by Mary Wesley
‘I don’t know.’
‘I bet she’s strangled the knowledge.’ Mr Jones teased his hair carefully. ‘She does that, it’s her gift. She won’t remember anything she wishes to forget, if you catch the drift.’
‘I’ve caught it.’
Mr Jones laughed.
‘How much heroin was there?’
‘One packet.’
‘Good, that’s what I missed. Ah well, not to worry. Since Tom’s untimely heart attack all that’s over.’
‘But you reported a UFO this morning.’
‘So you were listening? They don’t come any more, not since Tom’s demise. I just go on occasionally reporting one. You should never stop anything suddenly, it makes the police suspicious.’ The Welsh accent had returned. Hugh began to laugh.
‘Do you play chess?’ asked Mr Jones. ‘Tom was a very good player. I miss it.’
Hugh nodded.
‘Good. Did you sleep in her bed last night? It was warm when I felt it.’
‘Yes.’
‘In the cupboard were you?’
‘Yes.’
‘It would be nice to sleep in that bed with Matilda.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it.’
‘But I have.’ Mr Jones sighed. ‘I suggested it. Fatal. She was offended. Took offence.’
‘Poor Mr Jones.’
‘Yes, poor Jones, poor Jones.’
‘I suppose,’ Mr Jones said later as he took his leave, ‘you were missing your mother.’
Hugh made no reply.
‘I was referring to your sleeping in Matilda’s bed, obliquely of course. It is Freudian.’
‘Of course.’
‘And what do you know about UFOs?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Hah! Nothing he says. They came up the creek, a little sea-plane it is, was, I should say.’
‘Where?’
‘On the river. They cut out the engine and landed on the water. So easy it was.’
‘Your idea?’
‘No, no, man, Tom. Tom’s idea, his organization, a sideline.’
‘Well, I flushed it down the loo.’
‘Couldn’t flush your mother. Had to leave her on the sofa. That was messy.’
‘Heroin’s worse.’
‘A point there. Do you mind the pot?’
‘No, I’m not averse. I think it’s harmless.’
‘So is death. The newspaper said she could not have known much. It is you that do the knowing.’
‘Oh, bugger off.’
‘All right I will, but presently we can play chess and share a joint while Matilda’s away?’
‘All right.’ Hugh felt inclined to like Matilda’s suitor. Heavily bearded, paunchy, squat, he had beautiful liquid black eyes.
Mr Jones walked crabwise along the path. ‘I will bring my chessboard. It is nicer than Tom’s. It was my Da’s. The feel of the ivory is good to the fingers, engenders thought.’
‘Goodoh.’ Hugh was amused.
‘And yesterday’s paper. You were seen in Rome at the airport changing planes, it says. It says in the Daily Mirror, look you.’
‘Jolly good, Dai Jones.’
‘My name is not David, it is also Huw, but HUW not HUGH.’ Mr Jones paused to let this sink in, then, ‘Not to worry, it is the disappearing bride from the beach they are on about. The poor husband is frantic, naked she is, wandering.’
‘Ah yes, I’d forgotten I had competition. What about the man who ate his wife’s dog?’
‘Ah that!’ Mr Jones paused, one foot slightly airborne. ‘That woman is clever, oh she is. She said the dog had rabies. The poor husband is in an isolation hospital having painful injections in his greedy stomach. He is under observation, look you, daren’t take the risk.’
‘Are you really Welsh?’
Mr Jones laughed. ‘Never been there. Born in Tooting. It’s the fashion, that’s all. Gives me class.’
‘Of course.’
‘Not like Winchester and Oxbridge but it’s cheaper to obtain.’ Mr Jones reached the gate. ‘See you for chess then.’ The gate clicked shut and he was gone.
16
MATILDA ARRIVED IN London in the early evening, taking a taxi to Chelsea. She put the window down so that she could hear and smell London, the roar of the traffic, heels clicking on pavements, engines revving as they waited for lights to change. The constant chat on the taxi radio, blare of musak from open shops, exclamations in foreign languages, people of many nations hurrying across before the lights changed. Just as she thought she could bear no more the taxi turned into John’s cul-de-sac on the border of Chelsea and Fulham.
John came out to meet her, paid the taxi, took her case, bent to kiss her.
‘Lovely to see you, Matty, absolutely great. Come in and have a drink.’ He was using a new shaving lotion she noticed and was glad. Up to now he had used the same as Tom. She wondered whether this was tact or chance. He led her into his sitting-room. ‘Sit down, Matty, you must be tired. What will you drink? Whisky? Vodka? Sherry? Gin? I’m drinking vodka, suits the weather. Vodka and tonic?’
‘Yes please.’ How like John to offer a choice but do the choosing.
‘You’ve altered the room.’ She accepted her vodka with a slice of lemon. He must have had that lemon sliced, she thought, doesn’t want it wasted.
‘Yes, do you like it? I’ve got this new sofa. I sold the old chairs. They fetched a very good price.’
‘They were a bit rickety.’ Matilda felt the need for assertion. This was London she had just sniffed, one must be sharp.
‘Yes, need a bit spending on them. They’ve gone to America.’
‘So much does.’
‘So much does, yes. I’ve changed the house round a bit, hope you will like it. I sleep at the back now. The spare room is at the front.’
‘Oh good, how clever of you. It must be almost like a new house.’ Matilda sipped. ‘What frightfully strong vodka. Might I have a little more tonic?’
John took her glass. There would be no memories of Tom in the new spare room, she thought, looking at John’s back, so young for his age, such a good figure. She knew he did exercises. John poured in a little tonic. He wondered how much she still grieved for Tom.
‘I thought we’d dine at home tonight and go out tomorrow, unless you have plans.’ He handed back her glass.
‘No plans. Dinner here will be lovely. I’d rather not be seen until I’ve had my hair done.’
‘You look very nice, as always.’
‘My hair looks like a chicken.’ She could not say “Polish Fowl” and, as she withheld it, wondered why not.
‘A ruffled hen.’ John smiled. Goodness! Matilda thought, he is bland.
‘You know you like your women well dressed. I shall have my hair done and wear a decent dress. I have a new one.’ He wouldn’t know she would be wearing a cast-off of Anabel’s and shoes that had been Louise’s.
‘What are your plans?’ John, sitting opposite, quizzed her. She wore well, he thought. He hoped the dress would be Anabel’s as he didn’t care for Louise’s taste. The elder of Matilda’s daughters dressed rather loudly. Anabel, whose very appearance was a call to bed, had the quieter dress sense.
‘What are your plans?’ he repeated.
‘My hair, some shopping, any exhibitions I may fancy, nothing much, just a sniff of London.’ As though searching for a handkerchief, Matilda felt in her bag for Hugh’s key.
‘I’ll give you a latchkey. You must come and go as you please. Another drink?’
The man’s got sixth sense, Matilda thought. Christ! I must be careful. ‘No, no more. May I have a bath before dinner?’
‘Of course. The supper is cold. Take your time. There’s no hurry.’
Matilda looked at him. ‘Dear John, it is good to see you and you look so well, such a marvellous figure.’
‘Piers. I play squash. Try and remember Piers. And I garden –’
She went upstairs. He followed, carrying her case. ‘I hope you
will be comfortable.’
‘I’m sure I shall.’
How stilted we are. He behaves as if he’s being careful too. I must be crazy. Matilda turned on the bath, began unpacking, hanging Anabel’s dress in the cupboard, throwing her nightdress on the bed, putting her few clothes away in the chest of drawers. She lay in the bath. I must be very careful, she thought. When I’ve used that key I’ll post it back to myself at home. It was silly to be afraid of John but it would be sillier to risk anything. Better to humour him, call him Piers if that’s what he wants.
At dinner John gave her a run-down of new books, plays, films, exhibitions, current affairs. The fishing season good on the Test in spite of the long dry spell, birds at Minsmere, mutual friends. Matilda listened, saying ‘Yes?’, ‘No!’, ‘Oh really?’, ‘How extraordinary and how very interesting!’ while she ate delicious iced cucumber soup, salmon mousse with a ratatouille, which she herself would not have served together, and mountain strawberries with Kirsch. She would have preferred them plain but exclaimed with delight over them. John’s choice of wine was impeccable – a Niersteiner. She refused brandy, accepted coffee.
Without asking whether she minded, John turned on the radio to listen to a concert he wished to hear. She’s not musical, she can put up with it, he thought. Matilda, who happened to know and like the particular symphony being played, listened until the end and, when he switched it off, remarked:
‘I love that one, so much prefer it to the sixth, don’t you?’
‘Oh yes, the sixth is played far too often.’ The bloody bitch, John thought, looking at Matilda’s chin, slight and undecided. ‘More coffee? A brandy now before bed?’
‘No, Piers, no thank you. Have you been away?’
When she smiled the chin altered, stopped being weak. He wondered why, as he often had before, liking to know people exactly.
‘I was going but then this Warner affair blew up. I shall go next week, it’s a small delay that’s all.’
‘Where are you going?’ Matilda kept her voice steady by refusing to hear the name Warner.
‘Czechoslovakia.’
‘Fishing?’
‘No, no, this is work. The fellow is, it seems, in Prague, which complicates things slightly.’
‘What fellow?’ Her voice steady, lifting up her coffee cup, looking across at John/Piers the future knight.
‘Hugh Warner, the man they call the Matricide. You must have read the papers. Killed his mother, smashed in her skull with a tea-tray.’
‘Oh, of course,’ Matilda hoped her heart could not be seen thundering against her ribcage. ‘Of course I’ve read about him. I’m more amused though by the man who ate his wife’s dog. He must be some sort of pervert, don’t you think?’ She put her cup down on the table beside her, triumphant when it did not rattle.
‘He’s not a pervert.’
‘Oh John – to eat a dog!’
‘I’m talking about Warner. The “ate wife’s dog” man must have done it for publicity. No, I’m talking about Warner.’
‘What’s he to do with you?’
‘The office is interested. The assassination of his mother was just a cover.’
‘It must be very serious to have such a desperate cover.’ Matilda affected eager interest. ‘Tell me more – what’s it about?’
‘I can’t, Matty.’ She hated him calling her Matty. ‘You should know by now I don’t talk.’
‘Another Burgess and Maclean? A Philby? They didn’t murder their mothers, did they? Goodness me, reading the papers one would never guess.’
‘Don’t be silly, Matty. It’s a sort of – let’s call it a parallel.’
‘Call it anything you like, Johnnie. How do you know he’s in Prague?’
‘I can’t tell you that but he is. Why d’you call me Johnnie suddenly? You never have before. Call me Piers.’
‘You call me Matty and I hate it. Are you going to Prague to see him?’
‘I can’t tell you that either. Don’t pry, Matty. I shall call you Matty. I want to, I always have. It would be difficult to change now.’
‘I’m sure I asked you not to. I must have.’
‘No, no never.’ John well remembered the occasion when she had, the intonation of her voice. It was all a long time ago but clear.
‘It must have been someone else, then. What a fascinating life you lead. Off to Prague to meet the Matricide. Will you say “Boo” or will he?’
John laughed. ‘Keep it under your hat.’
‘Of course I shall.’ What a comical old bugger he is, thought Matilda. This is a real Beclean filthy. ‘The papers keep saying he’s been seen in a new place every day but they haven’t mentioned Prague yet. Why d’you think he went there?’
‘I can’t discuss it any more, Matilda. You know me.’
‘I wonder whether I do. What did he do? What’s his profession? The man who ate the dog is a builder.’
‘I don’t think there’s any connection.’ John got up and poured himself another brandy. How these London people put it away. Matilda shook her head when John made a mute offer.
‘Just the Silly Season.’ Matilda smiled. ‘What was his profession?’
‘He was in publishing, lived not far from here.’ John mentioned the address Matilda had memorized, the house whose key lay in her bag.
‘Oh really? Not a bad area now. It’s grown quite smart. Our mothers thought it beyond the pale, poor old snobs. Have you been there?’
‘Of course not. The police let my people have a look. Nothing to see, naturally.’
Matilda yawned, putting her hand up to her mouth. ‘What an interesting job you have, absorbing,’ repeating herself.
‘Not bad.’ John looked at her hand. Hands showed age more than faces. She was six months younger than he, or was it a year?
‘I must go to bed.’ Matilda stood up. ‘A long day tomorrow.’
‘Shall we meet here, then, for dinner?’
‘Yes please.’
‘Would you like to dine at Wheelers? They have oysters. I have rung them up.’
‘Dear John, I should love it. Sorry – Piers.’ Matilda held up her cheek to be kissed. ‘Goodnight, bless you.’
John kissed the proffered cheek – quite hard, not flabby. ‘Goodnight, bless you.’
‘How easily we say “bless you”. Do we mean it?’
‘Of course we do, Matilda. What can you mean? One always blesses an old friend.’
‘I was joking, Piers, joking.’ Matilda went steadily up to bed, determined not to hurry. In her room she pulled the ribbon off the top of her nightdress and, stringing Hugh’s key on it, wore it round her neck, pulling the duvet up to her chin. It was like John to have the most expensive duvet from Harrods. She missed the weight of sheets and blankets and, with a sudden pang, missed the pressure of a dog in the small of her back. She must not think of Stub, it was weakening.
Sleep did not come easily. She listened to John moving about downstairs, locking and double-locking the front door, bolting the windows. If there were a fire, she thought, we’d never get out. The key lay heavy between her breasts. Hearing John’s footsteps on the stairs, she held it tight in her hand.
‘You all right, old girl? Got everything you want?’ he called from the landing.
‘Yes, thank you. Lovely new duvet.’
‘Harrods. Sleep well.’
‘Thanks, same to you.’ She turned on her side, away from the window, disturbed by the light from the street lamp. For what seemed hours she lay wakeful, worrying. Would Hugh be careful – keep out of sight? Would Gus be safe? The dog? Had she forgotten anything? The unaccustomed rich food was taking its time settling in her stomach. She got up and tiptoed to the window. It only opened a little way, not enough for even a thin burglar to climb through. She knelt down and breathed the street air, listening to the roar of the city which never quietened.
In childhood she had listened from her grandparents’ house, heard trains shrieking in the distance, tugs tooting on
the river, taxi doors slamming, the creak of cowls on chimney pots as they whirled in the wind, turning this way and that like the heads of armoured knights. The Clean Air Act had put paid to them. She remembered, too, how once when she was very small she had heard sheep and seen a flock driven through her grandparents’ square to Hyde Park. She wanted to remember that dawn, was comforted that she did. I will get his money tomorrow, she thought, and then forget all about him while I am here. She fell asleep, holding the latchkey in her hand, her mouth open, snoring.
Across the landing John, roused by his bladder, stood in his bathroom. He thought crossly that in youth he would have lasted the night. Then he cocked his head. God almighty, how she snores. Nothing wrong with my hearing anyway. How could Tom have put up with it all those years? A bit uppity calling him ‘Johnnie’. Menopausal cheek, must make allowances. She’d seemed a bit edgy somehow, something on her mind. Probably still missing Tom. It had been a pity, that heart attack.
17
IN THE MORNING Matilda sat in bed eating breakfast brought up by John’s housekeeper. Mrs Green was a woman who while modern in appearance could create a Mrs Tiggywinkle atmosphere if she so wished. The tray placed across Matilda’s knees held coffee, boiled eggs, toast, butter, marmalade and a linen napkin.
‘It’s lovely to see you. It’s ages, isn’t it? You are spoiling me.’
‘Far too long, Madam.’ Matilda knew well that the ‘Madam’ bit was a joke, that she was referred to by her Christian name behind her back.
‘This is delicious. Dinner last night was a dream.’
‘I’m glad you liked it.’ Mrs Green smoothed Matilda’s duvet. ‘He would have the ratatouille with the mousse, said it had to be eaten up. Getting a trifle mean, our Mr Leach, doesn’t like anything wasted.’
‘It was a very good ratatouille.’
‘I just thought I’d mention it. I wouldn’t like you to think it was my idea.’
Matilda crunched her toast, poured coffee, topped her eggs. There was more to come.
‘It’s his age, Madam.’
Matilda raised an eyebrow, glanced at Mrs Green.
‘The male menopause, Madam.’
