'Willie Hart.'
'Willie as in...'
'Hart.'
The luminous dome of St Paul's floats by, and I'm reminded of a circus tent. The car swings fast along Cannon Street as though it's expressing the impatience in Warren's voice. 'She's asking you what it stands for.'
'More than I'm going to.'
I hear myself say this, but not aloud. I haven't phrased my answer when Bebe says 'No I'm not, I'm telling him. It's Wilhelmina.'
'If you knew, why did you ask?' That's far too defensive, and I add 'Forget it. The important thing is I didn't know.'
'Something must be interfering with your senses,' Warren says. 'Spending too long in front of the screen, maybe.'
'I mean I didn't till I met her.' I could add that I didn't then, but instead I demand 'When did you?'
'Before you got there,' Bebe says in some kind of triumph. 'We looked in your favourite place.'
'The Internet,' says Warren.
'You must be more at home there than I am. All I could come up with was Willie.'
I might have phrased that better. The illuminated Tower of London has appeared ahead, and I'm almost exhausted enough to imagine that Warren is driving me to prison, especially given the tone of his question. 'That's what you'll be telling Natalie, is it?'
'Yes, since it's the truth. Why, what will you be telling her?'
'We already have,' says Bebe.
'May I know what exactly?' I ask with several times the confidence I feel.
'Hey, Simon, what do you think?' Warren retorts. 'There's no way you can be as foolish as you're playing it.'
'Perhaps you could advise me when you told her at least.'
'As soon as we found out, of course,' Bebe says.
So Natalie knew when she emailed me at Limestones. Now I see the reply she was hoping for, and why her response to mine was so guarded. I ignore Bebe's surveillance in the mirror and gaze ahead as we cross the bridge to Southwark. In a minute the Shogun turns left with a screech of charred rubber to the Abbey School.
Children with electric lanterns on poles are ushering the last cars into parking places in the schoolyard. Two ranks of children with lanterns sing 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen' to welcome parents into the school. As the car slows I release my seat belt, although the captain hasn't turned off the sign. 'Excuse me if I run ahead to find them,' I say, and as soon as it stops I'm out of the car.
Snowflakes sparkle in the dark air like speckles in an old copy of a film. The swaying lights distort the shadows of their bearers and send them ranging about the yard. As I hurry between the waits the carol falls silent, leaving a corrupted echo in my head: 'God rest ye merry mental men'. It's an ancient joke and not even a good one. I'm nearly at the door when I see that the child nearest to it on the left is the headmistress. 'Miss Moss,' I say clumsily enough for someone to giggle nearby. 'We met. Simon Lester.'
She only peers at me, and I have the unbearable idea that the Hallorans will need to vouch for me. As I hear their doors slam I say 'I'm with Natalie Halloran, if you remember.'
Even this doesn't appear to placate her. Perhaps she disapproves of my flaunting the relationship in front of her innocents. A shiver takes me by the neck and measures my spine, and I use it as an excuse to lurch into the school. If she wants to stop me she'll have to speak, unless she grabs me. She does neither, and I dash after two sets of parents or at any rate two couples to the assembly hall.
The ranks of folding seats are almost full. A man has planted a small boy on his shoulders so that the toddler can see the stage, which is divided by a partition containing a door. The left half of the stage is bare, while the right has a backdrop of a night sky with a single enormous star. As I search for Natalie I seem to glimpse on the edge of my vision the toddler performing a handstand on the man's shoulders and then a somersault. I haven't time to look, to prove that I could have seen nothing of the kind. I've located Natalie on the third row, where she has reserved just two seats. 'There you are,' she says too neutrally for my liking.
As I sit next to her, daring anyone to challenge me for the position, children peep around the night sky. She raises a hand, and I'm afraid she means to push me away until she waves. More of Mark in a striped headdress and robe appears beside the sky as he waves back. He catches my eye and gives me a grin that looks like a promise of fun. Is he scratching his wrist? He disappears behind the scenes before I can be sure, and his grandparents arrive at the end of the row. I've just concluded that the best course is to give up my seat for Bebe when a father lifts his small daughter onto his lap, and the Hallorans take the seats beside me. 'We thought we'd been disowned there for a moment,' Bebe says.
'It's Mark's show,' Natalie whispers. 'Let's be nice.'
I fear this may imply she won't be afterwards. Any further dialogue is cut off by the arrival of Joseph and an emphatically pregnant Mary onstage, a sight that's greeted by muffled laughter. They pace around the starry section of the stage and keep returning to the door into the other half, which does duty as a series of accommodations represented by placards that other children hold in front of it. Eventually Joseph and Mary find a stable for the night but have to wait outside while children strew it with hay and populate it with cloth animals. These include an elephant and a brace of Teddy bears, favourites sacrificed to the production and eliciting more affectionate mirth from the audience. Four of the tallest children hide the stable with a sheet as Joseph ushers Mary in. A spotlight lends the star brilliance as a number of robed children guarding toy sheep sing 'While Shepherds Watch Their Flocks by Night', before the end of which the sheet has grown wobbly enough to suggest that it's concealing action more vigorous than seems appropriate. Is that another reason I'm uneasy? There are signs of mute conflict among the bearers, quelled only by gestures from a teacher in the wings. He keeps rubbing his scalp as if to complete its baldness, and I wish his agitation weren't visible. Perhaps it's why I'm nervous of seeing Mark.
Do the wielders of the sheet believe they're portraying Roman soldiers? They march off more or less in step, revealing that Mary has dispensed with her padding. She's supine in the hay and cradling a swaddled baby doll. Joseph stands beside her with a bemused expression that seems both psychologically accurate and dangerously comical. My smothered nervous giggle earns a sharp glance from Bebe, and I'm glad when the shepherds strike up 'Once in Royal David's City'. It soothes my nerves almost to the end of the first line.
It isn't just that the three Magi have entered in time with the carol, nor that the third of them is Mark. I have the notion that someone sang not 'city' but a similar and entirely unbecoming word. Even if they did, why should I blame Mark? I watch his lips but can't tell whether somebody sings 'pile' for 'child' and, if so, whether he does. Suppose all this is happening, is it any worse than childishness? The teacher in the wings is rubbing his magic cranium no harder than before. Perhaps my impressions are just symptoms of jet lag, but I'm almost relieved when the carol ends and the three robed boys knock at the stable door.
The one carrying a small chest is the first to deliver his tribute – gold pieces or more likely chocolate coins wrapped in foil. The second boy bows lower as he presents Mary with a blue perfume bottle representing frankincense. She shows it to the doll and hands it to Joseph as Mark steps forward. He's bearing a pottery jar in which Natalie stores pasta. So loudly that I'm not the only person to jump he says 'The third Magus brings you myrrh.'
Can't he bear the silence? He's the only member of the trio who spoke. The teacher leans out of the wings, massaging his scalp madly. I'm loath to glance at Natalie, never mind her parents, because Mark seemed to relish the last word so much that it resembled a bray. As its echo lingers and lengthens inside my head he takes a last step. Perhaps he only means to bow lowest of all, or does he trip over his robe or slip on the hay? In any event, the jar flies out of his hands.