EVERYONE WHO WAS ANYONE called that morning, by phone or in person.
Three people got through from the theatre: one to say Daisy Longriff was wonderful, Alexandra shouldn’t worry; two others to say Daisy Longriff was perfectly dreadful, Alexandra shouldn’t worry. She mustn’t come back to work until she was beginning to mend. They were all thinking of her. There was no matinee on Monday so most would come down to the funeral. But perhaps there’d be a memorial service in London later?
The postman came to the door and wept a little and said he missed Ned’s smiling face. He was a thin young man with cropped red hair and a little red moustache. He usually called before eight and Ned seldom smiled before ten, and least of all did Ned ever smile at the postman, whom he suspected of dropping letters behind hedges if it didn’t suit him to deliver them. But forget that; think the best. Alexandra made the postman a cup of tea. He asked for more sugar than she provided. He said if Ned’s shoes were going spare he could do with them. Alexandra picked a pair out of the cupboard and handed them over. It was true they were expensive shoes and nearly new: but she had to be practical, as did the postman. Not that the postman did much walking: he had a van.
The postman sat in Ned’s chair and took off his own shoes, which were indeed battered, and put on Ned’s. They fitted well. Then he asked Alexandra where the bin was and threw his old shoes in it. He went away in Ned’s shoes, pleased as Punch, having won some kind of final victory. Diamond growled, but did not bite.
The Mail, the Express and the Telegraph called to say they didn’t want to intrude into private grief, at which Alexandra put down the phone.
The Sun called to say they wanted to send flowers to the funeral, when was it? “Such a fine critic, such a loss to the theatrical profession.” Alexandra laughed before she put down the phone.
Dr. Moebius left a message to ask Alexandra to call to see him, and please could she put Mrs. Linden in touch: Mrs. Linden wasn’t answering her phone.
Sheldon Smythe called for Hamish. Hamish took the call in the other room. I’m the wife, thought Alexandra; he’s only the brother. But it seemed men liked to deal with men.
The postman who took Ned’s shoes had left letters: coloured square envelopes, handwritten, instead of the long white ones which usually came. Alexandra glanced through a few of them, letters and cards of condolence. How wonderful Ned was, how charismatic; their hearts went out to Alexandra. They meant it, too. She was grateful, even while beginning to consider their judgements faulty. But then she herself was apparently without judgement and noticed nothing, so what had she to complain about? Insensitive to atmosphere.
The Romanoff of the Golf Course. Ned had never described Irene thus in Alexandra’s hearing. She would have laughed if he had. Would Jenny Linden have the wit to make up such an epithet? It seemed unlikely. But she could have got it from Abbie, or Vilna, or anyone, who got it from Ned. It sounded like Ned. He’d just never said it to her.
“Marmalade”; a gift from Ned? No. Most likely simple chance: lots of orange cats in the world. And Ned, perhaps, on some innocent professional encounter with Jenny Linden, had happened to say, “My wife’s mother has a cat just like that,” thus enabling Jenny Linden to concoct her story.
Oh, clutching at straws!