by David Smith
Mirrour of grace and majestie divine… whose light like phoebus lampe throughout the world doth shine.
Spenser, The Faerie Queene
‘Does she have any family?’
‘Oh yes, her daughter and her niece come to see her regularly. They’ve told me the stories. She lived in a wonderful house in Cheltenham, very musical as well, played the violin beautifully and was always entertaining. Her husband was also a famous actor, but he died many years ago. I think it was suicide. There was something wrong with him, burnt down their house after a long argument and then accidentally set himself on fire – trying to gain notoriety apparently.’
‘How awful.’
‘Yes and it’s so sad to see the effects of dementia in someone so relatively young.’
‘And you say she was quoting Shakespeare, when you found her?’
‘Queen Mab I think, word perfect, as precisely as if she was still on stage.’
‘How strange.’
‘Look, Penny, I know this is really awkward, but it’s the end of my shift and I’m afraid I’ve got someone waiting for me at home. Is it OK if I go now? The other nurses will look after Winnie. I’ll be back later to see if she is ready to answer your questions.’
Penny raised her eyebrows and I could tell what she was thinking. But I already had five texts from Penn in addition to those that had arrived at regular intervals during the night. Before hearing the scream I had been counting down the minutes and seconds to our meeting. I had even wondered briefly whether Penn might be interested in meeting Winnie, given they were both actors.
*
Do you want me?
If you do there’s something you’ve got to get for me.
Well you do want me don’t you?
Well what is it you have to give me then?
A stable full of big racing stallions?
Oh no, no, no.
A great big lilac Cadillac?
No no.
Or lots of tiny pink babies?
Don’t be silly of course not.
A slinky snake-skin parasol with two knobs?
No no no, oh.
Anybody who really wants me will have to buy me.
Orators orange rubber gloves,
Smooth on the inside they’re absolutely leak-proof,
Use them for all your dirty work.
Helen Mirren’s speech from Don Levy’s Herostratus (1967)
Izzie got back to her bedsit around 10am, an hour later than her nightshift had been due to finish. Reluctantly, she had left Winnie with the other nursing staff and police, sedated and calm but as yet not up to talking more about the accident. I could tell as soon as I saw her that she was stressed about something, but assumed it was just the effects of the long night shift.
I had been waiting for her by her front door, leaning against the wall, reading a copy of Robert Frost’s Mountain Interval, a bunch of Michaelmas daisies lying by my side. They had been relieved from a neighbour’s garden, but I wouldn’t tell her that.
‘Sorry, I know I’m late.’
‘I’m still here. What kept you?’
‘Don’t ask.’
I offered her the flowers and showed her the contents of the shopping bag in my hand. She smiled and turned the book to look at the cover.
‘What’s this?’
‘The road not taken,’ I quoted. ‘My inspiration, Robert Frost, he was a resident of Ann Arbor, Michigan just like me,’
‘Sounds great, but I still prefer my Emily Dickinson,’ she said, laughing. I was pleased to see a smile return to her face. Apparently she had a good memory for song lyrics as well.
I had bought oranges, maple syrup and all the ingredients for pancakes and muffins to cook in her bedsit. I calculated that this would be an unexpected bonus, a man who could cook as well as play the guitar. I’d been up all night as she probably suspected from the frequency of my texts. No really, I’m not a stalker, but something about her had enchanted me and I couldn’t sleep.
She opened the door and settled down at the small table in the kitchen while I started to prepare breakfast. Her flat was tiny, but she had clearly done her best to cheer it up with plants and art objects, mainly 60s and 70s stuff. In the corner of the room was a music stand and propped against it her viola. The kitchenette held only the bare essentials, the walls covered with turquoise post-it notes listing things she had to do: she told me she was a vegetarian and bought fresh food daily, but admitted she was not a particularly great cook. I scanned the photos on the fridge for any sign of another half, but they were mainly girlfriends. There was no separate bedroom and her clothes hung on a rail on the far side of the room. It revealed an eclectic collection of high street and vintage.
‘It’s amazing what rich people throw out,’ she explained defensively as she saw me assessing the clothing. ‘No really, such a waste,’ she added.
‘Don’t worry, I like them. You have a great sense of style. You could set up your own theatrical costume shop,’ I joked. She scowled.
As she recounted the morning’s events to me I soon understood why she had looked so stressed earlier. But before she had finished describing Winnie’s experience, I stopped her. ‘You’ve reminded me, I saw something strange myself going on last night after you left. There was a cab following an old guy slowly down the street as he walked his dogs. It seemed almost like the car was following him. I wonder if there is a connection.’
Izzie suggested I give her policewoman friend Penny a call, but I decided that could wait; I’d got plenty of time as I’d already received a text to say that filming was cancelled for the rest of the day. Now I could understand exactly why.
‘Anyway I’ve been waiting to see you again, all night,’ I said keenly, trying not to sound obsessive.
‘Then you’re mad, but I’m really glad you’re here,’ she said. ‘But I’m afraid you can’t stay long, I’m going to have to get some sleep after breakfast. I’m really whacked.’ Something in her voice told me that sleep was not foremost on her mind either.
After we’d eaten, I decided it was time to make a move and shifted round to her side of the table. Kneeling beside her, I took her hands and gently kissed first her collarbone, then brushed my lips along the furrow at the back of her neck and finally up behind her ear. There was absolutely no resistance from her only a sweet groaning.
‘You don’t look tired at all to me,’ I said hopefully.
‘Well I think I can probably hold out for a while longer, you know,’ she said breathlessly.
I cradled her face in both my hands and kissed her fully on the lips. I could feel the warmth of her breath on my cheeks as I moved my hands slowly down her back and began to unbutton her uniform, slipping the collar carefully over her shoulders, checking her eyes for permission as I went. She kissed me with a passionate intensity that I certainly was not expecting and then withdrew again, seemingly waiting for me to make the next move.
*
Normally Penn’s forwardness would have been far too fast for me, but after the morning’s events I wasn’t anywhere near the mood for normality. This was just what I needed. I felt myself really beginning to get into this guy. God and he was so cute.
‘Hey, what about you,’ I said determinedly and began to pull at his shirt until he raised his arms and it was released over his head. He had a boyish, smooth chest, nicely formed but not muscular, unlike most film actors these days. In any case I didn’t mind, I didn’t need a muscle-bound action hero right then; this one would do just fine. Things were moving very quickly and I had absolutely no intention of slowing things down. I felt the excitement welling up inside my body. I sensed where we were going, first date as well. I reached into my bag just in case to find what I wanted.
‘Are you sure you’re OK with this?’ he said, sensing my excitement, beginning to kiss my neck again. I couldn’t believe he was actually seeking my consent and felt another tingle inside at this sensitivity. Is this one for real? Now I was really getting nervous.
‘Absolutely sure, it’s only the thought of this that has kept me going through the night shift,’ I whispered, barely able to speak. Suddenly he stopped kissing me and stared into my eyes as if he’d thought of something. I wondered what was wrong.
‘I have dubious morals you know.’
‘What do you call having dubious morals?’ I groaned. Where did that come from?
‘Largely being dubious about other people’s morals,’ he replied. ‘I have the wrong genes, all inherited, a tendency towards being a waster.’ I shook my head.
‘Given what I’ve seen of the quality of your acting, I find that hard to believe,’ I said, now pulling his ear lobes with my lips to encourage him to continue undressing me.
‘No really, I’m afraid it started with my grandfather on my mother’s side. He was a total philanderer, one of the lesser-known beatniks, but possibly the best poet amongst all of them.’
‘OK, so what’s a beatnik?’ I asked, now getting somewhat exasperated. Was he just teasing me?
‘You know, Kerouac – On the Road. He knew all of them, Burroughs, Snyder, Holmes. Alan Ginsberg was apparently infatuated with my grandfather. Bob Dylan even used a line from his prose in one of his Vietnam songs.’
‘Wow that’s cool.’ I wasn’t sure where he was going with this but I changed tack and decided to engage in the dangling conversation for the time being, waiting for the right moment to resume our earlier intimacy.
‘My mother was the product of one of my grandfather’s many affairs. Her own mother was a Native American and like my mother was apparently very beautiful. My mother got married to another man after she had me, but died when I was still very young.’
‘Really? That’s so sad, I’m really sorry. What about your father?’
‘I’ve not much idea about him; I’m a bastard son of a bastard daughter. Arnold was my adoptive parents’ family name. The only thing I know about my father is that he was English, a writer, with the nickname ‘Poshizmo’. Unfortunately, I am just the wasted product of a whole series of lusty affairs from a family of serious dropouts. Not a great bloodline, is it?’
‘I don’t know.’ Poshizmo… I think I’ve heard that name before somewhere I thought. ‘Anyway your family actually sound quite exciting, especially compared to endless generations of Irish labourers.’
‘I just wanted you to know what you’re letting yourself in for, that’s all.’
O and yet when it’s asked of you ‘What happened to him?’
I say, ‘What happened to America has happened to him…’
Gregory Corso, Elegiac Feelings American
‘That’s OK, thanks for the health warning, but right now Mr Penn a waster, with or without a checked flannel shirt and ankle boots, suits me fine. All these years I’ve been looking for the perfect man and now I’ve suddenly found myself an impossible lover,’ I said ironically, hoping he’d get the hint.
‘All these years? OK, so how old exactly are you?’
‘Twenty-three.’
‘Twenty-three? Jeepers, wait until you’re at least thirty before you say ‘all these years’. Look at me for heaven’s sake!’
‘You look fine to me.’
‘Yes but I’m an extra, not exactly James Dean taking the world by storm.’
Now James Dean happened to be my pet subject and I had just the right rebuttal ready from the hero himself: ‘Dream as if you’ll live forever. Live as if you’ll die today.’
‘That’s really nice, and well-remembered. Anyway I really don’t know who I would be even if I could be someone else. Do what you’ve got to do works for me.’
‘Well, Mr Confused, whoever you could be, I am really getting to like who you are right now,’ I ran my finger down his chest, stopping suggestively just above his belt loop.
‘You may not like me when you know my politics, I know you English girls are so restrained…’
‘What?’
‘You know, conservative.’
‘OK, Mr Penn, I really sense we are getting the confessions out of the way early here.’ By now we were sitting on the floor half undressed, him seemingly earnest in his questions, me getting increasingly frustrated the longer that this verbal foreplay continued.
‘So, confession, you get the full works with me. I aspire to be a hobo songwriter, a modern day Jack London, anti-war, anti-fascist, anti–’
‘Well I hope that doesn’t extend to anti-women,’ I interrupted.
‘Sure, animal rights are cool with me too.’ I threw my bag at him, narrowly missing his head. He ducked and then dived to tickle me, but I was too quick and turned him onto his back, pinning his arms to the carpet, my thighs astride him.
‘OK great, so are we finished now, or is there something else you want to get off your chest? Some other deep philosophical point before you get laid, because you are going to get laid, Mr Penn, whether you like it or not.’ God, I never normally talk like that I wasn’t sure exactly what had come over me.
‘Sometimes we just have to avoid thinking about the problems life presents. Otherwise we’d suffocate,’ he said, feigning inability to breathe. I sighed, bent down to kiss his chest and then had an idea how to get this back on track again. I rolled off him and took the empty water bottle from the kitchen table, spinning it. It stopped, pointing toward him.
‘So, are you religious then by any chance?’ I asked, guessing the answer already.
‘I’m a non-practising atheist. I believe that when I am dead, I am dead. I believe that with my death I am just as much obliterated as the last mosquito you and I squashed.’
‘Now don’t make me laugh, that sounds like a cop-out.’
‘It’s the only way to go. Are there any more difficult questions?’
‘I don’t know. Well yes, in fact. Tell me right now, just how many lovers have you had?’
‘Now you are making assumptions. I’m not like other guys. They say sex is the quickest way to ruin a friendship. I’ve been celibate for years you know. By the way men or women?’ I pointed down at his socks, which he removed.
‘Well I’m hardly surprised, if you’ve put all your girlfriends through this kind of nonsense.’
‘Well, I guess I do more or less.’ I span the bottle again and it pointed towards me this time. He was silent.
‘OK, this is supposed to be truth or dare; so it’s your turn to ask me a question.’
‘That’s easy, so where’s the most unusual place you’ve ever made love?’
‘Now who’s making assumptions, you rat? So you don’t think I’m a good Catholic virgin?’
‘Heh, don’t get so uptight. I wasn’t implying anything, but the evidence is to the contrary,’ he said, pointing at the unopened packet on the floor by my side.
‘Well it’s probably none of your business then,’ I blushed and hid the offending item behind my back.
‘OK, so I guess if you’re not going to tell me, I’d better tell you.’
I put my finger to his lips and removed my own vest and then span the bottle again. It pointed towards him this time.
‘OK then so what about you, which exotic beach with which sun-kissed babe?’
‘There were a bunch of them but actually it was probably Times Square in the rain after the New Year celebrations. At the time it seemed romantic, now I’m not quite sure about getting my name up in lights like that.’
‘Yes, you’d probably best not advertise that one, I agree. Your turn, it looks like it’s going to have to be those cargo pants next.’ He picked up the bottle and looked at the label.
‘Evian is naïve spelled backwards,’ he said.
‘So you’re into the philosophy of advertising now?’
‘They make advertisements for soap, why not for peace?’
‘OK, this is ridiculous. That’s enough talk.’
But a sudden wave of tiredness had come over me and I abandoned my earlier amorous thoughts, instead snuggling up to him and lying quietly in his arms. He let me slee
p in the shadows cast by the blinds across the room. While I slept he began to compose the verses of a poem for me that he would later set to music. He sang it to me later that afternoon, sang that I looked like beauty personified, like a little angel curled like a cat amongst the pillows. I slept right through to 2pm when he woke me with a cup of tea and finally we made love.
‘By the way, I was planning spaghetti bolognese for dinner?’
‘I thought I told you, I’m a vegetarian.’
‘Well that will now be tofu spaghetti then.’
‘It sounds delicious; very Lady and the Tramp.’
‘I told you I was a vagrant at heart.’
Chapter Nine
An Inspector Calls – (Adagio) ‘Nimrod’
Let man and beast appear before him,
And magnify his name together.
Let Nimrod, the mighty hunter,
Bind a leopard to the altar
And consecrate his spear to the Lord.
Benjamin Britten, Rejoice in the Lamb
Detective Inspector Hunter arrived early at the new Justice Centre in Newbold Terrace first thing on Saturday morning. He had a postponed appointment with the CPS in preparation for the next stage of a case. It seemed to him to have dragged on forever in the magistrates’ court. Now he was required to take the stand again in the Crown Court on Monday. It had been a long week and he was tired; he much preferred being in the field on active investigations, but everything was remarkably quiet on that front. He speculated to himself about whether Leamington’s criminals had found better things to be doing over the summer holidays. All the same, at least this meant he would be able to spend the rest of the weekend at home, quietly, with his music. He had a ticket for a concert that afternoon, and an invitation for dinner with friends in the town’s best restaurant, but he was in two minds whether to attend either event. A good cognac, a little jazz or maybe Beethoven, seemed more in keeping with his somewhat reflective mood. He poured himself a coffee from the machine, thumbed rapidly through the local newspaper he had bought on the way in and waited impatiently for the brief to arrive.
