No doubt about it: makeup, subtly applied, added drama to a woman’s face. Mrs Dulcimer’s kohl-encircled eyes and blue-shadowed eyelids made her positively alluring. In a flashy kind of way. She had painted her big, plump mouth a soft rose. Her brown cheeks glowed. The cold outside or a skilfully applied smudge of rouge?
She said: the silly child took it to the local pawnbroker’s. All I had to do was go and redeem it. As soon as I got up. As soon as the shop was open. I was busy at home all this afternoon. I came here, I assure you, as soon as I could.
Where did she sleep? A boudoir, opening off her sitting-room, hung with swathes of scarlet brocade. A wide bed with a padded velvet headboard edged with gilt curlicues. Blue silk sheets, rumpled and tumbled like the waves of a summer sea. Her glistening black hair, coming loose from its night-time plait, curling across the pillows. Lace at the low neck of her nightgown. Warmth inside the sheets, the smell of her warm body.
He said: so where is she now?
She raised her brows. Doll? Safe at home, locked in the kitchen, crying her eyes out. I scolded her, of course.
Was that all? Doll should have been punished. Punished how? When Milly disobeyed him, or answered back, he couldn’t bear that she had to be so difficult, couldn’t just acknowledge his concern for her. He felt forced to send her to her room. She’d stick her nose in the air, stalk upstairs. Solitary confinement just meant more time for lying on her bed reading.
Mrs Dulcimer said: I can see from the look on your face you think I should have thrown her out. But I couldn’t do that. Much too cruel. Doll’s come to me only recently. She’s had a sad history. But she’s learning to behave. I’m seeing to it.
She bent down and twisted open the bag’s clasp. She ripped open a brown-paper wrapping; lifted and shook out his coat. She held it up it with one black-gloved hand, and knocked it with the other, getting rid of the creases. He suddenly felt sorry for the coat, being smacked. It hadn’t done anything wrong. It had got carried away, that was all. Not its fault.
Mrs Dulcimer said: the money’s still there, in the inside pocket.
His face must have shown his surprise, his suspicion. She put out a gloved hand, as though she wanted to pat his arm, then quickly drew it back, turned it to and fro, as though inspecting the ruching at the wrist of her glove. She said: you can feel that they’re banknotes, through the cloth. They’ve a particular crispness and crackle. Doll didn’t notice, but I did. Please don’t worry. The pocket’s intact. The stitches haven’t been tampered with. You can trust me.
Nathalie had given him the coat as a birthday present, six months before she died. Second-hand, obviously, but looking brand-new after her steaming and pressing. She’d filled the pockets with extra gifts. Small, ridiculous things, such as she knew he’d enjoy. A bag of liquorice sweets. A stick of sealing-wax. A blue cotton handkerchief. A watch-fob. Part of their game that morning had been his tearing open the stitched-up pockets, one by one, extracting the treasures, kissing her for each revelation. That night, in their bedroom, naked under the coat, she’d strolled up and down before him, lifting her hands to unloosen her hair, unleashing that torrent of brown curls, smiling at him over her shoulder, and he’d unbuttoned her, very slowly. Some time after she died, he placed the banknotes in the inside pocket, over his heart. The money he’d have spent on taking Nathalie and the child to France, to show the baby to her grandparents. He got his mother to stitch up the pocket again. A kind of little cloth tomb. Don’t tell Cara, Ma. It’d only upset her more. His mother had winked at him. It’s our secret.
Mrs Dulcimer smiled at him. A real smile, eye-crinkling, full of warmth. She sounded so eager; like a child wanting him to praise her for good behaviour.
Trust you? Joseph asked: how do I know I can do that?
She bit her lip. She smoothed the backs of her gloves, pulled the cloak around her. Every bit of her swaddled in black, only her face showing. Those dark eyes.
Just count the notes, she said: and then you’ll know, won’t you?
If she’d been a lady, he’d have apologised for doubting her word. But in fact she hadn’t tricked him, had she? She’d redeemed the coat, brought it back to him. Honour among thieves. He wasn’t a thief. Nor was she. Doll the maid was the culprit in this case.
He said: thank you. I’m much obliged to you.
Mrs Dulcimer drew her veil back down and fastened it under her chin. She pulled up her hood. She said: I must go. Like you last night, I’ve a cab waiting.
How neat she looked, her gloves buttoned tightly, the tips of her glossy boots showing beneath her black hem. She nodded at him, stepped towards the door. As she passed him with a rustle of skirts he caught a hint of her rose scent. It drifted close to his face, stroked his cheek.
He shut the door behind her and went slowly back downstairs, sliding his hands over the banisters. They ran smoothly under his open palms. Just as he re-entered the dining-room he remembered that he hadn’t given the woman back her tweed cloak.
Why not tomorrow? He was bound for Walworth, in any case, to continue his research. He could drop in to Apricot Place after his weekly visit to the cemetery up in Highgate. Wrap up the cloak, take it with him along with the potted cactus, his gardening tools. Miniature fork and trowel stood ready on the tin tray at the bottom of the hallstand, ready to be slipped into the deep side pocket of his coat. Easy to carry a brown-paper parcel as well. Nathalie waited for him in Highgate. She wore a cloak too; not of tweed but of earth.
FOUR
Madeleine
Dawn light paints the bedroom walls a creamy grey. The closed white curtains make a soft screen. Like the one Rose-next-door and her artist friends hung up for the shadow-puppet play they put on last weekend in the community house along the street. Flat black profiles jerked back and forth. Jesus, a robed figure with jutting hair and beard, seated himself, raised his hand, forefinger pointing like a teacher’s. The silhouette of a woman pushed in: Mary Magdalene; ripple of her flowing curls and cloak. Her limbs hinged; she kneeled before the Lord. Her hand dipped at her pot of ointment: she anointed the Saviour’s feet.
Rose got Madeleine involved in the project over supper in Sally’s kitchen: you write us an Easter story, and we’ll do the rest. They were chopping parsley, mashing garlic, while Sally stirred sliced onions into hot oil. Madeleine said: heretic’s version, OK? Rose lifted an eyebrow: no fancy words, thanks. Madeleine said: my grandmother Nelly called that swallowing the dictionary. Sally smiled at Madeleine: don’t take no heed of Rose.
Madeleine began grating Cheddar. She said: Nelly was born near here, did I tell you? On the Old Kent Road. She used to go shopping with her mother in East Street market.
Sally banged her wooden spoon: the Lane, Madeleine, it’s called the Lane.
Still in her dressing-gown Madeleine stands at the open back door, drinks her breakfast coffee, eyes the pink-flowered hellebores at the top of the area steps. With the puppet play over, she feels restless. She needs another project outside paid work, something besides her recently taken job making cakes and sandwiches at the café on Walworth Road. But what?
Shelve the problem by going out. Thursday today. Maundy Thursday. Why not call it the start of the Easter holidays, go to the pub tonight?
Soon after moving in nine months ago, she began poking her nose into various locals. Mainly on her own: her north London friends don’t want to cross the river just to get a drink. Toby’s new post as a chef for a catering company keeps him busy most evenings. See you Sunday, maybe. Once or twice Madeleine has invited Sally. Always the same response: I don’t go to pubs. I have a drink at home sometimes. If I’m in the mood.
Toby has pointed her towards the Adam and Eve, near Kennington: not yet a gastro-pub so you’re safe.
Old wooden frontage; on a corner; properly full. The blue doors pump open and shut, the pub a body breathing in and out, the punters its air. One older one, blotchy-skinned, dyed red hair white at the roots, leaning on an elbow crutch, limps in a
nd out to use the facilities in the Ladies, leaving her dog and wheelie bag outside at her accustomed perch, a bench near the kerb. The bar staff, a rota of kind young Poles, nod her through. Here you can make a drink last as long as you want. You can pick up a paper from the bar and read it. No one bothers you.
Thursday afternoons Madeleine’s shift at the café stops at four. Back at home she decides on an hour’s gardening out the back. Moving in here last year, sad to see the garden paved over like a garage forecourt, she heaved up its stone lid that squashed all green life, planted cheap shrubs lugged home from the stall on East Street, cuttings given by friends. Rose, needing to earn some extra cash, gave her a hand with the paving stones. For lunch they ate egg and cress sandwiches, sitting on the back step, and Rose showed Madeleine her photographs of the white-painted ghost bicycles, festooned with bouquets, marking fatal accident sites, that have begun appearing on local streets. Memorials put up by the dead bikers’ friends.
Today Madeleine digs over a little waste patch to make a herb plot. Along with weeds she forks up tiny shards of bone, broken buttons, strips of what look like leather or cartilage. Garden treasure: not quite rubbish. What to do with it? Keep it for the moment. Sort it out later.
She tips this debris onto a folded newspaper, pours it into the turquoise pot she inherited from Nelly, patterned with sprigs of cherry blossom, dragons with curled tails. Nelly pointed out to her granddaughter the stubs of broken handles: that’s why Mother got it cheap. That man on the stall down the Lane, he knew she liked nice things, he’d keep them for her, bring them out on Sunday mornings when we went there early. Then when I got married she gave it to me.
Where to stow her garden loot? Too much stuff already in this small flat. Finally Madeleine puts the pot on the shelf above the fridge and water tank, hiding in the hallway alcove behind a long lace curtain. She draws the curtain back across, goes to have a quick shower.
Hot water sprays her shoulders, her back. Flesh turned to a scented stream of warmth. Self melts.
A crash outside the bathroom. She jumps, wet soles sliding on slippery enamel, almost falls. Did she leave the back door open? Has it slammed in a gust of wind? Wrapped in a towel she goes to check. The back door is securely locked, just as she left it when she came in from gardening.
A noise from the basement flat next door, perhaps. Or from the flat upstairs.
She dons a knee-length grey pencil skirt, a skimpy grey leather jacket bought from the market stall selling designer samples with the labels ripped out. She picks up the hand mirror she inherited from Nelly, scratched glass in an oval frame of dark wood, and Nelly’s gilt-backed hairbrush. Nelly was so poor when she died that she had scarcely anything else to leave. The turquoise pot. Her blue paisley headscarf. Madeleine’s mother said to her daughter: go on, you have those little bits, I don’t need them.
In the shadowy bedroom Madeleine’s reflection swims hazily in the mirror. Her face gleams, much darker than usual, her eyes shine liquidly, almost brown, under arched eyebrows. Unnerving; as though someone else altogether looks back at her. She switches on the light. The image dissolves, re-forms. Her daily self reappears.
She puts up her hair, catches it with combs, dashes on red lipstick, pulls on her suede ankle boots, winds her red lace and linen scarf around her neck. Off she strolls. She bumps into Rose, togged up in a skimpy lime-green tweed jacket, short flared flowered skirt, thick-soled suede shoes. Brothel-creepers, Madeleine says: are they still called that? Rose cocks an eye: the Adam and Eve? What you want to be going there for? Madeleine says: you working tonight? Come with me, why don’t you? Rose shakes her head. I’m working fewer nights now. I’m doing my A-levels at evening classes. She jogs away: art homework to do! A few yards further on Madeleine meets Sally, pushchair piled with shopping: where’re you off to, babe, all dolled up?
Through the council estate built round the grassed-over humps of the bombsites, past the parade of shops set back on a concrete plaza. Older blocks, high-rises chucked up in the sixties, loom behind. She crosses the main road stinking with exhaust fumes, dodges the bicycles skimming between lorries and buses, cuts through alleys, reaches the pub, just as the daylight begins to dim and the sun’s warmth to ebb.
Fresh tobacco scent tickles her nose. On the narrow pavement, overcoated people pack in around small iron tables set with ashtrays. Grey smoke wreathes above the huddled groups.
Madeleine pushes open the door. The heat of pressed-together bodies flows at her, light from gold globes of lamps, a chime of voices. Drinkers throng the benches, stand at the bar, the mirror behind it garlanded with red plastic apples. She nudges in, people’s arms and shoulders rub hers, so intimate, like getting into bed with a crowd of strangers. The same feeling as going to the cinema by herself. Wriggle her way along the row of knees, sit in the midst of a pack of unknown people in the dark, all of them held close in the hush and thrill of the start of the film.
She dives into a space at the end of a table, secures it with her bronze satin bag, throws her scarf down on the facing bench. She fetches herself a glass of red wine, settles back with it, opens her book.
She sips, half-closing her eyes. Ah, this first hit of the night. She learned to like wine on that exchange trip to Paris when she was thirteen. The father of the family kept pouring her more. We’ll make a Frenchwoman of you yet! Madame thinned her lips and studied the silky pink wallpaper patterned with green-grey herons. White tablecloth set with white porcelain dishes, silver-plate serving spoons, black-handled knives. The nuns had made a mistake, said Madame’s frown, her pure white hands throttling her table napkin: she’d been expecting someone more comme il faut, with proper manners and convenable clothes.
The wine soothed Madeleine’s anxiety to get it right, see Madame smile. Half a glass of Chablis to accompany the creamed spinach crowned with poached eggs. Half a glass of Côtes-du-Rhône-Villages with the slice of bloody meat, with the wrinkled, oozing cheese. Monsieur’s cheeks flushed crimson; his smell of eau de cologne. One Sunday afternoon he took her for a walk around the neighbourhood, pointed beyond the boulevard to the high walls shutting off what he said were nineteenth-century hospitals. Run by nuns, that one. Nuns founded the nursing profession, did you know that? Your Miss Nightingale worked there for a while, learning how to become a nurse. And that hospital there cared for mad people, hence the high gates. That’s where they put all the bad girls who misbehaved!
This seat taken?
Green eyes in an enquiring, friendly face. Brown-grey crewcut. Deep-chested body stooping towards her. She shrugs. No, help yourself. He sinks down, lifts his pint, nods his thanks. He swigs his beer, catches her glance. He tilts his head sideways, reads out the title on the spine of her book: La Cuisine Familiale. Are you French? You look as though you could be.
Madeleine says: I think my mother would have liked to be French. She loved France. She taught elocution at the local convent school. A French Order. So we did lots of French dishes in Domestic Science.
The man rests on the bench, letting his wide shoulders drop. He listens, drinking his beer, nodding at her to go on. Madeleine strokes the stem of her glass. She says: when Mum died last winter, I inherited her cookery books. They’re very old-fashioned, but some of the recipes are classics. Potage Bonne Femme, for example.
Good Woman Soup. The café’s home-delivery customers don’t care about Madeleine’s dishes’ French names. They just relish her turning up on the café’s sturdy black bicycle and bringing lunch. She packs the foil boxes on the rack behind her saddle. People’s names and addresses written on the lids. Heat the food in the microwave and serve up.
People recommend the delivery service to each other, or their relatives drop in to organise it. Some clients don’t qualify for meals arranged by social services. Others just can’t be bothered to cook. And then the ones who need the little extras, their hands held for ten minutes, their story listened to, Madeleine can give them that too.
One or two of the older
gents loll with their flies open, when she arrives, offer her tips for a fondle, so lonely they are, and she shakes her head at them, gets them to zip up. Ah, Madeleine, don’t be so unkind.
The newcomer lolls at Madeleine’s side, taking pulls at his pint. His black jacket, finely ribbed corduroy, looks old and soft. The Monsieur in Paris wore a dark jacket on Sundays. Late-morning he would trot back from the patisserie, a beribboned box dangled by its shiny loop from his forefinger. After the grated carrots with vinaigrette, the roast veal and green salad, the cheese, the family wielded little silver forks, dug into rhum babas, coffee-cream eclairs. You had to choose one or the other. Madeleine wanted both. The Monsieur shook his head at her. Petite gourmande. Madame added: you must not get fat.
Madeleine says: my mother loved everything French. So she gave me a French name. Madeleine.
The man says: that’s a cake, isn’t it?
Madeleine says: some people say the cake’s named after Mary Magdalene, the disciple of Jesus, and her cockleshell-shaped boat. According to the legend, after the death of Jesus she sailed from the Holy Land to Provence. Other people say it’s named after the first cook to make it, back in the seventeenth century. I like the Mary Magdalene derivation, myself.
She can hear Toby teasing her. Mrs Teacher! That cry from the playground: clever dick! Show off! She bends her head over her glass, finishes her wine.
The man says: Ah. I see. Mary Magdalene. Yes, a fine saint. Loyal, faithful. She stuck by Jesus when his other followers ran away.
He pauses. Gives her a wry look. My name’s Emm. He glances at her again. Emm’s short for Emmanuel.
One of the names for Jesus. Bit of a burden, that moniker, surely? No wonder he’s shortened it.
Emm traces a forefinger through a puddle of beer then puts his hands flat on the scratched tabletop and stares at them, as though puzzled by his sturdy fingers, his clean nails. His white cuffs protrude unevenly from the black sleeves of his jacket, and she wants to pull them straight, pat them into place over his wrists.
The Walworth Beauty Page 8
