The Saint Zita Society

by Ruth Rendell

  The Belgrave Nursery was unlike most other garden centres in that they potted up their Christmas trees before delivering them. The pots, as Abram Siddiqui said, were works of art in themselves, Santa Clauses, reindeer, fairies in tutus, all painted on a background of snowy mountains and navy-blue skies, glittering with stars. Khalid took on the task of delivering them himself, mainly in order to convey the one he considered the most beautiful to number 7 Hexam Place and thereby see Rabia.

  It was true that Christmas and Christmas trees meant nothing to Rabia and himself. The paintings on the pots, though he admired them for the skill of the artist and also as a commercial success, he saw as near-blasphemous; they portrayed animals and, worse, the human figure in various forms. Nevertheless, those painted pots were a great selling point and would lead to an increase in orders for next Christmas.

  Rabia saw his van draw up outside from the nursery window. She was sitting in an armchair upholstered in blue linen with white spots, and Thomas, in a blue-and-white-striped jumpsuit, was standing on her lap while she held him up to the window. A pretty sight. ‘Look, Thomas, here is Mr Iqbal’s van and here is Mr Iqbal getting out of it to bring our Christmas tree.’

  This sight was a cause of great excitement. Thomas jumped up and down heavily on Rabia’s thighs but she gave no sign that he had hurt her, his pleasure far outweighing her pain. The Christmas tree in its painted pot was a beautiful object even before it was dressed. Khalid Iqbal was coming up the steps to the front door. To go down herself to let him in was unnecessary, Rabia decided, it would give him too much encouragement. Zinnia could do that. But still, as she hastily covered her head, lifting Thomas down and teaching him the polite things to say when Khalid came to the nursery door, she tried in vain to restrain herself from feeling a small surge of not quite excitement, happy anticipation rather, that this kind handsome man who admired her was paying them a visit.

  Thomas, whose language skills had come on by leaps and bounds, burst into speech the moment the door was opened. ‘Hello, Mr Iqbal, how are you?’

  Khalid said he was fine, thank you, and he hoped Thomas was, but his expressive dark eyes were on Rabia as he set the tree down and asked her where she would like it. Thomas danced about, pointing to one spot after another. ‘Here, here, here – no, here!’

  ‘Mrs Ali?’

  ‘I think between the windows, Mr Iqbal. Then when the curtains are drawn they will make a fine background for it.’

  ‘You are right,’ he said in the sort of tone that implied she would always be right. ‘Do you like the tree? Are you pleased with it?’

  It wouldn’t do to give him too much encouragement. ‘I am sure Mrs Still will be very delighted. It is just what she wants.’

  With that he had to be satisfied. She picked Thomas up and held him so that he could reach one hand to the topmost branch of the fir. ‘That is where the fairy doll will go. Last year you were too young to understand.’

  ‘Old now,’ Thomas shouted. ‘Grown-up!’

  Khalid said in his gentle respectful tone, ‘My mother has written you a note and asked me to give it to you, Mrs Ali. I believe it is an invitation.’

  Rabia took the pale pink envelope, conscious that she was blushing deeply. Black-eyed but as fair-skinned as a white woman, she knew he must notice how the blood mounted into her pale cheeks. The card in the envelope which she opened when he had gone invited her to tea on the following Sunday, her father also would be there, and was signed Khadiya Iqbal. She wrote a very polite little note accepting. It would be Mr Still’s weekend to have the children and he wanted her to accompany them to Gallowmill Hall on Saturday. Of course he couldn’t manage them on his own, she understood that. She plucked up her courage and asked him if it would be possible to be back by Sunday afternoon as she had been invited out to tea. It looked to her as if Mr Still was quite pleased to return early. It would be no problem, he said, they would be back by lunchtime and he was aware that Rabia would be giving up her day off to come with them.

  It remained cold but no more snow had fallen in London. Dry days went by and then came a wet day to wash away the last of the snow that lay on the cars and on the pavements. Thea avoided Oxford Street at the weekend but took a morning off work to do June and the Princess’s Christmas shopping. The presents they wanted were for each other, slippers for June from the Princess and a gift box of cologne and body lotion produced by an expensive perfumier from June to the Princess. June put on a big show of incredulity when Thea told her what it cost and, paying her in twenty-pound notes, gave her three instead of four and afterwards denied it. It was no use arguing and Thea resigned herself to going short. She bought Jimmy a scarf which, since he sat at the wheel of a car most of the time, he would never wear.

  Teaching her last class before the Christmas holiday began, she ventured out at 7 p.m. into the West End crowds. She had forgotten Thursday was late-night shopping but she still had small gifts to buy for Damian and Roland. They were bound to give her something. She was looking in windows, seeking inspiration, when she was caught in the midst of a group of teenage boys in hoods emerging from a pub. Like her previous tormentors, they were bent on taunting her about her red hair, one of them pulling off the scarf which half covered it. In tears, partly from exhaustion, Thea escaped on to a bus and phoned her sister, the hairdresser. Would she come round and tint her hair dark brown or black?

  ‘But your hair’s a beautiful colour.’

  Thea was reluctant to tell Chloe her reason. ‘I’m sick of it. I want a change.’

  Chloe would come. That evening if Thea wanted it. ‘But it won’t suit you.’

  Who cared about that? Again Jimmy had to be told they would benefit from an evening apart.

  Having a cup of tea with Rabia on Saturday morning, Montserrat said it was a funny idea to take the kids to Gallowmill Hall in this weather. What were they going to do there? The fields would still be covered with snow. She had forgotten for a moment that she wasn’t supposed to have been there or even to know where the house was but Rabia seemed not to notice. Rabia was packing suitcases, one for each child and was anxious to be ready with everything done when Mr Still arrived at ten o’clock.

  ‘I wonder why he asked you,’ said Montserrat.

  ‘To look after the children. That is my job.’

  ‘I suppose.’ She thought she would be a more appropriate choice, especially when he had apologised over and over since the incident with her car. And explained and said repeatedly that he didn’t know what had come over him. After all, if things worked out, and surely they would, the children would have to get to know her and she them. ‘Oh, well, I hope you don’t freeze to death.’

  Rabia washed up their cups, politely sent Montserrat away and went down to fetch the girls from Lucy’s room where they were playing with their mother’s make-up. ‘I’m so relieved I don’t have to go,’ was Lucy’s parting shot.

  Beacon had been persuaded to bring the Audi round to Medway Manor Court and return home, much to his chagrin, on the bus. A good many of his neighbours thought the car was his own, and although he was himself too upright to have lied about it, Dorothee didn’t deny it when people talked about ‘your car’. Mr Still got to number 7 Hexam Place at five past ten, bringing with him a hamper from Harrods to avoid stopping at a supermarket on the way. Rabia smiled and said it was a good idea, though her real fear was that the food would be of the most unsuitable kind for children, game pie and roast partridge and peaches in brandy among other things, and she hoped the caretaker at Gallowmill Hall would have stocked the fridge with simple basics.

  Much as he wanted to make himself comfortable on Rabia’s lap, Thomas had to sit in his baby seat. That was the law, Mr Still said. There were tears and rage and much kicking of the seat in front, but once they were going and Thomas had seen and heard a fire engine on its howling way to a fire, he calmed down and began to enjoy himself. Mr Still was in a good mood or perhaps just putting on a good show, not so much for his children a
s for Rabia. Before they set off he asked her for Dex’s phone number. He had had it once but had lost it and he’d heard she had a wonderful memory for numbers. She might have that one in her head. Rabia had and wrote it down for him. He smiled, thanked her and had insisted she sit in the front next to him, though Matilda claimed that place as the eldest child. But no, it must be Rabia.

  ‘It’s very good of Rabia to give up her day off to come with us,’ he said. ‘Now we wouldn’t manage very well without her, would we?’

  The girls were both sulking. Thomas said, ‘Want Rab, want to sit on her,’ and started making a noise like a fire engine.

  It was very cold, though inside the car it was soon warm. The fields, as Montserrat had predicted, lay under sheets of snow. Deer stood huddled together under the bare trees, feeding on bundles of hay. A light was on in the hall of Gallowmill Hall, evidence of the recent presence of the caretaker, as was the warmth which rolled out to meet them when Mr Still opened the front door. Rabia expected to carry the cases in herself but Mr Still said a commanding, ‘Here, let me do that,’ and became quite an efficient porter while she carried Thomas inside.

  The Still children were not the kind who enjoyed playing in the snow. Perhaps Thomas would be one day but Matilda and Hero had as much aversion to the natural world as their mother. They stayed in the warm in front of the television while Thomas said he would help Rabia in the kitchen. The fridge, as she had hoped, was well stocked with bread and butter and cheese, with salad in cellophane bags and fruit in plastic packs. Mr Still had disappeared. In the distance, but somewhere in the house, she could hear a hammering and a sound like something heavy being dragged across the floor.

  Darkness would come early. It would very soon be the shortest day of the year, sunrise at eight in the morning and night arriving at four. Mr Still pointed all this out as they sat down to lunch. Therefore they must be sure to get out in the fresh air while it was still broad daylight.

  ‘Why is it broad, Daddy?’ said Hero. ‘Why not wide or long?’

  He didn’t know. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’ He smiled, evidently doing his best to be a kind loving father. ‘We didn’t have a Bonfire Night party and you didn’t go to one. You missed out and that’s a shame, so I thought we’d have one down here, this afternoon. We’ll have a bonfire of our own and I’ve brought a lot of fireworks. Now what do you think of that?’

  ‘I hate fireworks.’ Matilda removed a chunk of game pie from her mouth and laid it on the side of her plate. ‘There’s this girl at my school burnt her hand on a firework and it was so bad they amputated her little finger.’

  ‘Oh, yuck,’ said Hero. ‘I can’t eat any more, that’s put me off my lunch. That’s disgusting.’

  ‘She’s American and Americans call your little finger a pinkie. Even if it’s not pink. She asked the doctor if she could have the burnt pinkie to keep but they wouldn’t let her.’

  Rabia wanted to reprimand the girls but she didn’t like to when their father was there. He ought to do it and suddenly he did, shouting, ‘That’s enough. I don’t want to hear another word out of you till you’ve cleared your plates. Do you hear me?’

  Hero got up and left the room. Matilda began to laugh and that set Thomas off. He had thrown most of his food on to the floor, fortunately some sort of laminated wood. ‘Please excuse me, Mr Still,’ Rabia said, ‘if I take him into the kitchen and give him his lunch there.’

  She managed to feed him, clean his face and hands and get him and his sisters, the two of them protesting sullenly, out on to the lawn and through the gate into the field. There, fitful sunshine and the temperature rising just above freezing had melted what snow remained. Mr Still, determined to be cheerful, had laid a fire Rabia could see at once wouldn’t burn. He had used damp sticks from the woodland, piled with solid planks, and nearby stood a can of something she was almost sure was petrol.

  ‘Forgive me, Mr Still, but I don’t think that will catch fire. May I try to – rearrange things a little? Could we have some newspaper, do you think? And, I’m sorry, but if you put petrol on it you may set the trees on fire.’ And yourself, she thought, but didn’t say it aloud.

  Instead of getting angry as she had expected and feared, he went away and fetched stacks of newspaper and a plastic bottle of paraffin. Getting her hands dirty – it couldn’t be helped – Rabia squatted down and remade the fire. What was he burning apart from the twigs and logs? She now knew what the hammering and dragging sounds had been. There was quite a lot of wood and sheet plastic that had been chopped by someone who had scarcely ever chopped anything before. Mr Still had hacked about and split and cracked open a thing that at first she took to be a boat and then identified as one of those luggage boxes people carried on the tops of cars. Well, he knew his own business best, she would have liked to believe but couldn’t. The fire was ready to light. She stepped back, well away from it, taking Thomas in her arms and keeping the girls with her. Mr Still poured on the paraffin and put a match to it.

  Rabia shuddered when she thought what might have been if he had been left to use petrol. The bonfire began to burn steadily, the flames mounting until they reached up to lick the varnished underside of that case thing. Mr Still set off the first of his fireworks, a green-and-silver rocket which burst into fountains of emerald showers.

  ‘I’m bored,’ said Matilda.

  ‘I remember when my father broke his wrist,’ said the Princess on Sunday morning. ‘It took three months before he could use his right arm.’

  ‘That was different.’ June contemplated the illustrious autographs. ‘It didn’t matter so much. You told me he was left-handed.’

  ‘He could use both, he was ambiguous. I’m only telling you because it means you won’t get the use of your arm back till March and it’s a terrible thing if that poor dog has to depend on the kindness of visitors all that time.’

  June said all right, she would take Gussie out, but if she fell over and broke her other wrist don’t say she didn’t warn her. She took it slowly, Gussie tugging on the lead. Mr Still, at the wheel of his car for once, had to stop suddenly to avoid knocking her down outside Dr Jefferson’s. His brakes squealed and he sounded the horn for good measure. He was opening the window to say something to her but June forestalled him. Her tone was sour.

  ‘Better leave the driving to Beacon next time.’

  She watched the car park outside number 7 and those badly behaved daughters of his get out. Then – surprise, surprise – came Rabia. No sign of Lucy of course. Rabia was carrying Thomas. She adored that child. It would be hard on her when number 7 was sold, Mr Still bought that place that was for sale next to his sister and Lucy took the kids to her parents’ country house. Rumour had it that Lucy’s own nanny lived there still and Rabia wouldn’t be needed. June went on round the block, slipping once, her heart in her mouth, but no harm done this time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Since she had been Jimmy’s girlfriend, Thea had smoked a lot more. Damian and Roland had noticed and remarked on the smell on her clothes.

  ‘I hope you won’t indulge in your habit,’ said Roland, ‘while you’re preparing the food for our party.’

  ‘It’s stress,’ Thea said to her sister while she was doing her hair. ‘Being engaged doesn’t suit me.’

  ‘You mean being engaged to Jimmy doesn’t suit you,’ said Chloe, painting one lock after another of Thea’s red hair with viscous black tint.

  ‘There’s nothing I can do about that. Is this stuff supposed to itch? I need to scratch my head but I don’t want that stuff on my fingers. You don’t think I’m allergic, do you?’

  ‘Everybody’s head itches when the tint goes on.’ Chloe gave Thea a comb to scratch with. ‘Why don’t you break it off? With Jimmy, I mean.’

  ‘It would hurt him terribly.’

  ‘You worry too much about hurting people,’ said Chloe.

  ‘I don’t really. I worry about what they’ll think of me.’

  Chloe laughe
d. ‘You going to put those candles in their front window this year?’

  ‘I bought them this afternoon,’ said Thea. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll ever see the nineteen pounds they cost me.’

  It was traditional at Christmas now, almost a sacred trust. Lord Studley’s father, who had lived at number 11 before him, had begun it, the result of spending a holiday in Norway where it was the custom in a village he had stayed in. He came home, brimming with excitement at starting something similar in Hexam Place. So, that December, a few days before Christmas, five smallish squat candles appeared in his drawing-room window. He had persuaded his neighbours at number 9 to do the same and the following year had bullied most of the other householders to set candles in their front windows, only old Mrs Neville-Smith, mother of the present occupier of the lower half of number 5, the Collinses then at number 2 and the Princess refusing to conform.

  June was the only servant to observe this custom from the beginning. That is, to watch others observing it. When she admitted Lord Studley to the house and showed him in to try his powers of persuasion on the Princess, she was already prepared to buy the candles for number 6 and set them in the drawing-room window. For some reason her employer was adamant. No, she wouldn’t have it. Gussie liked sitting on the windowsill and would knock them over. The house would catch fire. June watched the neighbours, one by one, doing what Lord Studley asked. The following year she bought a dozen candles (there was no restriction on number) in glass jars guaranteed fire-proof and was the first in the street to begin the illuminations. Lord Studley came round himself to congratulate her on the show. As for the Princess, she never noticed, and when she did, sometime around the turn of the century, she had taken into her head that it was her idea and that she had even started the tradition herself.