Appointment with Yesterday (4 page)

And anyway, what the hell? How could life with this harmless old man possibly be worse than hanging on in the awful, well-appointed Kensington flat, pitied by the
neighbours
, avoided by her and Julian’s former friends? Gilbert at
least seemed to value her, in his mumbling, fumbling way. He was courteous and deferential to the point of
incomprehensibility
, and sometimes paid her stiff, complicated
compliments
, which she couldn’t but find pleasing, starved as she had been of any words of approval during recent years.

Besides, she supposed, vaguely, that she would grow fond of him as time went on. He seemed to have led a miserable life—nagged by his first wife into a nervous breakdown, swindled out of his proper pension by the now defunct Indian Civil Service: and Milly rather fancied herself in the rôle of little ray of sunshine to brighten his declining years. And if, in the process of brightening someone’s declining years, you can also administer a well-deserved kick in the backside to your ex-husband’s inflated ego—well, what
normal
woman would hesitate?

Milly wouldn’t, anyway. She promptly married Gilbert at a Brixton registry office, with two deaf old men captured from a nearby bowls club as witnesses: and she straightaway sent Julian a beautifully touched-up photograph of the wedding, with herself smiling a radiant smile that was quite unfeigned (and how should Julian guess that the joy irradiating her features was inspired not by love’s young dream, but by the thought of his and Cora’s faces as they received the news?)

Gilbert hadn’t come out quite so well: he had a vulpine look which she hadn’t noticed in real life, and his smile was glassy, and riddled with false teeth. Still, it wasn’t too bad: at least the lines on his face were blurred and softened, so that he looked, in the picture, as if he really could be only sixty. And he was standing well, too, tall and spare, almost military. You couldn’t say he looked handsome, exactly—and it was a pity that the fluffy whiteness of his hair was so in evidence—but at least he looked distinguished, in a bony, ghosty sort of a way.

*

The man opposite Milly suddenly lowered his newspaper, and it seemed, for one awful moment, that his glance rested on her face for just a little too long. Was her picture already
in the paper, then?—that very same wedding photograph, perhaps, with the fixed, bridal smiles, now so eerily
inappropriate
. Just the sort of ghoulish touch that newspapermen love….

The man’s glance had left Milly’s face now; he looked merely irritable as he twitched over one page after another, folding and re-folding the paper as he searched for some small haven of print on which his flickering interest might rest awhile.

… F
OUND IN
F
LAT
… F
OUND IN
F
LAT
—twice more the tantalising letters flashed in front of Milly’s eyes, until at last her luck was in, and the front page lay spread out before her in its totality:

S
TOLEN
J
EWELS
F
OUND
IN
F
LAT,
she read; and her whole body sagged in an ecstasy of relief.

Nothing to do with her at all! She was reprieved!

Because, whatever they were going to find in that
basement
flat in South London, it most certainly wasn’t going to be jewels.

“
W
ELL, ACTUALLY,
I was wondering if I could pay by cheque?”

A cheque, signed with her new false name, naturally wouldn’t be worth the paper it was written on, but Milly was calculating that, before it bounced back, she would have been able to pay the whole week’s rent in full, in cash. She had never dealt in dud cheques before, and she wasn’t sure how easy they were to laugh off—not to mention getting the landlady to laugh with you. But of one thing she was quite certain: a trendy little anecdote about the idiocies of the bank’s newly-installed computer would sound a lot funnier to a landlady’s ears if Milly was already holding out three
real, actual pound notes when she laughingly embarked on it.

“Is that all right, then?—who shall I make it out to?” Milly drew the futile, obsolete cheque-book from her bag with quite a flourish, and flicked it open with all the solid assurance of one who really
will
have one pound forty tomorrow, and another one pound forty the next day, and therefore isn’t telling lies at all, not really. She was aware, though, as she stood, biro poised, and with an ingratiating smile on her lips, that the little woman who had advertised the vacant room upstairs was now watching her, sharp as a sparrow, from under her grey fringe: assessing her, totting her up: and wasting no time in coming up with the answer.

“I’m sorry. No, I don’t take cheques. I’m sorry.”

So she didn’t take cheques. Just like some people don’t take whisky. The tiny interlude of hope was over. Milly found herself being edged expertly back along the narrow entrance hall, past the bicycle, and the gum-boots, and the umbrella-stand, to where the front door still stood open, as if it had known, ever since Milly arrived, that she was one of the ones who would not be staying.

But on the threshold, Milly paused. When she had arrived here (attracted not only by the Rooms to Let sign, but also by the dirty curtains, which suggested that it might be cheap), it had still been afternoon, with faint gleams of sunlight on the tips of the slated roofs. Now, the air was full of dusk. The landlady shivered as she held the door open for Milly’s departure: you could see she was
impatient
, longing to get the door closed again. As for Milly, her mind was empty of further plans. It all seemed too difficult.

“Well, goodbye, then,” she said, vaguely, backing out of the little lighted hall. As she moved out of the shelter of the doorway, the icy chill of the coming night flicked at her: the first blades of the cold that was to come touched at her knees and at her throat: and straightaway her body remembered. Before any thought of hers could direct it, it
was back through the already-closing door, back into the warm hallway, and fighting for its life.

She
quite
understood, she gabbled, that a person letting rooms has to be careful: she’d be just the same
herself
… the words rattled from Milly’s lips like ticker-tape, racing to get it all said before righteous fury took the place of stupefaction in the startled face in front of her. So how would it be, Milly babbled on—and here she smiled into the still-dazed blue eyes with a frank, phoney charm worthy of Julian himself—how would it be if she gave references? She had a job locally … her employer … a Mrs Graham …?

What on earth would happen if this suggestion was actually taken up, she had no time to consider. But at least Mrs Graham would have heard of her, and would have to say so: wasn’t it quite something to have been heard of by someone, in this big empty world?

As it happened, the matter was never put to test. At the word “references”, the indignant little body in front of her nearly exploded.

“References!” she spat. “What’s the good of references? Anyone can fake a reference! D’you think I was born yesterday?” She didn’t, of course, expect an answer to this question, least of all the answer “No, but I was!” which was what almost sprang to Milly’s lips, and had to be hastily suppressed.

“Some of the worst tenants I’ve ever had have come to me with a whole bag-load of posh references,” the woman continued. “I wouldn’t give tuppence for a reference from the Queen of England herself! And anyway,” she finished truculently, “Where’s your luggage? I never take anyone who arrives with no luggage!”

At this additional indictment, Milly’s hopes suddenly revived. As soon as someone gives
two
reasons for not doing what you want, instead of one, he has as good as lost the game already: unwittingly, he has put himself within range of argument on two fronts.

“My luggage? It’s at the station,” Milly said, with a
dignity borne of having almost forgotten that everything she was saying was lies. “Naturally, I didn’t want to drag it around with me before I was settled, and so….”

A small burst of derisory clapping from up above made both women whirl round and peer up into the half-darkness of the stairs. There, just at the bend of the banisters, two grinning faces had appeared, gleaming indistinctly out of a shadowy framework of beards and hair.

“Attagirl! You’re winning!” called one cheery young voice: and the other: “Oh, come on, Mrs Mums, give her a chance! Remember the lies
we
had to tell before you’d let us in!”

The little woman thus addressed rushed like a small charging bull to the foot of the stairs.

“Off with you!” she yelled up into the darkness. “Both of you, off to your room! And I’ll thank you to call me
Mrs
Mumford,
if you please! Whatever’s the lady going to think, hearing you go on like that? She’ll think we keep a madhouse here! So off!
Off!
”

A shuffle of laughter, a thumping of heavy feet, and then the banging of a door. Mrs Mumford now turned to Milly almost apologetically, just exactly as if Milly had a right to be standing there in the hallway and passing judgement on the establishment.

“My students,” she explained deprecatingly. “They’ll be the death of me, I swear they will! Never a minute’s peace….”

But Milly did not fail to notice the touch of pride in the sharp voice. “My students…” whatever she might say, you could tell already that Mrs Mumford loved having them there.

“I’ve been taking in students for twelve years come September,” Mrs. Mumford informed Milly, temporarily
suspending
hostilities for the sake (presumably) of a few minutes’ chat. “It’s the University, you see, it’s not more than twelve miles down the coast, they can get there in twenty minutes on the train. The money’s not much, though,
not when you consider the Sunday dinners as well. I’ve always done the Sunday dinners for my students, but when you consider the price of meat these days…. And the way they eat, you wouldn’t believe it, Mrs … Mrs … Excuse me, what
did
you say your name was?”

“Barnes,” said Milly, who hadn’t said anything of the kind, and had indeed only just this moment decided on it. “Milly Barnes.”

“Ah. Yes, well, Mrs Barnes, like I was telling you, it’s a big problem, running a house like this, especially for a woman on her own. Like when I started, you see, my Leslie—that’s my son, you know—my Leslie was at home then, he wasn’t married…. Have
you
a son, Mrs Barnes?”

What a nice idea! Milly toyed with the thought of having a son—or even two sons. After all, they’d be past the troublesome stage by now, and out earning their own living. And what about a married daughter …?

Milly sighed.

“No,” she said. It was a pity, but the complications would be too great. These three young people would be expected to come and see her now and again … unless of course they all had jobs abroad, in which case this little woman would be on the watch for airmail letters which never came. It was going to be difficult enough to explain why no letters came anyway, without that.

“No—” she enlarged on it cautiously. “I never had any children. Your son must be a great satisfaction to you,” she went on, giving the sort of deft about-turn to the
conversation
which was going to have to become second-nature to her from now on.

“Well.” Mrs Mumford paused heavily, pursing up her small mouth in thought. “Well. He’s married into a funny family, you see. That’s the trouble. It’s not that I didn’t warn him. I mean, it’s not that I want to interfere, or anything like that, I’m not the interfering kind….”

*

At what point in the conversation had it become no
longer possible to throw Milly into the street? These things are impossible to gauge in retrospect; but certain it is that the realisation that the critical moment was already past came to them both, suddenly. Mrs Mumford’s voice abruptly trailed into silence, and she stared helplessly at Milly, almost as if appealing to her for advice. How, she seemed to be asking, are we to start quarrelling again
now
? By what route can we make our way back to the point when I was saying “No, I’m sorry,” and holding the front door open for you to disappear into the night? It was a problem in etiquette to which Mrs Mumford’s limited repertoire simply didn’t extend.

“Well.” She said at last: and then, when nothing came of the remark, she tried again: “Well, I suppose.”

“Yes,” said Milly.

It still wasn’t clear who had won: but all the same, they couldn’t go on standing here in the hallway for ever: so after a bit, Mrs Mumford led the way upstairs, explaining, from long habit, that no one was allowed to run a bath after eleven p.m. because of the cistern. Only after she had completed this little admonition did she realise that every word of it had been insiduously strengthening Milly’s hitherto tenuous claim on the tenancy.

“And of course, no late visitors!” she snapped, hitting out at random now, as she felt the initiative slipping from her grasp: and “No, of course not,” said Milly heartily. “I say, what a gorgeous room!”

Nothing in her twelve years of landladyhood had prepared Mrs Mumford for this sort of reaction to her First Floor Back, Business Lady or Gentleman Only: and for a moment she stopped dead in the open doorway, staring first at Milly and then at the room, as if wondering who it was who was going mad. She couldn’t, of course, guess that the dingy little carpetless room was irradiated with the primeval, almost-forgotten glory of having four walls, and a roof strong enough to keep out the rain and the savage winter wind: nor that the narrow lumpy bed with its old-fashioned
white counterpane was holding out the promise of that most voluptuous of all human joys: lying down in safety, with blankets.

“Oh, I’m going to be so
happy
here!” cried Milly, feasting her eyes on the four solid walls holding up so marvellously against the sleet, and snow, and the bitter wind from the sea. The heartfelt sincerity in her voice seemed to bewilder her prospective landlady. After all these years in the business, Mrs Mumford knew well enough when she was being “got round”. She could have taken her PhD any time, in
i
dentifying
“soft soap” and “flannel”, and all the other
rent-postponing
tricks that the wit of tenants could devise. But this sincere and unqualified admiration for one of her ugliest and most over-priced rooms was something that she could not place.

If you can’t place it, it’s dangerous. She watched Milly’s incomprehensible enthusiasm through narrowed eyes. It was unnatural. And suspicious. And heart-warming.

“Yes, it’s a nice little room, isn’t it?” she found herself saying, proudly. “And if you look at those curtains, Mrs Barnes, you’ll find they’re lined. Properly lined. I had them done professionally, I don’t believe in stinting, not where my tenants’ comfort is concerned….”

Was it those lined curtains that decided the issue in the end? Neither Milly nor Mrs Mumford could have put their finger on it, but by the time Milly had obediently examined the said linings, stroked them with her forefinger, and agreed about the superior quality of the material, not like the rubbish they sell you
these
days—by this time, the whole argument was plainly over. Milly was here to stay. Both of them knew it. Milly had won.

Aggrieved, and not a little bewildered at this turn of events, Mrs Mumford looked uneasily around for some small way of punishing Milly for whatever it was she had done to thus worm her way into the establishment. She expected co-operation from her tenants, she told Milly sharply: and she hoped Milly hadn’t brought a radio? They caused a lot of
trouble radios did, and she, Mrs Mumford, had always been one for avoiding trouble. Did Milly quite understand?

Having thus re-established her ascendancy, Mrs Mumford took her leave, and Milly was left in undisputed possession of the small cold room, with its bare electric-light bulb and the pale damp winding its slow tides among the brown criss-cross pattern of the wall-paper.

Victory! At last! The sense of victory was like a fever, and Milly was aware neither of cold nor of hunger as she pulled off her blouse and skirt and slid between the icy sheets. And as she lay there, in the darkness, she felt as an athlete must feel as he stumbles, exhausted, past the tape, with the cheering from a million throats ringing in his ears. Only for Milly there was no cheering, only the distant, changeless roaring of the winter sea, and the rattle of her ill-fitting windows as the wind battered against them out of the night.

Oh, but the triumph of it! The glory of lying here, safe, and dry, and victorious, her whole soul glowing, expanding with the consciousness of having faced almost impossible odds, and of having overcome them! What wonders she had performed in the past thirty-six hours! Had she not succeeded in
disappearing
, without trace, from the heart of a great civilisation which checks and counter-checks, which lists and dockets and
supervises
its citizens as no civilisation has ever done before? And had she not survived, and survived in perfect health, thirty-six hours of exposure and starvation such as might have brought a trained soldier to his knees? She, a flabby middle-aged woman, with no training, no money, and in a state of total shock, had succeeded not only in surviving, but in finding herself a job, a home, and a new way of life, and all without rousing a moment’s suspicion in any of the people involved!