Mr. Chartwell (15 page)

At the sound of wheels crawling across gravel Clementine went to the window, looking down onto the drive at the front of the house. “Your car is here.”

“Righto,” said Churchill, getting up. “See you soon, Clemmie.”

With a kiss he lumbered down the stairs. Black Pat went too, storming ahead. Paws hammering the steps, he hit the bottom with a clatter of claws on the black-tiled floor of the narrow hall.

The scene was watched with melancholy eyes by Rufus the poodle. He curled round the dried pig’s ear in his bed and hid his face.

Clementine came downstairs as Churchill closed the car door, the car easing in an arc away from the house, then moving faster, its engine becoming faint as it set off on the hour’s drive to Westminster. Clementine looked at the poodle. “I know, Roofy,” she said to him. “I know exactly what you mean.”

11.20 a.m
.

T
he streaming activity was gone at the weekends, Westminster Palace now serene and ornamental with deserted corridors. Corkbowl was enjoying it, feeling like a Robinson Crusoe type among the unexplored shelves. The reason for his being there, a thick book of British road maps, had been located and discarded in favour of one about Morocco. The pictures were of an exotic fantasy world, bustling souks, stalls with baskets full of spices and piles of woven cloth, people pouring through the thin pathways between. Corkbowl would get to road maps immediately after just a quick look at this other book detailing the history of the Tower of London.

When Esther walked into the Reference Room, Corkbowl yanked round, not expecting to see anyone. His dark hair was more spirited at weekends, Corkbowl not bothering to subdue
it. He hadn’t shaved and it suited him. Shirtsleeves folded to the elbow, he walked from behind the table. Esther saw his trousers were tucked into his socks.

Corkbowl noticed at the same time. “Yep. I know what you’re thinking, how debonair.”

She smiled as he said, “And you’re probably also thinking that it’s a very adventurous look for a Saturday morning, very Courrèges.”

“I am now. Although Courrèges is more futuristic, isn’t he? You need to add a few metallic touches.”

“An aluminium jacket. Got you.” Deep lines appeared down his cheeks when he grinned, as he did at the idea of an aluminium jacket. “And that’s even safer on the roads when I ride my bike.” He came clean. “The socks are because I rode my bike, if I’m honest.”

“Thought so,” answered Esther. “I had a suspicion.”

He relaxed, hands in his pockets. “Do you often come to the library at the weekends?”

“Not usually, but I’ve not got a lot on.… There wasn’t much happening at home and I …” She felt a flush of embarrassment at this disclosure. “I didn’t finish my work the other day. It seemed a good chance to get it done. You know what the library can be like in the week.…” The implication was that the library was an indulgence of lawless distractions.

She said it lightly but Corkbowl registered an undertone. She knew he had heard it, a nude and unashamed truth rolling there. Esther scrambled to think of something funny to say to disguise her loneliness. The spotlight shone on an empty stage.

It was Corkbowl who saved her. “And we’ve got to go to Kent tomorrow. As your chaperone I thought I’d better take
advantage of my access to all the maps they have in here so that I don’t get us totally lost.”

A brilliant excuse. “Exactly,” Esther said. “If I’m going to meet Sir Winston Churchill, the least I should do is practise my typing.”

“Which is also why I’ve taken my car to be serviced. It’s an old car and I want to make sure it behaves.” Corkbowl bowed gallantly. “No flames under the bonnet this time, m’lady.” He checked his wristwatch. “I’ve got to cycle over and fetch it in half an hour, so I’m not here for long.”

“Oh, right,” Esther said. “Yes, awful,” she said, carefully airy, “work on a Saturday! I’m going to get out as soon as possible.”

“It could be more awful, though,” Corkbowl said, not finding it awful at all, “Dennis-John could be here too.” He scanned around the room, checking. “In fact, I’m sort of surprised he isn’t. I can’t imagine anywhere else would let him in.”

“I think his wife lets him into the house sporadically to terrorise their two children.”

“His wife?” A stunned Corkbowl. “He’s got children?”

“And a tortoise.” Esther added, “I suppose because Dennis-John can’t bite through the shell.”

“Dennis-John the family man?” Corkbowl considered it. “Quick, we’d better change the subject. If I think about this too hard my brain will need help getting in and out of the bath.”

She laughed and it made him wish they could stay here all day. But she was here now and it was not an opportunity to be missed. Corkbowl pointed to a thermos flask standing on a table. “Do you fancy joining me for a drink?” He tempted her with some flask facts. “The thermos comes with its own plastic mug and I washed it this morning.” A final temptation followed,
Corkbowl showing off the socks still over his trousers: “Esther, don’t pretend you can resist these legs.”

They sat at a table. Corkbowl twisted off the mug and filled it with tea for her. It was now that Corkbowl realised there was only one mug between them.

“Do you mind if I …” He lifted the thermos to his lips, prepared to drink directly from the neck.

Through a sip she urged him, one hand swiping in a gesture of consent.

“Actually, wait,” said Corkbowl. “We can’t let an occasion like this go by without a few library-inspired words.” He cleared his throat, as if addressing thousands. “To nearly quote Groucho Marx, outside of a thermos a book is a man’s best friend …” Corkbowl took a huge grinning swig, too much of a grin for drinking. He cleaned his chin with a quick cuff. “… And inside a thermos it’s too dark to read.” The flask lifted in an affectionate salute.

“I’ll drink to that.” Esther held her cup out to toast the flask.

Gentle wind drifted in through the open window and carried the scent of baked tarmac and the muddy kiss of the river. Latticed diamonds of glass lit yellow. A herring gull cried. A beautiful morning, a day for fish and chips on the beach.

Corkbowl said, “So I’ve been invited to Beth’s this Sunday. I think you’re going too?”

“Um-hm.” Esther spoke into her mug.

A different atmosphere made her pause, gamma rays rolling through the pale neutrality of the library. The yellow windows had changed.

“Great,” Corkbowl answered. “It should be fun.”

Heavy steps came up the centre of the room behind the partition. She waited. Then there he was. Black Pat crooked a cowboy elbow, propped against a bookcase.

Esther glanced at Corkbowl. Black Pat was easily visible, a few metres away and colossal. Corkbowl chatted, enjoying his flask. He turned his head reflexively to see what Esther was looking at, and turned back. Maybe he was talking about his car, Esther didn’t hear. She readied herself for Corkbowl’s reaction, ready for him to leap. He did the opposite, he put a hand behind his neck and scratched there; he put an ankle on a knee and then took it off.

Esther said cautiously to Corkbowl, her finger pointed at the bookcase, “Can’t you see—”

“He can’t,” Black Pat interrupted. “Here, I’ll show you.…”

Corkbowl was peering after Esther’s finger. Black Pat bopped about at the bookcases, making a spooky noise. Esther watched as absolutely nothing happened on Corkbowl’s face.

“See?” Black Pat said to Esther. “I’m all yours.”

“Sorry, what were you pointing at?” Corkbowl asked.

“Say anything,” instructed Black Pat. Esther was distracted as he said, “Say you saw a dragon fly.”

Esther obediently said, “I saw a dragon.” Corkbowl’s head inclined to the left, politely puzzled. “A dragonfly,” said Esther.

“Crikey,” Corkbowl said with gracious interest.

Esther made a decision. She said to Corkbowl suddenly, “This might be a mistake, but do you mind if I tell you something, as an experiment.…”

“Careful, Esther,” Black Pat said. “Lives are built on the foundations of three little words.”

A vicious trick. Esther remembered Michael saying these three little words.

“An experiment?” Corkbowl adjusted his spectacles, ready to be of assistance. “What did you want to tell me?”

“Three little words,” said Black Pat. “
Trial and error
. You have
to take possession of those that are yours.” He repeated, “And I’m all yours, Esther.”

“Esther?” Corkbowl said to her. “Are you okay?”

“Who is this Pinocchio?” Black Pat’s voice was jealous. “Why are you talking to such a weird Pinocchio?”

Corkbowl had an innocent expression when serious and concentrating, his face like the sweet face on the underside of a stingray. It gave her courage. “Actually,” she admitted, “I wouldn’t say I’m completely okay.”

“Esther”—Black Pat made a drawstring motion with his claws—“zip it.”

Corkbowl said softly, “Is there something I could perhaps help you with.…”

Perhaps he could. “Two years ago,” Esther was speaking fast, “I was married.…”

“You’re married?” Corkbowl hid his disappointment.

“Not anymore, no.”

“Tut-tut.” Black Pat bumped down onto four feet. He pawed his way forwards.

“I was married to a man called Michael.”

On his giant haunches he was next to her. A cold and nasty sensation, Black Pat’s nose touched her temple. “You can’t sell Michael’s dignity to this goose.”

Corkbowl’s arm created a minor emergency, knocking the flask. He bent to delve for a handkerchief in his pocket.

Esther hushed Black Pat. “I wouldn’t be betraying Michael.”

Black Pat’s mouth was in a fat grin. “Those are your words, not mine.
Betraying
is your word, Esther.”

Corkbowl doubled his handkerchief over and kept mopping. This action worked round his wristwatch and he saw the time.

Black Pat wore his grin, lavishly fat.
“Checkmate.”

The garage. Corkbowl had to go, already five minutes late for his car, apologising as his socked shins carried him in long strides. At the doorway he was compelled back.

“Before I leave … I wanted you to know that if there is anything I can do …” The sentence finished there. He banged the wall with the mallet of his fist, trumped. Then an idea.

Corkbowl’s emotional side was a weak speaker, but his general-knowledge side could occasionally translate.

“I’ve been reading about volcanic eruptions and it occurred to me that there are some, ah … There might be metaphorical correlations with other …” He realised he must appear magnificently obscure, and he was babbling. What was wrong with his stupid mouth? He took his sensibilities by the throat. “To survive a volcano eruption you analyse the lava flow. If it streams to the left or right, you’re out of danger. It’s if the lava appears still that you’re in real jeopardy.”

Esther was listening. Also listening was Black Pat. He had on an expression of such pioneering sarcasm it forced a double chin.

Corkbowl continued: “Because that means that it’s coming straight at you, and you should run for your life.”

“Right,” said Esther.

“Balls,”
said Black Pat.

Corkbowl moved his head in a bartering gesture. “Of course that’s assuming you’ve survived the initial magma missiles flung high into the air.”

“Let’s definitely assume that.” Maybe she understood? She thought so.

Corkbowl gave her a smile. “I appreciate it’s not your typical offer, but I wanted to mention it in case you ever need a volcanologist, I suppose.”

12.20 p.m
.

W
ith Corkbowl gone, Black Pat lolled about in the Reference Room, basking in Esther’s complaints. Alone with her he relaxed. She tried to ignore him as he padded her with one of his paws.

A new tactic to punish him was writing notes on a pad and acting highly engrossed. Black Pat clowned for attention. His claws caught the carpet weave, dragging him in inches. Esther didn’t look at him, except when she accidentally did. He tossed on his back and cycled his legs. Now flipped to his stomach, he put his doleful snout on the floor, sad to be ignored. “You really wanted to talk to that goose Corkbowl?”

“I might have done, yes.” Esther swizzled the pen in her mouth. “Possibly.” A coy attempt to justify it followed. “I don’t know, he seems so …” She said the last word too quietly.

“Digestible?” Black Pat volunteered.

“Likeable.”

She was thinking of Corkbowl and he watched her, sensing that a little seed of warmth had taken root and needed to be usurped. The ugliness of his mood surprised her.

“Your trust in Corkbowl cheapens you. And it cheapens Michael. Confiding in him is a mistake you will learn to regret.”

“Wait, I haven’t—”

Black Pat said, “But you considered it, Esther.”

Esther juggled for an explanation. She gave up. “It doesn’t matter, I’m glad I didn’t tell him.” She frowned, certain. “Yes, I’m glad.”

“So am I.” A yap of exertion carried Black Pat to his feet, now cheery again. He swung to Esther’s side. Beside his mastodon bulk her head was at an ideal height. A chin rest. He tested it out. The furry chin drove her into a hunch as it bore down. Both hands fought him away. Esther smoothed the halo of her staticky hair. She told Black Pat that he had changed everything for the worse.

“I haven’t changed anything. I may have provided some”—he made a seasoning motion with a paw, sprinkling it—“variety.”

“I’d rather you hadn’t.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “Variety is the spice of life.” No, he could do better. “Wait, variety is the
ice
of life.” Out came a satisfied smirk. “It’s
cool.
”

Esther scrubbed an eyelid. “You’re so frustrating.” She picked up her pen. “I’ve barely got the energy to do this.” The pen was thrown at him.

A snack. Black Pat’s mouth caught the pen and shattered the plastic. The ink flowed over his tongue and was a delicious sauce. He spoke again and his tongue was blue. “Variety,” he
said, this thing he was about to say delighting him, “is the
dice
of life. You win some, you lose some.” He sent a look over his shoulder. “You win some and you lose some. But, Esther, it’s a game you have to play.”