Deck With Flowers Page 11

  “Pour me out a drink, Rodney,” she called. “I’m dining out, and I’m late, and Freddy Pearce’ll be here in a minute.” She raised her voice. “Nicola, I got the job. I’ve got to start tomorrow.”

  “Where’s he taking you?” Rodney inquired, carrying in the drink.

  “That new Asian place. Curry. Oh God, there he is!” Down in the street, a car horn was giving a prolonged signal.

  “A bit more of that,” Rodney said, “and Mrs. Major’ll go out and say a few words.”

  “Tell him to come up, will you?”

  “What, Freddy Pearce? I certainly will not. Last time I asked him to come up, he got through three whiskies before you were ready to remove him.”

  She finished changing in record time, and went out struggling into her coat. The door banged.

  “I forgot to ask her where the job was,” Rodney said. “They must be hard pressed, if they took her on in the middle of the week. Well, let’s hope it takes her mind off Oliver. I think she’s lost him for good.”

  “She knows,” Nicola said.

  “Has she heard anything definite?”

  “No.”

  “She soon will. Henrietta’s called up reinforcements.”

  “What sort of reinforcements?”

  “I made a fourth at dinner. The other three were Oliver, Henrietta ... and Henrietta’s mother. She’s come all the way down from Scotland, bearing—like the youth in the song—

  ‘... through snow and ice

  A banner with a strange device…’

  The device means: Marry my daughter.”

  “That’s what he wants to do, isn’t it?”

  “Judging by his tone when he asked me to make a fourth, and by his far from festive demeanour at the table-for-four, I’d say he didn’t want to do it at all. He looked anything but happy.”

  “Good.”

  “Surely you don’t dislike him enough to want to see him tied to Henrietta, do you?”

  “They’ll make a good pair. What makes her think her mother’s going to be any help?”

  “She’s not meant to help. She’s meant to hinder Oliver from making his getaway. Poor Oliver.”

  “Poor Angela.”

  “She’s got her career. Watch her come home on Friday with the sack and two weeks’ pay.”

  But on Friday, Angela was still employed. Coming home and announcing the fact, she changed into a new trouser suit which she said was the first expensive thing she had ever been able to buy with her own money.

  “Like it?” she asked Nicola.

  “Yes. Going out in it?”

  “Yes, to the Bates’ party. Oliver and his girl friend are going to be there, and this time she won’t be able to look down her nose. Didn’t you say you were going to a show?”

  “I was. I decided not to.”

  “So some poor chap’s stuck with the tickets,” Rodney said.

  “No, he’s not. He gave them back and got his money back and went back to Brighton.”

  “Oh, it was that one, was it?”

  “It was.” She paused, studying him. “I’ve been here—how long?—and you’ve never taken out a girl. What’s the matter with you?”

  “Tell her,” he asked Angela.

  “There’s a lot to tell. Where do I begin?”

  “Begin with money. To take a girl out to dinner takes about half my month’s salary.”

  “Why can’t you go somewhere cheap?” Nicola asked.

  “Because there’s something about the girls I meet that makes them suspicious of being taken somewhere cheap. They think I’m undervaluing them. There’s the beer-and-sandwich routine, but I’ve never found it helpful in stirring a woman’s passion.”

  “How about those girls,” Nicola asked, “who live in nice apartments, who invite you and cook you a meal?”

  “I don’t like being taken home and cooked for.”

  “Then why not bring her here, and make one of your omelettes?”

  “He tried that with three different girls,” Angela explained. “I wasn’t living here for the first two, and I absented myself tactfully when he brought the third, but—”

  “The first girl,” Rodney recalled, “spent the evening shivering and complaining about the lack of heating. The second had an argument with Mrs. Major after she’d nearly knocked her down with her car. The third—”

  “—drank too much of Rodney’s home brew and took off all her clothes and danced on the landing. Rodney didn’t mind, but I happened to come back too early, bringing Austin Bates, and—”

  “—and there he is, hooting. Go down and intercept him on the stairs and take him away,” said Rodney.

  She went out. They heard the car driving away.

  “What’s this job she hasn’t been thrown out of?” he asked. Nicola answered absently.

  “Packing department. They give her the orders and she packs the things in a box and sends them off.” She raised her eyes to his. “I want to talk to you.”

  He poured drinks for them both and carried them to the sofa.

  “You’re on edge,” he said. “I’ve been watching you. You’re going to give up the job, aren’t you?”

  “I think so. But that isn’t what I was going to say.”

  “Then—?”

  She sat silent, and he did not disturb her. At last she put a question.

  “You don’t know me very well, do you?”

  “Oh yes, I do. I’ve been making a study of you.”

  “In that case, perhaps you’ll agree that I’m not inclined to let my imagination run away with me.”

  “Has it tried to run?”

  “I’ll let you judge. Here’s how it goes, from the beginning. Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “I told you, didn’t I, that Madame Landini had given me a room—”

  “—to leave your things in. Yes.”

  “I don’t use it much. I hang up my coat, leave my handbag there, and my shopping parcels, if I’ve done any shopping. This week, someone’s been going through everything I left there.”

  He thought it over.

  “Servants?” he suggested at last.

  “No. I thought it might be, but my money wasn’t touched— and why should they steal money? They’re all probably a good deal better off than I am, and if they want to steal, why not start on Madame’s things? Besides, this room is just down the corridor from Madame’s suite, where she spends most of the day—there are people going in and out quite a lot of the time, so I don’t see how any servant could have got into and out of my room without being seen.”

  “You’re sure no money was taken?”

  “Quite sure. And I’m sure that my handbag was turned out—more than once. I don’t know how I first became sure— you can’t explain how it is that you suddenly realise that things have been moved. But today, I made up my mind that I’d try and prove it. I left everything looking as though I’d just put it down naturally, but I checked exactly where every item was. I had lunch down in the office—it’s a sort of rule now that I have it with Madame when she hasn’t got guests, but today she had. When I got back to my room, I knew somebody had been through my things.”

  “And nothing was missing?”

  “Nothing. But my mother’s last letter, which was in my handbag, had been taken out of the envelope—and put back again. You said I was edgy. Now you know why. I’d understand it if something had disappeared—but nothing has. Nothing I have is of the slightest value or the slightest interest to anybody except myself, so when someone’s been examining my things, I get a funny feeling. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes. If you rule out servants—”

  “I do. I think it’s Madame Landini. In fact, I know it’s Madame Landini. Want to know how I know? Guess.”

  He hesitated.

  “Scent?” he hazarded.

  “Right. You can’t mistake it. It’s probably the most expensive scent on the market, so it doesn’t exactly hit you. It’s what they call subtle. It’s s
o subtle that it’s almost not there. It’s just a faint breath in the air—but it’s Madame. I ought to know; I’ve been with her all day, in several rooms of the house, for weeks. Nobody, none of her maids, would dare to use any. So it’s Madame who’s been searching my bag and my pockets, and reading my letters. So she’s either crazy, or she’s after something. If she’s after something, what sort of something?”

  “Evidence that you’re typing something about her, to use in the future?”

  “Why should I type it in her house? I’ve got free evenings. And what could I use that isn’t already in her memoirs, as far as they’ve gone?”

  “She broke off just before she came to Landini. Could there be—”

  “—anything about him she doesn’t want known? If there had been, she could have locked some of her papers away. I’ve had free access to them ever since I went to work for her.”

  “Apart from going through your things, does she seem odd in her manner?”

  “In the way I told you, yes. It’s that attempt to get friendly. It’s ... it’s forced. So if you don’t mind, I’m getting out. I’m sorry, because I know you want her to go on with her memoirs, but I’m pretty sure she isn’t going to. Ever since the big row, she’s been . . . different. I don’t think she’s well. So if she doesn’t get back to normal and start work next week, I’d like to get out of her house.”

  “All right. I won’t say anything to Claudius.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t say anything to anybody. To people who didn’t know me as well as you claim to, it would sound... well, you know how it would sound.”

  “You took the job to type her memoirs; if no memoirs, no job; if no job, no need to stay. And now stop worrying, and get up. We’re going out.”

  “Out? Dinner’s in the oven.”

  “Switch it off. We’ll have it tomorrow. Tonight, we’re dining out. You haven’t been having enough change, and the job’s gone stale on you. Why do you turn down invitations so often?”

  “If I wanted to go out, I’d go out.”

  “Well, you’re going out now.” He went into the kitchen and turned off the oven, came back and pulled her to her feet. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere I can guarantee they use real eggs and butter.”

  When they were in the car, he turned in the direction of Greenwich.

  “How’s your history?” he inquired.

  “English, French, Biblical—?”

  “Local. The history of the place you’re living in. How much, for instance, do you know about Deptford?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Haven’t you tried to find out?”

  “I can see I’m going to find out now. Proceed, Professor.”

  “Didn’t you even know that Drake’s ship, the Golden Hind, was docked here in Deptford?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know that Samuel Pepys trod the streets we’re driving through now?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t believe it. Even Angela knew that. The very air round here is full of England’s great past, and what do you care? How much do you know about Greenwich, towards which we’re now heading?”

  “Everything. The Naval College.”

  “And—?”

  “There’s more?”

  “More? More? The Saxons gave it its name: Grenavic, meaning green village or town. The Danes used it as a base when they sacked Canterbury; they burned the Cathedral and brought Archbishop Alphege back to Greenwich in chains. The year was 1011. I can never understand why the film-makers don’t use episodes like this, instead of the tripe they dish out. The Archbishop’s ransom was fixed at three thousand pieces of silver, but he wouldn’t let his needy people pay it. The Danes killed him seven months later, in spite of the appeal of a Viking commander by the name of Thorkell the Tall. I wouldn’t mind using Thorkell as a name for my son. He offered everything he possessed, excluding only his ship, in return for the life of the Archbishop, but his appeal was turned down and the Archbishop was killed.”

  “There’s a church—”

  “You’re waking up. St. Alphege’s, said to be built on the murder site. To skip a century or two; when Henry the Fifth returned in triumph from Agincourt, where did the Lord Mayor of London and the Aldermen and four hundred citizens meet him?”

  “Greenwich.”

  “Wrong. They met him at Blackheath, which we’re now driving through. It was Henry the Fifth’s brother, Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, who built the first real palace at Greenwich. I’m going to write Humphrey’s biography one day, but we’ll skip it for now. I suppose you know that Henry the Eighth was born at Greenwich? So were his daughter Mary, and the great Tudor Elizabeth. It was at Greenwich that Elizabeth signed the warrant for Mary Queen of Scots’ death. Are you beginning to soak in your surroundings?”

  “Yes. Why didn’t you write about all this, instead of about war in Napoleon’s time?”

  “I did think of it, but there seemed to be so much too much. I’ve settled for Humphrey. We’re now going to drive to the Isle of Dogs and look across the river at the magnificent panorama of the Naval College and the Queen’s House. After that, we’ll drive to a nice Swiss restaurant I happen to know.”

  The entrance to the restaurant was not prepossessing—a shabby doorway giving on to stairs that led down to a basement. But the room was large, warm and quiet; the food was good, the service friendly and the waiters Swiss.

  “Which is why I brought you,” Rodney explained. “To show off your French or German or both. I used to come here before I discovered I couldn’t afford to take out girls.”

  He paid the bill without pain, for the two bottles of wine, and the brandy which accompanied their coffee, had been presented with the compliments of the Swiss manager. He had done his best to keep up with Nicola’s consumption of the free wine, but found it difficult. He listened with some reserve to her claim to have a head as hard as the table, and was not unduly surprised when on settling herself in the car for the journey home, she gave a deep sigh, leaned slowly against him and fell into a sound sleep. How sound it was he did not discover until he had stopped the car and tried to rouse her. Backing out of the garage, he opened a window and let in a current of icy air; she slept on. He tried slapping and shaking; shouting was impossible, since he was afraid of disturbing the neighbours. He drove to the house and sat wondering how he could get her up the stairs. Much as he would have liked to, he could not leave her in the street.

  He got out, opened the front door and propped it open with the dustbin lid. Then he went back to the car and forgot the problem of getting her up in the more urgent problem of getting her out. Finally, he turned her round in the seat, got her feet out, gave a tug and caught her before she hit the pavement. Thereafter, it was a matter of lifting her up and half-carrying, half-dragging her up the steps, across the hall and up the flight of stairs. He would have said that he was in good physical shape, and she was not an unduly heavy girl, but by the time he reached the landing, he understood why stage heroes seldom carried heroines, leaving this feat to their film counterparts and trick photography.

  He got as far as the drawing-room sofa, and dumped her. She lay relaxed and flushed, like a schoolgirl with a temperaure. He went into her room, took a blanket from her bed and laid it over her. Then he went thankfully to his own bed. His sleep was not restful. A crazed Madame Landini was at his desk, searching frenziedly through its contents.

  On waking, he pursued the theme. Doctors could sometimes be right. A breakdown had been diagnosed, and this might be a symptom. If so, there was no use hoping that the second half of the memoirs, if they were ever written, would be equal in lucidity or literary merit to the first half. He was prepared to believe that people like Madame Landini were seldom completely normal; it must be almost impossible for anybody, man or woman, to support indefinitely the weight of spectacular success.

  But he could not, as yet, bring himself to admit that there mi
ght, after all, be no memoirs. The gift had come unasked; he could not believe that it was about to be snatched away.

  The house was quiet. He got up, put on a dressing-gown and went into the living room; it was empty. Nicola’s door was open, her bed made and the room tidy. He looked into Angela’s room and found her still asleep. Putting coffee on the stove, he heard the outer door open; a moment later, Nicola came into the kitchen carrying a bag of provisions.

  “Good morning. How’s the hangover?” he asked.

  “It’s fine, but next time you have to cover me up, use more blankets. I woke up shivering, and had to move to my bed. How are you feeling?”

  “Fine. I didn’t knock back the best part of two bottles of wine. Had breakfast?”

  “Yes, but I’ll make yours if you want me to.”

  “Thanks. I’ll go and have a bath.”

  “It’s a lovely day, with sun. I could hire your car and go down to see my mother and get my watch.”

  “You could hire the chauffeur too.”

  Angela appearing, they decided to take her with them. For the next half hour Rodney appointed himself time-keeper, and under his bullying the house was made tidy, the kitchen cleaned and the sandwiches packed, with five minutes to spare.

  The sun, having made a token appearance, vanished. By the time they were halfway to Brighton, it was raining hard, but their spirits were high and rain could not damp them. They lunched in the car, parking it at a high view-point on the downs, and then drove into Brighton and called at Victoria Lodge. The gate was padlocked. Rodney climbed over it, and having knocked and got no reply, reconnoitred round the back of the house to satisfy himself that his uncle was not inside. They went on to Number 12A where Mrs. Baird, notified by telephone, had prepared a substantial tea. It was a successful day, though its object was not achieved, as Nicola did not get her watch; Mrs. Baird told them that she had found it in the van with the glass broken, and had taken it to be repaired. They took her to dinner at a sea-front restaurant, and after leaving her at Number 12A, drove under a watery moon to London.

  “Nice cheap day,” Rodney commented when they reached River Street.

  “I paid for the petrol, but you paid for the dinner,” Angela pointed out.