Kensington Heights

by Leslie Thomas

  He reclined in the chair. ‘Bouvet,’ he said. ‘That’s it. Miles from anywhere.’ She stopped at the correct place. ‘Bouvet. Fancy that,’ she sniffed. ‘You went to see her this afternoon, didn’t you?’ she said without looking away from the screen.

  ‘Who? Jean? Yes.’

  ‘Tea and muffins?’

  ‘Just for tea,’ he responded calmly. ‘How are you getting on with Freddie?’

  ‘Freddie is just someone to see.’ She was staring at the screen without seeing it. But then with a conscious effort she recited: ‘Longitude 54.23 north . . . latitude 6.52 east . . .’

  He felt her withdraw slightly from his shoulder. He remained facing the screen. ‘It’s not very interesting. Nobody lives there. It’s just a rock in the ocean.’

  Her sniff sounded again. ‘One thousand five hundred miles from anywhere,’ she put in pensively. ‘A bit like you really. And me.’ Without waiting for his response, she turned towards her bedroom. ‘I nicked a book from work today,’ she called back. ‘Well, borrowed it. Mr Furtwangler won’t mind. It will be years before he’ll realise it’s gone anyway.’ She returned with the thick, scuffed book. ‘It’s about islands and other remote places. It’s not like yours. There’s mountains and lakes and rivers and stuff like that as well as some islands.’ Clumsily she turned the pages. ‘Here it is, Bouvet. Not much about it.’

  ‘I told you there wouldn’t be.’

  ‘It says . . .’ She read slowly and with exaggerated care as if auditioning: ‘Early mariners wondered if Bouvet really existed. It was lost for years only to reappear again. Thick ocean fogs have always engulfed it. The explorer Sir James Clark Ross called it “Bouvet, that child of the mists”.’

  She closed the book as if closing an argument. He rose from the desk. ‘I’ll go and get some take-away in a minute,’ she said moodily. ‘What sort?’

  ‘Burgers,’ he said. ‘We’ve had every other sort this week. Chinese, Indian, fish and chips.’ He looked at her and she giggled, the small tension going; he went into the kitchen. ‘Drink?’ he called to her.

  ‘Wine, please, little glass.’ Leaning over the word processor her fingers began to work adroitly. He came back and saw her.

  ‘I was just putting some of this interesting stuff from the book in,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I’ve changed the words so nobody will know. I’ll try and find some more out tomorrow.’

  He stood behind her whilst she continued. ‘There were fogs and massive storms in this part of the ocean,’ she recited when she had finished. ‘And the old sailors were frightened because they thought Bouvet was a ghost island. It vanished for years and appeared back out of the mist.’ She half-turned, waiting for his reaction. ‘That cheers it up a bit.’

  Silently Savage read through her words. To her pleasure he nodded. ‘A couple of paragraphs,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘of legends.’

  ‘Well, it’s more interesting than just saying the size of the place, how many people live there, and saying that they grow beans.’ She rose from the keyboard. Picking up the white wine she swallowed it. ‘I’ll go and get the McDonalds.’

  She left briskly and he went to the window and watched her hurrying across the street below. He shook his head and returned to the word processor and, gradually smiling, he read again the few lines she had added. Then he shut it down and poured himself a drink.

  She returned clutching the paper bag like a prize. ‘I didn’t tell you at the time,’ she confessed as she distributed the hamburgers and chips on two plates. Thoughtfully she transferred a single chip from one plate to the other. ‘But I dropped the lot last week. These bags are ever so thin. Went straight through the bottom and on to the road.’

  ‘And . . . ?’

  ‘We ate it.’ She stood and grinned.

  ‘Thank you for telling me.’

  She went to the kitchen and returned with the ketchup and the remaining white wine. They ate and drank in their customary, uncomplicated silence. They were easy with each other now. Eventually Korky said: ‘When I’m an old lady I’m going to get my rail pass and go all over the place on the train. In the winter I’ll even live on the train. I’ll sleep in it and eat sandwiches and go from one end of the country to the other, Cornwall up to Scotland and back. What will you do?’ She wiped the grease and the ketchup from her mouth. Her eyes moved to him.

  ‘I hope not to be an old lady,’ he said.

  She shoved him lightly.

  ‘Pack it in. You know what I mean.’ He picked up the same paper napkin as she had used and wiped his chin. ‘I’ve never thought about it,’ he admitted. ‘Thinking about today and tomorrow is difficult enough.’

  ‘When you’re in the army you don’t have to think, do you?’ she continued mildly.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I’ve met squaddies. I once stayed in Aldershot, working in the Naafi.’

  As she said it she went into the kitchen and returned with two chocolate ice creams from the refrigerator. ‘You didn’t tell me that,’ he said.

  ‘I haven’t told you everything, Savage,’ she teased. ‘You haven’t told me everything. In fact you’ve hardly told me anything. You never talk about the army.’

  ‘I’ve not wanted to talk about it,’ he said. ‘After the way I ended up.’

  ‘Have you told that Jean about it?’

  ‘I’ve told that Jean about some of it,’ he replied.

  ‘Were you really mental?’ She tapped her forehead. ‘Had you lost it?’

  ‘As close as I’ve wanted to be. It still scares the hell out of me.’

  ‘It’s a bummer,’ she said without emphasis. ‘But there’s mad and there’s mad. There was an old mad bloke used to be around here. Mad as a drainpipe. Old Crony they called him because he was always going on about his old cronies. That must have been army too. Some nights he used to sit with us, when we had a fire, and blather on about yonks ago. He was really mad. One night I came across him all frozen and stiff and he asked me if I’d hold his willie because he was dying.’

  ‘He did what!’

  ‘Hold his willie,’ she repeated as though he might not have heard. She shrugged: ‘Because he was on his last puff, see. Just to give him a bit of pleasure. So I did.’

  Eventually he said: ‘You would.’

  ‘Well, who cared? I took it out for him. I had a job finding the poor old thing, believe me, and when I did, God, it was like my thumb. I squeezed it in my hand until it had warmed up a bit. And then an ambulance came what somebody had called. I put his willie away and they carted him off. He didn’t die, though, the old fraud. A couple of weeks later I saw him creeping down Church Street’

  She munched the chocolate ice cream oblivious of his expression. ‘I’ll tell you something else funny,’ she rambled. She was in a confessional mood. ‘You know that old dear, Mrs Blenkinsop, Wilhelmina, who reckons her husband is murdered and buried in the cellar? I went down there with her to have a look and . . .’

  ‘You actually went . . . ?’

  ‘Down in the cellar,’ she insisted. ‘But she couldn’t find the place. She’s well gone, you know. God it was horrible down there. All dark and ratty.’

  ‘How,’ Savage asked attempting to appear patient, ‘did you get into that situation? You seem to know half the people in these flats.’

  ‘A lot of them,’ she shrugged. ‘Wrinklies enjoy having somebody a bit younger to talk to. They’re all into death, you know, well into it. Like that old geezer who went to Antwerp specially to die. They go on about the past a bit but more often it’s the future . . . when they’re going to snuff it. None of them seem that interested in what’s happening right now.’

  She regarded him narrowly as if to ascertain that he was still receptive. ‘Mrs Blenkinsop, that Wilhelmina, had a seance, you know,’ she told him with care. ‘She had in this geezer who could bring back loved ones.’

  Savage looked alarmed. ‘You didn’t go . . .’

  ‘Course I went,’ retorted Kor
ky airily. ‘It was a bit of a hoot really, but sad. This bloke was a right con artist, I had him sussed. He had a way of getting information, you know, about people that were dead and gone and then mixing it all up and telling the same stuff back to them. And they took it all in. They believed him.’ She looked pensive. ‘They wanted to really. One woman brought along some pictures of her husband’s funeral and she showed them to me. She wouldn’t show them to anybody else, even this medium man. Only me. She seemed to think I would understand.’ She leaned and caught Savage by the shirt cuff. Her voice became throaty. ‘And, Savage, there was her old man’s ghost standing up in the middle of his own funeral You could see him, Savage. It was a shock, I can tell you. But then I saw he was wearing shorts.’

  Beyond words, Savage raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Shorts,’ she repeated. ‘Honest. There was this photo, all these miserable people sitting after the funeral, eating cold pies and drinking sherry or whatever, and there was the dead bloke standing in the middle of them. I didn’t tell her but it was . . . you know . . . what do they call it? A double exposure. She said she’d used the camera last summer at the seaside. They’d left the film in and somehow it got filmed over again. In his beach shorts. At his own funeral.’

  One afternoon she arrived at the flat with Freddie, the estate agent. Her hair was in rows of tight plaits. ‘I begged her not to, Mr Savage,’ Freddie said in a tone he used when a sale had fallen through. ‘It’s too ethnic.’

  ‘I wanted to,’ said Korky stoutly. Challengingly she revolved to Savage. ‘I thought you’d like it. Anyway, it’s my hair and it’s my birthday.’

  ‘When is?’ enquired Savage suspiciously. He knew her too well.

  She raised her nose. ‘Tomorrow. I’m eighteen tomorrow. I can do what I like then.’

  ‘You do what you like now.’

  ‘We’re going out to dinner tonight,’ Freddie said. ‘My treat.’ His teeth dropped over his lip. ‘How about coming with us?’

  ‘I want you to,’ pleaded Korky anxiously. ‘For my birthday.’

  He still doubted it but he said: ‘All right.’

  Unconvincingly Freddie said: ‘Great.’

  ‘Ask Jean,’ suggested Korky brazenly. She did not meet his eyes. ‘Make a foursome.’ Freddie went pale. Savage said: ‘That’s a good idea. I’ll ring her.’

  At the conclusion of the meal Korky said cheerfully: ‘I might as well confess.’ She regarded each of the three variably expectant faces in turn. Freddie leaned his pale, moon countenance forward, a tongue of his black hair lolling over his forehead. The quartet had consumed four bottles of wine. ‘It’s not your birthday,’ guessed Savage.

  Korky pouted. ‘Lousy spoilsport, Savage.’

  Everyone, except Jean Deepe, laughed. Jean had observed Korky throughout the evening and now she only wearily closed her eyes. ‘When is it?’ she asked. She lit a cigarette. No one else smoked.

  ‘October,’ said Korky, looking squarely at her. She then made a face at Savage. She was quite drunk. Her expression changed again and she smiled extravagantly around the table. ‘But it was great, anyway, wasn’t it.’

  They agreed it was, Freddie by a bowing of his head which continued until it descended to the tablecloth, where it remained. Korky regarded him with a small scorn. ‘I think I’d better take him home,’ she said.

  ‘My treat,’ mumbled Freddie. ‘My treat.’

  ‘We’ll split it,’ said Korky beaming towards the older pair. ‘Won’t we?’

  ‘I’ve got money . . . somewhere,’ insisted the mumbling Freddie. He could not find his inside pocket. Korky slapped his hand lightly. ‘Pay up tomorrow,’ she decided casting a glance at Savage. ‘We could, couldn’t we, Frank?’

  She had never called him Frank and he blinked before agreeing. He helped Freddie to his feet with the assistance of Jean who, with professional facility, eased him from behind the table. Jean knew where to put her hands. ‘Thanks . . . thanks . . . thanks so much,’ the youth kept saying. ‘Very sporting.’ Korky gave token support and sighed: ‘He soon gets pissed.’ Savage asked the waiter to call a taxi and they got the sagging Freddie to the door. ‘It’s you she loves, Frank Savage, not me,’ he moaned as he hung between them. He attempted to raise his head. ‘You can’t fool me. I’m an estate agent.’

  Once the pair had gone Savage and Jean remained sitting silently.

  ‘It’s you she loves,’ Jean eventually repeated with a smile.

  ‘She loves me like her father,’ Savage said. The waiter came and he settled the bill. They went out into the light spring night. ‘How long ago did her father die?’ asked Jean. ‘You did say he was dead?’

  ‘Years ago,’ answered Savage. ‘Then there was a stepfather and then her mother went off leaving her to fend for herself.’

  ‘And fend off the stepfather.’

  ‘That’s what happened.’

  ‘The usual,’ she shrugged. She smiled tightly and privately, looking at the pavement as they walked. The night-time roofs were shaped against the pale sky, lights like coloured banners shone square in a few upper windows. ‘That story she told tonight, about the old man who asked her to hold his willie because he was dying.’

  Savage laughed quietly. ‘She’s told me that before.’

  ‘The old bugger asked me to do the same thing,’ Jean mentioned almost casually. ‘A couple of weeks ago. He was flat out in the ambulance and he took his penis out.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I told him to put it away or I’d nick him for indecent exposure.’

  ‘And he said he was dying?’

  ‘Right. And this time he was spot on. He snuffed it before we reached the hospital.’ They got to her door. ‘Do you want to come up?’ she asked.

  ‘If you’re going to invite me.’

  She unlocked the door. ‘I thought you might not want to tonight.’

  ‘I want to.’

  They went into the warm room and drank a brandy each.

  They were sitting opposite each other, their conversation dwindling. Eventually she blew smoke toward the ceiling and leaned over and kissed him. Her face was taut. ‘Are you going to take me to bed?’ she said.

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘You’ve never been in bed with her, have you Frank?’

  ‘Korky? No, I haven’t. I’ve told you that.’ He kept his voice low. ‘It hasn’t happened and it won’t. All that’s sorted.’

  ‘Sorted? You sound like her,’ she said drily.

  They remained where they were and she began to take her clothes off. She did it quickly, almost proficiently. ‘Pardon the hurry,’ she said. She lay against him wearing only her slip. ‘Put your hands against me, Frank,’ she demanded. ‘Let me feel them feeling me.’

  First he stroked her waist and then ran his touch up to her breasts. As they stood against each other she pulled his right hand down between her legs. She rubbed herself blatantly against it and they kissed. ‘I don’t want to wait any more,’ she said. Still holding each other, almost like a slow dance, they went into the shaded bedroom. She pulled back the duvet. ‘You know I prefer to do it under the covers. It gives me a feeling of being domesticated.’

  They made love. They were familiar now. ‘I wouldn’t like you to think I was jealous of Korky,’ she told him. ‘I’m a bit afraid of her, that’s all.’

  Fourteen

  He walked for ten minutes along Notting Hill, the shops like dimly lit caves, his footfalls sounding from the pavement. It had become cold but the sky was pale, peaceful, and the air unmoving. The spring leaves on the beeches shuffled indistinctly above his head. In Kensington Church Street a black taxi loitered like a ghost; traffic lights signalled each other.

  His stride was slow, his mind crowded but he was no longer nervous. He wondered about Korky, if she would be home yet. He smiled as he remembered how she had enjoyed the evening. He quietly thought of his wife, Irene: was she lying, still awake perhaps, in the arms of her dependable lover? His mind wen
t back along the night-time streets to Jean, her lone life and her fears. Finally, he wondered about himself. What was he to do?

  Kensington Heights was solidly dark apart from Miss Bombazine’s window displayed like a large orange ticket. He let himself in and climbed the stairs on his toes. Korky had not come in. Her bed looked neat but lost as it always did when she was not there. John the gerbil was in his night-time box at its foot, engaged in a sleepy wash.

  Savage poured himself another drink. He felt safe to do it now. He had drunk a lot that night. Out of habit he wandered to the window with the brandy glass. London was lying low, a blink of moon, appearing, disappearing, reappearing among unhurrying clouds, briefly silver on the roofs and small towers. He turned and pulled the curtains and then, prompted by another, newer, habit, switched on the word processor. The reassuring glow and childish chime greeted him. It was strange how infantile much of it was, the elementary diagrams and their short, basic labels: Getting Started, Tools, Read Me. He moved the cursor to Book, clicked on it twice and his encyclopaedia appeared on the screen.

  At once he saw that Korky had been at work. Often he found her sitting there adding her own fanciful contribution to his basic entries, her poetic additions purloined, occasionally word for word, from travel and topographical books which she obtained from the shop. ‘Nobody is going to recognise a few words they wrote years ago,’ she had argued.

  By now he had reached Flinders. ‘Island group, north-east of Tasmania. Named after the explorer Matthew Flinders.’ Korky had added: ‘Home of the Cape Barren goose and two hundred people. In 1914–18 they were so cut off the islanders used to club together and pay for a telegram to be sent to them telling them who was winning the First World War.’

  Savage smiled now and, shaking his head, again thought about her. ‘You can turn it into a bit better English if you want,’ she had insisted. ‘But I’ll pick out the interesting stuff and put it in after. Those shits in the Cayman Islands, by the way, used to nail live turtles to the decks of their boats to keep them fresh.’