Zillah held the receiver at a distance until the cackling ceased. “I don’t suppose you’ll feel like bringing the children back?”
“You ought to be ashamed to ask. I’m worn out with nursing your father. And I don’t know what to do about Jordan’s crying. It’s not natural a child of three crying at the least little thing. You’ll have to fetch them yourself. Tomorrow. What do you have a car for? I’ll tell you something, Sarah, I didn’t know my luck all that time we barely had any contact. Since you went to London, I haven’t had a moment’s peace.”
In Glebe Terrace, in Leonardo’s tiny but extremely smart Gothic house, he and Jims were reclining on the huge bed that filled Leonardo’s bedroom but for a few inches between it and the walls, listening to The Westminster Hour on the radio. They had eaten their dinner (gravlax, quails with quails’ eggs, biscotti, a bottle of pinot grigio) in that bed and made some inventive love afterward. Now they were relaxing in their favorite way, Leonardo having comforted Jims by telling him not to worry about the Telegraph. There was nothing offensive about him in it, rather the reverse. It was Zillah who got all the stick.
A couple who had been spending the evening in a similar way were Fiona and Jeff. Their lovemaking had also been inventive and satisfying, but their dinner had consisted of papaya, cold chicken, and ice cream with a bottle of Chilean chardonnay. Fiona was now asleep while Jeff sat up in bed rereading Natalie Reckman’s piece. After a while he got up and, treading softly, went downstairs to find the address book he kept in an inside pocket of his black leather jacket. Fiona, as she’d no hesitation in telling him, was far too honorable ever to look in jacket pockets.
There it was: Reckman, Natalie, 128 Lynette Road, Islington, N1. She might have moved, but it was worth a try. Why not give her a ring for old times’ sake?
Chapter 13
NEARLY A MONTH went by before Minty got to see Josephine’s wedding photographs and then she was expected to pay if she wanted a set of her own. She hadn’t the money to waste on things like that, but she carefully scrutinized the photos for a hint of Jock’s presence before handing them back. Auntie had had a book with amazing spirit photos in it, taken at seances. Sometimes the spirits looked solid like Jock and sometimes transparent, so that you could see the furniture through them. But there was nothing of either sort in Josephine’s pictures, only a lot of drunk people grinning and shrieking and hugging each other.
For a week, while Ken and Josephine were on a deferred honeymoon in Ibiza, Minty had been in charge of Immacue on her own. She didn’t like it but she had no choice. Once, when she was in the back ironing and she heard a man’s voice, or rather, a man’s cough from the shop, she thought Jock had come back again, but it was Laf, his kind face looking doleful and apologetic.
He was in uniform, an imposing figure, all six foot two of him and, it seemed to Minty, exaggerating, nearly six foot two round his middle. “Hallo, Minty, love. How are you?”
Minty said she wasn’t so bad, thanks. Josephine would be back the next day.
“It’s not Josephine I want. It’s you. To be honest with you, it’s no good me popping in next door with Sonovia the way she is. She’s got a nasty tongue when she likes, as you know. But I thought-well, me and Sonny are going to see The Cider House Rules tonight and I thought-well, you might like to come along. No, don’t say anything for a minute. I thought, maybe you’d meet us there and sort of come up to us and say hello or whatever and Sonn would-well, she wouldn’t make a song and dance of it in a public place, would she?”
Minty shook her head. “She’d ignore me.”
“No, she wouldn’t, love. Believe me, I know her. It’d be a way of putting things right between you. I mean, it’s not right the way things are, never being able to pop next door, me not allowed to pass on the papers, and all that. I reckon if you did that, she’d apologize and then maybe you would, and everything’d be grand again.”
“I’ve nothing to apologize for. She ought to be glad I had her outfit cleaned. I’ve still got it, did you know that? And I’ve had it cleaned again since I wore it. If she wants it back she can fetch it.”
Laf tried more persuasion about the cinema visit but Minty only said, No, thanks. She’d been going to the pictures on her own lately, it was quieter and there was no one whispering at her. Because she had no quarrel with Laf she didn’t say anything about the popcorn. He went off, shaking his head and saying she hadn’t heard the last from him, he’d mend the rift if it was the last thing he did.
Anyway, she didn’t want to see that film. She didn’t care for the sound of it. Jock had once bought her a half-pint of cider and she’d had to leave it, it tasted so sour. Jock. She’d seen him several times since the wedding, so she knew sticking a blunt knife in him hadn’t got rid of him. Again he came into the cemetery when she was putting tulips on Auntie’s grave, called her Polo, and said he preferred narcissi because they had a lovely scent. All the rest of that day, though she couldn’t see him, he kept whispering “Polo, Polo” at her. The next sighting was in her own house. Once more he was in that armchair. He got up when she came in and, lifting his shirt, showed her the bruise the dinner knife had made in his side, a purplish blue blotch. Minty went out of the room and shut the door on him, though she knew closed doors couldn’t keep him in just as they couldn’t keep him out. But when she went back again, he was gone. She’d been trembling so much she’d been walking through the rooms touching one color wood after another, but there weren’t enough different colors to do any good.
Bruising him wasn’t much use. The knife she had used had been too small as well as too blunt. She needed one of Auntie’s long carving knives. As a police sergeant, Lafcadio Wilson had had to be an observant man and when he came into Immacue to reason with Minty he’d noticed something like a bar or wooden baton lying horizontally across her waist. But it was mostly concealed by the loose garment she wore, and it was only when she was backing away from him and turning her body round to face the other way that he saw the end of it push out the hem of her sweatshirt. He thought no more about it. Minty was eccentric, everyone knew that. He never suspected the truth, that what he detected was a fourteen-inch-long butcher’s knife with a sharp point and a bone handle.
Minty had sharpened it on Auntie’s old-fashioned oilstone and she was surprised at the edge she’d achieved. She laid it against the skin on her forearm. One touch and the blood leapt from her arm in a string of beads. She wrapped the knife in one of Auntie’s linen table napkins, securing it in place with elastic bands, then with more bands attached it to the bum bag. Provided she wore really loose tops, it wouldn’t show.
Often now she heard his voice, but it never said more than “Polo, Polo.” Not so Auntie’s, which had joined his. All the time she’d been praying to Auntie at the grave she never got an answer and she didn’t now. It seemed to her that Auntie spoke when days elapsed since she’d been to the cemetery, as if she protested at neglect. The first time she heard the voice she was frightened, it was so clear, so plainly Auntie’s. But in life she’d never been afraid of her and gradually she became used to this new invisible visitor from beyond the grave; she’d even have liked to see her, as she saw Jock. Auntie never appeared. She only talked. The way she had when she was alive, about her sisters, Edna and Kathleen, about her friend Agnes who’d brought the baby Minty to be looked after for an hour and had never come back, about the puréed prunes and the duke of Windsor and about Sonovia not being the only person on earth with a son a doctor and a daughter a lawyer.