Then she saw the Chinese carvings, the jade eggs on wooden tripods and the ivory figures on the fireplace. On the far wall was a painted scroll. Until then they seemed like the cheap plastic Chinoiserie she’d seen in other working-class houses. But these were delicate; they were small beautiful things, finely done. Even across the room they glittered.
‘Who do these belong to?’ She walked over and lifted the carving of a camel. It was ivory, heavy and cool, resting perfectly in her hand. It had a red saddle and tiny gold tassels. You had to hold a carving in your fingers to know its value, because a craftsman had held it. And now she could see the brushstrokes on the scroll, a column of anxious swallows in a pale landscape.
‘They belong to some people,’ said Murf.
‘There’s a few over here,’ Brodie brought her a carved red-lacquer box, and Lady Arrow was reminded of an idle child on a beach noticing an adult’s interest in shells, offering to sustain that interest — tempting the stranger’s desire and yet knowing nothing even of friendship — by searching for more and trailing along until they were both alone in a far-off cove. There was such casual cruelty in innocence.
‘It’s quite beautiful,’ said Lady Arrow, opening the lid. There was a mirror on the underside, and Brodie’s face reflected in it, framed by the lining of yellow silk. She wanted her, and again she was mocked by her reason for coming. The face slipped from the mirror. ‘Chinese.’
‘And this,’ said Brodie, finding a silver frog with filigree on its back. She handed it over. Lady Arrow felt the heat of the girl’s hand on the silver.
‘Very, very nice,’ said Lady Arrow. ‘Don’t you think so, Murf?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It don’t belong to me.’
‘This is my favourite,’ said Brodie. She held out a tarnished brass ashtray with a crude pagoda and a Thai dancing girl etched on it.
‘I like that one,’ said Murf. ‘When you give it a polish it comes up nice and shiny.’
Lady Arrow studied it. It was a cheap bazaar trinket, ugly and roughly done, the native’s revenge on tourists. You could cut your hand on it. She smiled at Brodie, agreeing, but she looked at the other objects and thought: She doesn’t know the difference; as long as she values this ashtray she will never know me.
Murf said, ‘I’m going upstairs to take Brodie’s gear off. I’ll be right down.’ He left the room walking in a self-conscious way in the tight slacks.
‘Anything I can get you —’ asked Brodie.
‘Call me Susannah,’ said Lady Arrow. ‘I’d love a cup of tea.’
‘Right.’ Brodie ran.
Lady Arrow could hear her shifting the kettle in the kitchen. She went to the door and listened: Brodie was still occupied. She climbed the stairs, distributing her weight, testing each step, taking care not to make them creak. She passed a bathroom, then saw the room in which Murf was changing — he was stamping out of the slacks — and another room, open and simply empty. She went up another flight, to the top of the house. It was darker here — the doors were shut. She tried one: locked. The second was open but held only a stock of newspapers and an old sofa. Then she was at the front of the house, in the large room with the low double bed — whose? — and the Indian cushions: almost a salon. The sour perfume she’d smelled earlier was strongest here — and she noticed the Burmese box on the mantelpiece, the silk robe, the view from the window. It was her first sight of the Thames: the power station, the old church, the Isle of Dogs, and at a great distance, St Paul’s. She wanted more. She went to a long cupboard and threw the door open, and gasped. Seconds later she was laughing very loudly.
‘Hey!’
Murf was on the stairs. She hurried into the hall, but he was fast, moving nimbly on all fours up the last flight. He bounded to the landing and ran to the door of the back room, then crouched in an attitude of truculence like a startled sentry, protecting the room as Hood had ordered.
‘I told you not to come up here! You’re not supposed to — this here room’s private.’
He had surprised Lady Arrow with his speed and noise, interrupted her laughter. But now she saw the absurd boy with the reddened ears, puffing and holding himself so importantly in front of the door — the wrong door! — and she laughed all the harder.
‘Sneak!’
13
She was delighted, she was justified, she knew why she had come: it was an inspired visit. And she had a claim on them. She would stake it emphatically. Now she could reach the girl, separate her from Murf; and though she felt like an intruder and vulnerable to humiliation (it had happened before: that hysterical procuress at Holloway had screamed from her cell, ‘Here she is again to look at the monkeys!’) — her voice alone sometimes made her an enemy — she knew Brodie was hers. And the others, whoever they were: all hers. The knowledge of strength, her certitude, was comedy. She had cracked a great joke.
Downstairs she was still laughing at the thought of it, and again she saw the brass ashtray, the piece of junk they’d singled out and preferred to the small Chinese treasures and she knew how they could make such a silly mistake. But what worthless thing were they protecting in that other room?
‘Your friend was upstairs,’ said Murf. ‘Nosing around.’
‘It probably don’t matter,’ said Brodie.
‘It’s private,’ said Murf. He spoke to Lady Arrow. ‘I told you it’s private, didn’t I?’
‘You’re being awfully boring, Murf,’ said Lady Arrow. ‘What is it you don’t want me to see?’
‘Nothing. It’s just private.’
Lady Arrow had become calmer, acquired the serene smugness of ownership, though for moments she fell silent, remembered, and laughed. The situation was under control. She sat down, jamming her hips into the chair, and she had the immovable solidity of a householder in her own drawing room, as if her bottom was cemented to a plinth.
Murf said, ‘You better go now.’
‘But I haven’t had my tea,’ she said and motioned for Brodie to bring it. She took the cup and smiled at Brodie over the rim. ‘You didn’t tell me you lived in such a fascinating house.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Brodie.
Lady Arrow drank her tea, smiling between sips.
‘When she finishes,’ said Murf, ‘she’s pushing off. I’m not taking the blame for this.’
‘Dry up, Murf, it don’t matter.’
‘Blame? For what?’ said Lady Arrow.
‘Sneaking around upstairs. Sticking your nose where it don’t belong.’
‘Did I see your precious room?’
‘You wanted to.’
‘What a lot of balls you talk, Murf,’ said Lady Arrow. ‘Brodie, isn’t there anything you can do with him?’
‘Brodie knows the rules,’ said Murf. ‘No visitors. She didn’t want to tell you, so I’m telling you straight.’
Wules, strite: she almost laughed. She said, ‘You came to my house, didn’t you? Did I make a fuss? I’m simply returning the visit, doing the civilized thing.’
Murf had no reply. He glared at Brodie and repeated, ‘She knows the rules.’
‘It’s not even five o’clock. You can’t chase me away so soon.’
‘Maybe when you finish your tea,’ said Brodie. ‘Murf’s right. We’ve got this stupid rule.’
‘That rule cannot possibly apply to me,’ said Lady Arrow. She raised her cup and drained it.
‘Right,’ said Murf, ‘that’s it. You’re finished — out you go.’ He stood up and advanced on her; he was more belligerent in his own clothes — faded jeans, a black jersey, an old waistcoat — than he had been in Brodie’s. He tottered near her, but even standing he was not much taller than Lady Arrow, who was seated.