Angel (33 page)

… This is written later, much later. It must have been nearly midnight when I stopped pacing up and down, plotting and scheming, working out the logistics. I hadn’t eaten, but I wasn’t hungry. Didn’t feel like coffee or tea, didn’t feel like a snort of the old threestar. Felt like something Marceline sicked up, actually. At least I don’t have to worry any more about Harold and my diaries. The old ones are back in the Tilsiter cupboard.

As I went to the table the Glass caught my eye-well, it’s the most eyecatching thing in the whole room. Sitting in its usual spot, glowing pinkly.

Fraud of a thing. Oozing drama. I was debating whether to scry before I went to bed, instead of after the old girl wakes me up with the nightly gallop and guffaw. Maybe if I did that, the Glass would work for me? Bugger it, no! I sat down with a flop and vowed that never again would I abase myself before a hunk of silicon dioxide. Plain old melted sand.

So I sat there and thought about how horrible everybody had been to me today. Worse by far, they’d been terminally horrible to Flo. And all angryhorrible, not flat-anddepressed horrible. Angryhorrible’s unbearable without a head to wallop or some balls to knee. Don’t think those awful Child Welfare females don’t have balls. They do, and just as big as any other species of rat.

I looked at the Glass, and a weird thought popped into my mind. What is the matter with Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz? If that’s her upstairs every night, then she’s still haunting the earthly plane. In which case, why is she letting them kill her angel puss? Why has she left such a mess behind? She must have known that she was leaving a mess behind! Therefore she must also have left an answer. She was very stupid about some things, but she was also very clever.

Only two clues given to me: that the fate of The House is in the Glass; that it depends on the Glass. Would she have believed in herself and her powers so ardently that she assumed I’d

see everything revealed in the Glass? She put my hands on it, sort of blessed me. But I can’t see a thing in the Glass! I’ve been trying for a month, and nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I glared at the thing fiercely, at its dreamy pink upsidedown rendition of my room. The fate of The House is in the Glass. It all depends on the Glass. I grabbed it and did the unspeakable, freed it from its base by lifting it in both my hands. When I put it down, it started to roll. I steadied it. No vibrations, no peculiar electrical thrills. It’s just a very heavy blob of pressure-liquefied silica.

The table evidently sloped toward the side away from me, so I shoved the butter dish behind my nemesis and halted it, transferred my gaze to its base.

The small circle of padding between it and the black wood isn’t silk, it’s velvet, the pile squashed and shined by the weight of the Glass itself.

Oh, Harriet Purcell, you drongo! How could you be so thick? The answer has been sitting here for four months! I lifted the base and began to pick at the fabric where it overlapped the wood in a tiny roll, freeing it a weeny bit at a time because the glue was very efficient. But the glue didn’t go under the ball, it only held the edges down. And there, beneath the velvet, was a folded piece of paper resting in a shallow cavity that she must have gouged for it with a chisel. A cheap, printed will form of the kind one buys from a newsagency or a stationer’s. Diabolical. The time she must have spent devising this final riddle, taking a punt on her whole world, including

her angel puss. She didn’t even hedge her bets, she put it all on the nose. My nose for a mystery, a puzzle. She wasn’t even fair about the two clues. The fate of The House wasn’t in the Glass, it was under the Glass. One tiny little word.

If she’d used the correct preposition, I would have found the will in a day, maybe less. But no, not her. That was too simple, too tame.

The will wasn’t very long. It said that all her goods and properties and moneys were bequeathed to Flo Schwartz, her only child, to be held in trust during Flo’s minority by her dear friend Miss Harriet Purcell of the same address, who was at liberty to dispose of all income as she wished. And that she consigned the care and custody of Flo Schwartz, her only child, to the said Miss Harriet Purcell, being of the opinion that the said Miss Harriet Purcell would rear Flo as she would want. It was signed Harriet Purcell Delvecchio Schwartz, and there were two witnesses. An Otto Werner and a Fritz Werner, neither of whom I knew from a bar of soap. Brothers? Father and son?

Harriet Purcell! Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz had been born a Harriet Purcell.

The missing generation. But if from Dad’s lot, then he wasn’t told about her.

That’s possible, if from her birth she looked wrong. Nineteenth century parents were very odd about offspring who looked wrong-would bundle them away to a home, hide them as if a disgrace. It’s highly possible that she’s a close relative-Dad’s sister? He was born in 1882, and she would have been born around 1905. Or what if

she’d been born around 1902, while Dad was in South Africa fighting in the Boer War? Dad has twin sisters born later than he, in 1900-a great embarrassment, he always says, laughing. What if, after Auntie Ida and Auntie Joan, there was another daughter? Who looked wrong, and was hidden away?

This is one mystery I’d be willing to bet will never be solved, though it does answer the riddle of why she was called by the family curse name. An onion, Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz. Layer upon layer, and at the core, a childhood she never mentioned to any of us in The House, even Pappy.

I didn’t whoop, yell, scream or holler. Too much has happened to believe this is real. I’ll wait until I can show the will to Mr. Hush tomorrow morning.

Wednesday, April 5th, 1961

I woke at six, feeling very strange. If the author of all the above agony galloped and guffawed at ten past three last night, I didn’t hear her. My first chore was to telephone Sister Agatha’s office and say that I wouldn’t be in to work today.

No, no reason, sorry, Miss Barker. Private affairs. Then I pottered around in a delicious daze, gave Marceline extra top-of-the-milk, had several cups of coffee, some scrambled eggs and toast, and got dressed in my new fawny-pink autumn outfit, just out of Lay-by. Every so often I unfolded the will and verified that it did

indeed say all those wonderful things. It does. It does, it does!

I was on the doorstep of Partington, Pilkington, Purblind and Hush before Miss Hoojar arrived to open the premises. When she told me disdainfully that Mr. Hush was too busy to see me today, I said I’d wait anyway. Half a minute, a quarter of a minute, I don’t care, but I am seeing him! I said. So I sat down in the reception area, kept peeking at the will, hummed a tune, flapped magazine pages loudly, and generally made such a nuisance of myself that when Mr.

Hush came through the door at ten o’clock, Miss Hoojar was ready to throttle me.

“Miss Purcell refused to leave, Mr. Hush!” she bleated.

“Then Miss Purcell had better come in,” he said, sighing, resigned to butchering scrag end of neck instead of fillet steak. “I can’t give you long, I’m in court most of today.”

In answer, I handed him the will.

“Well, strike me pink and turn me blue!” he said after a quick perusal.

“Whereabouts did this turn up?”

“I found it last night, sir, hidden beneath the base of Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz’s favourite ornament.”

“Is Harriet Purcell really her name?” he asked, eyeing me as if he suspected me of forgery. Then he subjected the will to a minute examination. “It looks genuinesame handwriting as the bank books, dated a year ago. Do you know the witnesses?”

I had to say no, I didn’t, but that I’d ask around. “Does it matter?” I asked tensely. “Is anyone going to argue about it? Contest it?”

“My dear Harriet, I would think that everybody is going to greet the mysterious appearance of this document with a sigh of relief. It is the lady’s only existing testament, and in it she acknowledges Flo as her child and unequivocally consigns custody of Flo to you. At law, her commands are our commands.”

“But Child Welfare aren’t going to change their opinion of me, are they, Mr.

Hush?”

“Very likely not,” he said placidly. “However, the will lifts the responsibility of Flo from their shoulders. They aren’t the arbiters of Flo’s destiny any longer-and for that, they’ll be very, very glad. I might add that the will also endows you with financial independence. You’ll be able to live very comfortably on the estate’s incomes, so you won’t need to work. You’re set.”

Then he cleared his throat in a suspicious manner. I gave him all my attention. “As there is no executor named, you’ll have to decide who you want to handle matters. You can avail yourself of the Public Trustee, or, if you prefer, I can handle probate. I should warn you that the Public Trustee moves at the pace of a tortoise, and that its fees are quite as hefty as those levied by a private firm.”

My cue! “I’d prefer that you handle everything, Mr. Hush.”

“Good, good!” The scrag end of neck had clearly turned into fillet steak. “You’ll appreciate that I’ve had occasion to talk to the Public Trustee about the estate. Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz has over one hundred and ten thousand pounds deposited in savings accounts all over Sydney. The source of these funds has baffled the experts, who cannot prove that they represent earned income. Naturally everybody is aware what goes on in 17b and 17d, but both establishments enjoy virtual immunity from, um, official attention, and the experts have had to take the word of their proprietresses that they pay thirty pounds per week in rent. 17a and 17e, though mere .

rooming houses, also pay thirty pounds a week. That yields one hundred and twenty pounds a week. A good lawyer can argue it is spent upon upkeep, utilities and rates, as all four places are in tiptop conditionsomething Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz’s own house does not experience, as I understand. The taxation johnnies are in a tizz-wozz, but unless concrete evidence appears, all they are entitled to do is tax the interest and the rents. If Taxation does decide to challenge, a good team of barristers can tie the case up in court for decades. I will, of course, put you in touch with a firm of accountants and financial managers who can advise you what to do with Flo’s principal-it earns mere pennies in savings accounts, brrrr! Birdwhistle, Entwhistle, O’Halloran and Goldberg are the best.”

So that’s what you were after, Madame Fugue! You were fishing to see how much I knew. But don’t worry, you’re perfectly safe with me. We can’t have all those

industrialists and politicians and bankers and judges deprived of the opportunity to get rid of their dirty water in pristine premises, now can we?

Um, thirty quid a week? In a pig’s eye! Three hundred, more like. But, be warned! I am going to drive a hard bargain on Flo’s behalf, dear Mesdames. My name isn’t Harriet Purcell for nothing.

This future prospect tickled me so much that I leaned across the desk and kissed Mr. Hush on the lips, a salutation he returned with interesting gusto.

“Sir, you are a sweetie!”

He giggled. “I must confess I’ve always thought I was, but it’s nice to have confirmation. It would be best if you leave it to me to arrange for Flo’s release.

In the meantime, I’ll make sure that you have enough money to live on until probate is granted. You’ll have Flo back well before that day.”

I caught a taxi out to Queens, though I didn’t go straight to Sister Agatha’s office. I went to the Psych Pavilion and caught Dr. John Prendergast on his way to a conference.

“John, John! Mrs. Delvecchio Schwartz left a will which names me as Flo’s guardian!” I yelled. “Child Welfare will be handing her over to me very shortlyyippee!”

His face went very teddy bearish. “Then we’ll keep her here for you.” He picked me up like a feather and whirled me around and around. “Since I’m not keen on nurses,” he said, leading the way to Flo’s room, “the story of my life is that every woman I fancy belongs to a patient, and is therefore out of bounds. You are about to depart from this category, so I don’t suppose you ever have a spare evening for dinner with a rather less nutty than usual psychiatrist?”

“You’ve got my phone number,” I said, looking at him with a fresh eye.

Hmmmm. My horizons are expanding. A Rugby front row forward type.

Variety, she had said. Keep them all different, princess, and you gotta have a virgin before you die. Though I very much doubt that John Prendergast is a virgin.

Flo greeted me with open arms as usual, but I greeted her with hugs and kisses by the dozens. And a few tears. “Darling Flo, you’re coming home with me soon,” I whispered into the ear close to my mouth.

The biggest smile in the world lit her weeny face up, she threw her arms around me and squeezed me fervently.

“No fool, our Flo,” said John Prendergast without surprise.

“Autistic, my foot!” I snorted. “Flo is unique. I think God is very tired of the mess we’ve made of things, so He’s inventing a new model. It’s speech gets us into so much trouble. But if we can read each other’s thoughts, lies and duplicity go out the window. We’ll have to be what we really are.”

Next on my list was Sister Agatha, who had definitely girded her loins for battle, judging from the expression on her face when I erupted into her office.

But I didn’t

give her the chance to open her mouth, the sour old biddy.

“Sister Toppingham, I quit!” I declared. “Today is Wednesday and I’m not here. I’ll work tomorrow and Friday, then I’m gone!”

Gobble, gobble, gobble. “I require two weeks’ notice from you, Miss Purcell.”

“Hard cack, ace, you’re not getting it. On Friday afternoon, I am goneygone.”

Gobble, gobble, gobble. “You are impertinent!” “Impertinence,” I said, “increases both exponentially and synchronously with financial independence.”

I blew her a kiss and blew out of there. Goodbye, Sister Agatha!

Then it was off to Bronte in another taxi to break the news to my very worried family.

I’d chosen my hour deliberately. Dad and the Bros were at the shop, only Mum and Granny would be home. What a pity Granny isn’t Dad’s mother.