‘There’s no time to lose,’ said Dee to the three workmen who stood in the entrance to the museum room. ‘I want this completed before Mr Faraday returns from his trip.’
The workmen, wearing blue overalls and expressionless faces, surveyed the room dispassionately.
Cuba, the designer, stood in the background sulking. He threw looks at the workmen which were as contemptuous in nature as his looks at his installation were loving. He ran his hands lovingly over every work surface and frowned at every harsh light source.
The leader of the workmen let loose a long sigh, ‘Excuse me for asking Madam,’ he said, ‘but what exactly is this supposed to be?’
‘We-ell…the designer went a little off-plan,’ said Dee, trying to be as tactful as she could. It didn’t make any difference: Cuba still narrowed his eyes at her resentfully.
‘So do you want us to dismantle it?’ said the foreman.
Dee sighed. ‘Why don’t you go and make yourself a coffee?’ she said to Cuba, who sighed melodramatically and left the room.
‘Turning back to the workmen, Dee said, ‘Just break it up and get rid of it. I have some sixteenth century screens I want fitted instead.’
‘If you say so,’ said the foreman as he opened his large toolbox and removed a brutal-looking lump hammer. He stepped intently toward the cabinets. ‘You’d better leave Madam,’ he said, ‘this could get messy.’
Dee closed the doors to the museum. She didn’t want Cuba to see the actual breaking-up of his masterpiece, no matter how hideous it had been.
She was just in time, as she turned round to see Cuba behind her, forlornly holding a cup of coffee.
‘It tastes bitter,’ he said.
I bet it does, Dee thought to herself. ‘Why don’t you carry on building the library?’ she said out loud to Cuba as brightly as possible. ‘The fittings and books have been bought from an antique shop on Grand Rue. Just stick to the plans this time and I’m sure we’ll all be fine.’
Cuba sighed again, and sipped morosely at his coffee, wincing slightly at the taste it left in his mouth
James sat in the back of the car with the main terminals of Heathrow airport already behind him. Whabi drove the car like a hovercraft, as smooth as butter James always thought. The Albanian driver left the airport link road and joined the M4 motorway into central London.
‘It’s good to see you again, sir,’ said Whabi.
James knew that if he didn’t say anything else then Whabi, the most discreet employee he had ever hired, would be quite content to say no more for the whole journey.
‘Thank you,’ said James. ‘How have you been?’
‘Very well, sir thank you.’
‘And your house? Are you still living in the same place?’
‘Still in Fulham, sir,’ said Whabi. ‘And would you believe it, I had the house valued recently and its now worth more than five times what I paid for it. What a wonderful country this is. I am now a British citizen, sir, did you know that?’
‘No I didn’t,’ said James. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
James hesitated, not wanting to get drawn into an inevitable political discussion. ‘Does that mean you’re settled here now?’
‘I’ll never be settled, sir. Not until Albania reclaims what is rightfully theirs. Kosova belongs to us and we should have it back.’
‘Times change,’ said James. ‘Sometimes these things just don’t come to be.’
‘You’re right there, sir,’ said Whabi. ‘Times do change. Did you know that Albania has its first non-communist president since World War Two?’
‘I had heard there’d been a change,’ said James.
‘Since the communists were kicked out and Sali Berisha became president,’ said Whabi, ‘the country has been blighted by social disturbances and economic implosion. It breaks my heart.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said James. ‘I’ll try to follow things more closely on the news.’
‘If you like,’ said Whabi, ‘I’m holding a political debate at my house this evening, you’re welcome to come.’
‘Unfortunately I’m too busy tonight,’ said James, ‘but good luck.’
‘Very well, sir,’ said Whabi before pulling up outside the offices of the Domestic Operatives Recruitment Group in central London.
‘From now on,’ said James to Bill Finchurch in his office, ‘we’ll hire staff in Geneva through the agency. We took on a couple of local people through word of mouth and they’ve both been disasters.’
He handed Finchurch a list.
‘Actually,’ said Finchurch, ‘I’m a little ahead of you. I’ve arranged to open an office in Geneva. We have premises in a nice old building in the town centre, near Malagnou.’
‘You never mentioned that,’ said James.
‘I didn’t want to bother you as you’ve been so busy. It just seemed like the right time to expand.’
‘Good idea,’ said James. ‘There’s plenty of call for properly vetted staff, and more and more wealthy people are settling there. When will the office be open?’
‘Very soon,’ said Finchurch.
‘You’ll be opening it yourself?’
‘No, I have other appointments, I’ve left it to my nephew to open up.’
James looked up slowly.
‘I know he’s had his fair share of blunders in the past,’ said Finchurch. ‘But if I don’t give him some responsibility some time he’ll never improve.’
Both men nodded, neither convinced.
‘By the way,’ said Finchurch. ‘I don’t know if Dee would be interested in this, but I’ve been contacted through the gym she used to work at in New York.’
‘In what way?’ said James.
‘She’s been recommended as an instructor,’ said Finchurch.
‘No,’ said James, ‘she doesn’t need to do that anymore.’
‘Maybe you should wait until you see who the client is,’ said Finchurch.
He pushed a piece of paper across the table and James read the name printed on it. He raised his eyebrows.
‘Well?’ said Finchurch.
‘I’ll put it to her and let her decide,’ said James.
Later, Whabi drove James out of central London and toward Sevenoaks. The journey, although familiar, seemed strange to James like revisiting a dream.
When they reached the house James headed straight for the kitchen. Before he entered he heard a familiar voice.
‘The legend of the ‘Blue House’ begun over 400 years ago,’ said Lucky the gardener, ‘roit from the day Old Mr Almhurst’s family furst made it their home.’
‘Here we go,’ said Weymouth.
‘Shhh!’ said another voice James didn’t recognise.
‘No one knows why,’ continued Lucky, ‘but whoever built the house painted all the ground floor exterior a vivid shade of blue.’
‘Maybe they supported Chelsea Football Club,’ said Weymouth.
‘Shhhh!’
James heard the familiar sound of tea being poured into a mug and then stirred. He knew from past experience that Lucky always took four sugars.
‘The day they moved in,’ continued Lucky, ‘there blew a dark storm and the skies filled with lightning and torrential rain. The shutters on the windows banged angrily against the house and the floorboards groaned under the strain of the gale force wind. The family huddled together in the same room and tried to comfort each other.’
‘Didn’t they have TV?’ said Weymouth irreverently.
‘Shhh!’ said the unknown voice.
‘Suddenly the front door blew open,’ Lucky went on. ‘It nearly ripped the hinges from the frame. Leaves and rain showered into the hall from a dark and murky exterior. A crack of lightening lit the inky sky and illuminated a lone figure in the doorway. The local soothsayer stood there in his familiar black coat and hat. Despite the torrential rain his clothes were bone dry.
‘‘Never let the sun settle on the blue!’ he ranted, ‘or death will visit this house.’’
‘What did he mean?’
‘The house had an extended roof that stopped the sun from shining on the walls. The soothsayer warned them never to let the sun light the blue or else it would claim a life.’
‘And did it?’
‘Not for fifty years,’ said Lucky, ‘and when it did the soothsayer returned and told the grown up children of old Mr Almhurst that they could paint the offendin’ wall white now that it had claimed a life.’
‘All the walls of the house are white now,’ said Weymouth.
‘And over the years, true to the legend, four innocent lives have been taken when the sun reached the blue,’ said Lucky. ‘Then, two years ago a couple from London moved in and the only blue left on the house was the front door. Luckily it sat under a shade where the sun couldn’t reach it, until…’
‘Until what?’ said the unknown voice.
‘Until one day, when they began to innocently renovate the house, they removed the shade.’
‘Oh my goodness!’ said the voice. ‘Didn’t anyone tell them?’
‘Oi took it on myself to tell them,’ said Lucky. ‘Oi turned up, unannounced, on the night of another great storm and I warned them of the curse. Never let the sun settle on the blue, I said.’
‘What did they do?’ said the voice.
Lucky paused, and as James entered the kitchen he saw the gardener’s face sour. ‘They painted the door red,’ said Lucky with disgust. ‘Then they sold it two years later.’
Weymouth laughed. ‘So much for your country legends.’
‘Some people have no respect for local customs,’ said Lucky.
James approached them.
‘Good to see you, sir,’ said Weymouth.
‘Can’t stop,’ said Lucky downing his tea/ ‘Oim just on my way back to work.’
James laughed. ‘His stories don’t get any better,’ he said to Weymouth.
A few minutes later he met Hil in the living room.
‘Hello James.’
‘You look amazing,’ said James. ‘How do you do it?’
‘Flatterer,’ said Hil with a wide smile.
‘I always wondered,’ said James, ‘if we’d have still been together if you’d agreed to have more children.’
‘You’ll never know,’ said Hil, kissing him on the cheek.
For a moment they looked into each other’s eyes, the memories of first love a special and sacred thing, before James broke the silence. ‘So, what is it this time?’
‘Anna,’ said Hil.
‘I know its Anna, it’s always Anna. Isn’t it about time she looked after herself? She doesn’t even work for me anymore and yet here I am flying in to solve her problems again. How ridiculous is that?’
‘She’s like one of the family,’ said Hil. ‘The kids would never forgive me if we didn’t stand by her.’
Just then the door opened and Dean entered with a young, dark haired girl. The girl stood quite tall, had big black eyes, long black hair, a sharp nose, proud lips and a long neck.
‘Hello Dad,’ said Dean. ‘I’d like you to meet Yasina.’
‘Good evening, sir,’ said Yasina, who also greeted Hil warmly.
She wore a green Valentino suit and matching head scarf which didn’t quite go with her dark looks and hair, thought James.
‘I’m pleased to meet you at last,’ said James. ‘Dean has told me a lot about you.’
‘We’ve just been to the cinema to see a film called Andrei Rublev,’ said Yasina.
‘You mean the Russian Icon painter?’ said James.
‘From the fifteenth century,’ said Dean. ‘Really good film.’
‘I just wanted to come in and meet you,’ said Yasina. ‘Unfortunately I can’t stay.’
James watched from the window as Yasina got into her female-chauffeured Rolls Royce. She drove away followed by another car with two bodyguards in tow.
‘So you’re still seeing Yasina?’ said James to Dean.
‘All the time,’ said Hil. ‘I think it’s getting beyond just an academic friendship. I think it’s getting serious.’
James looked at his son and raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘Maybe,’ said Dean, with a smile. ‘I’ll let you know.’
Dean exited the room.
‘Just as gushing with information as ever,’ said James.
‘You know what teenagers are like,’ said Hil. ‘Like getting blood out of a stone.’
‘I heard that!’ said a young voice from the other side of the door.
James and Hil shared a smile.
Dee tried to talk without moving her lips. ‘Hell ne agout yourhelf?’
‘Yes of course, I’ll tell you all about myself but please don’t talk while the face mask is setting,’ said Adda. ‘I’ll do all the talking, I’m used to it and it helps to improve my English.’
As she talked, Adda, a pretty blond with green eyes, massaged Dee’s hair and scalp. ‘As you know my name is Adda, and I’m a trained cosmetician specialising in the face, the hair and the head. I also do sub dermal tissue massage or ‘palper rouler’ which is effective for cellulite control. I’m 24 years old and I’m from Bashkir, in Russia. I was born in the city of Ufa. You may not have heard of it but it’s where Rudolf Nureyev was brought up.’
‘Mmmm,’ said Dee, announcing her recognition.
‘As you can see from my eyes,’ said Adda, positioning her face in front of Dee, ‘my father came from Mongolia.’
Dee nodded. ‘You’re geutihul.’
‘Thank you,’ said Adda. ‘You are also beautiful.
‘Hell ne nore,’ said Dee through tight lips, as the face mask tightened around her face.
‘I’d be glad to tell you more,’ said Adda. ‘At sixteen years old my family married me away to a local man. At seventeen I had his baby and at eighteen I gave the baby to my mother and ran away. I came to France and married a Frenchman in order to get the right papers and the right to stay and work. They call it a white marriage, a marriage of convenience…’
Dee’s eyes grew wider and wider as the story progressed.
‘He also blackmailed me,’ continued Adda. ‘He demanded 30,000 Francs or he said he would tell the authorities. I had no choice but to put up with it and pay the money. Now, I work for myself and I will never go with a man again. I will not let them hurt me again.’
She paused to touch the face mask with her finger tips. ‘OK, that’s set, you can wash it off now.’
Dee threw tepid water over her face and wiped the mask away, ‘Most cosmeticians only talk about the weather or their holidays,’ she said. ‘What a sad life you’ve had already. I don’t know what to say.’
Adda smiled. ‘Just keep paying me my $60 retainer,’ she said, ‘and recommend me to anyone you know.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Dee. Then abruptly she stopped. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘Hear what?’ said Adda.
‘It sounded like a scream.’
‘Sorry,’ said Adda. ‘I heard nothing. Would you like me to do your stomach?’
Dee listened carefully but eventually shook her head and looked at Adda. ‘Yes, please go ahead,’ she said, lying back down on the treatment table.
Elsewhere in the house, in the staff quarters, Sasoon raised his hand in the air. ‘Keep quiet!’ he said, ‘or you’ll get another beating.’
‘Teach her a lesson!’ said Sasoon’s wife. ‘Tell her she’s lucky we put up with her, lucky we feed her.’
The young girl cowered on the floor and tried to inch away from the aggressive cook.
‘Remember you’re an illegal immigrant,’ said Sasoon, towering over her. ‘One word from us and they’ll send you straight back to Mauritiania.’
‘Please,’ the girl begged. ‘I’ll do better in the future.’
‘You’d better,’ said Sasoon’s wife. ‘Keep this place spotlessly clean or you’ll be gone before you have time to think!’
A few days later James returned to the house in Geneva.
‘Fabulous!’ said James, looking at the antique cabinets in the museum room. ‘Just how I imagined it.’
‘We decided to stay as traditional as we could,’ said Dee, ‘so there’s only a small key to lock each case.’
‘Fine,’ said James, looking at the CCTV cameras. ‘We have other security.’
‘The library is also nearly finished,’ said Dee. ‘Cuba has been working day and night. Shall we take a look?’
‘Of course,’ said James, taking her hand.
‘The house is slowly coming together,’ said Dee.
James nodded. ‘Bill Finchurch is setting up an office in Geneva,’ he said as they walked through the house. ‘I’ve asked him to supply us with a librarian and an IT guy to catalogue the antique book collection.’
‘Having the agency here will be a big help,’ said Dee, as they tried to enter the library.
‘It’s locked,’ said James.
‘I think I might know why,’ said Dee.
‘I think Mr Faraday should have the honour,’ said a limp voice from behind them.
‘I thought a closed door would mean you’ve completed the room,’ said Dee. ‘Is it all ready?’
‘Yes it is.’
James turned to see Cuba holding a red satin cushion with a key on top of it.
‘Just a small speech will do,’ said Cuba grinning.
James cleared his throat and humoured the white haired designer. ‘I hope that this library will protect and prolong the lives of the books that it houses. I hope many other people get as much pleasure from them as I do.’ He took the key and opened the door.
Inside the library James and Dee began to applaud.
‘It looks like we’ve stepped back in time a few hundred years,’ said Dee. ‘I absolutely love it.’
‘You’ve done a first class job,’ said James. ‘Congratulations, you must be delighted.’
Cuba clapped his fingertips together and spun around on the spot. He closed his eyes, then opened them again and clapped again as if he saw it for the first time. He hyperventilated with delight like a small girl.
‘And by the way,’ said James, ‘I also love what you’ve done with the museum room.’
Cuba stopped immediately, like Road Runner reaching the edge of a cliff. His bottom lip started to vibrate and he began to blink like a man caught in the sun.
‘Baaah haaah!’ cried Cuba, soaking his face with a deluge of tears.
He ran from the room leaving a diminishing wailing sound in his wake.
James stood open mouthed. ‘What’s the matter with him?’ he said, ‘I just gave him a compliment.’
Dee shrugged. ‘Oh you know artistic types, they’re so emotional.’
A few days later James prepared to leave for the office. ‘I’m just going to check in the library before I leave,’ he said. ‘Donna is starting today and I want to introduce her to Sanghi.’
James made his way to the library and came across Vernon on the way. ‘I’m just showing this young lady to the library, sir,’ he said, leading in Donna Scultz, the new librarian.’
‘You don’t have to do that,’ said James.
‘Yes I do,’ said Vernon, in a lowered voice. ‘She’s forgotten where it is.’
James had only interviewed and showed Donna around a few days before.
‘You’ve forgotten already?’ he smiled.
‘I have no sense of direction,’ said Donna matter of factly.
‘I’ll take her,’ said James, and he led the 31-year-old blonde German girl to her place of work.
Inside the library Donna took off her coat, folded the sleeves carefully and precisely inwards and hung it up. She turned and looked around the room, her hands folded neatly in front of her. Books, not yet catalogued or shelved, filled the room. Some had been stacked along the floor, others in piles around the room.
‘There’s plenty of work to do here before this is in order,’ said Donna.
James thought that in Donna’s clipped German accent the statement sounded almost like a threat.
‘I will start with…Mein Gott!’
Donna let out a small, contained, yet genuine scream.
James followed her startled eyes and immediately understood the reason for her outburst.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘let me introduce you to Sanghi, your IT partner. Sanghi, please stand up you’re frightening the staff.’
Sanghi, a short and very thin Indian, stood on his head in the corner. He immediately up-righted himself.
‘So sorry,’ he said in a Punjabi accent. ‘Standing on my head is my way of relaxing or concentrating. ’ Turning to Donna, he said brightly, ‘Hi! My name is Sanghi Banjuja. I’m so pleased to meet you. I’ve been looking forward to it, I hope we have many happy hours working together.’ Sanghi held out his hand. ‘You can call me Sanghi, Sange, Sangy – I don’t mind.’
Donna nodded curtly. ‘You can call me Miss Schultz,’ she said.
‘Donna has a degree in library sciences from Nuremburg University,’ said James. ‘She’ll be tasked with grouping the books, shelving and cataloguing. She’s very methodical and precise.’
Sanghi nodded enthusiastically as he chewed on a mystery titbit in his mouth.
Donna sighed as she searched her handbag. ‘I must apologise,’ she said mechanically, ‘I have forgotten my glasses.’
Sanghi smiled. ‘They’re on your head,’ he said.
Donna reached up and found the spectacles resting on her scalp. ‘An easy mistake to make,’ she said coldly.
‘Sanghi is a brilliant computer programmer,’ said James. ‘He’s already started a database listing book sizes, descriptions, states of repair and other facts. Between you two I hope to have a comprehensive record of every tome in the library. Learn to work as a team and complement each other’s strengths.’
As he left the library he saw Donna pulling on a pair of white gloves and Sanghi digging in his pockets.
‘Dried pea?’ said Sahghi, holding out a palm full of green wrinkled peas.
Donna looked at him as if he had offered her a cigarette in a petrol station. ‘No!’ she said aghast.
‘Salty nut?’ said Sanghi, holding out his other hand.
‘Are you quite mad?’ said Donna.
Sanghi smiled, undaunted. ‘Where would you like to start?’ he said.
Donna gave him a look of disdain.
James sighed. Sometimes, he thought more in hope than conviction, chalk and cheese can work together.
‘Uncle Bill,’ said Chumley Chorley, ‘is that you?’
Finchurch sighed. ‘Yes it’s me. What on earth has happened?’
‘It’s not my fault,’ said Chumley. ‘I’ve done exactly what you asked me to do. The thing is, I’ve looked in the A to Z, I’ve been to the tourist information kiosk, I’ve even asked a cab driver. They all agree there isn’t a road called Rue Haussman in Grenoble.’
Finchurch placed his left elbow on the desk and leant forward to place his chin on his fist. ‘Where did you say?’
‘Grenoble,’ said Chumley.
Finchurch let his face slide down his fist until his forehead rested on it. ‘Good grief!’ he said quietly facing the top of the desk, ‘you’re in the wrong bloody city.’
‘You’re even in the wrong country.’
‘Really?’ said Chumley.
‘I’d like to congratulate you though,’ said Finchurch, ‘at least you’re on the right continent.’
‘So where should I be?’ said Chumley.
Finchurch began to answer but then stopped. He looked at the phone in his hand and slowly lowered it toward the desk.
‘Uncle Bill?’ he could still hear the tinny voice of his nephew coming from the earpiece. ‘Uncle Bill! Can you hear me? Where am I supposed to be!’
Finchurch replaced the phone in its cradle. He sat back in his seat and clasped his hands behind his head. He smiled, a satisfied, contented smile.