Banishing Verona (10 page)
Authors: Margot Livesey
Only after the cab pulled away, leaving her alone with two substantial suitcases in a strange north London street on a cold February afternoon, did Verona realize how completely she was counting on her scenario working out. Emmanuel had been unable to recall the number of the house but it was a short street, he said, and the house was on the left, coming from the main road. The front door is bright blue, he had added, like a swimming pool. Standing at the foot of the street, she spotted an uncurtained bay window, brightly lit and, as she approached, a door of emphatic blueness came into view. A stepladder stood in the middle of the window. She paused, hoping to catch a glimpse of the person on whose good nature and naïveté she planned to impose for the next twenty-four hours.
After seventy seconds the ladder rose into the air and was carried out of sight, but whoever had moved it remained hidden. She took a firmer hold on her suitcases, carried them over to the blue door, and rang the bell.
Even as Verona recognized what had woken herâthe stubborn song of a blackbird singing its roundsâshe realized she had been dreaming. It was the blackbird that reminded her and that, as it continued its song, carried her back, just for an instant. A bird was clutching her wrist. She was holding a hawk, one of her grandfather's, not his pet, Percy, but a smaller, sleeker bird with brindled feathers. No sooner had she looked into its golden eyes than it hurled itself into the air, a tumult of wings, and was gone, as was the rest of the dream. All that remained was the knowledge that, in the midst of so much disarray, her night life had returned; for months after she became pregnant, her sleep had been dull and empty. As for her grandfather's appearance in the dream, that made perfect sense. The previous evening, after Zeke's departure, she had fallen asleep reading the leather-bound book she had found at Henry's. Catching sight of it now, still lying on the duvet beside her, she tucked it under the pillow and climbed out of bed.
She drew the faded curtains to discover the windows streaked with rain. A low mottled sky promised more. Cold air streamed around the ill-fitting sash and she moved closer, offering the taut skin of her belly to the drafts. Below her lay a garden neatly divided
into flowerbeds and what looked like rows of leeks, or onions. The blackbird, seemingly oblivious to the weather, was perched on the wall, yellow beak open in lusty song. Oh, Henry, she thought. Where are you?
into flowerbeds and what looked like rows of leeks, or onions. The blackbird, seemingly oblivious to the weather, was perched on the wall, yellow beak open in lusty song. Oh, Henry, she thought. Where are you?
She pulled on her clothes, not the dress of yesterday, which was also the dress of the day before, but leggings, a T-shirt, and sweatshirt. Downstairs she headed for the kitchen, intending to eat the sensible cereal she had found during her search for food the previous evening, but something about the birdsong made her long to be out on the streets with people heading to work and school. As she slipped on her coat, her fears of the last thirty-six hours seemed vastly exaggerated. The men's visit and their subsequent phone call had been upsetting, but it was Henry they were looking for, not her or Toby. She unlocked all three locks, redid two, and set out to find the row of shops she had seen from the taxi.
She passed a bakery, the window full of plump buns and tarts, and a video shop with a cardboard cutout of a well-known actor dressed as a Roman centurion. Next to that was exactly what she needed: a café with a blackboard outside offering the Builders' Breakfast and the Heart Attack Special. Inside, the windows streamed with condensation; every molecule of air bore its burden of fried food. Behind the counter a pale woman with thick dark braids was talking energetically to a small girl.
Verona waited, listening to the mysterious language full of
t's
and
z's
. All the other customers, save for a group of women by the window, were men. At the nearest table, two boys in leather jackets were tucking into bacon and eggs. The boy facing her, she noticed, had lost a piece of his earlobe. Next to them a man with massive cheeks had his napkin tucked into his collar and was eating, with great delicacy, a plate of baked beans.
t's
and
z's
. All the other customers, save for a group of women by the window, were men. At the nearest table, two boys in leather jackets were tucking into bacon and eggs. The boy facing her, she noticed, had lost a piece of his earlobe. Next to them a man with massive cheeks had his napkin tucked into his collar and was eating, with great delicacy, a plate of baked beans.
“Can I help you?” asked the woman in impeccable English.
Verona ordered a fried-egg sandwich and then, an inspiration, “Make that two.”
“It'll be three any day now.”
“Not for a while,” she said, reaching for her purse. After months
of being visibly pregnant, she was still taken aback that almost everyone felt free to comment. If you were in Niger, her midwife had told her, people wouldn't just talk; they would touch your belly for luck, yours and theirs. “What language were you speaking?”
of being visibly pregnant, she was still taken aback that almost everyone felt free to comment. If you were in Niger, her midwife had told her, people wouldn't just talk; they would touch your belly for luck, yours and theirs. “What language were you speaking?”
“Slovak,” said the waitress, seeming neither pleased nor affronted by her curiosity. “The sandwiches will be a couple of minutes.”
But the brief exchange had broken Verona's mood. Among a hundred customers, she would be the one the waitress remembered. Oh, yes, the tall pregnant woman. As soon as the sandwiches were ready, she hurried out of the café and down the street, taking no pleasure now in her fellow pedestrians and unexpected leisure. She wanted to be indoors, safe, at the Barrows'. Only when she spotted a dusty white van parked across from the house and recognized the vehicle in which she had watched Zeke drive away the night before, did her pace slow. She remembered his face, the solemn surprise, when she had kissed him.
As she closed the door of the house, Zeke in his paint-stained clothes was coming down the stairs. Apollo descends, she thought. Hermes arrives. Although the Greek gods were surely dark-skinned, more aggressive beings, and why was she thinking such thoughts about a man she scarcely knew, at a time like this? He raised his hand, a gesture halfway between handshake and wave.
“I went to buy us fried-egg sandwiches,” she said, holding out the bag.
After a tiny hesitation, his lips parted in a smile. He stepped forward to accept her offering and said he'd broken into the house. A clean, soapy smell wafted from him to her. In the kitchen he laid the table, and offered tea. The sandwich was delicious, sweet with butter, sharp with pepper; she wished she had bought a third. Zeke too ate with gusto. Meanwhile he asked simple, considerate questions: Had she slept well? Was the house warm enough? She told him about a period in her life when she had worked as an office cleaner and eaten a fried-egg sandwich every day. “We were meant to start at six. Instead, we'd come in at eight-thirty and run
around with furniture polish. When the manager arrived at nine, he thought we'd been working for hours.”
around with furniture polish. When the manager arrived at nine, he thought we'd been working for hours.”
In the face of Zeke's clear-eyed attention, she faltered. It had been an article of faith with her and her friends that cheating large businesses was not a crime, but there was another point of view. Then she pulled herself together. He was a house painter and she was never going to see him again. The night before, after he left, she had sat at the kitchen table and tried to come up with a plan. Her entire list was
Find Henry
. Or, more exactly,
Find Henry before the men do
. As to how to accomplish this, surely someone with the right skills could trace him on the Internet. Toby would know such a person. They could figure it out as soon as she had the house to herself, which would be sooner if she offered to help Zeke.
Find Henry
. Or, more exactly,
Find Henry before the men do
. As to how to accomplish this, surely someone with the right skills could trace him on the Internet. Toby would know such a person. They could figure it out as soon as she had the house to herself, which would be sooner if she offered to help Zeke.
“So what are we doing today?” she asked. “Putting up the lining paper?”
He reacted as if she had suggested they carry the fridge up and down the street. “Your aunt and uncle,” he protested, his hands gripping the table, “are paying me for my work.”
“Look, I can wear these.” She was already on her feet, moving toward the navy-blue coveralls she had spotted hanging on the back door. Only later did it strike her as odd that, during her sojourn at the Barrows', she had lost all consciousness of stealing from them. Her attitude was like someone in a fairy story who comes across an abandoned well-stocked palace in the woods; everything beneath their roof was hers for the taking. Which must, she thought, be what Henry feels most of the time, everywhere.
Â
Â
As soon as they started work, Zeke's whole manner changed. He was confident, organized, calm. He showed her how to cut the sandpaper and fit it to the sanding block and set her to smoothing the part of the walls that lay within her reachâdon't stretch, he urged, don't bendâwhile he tackled the upper half of the room, using the stepladder. As they worked, he answered
her questions with increasing ease and began to ask his own. She tried to answer politely but minimally. Sometimes with strangers she had enjoyed embellishing her life story. Now she was surprised to find herself longing to tell the truth. But the less Zeke knew, the better. She pictured Nigel and George appearing in this room. So you're saying you thought Miss MacIntyre was the Barrows' niece? That seems rather far-fetched.
her questions with increasing ease and began to ask his own. She tried to answer politely but minimally. Sometimes with strangers she had enjoyed embellishing her life story. Now she was surprised to find herself longing to tell the truth. But the less Zeke knew, the better. She pictured Nigel and George appearing in this room. So you're saying you thought Miss MacIntyre was the Barrows' niece? That seems rather far-fetched.
“Careful.” He touched her arm.
Looking down, she discovered she had rubbed the same spot for too long. A hollow was appearing in the wall.
Their hours of sanding made little visible difference, but with each strip of lining paper that Zeke guided into place, another section of the motley-patterned wall disappeared. Verona was torn between satisfaction and dismay. The wildness of the room had made it theirs; now it was becoming the Barrows'. At the same time, she could see that this was the perfect job for Zeke, creating order out of chaos. Her own job, questioning people about minor crimes and novelties, often seemed more like a way of increasing whatever chaos there was around.
He climbed down the ladder and they stood side by side, surveying the room. Just before the silence grew awkward, she asked if they could make a fire and volunteered to see what there was for supper. Once again she searched the Barrows' supplies and found a bunch of carrots in the bottom of the fridgeâa little limp, but sautéed they would be fineâsome tinned spinach, and, best of all, a frozen lasagna from a good delicatessen. When Zeke came in, she saw him look askance at her foaming glass but a stubborn part of her refused to tell him that it was nonalcoholic beer. Who are you to pass judgment, she thought. And then, suddenly, disaster. The carrots, ignored, were burning.
“Christ.” She seized the frying pan and brought it down against the stove. All her angerâat herself, at Henry, at the menâwas focused on this convenient juxtaposition of metal on metal. She banged and banged.
When she stopped, she was alone in the kitchen. For one appalled
moment she thought she might be alone in the house. Very carefully she set down the frying pan, tiptoed into the living room and there, thank God, he was, kneeling before the fire, holding a pair of tongs toward the still hesitant flames. She apologized. The last of the firelighter flared and died. She apologized some more. “What makes you angry?” she asked. He moved a knob of coal, and another. If only she could stroke his hair, or caress the vertebrae at the top of his spine, two of which were revealed as he bent forward. At last she walked away, trying to demonstrate, with each softly taken step, what a good pacifist she would be.
moment she thought she might be alone in the house. Very carefully she set down the frying pan, tiptoed into the living room and there, thank God, he was, kneeling before the fire, holding a pair of tongs toward the still hesitant flames. She apologized. The last of the firelighter flared and died. She apologized some more. “What makes you angry?” she asked. He moved a knob of coal, and another. If only she could stroke his hair, or caress the vertebrae at the top of his spine, two of which were revealed as he bent forward. At last she walked away, trying to demonstrate, with each softly taken step, what a good pacifist she would be.
In the kitchen, she transferred the remaining carrots to a new pan and hid the burned one in the dishwasher, a welcome-home present for the Barrows. She stirred the spinach and found plates and silverware. All the while various factions warred within her. One voice urged her to go back and beg forgiveness. Another suggested she return not to beg but to reason, to lay out the syllogisms that made his staying inevitable. A third wanted to grab the saucepan out of the dishwasher and keep banging until the stove lay in fragments at her feet. A fourth, barely audible, counseled patience.
She was peering at the lasagna, the hot air of the oven gusting against her cheeks, when she heard footsteps in the hall. The steps grew louder. He was in the room, just behind her. Was he here to announce his departure? She remained motionless. Then came the delightful sounds of chair legs scraping on linoleum, followed by others, even more pleasing, of a human body settling onto a chair. She asked some stupid question about why so many lightbulbs were missingâdid she actually use the phrase Stygian gloom?âand he explained the extraordinary fatality rate of the last few days.
Â
Â
They ate, they talked, he followed her upstairs. They did things together which both of them had done with others, perhaps with many others, and for a while Verona thought of nothing else.
Only after Zeke left, slipping from the bed and dressing in the dark, did she recall the phone call of a few hours earlier. Perhaps it had been not the phone but a fax. She had discovered the machine yesterday evening and, relieved at not having to explain herself in conversation, sent Toby a note. Now she got up, pulled on her coatâher hasty packing had failed to include a dressing gownâand made her way to the study. She flicked the light switch and was rewarded with a brief flash. Four steps carried her to the little red glow of the machine; a sheet of paper glimmered in the in-tray. The chances of its being for her were minuscule. Still she stood there, hands pressed into the pockets of her coat, refusing to pick it up. Why should Henry intrude even now? She went back to the spare room, flung her coat on a chair, climbed between the sheets, and, picturing that moment when Zeke had helped her out of the coveralls and run his hands over every inch of her belly, fell asleep.
Only after Zeke left, slipping from the bed and dressing in the dark, did she recall the phone call of a few hours earlier. Perhaps it had been not the phone but a fax. She had discovered the machine yesterday evening and, relieved at not having to explain herself in conversation, sent Toby a note. Now she got up, pulled on her coatâher hasty packing had failed to include a dressing gownâand made her way to the study. She flicked the light switch and was rewarded with a brief flash. Four steps carried her to the little red glow of the machine; a sheet of paper glimmered in the in-tray. The chances of its being for her were minuscule. Still she stood there, hands pressed into the pockets of her coat, refusing to pick it up. Why should Henry intrude even now? She went back to the spare room, flung her coat on a chair, climbed between the sheets, and, picturing that moment when Zeke had helped her out of the coveralls and run his hands over every inch of her belly, fell asleep.
An hour later her eyes opened again. Something had woken her but what? She lay, listening intently to the city silence, trying not to think about Nigel and George. Just as she had decided that the culprit was a passing car or motorbike, a piercing wail erupted from the garden. She couldn't tell if the cats were fighting or mating.
“Knock it off,” cried a man's voice.
The only answer was a low, fierce moan eerily like the sound of human lovemaking. Verona climbed out of bed again and walked back across the landing. The red light still glowed. The sheet of paper still lay there. Worse, she supposed, if it hadn't. She picked it up and returned to the bedroom. Sitting up in bed, the duvet snug around her belly, she at last turned it over.
Dearest Verona,
I still don't know what's going on with H. I phoned his office today and the receptionist now says he's convalescing in Normandy for a week. But I did get a visit and this time it was like yours: no warning, the two of them at my kitchen table when I came home. Nothing terrible happened but I was terrified.
They asked where you were and I told them I didn't know. I think they believed me but they are convinced that you're the way to H. and that I'm the way to you.
I'm going to stay with my friends Doug and Simon. They have a burglar alarm, a dog, and a lodger who practices tai chi. If you've heard anything, let me know. Otherwise I'll phone the police tomorrow.
Other books
Anywhere But Here by Mona Simpson
On Palestine by Noam Chomsky, Ilan Pappé, Frank Barat
Raven Saint by MaryLu Tyndall
El pozo de la muerte by Lincoln Child Douglas Preston
El asedio by Arturo Pérez-Reverte
Unwrapped by Evelyn Adams
Dead Man's Gift 02 - Last Night by Simon Kernick
004 Smile and Say Murder by Carolyn Keene
City of Lies by Lian Tanner
The Christmas Joy Ride by Melody Carlson
