Kensington Heights

by Leslie Thomas

  ‘Don’t be like that, Savage,’ she pleaded. Her eyes pinned him. ‘I won’t go at all if you don’t want me to.’

  ‘No,’ he argued, attempting to be lofty. ‘It’s the best thing. As you say, that’s what I’ve always thought.’ He regarded her ruefully. ‘It’s right you should go. Quite right.’

  ‘Good, good,’ said Mr Kostelanetz seeking to conclude the embarrassment. ‘This Mrs Longbottom will be pleased. She trusts Korky.’

  Savage said: ‘I don’t even know who this Mrs Longbottom is.’

  ‘Number one-eleven,’ said Korky. ‘Next block.’

  ‘Her husband,’ Mr Kostelanetz explained anxiously, ‘is in Australia. But he is coming back.’

  ‘So Mrs Longbottom is going to Australia. They can’t stand each other. They like to pass each other in mid-air,’ said Korky.

  ‘What happens when he finds you in the flat?’ asked Savage.

  ‘Nothing. It’s her flat but she wants to have somebody there. Just in case. He’s no problem.’

  ‘She wants to keep out of his way though?’

  ‘That’s it. They want to avoid each other. When he goes back to Oz she’ll come back here. It’ll be at least six months. He likes our football.’

  Mr Kostelanetz finished the last triangle of wine. ‘I must now go,’ he said. Gravely he shook hands with both and just as gravely moved towards the door.

  Korky let him out leaving Savage to return to the kitchen and sit almost weakly on one of the stools.

  ‘You seem to know everything that’s going on,’ he said when Korky returned. ‘Everything in this big, dumb building.’

  ‘I hear it all,’ she agreed. ‘You can’t live in Kensington Heights without hearing bits and pieces. Well, you might, but I can’t.’

  Savage rubbed his hands across his eyes. She reached out and with cautious tenderness touched him on the shoulders. ‘Anyway, it’s not yet. It depends on this Mrs Longbottom.’

  ‘And this Mr Longbottom,’ he stressed. ‘I wonder which of us is the craziest.’ Perched on the stool he solemnly regarded her.

  ‘Oh come on, Savage, mate,’ she pleaded. ‘You wouldn’t want life to be dull would you.’

  ‘That,’ he said, ‘was the object when I came here.’

  ‘Ah, but that was before I turned up,’ she said walking briskly into the sitting room. The miniature map she had bought in Portobello Road was now the sole adornment of the long wall, hanging at the centre like a small seal on a large letter. She reached and took the map down. Savage came slowly from the kitchen. ‘You haven’t forgotten,’ she said holding it up triumphantly. ‘That’s where we are going. Our very own island.’

  ‘When?’ He felt defeated.

  ‘When we like,’ she told him. ‘All sorted. Mr Furtwangler gave me a book.’

  She passed the map to him and he stood holding it while she went into her room and returned with a dark, old, worn book. ‘A Guide to the Isle of Wight,’ she announced formally. She squatted childlike on the sofa and began to rustle through the elderly pages. Gendy he took it from her. He was glad of the diversion. ‘Nineteen hundred and eleven,’ he said.

  ‘So what?’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s still the Isle of Wight. It’s in the same place in the sea and it can’t have changed its shape. Look at this picture of the cliffs, Savage. High as anything. And the lighthouse and those massive rocks.’ She peered closely at the small old print. ‘The Needles. What will they think of next? And here, I was reading it in bed, there’s a bit about smugglers and pirates and stuff. And people who lured ships onto the rocks so they could nick the stuff.’

  ‘Wreckers,’ he said flatly.

  ‘That’s it, wreckers. See, you’re getting in the mood now. It’s going to be brill, so exciting, Savage.’

  ‘Not half as exciting as living here,’ he answered.

  They were late leaving. As they were about to go from the flat Korky decided she needed a suitcase. They had agreed to share his but as his old army case lay open on his bed she had appeared at the door, her hands dangling with underwear and, surveying it briefly, announced that she had to have one of her own.

  In half an hour she returned with a single piece of cheap luggage. ‘Some man offered to carry it for me,’ she giggled. She opened it alongside his on the bed. ‘And I got myself a dress.’

  It was long and black, the neck cut away low and with tails around the hem. She held it against her front. ‘It’s for when we dance in the evening.’

  ‘It’s the Isle of Wight,’ he said studying her. ‘And it’s September. It’s not Monte Carlo in the season.’

  Korky looked determined. ‘I will wear it and we will dance.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘And I bought a red bikini.’ She eyed him and held it up. ‘Sexy, eh?’

  ‘Very,’ he said. ‘You’ll freeze.’

  ‘So I freeze.’ She piled her clothes into the suitcase and placed her purchases on top. ‘A girl’s got to have some kit.’ She broke into a smirk. ‘People will think we’re on our honeymoon.’

  ‘No they won’t.’

  ‘I don’t care. It is in a way. We’ve never been away together before. I bet we have a terrific time. We’ll be like those people in the telly commercials running along the empty beach by the waves.’

  ‘If we ever get there,’ he said taking her wrist and looking at her watch.

  She slammed the lid of her new case, mauve plastic, the locks and catches bright tin. ‘That’s my first suitcase too, come to think of it,’ she said.

  ‘What about your gerbil?’ he asked.

  ‘John!’ Aghast she put her hand to her open mouth. ‘Oh God, am I careless! It’s because he’s out on the balcony all the time. I forgot him. God forgive me.’

  ‘I’ve asked Mrs Tomelty to come and feed him,’ Savage told her. Her expression remained.

  ‘She won’t. She’ll forget. You know what a daft old bat she can be.’ She corrected herself: ‘A nice, daft old bat.’ Her hands went to her mouth. ‘Oh, Savage, she won’t look after him properly. She won’t talk to him.’

  ‘He’s happy out on the balcony.’

  ‘Not while I’m enjoying myself on holiday,’ she retorted, her face crammed. ‘Oh, I’m so selfish!’

  Savage sat heavily on the bed. ‘Are we going or not?’

  ‘Going? Of course we’re going. But . . .’ She spun around and dashed from the bedroom. There came the heavy metallic opening and closing of the balcony door and she returned carrying the sleepily sagging gerbil in one hand. ‘John’s coming with us.’ Savage felt his face drop. ‘You can’t . . .’ he protested. ‘You can’t . . . take a gerbil.’

  Defiantly she dropped the animal in her suitcase. ‘Why not?’ she demanded. ‘Just tell me why not.’

  ‘We’re going . . . well, to a hotel.’

  She picked the tattered guide-book from the bed and brandished it. ‘Show me,’ she challenged. ‘Show me where it says: “No gerbils allowed.” Go on, I dare you. Just show me.’

  ‘Gerbils weren’t invented when that was published,’ he protested. ‘Some hotels don’t allow animals anyway.’

  ‘We’ll go to one that does,’ she said. ‘Anyway we don’t have to tell them. John will be fine in this suitcase.’

  ‘John will suffocate,’ he forecast.

  She threw her hands to her face again. ‘Oh, Savage. Thanks. Thank you very much. He could too. I never thought of that.’

  She whirled again and disappeared from the room. He peered into the case. The gerbil had already made a nest for itself on her new dress and was settling to sleep. She returned with the breadknife and, closing the lid of the suitcase, took a stab at it. The knife went straight through. ‘Oh, no!’ she screamed and tugged open the lid again. She had not pierced the gerbil although he had opened an anxious eye. She waved the knife uncertainly. Savage reached over and took it from her. Leaving the lid open he made half a dozen holes from the inside and handed the knife back to her. She blushed gratefully, re
turned the knife to the kitchen and called from there: ‘He’ll need food.’ Savage, who was about to close the lid, sighed and opened it again. John blinked irritably. Korky returned and put in a bowl filled with cornflakes. ‘That should do him until we get there.’

  Savage studied her. She smiled primly. ‘Shouldn’t John go to the toilet first?’ he suggested. ‘It’s a long way.’

  ‘He went,’ affirmed Korky. ‘He went in his tray.’ She surveyed the curled animal doubtfully. ‘We’ll have to take him somewhere when we’re on the journey.’ She glanced unsurely at Savage who said: ‘Perhaps they’ll have a gerbil toilet at the station.’

  Korky closed the lid of the suitcase and turned it carefully upright, listening as the animal slid slowly into position inside. ‘John,’ she called through the air holes. ‘You’re going to the Isle of Wight.’

  Twenty

  It was clear, early evening before they were on the local train to Lymington. Korky had insisted that they embark on the ferry there rather than sail from Portsmouth or Southampton. ‘You’re not so long at sea,’ she pointed out. ‘I’ve never been on the sea so I don’t know if I’ll be sick or not.’

  ‘It only takes twenty minutes,’ Savage told her.

  ‘I don’t want to be sick for twenty minutes.’

  They drew into the single-track marine station at Lymington, the platform lying like a jetty against the water and the horizon full of masts. For most of the journey she had sat close against the window, engrossed in the transposing countryside. She remained childlike, carrying her mauve case; they went through the barrier and saw the ferry.

  Korky halted. ‘It looks safe.’

  ‘I’d say she was seaworthy,’ Savage responded with the same seriousness. She held his hand as they walked. ‘Oh, Savage, what a terrific idea this was of mine. We’re going to have such a great time.’

  They climbed the gangway. The vessel was uncrowded. Korky eyed the lifeboats and emergency rafts and boldly tested the firmness of a suspended lifebelt, reading aloud the ship’s name printed on its side. ‘You can see the island from here,’ he said. She followed him to the upper deck, below the bridge, and looked out over the quiet, dun evening to the smudged rising land on the near horizon.

  ‘There it is,’ she breathed. ‘It looks close enough to walk.’

  They went into the cafeteria and drank coffee. She was engrossed with the old guide-book, now falling apart with unaccustomed use. ‘This must have been a cheap edition,’ she grumbled. She said to Savage: ‘It says Tennyson used to come across this way. We’ve got his books in the shop.’

  She had a moment of apprehension when the ferry moved with a minor jolt away from the quay. They went out on to the foredeck again. The weighty movement of the ship passing through the low estuary was eddying the evening air. ‘Sniff,’ said Savage.

  Korky sniffed: ‘Salty.’

  They passed the tinkling masts of the marina. ‘I wouldn’t want a yacht,’ She sniffed again. ‘Too noisy.’ They went to the port side where the land was flat and grey-green down to the water’s edge. A solitary large house faced the estuary. ‘That’s where I want to live,’ she decided. ‘I want to look from bed and see the water and the ships. Will you buy it, Savage? Buy it for me.’

  ‘I’ll save up,’ he promised.

  She took the gerbil to the ladies’ toilet. ‘He did it,’ she whispered triumphantly. ‘He seemed to know.’ She slid him into the case, locked it, and circumspectly returned it to the perpendicular. The ship had left the low banks of the estuary and they were heading across the open channel to the looming island.

  Again Korky resorted to the ancient guide-book. ‘Sunset and evening star,’ she recited loudly and doggedly. ‘And one clear call for me.’ Several passengers stared at her; a woman muttered below a headscarf, another laughed. Korky turned to Savage. ‘Tennyson was on this very ferry when he wrote that,’ she said. ‘Well, not this one but a hundred years ago.’

  He smiled and took the book from her to read the words. She was standing close against him as though hiding herself from the late breeze. ‘It’s just like that old film we saw on the box,’ she whispered. The woman with the headscarf was watching them. Korky smiled and gave her a small wave. ‘Remember. That Gregory . . . what’s his name? Gregory Bird?’

  ‘Gregory Peck.’

  ‘That’s it. The film where America bought that place, where all the snow and ice are, from Russia for a couple of dollars. Alaska.’

  He regarded her wryly. ‘You know,’ she urged. ‘When they were on the ship and the wind was blowing and he had his arms around her from the back. God, it was bloody romantic. I got all moony.’

  ‘It was ages ago. We saw that.’

  ‘I know. But it’s just like this.’ She waited. ‘Savage, stick your arm around me. We’ll make out we’re going to buy Alaska.’

  He let his hand rest on her narrow waist; the evening calmness was spread all about them, the sun low and lemon. The land was growing dim behind them and taking shape ahead. They could pick out buildings, the square church, roofs. A few silent gulls cruised with them. There was a small cargo boat pushing west. The woman in the headscarf watched them close together, the young girl and the man in middle age. ‘Disgusting,’ she grunted.

  According to the 1911 guide-book the Isle of Wight was of sufficient area to accommodate the entire known population of the world without anyone treading on anyone’s toes.

  ‘I wish a few more of them would come here,’ grumbled the taxi driver. He hunched low against the wheel as though prepared for the worst. ‘Once the kids have gone the season’s over more or less.’ He rallied: ‘Still, you’ll have a nice time. We’ve got grottoes and walks and a waxworks. All sorts. Over at Ryde there’s an exhibition of teapots.’

  Savage had instructed him to take them to a hotel on the sea. It took only ten minutes. ‘You’ll like it here,’ he forecast as they alighted and doubtfully examined the damp, cream building. The windows were salt-stained. A face appeared at one on the second floor, staring like a ghost, and like a ghost it vanished. ‘It’s cheerful but quiet you might say. The kids run a bit riot, do some damage, during the summer, but they’ve gone now.’ The driver surveyed the semi-steamed bay windows. ‘Anyway, you’ll like it.’

  Inside the hotel it seemed as though the winter heating should have been on. The rosy-faced woman at the reception desk was demonstratively glad at their unexpected arrival. ‘Don’t blame you not booking,’ she said thrusting the hotel register towards them. ‘You’ve got a choice then. Although Charlie the Taxi always brings people here. He should do, he’s my father.’

  Korky had wandered to the end of the lobby and was studiously selecting brochures from a rack. ‘The paddle steamer trip’s nice,’ the receptionist called to her. ‘If it’s not too rough.’ As though she needed to do it while the girl was at a distance she said to Savage in a low, conspiratorial, voice: ‘Is it two rooms?’

  Savage blinked. ‘Yes. Yes, of course. If you have two.’

  ‘You can have two each if you like,’ the woman told him honestly. ‘It’s your daughter, is it? I thought it was your daughter. She looks like you.’ She giggled primly. ‘Not that I haven’t made mistakes.’ Savage signed the register and she put two keys on the desk. ‘Norman’s gone off for his break,’ she said peering over the counter at their luggage.

  ‘We can manage,’ Savage said.

  ‘Good. Very good of you. He has a long break sometimes.’ She looked at the loud clock on the wall behind her. ‘Dinner is on now,’ she said. ‘Last orders nine thirty. You’ve got plenty of time.’ Savage took the keys and was about to pick up the cases when from Korky’s came an urgent scratching. The receptionist backed away behind the counter, her eyes widening. ‘What’s it doing that for?’

  ‘Korky,’ he called.

  She was peering into the open door of the dining room. ‘Yes, Savage?’

  ‘It’s John. He’s restless.’

  The woman watched fascinated
. ‘The suitcase is called John?’ she asked.

  ‘No, no. It doesn’t have a name,’ said Savage soberly. ‘John is inside.’

  ‘He’s fed up,’ said Korky advancing on the case. She laid it gently flat. The receptionist was joined by a fragile man who appeared from the office behind the desk. They observed the sounding case intently.

  Korky opened the hasps of the tin locks and revealed the gerbil as she lifted the lid. ‘He hasn’t even messed,’ she announced proudly. She picked up the animal and squeezed it gently. ‘Good man, John.’

  ‘No animals,’ announced the frail man in a thin voice. The receptionist swiftly nudged him. ‘No dogs,’ she corrected. ‘Or cats. But the odd hamster’s acceptable, Mr Penney.’

  ‘John is a gerbil,’ corrected Korky succinctly.

  Mr Penney saw the receptionist’s glance. ‘Oh, a gerbil is it. Yes, gerbils are allowed.’

  ‘He sleeps a lot of the time,’ Korky assured them. She patted the animal. ‘Although I may try him on the beach. He’s never been on a beach.’

  ‘It’s all right then?’ said Savage.

  ‘Absolutely,’ the woman almost enthused. She rolled her eyes at the man who obediently retreated to the back room. ‘We’ve had hundreds of excruciating children through the summer. Little swines,’ she continued. ‘A quiet gerbil is most welcome.’ She laughed, attempting to make it light. ‘No extra charge.’ Her expression became concerned. ‘But you won’t take him in to dinner, will you. We couldn’t have him in the dining room.’ She reached over and stroked the plump, warm, bent back. ‘Nice as he is.’

  The suitcase had remained open and Korky, with an anxious look at the woman peering at the otherwise sparse contents, slammed it and picked it up. ‘I’ve left room for shopping,’ she said.

  ‘It’s on the first floor,’ pointed the receptionist. ‘No need to use the lift. The lift is dodgy anyway due to the dear children.’

  She decided she would see them to the rooms and led the way up the wide staircase. ‘It’s so lovely and peaceful now,’ she continued. ‘We like it like this, except we don’t make any money.’ They had reached the rooms, the doors only inches apart. ‘Number twelve and number fourteen,’ recited Korky. She glanced at the receptionist. ‘What happened to thirteen?’