After the meal Dottie announced that Henry had to leave after lunch the next day to spend Sunday afternoon with his mother, and that we must begin talking business. She said this very briskly and authoritatively and then looked from one to the other of us expectantly. A long silence followed.
‘I’d like to look at the—er—premises,’ said Henry at last. ‘In the morning, I mean, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Dottie. ‘We can get the key from the agent, he’s sure not to mind, even if it is Sunday. And then we’ll start negotiations right away. I’ll go back to town with you tomorrow, Henry, and we’ll finalise everything. Then I’ll drive back, Jane, and while you earn our bread and butter in the pub, I’ll drive round the countryside tracking down sources.’
‘Er,’ said Henry tentatively.
‘What?’ asked Dottie, raising her eyebrows in surprise that even such a timid hesitation should be shown.
‘Well, only—I mean—you want to finalise everything tomorrow?’
‘What’s the point of waiting?’
‘Of course I don’t know a great deal about business, but isn’t that a bit …I mean, wouldn’t that be pushing it a bit?’ He spoke with a fairly marked Cockney accent—not gorblimey, but quite noticeable. It made him more interesting, because his clothes were so tweedy and Austin Reed—he even had a matching waistcoat on, and very conservative shoes that looked as if he’d had them for years and polished them every night. It was hard to place him—town or country, posh or com, rich/idle/shrewd/thrifty/Lib/Lab/Tory, or permutations of the same, it was impossible to tell. He didn’t, for instance, look the type who would hurry home from a business meeting to have Sunday tea with his mum. I found myself watching him closely for clues, at the same time thinking how Toby would have enjoyed doing the same from a writer’s viewpoint.
Dottie looked jarred, like someone whizzing blithely downhill on a toboggan and hitting a submerged stump.
‘Look,’ she said, with half-concealed impatience. ‘This whole thing is such a wonderful idea—and everything is falling into place so perfectly—it’s obviously destined to be on. Can’t you see that?’ She looked from one to the other of us. I tried to look encouraging but at the same time not wholly committed. Henry looked worried and rather mentally windblown. ‘I can’t see the point of delays!’ Dottie exclaimed, stubbing out her cigarette. I saw Henry look along the length of her straight, tense, slender arm and stop at the thick silver bracelet on the wrist. There was a faint, puzzled frown on his face; it could have been simply unease at the way Dottie was pushing him into something he wasn’t sure of, but to me it looked like the frown of a man who is beginning to feel something that he never wanted or expected to feel and doesn’t know how to cope with it. He suddenly got a pair of heavy-rimmed glasses out of his top pocket and put them on, then leaned back with an air of greater assurance as if wearing them made him invisible and he were now free to observe us and the situation from a position of immunity. The glasses became him; I suddenly saw that for all his stockiness and lack of expression, he was not unattractive—he looked like a nice cuddly koala bear in his hairy brown tweeds, and his rather large ears added not unpleasingly to the likeness.
‘I think,’ I said, ‘that we shouldn’t plan too far or too definitely ahead. Let’s look over the shop tomorrow and then see.’
‘I agree,’ said Henry. ‘After all, it’s no use worrying about “sources” until we’re sure we’ll have a market. It’s only a little village, after all. Who’s going to buy the stuff?’
‘Oh, nobody around here, probably,’ said Dottie airily. ‘Not at first, anyway. But look at Tenterden.’ She grinned at us triumphantly, like a child who has done its homework.
‘Who’s he?.’ asked Henry unwarily.
‘“He” is a village in Kent,’ said Dottie. ‘It’s full of antique shops. Super ones—I drove out there the other day. It’s a lot further from London than this, but people flock there to buy antiques.’
‘Dealers.’
‘Not only. And it has a modern fancy-goods shop, which the locals now go to—thriving. It’s all imported stuff there, too. Ours would be local products, cheaper, nicer. And think—we’d be helping to prevent local crafts from dying out. I read somewhere that there’s hardly anybody left who knows how to make real rocking-horses any more.’
‘What about all those ones in toy-shops?’
‘Factory made,’ said Dottie scornfully, as if they were somehow fakes.
‘And very nice too,’ said Henry unexpectedly. ‘I hope you’re not going to turn your nose up at everything that hasn’t been turned out by some doddering old bugger sitting on a sunny bench whittling away with a bowie-knife.’ I snorted into my brandy and received a frosty look from Dottie.
‘What’s wrong with that?’ she asked him.
‘Everything. I’ve no objection to a few bits of handicrafts dotted around the place, but the main bulk of the stock’s obviously got to be manufactured. I may as well tell you,’ he went on, now warming up—it seemed to be a side effect of the glasses—‘that if I go into this—if, I said—I’m going into it as an investment. I got this bit of money by working damn hard for it and there’s no more where that came from; I’m not planning to chuck it away on any airy-fairy artsy-craftsy nonsense. I’ll have another of those,’ he said to me, passing his glass.
‘Help yourself,’ I said admiringly, passing him his bottle. He did so, liberally, while Dottie gazed at him with totally new eyes.
‘I think I’ll have another one too,’ she said faintly.
‘You shouldn’t drink so much,’ he said.
Dottie was now flabbergasted. ‘Who says so?’ she asked dangerously.
‘I do. It’s not womanly.’
‘Don’t talk cock,’ said Dottie distinctly.
This shocked him into temporary silence. Dottie reached for the brandy and deliberately poured herself a fair old tot. I couldn’t help finding all this by-play very amusing, and was watching it with a faintly maternal smile when Henry suddenly turned the full force of his new-found belligerency on to me.
‘And what about you?’ he said. ‘You’re keeping dead quiet, I notice. What’s your contribution to all this going to be?’
‘I don’t really know,’ I said pleasantly. ‘Work, I should think. You know, nothing skilled—just black-work. There’s bound to be some of that, isn’t there?’
‘There’s black-work behind every success,’ said Henry tersely. ‘I know. I’ve done some.’ Clue! But it didn’t lead to anything. It seemed Henry was an early retirer, because although it was only just on midnight he suddenly jumped up and said, ‘Here, it’s late! I want to get up early tomorrow and I must get my sleep. Can you show me my bed?’
‘That’s it you’ve been sitting on,’ I said.
‘Oh, well, that’s fine,’ he said, and stood rather awkwardly waiting for us to take ourselves off. I brought him sheets and blankets and showed him the downstairs loo and then Dottie and I went up to my room feeling rather ousted; if we’d been alone we’d have undoubtedly sat talking for another couple of hours at least.
‘There’s more to that one than I thought,’ said Dottie rather grimly as we closed the door of David’s room behind us.
‘Who, David?’ I asked wickedly.
‘No. ’Ennery.’
‘Did you think he was just a fall-guy?’
‘Really, Jane! One would think I was out to rob him. I only mean I expected him to be a sort of—well, sleepy partner, if not actually a sleeping one; I mean until this evening he hardly had a word to say for himself.’
‘What were you talking about then, all evening in the bar?’
‘Oh, he wasn’t talking at all. I was.’
I believed her. ‘Do you like him?’
‘How?’ she asked at once.
‘That way.’
‘No, of course not! With those ears? With that funny hair?’
‘He likes you—that way.’
‘Too bad,�
�� she said callously. ‘Or rather, no, it’s good. Useful.’
‘Dottie!’
‘Oh, don’t look so shocked. I’m fed up with men using me. I’m going to do the using in future.’
‘Even if it’s somebody nice?’
‘Show me a really nice man,’ she said, ‘a really nice man, and I’ll use him—till death do us part. But Henry’s not it. He’s too damn chutzpahdic for one thing.’
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘You’re not the only one who’s had a Jewish lover,’ she said as she climbed into bed.
Chapter 7
I WAS more than surprised the next morning, on tottering downstairs in my dressing-gown with David draped over my shoulder and my eyes only half open, to find a brisk and busy Henry, dressed except for his jacket, and neatly shaved, an apron tied under his armpits to protect his waistcoat, washing the supper-dishes at the kitchen sink. The kettle was steaming and various bits and pieces had been brought out of the fridge which indicated that when the ground was cleared he had proposed to begin making breakfast.
‘Good morning,’ I said in dopey astonishment. ‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘Well, I want my breakfast. I always eat well in the mornings. I hope you don’t mind,’ he said as an afterthought. ‘I’ve already had a cup of tea.’
‘Of course I don’t mind. You make me feel a bad hostess, that’s all. But after all, it is barely seven o’clock.’ I put David in his Babysitta on the table where he could watch us.
‘You put him on the table, do you?’ asked Henry disapprovingly.
‘Yes,’ I said rather shortly, starting to prepare his morning cereal and orange juice.
‘Doesn’t he ever pee on it?’
‘Babies of that age don’t pee very copiously. And he is wearing a nappy.’ I find people who are too fastidious very hard to take in my own house.
Now that I’d arrived, Henry allowed me to take over. It would have been nice if he’d finished the dishes, but instead he stood in the middle of the kitchen, his hands in his pockets, gazing at David expectantly as if waiting for him to perform.
‘My mother’s is rather like him,’ he said musingly. ‘But then I suppose they all look much alike.’
I stopped dead and stared at him. He was hard on forty, must have been. ‘Your mother’s got a baby?’
‘Step-mother, I mean, of course.’
‘How old’s your father then?’
‘Sixty-four.’
‘Good for him.’
‘Well, why not?’ he asked defensively.
‘No reason at all! I said—good for him.’
‘Thought you were being sarky.’
‘Is it your step-mother you’re going to visit today?’
‘Yes. They live not far from here. Dad’s retired. They’ve got a little house near Walton.’ The accent was sounding more and more incongruous. It would have led me to expect a dad on a council estate in Roehampton. My trouble, one of them, is that I’m a sort of snob. I mean, I’m inclined to stick labels on people according to what used to be class, and now that one can’t do that any more, I’m often at a loss. Fortunately I’m beginning to like it that way; much more interesting than being able to pigeon-hole people as Shaw’s Professor Higgins was able to. Henry really intrigued me, and I liked him for that. In a sudden rush of affection for the unwonted mental activity he was unwittingly supplying, I said, ‘Do sit down. I’m going to make you a huge breakfast right away. Bacon and eggs?’
‘Fine. Any left-over potatoes, have you got? I like a few fried-up potatoes in the mornings.’
‘I’ve got a left-over steak, if you want it,’ I offered jokingly.
‘Fine,’ he said, not jokingly at all.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Well, perhaps you wouldn’t mind feeding the baby?’
‘Who, me?’
‘It’s easy. You just spoon it into his mouth.’
‘Can’t your friend do it?’ It was clear he thought that was woman’s work.
‘Dottie’s still fast asleep and likely to remain so until she hears the toast being scraped.’
‘Oh hell. Oh, all right. Let’s be having you,’ he said to David, who was staring at him, mouth ready agape. ‘Here,’ said Henry plaintively a few seconds later. ‘It all comes out again.’
‘Scrape it off his chin and put it back.’
‘Ugh!’
‘Oh, don’t be such an old woman!’ I couldn’t help saying rather sharply.
‘It’s just because I’m not an old woman,’ he retorted, ‘that I’m not accustomed to this kind of thing.’
‘You wouldn’t make a very nice husband if you insist on such distinctions.’
‘I would have made an excellent husband for any woman who didn’t mind being the woman and letting me be the man.’
I let this go, because all possible responses would have been either trite or inquisitive. It was only later that I wondered about the tense he’d used.
We drove into the village in Henry’s car in the middle of the morning. Henry was ready and aching to get started hours before we were; he sat or stood about, not troubling to hide his impatience, and yet watching with the same puzzled look in his eyes as Dottie wafted somnolently about, her long, elegant house-robe billowing in the draughts and her streaky hair attractively tousled. At last she went drifting upstairs to make a leisurely toilet while I tidied up and got David and myself dressed in warm slacks and an anorak apiece. He really looked very fetching in his little red one; his hair was long enough now to fall in a silken fringe across his forehead under the hood, and with his great dark eyes and solemn mouth he looked like a little Eskimo.
‘Isn’t he a darling?’ I couldn’t help asking Henry rhetorically, just because I had to say it to someone.
‘Will he pee on my upholstery?’
‘Oh Henry, do stop about him peeing! What a fuss!’
‘My step-mother’s peed all over the back seat. It took two weeks to get rid of the smell.’
‘Your car’s obviously a new thing in your life.’
‘Well, I’ve waited a long time for one,’ he said rather sheepishly.
We got the key out of the agent without difficulty and drove to the shop. Dottie had now completely woken up (it usually took her about two hours, three cups of coffee and a bath to achieve this) and was on top of her form; she looked stunning in her suède boots and a startlingly short scarlet topcoat which reminded me of the time she’d been my only visitor in hospital when I’d nearly miscarried with David. Now she walked in ahead of us and immediately began swooping to and fro like a swallow engaged in nest-building, gesturing and explaining and painting mental pictures for us to such an extent that I, at any rate, soon forgot the present unpromising appearance of the place. But Henry was made of sterner stuff.
‘I expected something much larger,’ he said flatly when she paused for breath.
‘What do you want for £5,000, Liberty’s?’ she asked indignantly. It was obvious she regarded the place as her own and resented any slight upon it.
‘There’s scarcely room in here to swing a cat. And it’s pitch dark. You’d have to use artificial lighting all day—that’s damned pricey.’ He looked up at the ceiling, about which Dottie had just been reverently making plans. ‘Dare not touch that,’ he said. ‘Start stripping off the layers of varnish and the whole lot’d likely come down. It’s only the paint that holds the plaster up.’
‘But the lovely old beams!’
‘Never mind them. Let them stay up there under the paint and do their job as long as they can. One thing though, we’ll have to get an expert in to see if there’s woodworm or dry rot. There’s bound to be, I suppose—always is in these shaky old buildings. Depends how extensive it is. If it’s at all bad, there’s no use touching it. We’d just have the whole thing ready to go and one of us’d walk in one day and fall through the floor.’ He walked round the room, bent over, apparently examining the skirting-boards. ‘Here, look at this!’ he said, mo
re, it seemed, in triumph than dismay. He showed Dottie his fingers which were tipped in white. ‘Damp. Bet the place has no damp-course at all. Have to lay one down—very expensive business.’
This went on for about ten minutes. By the end, Dottie looked rather like a flat tyre—all the joy had gone out of her. She was just sitting on a box in a dark corner looking as if she might burst into tears.
There was a silence and then she sighed, stirred herself and lit a cigarette. Then she stood up and moved to the door. ‘Let’s go,’ she said forlornly.
‘Where to?’
‘Take the key back and then home.’
‘What’s the matter, have I put you off the whole scheme just by being a bit realistic?’
‘Well, you’re obviously not interested, so what’s the sense?’
‘Really,’ he said, ‘you are a silly girl. Did you expect me to join you in your never-never-land of dreams? If you wanted someone who just wanted to get rid of his money, you should have looked for someone with plenty of it. Anyway, you told me you needed a man, to take over the practical details. And when I do so, you get all damp and tearful.’
‘I am not damp and tearful!’ retorted Dottie furiously. ‘I thought you were giving up on the whole thing!’
‘Well, I haven’t yet. But I don’t promise I won’t. If there’s dry-rot—’
‘Oh, shut up about dry-rot!’
Henry cast a speaking glance at me which loyalty forebade me to acknowledge. Instead I said tactfully, ‘It’s nearly opening time.’
‘I can see you are going to be useful,’ said Henry. Dottie swept out ahead of us and he was forced to take the other handle of the carry-cot.
‘Actually she’s more of a problem than the dry rot,’ he said in an undertone. ‘Talk about easy glum, easy glow! What’s the matter with her?’
‘She’s an enthusiast, that’s all,’ I said—more shortly than I would have done had I not also privately thought Dottie was acting rather childishly.
The Backward Shadow Page 8
