CHARLES DICKENS
Little Dorrit
AS SHE WAS running late for tea, Gemma phoned the boys and asked them to meet her at Erika Rosenthal’s house in Arundel Gardens, only a few minutes’ walk from their own.
Before leaving the hospital, she’d visited Personnel and asked them to make her a copy of Elaine Holland’s ID photo. Now, she tucked the small color likeness into her windscreen visor and glanced at it every so often as she drove towards Notting Hill. Whatever her imagination had conjured up from the various things she knew – or thought she knew – about Elaine, it had not been the haunting face that looked back at her.
There was an austerity in the magnolia-pale skin, the jawlength auburn bob, the eyes that looked dark in the photo but that Gemma suspected held the same red-gold highlights as the hair, the prominent cheekbones, the rather thin mouth set in an uncompromising line - that she had expected. But when Gemma visualized the addition of a bit of makeup, the relaxing of the firmly held mouth, she knew the results would be stunning. She began to have a little clearer picture of the woman who had held everyone at arm’s length but kept a secret wardrobe tucked away in her cupboard.
She was still mulling over the contradictions when she reached Arundel Gardens. Rather to her surprise, Erika, who had never been demonstrative, greeted her with a hug.
“Gemma, how lovely to see you. The boys are here already, and have made a start on the tea and sandwiches.”
“I’m sorry about having to cancel on such short notice last night,” said Gemma as Erika ushered her into the house.
“Not to worry. I’m afraid these days I find I’m just as happy to stay in by the fire with a book. And I will get to meet your young man eventually, I’m sure.”
Gemma thought it would amuse Kincaid, who had recently inched past forty, to be referred to as her “young man” – it made him sound like a callow suitor paying court – but she was a little concerned about Erika. Her friend seemed more frail than when Gemma had seen her last, and when she had hugged Gemma, her bones felt as delicate as a sparrow’s. But Erika’s back was as straight as ever, her snowy hair swept as neatly into its twist, her bright black eyes sparkling with their usual humor.
Gemma had first met Erika Rosenthal the previous year, when the older woman had reported a burglary. Shortly afterwards, when Gemma was researching a case, she’d run across Erika’s name on a scholarly monograph on the history of goddess worship and had consulted her professionally. They had become friends, and Gemma tried to visit her as often as her chaotic schedule allowed.
Now in her nineties, Erika was alert and independent, her mind sharp and engaged. Gemma often used her as a sounding board when she was stumped over a case and, more and more frequently with Hazel so far away, confided feelings she was unlikely to reveal to anyone else. Erika’s wisdom and sense of perspective gave Gemma a comfort she’d never experienced, and it devastated her to think that her friend might be beginning to fail.
Entering the sitting room, she found the boys huddled over Erika’s little piecrust table, attacking a huge plate of sandwiches.
“Don’t scold them for not waiting,” Erika entreated. “I told them to go ahead. Boys need feeding regularly.”
“Like tigers,” added Toby, looking pleased with himself. “Look, Mum, Erika’s made scones, too.” Another table held a plate of scones and the teapot.
“Oh, Erika, you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,” said Gemma, “especially when I meant to treat you.”
“Nonsense. It’s nice to have someone to bake for. I won’t do it for myself.”
Sitting down on the red-brocaded settee as Erika insisted on pouring her tea, Gemma looked round the room with her usual pleasure. Having grown up in a household ruled by the telly and by what her mother referred to as “practical” furnishings, she loved the rich and cluttered collection of books and paintings and the antique German furniture Erika had accumulated to replace the things lost by her family during the war. The room always held a large bouquet of flowers, and then, of course, there was the piano. Until Duncan’s unexpected gift of a piano of her own the previous Christmas, Erika’s baby grand had been the object of Gemma’s envy.
Now, she looked at it with a pang of regret for her missed lesson as she accepted a still-steaming cup of tea from Erika. “Did you get your cabinet organized?” she asked Kit when she’d placed a few sandwiches on her plate.
“Um, not entirely,” said Kit, with a glance at his brother. “Toby was helping,” he added, putting it tactfully.
“I can imagine. Sorry to leave you in the lurch.” She stopped herself from adding Something came up. It was a phrase used much too often in their household.
Kit’s shrug spoke volumes. As she looked at the two boys sitting side by side, she thought how it never failed to amaze her that they were not, in fact, related by blood. Both had straight blond hair and blue eyes, but while Kit looked like both his late mother and Duncan, Toby was surely a changeling. He resembled neither her nor her deadbeat ex-husband, Rob.
Watching them, she realized that Toby, usually an unadventurous eater, was wolfing down smoked salmon and cucumber sandwiches as if he ate them every day, while Kit was merely picking. She’d hoped that the morning’s expedition would have taken his mind off his worries over Monday’s hearing, but it had obviously not done the trick.
Seeming to sense that Kit was troubled, Erika made an effort to draw him out as they finished their tea, asking him about his interests and collections. “And what field do you want to study eventually?” she added. “Botany? Zoology?”
“Um…” Kit looked a bit taken aback by being put on the spot but said gamely, “My friend Nathan’s a botanist, and that’s really cool… but I like animals, too. I’d like to study animal behavior like Konrad Lorenz or Gerald Durrell. And… then there’s anthropology, and paleontology, and geology… I don’t know how I’ll choose.”
“You will have to narrow it down a bit for practical purposes,” Erika agreed, “but a diversity of interests is a good thing. It contributes to analytical thinking. And I believe that the problems the world faces today can only be solved by those who can synthesize ideas and think outside the traditions of their disciplines.”
Setting down her cup, Erika stood and went to one of the bookcases lining the wall. She ran a finger down the spines, then pulled out a book and handed it to Kit. “You might enjoy this. Stephen Jay Gould was a Harvard professor of geology and zoology, with a lifelong interest in paleontology. He was a brilliant and original thinker whose interests were as varied as yours.”
“Thanks.” Kit examined the book, his face alight with interest. “I’ll take good care of it.”
Toby, meanwhile, bored with books and biology, had slipped from his chair and begun to sidle round the room, his hands clasped carefully behind his back in the “don’t touch” position he’d been taught.
Suddenly, he paused, his body tensing like a retriever on point, and forgot himself so far as to reach out with a finger. “Mummy, look! There’re little men, and horses!”
“It’s a chess set, silly,” Kit told him. He joined his brother, the book clasped under his arm.
Gemma had noticed the set before, but as she didn’t play, she hadn’t paid it much attention. The intricately carved pieces sat on a small table against the far wall, with a chair drawn up on either side.
“It was my husband’s,” said Erika. “One of the few things he managed to smuggle out of Germany.”
“Don’t touch it, either of you,” warned Gemma, alarmed, visions of irreparable damage dancing in her head.
“No, it’s quite all right,” Erika assured her. “Do you play, Kit?”