“We’ll have you on
Pride and Prejudice
by the end of the month,” said Charlotte.
This increasing facility, this breakthrough, reminded him of childhood, of that extraordinary realization that all those black marks on a page could speak, that they were words, language, that they related to what came out of people’s mouths, out of his own mouth. This time round, the black marks of another language began at last to make
sense, to leap from obscurity, to tell a story. It was as though you broke into a new world, were handed a passport to another country. He rode through the city staring at language; advertisements had begun to shout to him, newspapers to inform.
He was anxious to demonstrate his progress to Rose, when they met up for the purchase of the scarf for his mother. He bought a
Guardian
; solution of the crossword was beyond him, but he could have a stab at the clues, and show her.
He sometimes felt, these days, a sort of exhilaration, and was surprised. Each day on the building site felled him, physically; each evening was spent recovering, but at the same time he could have these periods of uplift, of pleasure, of well-being. They came and went. But when they came, he knew that they signaled a development of some kind. Glimpses of a future. They told him that perhaps he could have a life in this place. A new and different life. That perhaps he could be happy.
He had known happiness. Much happiness. He was a person with a natural capacity for joy, and just for contentment. And then his marriage had turned sour, he had known that his wife no longer loved him. When, in time, she went, he entered a long period of emptiness, of moving from day to day without any expectation, any enjoyment. He was living, but hardly noticed life. He worked, ate and slept—or did not sleep—and there seemed no point to it. And then he lost his job, could not find another, and that, in some strange way, was the prompt, the kick-start. You have to do something, he told himself. Act.
And so here he was. Laboring and recuperating. Reading children’s books. Sniffing the air, perhaps.
Gerry liked to sing. He was a founding member of the local choir. To Charlotte, this was always an unexpected aspect of Gerry; he was not otherwise given to collaborative pursuits, and he was never heard to sing at home—in the bath, or while planing away at that table in his shed—but he had apparently a good tenor voice. He would thus disappear for the evening once a fortnight, and twice a year Charlotte and
Rose would hear a
Messiah
or a
Requiem
in the big Victorian church a few miles away. Charlotte—and perhaps Rose also—would observe with slight surprise that familiar face lined up amid strangers, singing. It seems such an assertive, expressive, uncharacteristic thing for Gerry to do. But he did, and one respected him for it. The passion and exuberance of sacred choral music seemed so alien to Gerry’s personality; perhaps that was the whole point. Whatever, it was clear that the choir was important to Gerry, and that he enjoyed it.
So, on choir nights, Rose served an early meal, and Gerry would vanish, in noticeably good spirits. They were rehearsing
Elijah
at the moment; Charlotte had inquired.
She was relieved to be done with the hospital visit, and glad now to have time with Rose, once Gerry had left.
“The consultant was most encouraging. I do feel I can soon get back home.”
Rose eyed her. “Told you to abandon the crutches, did he?”
“Well, no, but . . .”
“I rest my case,” said Rose.
“You’ve had your hair cut. Infirmity has made me so self-absorbed I’ve only just noticed. Nice. Youthful.”
“Aha . . .” Rose glanced in the kitchen mirror. “That was the general idea, I suppose.”
“Tell me,” said Charlotte. “Has Gerry always sung?”
“Intermittently. When there was something to sing with. Why?”
“Just wondered.”
“I know,” said Rose. “It seems a bit un-Gerry. Fine. We all need to act out of character in some way. Maybe I should take up athletics.”
“I don’t think so. Sport was never your strong point.”
“Exactly. Needlework, then. But I don’t deviate, do I? Entirely predictable.”
Charlotte considered her. What is this? And edge to her. Something up? Or down? “On the contrary, you’re confusing me right now.”
Rose laughed. “Far as I’m concerned, Gerry’s choir is essential therapy. Gets him out and about. Company. He never was a pub man, was he?”
“You used to walk a lot, you and Gerry.”
“Mmn. We seem to have given that up.”
There was a silence. Charlotte thought about the mutation of relationships, the shifts and balances. Sometimes Tom had needed her; at others, he could drift away. Mostly they were close; sometimes they quarreled. Alone, you most miss that abiding interaction, the to and fro of it.
“Pity,” said Rose. “I could do with some exercise. I’m getting fat.” She became distant, reflective. Thinking, it would seem.
“Not fat. Just . . . more rounded.”
“Delicately put,” said Rose, suddenly brisk. “Actually, middle-aged spread. Mid-life. Crisis time. I’d better be careful, hadn’t I?” She reached for the paper. “Absolutely zilch on the telly tonight. There’s nothing for it but a good book. By the way, I saw you had
The Da Vinci Code
in your bag, Mum. How are you getting on with it?”
“Suppose we weren’t who we are,” said Rose to her friend Sarah, “Who would we want to be? We haven’t had children—so we haven’t spent all that time and energy. Maybe we don’t have husbands. What are we doing?”
Sarah looked at her watch. “Fifteen minutes left of my lunch hour probably isn’t enough to deal with that. And what’s this, anyway? You’re the one who said she never wanted a career.”
“This may not be about careers. And that was before I’d not had one.”
“If it’s not about careers, what is it about?”
“Accidents, I suppose,” said Rose. “The things that didn’t happen. Alternatives.”
“Ah. Then I blossomed in the under-tens ballet class, instead of being completely duff, and I’ve been a prima ballerina, and am now a national treasure. You?”
“That
is
a career. Or are you calling it talent?”
“All right, then. You can have a talent, if you like.”
“No, I think I’m interested in alternatives. But I can’t think of one.
Is that lack of imagination? Or is it that once you are what you are you can’t conceive of anything else?”
“Oh, come on,” said Sarah. “You got a job with a film mogul instead of his lordship, and now you’re in Hollywood, and you’re married to Hugh Grant. Sorry Gerry.”
“No, thanks. I don’t like Hugh Grant. And I wouldn’t like the California climate—the weather’s always the same.”
Sarah sighed. “Then I’m afraid you’re stuck with Enfield.” She glanced at her watch. “I told you we’d run out of time—I’ve got to pick up some milk on the way back.” She got up. “Tuesday again next week?”
“Unless I’ve left for California,” said Rose.
Rose and Anton were in Hyde Park; a scarf had been bought—in Selfridges, eventually. Rose had decided that the local Marks & Spencer would not come up to scratch, and had proposed meeting in Oxford Street. Now, they walked—on a late spring afternoon, when sun and shadow chased over the grass, the trees were in leaf, when things start afresh.
“This is a good place,” said Anton. “It is where the city can . . . breathe.”
“Actually, I hardly ever come here. I haven’t walked here for years. I’d forgotten how much space there is.”
“And all for buy the scarf. So it is a good scarf—it bring us here.”
“I’ll confess,” said Rose. “When I suggested Oxford Street I thought too—I bet Anton’s never seen the park.”
“Ah,” he smiled. “But it is still the scarf that bring us. When I see my mother wear it I shall remember.” He was looking round, intently. “So many dogs. English people are very proud of dogs. You have a dog?”
“No, we’re cat people. At least, my husband is.”
“Big dog, small dog. And then dog chase other dog, like over there, and that woman think the big dog will hurt her small dog, and she is shouting at the man . . .”
“Whoops! Stand-off between dog owners. Ah—he’s grabbed it.” They laughed.
“And now he talk to her,” said Anton. “Perhaps they make friend.”
“And live happily ever after. Like in fairy stories.”
“I hope. Perhaps. But perhaps it is just he ask where she get her nice little dog, he want one like that.”
“Let’s stay with the fairy story,” said Rose. “Shall we sit down for a minute?”
They found an unoccupied bench. “And so many people who run,” said Anton. “If people are not take dog out, they run. We are only people here do nothing.”
“We are recovering from a shopping experience. At least, you are. Men hate shopping.”
He nodded. “And you are be kind to foreigner.”
She thought about this. Is that what I’m doing? Not quite what it feels like, actually.
“I learn these new words,” said Anton. “Foreigner. Migrant. Asylum seeker. But I am not an asylum seeker, I am economic migrant. I learn this from the radio. Economic migrant is better than asylum seeker.” A wry smile. “Asylum seeker is big problem. Economic migrant is perhaps good thing for UK—pick fruit, and work on building site.”
“And be an accountant,” said Rose.
“I think you are . . . you look always for what will be good.”
“Optimistic. As opposed to pessimistic. I’m not sure that I am. There’s realistic, too. What is likely, what is possible.”
“More words. I like optimistic and pessimistic. And I say now to the site manager—‘Please be more realistic.’ ”
“Does he have a short fuse?”
Anton turned to her, perplexed. She laughed. “Does he get angry quickly, that means. Another expression for you. Like . . . like when you light a fuse and it burns and then—bang.”
“Oh—yes, yes. I see. A short fuse. That is good. No, he is man who is always the same. Do this. Do that. Always same voice . . . same way of talk. When he fire someone, it is just, you go, not come back, thank you, goodbye. Short fuse is more interesting, perhaps.”
Dark clouds had rolled across. A few drops of rain spattered.
“Ah,” said Anton. “We have found for you some weather. You like weather, I remember.”
“This is weather that could be a nuisance. But I think there’s a café place in that direction—or there was when I was last here.”
They got up, walked fast. “Yes,” she said. “There it is.”
Anton said, “Not Starbucks.”
“No. But we shouldn’t get set in our ways.”
He laughed, touched her arm for an instant. “Set in our ways. No. But I like now Starbucks.”
Me too, she thought. Never used to, particularly.
Over coffee, they watched falling rain, joggers, the dogs.
“I know that kind of dog is German Shepherd,” said Anton. “They have on the building site. Guard dog. Not nice. What is that—with leg like . . . like very small chair leg?”
“Dachshund,” said Rose, laughing.
“And that over there? Sniff, sniff all the time.”
“Some sort of spaniel.”
“Spaniel. There—now I learn two kind of dog. And that—small white dog?”
“Terrier, I think. Probably Jack Russell terrier. This is the most
useless
information, Anton—breeds of dog.”
“Is any knowing—
useless
?” he said. “It all go in there,” he tapped his head. “Perhaps one day useful.”
“I suppose so,” said Rose. “I’m not at all interested in dogs but I’ve somehow picked up which dog is what.”
“And so we have talk about kind of dog. This is not useful but it gives names to this place, for me. What is that tree?”
“Oh, goodness . . . Lime, I think. Those over there are easy—willows. I’m not great on trees.”
“And it is bad I make you a teacher. No more names. Enough. But when you are . . . foreigner . . . you are all the time look for things to know. I must know what is this, I must know what is that. Like a child.” He smiled.
“Yes, I’ve felt like that on holiday abroad. In Greece, once. Help! What does that sign say!”
“So you understand.” Another smile.
“Except,” she said. “That for you it’s not a holiday. It’s . . . serious. I think you’re very . . . determined. Brave,” she added, after a moment.
“Brave?” He was surprised.
“You make me feel I’ve had a very easy life.”
“I make you uncomfortable? I am sorry.”
“No,
no
. Just—sort of apologetic. I’m the one who is sorry.”
Anton threw up his hands. “We are going for a nice walk, and now we are saying sorry, sorry. What has happen?”
He was laughing. Rose also.
“Ridiculous,” she said. “And it
is
a nice walk, and the rain’s stopping. We should go on. You haven’t seen the Round Pond yet.”
“Last week I walked by the river. Like you told me. I take the book and the map, I walk far, far. It was good.”
“Oh. It must have been. I wish . . .”
They were standing now, about to set off again. “I wish . . .” She hesitated.
“You wish?”
“I wish I’d been there too. Maybe . . . Maybe next time we could do a London walk together.”
“I hope perhaps you say that,” said Anton. “I have hope very much.”
H
enry has misgivings about the filming. He has never been a man prone to misgivings and the experience bothers him. He needs to put an end to it. He needs to hear from Delia Canning. He needs to hear that contrary to the misgivings, his performance was admirable, and the program—programs, preferably—will go ahead.
“Letter to Ms. Canning,” he says to Rose. Then, frowning, “No, on second thought, I think you should make a phone call. Letters sit around, get put aside. Phone call to Ms. Canning, saying that you are Lord Peters’s PA, and that Lord P. would rather like to hear what developments Ms. Canning has in mind for the program. The series. Polite but insistent—that is the tone.”
Rose makes the phone call, while Henry listens, drumming his fingers. Needless to say, she does not reach Delia Canning. PA speaks unto PA. Stalemate.
Rose makes Charlotte and Gerry laugh with her Henry voice and then with her Delia Canning PA voice, which is sweetly fluting: “I’m
so
sorry but I’m afraid Delia can’t take your call. Of
course
I’ll see she gets the message right away.”