by Ruth Rendell
They had barely begun on the business when Thea broke in to say she had seen Rad Sothern in Hexam Place earlier in the week. Very late at night, as it happened. ‘I wondered who he’d been calling on.’ Thea managed to pack a great deal of suggestive innuendo into this speculation. Sometimes she was bitchy to counteract her goody-two-shoes behaviour.
‘The Princess and me, as a matter of fact,’ said June.
‘You?’ It seemed almost too much for Thea to believe. ‘How on earth did you meet him?’
‘Meeting him wasn’t necessary.’ June could be icy when she chose. ‘He’s my great-nephew.’
‘That’s funny,’ said Montserrat. ‘If anyone had asked me I’d have said he’d be a relation of the Princess.’
June raised her eyebrows. ‘HSH hasn’t got any relations, she’s all alone in the world but for me. And no one did ask you that I heard.’
‘There’s no need to be nasty.’
‘Sometimes there’s every need. And may I remind you all that this is supposed to be an extraordinary general meeting of the Saint Zita Society and the main item on the agenda is increasing street noise made by members.’
‘And I’ve got some Any Other Business,’ said Henry.
Dex turned up at the meeting, or, rather, he walked into the Dugong while the meeting was going on and sat down at the big table where the others were already sitting. He bought himself a Guinness and, having nothing to say as usual, listened to the discussion while observing everyone. One of the women had red hair. She was one of those people whose eyes he could see, and see too that they were a bright blue. Otherwise her face was the usual blank, not very different from the rest of the faces. Another one was talking on a mobile. Maybe they had gods living in theirs too or just fruits, orange and blackberry and apple, Dex had heard. The others were talking about shouts in the street and shrieks of laughter and loud talking late at night. Dex always took advantage of any free food that might be about and now he dipped his fingers into the bowl of various-coloured crisps and fetched out a handful. He had noticed the woman called June looking at him and now she said, ‘Your hand is very dirty. Now you’ve touched those crisps no one else will want to eat them.’
Dex didn’t mind if no one else ate them, there would be all the more for him. He made an effort to answer. ‘I like them,’ he said. ‘I’ll eat them.’
‘Well, really,’ said June. She raised the matter of a theatre visit but no one seemed interested.
Henry’s other business concerned residents of neighbouring streets parking their cars in Hexam Place so that sometimes there was no room for Lord Studley’s car. ‘His Lordship has to walk round the corner to find me.’
‘Won’t hurt him,’ said June, in radical mode.
Jimmy, whose kind employer would have walked half a mile to get into his car without complaining, said he couldn’t see any way this occupying of the Hexam Place parking spaces could be stopped. It was perfectly legal. Dex drained his Guinness glass and moved away to a small table to be by himself. He pressed some keys at random as he always did but starting with the London code of 020. Some notes of music came out and a woman’s voice saying the number had not been recognised. Dex knew this meant his god was busy and couldn’t speak to him now. That was all right, it often happened. He would try again later. He picked up the crisps bowl in his dirty left hand and poured its contents into his even dirtier right hand with a sigh of satisfaction.
Thea, red-headed, blue-eyed, wearing a red-and-blue-patterned dress instead of trousers, wasn’t quite warm enough but she thought she looked more attractive that any other woman in the pub. Bored stiff during the meeting after her squabble with June, she had made shy attempts to catch men’s eyes but the only response had been from Jimmy. She couldn’t really think of Jimmy as in the same category as previous boyfriends and then she decided this was outrageous snobbery and caught his eye again, smiling this time. But Jimmy, without smiling back, went off to pick up Dr Jefferson and Thea went home alone, where Damian met her in the hall to tell her they had run out of dishwasher tablets.
CHAPTER FIVE
Thea filled the role of the gay men’s woman friend and yet she always felt that Damian and Roland didn’t like her much. She was useful to them and that was all. They liked men, gay and straight, and men’s company was sufficient for them. Considering how often she shopped for them, even cooked for them when they had guests for dinner, she thought they might have reduced her rent but she couldn’t bring herself to ask.
She had a part-time job, teaching IT and basic word processing in an office skills school over the top of a drycleaner’s in the Fulham Road and she also taught an evening class called Internet Literacy. Considering the number of people over sixty who couldn’t use a computer and barely knew what ‘going online’ meant, for whom the class was designed, it was surprising how ill-attended it was. No doubt it would soon close down because of cuts and her income correspondingly cut. It made her cross that neither Damian nor Roland had ever asked her what she did for a living. Perhaps they thought she was like their mothers, had private means and did nothing. Perhaps they thought that when she went out it was to play bridge or have lunch with other ladies, also like their mothers. They were not interested in her and were only nice to her when they wanted to ask a favour or had a reason to be particularly cheerful. Neither of them took any notice of Miss Grieves – if she had a given name no one knew it – the ninety-year-old who lived below them. It was Thea who shopped for her, fetched her a Sunday paper and helped her up the area steps when she was specially troubled by her rheumatoid arthritis. Damian called her the last maiden aunt left in London but if she had any nieces no one ever saw them. She looked old enough to be June’s mother and June really was a maiden aunt.
The house belonged to Roland Albert who came from a wealthy family. To buy it in the early nineties he had sold an object called the Kamensky Medal to a Russian collector of Russian insignia. The medal, quite small and in Thea’s opinion very ugly, had been given to an ancestor of Roland’s by the then Tsar, had been handed down among his descendants and finally fetched the amazing sum of £104,000. This he had used as the deposit on a mortgage to buy number 8 Hexam Place. Even so, he could afford it only because the basement flat had a sitting tenant in the shape of Miss Grieves who had been there for a longer period than Roland’s lifetime. Over the years Roland and Damian had offered her, through their solicitor, various increasingly large sums to get out and so leave them with another floor to their home or else a lucrative property for rent. Miss Grieves, who had a racy manner, said in the words of Eliza Doolittle, ‘Not bloody likely.’
In addition to being so kind and helpful, Thea tried to ingratiate herself with her neighbours. This she did with Damian and Roland in an attempt to make number 8 the most attractive house in the street by persuading Damian, the kinder and more easy-going of the pair, to buy window boxes for the second-floor windows, urns for the balcony that extended across the front of the first floor, and filling them with bulbs in spring and annuals in summer.
Not that she did the planting herself. Now two weeks into October, she was awaiting the arrival of the Belgrave Nursery’s van, driven by their outdoor-plant adviser. Thea expected a small rather weedy man called Keith but when the dark green van turned up, a picture of a mimosa in full bloom on its side, the outdoor-plant adviser was a tall well-built man with a black beard, the badge on his dark green uniform jacket informing her that he was Khalid.
The urns were to have red and purple hyacinths and white multi-flower narcissi, he told her, the window boxes dwarf tulips. A new variety that the Belgrave Nursery were very proud to stock was a peach-coloured double called Shalimar. He would put some of those in, mingled with a fringed tulip in a dark red colour and a yellow-leaved miniature ivy. What was the squirrel situation in Hexam Place?
‘Pardon?’ said Thea.
‘Do you have squirrels? Only let a squirrel smell a tulip bulb a mile off and he will be here, rooting in your p
ots for his breakfast.’ His mild facetiousness made Khalid laugh at his own joke, though it had no effect on Thea. ‘Oh, no doubt about it.’
‘Then don’t put them in,’ said Thea, sour-faced.
‘Rather we plant them and supply you with our anti-squirrel pot guards, the latest thing, only come on the market in the past month.’
When it came to haggling, Thea found herself no match for Khalid. She was unaware that though a British citizen since the age of twelve, he came from a long line of Islamabad market stallholders, and after only ten minutes she had agreed to the anti-squirrel pot guards and Khalid was planting tulips in the window boxes. An hour later he had moved the van, made another parking permission phone call to Westminster City Council and was ringing the front doorbell of number 7. No servants’ entrances for him. Montserrat let him in and took him straight up to the drawing room with his bag of tools and bag of bulbs, having first glanced at his shoes as if she expected to see them encased in mud-encrusted boots.
Khalid, who wore elegant highly polished footwear, said in a sarcastic tone, ‘Perhaps you would like me to remove my shoes as is the rule at UK airports.’
‘Oh, no, your shoes are spotless.’
Lucy had gone out to lunch at Le Rossignol. Preston Still was of course in the City. The girls were both at school and Thomas was upstairs with Rabia, having his nappy changed and being dressed in a new navy-blue jumpsuit and new camel-coloured cashmere coat with brass buttons. One thing Lucy enjoyed doing for her children, Rabia had noticed, was choosing their clothes, the more expensive the better. But she appreciated her employer’s taste. Nothing was too good for Thomas who looked so gorgeous that she couldn’t help hugging him. The hugging over, Thomas was gently lifted into his sumptuous baby carriage and Rabia, in her hijab, was pushing him along the gallery when Montserrat came up the stairs and with her a man she recognised as a member of her father’s plant team. She recognised too the name on his dark green jacket and knew why he was there and the principal purpose of his visit. This tall, black-bearded and admittedly handsome man was her father’s choice for her as a second husband.
‘Good morning,’ said Rabia.
‘Good morning, Miss Siddiqui.’
‘Thank you but it’s Mrs Ali.’
A gratified smile appeared on Khalid’s face. ‘Let me assist you to carry the perambulator to the ground floor.’
‘Perambulator’ was a word Rabia had never come across before and it silenced her. An obviously strong man, Khalid picked up the pushchair with Thomas in it and carried both single-handed down the stairs. Rabia followed, said a rather subdued ‘Thank you’, and hurriedly began pushing Thomas towards the front door.
‘How will you manage steps outside?’ Khalid called after her.
‘I will manage as I always do,’ said Rabia and closed the front door with a soft but firm click.
‘A lovely-looking woman,’ said Khalid.
Montserrat, who disliked hearing any woman praised but herself, said it was a matter of taste and would Khalid like to start on the planting of the nursery window boxes. An argument over which was the nursery, this room or his place of work, ensued. Having refused his offer of squirrel pot guards with a toughness Thea had been unable to achieve, Montserrat decided to leave him to it. She went downstairs to the basement flat where she called her mother on her new iPhone, bought with gratuities from Lucy and Rad Sothern, to tell her she’d like to come to Barcelona for a couple of days before driving up to the Jura. Montserrat’s mother was Spanish, her father an Englishman living in Doncaster. Señora Vega Garcia sounded less than pleased to hear from her daughter, but when Montserrat made no request for a loan or even indicated that she might be short of money, she softened and they had the pleasantest conversation they had had for months.
The ‘couple of days’ would be at the beginning of December or a little later, depending on the weather and the state of the snow. In Colmar she would meet a French friend from schooldays whose brother she had always rather fancied. She wondered what Lucy and Rad Sothern would do when their conductor had taken off the month to which she was entitled. Go without, she supposed.
Khalid, in the manner of every British plumber, electrician, gardener or other tradesperson, called out, ‘Hello? Are you there?’ and Montserrat ran up to escort him out.
‘These stairs are dangerously steep,’ said Khalid in a severe tone. Montserrat had never noticed before. ‘The floor down there,’ he said, ‘is made of tiles, very hard, and this banister requires fixing. It could become detached as a person descends and then what happens?’
‘God knows,’ said Montserrat.
‘Also human beings know. I would call it a deathtrap.’
She let him out and watched him climb the area steps to the street.
The House of Lords car park would fill up in the afternoon but now, just before noon, it was half empty. Henry had shampooed the Beemer in the mews behind Hexam Place that morning and now he parked it in the slot he always used next to the space where the Government Chief Whip left his shabby old Volvo. The difference between the Beemer and the Volvo, one so smart and glossy, the other so scarred and dusty, brought him a lot of pleasure, though he was disappointed that Lord Studley had made no comment on the contrast. Henry got out, opened the nearside rear door for Huguette and then the passenger door for her father. He wasn’t rid of them yet.
It was the first time he had driven father and daughter together and he was afraid all the time Huguette would speak out of turn, like saying to him, ‘See you on Friday,’ or ‘Why didn’t you text me?’ She was capable of it. From the moment Lord Studley had said, ‘I’m giving my daughter lunch at the House,’ he had been nervous. First, for instance, he had to pretend he didn’t know where Huguette lived, though, oddly enough, he had never been to her street by car before. Then he had to say, ‘Good morning, Miss Studley,’ not sure if this was all right or whether it ought to be, ‘Good morning, the Honourable Huguette.’ But apparently he had got it right as neither of them complained. Huguette was in a sulky mood, not speaking much, while Lord Studley talked at length about the oral question he had to answer when the House sat at two thirty. It seemed to be about Brazil, a debt or loan and the International Monetary Fund and Henry was none the wiser when he had driven round Parliament Square and turned in through the security lane. Huguette looked as if she had gone to sleep. Lord Studley broke off at this point to show his red-and-white-striped pass with photograph to the policeman on duty, though the officer had seen him pass this way daily for years.
His employer wanted Henry to carry into the House and up to his office his briefcase and a large cardboard box full of papers. They went through the Peers’ Entrance where Henry had to have his photograph taken to go on a pass and then go through the scrutiny like at Heathrow. Lord Studley shared an office with a minister of state who was in charge of Southern Hemisphere Development, a man whose driver Henry knew and now talked to about the Saint Zita Society which Robert unfortunately couldn’t join owing to his not being a resident of Hexam Place. Lord Studley had gone off somewhere to fetch a file he wanted Henry to take back to number 11 and in his absence Henry kept up a busy conversation with Robert to deter Huguette from making an indiscreet remark or kissing his cheek or something.
Things went from bad to worse when the phone rang, the Southern Hemisphere Development minister answered and Henry heard him say, ‘Oh, Oceane, how are you?…Fine, thanks … Clifford just popped out for a minute. I’m sure he won’t be long.’
Don’t make me speak to her, Henry prayed silently. Huguette was mouthing, ‘Leave me out of it,’ when her father came back. He took the receiver with a sigh and, while handing the file to Henry, said, ‘Come back for Miss Studley at two thirty, will you?’ Henry fled. He had got out of that by the skin of his teeth, a useful if old-fashioned phrase he had picked up which seemed applicable to much of his life these days.
The Beemer left on the residents’ parking outside number 11, he went down t
he area steps and into the house by the basement door. Why not pop out to the Dugong for a glass of their alcohol-free wine and a ploughman’s and take the file upstairs when he came back? He didn’t even bother to put the passage light on but opened the door to his bedsit. The light was on in there all right and Lady Studley was sitting on his bed, smoking a cigarette.
‘Oh, Henry darling, didn’t I time it absolutely right? I’ve been here just two minutes waiting for you. Do say you haven’t got to go back for my naughty girl.’
‘Not till half two,’ said Henry in a gloomy tone.
The voice said, ‘How can I help you?’ and Dex knew he had struck lucky. His god was not always so responsive. He could try number after number and only get that woman saying they were not recognisable or else a high-pitched ringing tone. But this time he got that pleasant gentle voice wanting to help him.
‘Make the sun shine, please,’ he said.
There was no answer. There never was and Dex didn’t expect it. With the ways of gods he was acquainted since early childhood and knew they moved in mysterious ways. His first foster-mother had taken him to her church at every possible opportunity and between visits taught him how to pray at home. She explained that his prayers weren’t always answered because he was often bad. God liked prayers but only answered those of good people. He must have got a lot better because Peach quite often did what he asked, stopped the rain, made the sun shine, got him a job. His voice never said yes, he would do it, or no, not this time, but in his mysterious dark way he did whatever it was or else he didn’t.
