How It All Began (21 page)

He tried again. “. . . The rest fought for survival, the flotsam and jetsam of the city, many forced into crime and prostitution.”

The dog had risen from the young man’s blanket and now started to bark. The young man yanked at its lead: “Just fucking shut up, you.”

“I think we’ll move on,” said Paula. “I’m not sure I care for this location, anyway.”

By late morning they were outside a shopping mall. Mark had found street musicians here on a reconnaissance trip, and it was thought they could be an interesting accompaniment. However, they were not to be seen today.

“Sorry,” said Mark. “I should have booked them.”

But Paula’s attention was focused on a group of youths milling around outside a DVD outlet: “Now
those
would be good.”

The youths were all hooded, shouting, and barging into unwary passersby. “Hmmn,” said the cameraman. “Might not be entirely cooperative.”

“Henry could engage with them,” said Paula. “We could have him go up, say something. If it got out of hand—well, pull out.”

Mark was murmuring that he wondered about health and safety. At that moment the youths noticed the camera and began to advance, yelling obscenities.

“Maybe not,” said Paula. “OK—we’ll break for lunch.”

A pub was found. Henry did not care for pubs. He never went into
pubs. He had expected something rather better: Rules or Wiltons. But at this stage any respite was welcome. The place was fairly crowded and the group split up; Henry found himself alone with Mark, who was being gratifyingly attentive. He had brought Henry a glass of red wine and the menu: “I’m afraid it’s not exactly haute cuisine, but some of it sounds possible.”

Henry was gracious. “The plaice and chips, I think. They surely can’t go too far wrong with that.”

Over food and drink Henry expanded. He was in reminiscence mood and found Mark a most appreciative audience: “That’s so fascinating, that you knew Harold Wilson so well . . . Isaiah Berlin! Goodness!”

“Dear boy, one has made it one’s business to know people. I used to lunch with Macmillan from time to time. Let me tell you about that . . .”

Mark was not a boy but rising thirty. He did not so much listen now as assess. The Henry who is talking—unstoppably—is quite another Henry from he who has just hesitated, fluffed, dried: “You have to understand that Bowra had his limitations. A conversationalist—yes, indeed—an entertainer, even, if one wants to be slightly snide, and don’t get me wrong, one relished his company, but where his scholarship is concerned there are those who are disparaging, dismissive even. Now you may have heard that . . .”

Mark had not, and had no need to. What he now understood was that when it came to discussion—and denigration—of personalities Henry was an ace performer. Rubbish with a script, but can he talk! Let him loose on his own ground and you’d be away.

He said, “Did you ever come across A.J.P. Taylor?”

Of course Henry had known Taylor. And Trevor Roper. Historians a specialty. “Now, Geoffrey Elton . . .”

Mark sat back, complacent. He could see that this program would probably be dumped, and anyway he had his own agenda. He was finding Delia Canning tiresome to work for, he had a line to a producer at an independent company, and he had an idea to pitch. He smiled encouragingly at Henry.

Those designer tiles. The customized lighting system, also newly delivered and unreturnable—another hefty bill. A further week of the Poles. Marion watched her overdraft spiral out of control.

“Mr. Harrington’s secretary no longer works here.” The voice is entirely neutral. Or so it would seem.

Marion said, “It is essential that I reach Mr. Harrington. Can you tell me where he is?”

The voice cannot. “I’m afraid I have no information as to Mr. Harrington’s whereabouts at the present time.”

Marion said, “I don’t believe this.”

There is a fractional pause, a distant exhalation, possibly a sigh, as though the voice may have gone through this before.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Indeed, who is to help her? Not the bank, which squats there smugly piling up the figures. Not the nice Poles, who do not know what looms, and work away, smiling a welcome each time she arrives at the flat, which blooms with Farrow & Ball and the choicest of fittings. The Poles ply Marion with coffee or tea, whistling as they work. The one with the sprained ankle is hale once more, and assiduous: “Power shower good. See!”

Nothing like this has ever happened. Clients have behaved as clients should. They have paid up, they have paid on time, their checks have not bounced. Marion realized that she has had ludicrous faith; she has believed that you can trust people—most people—the people with whom you have dealings; she lacks the essential skepticism that drives business. She remembered an accountant who once said laconically: “I always assume the other guy is bent until he proves otherwise.”

Who is Harrington? What is Harrington? Above all, where is Harrington?

“Scarpered, I should think,” says Jeremy. “Made off with the takings. Which bank did you say he was with? Ah, them. Still trading, I think,
but you’d better watch the press. Don’t
worry
, darling. It’ll get sorted somehow. Now, I know you’re not supposed to be my agony aunt, but I’ve had this idea. It’s Stella’s birthday on Saturday, and I’m wondering if . . .”

Anton texts Rose: Is not heaven now like Sunday but I can think of it. I have bought very small eggs—quail, yes?—to remember. Today I read front page of
The Guardia
n
—except hard words. I must buy dictionary. Which is best?

Charlotte was reading
What Maisie Knew
. It was perhaps an indication of progress that she was able to venture into deeper waters. No more magazines, no more rereading of P. G. Wodehouse. She had to ask Rose to fetch the book from her own house. Rose said: “Some people would be needing their spare glasses, or that blue cardigan. You need a book. Of course.”

“A deficiency?” said Charlotte meekly.

“Not at all. The need defines you, that’s all.”

Defined by a need for Henry James. Oh dear. Actually, it was not so much Henry James that she had wanted as a novel that would feed thoughts about the versatility of fiction, prompted by that conversation with Anton about the need for story. Story, yes, indeed, but the fascination of story is what it can do. Henry James can tell it through the eyes of a child, and make you, the reader, observe the adult chicanery and betrayals of which the child is unaware. Charlotte needed to remind herself of the sleight of hand whereby this is done. She sat in Rose’s garden, reading. A blackbird sang, piercingly; bees rummaged in the flowers; her hip was not hurting, or only a bit. Tra-la.

Rose texts Anton: Cook quail eggs three minutes only—in boiling water. Eat in private—don’t waste on the boys. Hard to say which dictionary. You need to see some. Perhaps more shopping?

The flowers caught Stella off guard, wrong-footed. There was this delivery man at the door, with a huge bouquet, and of course she took it. Brought it in, wondering vaguely—who? Fought off the cellophane and the raffia bow—lovely huge bunch of peonies and lilies, her favorites—found the envelope and the card.

“Happy birthday, darling. Thinking so much of you. Hope you are doing something nice. Wish I was doing it with you. Please—have dinner with me next week? All my love, Jeremy.”

She wasn’t doing anything nice. It was Saturday, so she wasn’t going to the surgery. Presently she would fetch the girls from their music lessons. Make lunch. Ferry the girls to and from homes of friends. Make dinner.

She arranged the flowers, placed the vase on the kitchen table. They lit up the room—extravagant, voluptuous, eloquent. She put Jeremy’s card in the waste bin. Five minutes later she took it out. Read it again. Put it on the dresser.

Marion had put the phone down on Jeremy. At least, she had put it on the table and could hear him bleating on from there.

I do not give a hang whether or not you send Stella flowers for her birthday. I am not interested in your negotiations with your wife. Truth to tell, I’m not sure how interested I am in you. It may soon be time for us to talk about this.

Marion was interested in George Harrington. Or rather, the black hole into which George Harrington had disappeared. She was compelled to take a bleak interest in her bank statement, in those bills, in the problem of the Poles.

“Are you out of your mind?” says Gill, hectoring Stella from forty miles away. “Have
dinner
with him?” Her voice is quite hoarse with indignation.

Stella holds the phone away from her ear. “Well, I just thought . . . Maybe just to hear what he’s got to say . . .”

“
Flowers!
I think I should come over, Stella. I can tell you’re in a bad state.”

“No, no,” says Stella. Somehow, she feels she’d be better without Gill just now. Actually, she doesn’t feel in a particularly bad state.

“Anyway,” says Gill. “You can’t. See him. Not while the divorce negotiations are under way.”

“
Can’t?
”

“Definitely. Just ask Paul Newsome.”

Paul Newsome makes a kind of hissing noise—a breath drawn in through the teeth. It is the sound a builder makes, inspecting dry rot, or a mechanic, staring at the innards of an ailing car.

“Inadvisable.”

“Oh,” says Stella. “Oh, I see.” Then, nervously, “Why?”

Paul Newsome sighs. “. . . compromise our position at this delicate stage . . . expose yourself to disagreeable confrontation . . . insidious demands . . . special pleading . . . pressure.”

“Yes,” says Stella. “Yes, I see. Well, I suppose . . .”

She puts the phone down. The peonies and the lilies bloom away, on the kitchen table; the room is rich with scent.

Charlotte found herself much appreciative of
What Maisie Knew
. Even the most convoluted of Henry James’s sentences are easily accessible. I must be getting better, she thinks. Mind and body both.

She surfaces from Maisie’s story to consider her own—wayward, fortuitous, with none of the careful grooming of fiction. She thinks briefly of her mugger, now vanished into his or her own impulsive narrative; serial assaults upon elderly women, or merely the occasional raid when needs must? One will never know, which is probably for the best. She remembers hearing of some scheme whereby offenders and victims were brought together, presumably in order to induce guilt and regret in the offender, achieve forgiveness, or—worse—that
questionable condition known as “closure.” She has not the slightest desire to meet her mugger.

Rose comes into the room, staring at her mobile.

“I am actually enjoying Henry James,” says Charlotte.

“What?”

“Henry James. Enjoying.”

“Oh,” says Rose, who has not heard.

I would very much like dictionary shopping, says Anton’s text. When you are able to. Quail eggs were very good. I think I am the only worker on the site who eat quail eggs for lunch.

Stella dithers. She is in a state of acute dither—no, terminal dither. She reads Jeremy’s card again, puts it into the waste bin, retrieves it, returns it to the dresser. She reads it once more, is going to tear it up this time, put a stop to this silliness; she reads again, twitches her head from side to side, does not tear it up.

She sniffs the lilies half a dozen times a day. The peonies have great blowsy silken centers; they are luxuriant, complacent. Does that Marion woman get sent lilies and peonies on her birthday?

Marion bites the bullet. She must sack the Poles. The amiable, harmless Poles. Oh, they will find another job, but it is tough. They have given nothing but satisfaction.

She calls the nephew; she explains, grimly. “So if you could come round, this afternoon. I want to be able to tell them exactly what has happened, why I’ve got to do this. I’m so sorry about it.”

When the nephew arrived, Marion took him to one side. She set out the situation, which he accepted at once, apparently without surprise.

“The guy’s made off? Dodgy, I imagine. Hope he hasn’t stung you for too much.”

Marion was not going to elaborate on her affairs to a seventeen-year-old schoolboy. “So could you explain to them that I’m just not able to finish the job, to keep them on. It’s absolutely no reflection on their work. I’ll be happy to give any references they’d like.”

The boy said thoughtfully, “Interesting, a City type like that going AWOL. I’d love to know what he’s been up to.” He addressed his uncles in Polish—crisp and succinct, no messing, this is how it is. There were mutterings of dismay and regret; the elder Pole laid his hand for a moment on Marion’s arm, with a murmur of sympathy, shaking his head. She felt even worse.

“Don’t worry,” said the boy. “I can fix them up with something else soon enough. We’ve got a pretty good database now. Actually, I’m thinking of moving them into commercial contracts—long-term stuff.” He spoke like some plantation overseer. “I take it you’re giving them a reasonable pay-off?”

Marion nodded.

“Good. We can work out the details.”

At last, all three left, the Poles slung about with their bags of tools, their work kit. There was much shaking of heads, voluble expressions of regret. Marion kept saying, “I’m so
sorry
.” “No matter,” said the Poles. “No matter.” The boy advised Marion to get on to Interpol: “They may have something on your guy—very likely, if he’s dodgy.”

Alone in the flat, she looked around—at the meticulously selected shades of Farrow & Ball, the halogen lights, the power shower, the Miele kitchen appliances. What would become of it now? To whom, indeed, did it belong? Not to her, that was for sure. All she could do was lock it up and leave it. If a man owns a property worth a couple of million, does he not at some point lay claim to it?

Henry stared in disbelief at Delia Canning’s letter. He put it aside, picked it up, read the letter again and it still said the same thing.

Rose came into the room. “That Mark is on the phone—the television person.”

Henry scowled at her. “I do not wish to speak to him.” He waved the letter. “I have just received this from Ms. Canning. Apparently the project has been canceled. Aborted. They have pulled the plug on it. My time has been wasted. I do not wish to speak to anyone from Ms. Canning’s office.”