an hour and a half over the meal, and wh
en they left Micky McClean escorted them to the door, and there he said quietly to David, ‘I was thinking about popping in to see Mr Gilly. D’you think it’s about time?’
‘Could be, Micky. Could be. The brothers are coming for a weekend, so there might be another avenue opening. Anyway, pop in and have a talk with him.’
‘Thanks, Davie, thanks; I’ll do that. And now what I’m going to say to you might be called tactless, being in front of your lady friend . . . if I’m not here I’ll leave word that whenever you appear, twelve noon or midnight, it’s on the house. Understand that? Now go on and get yourself away, because I’m not going to cross words with you. I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again, if I don’t have me own way in this, don’t come back here any more. Goodnight, miss.’ He was grinning at Hannah now, and when his hand grabbed hers and shook it he nodded towards David, saying, ‘Not a bad chap, when you get to know him. Not a bad chap at all.’
‘I mightn’t be a bad chap, but you’re an impossible thickheaded Cockney. Always were and always will be. Goodnight.’
The last they heard from him was as they went down the street, when he shouted after them, ‘I’ll get one of my lads to split your nose next time.’
When David took her hand and ran with her, she was laughing again like a child; but then, suddenly pulling him to a standstill, she asked, ‘What time is it? I haven’t got my watch on.’
‘Twenty-five-past ten.’
‘Oh, my goodness! I’m always back by ten. And . . . and he comes in about half-past.’
‘Your husband?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
The Thursday Friend Page 5
