In Pieces (12 page)

People hurried past plate glass windows in the West End warily eyeing their reflections lest a sudden explosion should send shards of lacerating glass out on to the street. Everyone remembered previous mainland bombing campaigns.

The cease-fire was so fragile. It took an optimist to believe it could last. The feeling that it couldn't go on indefinitely persisted. On the other hand, the taste of peace was so sweet, it would take a barbaric act to destroy it.

The bomb scare had one positive side. It meant that Si had a legitimate excuse for not rushing back to the office after his lunch with Mary. They had been seeing each other for three weeks now. Just over. That first night at the party had turned into breakfast the next morning at Smithfield market. Arriving in the rain and rushing in for steak and beer as a pallid dawn washed into the capital.

Breakfast had given way to coffee at Mary's—she lived nearby in Clerkenwell in a converted warehouse. They had spent the rest of the weekend together, and it had been Monday night before Si finally got home from the party. After that, they'd continued to see each other, perhaps slightly against the odds. Lunch in Soho had become a favourite Friday rendezvous. Normally, they opted for sushi, as today. Cheap, cheerful and relatively quick. But above all, stylish. And that was what mattered to Mary.

Born and brought up in Hampshire, Mary was an ambitious girl with enough talent and good looks to achieve most of what she set out to do. Last year she'd set her heart on buying a trendy converted warehouse; now Si was part of her ambition. He wasn't complaining.

‘I don't know about you, but I feel like a walk. Why don't I take you back to your office?'

‘On foot? It's miles.'

‘So what? It'll be great exercise. I was only going to sit on the tube. So walking would be much better. Come on.'

Mary looked dubious, but Si was already dragging her off down the street. ‘Hey, hold on… Wait for me. You don't need to drag me like a dog.' She skipped to keep up.

When they arrived forty minutes later in the City, Mary stopped and pointed to a tall building. ‘That's where I work. Fifteenth floor.' The black glass windows reflected the sickly sunlight—it looked more like a sculpture than a building. This time it was Mary who rushed on, excitedly pulling Si after her by the hand. ‘Come on, I want to show you inside. It's an amazing place.'

Si walked after her with an uncertain step. He'd never been one for the City and its financial hi-tech wizardry. Figures dazzled him and he could find no charm in a well-constructed graph. Not that he'd ever really tried. It just wasn't his scene. He allowed his prejudices to dominate when it came to broadening his understanding of such things. Si liked to think of himself as a man of words. A beautifully turned phrase could give him a thrill, and in his scheme of things letters were much more civilised than statistics. The problem was that when he left the newspaper world behind and found himself in the money mile, he was forced to acknowledge that his scheme was flawed. He felt out of his depth and insecure surrounded by a powerful reality he couldn't master.

‘Si, hurry up.' Mary waited at the entrance to the building. A rotating steel tube allowed people to enter. A constant stream of sharply tailored suits and expensive shoes rushed in and out of the tube. ‘I want to take you up and show you my office. The view's out of this world.'

‘Listen, Mary, I've got to get back. Sorry, but I still have to find a lead story for tomorrow's Diary.' He was lying and she probably realised it. After all he hadn't been in any hurry during their long walk east.

Mary hid her disappointment well and assumed a brisk business-like air. ‘Hey, no problems. I've got a deal to clinch, so it's probably the best thing anyway.'

Si felt stupid. ‘Right. I'm sorry, you know….'

‘Don't be sorry. There's nothing to be sorry about. I loved the walk. We should do it again sometime. Okay?' Mary leaned forward and kissed him full on the mouth.

Si managed a smile. ‘I'll call,' he muttered, turning away.

‘You'd better. I'm a busy woman and I don't like being messed around.' She was only half-teasing. ‘Call soon. Bye.' And joining the flow of hi-tech humanity, she disappeared into the silver tube.

~

‘Hello, Si Simpson speaking.'

‘Hi, Si.' Dougy's distinct drawl made Si sit up in his chair and grope for a pen and paper. He found a yellow sticky in his top left hand desk drawer. ‘Now listen, kid, I liked your piece about the Rabbi. You did good. Much better. Keep it up. You never know, there might be something in it for you, if you pull it off.'

After the initial shock of Sir Lesley's anger over the Diary story on the Rabbi, Dougy had recognised the need to redeem himself. Quickly.

First of all he used his extensive contacts to find out what had caused the outburst and learned of the dinner party and the Italian aristocrat's irritation. Then he decided to talk directly to the Rabbi herself and, after apologising profusely, he had offered in his sugariest tones to run a nice story to make up for any distress
The Courier
had inadvertently caused. After a frosty start, Dougy's charm had paid off. Si was tasked with producing the piece, and the reaction to the published story had been positive.

Dougy didn't dare draw the Rabbi's gratitude to Sir Lesley's attention, but simply suggested to his new ally that if she was really that pleased, perhaps she could mention it to her friend the Italian Contessa. That was probably the safest way to earn him Brownie points with his boss.

Sure enough, two days later, Sir Lesley had called Dougy to say how pleased he was with the last story about the Rabbi. ‘That's more like it, McCormack. Keep it up. You may have a future yet.'

Such tributes were hard earned. Dougy knew the pressure was off… For the moment at least. And, as he told himself, since he was a generous man, he'd decided to share the glory with Si. Hence the phone call to his subordinate.

Dougy put down the phone. He had said all he wanted to say and wasn't interested in Si's reaction. Keep the kid on his toes, carrot and stick approach. Slap him round the head if he screwed up, and give him praise when he did well. That was Dougy's management policy. He still had faith in Si. After all, it had been his initiative to bring him to
The Courier
during the upheaval. Yes, if Si did well and helped him achieve his objectives, Dougy would make sure he got his due reward. He needed allies in the political game he was playing. And wasn't politics all about helping out when one could?

Dougy leaned back in the comfortable chair and swivelled so he could see out the huge picture window. He surveyed the metropolis. A warm glow of self-righteousness engulfed him.

~

Elspeth Somerset was making herself a pot of tea. She was in good shape for her age: unbowed and with a slim figure of which women twenty years younger would have been proud. Her straight back led to a taught neck and soft cheeks, slightly tanned from so much gardening; above her smooth forehead, steely grey hair, highlighted naturally by occasional white strands, was pulled back in a pony tail held by an ivory clip.

Elspeth stared out at the barren garden. She hated the winter, so cold, so hostile. Inevitably, her thoughts turned to Bob, whose anniversary fell soon. She made a supreme effort to overcome the emotion welling up within her—even after four years, her grief seemed as fresh as the day she'd found that he'd died soundlessly beside her during the night. They'd never gone in for the convenience of separate beds, although her bossy daughter Beatrice had often suggested it might be—
how had she put it? Oh yes—more “appropriate” for a lady of her age to have her own bedroom. Elspeth smiled wryly at the memory.

Beatrice's idea of marriage was clearly so different from her own. How could that be? she wondered idly. How had her daughter grown up as such a prude when she and Bob had done everything to extol the natural and to stress the importance of love? Ah well, children… You could only do so much for them. Then they had to make their own choices, and Beatrice seemed happy enough in her own way, living in chintz heaven, striking airs and graces at coffee mornings with her nauseating friends. And as for Beatrice's poor husband… Well, he'd made his own bed, she reflected, as usual falling back on tried and tested sayings to deal with difficult thoughts.

Ah Bob, Elspeth sighed, staring at the frosted grass on the back lawn. Would the pain never dull? Lord, give me strength to get through this winter. Of course, it won't be long, she told herself, before the snowdrops break through. Then the crocuses, and before you knew it the daffodils would herald the arrival of spring. She loved the white daffodils in particular, so delicate with their bright haloes and strong sunny centres. Like little angels smiling at her, infusing her tired bones with energy and optimism.

For her age, Elspeth was sprightly. She lived alone and, despite the fact that she was now eighty-four, she had no intention of moving to a home. The thought of losing her independence frightened her more than anything, even more than death.

The sugar lived in a tin on the top shelf, to keep it away from the ants in summer. She stood on the stool and plucked it out carefully. She remembered buying this tin—it had been full of biscuits at the time. Must have been before the war, on one of those romantic weekends away. Never very far, of course, in those days one didn't travel much. But she and Bob used to enjoy a trip to the seaside. Normally, they'd stay over in a small hotel on the front. Ah, they had some fun times, very romantic. Bob knew how to melt her heart, and that wasn't all he was good at. Elspeth grinned naughtily. Fancy having thoughts like that at her age. Beatrice certainly wouldn't approve.

Brighton, thought Elspeth in a flash of inspiration, that's where they'd bought the biscuits. Or was it Weston-Super-Mare? Her memory wasn't what it was, she sighed, before clambering back up to replace the tin.

Elspeth put her tea on a small tray and carried it into the sitting room. Then she put on Mahler at volume six, loud enough to block out the traffic at the top of the lane. She was just sitting down to enjoy her elevenses, when the phone rang. ‘Hello, Ryburn 4760,' she answered.

‘Hi, Gran, how are you?'

‘Oh, Mary, how nice of you to ring.'

‘Well, I can't chat long, I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday.'

‘You are a clever girl to remember. I think your mother's forgotten.'

‘Oh, I wouldn't worry, she's probably out shopping in Harvey Nic's for your present as we speak.' They both laughed conspiratorially.

‘Will she never learn?' asked Elspeth. ‘Doesn't she realise I'd much prefer that new book on Puccini than any of her posh nick-nacks?'

Elspeth had two great pleasures which invigorated and delighted her: her granddaughter and serious classical music and opera. Elspeth was a Radio Three devotee and liked her music to be on the difficult side, not yielding its treasures without a fight. But her daughter loved Classic FM, particularly Simon Bates, whom she considered the epitome of sophistication. Elspeth disparaged this radio station as a mish mash of Mozart ditties and Strauss's greatest hits for middlebrow forty-somethings.

‘So, are you feeling okay?' Mary asked.

‘Of course I am. Tsk, girl, how often do I have to tell you that you're only as old as you feel?'

‘Yes, I know, Gran. But eighty-four is a grand old age.'

‘It's lucky for you that I can't get my hands on your scrawny neck. I'd give you a jolly good shaking.'

‘Oh Gran, you know I'm only joking.'

‘Of course I do, my angel. Now when are you going to visit your decrepit grandmother?'

‘Well, it's really busy at the moment, what with work and everything. But soon, I promise. Oh, and Gran, I've got a new boyfriend…'

‘Oh yes?' Elspeth had been Mary's confidante since her birth. It had really started when as a little girl Mary used to crawl into her bed in the mornings to complain about Beatrice. And Elspeth had always taken Mary's side, indulging and spoiling her.

‘I'll tell you all about him when I've got more time. Got to go now.'

‘Just tell me what he's called.'

‘Simon. Simon Simpson.' It sounded so formal thought Mary, blushing slightly.

‘That's a nice name. Well, I look forward to hearing all about him. And don't go getting into trouble or having your heart broken in the meantime.'

‘Oh Gran, you know I'm a big girl now.' Yes, but that hadn't stopped her falling for a series of jerks and burning her fingers on several occasions. Poor Elspeth had borne the brunt of those heartbreaks, mopped the tears and offered support.

‘Mmm, well, you be careful now. Promise?'

‘Okay, I promise. Now, I really must go, Gran. Love you lots.'

‘Goodbye darling, and thank you for ringing.'

‘Big kiss,' and Mary put the phone down.

Elspeth stood for a moment holding the receiver, lost in thought. Goodness, she wouldn't want to be a young girl in today's world. So tough, without conventions or rules to help you find your way. It was bad enough back in her day, but at least you were reasonably well protected. The world had been a more innocent place, and there had been lots of people around to advise and help you.

Elspeth shivered; even with the heating on high she felt the cold through her parchment skin. She gathered her crocheted shawl around her shoulders and turned back to the sitting room to drink her tea. It was probably chilled by now. But her spirits rose as she heard the symphony building satisfyingly towards a climax. Wonderful stuff. Nothing like it.

~

With education the hot topic at the moment, Arthur Richardson, the notorious writer, has come up with a challenging proposition. When I cornered him at a party last night he was wearing a pink-spotted bow tie and spun me a line about his latest craze. He suggests that the teachings of nineteenth century Parsee guru Zoroastra should be taught to all British schoolchildren. ‘The man was a great educationalist. We shouldn't be afraid of unknown religions,' declares Arthur. I fear Arthur may need to change his neckwear if he wants his theory to be taken seriously
.