The Water's Lovely (23 page)

She admitted to herself that she found him attractive to look at. Ismay often talk about people having ‘types' and Ivan belonged in her favoured category. That is, he was tall and well-built, darkish and bearded. He had blue eyes, which she also liked, and he always smelt beautifully clean and faintly cologned. His long-fingered hands were also among his attractions. She often thought of when they had first met at the romance walking and how she had been immediately drawn to him. She kept it in mind for reassurance when he said things like ‘The cost of everything in here is a scandal' or ‘My belief is we should have some say in how the Government spends our tax money. It's called hypothecation.'

When she said, very gently, ‘I know that, Ivan. I'm an accountant,' he grew huffy and told her not to pull rank.

Not staying for a second drink, they set off on one of his quests for a suitable place to eat. ‘Suitable' meaning cheap, Pamela reminded herself with no pleasure. After five restaurants' outside menus had been perused and their prices adversely commented on, she suggested rather
diffidently that if they were going back to his flat she would cook something for them there. This put him in a better mood than she had believed possible. There was plenty of food at his place. There was nothing he liked better than some home cooking in his own home. With his own partner, he added, putting his arm round her.

He had parked his car with great difficulty on a meter in one of the squares. Pamela was always rather nervous going back to find it because they had once done so and found a parking ticket on the windscreen. Ivan had gone mad, swearing that he had parked the car after six thirty when the restriction was lifted, and threatening all kinds of vengeance on the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. Although she meant to make things better, Pamela made things worse by saying to him that he ought to be glad he hadn't been clamped. He swore at her then. But this time the only adornment to the windscreen was a flier from a fitness spa and Ivan set off for Battersea in jocund mood.

There must be some term in psychology for these fluctuating moods of his, Pamela thought. It wasn't manic-depression or bipolarity – she had cause to know something about madness – it wasn't extreme enough for that. She could ask Edmund but the trouble with that was that she didn't want the family thinking there was anything odd about Ivan. As he drove he talked about the mother of a Greek colleague of his who had never lived in this country but who came here solely to get a hip replacement for free on the National Health Service.

In the flat she found that his boast that there was plenty of food in the house was a wild exaggeration. Certainly there were a lot of eggs and several packs of bacon. That made her suspect that he cooked himself breakfast every morning but nothing else. She found
some withered mushrooms too, some slices of white bread in waxed paper and an unopened pack of butter. The terrible need for a drink, once almost unknown, strong now when she was with Ivan, almost drove her to ask for one but just as she was getting her nerve up he walked into the kitchen with two whiskies on a tray.

She made them bacon and mushroom omelettes, which he pronounced wonderful. Pleased that he was pleased, Pamela nevertheless wondered if anything made him so happy as economy, the saving of a few pounds here and a few more there. He put his arm round her and told her how well they got on together.

It was only eight o'clock and Heather and Edmund who were with Beatrix that evening had promised to stay till eleven. She relaxed, expecting him to turn on the television to a money programme, which was his favourite. He often said as he did so, that they had so much in common, but tonight, without more preamble, his arm holding rather tightly on to her shoulder, he led her into his bedroom and said, ‘This is what we've really come for, isn't it?'

Marion got back late, long after Joyce and Duncan had gone. She had meant to be hours earlier but she had spent far longer with Barry Fenix than had seemed likely at first. He had given her and himself a dry martini, the first she had ever tasted. It was deliciously ice-cold and came out of a silver bottle thing he told her was a cocktail shaker. ‘I'm a bit of a throwback, my dear,' he said. ‘The first half of the twentieth century is my spiritual home. Preferably in the Far East.' He had never lived there, he went on rather sadly. What with pressures of work and a demanding career, and had visited only on a package tour to Hong Kong. Besides, his wife preferred the Isle of Wight. ‘The memsahib
would never go.' He winked as he said, ‘And she held the purse strings, you know.'

Marion didn't know. She hadn't the faintest idea what he was talking about but she loved his rich, fruity voice and his old-world courtesy. It was a long time since a man had opened a door for her and stood aside to let her pass through ahead of him. Edmund had done so but without Barry Fenix's grace. He took her upstairs, showed her the five bedrooms and back down again to display the spacious dining room, kitchen and breakfast room and his ‘snug', a kind of study with walls lined with group photographs of men in uniform and, facing the desk, a portrait of himself wearing a lot of what she thought were called ‘decorations'. They returned to the ‘lounge', where Benares brass abounded, along with carved teak furniture, embroidered Kashmiri cushions and processions of ebony elephants. It made Marion wonder why Mr Hussein didn't have this kind of stuff.

‘It's lovely,' she said. ‘You wouldn't think your house and next door were the same sort of – well, next door to each other.' She had got muddled over that sentence and she amended it as best she could. ‘I mean, this is so unique.'

‘I like to think so,' said Barry Fenix, pouring her another dry martini. ‘It's one o'clock,' he said, glancing at his watch, and poor Marion, accustomed to such treatment, thought he was going to turn her out. She was getting reluctantly to her feet when he said, ‘Not going, I hope. I thought we could have a spot of tiffin if you can stand an old soldier's cooking.'

The word was new to her. ‘Is tiffin something to eat?'

‘It's lunch,' said Barry.

By the time she left it was nearly five and if not drunk she was, in Barry's own words, ‘three sheets to the wind'. The trouble with him was you needed a
dictionary of Asian expressions to know what he was on about. But it was the only trouble. Marion thought he was very nice, a real gentleman, the likes of which you saw few these days. She had given him her mobile number on what she thought was a clever pretext.

‘I'd appreciate it so much, Barry, if you'd give me a ring if Mrs Litton seems a bit under the weather. If you could keep a bit of an eye on her. I know it's a lot to ask.'

‘I'll do that small thing, my dear.'

Marion danced and ran speedily all the way to Lithos Road. Anyone watching would have thought she was doing high-impact aerobics. Her home appeared untouched, just as she had left it. No signs of, or scars made by, Fowler were to be seen. He wouldn't dare break another window, not after she'd told him the cost of having the last one mended. She drank some black coffee, cleaned her teeth and set off for Pinner.

Avice, in her dressing gown, was lying on the sofa, the rabbits dimly visible in their hutch, munching away at a pile of dandelions.

‘How have you been?' Marion asked tenderly.

‘Not too good. Those Crosbies wore me out. In future they'll blame me for stopping them going to the flower show, you'll see. And I've been worrying about these two' – she waved a hand in the direction of the hutch – ‘when something happens to me. I mean it may happen any minute.'

‘But I'm going to take care of them,' said Marion. ‘You know that. It's all arranged.'

‘That's true. I keep forgetting. I really think I could eat some supper now.'

Whenever possible, Edmund and Heather had lunch together in the hospice canteen. The food was the same as the patients had and cooked by Heather and Michelle. Today was curried lamb with rice and dhal or spaghetti bolognese and Edmund chose the curry because it was his favourite. ‘I'd have married you for your cooking even if I hadn't been madly in love with you,' he said.

‘Not “madly,” Ed. There was never anything mad about us. We've always been rational and practical.'

‘Speak for yourself. I saw that girl this morning. I was on top of the bus going along Ken High Street. It was just before eight and I saw her going into Kensington Gardens.'

‘What girl? What are you talking about?'

‘That girl you're always phoning. Eva something. Eva Simber.'

‘I'm not always phoning her. I've phoned her three times. I suppose she goes running there now she's given up on St James's Park. It's miles from where she lives.'

‘You know what these fitness fanatics are.'

Heather went to the counter, fetched herself the fruit salad and Edmund the tartufo.

‘Talking of fitness fanatics, it's fat-free,' she said.

‘What a liar you are, Heather Litton.'

‘Issy's coming over this evening. Remind me to get a bottle of wine.'

‘I won't remind you,' said Edmund. ‘I'll get it. I'll get two.'

Tartufo was also supper dessert in Avice's house, though she, to Marion's mystification, called the meal dinner and the second course ‘pudding'. Marion hadn't made these but bought them ready prepared in plastic cups from a supermarket fridge. Carefully, she turned them out, each into an individual glass dish and topped them with defrosted whipped cream, first dousing the one on the left (A comes before M in the alphabet) with morphine.

‘It doesn't taste very nice,' Avice said, leaving more than half of it.

‘You must eat.' What a waste, Marion was thinking, of what was probably a very expensive medicine, not to mention the work put in by all those poor poppy farmers in Afghanistan. ‘You have to get your strength back. Have just one more spoonful.'

Avice wouldn't. Marion still hoped, though, and after Avice had gone to bed walked round the house looking at all the bits and pieces she would help herself to between Avice's death and the arrival on the scene of the doctor, undertakers and Joyce and Duncan Crosbie. In the Chinese slippers similar to ballet shoes she was wearing, she skipped up the stairs and down again, marking a picture here, a glass bowl and a porcelain vase there, rather in the manner of a bailiff except that she stuck on no labels.

Avice slept very soundly that night. That meant little as she was a good sleeper. On her way to the shops, Marion reflected on her choice of tartufo. She should have got something sweeter and with less strong a flavour. A pear and almond tart might be a better idea. She bought one and a piece of fish called a tilapia which she had never previously heard of.

*    *    *

Taking a week of the holiday due to her, Ismay stayed at home. In the past she had gone on holiday three times with Andrew, once to Venice, once to San Sebastian and once to Barcelona. His desertion had spoilt those cities for her. She could never go to them again, perhaps not even to Italy or Spain again. She wouldn't be able to bear seeing on her own palaces and paintings, seaside and panoramas, she had seen with him. Come to that, she wouldn't be able to see places she hadn't seen with him. The idea of travelling somewhere without him made her feel ill. Imagine the long solitary nights, the sight of other couples together, of lovers walking in the warm dusk, their arms round each other. It would kill her. So she stayed at home. She was unhappy at home too but not likely to burst into tears out in the street or lie down and beat her head on the ground as she would feel like doing in some beach resort.

Rather like a medieval lady who has led a racy life and been forced to give it all up and retire to a convent, she turned her attention to good works. She committed herself to sending twenty pounds a month to the Royal National Institute for the Blind, never passed a beggar without bestowing a coin and offered frequent service to Pamela as a Beatrix-sitter. The day after she had been to Heather and Edmund for supper she went round to her mother's house at six, having told Pamela to stay out till eleven if she liked, or even midnight.

It was June, a month that had started off unseasonably cold but was now warm, sunny and windless. Ismay sat by the living-room window, opposite her somnolent mother, who chewed her gum as slowly as a cow chewing the cud. She watched the people going by and the cars passing, not many people and a lot of cars,
and thought how everyone but she seemed to have someone. Everyone out there who went by was with someone else. Pamela, by now, would be with her Ivan. Heather had Edmund. Ismay thought bitterly that she wouldn't be surprised if she turned up here one evening and found an elderly man sitting with Beatrix and holding her hand. The evening before, for the first time, she had seen her sister and her sister's husband in their own home and had tried – desperately hard – to be happy for them that they were obviously so happy. All she had been was envious. No, that wasn't quite true. She loved Heather. She wanted love and peace and contentment for Heather if all those things were possible but she wanted them for herself first.

The fairly heavy drinking she had indulged in was past. Or past unless great temptation came in her way. Edmund kept refilling her glass. He and Heather drank very little but it seemed to her that less than an hour had passed before he was opening a second bottle. The great thing was, perhaps the sad thing, that drinking made her feel better. Not good but better. When she had had two or three glasses of wine she could think how glad she was she had never said a word to Edmund about Guy's death or tried to warn him about Heather. It almost made her smile – and at the same time threatened to bring tears to her eyes – to see how obviously Heather and Edmund wanted to touch each other, to sit squeezed close together, but resisted out of kindness to her. Not to remind her – as if she needed reminding!