‘Yes, it is, isn’t it,’ the lavender lady obliged as she filled her shopping-bag with her needs. Her ready agreement was a conversation-stopper and he scratched in his mind to re-open it.
‘Nice day for a walk,’ he said.
She took it as an invitation, and immediately rejected it. ‘I have to go home and feed my cat,’ she said.
He was surprised at her interpretation. He hadn’t meant it as an open invitation, and if he had, but he was positive he hadn’t, he was a little irritated at having been so summarily dismissed. He felt the need for a comeback. ‘I wasn’t thinking of it for myself,’ he said. ‘It was a general remark. I meant other people.’
‘But we are other people,’ she said, putting him firmly in his place as part of the large indefinable herd.
He could think of no answer. He should have let it go at that, but he was conscious of a sudden need for revenge, to put this woman in her rightful place, that of servitude. She would make an ideal client. He noticed that she hovered at the end of the counter, feigning some difficulty in arranging her purchases in her bag. Brian concluded that she was waiting for him, and he packed and paid for his purchases quickly, so that by the time he was finished, she too was ready to move away. He dangled by her side and out of the shop.
‘I go this way,’ she said, pointing to her left.
‘So do I,’ Brian said, though his disinfected home lay in the other direction. They walked side by side silently.
‘Shall I carry your bag?’ Brian said after a while.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said, passing it to him.
He was surprised at how heavy it was, considering the meanness of her shopping. He peeped inside, and underneath the supermarket items, he caught sight of a large box of chocolates. Yes, he decided, she definitely lived alone.
They turned the corner at the end of the supermarket block and into a tree-lined street that was suddenly strangely quiet given its proximity to the High Street traffic. Half-way down the street she stopped. ‘This is where I live,’ she said. He offered her the shopping-bag.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she said. ‘Because you carried it,’ she added quickly, fearing lest the invitation was for its own sake and not by way of recompense.
‘I would have carried it anyway,’ he said. ‘But I never say no to a cup of tea.’
She opened the front door. He noticed a man’s umbrella stuck in the hallstand. The sight upset his calculations, and he thought he might ask her if he could use her bathroom, which was a reliable location to assess the gender of occupancy. Once there, he was glad to notice the single toothbrush in the stand, a row of female appliances, and not a male trapping in sight. On the way downstairs, he peeped into open doorways, and noted two over-furnished bedrooms and a store-room. It was obviously a home of many years’ standing. In the sitting-room, the furniture was highly polished, but scratched and scuffed from many years of function. The chair-covers were clean, but frayed and faded, and he had the impression that it had once been a family house, a nest from which the birds had flown. And as if echoing his thoughts, she said, ‘I’ve lived in this house for forty years. Brought up my children here. They’re in Canada now.’
‘And your husband?’
‘I’m a widow,’ she said. ‘This fourteen years. Now make yourself comfortable. I’ll put the kettle on.’
He took advantage of her absence to examine the room for further clues to her standing. On the sideboard was a line of framed photographs, two of weddings, which he presumed were those of her children. At the far end was a silver-framed portrait of a middle-aged man in army officer’s uniform. Presumably the dear departed. In the corner was a revolving bookcase, containing more magazines than books, but among the latter, he noticed a preponderance of titles pertaining to spiritualism and the life hereafter. He made a note to incorporate that subject into his sales patter. He heard the squeak of a tea-trolley and took his seat again. Her tea-service, he noticed, was the same that his mother had had for many years. It was a blue willow-pattern and had probably been bought around the same time, for nowadays he knew that such china was very expensive. His mother rarely ordered its use. It was the best china, she kept telling him, and kept for visitors, but since visitors were rare, the set gathered cobwebs on the top shelf of the pantry. He was glad she had the same set. He felt himself part of a special occasion. She poured the tea.
‘Your husband?’ he said, nodding in the direction of the photograph.
‘Yes, that’s George. That photograph was taken only a week before he died. A regimental dinner, it was. He was a regular soldier, you see.’
‘He looks a very interesting gentleman,’ Brian said, hoping with this observation to tempt her into revealing more of her husband’s nature, so that he could gauge whether or not he was wasting his time,
‘He was indeed,’ she said ‘though he had his little quirks.’
Brian’s hopes rose. ‘Quirks?’
‘Well, he was a stickler for tidiness. Everything had to be in apple-pie order, like soldiers in line. I’ve seen him get up from his armchair, for the express purpose of adjusting one cushion that was a millimetre out of place.’
Sick enough, Brian thought, and very promising. ‘How did you deal with all that?’ he said.
‘I let it be,’ she said, ‘’cos I have my little quirks too.’
It was acceptable to discuss the idiosyncracies of the dead. It was altogether too personal to show curiosity about those of the living and practising. And though he itched to know what her quirks were, he made a point of not enquiring further. There was a silence between them that timed his unasked question, and her reticence to go any further.
‘What’s your name,’ he said, ‘if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘Violet,’ she said. ‘Violet Makins. And yours?’
He hesitated, needing to search for one. He was aware that his trade was illicit, and that he must have an alibi in the event of discovery.
‘Felix,’ he said. ‘It’s a silly name, I know,’ he added, playing for time to think of an appropriate handle. ‘Hawkins,’ he said suddenly. ‘Felix Hawkins.’ His first, and so far, only client would have been flattered.
‘Are you a retired man?’ she said. She framed the question in such a way as to place him in a specific class, to give him a status. Had she simply asked if he had retired, it might have hinted at his old age or possibly failure.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I have a little business.’
‘Oh yes,’ she said, and waited for him to elaborate.
‘I sell services,’ he said.
‘That’s interesting,’ Mrs Makins said politely. ‘What sort of services?’
‘My own,’ he said.
‘I don’t quite understand you.’
What the hell, he thought, he need never see her again if he didn’t so choose, and it was worth a try in the hope of a new client. But even though he was prepared to be totally honest, he couldn’t find words to explain the nature of his trade. He wasn’t really selling anything, because even after he had sold it, he still had it, like any respectable call-girl. ‘It’s hard to explain,’ he said. ‘It’s – well, if you want anything, I’ll sell it to you.’
‘Such as?’ she said.
Then he was stuck again, reluctant to spell out particulars. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘let me put it this way. I only deal with women.’
They both listened to the shattering silence that ensued. Then Brian quickly finished his tea in case she should show him the door.
‘That’s very interesting,’ Mrs Makins said softly, and from the tone of her voice she was clearly more than interested. ‘Would you like some more tea?’ she said.
He passed her his cup and as she poured, she said, ‘I’ve never met anyone in your trade before.’
‘Oh there are hundreds of us,’ Brian said, hoping that quantity was a guarantee of legality. ‘I know at least half a dozen personally.’
‘But how do you get y
our clients?’ she said.
Brian noticed that her accent was suddenly very upper-class as if to give official licence to a vocation that, looked squarely in its common face, was downright salacious. She indicated, without doubt, a personal interest in the goods he had for sale, and she was anxious, for her own sake, to give them class.
Brian munched happily on a second piece of cake. ‘I meet them quite by accident,’ he said, and then added, at only a small risk, ‘rather as I met you.’
She laughed, a gay little aristocratic tinkle, and Brian began to have some idea of what her little quirks were.
‘D’you have a list of services?’ she said.
The woman cottoned on very quickly, and Brian hardly knew his luck. He put his hand in his inside pocket, and drew out a folded parchment. This one, he had decorated with houses and all signs of habitation, indicating some domestic security in the services rendered. Brazenly he handed it over. She took a pair of glasses and held them over her eyes. She refused to fix them firmly on her ears, holding them all the time, as if to give him the impression that glasses were only a very occasional need of hers and not permanent enough to warrant fixture. He watched her as she read. Occasionally she let out a well-born sigh or a courtly giggle. Brian began to calculate his income with confidence. She read the list to the end, and by the angle of her lowered eyes, she was clearly reading the more expensive services with interest and relish. ‘May I keep this?’ she said.
‘Are you interested?’
‘Certainly,’ she said. ‘But are you discreet?’
‘I wish I could name some of my satisfied clients,’ he said, ‘but secrecy must be part of such a service.’ He sighed, well satisfied with himself.
‘Well, in that case, I am interested,’ she said. ‘With the smaller services,’ she added quickly. ‘I don’t know how many of the others I shall need.’ She took in a quick and genteel breath, regretting perhaps that she had been so forward. ‘Shall I clear away the tea-things?’ she said. ‘Then we can start. I’ll draw the curtains, if you don’t mind.’
Suddenly Brian did mind very much. He was not prepared for her eagerness, and besides he had no notion of what to do. He’d had so little practice. He tried to reason with himself that this was as good a time as any to start, but he was too nervous to take the sudden plunge. ‘I’d love to,’ he said, ‘but I do have a client this afternoon and she lives quite a long way away.’ He saw the disappointment on her face. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but we could make another time.’ He took out his diary and opened it, furtively trying to hide from her its emptiness. ‘What about tomorrow,’ he said, ‘round about this time? I could give you as long as you require.’ He was happy with his choice of word. Services were not wanted; such a word hinted at lust. They were required, they were needed to keep the wheels of whatever it was smoothly turning.
‘Tomorrow would do very nicely,’ she said. She took him to the door. ‘I wonder,’ she said, as he was leaving, ‘would you mind very much if tomorrow you came and went by the back entrance? You understand,’ she said, ‘in case it will be regular, the neighbours will be very curious.’
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I would have done that in any case.’
‘Ta-ta then,’ she said, her accent suddenly slipping. ‘Till tomorrow.’
He closed the gate after him, and walked briskly down the road, needing to prove his hurry in case she was watching him through the window. He was already regretting that he hadn’t served her there and then, fearing perhaps that by the morning she might have second, and more respectable, thoughts. And what guarantee did he have that he could function at all. He needed practice, and above all confidence, which could only be fed by a client’s satisfaction. For a moment he thought of going back to Violet, claiming that he’d made a mistake over the day of his appointment. But that would give an impression of non-professionalism which could certainly go hand in hand with indiscretion. And he had his goodwill to maintain. No, he would go straight home and sit quietly in his bedroom and think carefully how to handle the trade he’d been landed with. He concluded that for a man of enterprise it was indeed an easy and profitable calling, and he wondered whether indeed there were as many in the profession as he had sworn to Mrs Makins.
When he got home, he unpacked his shopping.
‘Are you back then?’ his mother said, staring at him and seething with neglect.
He looked with disgust at the puddle at her feet, while she looked at it with pleasure, as if she’d kept a promise she’d made to him when he went out. The need to get rid of her was becoming almost an obsession with him. He was glad he had other things to contemplate, for he was encouraged by his day’s sortie, but still fearful of his own ability to capitalise on it. He looked at his mother with abject loathing. ‘It’s all your fault,’ he shouted at her, and she, understanding the fault to be the puddle, welcomed his angry irritation, promising herself to repeat the performance each one of his working afternoons. It only took two extra glasses of water to perform, a small inconvenience for such a rich pay-off. He went into the kitchen for the mop, and leaning on it, he calculated his possible turnover. Two more clients like Mrs Makins, and all of them wanting his whole range of services, could clinch The Petunias for as long as the old bitch survived. The thought cheered him, and he went back to the sitting-room. ‘Well you can’t help it, can you, my dear?’ he said, placing his hand on her knee. His sudden kindness threw her, and gave her little reason for further battle.
‘You’ll be glad when I’m gone though, won’t you?’ she said, hanging on for dear life to the frayed remnant of their bickering.
‘What will I do without you?’ he said, as he always said. That was his signature on the truce, whether she liked it or not. She watched him mop the floor, and she tried to reap some satisfaction from that. But his irritation had clearly evaporated. ‘I bought you some chocolate,’ he said. It was his final declaration of armistice, and her watering mouth disarmed her.
Chapter 10
By Monday, Miss Hawkins’ scarf had angered another foot and a half. The more aware she became of the new and exciting turn in her life, the more she cursed its long delay. Now her mind was continuously filled with orphanage thoughts and the blight that matron had scarred her with. So she knitted and knitted, and as she plained away she read and re-read Brian’s bill of fare, and set to knitting again. But on this Monday morning she folded it neatly away because she had other things to do. She was going to bake Brian a cake, and lay the tea-table with infinite care. She had bought a bottle of cheap port, thinking that she might need a tonic for her failing courage. Brian was new at the game too, so he too might be grateful for a stiffener. She set the bottle and two glasses discreetly at the side. When she was ready, the morning was still young and she was faced with the daily task of the diary’s order. Although the day was likely to be eventful enough, and with enough data for a formal diarist to be proud of, she could not help but regard the diary as a book of challenges. That was how it had begun, with the small and timid order to forage for survival. The tone of its commands had changed. They had become more daring, and she was determined to maintain the high standards of risk that she set herself. But today presented a problem. What she had committed herself to do was daring in itself, and to simply inscribe ‘Acquitted myself,’ would have been challenge enough. But she needed something even more reckless to honour the diary’s purpose.
She looked again at Brian’s list, and for the hundredth time totted up the prices of the first service section. If she were to treat herself to each one of them, her total investment would be a little over £2. For in her mind there was no doubt that it was an investment, unorthodox she knew, but a way, and a pleasant one, Brian had assured her, of putting something by. The investment itself, according to Brian’s promises, carried little risk, but not enough for Miss Hawkins, who by now had become intrepid enough to flaunt the minimal chance. She was becoming more and more daring, tempted each day to the margins of the impo
ssible. A £2 investment was clearly more than she could afford, but still it constituted no risk. She would invest double, she decided, even if it meant overlapping into the second service section, which she blushed to read, leave alone imagine herself as recipient. So she opened her diary to the current page, and inscribed, ‘Brian came to tea. I spent £4.’ She locked the book with the golden key and hid it on the larder shelf.
She started to make preparations for their rendezvous. She loaded the tea-trolley with her best china, a dish of assorted biscuits, and the freshly baked cake. She had second thoughts about the bottle of port and decided that on the side table it looked too exposed, so she hid it with the glasses on the lower level of the trolley. She didn’t want Brian to think she had bought it expressly for their first business exchange, so she opened it and poured herself a generous helping which she sipped in the course of making her other arrangements. She wheeled the trolley into the sitting-room and put on all the lights, then she drew the curtains, shutting out the morning sun. She picked Maurice off the wall, and with a whispered apology for disturbing him, she took him into the bedroom and hid his faceless moustache under the bed. Back in the sitting-room, she took the list and propped it open on the mantelpiece, facing the settee, where she presumed the business would operate. She sat down and judged the distance from the mantelpiece for easy reading, and for a need to keep a check on her spending. She adjusted the settee until her vision was perfect, then she moved over to the door to take in a master-view of the room. It looked very romantic, she decided, conducive to the business in hand. She took another sip of port to give herself courage for the encounter, for she had to admit to a growing nervousness, and she wished he would come quickly so that she could get it over with and tick off the order in her little book. She opened her handbag and checked on her change. Her money, all four pounds of it, was in small denominations. She intended to pay as she bought. She had gone to the bank especially for the purpose of changing the notes, otherwise Brian, lacking the right change, might have talked her into the idea of hire-purchase, and it was a principle with her never to buy anything that you couldn’t pay for on the nail. She stacked the money in neat little piles on the small table next to the settee. She intended to sit on that side, so that payment would be discreet and handy.
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