Before and After (4 page)

“Do
you mean that couple that sold everything to start a bloody fish farm in Wales?” Archie said disdainfully.

“Was
it Wales? And are you sure about a fish farm? I thought it was something to do with a zoo in Jersey anyway, the point is she helped their marriage considerably, oh and they didn’t
sell
everything, they
lost
everything on the stock market –“

A
look of pity and horror crossed Archie Ambles face.

“
– and she is really very, very highly qualified in all sorts of things, an expert one could almost say, in all sorts of things. We were very lucky to get her, she has a waiting list, you know. And the weekly rate she charges is very –“

“Wait,”
Archie commanded, folding his arms across his chest to indicate that he was giving this matter his full attention, “Do you mean to say that we are giving her our bedroom, and we’re paying her as well? How much?”

Sylvia
named a sum that made her husband walk down the corridor and straight down the stairs to the drinks cabinet. There he poured himself a large whisky. It was the first time that he had done so at such an early hour in the middle of the week without being privy to some catastrophic news about the stock market or a disastrous cabinet reshuffle. He gloomily dredged his memory for domestic trivia, and remembered that Sylvia had indeed showed him several gushingly written, effusive articles about the benefits of a so called in-house life coach. He snorted with derision and knocked back his scotch in one gulp.

Meanwhile
in another part of the house Harry Amble was sitting on the side of his bed, looking with distaste at a badly made up brunette that graced the front cover of a popular magazine called Fit Totty. He was slowly rolling a joint, and normally this activity would be culminated in the usual adolescent masturbation sequence that he had practised to perfection. This time however it wasn’t so satisfactory. The brunette seemed too young, too tawdry, too charmless. He wondered about the possibility of such a magazine containing slightly older women – there must be one, surely?

At
the other end of a number 52 bus route Maria Kandinsky was threading beads onto a silken cord. On her night off she came to the same cold, ill-lit room every week to perform the same repetitive task. She was engaged in making rosaries that she would sell to a man called Mishka for a small yet not insignificant sum, to top up her nest egg that she kept, as all good peasants used to, under her mattress. She’d stop off at the church on the way home and make desultory conversation with the other women there.

Marmaduke
was chasing rabbits in his sleep proudly showing off in his dreams a killer instinct to the poodle next door.

Jack Blair had packed up and gone home to the certainty of a micro waved shepherd’s pie. He’d left the book of photographs in the garden shed. It seemed appropriate.

The hour spent getting ready to go to dinner can be fraught, if not managed properly. For a start, it’s imperative to know what’s happening around you. If you are trying to relax with two slices of cucumber over your eyes it really can’t be done if you don’t know where all your charges are. Being in control is the most relaxing tonic in the world. I try and make sure I know exactly what my inmates are up to before I start to dress.

I
stored the deeds that I’d found in the Ambles safe in the secret compartment in my trunk, and carefully got dressed. I had a magnificent black leather cat suit from the 1960’s. It had been Mrs Peel’s from a hit TV series in the early seventies called The Avengers, and I thought that this would make the right sort of statement for this evening. My hair was a bit of a problem but I resolved the issue by winding it up into a bun. I applied my lipstick with a steady hand and allowed myself a slow lascivious wink to my reflection. Really, I had never looked better. There was a tentative knock at my door, and I guessed that it was the most biddable of the Ambles: Arabella. I was right.

We
walked down the stairs arm in arm, and I was gratified to see that the rest of the family were gathered in the hallway. Archie had not changed out of his dark well cut work suit, but Sylvia had thrown on a hideous beige silk scarf and a frumpy pair of pearl earrings. Hal was staring up at me as if being blessed with a visitation from on high. I squeezed Bella’s arm, “Goodness, what an attractive family you have,” I said as we joined them.

Bella
gazed adoringly at her brother and nodded violently.

“I
do hope you’re all in fine fettle tonight, your voices, I mean?” I said, as I adjusted the zipper to my cat suit in a looking glass. I pulled the zipper up an inch, smiling at Hal who was breathing down my neck but pretending not to.

Archie
and Sylvia glanced at one another questioningly. It was a complicit look of a long married couple that needed no words, and that glance alone told me that this shared look between them had not occurred for some time. Usually between long standing couples a raised eyebrow can speak volumes, but the knack, for that is what it is, can be lost. I was relieved to see it as it makes my job easier and quicker. And to be candid with you, I didn’t have too much time to give to the Ambles. I had only just squeezed them in as it was.

“Are
we all ready?” I enquired, “Oh Bella, I think you will need a scarf darling, it’s quite cold outside,” I said, winding her multi coloured woollen scarf around and around her podgy neck.

I
glanced in the mirror to see if Sylvia was going to bridle even slightly at me looking after the welfare of her youngest child, but she meekly stood by without flinching. I wound the scarf to throttle- like firmness and marched the Ambles into the cold frosty air.

I
tucked my arm into Sylvia’s and chattered to her as the others followed behind us. We passed the lit windows of other affluent white- painted homes and were treated to slices of other lives. Sylvia made instinctively to turn left at the top of the road, ready to make a diagonal crossing towards the welcoming lights of the trattoria. It had hanging lamps and a striped awning with two bay trees in large terracotta pots outside. I didn’t blame her. It looked inviting and homely, but not tonight.

“Oh
no. We’re going this way,” I cried, pointing away from the restaurant and towards the main road. I pressed on, dragging Sylvia at a brisk pace with me. The others followed and I heard speculation about where we were going.

We
passed several eating places, Thai, Malaysian, Indian, Italian, Spanish and one lone French bistro bravely flapping a tricolour in the night air. Sylvia was starting to pant trying to keep up with me. I set a fair pace and didn’t allow them to dawdle. Only Hal, who was obviously fit due to the unhealthy obsession that all English school boys have with outside pursuits, was enjoying the night walk.

“I
say, Miss Tate, Flora, is it much further? Because if it is, I think a taxi might be –“ Archie Amble called out. I turned the tone of his voice over in my mind, it wasn’t cross or exasperated, merely questioning. It did have the tang of the skipper about it though. A let’s-consult-the-men-even-though-I’m-in-charge quality.

I
pointed up a tiny side street that was littered with empty cardboard boxes and stray bits of vegetation flapping in the night air. One lamppost was shining a sickly light onto a brick wall covered in graffiti half way down it.

“There,
up there, not much longer,” I called encouragingly mustering the troops.

“What’s
up there?” Sylvia asked, affronted that such a street was even in her neighbourhood.

“Uncle
Kong’s finest Cantonese canteen,
and
the original Chinese Elvis! Aren’t we lucky? He only plays here once a month,” I said proudly, ushering them up the dark and gloomy path. “I do hope you all know how to use chopsticks and can sing Heartbreak Hotel?”

I
heard a stifled giggle from Bella and a cough of disbelief from Archie, but they all followed me like lambs, bless them.

Rule
Number Four

‘
Eating
is
a
sacred
ritual
.
Never
mix
food
with
entertainment
.
It
is
too
wearisome
for
the
soul
.
Musicians
at
a
meal
only
produce
indigestion
and
discomfort
.
’

Dinner was an unqualified success. Well, it was for me. I adore cheap Chinese food,
so
many additives,
so
much lovely MSG. Delicious. But then anything is when you don’t have it very often, isn’t it? I made sure that Bella had more than her fair share of anything deep fried, and I kept Sylvia and Archie’s glasses topped up with an indifferent white. Archie squirmed a little when he first sipped his wine, but after the third of fourth glass he soon stopped making a grimace. I say glass, but that’s just a figure of speech, the drinking vessels in question were plastic cups, but that’s just by the by to keep you in the picture. Elvis was, as usual,
divine
. A tall thin young man originally from Shanghai, he made a fortune touring the local Chinese restaurants plying his form of karaoke and performance. Not so very different really from the entertainers that were employed a hundred years ago in China when the heartbreakingly young daughter of the house was visited by the evil foot binder. Jugglers, fire eaters, kite flyers and musicians were all engaged to distract her from the pain and drown out the noise of her pitifully young screams. The big toe by the way, was bent and broken
upwards
towards the front of the ankle, and the other four toes cracked and scrunched
under
, towards the heel, then all was bound tighter than a drum. Then, every week, the dreaded foot binder would appear, to wind the bloody wrappings just that little bit tighter. Dreadful business.

Admittedly
Archie did refuse to stand and sing Hunk of Burning Love, no doubt thinking that his dignity as head of household would be compromised but Hal and I sportingly managed a creditable duet with In the Ghetto. The whole restaurant applauded us, and I have to say that as I was singing my heart out (there is no point in doing anything foolish like karaoke with anything
but
a whole heart. You must enter the arena of clowndom with grace and enthusiasm) his extreme beauty made me catch my breath once or twice.

His
were the looks of the privileged young. Sometimes youth on its own can be enough. Sometimes it can be devastating. Hal had the lot. Looks, charm, innate good manners, humour and the sweet smell of undiluted pheromones which was not lost on me, all tempered with the slightly awkward gangliness that comes to teenage males.

As
we sat down at the table, hot and sweaty, laughing at the applause and attention I let myself for a moment lean slightly against him. I could feel his trembling flanks through the thin material of his clothes, as he pulled politely away from me.
What
good manners the middle class instil even into lustful boys. I managed to pull myself away, and was adamant about paying for the bill.

“I
say Miss T – Flora, no no really, I insist,” Archie said in alarm, pulling his wallet from his jacket inside pocket.

I
smiled sweetly at him. I was amused to see that the lining of his jacket was of a dark vibrant violet. How
very
eccentric. Not what I would have expected from Archie Amble at all. Perhaps his tailor had talked him into it?

“No
use, I’m afraid. They only take cash here, and if I’m right then I suspect that I’m the only person round this table with any of that on me.” I said, shelling out a few paltry notes on the tablecloth. The Amble family looked on agog, as if paying in cash was somehow irredeemably vulgar. Even Bella had a credit card that was paid off by Archie every month.

Have
you noticed that in England people would far rather talk to you about the state of their bowels than of their finances? The Ambles were no exception. I doubt that Sylvia ever knew the bank balance of her joint account with Archie. What? Me? Yes, of course I know, it’s part of my job.

The
walk home was enlivened by my insistence on singing Blue Suede Shoes, despite the air of deep embarrassment emanating from Archie, and dragging Sylvia and Bella along with me at a fast and furious pace. We reached home, the cold night air making little puffs of mist in front of us, and were soon in the comparative warmth of indoors.

That
was yesterday.

Today,
as I woke up and stretched (I always crack my vertebrae upon awakening with a satisfying crunch) the sensation of being in exactly the right place, at the right time flooded me with a delicious sensation. How many of us can experience that feeling? Not enough I suspect. Paris in the 60’s, St Petersburg during the revolution, New York in the decade of greed, and London? Well, I suppose cavorting with Pepys would have been the decade, or maybe dancing a deadly gavotte with Sir Percy, but then London, for those in the know, has always been a city of delight and wealth. For those not in the know, of course, life is a very different affair.

There
was a tentative scratching at my bedroom door and I crossed the room to unlock and open it. Maria was standing with a tray of breakfast for me. I thanked her and took the tray from her, noting as I did so the needle marks on the tips of her fingers. I guessed that many rosaries were threaded last night. She stared at me quite rudely, till I smiled my thanks at her and then she scuttled away. Just before she left the room she caught sight of the jar of marbles, and stood quite still for a moment, her hand on her heart.

“Pretty,
aren’t they?” I remarked pleasantly.

She
nodded fearfully and left the room.

Catholics
are such nervous creatures, aren’t they? I put it down to the rigours and guilt of the confession box from an early age.

As
I sipped my tea I dialled the number of a certain firm of painters and decorators who I always patronise. The silky voiced gentleman who answered my call, positively sprang to attention as he realised that he was talking to
moi
.

“So,
Miss Tate! Absolutely our favourite and most loyal customer. How extremely enjoyable to talk to you again,” he smoothly and quickly said, already watching the profit meter whiz round in his mind.

“What
look, what ambiance, what treats are in store this time?” he asked.

I
considered the Ambles.

I
took a deep breath. And waited.

Inspiration
usually comes quickly, but sometimes the little darling hides shyly behind false mistresses.

So
many possibilities flew across my mind. French grandeur, country chic, Moroccan market tat, huge chintzy florals, but no… Perhaps it was thinking about the Chinese foot binder yesterday – someone that I am not in the habit of thinking about often – or perhaps it was the annoying hook of Heart Break Hotel warbled by Elvis from Shanghai, but I suddenly knew what the Ambles needed.

“The
Orient,” I said firmly. “But I
mean
the orient, not some sort of sham Hong Kong nonsense. Silk walls of smoked jade and lacquered coral screens, priceless rugs, fringed dripping lampshades, pearls coiled on the corner of a teak polished cabinet, Chinese scarlet and ebony furniture, embroidery with gold thread, perhaps a rare singing bird in a bamboo cage, ornate dark carved wooden doors leading to other doors that we know not where they lead. Are you following me?”

“Most
sincerely Miss Tate,” came the gratifying reply.

There
was a pause, whilst I delicately awaited the next, always tricky, conversation.

“And,
um, your usual percentage?”

There.
It was out in the open.

“Oh,
I think so. Let’s say twelve and a half, shall we? And I expect a team here within the hour.”

I
lay back in bed with a sigh of a job well done. There’s nothing nicer, is there? Well of course there probably is, but I love the feeling of accomplishment. It could be over anything, the perfect ice on a cake (which by the way, I do so adore having
and
eating) or mastering a new language, opening a new bank account or finding the perfect shoes. It’s all the same. A job
well
done
. A massive outpouring of cash was just what the Ambles needed, and by god they were going to get it. This was no namby pamby outlay of a new floor, or a fake Victorian conservatory, this was the going the whole hog. Even Archie, used to dealing with large sums of money was going to have to sit up and take notice. Especially as, and this is the
best
bit, when
none
of it was absolutely necessary. I hugged myself with delight.

I
roused myself to go and inform Sylvia that she was to expect the decorators in an hour. I found her sitting in the breakfast room, drooping over a cold cup of coffee.

“My
dear,” I cried, with real concern, “I can’t tell you what caffeine does to the system first thing in the morning. Awful. Almost
unimaginable
. Have what I have and I promise you within a week you’ll be reaping the benefits.”

I
deftly swung into the kitchen, startling Maria at her task of kneading an unwieldy mass of dough. I waved away her offers of help and made myself at home in a stranger’s kitchen. I searched out a large thick glass, and broke an egg into it. I positively shook to death the bottle of Worcestershire sauce over the cradle of yolk and albumen, and wasn’t too stingy with the Tabasco either. I tripped back to the dining room and handed Sylvia Amble the prairie oyster.

“Knock
it back, don’t look at it for goodness sake,” I urged, wondering if I could indeed make her swallow something so noxious.

Sylvia
looked doubtfully at the concoction, and then looked back at me. She seemed to drink me in, rather than the contents of the glass. She sipped at my vitality, my flawless skin, my shining hair, a few strands of which were peeping from my black velvet beret, falling in tendrils around my face and neck. Would this really work? Would this drink transform her from her own drab little self to the glorious creature that stood before her? Of course not. But we are all thus deceived. Indeed if we weren’t, the beauty and diet business would have disappeared long ago.

To
my immense satisfaction she drank it. I shuddered internally for her. She had, quite literally, swallowed the bait.

She
had, by swallowing the medicine, accepted me. She was going to allow me to change her life. I wanted to whoop and pick my petticoats up and dance a polka, or at the very least twirl around the room, but I restrained the impulse.

I
merely remarked that the decorators would be here very soon, and that we’d better start talking colour palettes.

“Did
I hear the word decorators?” Bella asked as she shyly came into the room. “Daddy will freak out, he hates having things changed around.”

I
watched her build a raft of toast on her plate and smilingly pushed the butter towards her. Then the marmalade.

“Oh,
nothing too drastic,” I murmured, flinching at the certainty of the chaos that lay ahead.

Sylvia
seemed to rally a little at the sight of her podgy daughter. “Well darling, my room, I mean, Flora’s room does need a lick or two of paint, and the hallway could do with –“

“I
thought the whole house,” I said, quickly interrupting. “All apart from the kitchen.” I picked an orange from the fruit bowl and started to peel it. Citrus notes are
very
soothing in a tense situation as any amateur aromatherapist will tell you.

Sylvia
sagged a little, as if she had been dealt a body blow. Not a rabbit punch to the kidneys, but more of a quick poke in her solar plexus.

“The
whole house? Oh, I really don’t think that we –“

“Now,
I don’t want you to worry about the financial side of things, you won’t will you?” I said, laying my hand on her arm. “Promise me you won’t? And the builders that I always use are absolutely the best. We’re jolly lucky to get them.” I nibbled on a small piece of bitter orange pith. I decided to play my final card. “If it wasn’t due to a cancellation at the palace – well.” I dangled the implication over her head like a tantalisingly ripe bunch of muscatel grapes, warm from the greenhouse.

“Buckingham
Palace?” Sylvia whispered in delight, almost covering her mouth as if MI5 were in the room.