Smiling Savage removed the Levantine print from its hook. Korky put the miniature map in its place. ‘It’s a bit lost there,’ he pointed out.
‘No, it isn’t. It gives it . . . space.’
Usually she was home by six thirty; seven if she had to shop.
At seven thirty she had not arrived, at eight he was half-anxious, half-resigned that she had gone off again. You never knew with Korky. At ten past eight Mr Prentice arrived. ‘The police have got your young lady,’ he reported.
Savage almost pulled him into the room. Mr Prentice nervously bared his metallic teeth. ‘I’d have come before but I was on my way to the British Legion. We had a meeting.’
‘Where?’ demanded Savage. ‘Where was it?’
‘At the club,’ said Mr Prentice.
‘No. Where did the police arrest her?’
‘Oh, I see. Sorry. In Holland Park. I was just sitting down on a bench because I was early and it was quite nice this evening and I saw it all. There were some youngsters, you know the ones who hang about around here, and they had some cider or something. They were getting rowdy and the police turned up and there was a bit of a struggle and they got taken off in vans.’
‘And Korky was with them?’
‘She’d only just turned up. She was telling them something, warning them. She’d probably seen the police vans. Anyway then they turned up, the police, and carted them off, your girl as well.’
Savage swore quietly. Mr Prentice was worried. ‘I’d have come right away but I had the meeting.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Savage patting him on the shoulder. ‘Thanks anyway. Was it much of a scene with the police?’
‘Quite a bit.’ Mr Prentice hesitated. ‘She was right in it, I’m afraid. A lot of shouting went on and I saw the policewoman hit her and she hit the policewoman.’
‘A policewoman?’
‘Yes, and dogs. In the middle of it all your little lady and the policewoman were having a right tussle I can tell you.’
‘Christ,’ breathed Savage. He moved towards the telephone. ‘Thanks anyway, Mr Prentice.’
‘Glad to help,’ smiled Mr Prentice snapping his trap teeth. ‘I hope it’s all right.’ He went to the door. ‘I’ll be in if you need me.’
Savage had already picked up the telephone. ‘I’ll let myself out,’ said his visitor doing so. Savage was speaking: ‘Do you have a young girl, Kathleen Wilson, there?’
There was an interval while the police decided they had. ‘Right,’ said Savage sharply. ‘I’m coming to fetch her.’
Korky had a bruised cheek and a black eye. ‘That cow-in-uniform, your former Jean, did this,’ she announced. It hurt her to grin but she did. ‘But I got a souvenir.’ Curled in her palm was a tuft of hair.
He put his arms out to her and she fell against him and began to cry. ‘It wasn’t my fault, honest Savage. It wasn’t’
‘I know,’ he replied.
‘She can go now,’ said a calm-looking sergeant appearing at the door. ‘She’s bailed to appear in court tomorrow. Ten thirty.’
‘On what charge?’
The man appeared surprised and had to consult a piece of paper. ‘Assault on police,’ he said eventually. ‘It says here. As she’s got an address she can go. The others have to stay inside.’
‘At least they’ll have a roof,’ retorted Korky. The sergeant did not seem to want to get further involved and merely said: ‘That’s one way of looking at it.’
Savage took her out, put her in a taxi and said: ‘I’m staying.’ She smirked at him tearfully. The bruise under her eye shone in the police station lights. ‘You’re going to see her,’ she said. She opened her hand again. ‘Give her this back if you like.’
He took the hair and put it in his pocket, then walked back into the police station and asked to see PC Deepe. ‘She’s on dinner,’ said the same placid sergeant giving no sign of recognition. ‘I know she is.’
‘I’ll wait.’
‘I’ll let her know. What name is it?’
Savage told him. ‘I’ll tell her,’ confirmed the officer.
‘Sit yourself in the waiting room. There’s some magazines in there.’
Savage did not have to wait long. Jean appeared at the door. ‘Why did you arrest her?’ he demanded.
‘I’m not on the parade ground,’ she retorted. ‘Even if you are, sergeant.’
‘Staff,’ he corrected meanly. ‘Staff Sergeant.’ His lips and eyes were tight. He repeated: ‘Why did you arrest her?’
‘Kathleen Wilson, also known as Korky?’ she asked. ‘Assault on police.’ He decided not to return her scrap of hair. He thought how furtive and unattractive she looked. She purposefully turned her eyes away to study the blank wall. ‘I’ve got a witness,’ he said.
‘To what?’
‘To the fact that Korky had only just arrived on the scene, she hadn’t been part of that group and she hadn’t been drinking with them.’
‘She pulled my hair out,’ said Jean, suddenly petulant. ‘And she called me a uniformed cow. Christ, have you got trouble with that . . .’
‘I’ve had no trouble with her,’ he said quietly. ‘My witness, a man who saw everything that happened, will say it was you who attacked her. She’s the one with the black eye.’ He leaned a little forward his eyes hard. There was something like a sneer on her lips. It was amazing that they had been lovers.
‘And please get this straight,’ he continued. ‘If this gets to court then you’ll be the one who needs to do some explaining. You picked on her. I’ll make sure she’s legally represented.’
‘She’s a back-street trollop.’
‘You’ll have to give your reasons in the witness box.’
He could see that he had got her. To his amazement he realised she was going to crumble. Her body sagged, her eyes filled, her face began to tremble. Sadly he put his hand halfway out to her but she did not accept it. ‘I bloody hate her,’ she muttered. She faced him from behind the tears. ‘You don’t know how much.’
‘There’s no need for you to hate her,’ he said steadily.
‘You were going to help me.’
‘I’ve rung you,’ Savage answered. His voice remained firm. ‘Once you put the phone down on me and another time it sounded as though there was a binge going on and you hung up then as well. And twice after that a man answered. He wasn’t that friendly.’
‘Adam,’ she said and as though it mattered added: ‘He’s a solicitor. But I’ve elbowed him.’
‘What about Brendan Brownlow?’
She shrugged. ‘Now he writes to me with love and kisses. I don’t know what to think. It may be all right.’ She looked up. ‘I don’t think he knows as much as I thought he knew.’
‘I’ve brought your key,’ he said. He took it from his pocket and placed it on the table. She picked it up and turned it over in her palm. ‘You don’t know what my life is like,’ she muttered still contemplating the key.
‘I have some idea.’
Slowly but starkly she turned her face up to him. ‘You love her, don’t you.’
Savage said: ‘I care for her.’
Nineteen
Mr and Mrs Maddison arrived precisely. ‘It’s difficult to be late when you live under the same roof,’ he observed jovially. His wife was staring at Korky’s bruised eye and shiny cheekbone. Maddison followed her direction and transferred his glance unhappily to Savage.
‘The police did it,’ Korky informed them. ‘For fun.’
Breathing sherry Mrs Maddison moved in for a closer survey. ‘Any charges?’ she asked expertly.
‘They tried,’ sniffed Korky.
‘Then decided not to proceed,’ put in Savage.
Mrs Maddison sighed feelingly. ‘The trouble I’ve had with the buggers,’ she complained.
Her husband frowned. ‘I don’t suppose this young lady did what you did – called a distinguished orchestral conductor Bollock Chops,’ he pointed out. He eyed the others without conviction and
promised: ‘Tonight she has assured me that she will not make bird noises during the “Pastoral” Symphony.’
‘I think it’s so nice when the audience can join in,’ sniffed Mrs Maddison. There was a whiff of sherry as she spoke. ‘Especially at the Albert Hall.’
Bertie Maddison regarded the other two soberly. ‘I try to avoid the “Pastoral” if I can, and Delius, and the others who put birds in, especially cuckoos.’ His face returned, filled with doubt, to his wife. ‘With her there are no guarantees.’
They walked together down Church Street hill. The evening was dove grey, warm and quite quiet. Korky wore dark glasses to cover her bruise. They turned the corner and went alongside the park railings; there were walkers, joggers and people exercising dogs. ‘I’d like a dog,’ mentioned Korky. ‘It’s hard to take a gerbil for a walk. One day . . . ’ She gave Savage a sideways look. ‘When I get my own place.’
When they were in their seats she sat transfixed, her astonished gaze travelling around the great bowl of the Albert Hall. ‘How did they get it so round?’ she said. She sat upright when the orchestra came on to the platform, her face stretching over the heads in front, and remained in the same, eager, position as the musicians took their places and began to tune their instruments. When the conductor came to the rostrum she applauded as if she knew him personally.
When the music began she sat beside Savage and held his hand, settling beside his broad frame, face lifted to the great domed roof as though she were trying to see the rising music. Mrs Maddison loudly sucked boiled sweets. Her husband watched her cagily. When the orchestra reached the springtime passage in the “Pastoral”, Mrs Maddison, unable to resist it, leaned forward and began to call softly: ‘Cuckoo . . . cuckoo . . . ’ adding a trilling sound from her throat. Bertie put an alarmed finger to his lips and some nearby people peered towards her but the theme was short and she was soon subdued, silent and attentive again.
‘We have laid on a little repast,’ said Mrs Maddison as they left. Korky was walking silently. She had scarcely moved during the concert. Savage nudged her out of her quiet and she smiled. ‘Wasn’t it great, Savage,’ she said. ‘That ceiling. It was like being inside an egg.’
They called in at a wine bar. ‘At the Albert Hall do they play Spanish music?’ Korky asked. ‘With the whole bit, like tonight?’
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Maddison. ‘Granados, de Falla, Rodrigues.’ She performed a plump turn and snapped her fingers above her head. Korky laughed and did the same.
‘That’s good,’ said Mr Maddison.
‘Ever so,’ agreed his wife.
‘I learned,’ said Korky. She performed the movement again. ‘In Spain, Benidorm.’
‘I’ve seen her,’ confirmed Savage.
‘I learned every day, from some Spanish girls,’ Korky told them. ‘I used to buy them hamburgers and pizzas and they showed me how to do it. One of them had a grandfather with no legs because he was in a war they had, and he used to balance on a stool and play the guitar.’
They went to the Maddisons’ big and old-fashioned apartment. The furniture had been in place for years, castors buried in the carpet. On the walls were framed music scores and photographs of conductors, soloists and singers, some of them sere with age and seasons of filtered London sunlight. ‘This,’ pointed Mrs Maddison leaving the table where she had spread the cold supper, ‘is Dr Ralph Vaughan Williams. I was at a performance of his Sixth Symphony. Nearly fifty years ago now. I was just a girl. He conducted and afterwards I got this autographed photograph. They were selling them for sixpence.’
‘It must have been a brilliant night,’ said Korky.
‘Saturday afternoon,’ remembered Mrs Maddison. ‘It was a toss-up between Vaughan Williams and Queen’s Park Rangers. My Uncle Bob used to take me to see the Rangers and the two things clashed. Afterwards I was glad I went to the Albert Hall because they lost two goals to nil.’
She knew how to prepare a cold supper. There was a glistening chicken and ham pie and cold lamb and salad and small potatoes. They drank two bottles of German wine.
‘The composer Granados, the Spaniard, drowned in the English Channel,’ mentioned Mrs Maddison helping herself to the pie.
‘Right, so he did,’ Mr Maddison nodded into his napkin. ‘Ship sunk by the Germans. First World War.’
‘He was coming back from his opera in New York,’ added his wife. ‘Goyescas, wasn’t it, dear? About Goya.’
‘Yes, Goyescas,’ nodded Mr Maddison. ‘And Spain wasn’t even in the war.’ He turned to Korky, a pickled onion speared on his fork. ‘We have some Spanish music,’ he said. She crossed her eyes at the pickled onion close to her face and said: ‘Do you want me to dance?’
He left the table and opening a long cabinet revealed two racks of long-playing records. ‘All ancient now, of course,’ he said. ‘But you can’t beat them. Somehow Sir Thomas Beecham seems too big for one of these compact disc things. Ah . . . here we are . . . Rodrigues.’
He swung open the polished lid of an old-fashioned record player and switched it on. ‘At least we don’t have to wind it up,’ he joked. He put the record on and watched for a few moments while it revolved before returning to the table and picking up his fork and the impaled pickled onion once more.
Their glasses were replenished and the four sat round the table in the solid, antiquated flat, the windows open, the lace curtains moving to the muted street sounds of the limpid London night, and listened while the rich Iberian music swelled through the room and filtered out into the air of Kensington. ‘Please dance for us,’ invited Mrs Maddison. Korky stood up, her face grave, and began to dance.
She was wearing a long lace dress, dark blue and old, which she had bought in a charity shop. Her shoes were modern, black and thickly wedged. She tapped them on the carpet and twirled the hem of her dress. Bertie Maddison got up mumbling: ‘One moment,’ and removed a square of rug to reveal a parquet floor. With no change of her set expression Korky moved to the wooden space and continued. She drummed her heels and swayed her body.
‘They’re stone deaf downstairs,’ said Mrs Maddison.
Her husband, watching Korky, said: ‘She’s wonderful.’
Savage nodded. He could hardly take his eyes from her. The music had caught her and she moved her hands and body as if in a dream; her feet drummed. Her eyes were almost closed, her hair jerked with her head, her arms and fingers were pale and there was a soft sheen of sweat on a face so intense that she looked old as well as beautiful.
He knew too well how accustomed to each other they had become. He knew how happy they had been that day.
How long could it go on like this?
Mr Kostelanetz had become oddly emotional when Savage informed him that he would like to continue the rental for a further six months. His eyes, as big as an old dog’s, had filled mistily and he had produced a significant red handkerchief to blow his nose. ‘This is good,’ he said copiously shaking Savage’s hand. ‘Very good. Not for me. For my rent, I am not thinking. The rent is good but what you tell me is better.’
Since that time he had become more involved with them, often arriving at the apartment, his face filled with friendship. In September he was there but looking uncomfortable.
‘I’m moving out,’ announced Korky casually. She said it as she idly rolled the pages of a magazine. She was sitting on the sofa. Savage revolved in astonishment. ‘When?’ he said. ‘You’ve never told me.’
‘I didn’t know until now. I’ve just heard.’
Mr Kostelanetz stood bashfully. ‘It was just an offer,’ he shrugged and his eyes fell guiltily to Savage. ‘While you were getting this good wine.’ He raised the glass. ‘Very welcome on a day so warm.’
Korky folded the magazine. She had only been browsing, but now, gaining time, she deliberately bent the corner of one page as if to mark a place. ‘Mr Kostelanetz kindly told me that I can move into a little flat here,’ she said avoiding Savage and looking directly at Mr Kostelanetz.
‘And this will be just the job,’ put in Korky without conviction. ‘It’s in the next block and it’s just big . . . small enough and I’ll be able to manage the rent because this Mrs Longbottom is going away for six months at least and wants somebody reliable to look after the flat. So she’s giving me a good deal.’
Savage’s eyes travelled from the girl to the large man and back again. ‘That seems a lot of information to get through while I was pouring a glass of wine,’ he observed.
Mr Kostelanetz hunched his shoulders. ‘Well, I did mention this matter before.’
‘Very briefly,’ put in Korky her eyes now fixed on her bare knees. ‘I didn’t take a lot of notice to tell you the truth.’
Savage said: ‘But now, suddenly, you’ve made up your mind. You’ve just said: “I’m moving out.” ’
‘Not just yet,’ she corrected defensively. ‘It might be weeks. This Mrs Longbottom doesn’t know exactly when she’ll be going off. It depends when her husband comes back. Then she’ll go.’
‘Well, thanks for telling me.’
‘Don’t sulk,’ she said sulkily. ‘I’ll be here in Kensington Heights. I’ll be a neighbour, so we can pop in and see each other. I bet we’ll be in and out all the time. And that’s what you wanted, you’ve always said.’
‘All right,’ sighed Savage. ‘That’s what I’ve always said.’
‘Have you changed your mind?’
‘Well, no. In principle it’s a good thing. But this is a bit sudden, that’s all.’
‘All life is sudden,’ shrugged Mr Kostelanetz as if quoting an Eastern proverb. He studied each of them in turn as if wondering if they comprehended. ‘Life is.’
Savage returned the shrug. ‘Well, that’s it, then.’ He turned to Korky. ‘You’ll let me know when you’re ready to move out, won’t you.’
Kensington Heights Page 25
