26

It was about this time that Frances’ obstinate devotion to Nicky finally paid off. Whether Rad’s departure to university had removed an awkward obstacle, or whether years of admiration had finally worn Nicky down, I never knew. But even after Rad had packed up his philosophy books and his holey jumpers and headed north, Nicky continued to be a regular visitor at the Radleys’: he was studying dentistry at King’s, and so didn’t have far to come. This coincided with my spending rather less time there. My Saturday mornings were taken up with playing cello in the local youth orchestra, and it was usually mid-afternoon before I could catch up with Frances and the weekend could really begin.

One freezing Saturday in November I arrived with my usual overnight bag to find no one in. Fish was raking dead leaves into piles in the next-door garden, and then battening them down with black polythene and bricks. ‘I think they’re all out,’ he said cheerfully. I rang and knocked several times and peered through the front room window but roused nobody except Growth, who had been asleep on the chaise longue. Auntie Mim was almost certainly in as a light was on in her bedroom but she never answered the door on principle. While I stood shivering and wondering what to do, the tinny rattle of rake on grass stopped and Fish appeared at the dividing hedge, which was clipped square on his side to exactly half-way across the top, and ballooned on the Radleys’ side like the back end of a toy poodle. ‘Do you want to come in to the warm for a cup of tea while you wait?’ he asked, his head on one side in a pretence of shyness. ‘They could be ages.’

I cast about for an excuse. Although he had stopped offering to turn the hose on Frances and give her ‘a good spraying’ whenever the sun shone, somehow the image had stayed with me, and I found the prospect of being alone with him particularly uninviting. I had in fact been prepared to let myself into the back garden and wait in the shed until someone showed up, but could hardly offer that to Fish as my chosen alternative. I was saved by the arrival of Lawrence in his Jaguar. ‘Ah, there you are,’ said Fish, failing to keep the disappointment out of his voice, and he turned his back and went on pawing away at the lawn with his rake.

Lawrence let us in with his key and went about switching on lights and turning radiators up as if he lived there. ‘Make yourself at home,’ he said, sweeping newspapers and dog toys off the couch, and settling down with his feet on the coffee table to watch the Grand Prix. I wandered out into the kitchen and started to tidy up. In the sink a tower of saucepans and crockery stood in six inches of greasy water. Fat had congealed at the edges of the bowl and potato peelings floated on the surface. The oven door stood open to reveal the curling remains of a lasagne in a foil dish. Every worktop seemed to be covered with lidless jars: marmalade, piccalilli, peanut butter, stuffed olives. God knows what they’d had for lunch. The swing bin was full and, rather than empty it, someone had started another rubbish bag which now hung, half full from the back-door handle. A note in Frances’ handwriting was propped amid the debris. DAD IT’S YOUR TURN.

A protracted search turned up one punctured rubber glove. I gritted my teeth and plunged my hands into the sink, my fingers contacting a plug of lard which had to be excavated before the water could drain away. After twenty minutes my enthusiasm for the task was abating, and I left the washing up to drip dry – there was no tea-towel to be found – and dried my hands on an oven glove before creeping upstairs. I could still hear the whine of racing cars, and gabbled commentary coming from the television. I paused on the first landing and double-checked that there was no one in any of the bedrooms before continuing up to Rad’s room. It would have been stripped of the essentials for a term’s survival, but would still yield up clues. I don’t know what I was hoping to find – a lock of my hair perhaps, pressed between the pages of Byron. I pushed open the door and felt a rush of cold air. The radiator had been switched off and the room already smelled damp and abandoned. I clicked on the overhead light and dust particles swarmed in its glare. The wardrobe door had been left open to reveal half a dozen empty hangers, Rad’s old school uniform and three odd shoes. He owned so few clothes that he could hardly have afforded to leave behind anything serviceable.

On the desk was a letter rack containing a postcard from Nicky, certificates of proficiency in diving and life-saving, and a review, cut from the local paper, of his school’s Much Ado About Nothing. One sentence from it – Marcus Radley as Benedick was the undoubted star of this uneven production – had been highlighted with yellow pen: an allowable piece of vanity, I decided. The walls were unadorned apart from a dartboard with all three darts in the bull’s-eye and a peppering of holes in the surrounding plaster, and a collection of postcard-sized prints: Cézanne’s Baigneuses, Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, some severe-looking 1950s bathing beauties, David Hockney’s swimming pools. What was that all about? Water. Wasn’t swimming one of his many super-abilities? I vaguely remembered Frances telling me he had once saved a drowning girl.

I hesitated in front of the desk drawer. It was all right, I reasoned, to look at things that had been left out – that’s what they were there for. But opening drawers was another matter. All the same. I would just look, I decided, but I wouldn’t rummage. Rummaging would be shabby. The drawer turned out to be empty, leaving me with all the discomfort of a bad conscience without the gratification of discovery. I didn’t snoop any further: Rad was not to be found amongst his things. As I emerged from his room I almost fell over Auntie Mim, who was carrying a jangling tray across the landing. A plate of violent green sprouts and pallid potatoes steamed beside a cup of grey tea, most of which was washing around in the saucer. A guilty blush surged over my cheeks. ‘Hello,’ I stammered. She would probably think I had been trying to steal something. Maybe she thought I’d been in her room. ‘Do you want a hand?’ I took the tray from her while there was still some tea left to save, and she pushed her door open and waved me in.

Auntie Mim’s diet had led me to expect a certain austerity in her surroundings, but there was nothing monastic about this room. Every surface was covered with knick-knacks – china figurines and thimble collections, pill boxes, framed embroideries, entire tribes of peg dolls in frilly dresses. I hovered, still holding the tray while Auntie Mim picked the bedside cabinet clean, slotting the ornaments meticulously into new positions on the dressing table. The last item to be removed was an old black and white photo in a round silver frame about the size of a powder compact. It was of a young woman with an intelligent, determined face, dark eyes and a squarish jaw. Auntie Mim noticed me staring at the picture as she picked it up, so I said, ‘Is that you?’ It was impossible to tell what Auntie Mim might have looked like as a twenty-year-old, shrunken and lined as she was, but the girl in the photo was attractive enough for it to be a flattering observation, even if wrong.

And then she did the most surprising thing. She tapped the picture against her heart and said, ‘The great love of my life,’ before setting it down next to her bedside lamp. I was so astounded I almost dropped the tray, and managed to say nothing more than ‘Oh!’ before she had reclaimed her supper and was tipping the saucerful of tea back into the cup, and the moment for further confidences was past. I reeled down the stairs, angry with myself for remaining speechless at such a confession. My lack of interest must have looked positively rude, but it was only amazement that had paralysed me. Somehow Auntie Mim and forbidden passion seemed incompatible.

Downstairs I found Frances had arrived home with Nicky. They were sitting on the couch a little closer together than necessary and looking exceedingly pleased with themselves. Lawrence was still engrossed in the motor-racing.

‘Oh hello, what are you doing here?’ said Frances in a voice that wasn’t altogether welcoming. As I had been spending almost every weekend there for the past four years I didn’t bother to answer this, but said, ‘What were you doing not here?’

‘Nicky came over this morning and said he’d got tickets to see Les Enfants du Paradis,’ said Frances, with great authority, as though her acquaintance with the film hadn’t begun and ended that very day.

‘What did you think?’ Lawrence asked, roused to interest all of a sudden.

‘Amazing,’ said Frances. ‘Classic.’

‘You fell asleep!’ Nicky remonstrated, cuffing her.

‘So did you.’

‘I was up half the night, writing up an experiment.’

‘Well, it was harder for me to concentrate with that huge bloke’s head right in front of the subtitles.’

‘It sounds riveting,’ I said frostily, rattled by my ignorance of the film and by the unusual intimacy between Frances and Nicky. There was something going on. Neither of them would quite meet my eye, and my attempts to start up a normal conversation – one in which I could at least participate – foundered. Any subject that arose would be hijacked by Frances and Nicky and turned into an opportunity for an exchange of banter and mock insults, accompanied by playful shoving and jostling. Frances seemed to be experimenting with a new laugh to replace her regular cackle. Every feeble witticism from Nicky would prompt a flutey giggle, which he would then imitate, setting her off afresh. For this I had almost succumbed to the vile Fish! I thought. After half an hour or so of this I was about to demand whether they were feeling quite all right, when Lawrence, who had grown tired of the sports results, looked at his watch and said, ‘It doesn’t look as though Lexi’s coming back. I’ve got a table for two booked at that Chinese place. Do you want to come, Abigail?’ Nobody raised any objection to this scheme so I accepted and wished Nicky and Frances a curt goodbye.

‘Oh, bye, have a lovely time. Lucky you,’ said Frances, beaming at this turn of events. But as Lawrence was helping me on with my coat she followed me into the hallway and said in a more contrite tone, ‘I’ll give you a ring tomorrow, yes?’ and seemed relieved when I nodded.

‘I’m afraid I made all that up about the Chinese restaurant,’ said Lawrence as we reversed up the drive. ‘I just got the impression that those two wanted to be alone, so I thought we’d better push off.’

‘But Frances has been chasing Nicky for ages and he’s never shown the slightest interest,’ I protested, mortified at having my status as gooseberry articulated so baldly.

‘Well, he’s interested now, take my word for it,’ said Lawrence. ‘Now do you want me to drive you home or shall we get a takeaway and eat it at my place?’

‘Don’t feel you have to entertain me,’ I said, failing to keep the martyred tone out of my voice. ‘Home will be fine.’

Lawrence gave me a pitying look and made straight for the Chinese restaurant.

‘If Frances and Nicky do start going out,’ Lawrence said later, forking noodles on to my plate, ‘you and Rad could make up a foursome.’ I looked up warily and caught the sly expression on his face.

‘I don’t think that’s very likely,’ I said, as neutrally as possible. We were kneeling either side of the coffee table in his house in Dulwich. The sitting room was on the first floor – an arrangement which struck me as highly sophisticated. The table was strewn with steaming foil containers and discarded lids. Lawrence had ordered far too much; his generosity would give us both indigestion before the evening was out. ‘Rad’s not really interested in girls – or boys,’ I added, my jaws working mechanically at a piece of battered pork. I had long since stopped feeling hungry but didn’t dare admit it in the presence of such prodigious leftovers.

‘It certainly seems that way,’ agreed Lawrence, inverting a dish of king prawns on to his plate.

‘I don’t honestly think Rad’s noticed I exist,’ I said.

‘Ah, well. Patience.’ He speared a prawn. ‘That’s something I know all about.’ Then seeing my uncomprehending smile he changed the subject swiftly and started grilling me about my cello-playing – what grade had I reached; how often did I practice; who were my favourite composers, until the phone rang in the study next door and he left me alone.

‘Hello … Sorry… There was no sign of you, and Abigail needed rescuing … No, we’ve already eaten … All right. I’ll have to drop Abigail home on the way …’ I could hear Lawrence’s conversation through the wall and, feeling uncomfortable at overhearing myself discussed, I took the opportunity to go to the loo. ‘Downstairs on the right,’ Lawrence called, with his hand over the receiver, as I passed the study door.

The first on the right proved to be the dining room; the second door looked more promising, but as I groped for the light switch I lost my balance and stumbled into a large flat box propped against one wall. It came crashing on to my shin and I let out a yell which brought Lawrence leaping down the stairs. He switched on the light and I found myself in a generous-sized broom cupboard. My leg had a deep inch-long graze which would take about two hours to start bleeding. On the floor at my feet was a plywood packing crate of the sort used to protect paintings. It was about six by four and bore a label from the Bloomsbury gallery where Lazarus Ohene had enjoyed his recent triumph. Lawrence picked it up and, seeing my expression, gave a sheepish smile. ‘I’d be grateful if you wouldn’t mention this to anyone,’ he said.

‘Doesn’t anyone know it was you?’

‘Lexi does of course. It was her idea – to boost Michael’s morale. And make sure the painting didn’t come back and end up on the wall. So he absolutely mustn’t find out. I keep meaning to get rid of the damn thing – give it away to someone, but I can’t think of anyone I dislike that much. I’ll probably end up giving it to a junk shop, or doing a Clementine Churchill. Anyway, don’t let on.’

All of a sudden I was the keeper of secrets. Having extorted a promise from me Lawrence offered to drive me home. I felt a little cheated at the prospect of observing confidentiality. I had after all come upon the subterfuge through my own efforts – and had a wound to show for it – and if he hadn’t happened to hear the crash the discovery would have been mine to do with as I chose. There was no fun in a secret that could never be told: the enjoyment came from stashing it away and watching it appreciate until it could be cashed in.

‘Home on a Saturday night. We are privileged,’ my mother said sarcastically as I limped into the hall. Lawrence’s Jaguar had pulled up outside to be greeted by a hail of security lights from the front of the house.

‘Like a Nuremberg rally,’ he muttered, shielding his eyes.

Security was mother’s latest craze. I had been issued with a bunch of keys no pocket could hold and made to memorise the number for a burglar alarm that would in all probability never be set as my grandmother was always in the house. Father was sceptical about these measures. ‘If there’s a fire we’ll all be roasted alive,’ he would say. ‘But still, better dead than burgled, isn’t that right, dear?’ The nightly sound of rattling chains and deadbolts scraping home which accompanied mother’s locking-up routine set his teeth on edge. ‘I feel like old Mr Dorrit in the Marshalsea,’ he once said.

‘Hmm. What’s that smell?’ mother asked as she leaned towards me to kiss my cheek.

‘Er … sweet and sour pork? Peking duck?’

She pulled a face. We never ate Chinese food. It was one of the things that triggered mother’s migraines. ‘No. Cigarette smoke. You haven’t been to the pub, have you?’

‘No. Lawrence smokes.’

‘Oh. Well, I’ll hang your coat in the porch overnight if you don’t mind, so it doesn’t fumigate the cloakroom. You’re not going up to your room, are you?’ she said as my foot touched the bottom stair. ‘I’m sure your dad and Granny would be pleased to see you. It’s not often we have you here at the weekend.’

In the sitting room father was taking Granny through her accounts. On the table in front of them was a drift of share dividends, tax receipts and bank statements. Granny was not well off but, in terms of administration, she made her poverty go a long way.

‘Now where’s that cheque from Cable and Wireless?’ she said, riffling through the heap, scattering papers, until my father pushed it into her hand. ‘I can’t read. I’m blind. How much is it for?’

‘Three pounds seventy-one,’ said father. He tapped the ledger. ‘We’ve already done that one.’ His glasses were not quite horizontal – a sign of tension. They were evidently on their second or third run-through.

Mother was right. ‘Abigail,’ he said, pouncing on the diversion joyfully, ‘let me get you a cup of coffee.’

‘Nice to see you, Abigail,’ said Granny, as he escaped into the kitchen. ‘Not that I can,’ she added.