WE ATE OUR USUAL BREAKFAST of delicious croissants and instant coffee, surrounded by debris. The street outside looked even gloomier and more gray than usual. About ten-thirty, the phone rang. It was Maud Tweak, sounding impatient. “Look,” she said, “those friends of yours, the Watchucallits. Yes. Well, are they coming round today or not? They said something about wanting me to show them the city.”
“I haven’t heard from them,” I croaked.
“We took them round last night after we left you,” she said, “and showed them Fleet Street at night. I think they liked it; it’s the sort of thing tourists love. In any case, I’m going to the hairdresser’s; I shan’t be back until about two. Have them call me, will you?”
I hung up and crept slowly down the stairs to the kitchen again. Jordan was just finishing his second cup of Nescafé.
“That was Maud Tweak,” I said. “I hate her.”
The phone rang again. After a moment I crept painfully back up the stairs. This time it was Nini.
“How are you?” she asked.
“I’m awful,” I said.”How are you?”
“We’re fine. A little tired. You know your friend Maud Tweak drove us all around after we left you.”
“How was it?”
“Well, it was boring because everything was shut. But why are you awful?”
“I’m tired.”
“Oh?” she said, with a rising inflection. “Why?” She was a speech therapist with a strong interest in psychiatry. I knew her wheels were turning.
“Because I got to bed at five. Because there are dishes everywhere. It’s raining….”
“Do you want us to help you with the dishes?”
“No, thanks. I’ll manage. I’ve got to go now because Jordan is leaving. Oh—Maud Tweak will be at home after two this afternoon. She wants you to call her.”
Jordan was now upstairs, combing his hair in the mildewed back bathroom with the hole in the ceiling. “I’ll come back early and help you finish up,” he said. “I must just get some stuff out of the way. I’m pretty sure Basil is going to buy in.”
“He didn’t say anything last night?”
“I could tell he was having a good time,” Jordan said. “Anyway, if he doesn’t buy in …”
The phone rang again, worsening my headache.
Suddenly we were very popular.
It was Walter this time. He sounded concerned. “Anita!” he cried. “Are you all right?”
“I have a headache.”
“Well, Nini is worried. She said you sounded really desperate. We want you to let us hop in a cab and come over and do the dishes for you.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Nini is worried about you.”
“All I have is a headache.”
“Well, then, why don’t you come out with us? We’re going to the Portobello Road. Have you been there yet?”
“No,” I said, sounding pathetic. “I mostly go to Harrods.”
“Then you must come with us. Mark can look after the children.” I decided to go and arranged to meet them there. I told Jordan I would be at his office by two o’clock.
It was raining in the Portobello Road on that Saturday morning. It was cold too, and dark, more like November than July. Stalls had been set up in the street and there were a good many people bartering and discussing antiques of all kinds. Most of them seemed to be late Victorian or more recent—the antiques, not the people. On every side we heard, “Now in dollars that would be …”
“It’s fascinating here, isn’t it?” Walter said. “So quaint.” Appraising furniture, china and jewelry was his avocation; his father had had an antiques shop.
“Ur,” I said, vaguely. My head still ached; I was cold and depressed.
“They expect you to bargain,” Nini said. She stopped at a stall and picked up a broken doll with staring china eyes. “How much?” she said, to a tall youth with one gold earring and a sort of sheepskin slung over his shoulder.
“Two pounds.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Nini said. “It’s not worth it.”
“Make an offer,” the youth said reasonably.
“What do you want it for?” I asked.
“Seven shillings,” Nini said. The youth smiled sarcastically. “It’s broken anyway,” Nini said.
We drifted away into a shop with rugs.
“Oh, look,” I said, trying to perk up a little, “Oriental rugs.” I pointed at one.
“I’ll get it for you,” Nini said, and darted away.
“I don’t want it,” I said to Walter, who shrugged.
Nini became involved in a heated discussion with a fat man at the rear of the shop. He looked Victorian: I expected to see a pile of bones and rags in a corner. She darted back.”I can get that for you for sixty dollars,” she said, pointing to a large torn item. “It’s a steal.”
“How would I get it back in the plane?’’ I asked nastily. “Carry it on my head? Anyway I haven’t got sixty dollars. Anyway I don’t want it.”
The fat man came near, hovering. “Well?” he said, as we left.
“Too much money,” Nini snapped at him.
We began to walk through the outdoor stalls again. Walter picked up a horn glass, one of a set of six, all cracked.
“My goodness,” he said. “Horn glasses.”
“What would you do with them?” I asked. I had decided to be difficult. I felt like it.
“Well, you see,” he explained, “they’re made out of horn. That’s interesting. Of course,” he added regretfully, “they’re chipped somewhat.”
“Would you drink out of them?” I asked. The sky was very dark and low; drifts of water blew across our faces.
“My goodness,” Walter said. He set them down gently.
A moment later Nini cried out in delight. She had come upon a green velvet bellows; it was small and heart-shaped. The velvet was faded and rotting in spots. When she squeezed it a weak puff of dust wheezed out.
“It’s charming,” Nini said.
All down the street, people were pawing over these broken remains. We heard music and looked up: a very small, fragile old man was pushing a wicker baby carriage down the sidewalk, or pavement. He was wearing a sort of nineteenth-century ball costume: a black stovepipe hat, a long, swallow-tailed black coat, very narrow black trousers and little black pumps on his tiny feet. An ancient gramophone, perched on the foot of the baby carriage, was grinding out a dim tune. In the carriage, with only his head protruding from a tattered blanket, was a small brown and white dog.
“Oh, Walter!” Nini cried. “If only we had our camera!”
“Oh, we forgot it,” Walter said.
“That’s always the way,” I said, looking at my watch. “Gracious, it’s after one. I told Jordan I’d meet him at the office.”
“But you don’t want to leave now,” Nini said. “We haven’t seen anything yet.”
I could spot another baby carriage coming toward us: this one was being pushed by a hugely fat woman and was emitting scratchy music; I could hear it already. I made my escape and arrived at Jordan’s office, where I found the children, without shoes. They had gone out into the street to look at something, and Eric had shut the door, which locked behind them. So they had taken a cab to the office. We all took another cab back to Baldridge Place, where the older boys leaped over puddles in their socks, and Jordan carried Eric into the house. He didn’t weigh much.
We cleaned up the rest of the mess and then sat drearily watching television while the rain dribbled outside, and no one came down the street. Every Saturday afternoon half of a movie was shown on the TV, usually a Western. Today, the announcer said, it was “Barbara Stennick in Kettle Queen of Colorado.”