‘This is a poem I love,’ said Mim Galbraith, flicking through her beloved first edition of The Colossus and Other Poems. ‘“Watercolour of Grantchester Meadows”. I remember Sylvia actually reading it in Grantchester. Ted was there … Peter Redgrove … and … Oh God, what was the name of the man I was sleeping with then? I can’t remember.’ She was unfazed by the lapse. ‘No, great loss, anyway.’
Allegra Cramond chuckled. The sun streamed into the sitting room, where we were having coffee. The stolen books had been restored. Mim would not have been interested to know that the volume in her hand was worth over thirty thousand pounds. She cherished it as a book, nothing else. Books, after all, as she said again, had been the continuity of her life.
Rosemary Findlay and Augustus Mintzen had both been arrested. Police investigations had revealed that Mim was not the only victim of their thefts. Rosemary had filched a good few other treasures from houses where she had been decluttering. She had chosen her targets carefully. Only people with dementia, unlikely to notice the loss of the odd book, or unlikely to be believed if they did draw attention to it.
According to Allegra, at first Augustus Mintzen had claimed to have nothing to do with the crime. He thought his wife just had a lot of luck at car boot sales. But, as the police enquiries proceeded, urged on by Neil Flood who was a genuine book-lover, it became clear that the two of them had been working together on the scheme. The shop in Petworth was unceremoniously closed, and Augustus Mintzen lost any credibility that he might have had in the world of antiquarian books. Both he and his wife received substantial prison sentences.
I was particularly annoyed by what they’d done. Rogue operators like Rosemary Findlay do nothing for the image of the noble decluttering profession.
That morning, as we drank coffee at Mim’s, Dodge was there, putting the final touches to her revitalized bookshelves. The evenness of the rows of books covering the walls made me proud of the job that Jools and I had done there.
‘This is a poem I love,’ said Mim Galbraith, lifting up the book again. ‘“Watercolour of Grantchester Meadows”. I remember Sylvia actually reading it in Grantchester. Ted was there …’
Sadly, she was never going to get better.
Dodge is still paranoid. I suppose it was always there, in his strange abrupt manner, in his inability to look anyone in the face. Not even me.
But the recent upheaval, and the fear of having any contact with the police, had made him even stranger. I wondered more than ever about the experience, presumably during his breakdown, that had set him off. I thought it very unlikely that I would ever find out what happened, though. Certainly not from Dodge himself.
One thing that has been settled is the future of his furniture-making business. He will be continuing without the help of Ben. I think it’ll be a relief to both of them. Their differences over the commercial nature of their work were never going to be reconciled, and Dodge is more relaxed operating as a loner.
For Ben the news is more positive. The TOCA Award won by Riq and Raq did have consequences. First, it led to his being taken on by an agent, and that agent has now got him a lot of work on major animation projects. My son now has a career path.
I still worry about him. He’s currently living with me still, so I can keep an eye on him. But he keeps mentioning new projects his agent’s ‘in discussion about’, and a lot of them would involve his going to the States. I try not to think about it, but I’m pretty sure it’s going to happen soon. Someone in his business has to go where the work is.
Ben has, incidentally, now shown me the Riq and Raq animation that got him the award. I know I’m his mother but I have to say – it is bloody marvellous! And I get a huge charge from the way Ben’s creativity channels Oliver’s.
He hasn’t mentioned the word ‘Pippa’ since the TOCA Award night. Am I a real cow to be pleased about that? Probably, yes.
The news on Jools is not so good. Well, medically she’s OK. She had her appointment at St Richard’s where it was found that, once the swelling had gone down, the unregulated Hungarian surgeon hadn’t made too much of a mess. A bit of tidying-up with some stitches. If that doesn’t heal properly, she might need a skin graft. I don’t know whose nose she’s got now, but it certainly isn’t mine.
Once she had had the appointment, however, Jools announced that she was going back to Herne Hill to ‘sort things out’. From the description she gave me of her circumstances, they’re going to take a lot of ‘sorting out’. Her fashion career prospects have crashed and God know how much debt she’s got.
Since she’s been back in London, nothing. Not a call, not a text, not a WhatsApp. Back like it was before. I worry about her, possibly more than I used to. That period of communication we shared has made me realize how much we could share.
And, as for the cherished image of mother and daughter, in their blue livery polo shirts, working together for SpaceWoman … well, forget it.
I had a phone call out of the blue, from Lita Cullingford.
‘Did Gerry actually get in touch with you?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘What did he want you to do?’
‘Clear your sewing stuff out of the garage. Just as I cleared his golf clubs and things.’
‘And give them to charity?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, he is a naughty boy,’ said Lita. But she said it with great fondness, as if his actions had represented some kind of love token.
I don’t know. They say you can never look inside another marriage, but there are some strange folks about.
I doubled my normal rate on the invoices I sent to the Cullingfords. And they paid them meekly. With separate ‘compliments’ slips. Both thanking me extravagantly for my services. People will never cease to amaze me.
Cedric Waites’s funeral, once the police had released his body, was a quiet crematorium affair. Hardly surprising, given how he had cut himself off from human society, that there were few people there. A couple of sober-suited men I didn’t recognize, maybe colleagues from the charity he’d worked for. Me, Roy obviously, and Vi Spelling. Tim Goodrich did not attend.
I assumed that Vi might have had some dealings with him over the sale of 14 Seacrest Avenue, but she didn’t say anything about it and so Tim’s name wasn’t mentioned.
The service was short and functional. A vicar who had known nothing of the deceased, murmured some all-purpose platitudes. No one suggested adjourning anywhere for a drink afterwards.
Roy Waites seemed genuinely saddened by the occasion. He felt that his lack of closeness to his father meant his life had been wasted. He told me that Michelle was on remand, awaiting her trial for the murder of Cedric Waites. And he had started divorce proceedings. He also made a point of informing me that he hadn’t visited his wife in prison and he had no intention of doing so, whatever kind of sentence she received. He seemed almost gleeful about the situation, the small triumph of a worm finally turning.
I wondered whether life held out something good for him. A pretty student or fellow academic who might restore his faith in womankind. I rather doubted it.
So, there I was, soldiering on. Life back to normal. Whatever that word means.
I had a phone call from Kenneth. ‘It’s Fleur,’ he said. ‘She’s had a fall. She’s in the private patients’ bit at St Richard’s.’
Of course. She would be.
I was angry. I felt sure she had staged the fall simply to draw attention to herself.
At the same time, I knew there’d come a time when my mother would have falls which weren’t staged simply to draw attention to herself.
Guilt reared its ugly head.
When she saw me approaching her bed, Fleur said, ‘Oh, I didn’t want to trouble you, Ellen darling. I know how busy you are with the cleaning. And I’m actually fine. Kenneth does his best to look after me, now you’ve stopped bothering.’
Grrr …