Death in Leamington (7 page)

More problematic however was the unexpected loss of his safe seat, one that had been Tory since Eden (and before) in a particularly bitter general election fight. Despite this setback, he fully expected to be promoted to the Upper House in the course of time, regaining the peerage that his foreshortened ancestry had narrowly denied. For now he was playing the role of a party grandee, remodelling himself as the country squire, gentleman and fixer, and this is why his Leamington townhouse was usually full of houseguests at the weekends.

Sir William had been married twice before he married Nadia. The first time to a society debutante, Lady Mary Lygon, the daughter of the late Earl Beauchamp, with whom he had fathered three children, Julia, Cordelia and Sebastian. Sebastian had died young and tragically and Sir William was now estranged from Lady Mary and on increasingly poor terms with his two daughters. Although strangely, and to his frustration, the women all insisted on living in the adjoining townhouse to him, which was now dangerously close to becoming a witches’ coven in his eyes.

Just before he met Nadia, he had also been involved in a strange scandal that had kept the press happy for weeks with a shotgun marriage to a blonde Australian heiress, a scion of a famous newspaper dynasty. After less than a month of marriage she had packed his suitcase for him and sent him back to Britain, describing her ex-husband to the local papers as ‘the perfect liar’ and claiming that their marriage was never consummated. He denied all of this of course, typically blagging it out with the papers through his PR. The publicity had further strained relations with next-door however, and this was exacerbated when he had altered his will to cut them out of their inheritance in favour of Nadia. This brought upon all of them the prospect of years of litigation to follow.

Despite the unhappiness surrounding her marriage, Nadia was devoted to her grandfather and since his arrival in England she had begun to see evermore clearly her own situation. As a result, she had started to suffer her husband for the sake of form rather than love, having worked out his modus operandi far too late to regret her decision to marry him. She had also now secretly renewed her acquaintance with a younger former lover, Rohit, who once worked for her father as his assistant but was now estranged from him. He was the son of a famous cricketer, who had moved to England to be close to her and now worked for a local translation company, studying part-time as a writer. Her grandfather didn’t know and didn’t need to know about the renaissance of their relationship. They were discreet and although they met frequently and clandestinely, Rohit never visited her while her grandfather (or indeed her husband) were in the house. She was careful to keep everything above board.

With the arrival of her grandfather in Leamington, Nadia’s earlier devotion to him had been reinvigorated. He suffered greatly from insomnia and increasingly from memory loss and tremors in his hands. She listened all night from her adjacent room as he tossed and turned, waiting for his call or for the bump if he fell out of bed in his disturbed dreams. In the early hours, even before the first rays of dawn were appearing on the horizon, she rose to make him sweet tea with the little spirit stove she kept in her room, so that the first thing he tasted in the morning was the product of her own hands, not the sediment of old age on his palate.

*

Despite these disturbed nights, when he awoke that Saturday morning, Arish felt in good humour, if a little sleepy. The day was already bright outside and his granddaughter had left his customary tea by his bedside. This was to be an auspicious day when his friend would arrive to visit them, having travelled all the way from America to speak at an architects’ symposium. It would be the first time he had seen him in many years, although they kept in touch irregularly. His friend was a two-time widower now, did not trust hotels nor had he travelled much outside his native Michigan. He accepted Arish’s offer to stay with him only after lengthy persuasion. At his request, in order to get out of the indebtedness of staying with Sir William, Arish’s former company had arranged for the lease of a small villa in the town and hired a housekeeper. His granddaughter was to help him move in that day and his American visitor would be the first guest in his new home. Outside the open window of his bedroom, the bells of the local church chimed the hour. As his granddaughter put her head through his door, he remarked how happy he was, and she said she was pleased, in return, to see him in such good spirits.

Shakespeare,
As You Like It

He dressed in his normal careful manner, shaving with brush and cream and cut throat razor; put on a smart shirt and tie and one of his trademark Savile Row suits, tailored in an old-fashioned colonial style, tucking a smart pink silk handkerchief in his pocket. This was a special occasion and he would dress the part.

‘Any dream about flying means good health,’ she said.

At breakfast, Sir William announced loudly his plans for the day, laying down the law in his usual energetic and expressive style and enquired if Arish would need transportation to the train station. Arish respectfully declined this unwelcome attempt to interfere, he preferred to walk to the station and was not one for breakfast. But he was persuaded by Nadia to take a fig from the bowl of fruit in the music room. As he put it in his pocket, he admired one last time the Poussin that hung on the wall over an exquisite Carlton House desk. He re-read the card underneath the painting:
Shepherds wandering out in a morning of the spring, and coming to a tomb with the quotation, ‘I also was an Arcadian’.
Satisfied he went to collect his dogs from their kennel in the scullery.

The last time Nadia heard his voice was as he called out his plans for the morning to her. He would walk, sinless, down to the train station with the dogs and take his friend back to the villa in a taxi; he would meet up with her there later. Then she heard the uncharacteristic slam of the door as if a moment of impetuosity had taken over from his normal controlled reserve; as if he was slamming the door decisively on the past.

He’s as excited as a little boy
, she thought.

Ah, love, let us be true

To one another! for the world, which seems

To lie before us like a land of dreams,

So various, so beautiful, so new,

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;

And we are here as on a darkling plain

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,

Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Matthew Arnold,
Dover Beach

I know now that the Dell Park holds a special sort of magic for Izzie. Like an urban Miranda she is able to summon the sprites that live in the undergrowth and command them to weave their spells. She walks through the park each evening in the gathering dusk on her way back to the care home from her bedsit. My darling, darling Izzie loves this little sunken pleasure ground, surrounded by its high, flowered banks, overlooked by the lights from the balconies of the sparkling mansions across the road. It is her bejewelled island in the storm of the town.

*

Once the course of a small brook, the Dell Park was originally created when a stream was culverted and the road to Warwick built up to avoid the muddy ground on either side. The sunken hollow that remained was improved with formal gardens and a ‘pepper pot’ summerhouse but it later fell into decay, becoming grassed over between the wars. By the 1970s, it had become infamous for gangs and drug users but in recent years, dedicated volunteers have returned it to a place of safety.

By day, it is a quiet refuge for mothers and nannies with their young charges, protected by the steep banks from the traffic noise above, a place to run and play safely on the swings and roundabouts. By night, it takes upon itself a more subtle mantle, a more delicious place of intrigue, of lovers’ trysts, where benches, thronging with children by day, give host to softer pleasures, bats and foxes roam and the calming balm of night scents hang like a fragrant mist over the promenade and entrance steps. It was and is her special place.

*

The afternoon before they met had seen the annual children’s party take place there with the local mums bringing picnics and games. There was a local band playing folk songs, a tea tent and traditional games and tombola stalls. Although she was not on duty, Izzie had taken one of the ladies from the home where she worked for a walk there to enjoy the afternoon sun. Now, immediately before their first meeting, she was returning to the home again for her night shift. All signs of the party had been cleared away, the gazebo had gone, the Punch and Judy man had been returned to his local rest home and not a sign of the staging remained apart from the slight depressions on the grass.

As Izzie peered over the iron railings from the north entrance, she began to make out the sound of the playing of a lone guitarist and single clear male voice singing down below amongst the shadows. Intrigued, she opened the little iron gate carefully so that it did not squeak and walked down the steep unlit path towards the source of the music below, moving quietly so as not to disturb the musician in his performance; in case there was any danger there.

As she moved past the scented drifts of mallows and veronica, she saw a young man seated on one of the benches, a can of beer by his side and a battered acoustic guitar in his hands. He was a little older than her, with close-cropped blonde hair and a little goatee beard. He was wearing grey cargo pants and an old U of M college T-shirt and playing with the precision of someone classically trained, using his finger as a bar and plucking the strings expertly, This contrasted with the few borrowed chords strummed with a plectrum that she could manage on the guitar. He finished the Rodrigo ‘Adagio’ and started on a new song, this time playing a popular standard with a full body and chorus. She recognised the introduction immediately and then the chords and familiar words as he started gently onto the first line of Simon and Garfunkel’s ‘America’.

From her hidden viewpoint, Izzie fingered these same chords in her mind, remembering her first guitar lessons with her tutor Eddie – C, Bm, Am, G, F. Later Eddie had set her more taxing études as she progressed to the viola. One of them involved a tricky little exercise in crossing from the fourth to the second string without accidentally catching the third, something that she had never quite managed to master. Although she enjoyed playing, she was not particularly musical herself although many said that she had a nice singing voice, if slightly unusual in its lilting cadence.

She hesitated in the shadows, her curiosity for once beginning to get the better of her normally cautious nature. She did not make a habit of approaching strange men drinking beer in parks but this one was cute and played exquisitely. She watched while he continued to sing through the first few lines of the song. He stopped at the end of the first verse to take another swig of beer from the can.

This was her chance. She was now determined and could no longer resist the temptation, even though it meant revealing that she had been watching him. Softly, she returned his words with the familiar next line in her own fey Irish voice.

*

There was a slight pause while I considered this newcomer’s intervention. Gently at first, I returned the next line back to her. The line hung like a question in the sweet night air, before I increased the tempo and volume of my playing towards a crescendo. Our solos met in a duet as we followed the words of the song. We both went to look for America.

In full flow now, I finished off the riff with a flourish and turned, eager to see who it was singing along with me. I watched breathlessly as her heavenly figure emerged from the shadows of the bushes. She smiled and I smiled back encouragingly, noticing immediately the unusual length of her linen-white hair and the capricious brightness of her eyes. Two piercings on her face glinted in the park lights. She was wearing an overcoat over a nurse’s tunic and sensible flat shoes.

‘Your voice is amazing. Maybe I’ve found my next co-singer?’ I ventured to her half-joking, half-flattering, eager to break the silence.

‘Hardly,’ she said somewhat pensively but then walked more decisively up to the bench where I was sitting. Her long part-braided hair was tied back with floral bands, almost reaching down to her waist.

‘Hi, my name’s Penn,’ I said, with disappointing lack of originality, holding out my hand in greeting. ‘Tristan Penrose Arnold to be exact.’

‘My, that’s a very distinguished sounding name,’ she said, shaking my hand demurely, her eyes not quite meeting mine.

‘Yeah maybe, I also go by Tris but Penn works too. And, may I ask the name of my anonymous seraph?’

‘You may. It’s Isobel, but everyone calls me Izzie,’ she said and I received the full gift of her smile as her face came alive.

‘Well, come here and sit beside me Lady Isobel aka Izzie, I promise I won’t bite and there’s plenty of room on this bench.’

Guiltless I gaz’d; heav’n listen’d while you sung;

And truths divine came mended from that tongue.

Alexander Pope,
Eloisa to Abelard

‘Oh, I think I’d prefer to stand,’ she said, staring away from me again, twiddling her hair with her fingers.

‘Whatever,’ I replied, somewhat disappointed but not discouraged.

‘So, are you some sort of professional musician?’ she asked, becoming a little more engaged as she turned back to face me.

‘No, I just play to relax and busk for a few pennies here and there, that’s all.’

‘But you’re very good, you know, that was really beautifully played,’ she replied softly.
But nowhere near as beautiful as you
, I thought.

Instinctively, I jumped up onto the bench and opened out my arms to the sky, pointing up at a bright evening star as it emerged from the clouds above the park. To prove my point I started into an improvised thing that rapidly transformed into a rambling speech, playing both lovers’ parts with alternate deep male and falsetto female voices:

‘I swear to thee, youth, by the white hand of Rosalinde, I

am that he, that unfortunate he.’

‘But are you so much in love as your rhymes speak?’

‘Neither rhyme nor reason can express how much.’

Shakespeare,
As You Like It

My fooling about had the desired effect. She laughed, seemingly delighted, and applauded.

‘You’re mad,’ she said. ‘So if you’re not a musician are you in rep?’ She was clearly beginning to warm to my charm. The air was turning chilly now and she held her coat close to her body. In the distance, I could just hear the sounds of the traffic above the earth banks that protected the park. Hopefully she no longer felt any sense of threat from me. I continued to play the amiable clown.

‘Not at the moment, dearest Lady Isobel aka Izzie. At the moment I am an actor of film, no less,’ I replied with a deep bow, in the most pompous Shakespearean character voice that I could muster. She told me later that there was such intensity to my voice and eyes at that moment that it made her feel almost naked before me as if I was conjuring her soul with my words.

‘Wow, really, you’re a serious actor? That’s amazing,’ she stumbled, but her shy face betrayed immediately that she realised this may have sounded somewhat gushing, if not a little credulous.

‘Well a temporarily-not-out-of-work actor would be more accurate. I was in class when this audition came up and nobody was more freaked than me when I got the part. But yes indeed, my fair lady, we have been filming all day over in the square. A great costume drama… well actually an episode of
Sherlock
for the BBC,’ I added, half-covering my mouth with the back of my hand as if speaking to a hidden audience off-stage. ‘My part’s a minor character in possession of one of the clues to the mystery that Mr Holmes has to solve but I am also the understudy to the well-known actor who plays Dr Watson, no less.’

‘Really?
Sherlock
? I love that programme, I’m a huge fan,’ she replied.

‘Well, yes it certainly has a cult following.’

‘So tell me then, did Sherlock Holmes really jump in that last episode?’ she asked, somewhat over enthusiastic again but getting back ahead on points in whatever game we were now playing.

‘I’m afraid you know that if I told you the answer to that, I and the rest of the cast would probably have to shoot you. But anyway fair maiden, enough of those other lesser mortals, more importantly I am afraid I was not planning to entertain a lady this evening – by chance do you have anything to drink in that bag?’ I asked, pointing down at the shopping bag she was holding and shaking the beer can to prove that it was empty.

‘Actually I do, but it’s really meant for someone else, someone special, you know.’

‘Ah then my lady, I sense you have another assignation planned? I am undone. Can’t you renege on that contract?’ I asked pleadingly.

She teased me by poking the screw-cap bottle of cheap Italian white wine over the top of the bag.

‘I suppose I could always get another bottle if you pay me for this one with your takings,’ she answered, holding out her hand. ‘But as for the other assignation…’

I dropped five one pound coins from my hat into her hand and she passed the bottle over to me. I unscrewed the cap and passed it back to her, indicating that she should take the first sip, which she did, before taking it back from her and swallowing a much larger gulp. I wiped my mouth with the sweatband on my wrist.

‘So come fair Lady Isobel, now that I have entertained you, may I accompany you to your steed?’

I took her by the hand and led her over to the kiddies’ swings, where she sat as directed, giggling, as I began to push her backwards and forwards, higher and higher. Her hair was floating in the night air as she looked up at the rushing clouds and the glint of the park lights on my face. She stopped the swing suddenly with her feet and turned to me.

‘Is something wrong?’ I asked, worried.

‘
You know what?’

‘What?’

‘Nothing, I really shouldn’t!’

‘Come on, you can do better than that,’ I said.

But she thought better of whatever she was going to say, and instead blew me a kiss that hung in the air for a second before she spoke again.

‘Sorry must be the wine, you’d better not give me another swig,’ she said, giggling. ‘And I’m afraid I really do have to get to work soon.’

I placed a finger over her lips to signal that she should say no more as we stood silently for a while, looking up at the stars and counting the meteors flashing across the sky. At that point, she looked at her watch and realised that she definitely had to go or she would be late for her shift.

‘Reluctantly, Mr Penn, although I wish I could stay here all night, I do have to go to work now.’

I shrugged and we left the swings and began to walk up the path to the road, passing the remains of the little summerhouse at the corner of the garden. I stopped and this time pretended to hide behind the wall, growling like a lion before starting my next recital:

‘O wall, full often hast thou heard my moans,

For parting my fair Pyramus and me!

My cherry lips have often kiss’d thy stones,

Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee.’

Shakespeare,
A Midsummer Night’s Dream

‘You’re crazy; you really are a clown aren’t you? But a sweet, clever clown I think,’ she said.

‘It works for me every time.’

‘I bet it does.’

‘And you are now my
Angell from her bowre of blis.’

‘Come on, you daft idiot,’ she said. ‘Before I do something I’ll regret later. I do have to get to work and you look like you could do with getting some sleep if you’re acting on set tomorrow.’