by John Tagholm
Joshua might just as well have never existed. He had removed all trace of himself from the flat and his absence had the finality of death. She wandered from room to room and concluded that even a forensic expert would have been hard pushed to find evidence of his domicile.
She had a message on her landline from the friend who had introduced her to 4Shore, the charity she had helped at the weekend.
‘Hi, it’s Amanda. Thought you’d like to know about our dramatic find by the Thames. The police have just let us know that it isn’t recent and therefore they don’t want to know about it any more. But they think it might be very old, so they’ve sent it to a, let’s have a look, an osteoarchaeologist – bit of a mouthful – to have it dated. They confirm it’s probably a child, which makes you think doesn’t it? Give us a call when you can.’
There was a chirpiness about Amanda Lodge which clashed with Beatrice’s mood and, she thought, with the information she was conveying since her friend was the proud mother of a one year old boy. Amanda was an extremely able producer with whom Beatrice had worked on two drama-documentaries and her effortless good humour and attention to detail had made them natural companions. Beatrice sat on the edge of her bed and thought about the information she had just received, about that other distant life and she lay back on the pillows and stared at the ceiling. The room was hers again now and she could lie here without fear of offending or irritating anyone. She didn’t have to accommodate the whims and foibles of a partner, or listen to music she didn’t like or face the prospect of an evening with his friends. She could do what she wanted and whereas once upon a time this would have pleased her, it now brought a continued sense of foreboding. Restless, she got up and paced the room and registered the distant bells of St Leonard’s sending out their message of hope, or warning, she wasn’t sure which. She reached up to a top shelf for a box file and took out its contents and spread them on the bed. Here were the details she had amassed of the childhood and career of Joseph Troumeg which she now re-read, along with the notes from the conversations with some of his friends and colleagues. She preferred his title to hers – Joseph Troumeg: Set Menu – but it didn’t quite convey the feeling that Joseph Troumeg’s life had been neatly portioned and presented to the public by the man himself, a series of pre-prepared finished dishes. It was the very neatness of this history that alerted her for this was a resumé prepared by an expert in the art of presentation and, she thought, obfuscation. But how, she asked herself, was he any different from other celebrities who, over a period of time, came to believe the half-truths and lies they peddled about themselves?
Joseph Troumeg, according to his own embroidered account, was the result of anti-Semitism, the union of a French woman and an American journalist. How often had she read his words on his own genesis: “My mother was a beauty by all accounts, probably Spanish in origin, hence her unusual height, but unmistakeably – and unashamedly, let me tell you, Jewish. Cultured though the French undoubtedly are, they are not keen on Jews and in the mid-30s she suffered the sort of prejudice that we might find intolerable now, although, believe me, it still goes on. My father had been covering the approach of the Civil War in Spain and was now trying to alert the world to what was happening in France but America then was not concerned about France or Jews. Nor, I suppose, was England. It seems they met in a street at the foot of Montmartre, when she was being abused by a gang out looking for Jews. He stepped in and – voilà – before long, moi.”
This account had about it an undoubted ring of romance, touched with drama and intrigue and it had been often repeated, not least by the man himself when they met in Deal three years earlier. He had come to Britain in the late fifties although all the stories of these years begin with the same throw-away quote “…why one should have come to Britain to learn about food in those days, I can’t think.” She found, in a cutting about his stage at the Dorchester in his twenties, comments which had followed him through life, polished to perfection along the way. “She was a fine and distinguished lady, but she’d been doing the same old dishes for longer than she could remember. Sure, I learned the disciplines of the kitchen but when I suggested changes I was regarded as an upstart and sent back to my station with a flea in my ear. Although I was young I had already discovered in France tastes and techniques that were way beyond what was on offer here. For this I am grateful for my parent’s housekeeper, Monique, a true gem of a woman, who first set free my culinary imagination.”
And so the story of Joseph Troumeg’s conquest continued, the establishment of Troumeg Fine Dining, one of the earliest bespoke caterers, where Joseph Troumeg would visit the homes of the great and the good and cook personally for their dinner parties. Then the early books and, in the sixties, the first of what would be many Joseph restaurants, franchised here and in America. She read it all again, the growing success, the accumulated wealth, the houses in Chelsea, Knightsbridge, New York and France, the TV series, the gradual creation of an iconic figure. It was a life unencumbered by a partner or the demands of children, blemish free except where Troumeg himself injected drama for the sake of effect. Beatrice had, nevertheless, fallen under his spell, for he was charming and attentive and the narrative of his success was compelling and immediate, packaged like an oven-ready screenplay to be simply heated up and served to an expectant audience. Why couldn’t she just dish this up again? It was what Graham Roth would have been all too happy with, a mix of celebrity interviews, foreign locations, beautifully shot food with a dash of Joseph Troumeg’s wit.
Unable to give perspective to what she had been re-reading, she broke away from the potted history laid out on the bed to return Amanda’s call.
‘Joshua has gone and Roth has offered me the Troumeg project,’ she declared without preamble.
‘Is there a connection?’
‘Well, I’m free of one and free to do the other.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘I don’t really know.’
‘So, let me get this straight, as far as I can see you didn’t really want to be with Joshua anyway and you used to be keen on the Troumeg film. Am I missing something?’
‘No, I think it’s me that’s missing something. Anyway, tell me about our find in the Thames.’
‘You don’t want to talk about it, then?’
‘Well, yes and no.’
‘I’ve heard that before. So, the skull then. Probably a child and since I left the message they’ve sent me more details. This osteoarchaeologist at the museum is – hang on a mo’ – Doctor Harold Wesley and he’s doing some tests at the moment. Says we can call him for progress.’
Beatrice copied down the contact number and then abruptly switched back to the earlier conversation.
‘You know I can’t bear Roth and maybe that’s stopping me making up my mind. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’
Amanda Lodge, at the other end of the line, noted her friend’s hesitation and regarded it as a positive development for the instinctive, confident Beatrice Palmenter often committed herself too quickly and then had to suffer the consequences of her actions for a long time afterwards.
‘Wouldn’t you have to do a fair bit of research,’ she volunteered, ‘a lot of it in France? Maybe this would give you an opportunity to have a break from what’s been going on here.’
‘Or maybe it would just be a continuation of what I’ve been doing before. Joshua thinks, thought, that I was good at exploring other people’s feelings, but not my own.’
‘And you think he might be right?’
Some part of Beatrice hoped that Amanda might have dismissed such a notion and she was rather disappointed by her querying response and so, even though she was on the phone, she shrugged her shoulders and said nothing.
‘I gather from your silence that there’s an element of truth here.’
‘For God’s sake, Amanda, I thought you were a friend. Of course I think there’s an element of truth,’ here imitating her friend’s voice… ‘it
’s just a bit hard to admit to.’
‘Yes, well, can’t you tell Roth that you need a couple of weeks to give some shape to the project before you give him a definitive answer and spend a bit of time in France for some r and r? What else are you going to do? And if you decide to do it as a drama, you know who to ask to produce it…’
‘To tell you the truth, I don’t know what drama there is in the story in the first place. It’s only a hunch I have that maybe there’s something contained in his history that might add a little zest to the over neat version of his life.’
‘But you’re good at that, Beatrice. Follow it. But don’t give up on thinking what dear departed Joshua had to say.’
‘And I thought you were a friend.’
‘Oh, but I am, Beatrice Palmenter, I am.’
Although she was not prepared to admit it, Amanda’s intimation that she should perhaps take time to look at herself had taken Beatrice aback and for the moment, as she had been doing for as long as she could remember, she wanted to shrug it off. She looked down on the Commercial Road and the lines of traffic inching forwards opposite each other under the imposing stare of Christ Church and did what might have been expected of her and changed the subject by phoning the number of the expert at the museum. It took a little time to be put through to Dr Harold Wesley who she imagined might be a crusty septuagenarian rarely allowed to see the light of day. In this, as in other recent assumptions, she was proved wrong.
‘Hello, Harry here,’ a pleasant voice told her.
Beatrice explained that she had been part of the group that had found the skull and it was clear from his response that he was only too glad to talk about the discovery.
‘It’s very old,’ he said and she could hear the excitement in his voice, ‘probably Anglo-Saxon, although we’re still waiting final analysis on that. From the few teeth we’ve got, he or she was in good shape and had a pretty good life, although we’re still not sure what happened in the end. Clearly a child, although we can’t be sure of the sex.’
‘I’m astonished you can tell so much already.’
‘Oh, believe me, there’s a lot more to come,’ he replied, clearly pleased.
It was a surprise when he asked her if she wanted to come to the museum to learn more and she readily agreed, but it was an even greater surprise when, after she’d said yes and rung off, she burst into tears.
CHAPTER SIX
She searches the banks of the river up from the bridge, following its sinuous turns as far as the remains of the settlement where she was born, where the drunks and the homeless now shout their abuse in the gardens by the watergate, but there is no sign of her father’s body. At this point the current of the river stops and rests before flowing outwards again, taking her with it, all the time looking at objects floating in the water. She knows about death and she is proud that her father had died in battle but she wants him to be buried with the other dead, along with the possessions he loved. It would be dark in an hour and she knows that her mother will be worried and she begins to run again, her bare feet in the soft mud left by the departing water, a lone spirit in the marshy ground.
When finally she returns, they are burning the bodies and the flames lick into the evening sky, the sparks drifting away with the wind. She sees her mother revealed in the light of the large bonfire, framed in the doorway of their home, her face calm and accepting of her fate, comfortable that her husband’s sacrifice had not been in vain, but for them all. Her mother worked with flame and fire, softening the gold and silver, creating the alloys that her clever hands turned into beautiful objects. The smoke rises and she sees that her mother is once again holding the small axe pendant in her hand, turning it over between her fingers, occasionally rubbing the golden outline. It is not quite a relic but a token of the man whose body is no more. Later, when she thinks her mother is alseep, she cries for her father, her body curled tight to contain her sobbing. Her mother comes over and gently strokes her hair and kisses the tears from her cheeks, holding her hand until her breathing changes and she lets go her sadness.
In the morning the ashes are raked cool and then placed delicately and solemnly in twelve pottery urns, one for each of the men who were killed. She watches her mother walk forward towards the nearest pot and place the tiny axe head on top of the ashes it contains. Later the urns are carried and then buried in graves just outside the walls that will later become the Barbican.
The community gathers around in support and some ask if she might spend time with them, bringing offerings of food with their consolation. She knows her mother is an important figure, for there is deference as well as sympathy in the manner of those that visit. Her mother has always made her aware of their position, independent, owners of land and, above all, possessed of a skill prized and demanded by others, near and far. Her first husband, she had told her, had made jewellery and when he died at the old settlement, in the first month of their marriage, her mother had taken over, proving to be a greater craftsman. As a widow she had power, but no protection and soon she married again and, hardened once, she was able, the girl knew, to absorb this second blow and take it in her stride.
On this bleak day, when the house no longer contained the physical presence of her father, but where she could still imagine him walking in through the door, her mother reaffirms their status and tells her that life will go on, that she is treasured and that the gods would look after her father and their future. She looks upwards and can see the pride in her mother’s face and while she takes solace in this, feels again that something is changing inside her that was sacred to just her, a separateness that had begun the moment, unseen, her father had tumbled lifeless into the river. She feels it even more when she begins to explore the down river shoreline that afternoon, up beyond where Wapping police station would later be built. She looks eastwards and knows that not far beyond the horizon the men who had killed her father would have returned to their settlements. She cannot find her father’s body and decides that he is gone forever, that he will only exist in some corner of her mind to be visited every now and again, for comfort or remorse.
She sees a ship being brought in on the tide, an unusual shape and size and the men on its prow, delighted that their destination is at last clear, steering for the jetties to the right of the bridge. What had only a few days earlier been a scene of battle is now returned as an arena of commerce.
She breaks into a run, banishing her thoughts, eager to see what the traders are bringing and to hear their stories of other lands.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It had taken the best part of a week for her mother to phone her congratulations, not that these were given directly.
‘Your father would have been very proud of you.’
Eileen Palmenter was not given to praising her daughter and Beatrice was hard put to think of any time her mother had shown unalloyed pleasure at her achievements. This was a fact of life that had to be tolerated, even though at times, when she was younger, it was difficult.
‘I’m told these Barta Awards are quite prestigious, although I can’t say I’ve heard of them.’
‘Bafta, mother.’
‘That’s what I said, Bafta.’
Eileen Palmenter spoke with an accent that was related to no part of this country, or any other for that matter, but pockets of its type were alive and well and could be found clustering in the Home Counties.
‘I’m coming to town and I thought it might be a good idea if you bought me lunch. Don’t you think that’s a good idea? Shall we meet in John Lewis at the usual place?’
There had never been anything motherly about Eileen Palmenter and her daughter, an early arrival in her life, had largely been raised by nannies and au pairs. As much as Beatrice tried to distance herself from her mother, there was a blind persistence about Eileen Palmenter which she found hard to deflect and no matter how much she resisted her gravitational pull by creating her own world, her mother remained an immovable and consistent obstacle.
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‘I’m pretty busy at the moment, mother.’
‘Oh, come on Beatrice, I’m sure you can’t have started your next project just yet. It would be nice to have some company.’
Why does she always do this to me, thought Beatrice, unable to come up with a quick and effective lie to put off her mother? So she capitulates and finds herself agreeing to meet later for lunch in one of the several restaurants in John Lewis so favoured by women who, once a week, dress up and take the train to town to shop. When they kiss, they barely touch, her mother offering her body in a stiff, forward movement, her arms by her side, so that physical contact was kept to the minimum.
‘Are you sure you’re ok, dear? You look a little pale,’ is the opening salvo and before Beatrice could answer, ‘I’ve bought a darling little dress for the summer. You know Joan and I are going on that cruise around the Mediterranean and this will be perfect,’ revealing through the packaging the corner of a pale blue outfit heavily patterned with pink and white flowers.
‘It’s very nice, mother.’
‘I didn’t think you’d like it.’
Joan was another replacement companion for Beatrice’s father, who died when his daughter was twelve, one of a succession of women Eileen uses to escort her on trips and holidays.
‘I might be going to France,’ Beatrice said, picking up the theme.
‘Oh, we must meet. I’m sure the boat will dock at one of those lovely French ports, Toulouse, you know where I mean.’
Beatrice nodded.
‘And will you be alone?’ her mother added. ‘Anthony?’ she asked, with a little tilt of her head.
Anthony was the only boyfriend her mother remembered, an expert on classic cars, rather conventional and liked by her mother because he always wore a tie and was overwhelmingly polite to her. There had been a least half a dozen so called boyfriends since, but when the subject of partners was raised, which it was at every meeting, Anthony was her default setting.
