Blind Date (26 page)

“Take him with you, then. Spice up the day. Tell the American all houses in Budley come equipped with a Matthew. Condition of sale.” Steven was not so much impatient with his son, she decided, as simply flummoxed, like she was herself. The boy seemed to have given up any attempt to seek approval from either of them. As if he knew there was something about himself which neither of them could forgive, such as still being alive when his mother was dead.

“The American wants to see this house,” Steven said, “For ‘points of comparison' he says. I've told him a dozen times it isn't for sale.”

He was noticing, not for the first time, the slight shabbiness of the room. There was a carpet, well past best, faded curtains, the upholstery good, but worn. It was a splendid advertisement for a policy of buying only the best in order that the life of it could be prolonged into a tired elegance by care and patching, but all the same the years had taken a toll. Nothing lasted forever. There was a stain on the ceiling which had the patina of age and expense.

“Let him
look, if he wants,” Diana murmured with a trace of bitterness. “Let him look and dream of what he would make of this place with money.”

“He would make a mess with his money.”

“Yes, but I wouldn't. Tell him the entry fee runs to thousands. When does he want to come?”

“Whenever suits. I'll tell him. He wants a house with ghosts.”

She looked through the window towards the sight of Matthew tormenting the dog. They had a love-hate relationship, those two, with Matt constantly expecting the animal to behave like a human being.

“We certainly have ghosts. Ghosts, but no treasure.”

“Matt wants to spend the day inside that grubby shop. They said yesterday they'd be happy to feed him.”

Dianna shrugged. She was quietly and profoundly hurt.

“Fine by me.”

“I
t was your idea to do an inventory, as well as his to get round to the chandeliers. So you do it,” Audrey said. In general, Audrey did not approve of any disturbance to the status quo on the basis that mess was good for the soul. Pick things up, remove them from where they are and mice come out and bite you. They had only been in this site for twenty-five years. Nothing much in the annals of time. “What about those chenille curtains we kept forever?” he demanded. “Eaten to death?”

“They were
always dead, darling. Didn't suffer at all. Frightful things.”

“Yes, but we'd paid fifteen pounds for them—in 1978. Fifteen pounds, I ask you! A fortune!”

“So we wouldn't have made a profit even if we'd got the damn things cleaned.”

“And we paid too much for that chandelier …”

“Yes, because we bought it unseen and we thought it was complete. Oh, we were fools. Mind, she never actually said it was a heap of jumble, I just assumed, knowing her, it wouldn't be. Come on, darling, it can wait another ten years. It'll be like one of those bloody awful jigsaw puzzles, only with spiders at the bottom of the box.”

“Matthew won't mind. He likes spiders.”

T
here were actually three chandeliers about the premises. One, a miniature, hung crooked from the central light, two rings, one smaller than the other, attached by gilt chains to each other and the ceiling, each ring decorated with droplets of crystal and the whole effect somewhat marred by the two, oversized bulbs in the middle. Donald said it reminded him of an Australian bush hat, with corks round the brim, and it did not even give adequate light. The second was hidden under rubbish, and the third, the big one, sat in the box, on the armchair. It and its box were occasionally moved from the chair, but since this took the combined efforts of three people, it did not happen often. There was a hook in one of the ceiling beams which had been placed there expressly to hang it near the door, before enthusiasm faded and an old bird cage had taken pride of place.

Donald wandered to the front of the shop. Exiting from the estate agents was a large man, dressed in tartan, seersucker trousers, which in Donald's estimation, should not have been worn out of doors, accompanied by that dull egg, Steven Davey, who was, as usual, impeccably dressed.

“Give us
a hand, chaps,” Donald yelled. Steven hesitated. Donald's invitations to give a hand usually meant get dirty for nothing, buy you a drink later, which he never did, but this was Budley: when someone asked a favour, one did as one was bid on account of courtesy and never knowing when you would need the favour returned. The seersucker man trotted over the road after him, looking like a willing caddy.

“Only take a minute,” Donald said, smiling. Age made him perfectly shameless in his lies. It took twenty minutes of heaving and swearing to thread the nylon rope which Donald swore would keep a frigate moored in a storm, “A
what?”
the American asked, before confessing to engineering qualifications which enabled him to suggest a better way. Another hook—one of those would never be enough—a sort of cantilever motion and the thing crawled out of its box with ominous rattling and unmusical tinkling, leaving most of itself behind. “Stop there,” the American shouted. “Is this a frigging antique, or what? Jeeze.”

“No, it's half a greenhouse,” Donald muttered.

“I kinda like it,” the American said. The half-complete object was filthy, yellowed and greasy, like an object once hung in a room heated with the poisonous calor gas and paraffin stoves of another era.

“I'm so sorry,” Audrey said sweetly. “It's not for sale. Something else for your wife?”

“Yeah, give me anything which
is
for sale,” the man said, laughing and showing his white teeth, giving Steven a light punch in the ribs.

“I cannot imagine who on earth would want it,” Steven said, gesturing at the chandelier hanging about three feet from the floor, looking like a half-plucked peacock. At the same time, he was noting with disgust the state of his suit while satisfying himself that the client was dirtier by far, and trying hard to remember that he did already owe these two kind people an awful lot of favours, for keeping Matthew out of mischief, which was more than he was able to do himself.

“I
know,” Audrey sighed, fixing her bright gaze on the American. “And so should you, Steven, dear. Your mother-in-law thought the same about this monster, oh, thirteen, fourteen years ago. Why don't you ask her if she wants it back?”

R
umble rumble, crunch. That was the sound his feet made on the pebbles of the beach. They want to send me away, if they had
money
, they would send me away at once. I am not nice.

This time, Matt skimmed the stones so close to the bodies, the few who sat out so early, fully clothed as yet, waiting for the fugitive sun, that he positively frightened them. Aiming low, he skimmed the stones. One, two, three … The sun came out on the sea with a sudden intensity, then withdrew. There was a swell on the ocean without any froth in the greasy waves which munched at the gravel before spitting it out. He did not fancy swimming alone. He had enjoyed intimidating the people who seemed more upset by one, small, loose canon of a boy than they might have been by a gang.

He was ruminating with each stone, as far as his concentration allowed. Send me away—send me away—yes, yes and knowing he did not really want to go, not even if he had some choice in the destination. If there was no money, he might stay. Another stone shot into the water, missing the wave, shit. Another thought was dragging at him like the waves dragged the shingle. It took money to send people away: it even took money to keep them in prison, so his Aunt Lizzie told him, so unless there was treasure, somewhere, like his mother had said, he would not be going anywhere, because money was something they did not have. His father and Granny told him that all the time. Don't give that meat to the dog; food costs money, you know. Don't, don't, don't. They were not poor: they simply did not have money, or as much as they thought they should have. He was beginning to see the distinction. Which mattered to them, not him. Money sent people packing. There was no money and nothing worth money. Relieved by his own conclusions, Matthew scrunched up the beach, kicking the pebbles so hard he made his own feet hurt. He remembered to be exceedingly humble in asking Granny's permission to go to the shop, and was astounded to find it given without questions or fuss. Take Mrs. Compton these flowers, was all she said.

Maybe
Lizzie was right, and being nice was the best route to getting what you wanted; but once the permission was granted without a fight, the odd thing was that he wasn't so sure he wanted to go. He went slowly up the street, muttering replies to the more robust of the greetings. “Hallo, young man! How are
we
today?” as if there was more than one of him. Granny wasn't so bad really. Outside the sweet shop, there was a man with funny trousers and muck all over his shirt. See? Matthew wanted to shout. I'm not the only one.

“I'm not having anything to do with that fucking chandelier,” Audrey bellowed at him, without preamble. “It's all fucking yours.”

He smiled for the first time that morning.

N
oon, announced by the bells, waning into afternoon, and still the sun flirted with the tourists. Diana Kennedy read the post, and without expectation of reply, wrote to her daughter about the things which were on her mind. She had walked around her house, mourned for her own life. Write now, while she had the chance.

Maybe she
thinks of me.

“T
here is an American who might want to buy the house. I just thought I'd mention it, to see how you feel, although I expect the prospect would not alarm you at all. The house is in trust, as you know. Each generation of Kennedys can only leave it to the next generation, which they always have. So it was Emma's, and will be Matthew's. You didn't come into this equation, apparently, nor did I. All very complicated, but I gather there's no such thing as a legal arrangement which can't be broken and refixed, these days.

“You always wanted to know about your real father, but I can't tell you much. I met him in the days when I was a bit of a hippy and you always slept with the man whether you wanted to or not. Sort of seduction, (not quite rape) by peer pressure. Since I can't tell you any more, I'll tell you about your adoptive father instead.

“He bribed me with this house … the greatest love affair of my life, although there's been precious few from which to choose. Love at first sight, certainly. When he fell for me, (and you) he fell for objects of beauty and I for this house by the sea. He was socially and sexually inadequate: it took me a while to work that out: we were disgracefully ignorant in the Sixties, you know, despite all that so-called freedom. If your conception was the result of that, Emma's was the result of endurance in the face of revulsion, although I can hardly blame her and never did, quite the reverse. I knew it would be the end of everything if we did not have a child. She was the cement between two people who had no interest in one another at all. He gave me the house: I gave him the child. It was enough, for a long time.

“But he
wanted to be the provider and the master and I could see he wasn't. His jewellery business did badly, despite his knowledge, because he was such a hoarder (a miser, I would say) who loved to buy and hated to sell. My taking in paying guests humiliated him hugely. The house was all he had to offer, and there was I undermining it, stripping it, changing it, confining him to corners of it. Even with Emma to dote upon, she was growing up and away and he stayed out more and more, hence the ridiculous sailing. By the time he got pneumonia, he loathed me, and Emma was away somewhere. With Steven. If only Steven had chosen you.

“He couldn't bear me to touch him. Not that I wanted to, but I would have tended to him of course, if he'd let me. The house was full: I couldn't get help. Caroline Smythe was back, (even after I'd banished her terrible boy for stealing my rings) and she helped. Your father didn't seem to mind her: they had similar interests, talked together a lot: I really didn't know how serious his illness was until he died. I wouldn't let Smythe stay for the funeral, I resented her help, but of course I've never been able to refuse to have her back. Emma always said I was brutal to Smythe.

“It is
awful
to have someone die, knowing they hate you. I do not want that to happen to you and me, although I don't plan on dying for quite some time. As for what your father (and he was a good enough father, you must grant him that) did with any gems he managed to keep, God alone knows. If it weren't for the house falling down, I wouldn't have cared. I just wanted to explain to you that I'm subject to your opinion about what I should do. I don't own the house. I've kept it in trust for Emma and then for Matthew, who does not want anything from me. You don't own things just because you happen to love them. That isn't the way it works …”

S
he sighed
and flinched as she penned the word “love.” It was almost obscene: she wanted to cross it out, thrust the paper out of sight. Post it. Let words do their evil work. She had always been afraid of words.

E
lisabeth was shy of words. Words out of the mouth committed the soul. There were too many words flying around like missiles.

“He was seduced by words,” she said, hesitatingly. “It required very little else, I promise you. A touch, a gesture, a kiss.”

“Did you ever bring him here? Jenkins thinks you did.”

She frowned. It was Joe's reiteration of what he called slight acquaintance with Jenkins which had set in motion all these words. As if she needed a trigger. The words were waiting.

“No. He sent flowers here. That was as close as he got. I would come back here and sit in the cold and work out what to do next.”

They were sitting with their coffee at the very top of the bell tower. The bells rested on wooden beams, seven treble one tenor, God bless you Robert Cross. Tapped with a fist, the bells made a sad and hollow sound, echoes of a previous life. The ropes tied to the wall in what was now the living room, connected to the head of each bell, but if the ropes were hauled, in order to turn the bell into the position where it could let out its clarion call, the bell itself would move in creaking silence. The clappers to the bells had been removed; there was another church, somewhere, which had found some use for them. All of them rendered impotent, except the bell for the clock, which was never turned by a rope. That remained fixed, like the leader of a pack who could not quarrel with their captain because someone had taken their tongues. These bells had no words to speak. The beams on which they rested, covered with a deceptive layer of dust, looked solid enough. There was space for Joe to lie on the dusty floor and peer beneath, and read the inscription inside the bell which served the clock. She watched him, carefully. “God made me as an instrument,” it announced, “that I might serve his will.” Joe found himself angry on behalf of the bells and their humility. Also the humility of anyone else. They were so immobilized by touch, gesture, kiss, it rendered them stupid enough to let someone take their clappers off. That was what Jack had been like. Biddable.