“It’s no wonder they’ve grown up as they have done,” said Lynn. “That makes me all the more determined they’re not coming here. A slum is containable. A potential buyer needn’t know about it, beyond the garden. But slum children infect the whole neighborhood, and I’m not having my children catching the disease.”
Everyone nodded with understanding, though Jennifer thought he ought to have more faith in his own sons.
“Now—right. Who’s going to do what? We need someone to approach Pickering.”
“I can do that,” said Adrian Eastlake. “He’s still officially my mother’s doctor, though he’s never been very understanding. . . . But I suppose we know him as well as anyone.”
“Splendid!” said Lynn, with a hollow ring to his voice. He had never known a wimp achieve anything yet. “And perhaps Mrs. Bridewell can back you up.” He did not notice the expression of distaste on her face. “You two are among the oldest residents here. And what about you, Mr. Cartwright?”
Algy shook his head dubiously.
“He’s a brusque kind of chap,” he said. “A mite short in his manner. Happen three of us would put his back up.”
“Good thinking. Well, you’ve done your bit anyway. Now I think I’d better do the building societies. It’s something for someone in the business world, and I know some of the local heads. What I can do is limited, of course, but I can warn. Then there’s the estate agents. Who are handling the house?”
“Greenheads, unfortunately,” said Daphne Bridewell. “One of the biggest.”
“Yes—a family firm would be more approachable. . . . Perhaps you, Dr. Copperwhite—or is it Professor?—”
“Mr.,” said Steven, with a strained smile. “Pure and simple. Well, I suppose I could have a try. What sort of line do you think I should use?”
Lynn Packard had once more to suppress irritation. These bloody intellectuals, he said to himself: They seem to need a nanny all their lives.
“Well, you could point out that more unreliable purchasers could hardly be found, that they would have a disastrous effect on the neighborhood and amenities, and that potential sellers in the Lane in the future would hardly be likely to use Greenheads, if they make a sale of that sort. . . . ” It sounded feeble even to him. He rubbed his hands together with fake enthusiasm. “Right. To work. We know what we’ve got to do. Let’s get down to it. Another meeting to report progress here in this house as soon as possible. Shall we say Tuesday, same time?”
His enthusiasm was not infectious. They pushed back their chairs and got up to go, but Steven Copperwhite murmured to Adrian Eastlake, “Bonny Prince Charles on the eve of Culloden.” That about summed up the general feeling. The terrible prospect of the Phelans as neighbors had galvanized Lynn Packard into action, but it was factitious action, because essentially there was nothing they could do. Lynn could dominate a meeting, but he could not enthuse one. They all felt sheepish rather than bullish.
In the hall Daphne Bridewell detained Adrian by the arm.
“I was awfully pleased that your mother took the initial action in this.”
“Oh—well, yes, I think she was shocked for my sake. I had an unpleasant brush with the Phelans in the past.”
“I know. Do you think this could be the beginning of her—well, getting out a bit, taking an interest in things?”
“Oh, I think it would be very premature to hope for that. Mother is a confirmed invalid, you know.”
“Yes. I’ve not called these last few years because she made it clear she didn’t want it. But do remember, if there’s anything I can do, Adrian . . . ”
He pressed her hand, and they all went through the front door and evaporated into the night. Adrian went back to Willow Bank to talk things over with his mother, Daphne Bridewell knocked on the door of the basement flat to The Laburnums to report to Carol Southgate, and Algy Cartwright went into the empty silence of Rosetree Cottage and turned on the television for A Taste of Death. In York House Jennifer Packard prepared to be niggled at for the rest of the evening over her “cheap gibes” about the free market, and at Ashdene Evie’s car was not in the garage, and the house was still. Steven Copperwhite let himself in by the gate, and spoke to the two cats sitting on the living-room windowsill: his cat Runty and Mrs. Bridewell’s cat Victoria—the gangster and his moll. They were something to talk to. Once inside the house he went through to the living room to pour himself a whiskey, then went down the hall to the study. There on the desk were the piles of student essays waiting to be read, the manuscript of The Burden of Male Dominance, just returned from Macmillan’s, and the smaller manuscript pile of You’re Only Young Twice. That feeling of dissatisfaction, of having taken a wrong turning, of being in a blind alley, returned to him.
He picked up the phone and dialed again the well-remembered number. This time his ex-wife answered.
Chapter
SIX
The bus was crowded on Monday morning, and Adrian Eastlake had to go upstairs. It was his day for a late start at the Social Security office, but the bus seemed to be full of early Christmas shoppers. He wrinkled his nose slightly at the fug of pipe and cigarette smoke, and went resignedly down the back.
Looking down to the pavement at the next stop Adrian thought he saw a head, a bulk, he knew. Seconds later he heard heavy tramping up the stairs, then saw in the convex mirror the well-remembered face surveying the upper deck. Jack Phelan, shaven, less dirty than usual, but still extremely unprepossessing. Adrian looked down at his lap. His heart thumped with relief when he saw someone sitting near the stairwell start to get off, and Jack sink into the vacant seat, take out a packet of cigarettes, and begin generously adding to the fug.
What was Jack Phelan doing, going into town at twenty to ten? He was usually still on his doorstep, in trousers and pajama top, first can of the day in hand, trading insults with neighbors off to work. With a sinking heart Adrian remembered he had to ring Dr. Pickering later in the day. He had been rung by Mrs. Bridewell shortly after the meeting at the Packards’, suggesting that she should contact their ex-neighbor first, and then he do the follow-up early the next week. Adrian suspected that she had been put up to this by Lynn Packard. Adrian was very used to people doubting his abilities. Daphne Bridewell had told him later that her phone call had met with no greater success than a promise from Dr. Pickering that he would “think over” what she had said. Now it was his turn. Decisions, action, initiatives. . . . Like most inadequate people Adrian felt that the world was continuously calling for evidences of his own inadequacy.
Jack Phelan smoked continuously the two and a half miles into Sleate. Past the jail they went, past new red-brick office buildings with mirror windows that gave nothing away. Adrian hoped he would get off before him, but he went on sitting there, puffing and scratching himself. Only when the bus was approaching Adrian’s stop, the library stop, did Phelan heave himself up and start down the stairs. Adrian held back and let him get off. Once out into Head Street he looked curiously to see where Phelan was going. Not to the library, that was for sure. He was walking heavily ahead to the lights and making as if to cross the road. Adrian looked at his watch, saw he had five minutes to spare, and threaded his way across the traffic ahead of the lights.
The handsome, filthy city of Sleate had its usual morning bustle, and Phelan looked incongruous among all the business people. Adrian saw him begin down North Parade. What business could he have there? A fine arts auctioneer, a solicitor or two, an estate agent. Hope lifted Adrian’s heart momentarily: Perhaps he was looking at other houses? He followed him down North Parade, and groaned when he walked past the estate agent. He stopped to look in a window. Adrian did not stop soon enough and was afraid his reflection had been seen. But Phelan turned and went on. He was looking at numbers. Ah, now he was going up steps and through an ornate Victorian doorway. Adrian dallied. He did not wish to be caught by Phelan if he came straight out again. Then he walked briskly past, flicking an eye momentarily up to take in the plate
on the wall: Simon Carbury, Solicitor.
Jack Phelan was going to arrange the purchase of The Hollies.
Steven Copperwhite finished his double lecture on Yeats at eleven o’clock. Tricky poet Yeats, he felt: elusive. He wasn’t meeting Margaret till half past twelve, but he felt unsettled. Perhaps it was Yeats, perhaps it was Margaret. He dumped his books in his office and dawdled down into town.
He loafed around the W. H. Smith and Austell’s bookshops for a bit, looking on the shelves for anything relevant to his old-age topic. What a lot of fiction was published in paperback these days! Perhaps television was not destroying the reading habit after all. Perhaps people did both at the same time. Outside in the street he gave a coin to a musician playing Bach. He was always sorry for street musicians in Sleate, trying to wrest money out of Yorkshiremen. Remembering how he and Margaret had often sat companionably reading and listening to music, he drifted up to the Classical Record Shop. He riffled through the box of new LPs and wondered what she would like. The Dvořák Violin Concerto? It would make a change from the Cello. The Tchaikovsky Number Two?
Suddenly he remembered that when they had split up he had taken the stereo and the record collection. In fact, he remembered reading somewhere that when marriages break up it is almost always the husband who takes the stereo and records. How odd. Why? In fact, he hardly ever played anything these days.
He drifted down to the Art Gallery. Only just twelve, but perhaps Margaret would get there early. He dallied by the postcard stall, where the attendants, as usual, were struggling to be civil to the public, and failing. He wandered upstairs to look at Kramer’s The Day of Atonement It had always been one of his and Margaret’s favorite pictures. Perhaps, he thought, with an uprush of sentimentality, she would have the same thought and come up and look at it. But though he dallied before it an unconscionable time, she did not show up.
At twenty-five past he went down to the cafeteria and bagged a table. As he was about to sit down a thought struck him, and he looked guiltily round. The Gallery Cafeteria was not one of Evie’s haunts—too far from the University at lunchtime—but it could easily be the haunt of some of her circle. It catered to vegetarians and health faddists (as he tried not to think of them). But no, there wasn’t anybody he recognized, and he relaxed. At twelve-thirty precisely Margaret showed up. She smiled at him briskly, cast an eye over the plates of food on offer behind glass on the counter, and came over.
“I’ll have the vegetarian quiche and lots of that bean and pasta salad,” she said, sitting down. “I’m toying with vegetarianism, not very passionately. And a glass of orange juice. I don’t drink at lunchtime these days.”
Steven bustled up, got a tray, and filled plates with this and that. He got orange juice for Margaret and a glass of wine for himself. He didn’t see why he shouldn’t drink at lunchtime. He wasn’t teaching again until three. He distributed things, got rid of the tray, and sat down, grinning tentatively at his former wife. What did one say on these occasions?
“I went to buy you a record,” he began. “Then I remembered I’d got the stereo. What a stupid thing to forget.”
“I’ve gone over to CD anyway,” she. said, beginning efficently on her salad. “I’ve only got a few records, but it means I don’t use them as aural wallpaper, as we used to.”
“That’s very wise. I hardly ever play anything now. . . . I thought CD was expensive?”
“It is rather.”
Silence fell. She wasn’t helping him. But—fairness asserted itself—why should she?
“I thought we should get together,” he said, repressing the awkwardness he felt and putting on what came out as a puppyish ingratiatingness. “Too silly if we can’t be friends. No avoiding the fact that we’ve spent most of our lives together.”
“No-o.”
“Have you seen anything of the children recently?”
“Not since summer. I went down to Peter’s, and Susan came to Sleate with the family. But, of course, you know. She went to see you.”
“Yes. . . . And how have you been, then? Getting along? It’s difficult for a single woman, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But perhaps not so much as it used to be.” A smile wafted briefly over her intelligent middle-aged face. “There are a lot of us around.”
“Ah—you get together, do you? Supportive groups, and all that? Lunches together?”
“Well, no, actually.” She had raised her eyebrows and now looked at her watch. “Not as far as I’m concerned. I haven’t much time for that sort of thing. I’m a working woman.”
“Are you?” Steven felt rather foolish. “I hadn’t any idea. Where are you working?”
“West Yorkshire Police HQ, actually. Prosecutions. I’m just an administrative assistant, but it’s interesting work, as work goes.” She dived into the remains of her salad and quiche, and felt she ought to reciprocate with an interest in him—something which in truth she hardly felt. “What about you? What are you doing these days?”
“Oh—you know: usual stuff. I’ve got a new project about old age in the contemporary novel.”
“Oh, good. Does that mean that your male domination thing has been taken?”
“Well, no, actually. But it’s with Cambridge U.P. at the moment, and I’m very hopeful. Potentially it’s very topical.”
“What about the house? What’s it called—Ashdene? Is it satisfactory?”
“Oh, very. Real character. . . . Mind you, we’re under threat at the moment.”
“Threat? Some sort of redevelopment, do you mean?”
“No—an appalling family from the council estate threatening to move in two doors down. The Phelans. Real slum-dwellers, something out of Dickens. Seems they’ve had a big win on the pools. You know me, I’m no snob, but just to see the front garden of their present house is enough to tell you you wouldn’t want them as neighbors. The girl’s on the streets, the eldest boy’s had a set-to with . . . someone I know, and the man! Loud, obscene, filthy dirty—and as far as we know he’s got a criminal record, though we don’t know of what kind. I’ve got an appointment to see the estate agents after this . . . ”
He suddenly caught Margaret looking at him closely.
“You didn’t ask me to lunch knowing that I worked at Police HQ and hoping to get something out of me about his record, did you?”
“No!” Steven leaned forward, desperate in his sincerity. “I had no idea you worked there. How could I know? Anyway, what would be the point? You can’t stop crooks buying houses.”
“No. Doesn’t seem to be much point in your going to see the estate agents, does there?” She appeared to have accepted his protestations, but as she forked the last of her quiche into her mouth she looked at him directly and said, “Remember that we all sign the Official Secrets Act.”
This reunion wasn’t going at all as Steven had planned.
“But, Dr. Pickering, you must see the terrible consequences to the neighbors of your selling to this man.”
“Yes. Mrs. Bridewell made the same point. I think you may both be exaggerating, but I’d be the first to agree that the family wouldn’t be ideal neighbors.”
“But it’s much worse than that! He is the most appalling man!”
“I’ve been the family’s doctor for many years so you can be sure I’m not likely to wear rose-colored spectacles where they are concerned.”
“Well, then—”
“As I said to Mrs. Bridewell, I would be willing to alert the estate agents, tell them to be very sure of their money—my money—before they enter into any agreements. That would be in my interest as well as yours.”
“Anyone dealing with the Phelans would be on the alert naturally.”
“Quite. One would hope so.”
“What we are asking—”
“What you are asking is that I refuse to sell to someone who apparently can put up the money. Doesn’t it occur to you all that you are asking rather a lot? The house has been on the market for—what?—nearly six
months. Naturally I want to get it off my hands. Now, when someone comes along, up come all my old neighbors and apparently demand that only white Anglo-Saxon Protestant buyers should be considered.”
“That’s really not fair! We’re not trying to tie your hands—”
“Well, it does seem exceptionally like that to me. Mr. Eastlake, I’m a busy man. . . . ”
When your antagonist says he’s a busy man, you know you have failed. Adrian Eastlake murmured apologies and rang off, as low in spirits as ever he had been since his mother was . . . attacked. He dreaded the meeting the next evening at the Packards’, with all the fear of a low-spirited man confronted by one much more brutal and determined than himself.
It was the second time that day that Rosamund Eastlake had left her room. She hardly knew how to account for the restlessness that had invaded her recently. While Adrian had been at home over the weekend, her room had begun to feel like a prison, and she had taken the opportunity of his trips to the shops or working in the garden sweeping up leaves to get out of it and to drift round the house, asserting her presence in the whole of it. She had even thought of suggesting that she might come down in the evening now and again, perhaps have a game of Monopoly or Scrabble, as they had done in the old days. Why had she not? A sense, perhaps, that Adrian would not have welcomed it?
What the house meant for her was memories: the memories that were things of nourishment to her. Above all, they were the memories of her short but wonderfully happy marriage, though they were also memories of Adrian in childhood—grave, shy, and loving—that were almost as cherished. But all of a sudden—she could not have put it like this to herself—the memories seemed part of a continuum rather than of something that was over and done with.
A City of Strangers Page 6
