Mr Toppit (18 page)

She tried to bluff it out. “I think it’s all going well, don’t you?”

“Mmm.” I was looking at the salmon.

“Of course, Arthur and Martha’s friends are so interesting. So many different walks of life.”

I pointed at the salmon. “Do you need some help, Lila?”

There was a pause. “You know, Luke, older people find hot food, food with chili pepper, rather indigestible,” she said.

I nodded. “Oh.”

“Yes,” she said. “Martha is very fond of smoked salmon.” She tapped it with her fingers. “It’s ready-sliced,” she added. She dipped into her bag and produced two loaves of bread. “She likes this wholemeal. I often buy it for her. I thought I would do little squares of it with the salmon.” Some lemons came out. “With a squeeze of lemon and some black pepper. Something simple. As an alternative. People might like it, don’t you think?”

“There’s an awful lot of food, Lila. Everyone seems to be enjoying it.”

She gave her special laugh. “You’re such a good boy, Luke. You have such a good heart.”

In the hall, everyone was making a fuss of Rachel. Each time I saw her she was in a different part of the room, being embraced by somebody and talking intently at them, waving her arms. She was quite drunk. I had knocked back a couple of glasses of wine myself so I knew how she felt. When I caught up with her, she was with Graham. Terry was slumped on a chair next to them, holding a large glass of whisky. It was possible he was asleep.

Rachel and I had always liked Graham. Even though he was in his mid-thirties, he didn’t seem old. He had wild curly hair, and his clothes always seemed too small for him. Today he was wearing a rumpled corduroy suit and a shirt that was missing a number of buttons. Martha had told us he had a wife and several children, but we had never seen them.

“It’s not a good time,” he was saying to Rachel. “Publishing’s had it.”

“Oh, I know it would work,” she said, grabbing his hand.

“Small publishers are dropping like flies.”

Terry’s head lifted. “If you could just send Wally the script. Don’t get me wrong, I know he’s a busy boy.”

Graham looked down at him. “Sorry?”

“The budget’s coming from the Norwegian government. Some tax scheme for dentists. Amazing facilities up there. Money’s not the problem this time.”

Rachel ignored him. “Laurie and I were going through Daddy’s study the other night. There’s lots of stuff—lots of things he didn’t use in the books. You know what we could call it?”

“I have a feeling it might be up Wally’s street,” Terry said, taking a gulp of whisky.

“Hayseedlings,”
Rachel said excitedly. “Don’t you think that’s a great title?”

“The thing is, Rachel,” Graham grimaced, “the fifth book didn’t
do
that well, didn’t hit the forecasts. We should have built up some momentum after four but it’s such a tough market.”

Her eyes were shining. “I know it would work,” she repeated. “We have to do it for Daddy.” She was still holding Graham’s hand.

“The candyfloss stuff’s all right, of course,” Terry said. “The ocean liner film was fine, don’t get me wrong, but this script is something special.”

Graham turned away from Rachel’s intent gaze to Terry’s moony one. “Why don’t you just send it to him?” he said grumpily.

“I did! So much for old friends, never heard a word. Of course, he’s busy, these days, I know that.” Terry fumbled in his pocket, brought out a single cigarette and lit it shakily. “He’s probably still upset about what happened at the premiere. I did apologize, can’t do more than that—but, look, Val had just left me, I was in the middle of a bloody court case. Nightmare.”

Behind Terry, Lila was heading towards us with her smoked salmon. “Could I tempt you with one of these?” I could hear her saying. “They’re Martha’s favorite. We haven’t met, have we? So few of Arthur and Martha’s friends I don’t know.”

Graham turned his back. “Don’t let her come over here,” he said. “She’s already suggested she should take over writing the books.”

“Then do mine,” Rachel pleaded. “I’ll put it together.”

“Look, I may not even have a company in six months’ time.”

Lila was getting closer. “I’m Martha’s official German teacher,” she was saying. Her laugh carried across the room. “By appointment.”

“It’s not a lot to ask.” Terry was turning aggressive. “Just get him the bloody script.”

Rachel grabbed Graham’s arm. “Come to Arthur’s study. I’ll show you the stuff.”

“Now?” Graham said, in an odd voice.

“Yes,” Rachel said. She was still holding on to his arm.

“Graham!” Lila called, but by the time she’d got to us he and Rachel were already fleeing. Lila looked down at Terry. He seemed to have slipped further down the back of his chair. “My dear, you must eat.” She offered him the plate. “Such a moving speech. So hard to do. I know how grateful Martha was.”

“Any more of those Mexican doo-dahs?” Terry said. He pointed at Laurie, who was at the other end of the hall. “She made ’em.
Clever
lady. You know she was with Arthur when he died? He was still talking about the old days, apparently. Amazing.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Lila snapped. “His injuries did not lend themselves to a cozy chat.” Her hand flew up to her mouth in horror at what she had said. “I’m so sorry, Luke.”

She didn’t need to worry about me. It was Terry whose face crumpled as the tears trickled down it once more. “What a bugger. Everyone’s dying. And Wally won’t even read my fucking script.”

Within an hour, the party had thinned out, but not enough for Martha. “Baby, can’t you get everyone to go?” she said wearily. “Stop walking round with that tray of drinks. They’ll never leave.” Doreen was doing a bit of clearing up, picking up glasses and emptying ashtrays, but nobody was taking any notice. Laurie and Lila were circulating with their platters. They were like two ice-skaters gliding in concentric circles, managing never to bump into each other.

In the corner of the hall, an old man had been standing in the same place the whole time. I had noticed him come in, but had
never seen him talk to anyone. He caught my eye. I turned away but it was too late: he was heading towards me. I contemplated trying to escape, but he was on me too quickly. “Are you Arthur’s boy?” he said eagerly. “You look just like him. I expect everyone says that.”

My heart sank. “They don’t normally. They have today.”

He put his hand out. “I’m Derek Jones, but everyone calls me Bunny. I knew your dad when he wasn’t much older than you. I worked at the studios with him. I ran the projection room. We called your dad ‘Artie’ in those days.”

I giggled: it seemed so unlikely. “We did,” the man said. “Promise.” Then his tone changed. “I saw him the day he died.” He looked down at his feet. “On Dean Street, in Soho. He was on the other side of the road. I knew it was him, the way he carried himself.”

“What happened?” I said.

The man’s eyes were moist. “Nothing. I didn’t speak to him. I should have but I didn’t. It had been so long, thirty years maybe. I watched him walk down the street in the sun. It was such a hot day. Then he was killed. I read it in the newspaper.” He lowered his head. “I’m so sorry.”

Of all the strange things that had happened since Arthur died, this seemed to be one of the few that verged on reality. I thought about it for a moment and then I said, “I think his time had come. I didn’t think so at first, I couldn’t believe it, but now I do. I really do. If you had talked to him, I don’t think it would have made any difference.” I wasn’t just saying it to make him feel better: I believed it. Nonetheless it was hard to say. I had to force the words out.

“I can tell you one thing,” he blurted out. “Of all of those boys, he was the only one worth a hill of beans.” His face
had flushed. “Tringham?” He gestured towards Terry, who was still sitting down with his head slumped on his chest. “He was nothing. Just an idle boy without a brain in his head. And Wally? Clever, I grant you, but not a patch on Artie. Nothing here.” He banged his chest. “Nothing in his heart.” A bit of spittle was lurking at the corner of his mouth. “You guard those books of his with your life, young man. I read them to my grandchildren. They’re worth more than all of Mr. Wallace Carter’s films put together.” He was staring at me. “Is that a deal?”

“Okay,” I said. He stuck out his hand for me to shake, then made for the door.

Only the stragglers were left now, people talking in little pockets. I found Martha on a chair in the corner of the hall. Lila was standing over her, propped on her stick. “I have my night things,” she was saying. “I have told the school I will not be available tomorrow.”

Martha looked old and fragile. “No, you can’t stay,” she said. “It’s time for everyone to go. I want us to be on our own now. If you really want to help, Lila, you could get everyone to leave.” She glanced round the room. “Where’s Rachel?” she said. I shrugged. I knew, but I wasn’t going to say.

Laurie was passing with a tray of empty glasses. “Miss Clow,” Lila said loudly, “Mrs. Hayman would like the family to be on their own now. Do you need a taxi organized? I’m sure Luke would do that for you.”

Laurie smiled. “Thank you. I already have one ordered.”

“Good,” Lila said.

“Crack of dawn,” Laurie said.

Lila turned back. “Excuse me? You’re staying here tonight?”

“Today’s my last day. I’m flying home tomorrow.”

“Miss Clow,” Lila said, in a low voice she was attempting to control, “the Haymans have been to hell and back. I’m sure they’re grateful for your help, but do you not think they might be allowed to have just one night
en famille?”

“Well, I—”

“They have hotels at the airport. At Heathrow. Or are you flying from Gatwick? They have hotels there, too, I imagine. Luke could book one for you. Couldn’t you, Luke?”

Laurie said, “I’m taking the train to London in the morning—got to pick up my bag before I go to the airport.” She glanced at Martha.

“But you must go now,” Lila said.

Laurie was embarrassed. “Martha said I should stay.”

The room had become silent, or maybe it just seemed so. Lila looked at Martha. I looked at Lila. Laurie was looking all over the place. Martha looked at the floor.

“Oh, Lila …” she said, combining irritation, apology, and exhaustion in those two words.

I could see the muscles in Lila’s cheeks clenching and unclenching. Finally, as purposefully as anyone could while leaning on a stick, she walked to the center of the hall. She banged the stick three times on the wooden floor to get everyone’s attention. The dozen or so people left turned to her.

“Thank you all so much for coming,” she said, her voice echoing round the hall. “Martha and the children are most grateful for your support, but all those who have not been invited to stay the night are kindly asked to leave. Taxis can be arranged for those who need them. I will be standing by the front door in case anyone has not got a copy of my little
Hayseed
pamphlet. I have just a few left. Thank you.”

I was impressed. It was certainly an effective way to clear a room. A sense of urgency spread through the remaining
guests. Cigarettes were stubbed out, glasses plonked on tables, cheeks kissed. Everyone was bustling around, except Terry, still asleep in his chair. Lila moved away from the center of the room and, as she did so, something awful happened: her legs went up in the air and she crashed to the floor with a bang. The room shook: she was not a small woman. She gave a cry, then an awful guttural wail. There was a short silence, and the room sprang into action. I got to Lila first, and knelt on the floor next to her. Her dress had ridden up and I could see the tops of her stockings and some bloomer-like knickers. Her face was contorted, and she was letting out short, sobbing gasps.

Laurie was there straight after me. She leaned over us, but when Lila saw her she seemed to forget the pain. She raised herself slightly off the ground with one elbow and tried feebly to push Laurie away with the stick she was still holding. “Get her away!” she hissed. “She’s put a hex on me.” Then she began to whimper, through clenched teeth.

It seemed unfair to point the finger of blame at Laurie: Lila had slipped on a canapé that had fallen onto the floor, but it was not one of Laurie’s—I could see a little triangle of pink salmon stuck to the sole of her shoe. Everyone was huddling round us, and Lila’s face was almost purple. Her eyes were screwed up and she was letting out heaving sobs—but they didn’t look like sobs of pain to me: they looked like sobs of anger.

I had never dialed 999 before: it was rather exciting. Martha suggested it when everyone was arguing about whether Lila should be moved to a sofa or left on the floor. There was also some discussion about whether or not she should be given a cup of tea. It took a while for everyone to calm down and Laurie took command. I heard somebody say, “She’s a nurse. She works in a hospital.”

It was she who decided that Lila should not be moved, but that a cushion should be put under her head and that a blanket laid over her to keep her warm. She found some soluble aspirin, which was dropped into warm water. Martha held up Lila’s head and she took small sips until the glass was empty. She was trembling. “I’m fine,” she kept saying. “I’m fine.”

The ambulance arrived after about ten minutes. I don’t suppose there are many emergencies in the middle of the countryside. As the men were easing Lila onto a stretcher, Graham appeared. He looked stunned by the scene in the hall. “My God!” he said. “What’s all this?” I explained how Lila had slipped. “Is she going to be all right?” he asked.

“They think she’s broken her hip and she’ll—”

“Can you do something for me?” he cut in. “Can you find me an envelope?”

I went and got one from Martha’s desk. When I gave it to him, he turned away from me and put something into it. He licked the flap and stuck it down, then produced a pen and wrote “Rachel” on the front.

“I’ve got to go,” he said. “This minute. I said I’d be home hours ago. Mel’s pregnant again. It’s all been quite difficult.” He patted my shoulder. “You’ve got all that to come.” He slipped the envelope into my hand. “Can you give this to Rachel?”