Incidents in the Rue Laugier (5 page)

In the course of one tormenting afternoon he had become resistant to anything that suggested confinement, and this extended to the bars on the back window and the sight of scaffolding on the building opposite. He thought uneasily of the sheet of plastic that had detached itself from that same building and had bowled along the road, waiting to trap him by the ankles. Even the memory, the image, caused alarm. It was as if he had to keep his life inconclusive, until such time as his real life should be ready to unfold. This real life, as it continued to beckon from an ever more distant future, had to do with the feeling of plenitude which he knew from his dreams and which he knew to be the essence of his authentic, his desired reality. Not to know that reality would be an impossibility, more, an outrage, an act of ungenerosity towards life itself. Yet here he was, stranded in an alien room, almost a prisoner, surveying
a rainy street through smeared windows, and apparently forbidden to journey abroad and to abandon this terrible place to its fate, which was surely extinction. He could shut it up, of course, go to Paris, forget it, and after a suitable interval put it on the market. The trouble was that no one would buy it, would pay to sit here surrounded by shelves full of Dornford Yates. He had a brief insight into the way in which Mr Sheed had spent his days. As he had no financial need to sell the books, always supposing that they were remotely saleable, he must have sat here and read them. That was the clue, of course, to Mr Sheed’s somnolent and wordless existence, his pale affections, his nostalgia for the simple life of his Sundays in Eastbourne, when he could evolve among like-minded adults who would do him no harm, adults so genuine and undemanding that they seemed like children. And in the background the voices of children … A shy man, nourished by romance, comforted by a fictional flourish, consoled by a neat ending. Harrison grinned suddenly, relaxed his tense shoulders, felt a flicker of affection himself; this, however, was soon dowsed by the dusty chirrup of the telephone, all the more startling since nobody knew he was here. A feeling of being harassed settled on him, although he had spent the interminable afternoon quite undisturbed.

‘Harrison,’ he said somberly.

‘Gillian here. I’ve got Mr Viner for you.’

‘Put him on.’

‘Mr Harrison? Viner. You’ve settled in, then?’

‘No, I just looked in.’

‘Just as well I caught you, then. Some rather tiresome news, I’m afraid. Your tenant has decided against taking the upstairs flat.’

There was a pause.

‘Any particular reason?’ Harrison said finally. He could
hardly keep his mind on what was being said to him. He glimpsed endless arguments with this fussy solicitor, as soon as he attempted to put his plans to work for him.

‘He seemed to think it was rather dilapidated. He rather expected you to do a bit of decorating.’

‘I rather expected him to do that.’

‘A first impression, you know … Not too favourable. Perhaps if you were to clean the windows …’

‘I’m afraid I have no time to do that,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m off to France at the end of this week.’

An enormous exhilaration swept through him as he said these words. He was not aware of having made up his mind. Clearly his mind was making itself up. His destiny was in control.

‘You’re not thinking of leaving it empty, I hope? Empty property is an open invitation to thieves, particularly in your area. The proximity to the station, you know.’

‘In that case I’ll put in a caretaker.’

‘Oh. Yes, that might be a good idea. But you won’t leave it empty for too long, will you? Will you want me to keep the spare keys? Until you take possession?’

‘No, I think I’ll collect them from you. I’m not sure of my plans.’

‘Very well. Gillian will keep them here for you to collect. Was there anything else? You’ll get in touch as soon as you return from France? How long do you think you’ll be away?’

‘I’m not sure.’

There was a sigh at the other end. ‘Do be careful, Mr Harrison. You have a considerable asset there. Don’t let it go to waste. The site alone—’

‘Thank you, Mr Viner. I’ll be in touch.’

He put down the telephone, thought for a moment, picked up the receiver and dialled a number in distant Worcestershire.
He imagined the call travelling through misty shires, wolds, woodlands, coppices, demesnes, until it reached the home of Tyler, which he saw as palatial, a fit setting for the splendid presence of Tyler himself, whose actual physical embodiment Harrison saw as somewhat threatening. This he put down to the effort of looking up at Tyler’s great height, and marvelling despite himself at Tyler’s austere good looks, in comparison with which his own pleasant appearance shrank to anonymity. Also, Tyler was rich, and careless with it; his father was some sort of industrial magnate, and at the same time a gentleman. The contrast with his own modest background could not have been more marked. And yet for some reason he had been favoured by this prestigious creature, who broke the hearts not only of girls but of women too; there had been rumours, of which he had not taken much notice, but of which he could not help but be aware. Occasionally, in Tyler’s company, Harrison felt like some sort of page, striding along manfully beside his liege lord. This feeling was not uncommon among Tyler’s acquaintances. And yet he liked the man, without trusting him. Flattery came into it, and emulation too. Fortunately they had never had the same girlfriend.

‘Tyler? Harrison here.’

‘Ah. Noddy.’

Harrison winced. That was what was wrong with Tyler; he took unfair advantage. There had been an ill-judged invitation to Eastbourne one weekend, in the course of which Tyler had become privy to various family myths and legends. Bibi, in particular, had been fascinated. Tyler, it could be said, had behaved well; at least the Harrison parents had been charmed, particularly Harrison’s father who was unused to so much interest being shown in the menswear business. Tyler, apparently, was desirous of knowing how the shop was run. With a little encouragement Mr Harrison would have jumped in the car
and taken Tyler into town to examine the premises. Grinding his teeth silently, Harrison had put a stop to that. In the kitchen, pink-cheeked, his mother was making a cake. ‘Lemon sponge,’ she confided to him. ‘Will he like that, do you think?’ Gracefully Tyler had thanked them for a very pleasant day. He had had the decency to make no further reference to it but to send good wishes to the Harrison parents. ‘I still remember that cake of your mother’s,’ he was apt to say. Sometimes, Harrison thought, he said it too often.

‘I just called to check whether it’s all right if I go to the flat this weekend.’

‘I thought you had inherited the mantle of commerce.’

‘I can still go to Paris, can’t I? If it’s still all right.’

‘Perfectly all right. The key is with the concierge. She has been told to expect me. You can stand in for me.’

‘You will be coming, then?’

‘Doubt it. I’ve been invited here and there. If I do turn up you’ll have to move upstairs, of course.’

‘Couldn’t we share? Surely the flat is big enough?’

‘Dear fellow, I shouldn’t be alone, should I?’

‘Oh. Oh, quite. Well, you’d give me warning, I suppose.’

‘Don’t worry about that. Well, enjoy yourself. What will you do there?’

‘I hadn’t thought. Go for walks, look at buildings, that kind of thing.’

‘If I don’t see you, leave the key with the concierge when you go. And do let me know how you get on. I’ll look in on you, one of these days.’

And he would, Harrison reckoned. He would make the journey and survey the premises, and even offer some kind of support. Tyler displayed odd moments of kindness which, in the sight of many, compensated for his ruthlessness. Harrison, who never considered himself in the same league, maintained
a worried friendship on that count alone. He had no desire to prevail upon Tyler, but appreciated his moments of favour with fervent loyalty. This never failed to surprise him; he was not, as far as he knew, given to hero-worship. At the same time, he knew that he and Tyler had very little in common; indeed, everything, except Cambridge, separated them. Tyler was not lazy, did not have consoling fantasies of flight. Tyler was very much of the moment, of the here and now. He was a master of situations.

When the receiver was once more replaced, Harrison felt a wave of exhilaration. He left the shop, now gloomier than ever in the sultry haze, locked the door behind him, and made for Victoria Street to collect the spare keys. At the top of Vauxhall Bridge Road, where Italian cafés shared space with shops selling kitchen equipment and bicycle spare parts, there was, he knew, an employment agency. The prospect of Paris at the end of the week made him bold.

‘A youngish man,’ he told the woman behind the desk. ‘Not too young. To live on the premises—I can supply a flat. All he has to do while I’m away is clean the place up. The flat
and
the shop. You’ll take up references, I suppose?’

‘I’ve got just the person for you,’ she said, surprisingly. ‘He said he’d look back this afternoon. I could send him round to you.’

‘What’s his name?’

She consulted a card. ‘Thomas Cook.’

It was an omen. He sped up to Victoria Street, and sped back again, to await the arrival of Thomas Cook. To give himself something to do, he typed a notice saying ‘Closed for Stocktaking’. He then sat tensely, waiting for the agent of his deliverance to appear.

At five o’clock, when he was almost ready to forget the whole business, when Thomas Cook, if he existed, seemed
quite possibly a further figment of his imagination, the door opened and a fragile-looking youth of about his own age entered, with an air of being immediately at home. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, and appeared to have no possessions: at least his hands hung idly by his sides. His expression was amiable, if slightly witless: he might have been the character in the fairytale who is sent out on a long and hazardous journey, to return only after some years to claim his reward. Harrison looked at him with some perplexity. Cook seemed singularly unfitted for work of any kind. However, he had turned up; that was something. And now impatience took over; he could not bear to prolong this process any longer.

‘Do you think you could take care of this place for a couple of months? Clear up, and so on? There’s a flat upstairs—did they mention that at the agency?’

‘Yes. That’s what decided me, really. I’ve only just arrived in London, you see.’

‘Where from?’

‘The Isle of Wight. My parents live there.’

He had parents, to whom he was willing to refer. That, surely, was a good sign.

‘I may have to engage someone permanently, of course.’

He felt that this was the kind of pompous remark he was expected to make.

‘That’s OK.’

‘I’ll be gone for a month or two,’ he said daringly. ‘You can move in straight away, if you like. Just tidy up as best you can. A lot of these books can go in the basement. You’ll need cardboard boxes from somewhere. Leave the shelves free—I’ll decide what to do with the books when I come back. Familiarise yourself with the layout. I’ll pay you in cash, if you like.’

‘I’d prefer a cheque,’ was the prim reply.

‘Really? Are you sure?’

‘I’m saving up for a car.’

‘Whichever you prefer. I’ll leave a float for supplies, soap, etc. Tea,’ he added.

Cook listened to Harrison’s by now febrile plans without due enthusiasm, but seemed unsurprised by them. At the same time his large eyes ranged round the shop. Fleetingly he gave an impression of competence.

‘This will be my number in Paris,’ said Harrison, writing it down. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to manage?’

‘Can’t see why not.’

‘Buy whatever you need,’ Harrison cried, edging his way out of the door. If he hurried he could just manage to buy his ticket for France at Victoria. He was aware of obeying his destiny. If Thomas Cook decided to burn the place down he would accept the fact calmly, and without blaming himself. On the other hand if, with the assistance of Thomas Cook, he managed to transform the shop into something relatively viable he might be prepared to address the problem of making it pay. He would be a shopkeeper, but first he would be liberated. The late afternoon air was humid, hazy. Inhaling it deeply he set his face towards Victoria, and France.

S
ITUATED IN A HOLLOW BETWEEN MEAUX AND MELUN
, the house presented an unassuming façade of rosy brick which belied its age. Originally built in the seventeenth century, La Gaillarderie had once formed three sides of a square, with a small private chapel raising its pointed roof in one corner. Most of this had been done away with in 1793 by insurgents from Meaux, who suspected the owners, quite rightly, of royalist sympathies. Now all that remained was the original
corps de logis:
both the wings and the chapel had left no trace, although architectural historians still occasionally came from Paris to study the foundations. What was left was a pleasant rather low-built single pavilion of two main storeys, an attic floor, and a pitched roof punctuated by mansard windows. It was not without distinction, though not essentially different from many other country houses of the same period. Only the quality and colour of the brick, and the clean-cut creamy
quoins and window surrounds, indicated a past of far greater splendour than that enjoyed by its present owners, Robert and Germaine de Bretteville. Robert had inherited the house from his father, who had in his turn purchased it from the previous owner, a lawyer who worked in Paris, spent his weekends in the country, and found the situation in the valley rather damp.