Tigerlily's Orchids (19 page)

‘And I tried to find you and never could till in the end I gave up. Rose, no one knew your surname except my sister and she'd gone off to America. You were sitting on a bench in Victoria Park and you told Storm you couldn't move into the room you were renting till the next day. But he didn't know where the room was or anything else about you.'

‘I haven't seen Storm since but I do sometimes see Anther. He's called Terence Tate now. That's his real name.'

‘You and he …?'

‘No, nothing like that. There's not been anything like that in my life for a long, long time.'

‘Nor in mine,' said Marius in a low voice, and then, ‘I love you, Rose. I think I've always loved you. Certainly I've known it since I first moved in here.' He kissed her cheek and then her mouth. ‘What shall we do? Now I've found you I don't want to let you out of my sight.'

I
n later years Rose sometimes said that she and Marius had been brought together by the behaviour of a paedophile and Marius said that out of the vile came forth sweetness. But that evening, when they at last had that white tea in Rose's flat – Marius wasn't thinking of leaving it before the next day – he was more shocked than he would have expected by what Rose told him.

‘You hear about it all the time and you read about it but still it never seems quite real.'

‘Amanda Copeland wouldn't make something like that up, darling,' said Rose. ‘She's a sensible woman – much more sensible than me.'

‘You are sensi
tive
,' said Marius, ‘which is better.'

‘And of course I'm not absolutely certain it was him. I couldn't swear to it. Do you think we should consult the
sortes?'

‘I'm fed up with
Paradise Lost
. When I was miserable about you I threw Milton at the wall.'

‘I know you did. I picked him up off the floor and brought him down with us in my bag.'

So Marius opened the book at random, ran his finger down the page and read: ‘ “Abandon fear; to strength and counsel joined, / Think nothing hard, much less despaired.” '

‘It doesn't seem to mean much,' said Rose. ‘I'm sorry, darling. It usually does. I'm not criticising.'

Marius laughed. ‘It usually
doesn't
. It's only a game. But perhaps it means that we should just do nothing. Not yet, anyway. Or almost nothing,' he said thoughtfully.

Rose looked enquiringly at him.

‘I'd suggest the police if he'd done anything but he just looks. We should keep an eye on him, watch him but no more. Not yet. If I get the chance,' he said, ‘I will drop a hint, tell him not to do it. I will try to be subtle about it.'

‘You won't have to try,' said Rose. ‘And now I am going to cook us some delicious asparagus and after that prawns.'

‘I intended not to leave your side for even a moment but you won't mind if I do for ten minutes, will you? If I go up to Mr Ali's and buy a bottle of champagne? We don't drink, I know, but tonight is the night to break the rule of a lifetime. Oh, and Rose, do you still not mind spiders?'

‘I quite like them. Why do you ask?'

M
ore frightened than he had ever been in his entire life, Wally was experiencing the extremes of fear, those which paralyse the nerves and muscles so that ordinary walking is difficult. Staggering through the roundabout, he had doubted
if he would make it to Lichfield House. He might actually have fallen, lain prone in the gutter with his tools scattered about him. People must be staring at him as he leaned against the blank window of the now abandoned bathroom fittings shop, they would take him for a drunk, turned out of the Kenilworth Arms for disorderly behaviour. In fact, there was no one to see until Duncan Yeardon emerged from the newsagent's. Duncan had glanced in his direction and turned away, embarrassed.

Wally would have liked to sink to the ground and close his eyes but that was impossible. He made a gargantuan effort – walk, keep walking, don't give in, you'll be OK in a minute. And this time it wasn't so bad. He took deep breaths, he walked, not attempting to do so at his usual pace. If Duncan turned round he would think Wally was walking slowly in order to avoid catching up with him, which was also true. Duncan crossed the road and paused to talk to the man from Springmead who had just got out of his car. Their backs were to him and Wally, taking advantage of this, made his way into Lichfield House as fast as his weak legs would carry him.

Downstairs in the basement flat he poured himself a small brandy from the half-bottle Richenda kept for emergencies. A wonderful quick-spreading warmth started in his chest and flowed up to fill his head. That was better. That was both calming and stimulating. What was he going to do? First ask himself what had really happened and what it amounted to. Because of Rose Preston-Jones, that friend of hers, that woman – that savage wild hysterical woman – would know where he lived and no doubt his name. It was too late to stop Rose telling her, it had always been too late. The question was, would either of them tell the police? Who was the more likely? Rose, he thought, Rose who knew him. He must give her some sort of explanation. Finishing the brandy and rinsing
his mouth out with Listerine, he went back upstairs and rang Rose's bell. No answer. He rang again but by then he knew she was out. Could she have gone to the police?

If she had they would come soon. They would search his flat and take away his computer. Wally knew his wisest course would be to dispose of his computer, either smash it to bits with the heavy mallet he had in his toolbox or take it out of here, out of Lichfield House, get on the number 113 bus which went down through St John's Wood, and drop it into the canal from the bridge in Lisson Grove. He knew the area, he'd once lived in Penfold Street. But to destroy his computer and with it all the pleasure and excitement it contained, to that he couldn't bring himself. Not yet. There would be time, wouldn't there? Perhaps he could hide it. His flat had a bathtub in the bathroom but no shower. All the others had showers as well as bathtubs. This was something Wally bitterly resented. It told him the designers or architects or whatever of Lichfield House believed that the caretaker and his wife belonged to a different species from that of the middle-class residents, one whose members needed total immersion to cleanse them of their inherent dirt.

The base of his bath had been concealed by hardboard panels, held in place by screws. A nasty cheap job, Wally had thought and had covered the panels with tasteful black-and-white marble-effect vinyl and the screws with chromium nuts. They would never look there. He removed the nuts and one of the panels. Inside was a space just big enough for the computer. He laid it carefully on the floor and was screwing back the last nut when he heard Richenda's key in the front door.

‘You'll never guess who I've just seen go into Rose thingy's flat. Together, I mean. Her and old Potter.' Gossip always put her into a good mood.

‘So what's new?'

‘I'll tell you what's new. They was
kissing
. Like young ones.'

Did that mean Rose was too preoccupied to trouble herself with him? Hope struggled up into his throat on an inhaled breath.

F
irst her dad had got out of his car and was talking to Duncan Yeardon. Then he went into Springmead and was inside for a long time, so long that Stuart began to think he wouldn't come out again. But the car was still there by the time the traffic warden, still writing down numbers in his book at twenty-five past six, went off duty. Stuart stood inside his front window, smoking and drinking his fourth cappuccino of the day. Twenty minutes passed and he was halfway through another cigarette when Marius Potter appeared from the automatic doors. Even Stuart, not the most observant of men, noticed the spring in his step. What's got into him? he wondered. Must be off to tutor one of those poor kids in horrible Latin verbs or some such rubbish, and he remembered the teacher who had come to him on Wednesday evenings, trying to drill Caesar's invasion of Britain into him. But no, Marius was back in minutes, carrying what was unmistakably a bottle of champagne, wrapped up in dark blue tissue paper. Hypocrite, thought Stuart, him and that Rose always going on about the evils of alcohol.

At that moment, as the automatic doors opened for Marius, Tigerlily's dad came out of Springmead with her sister or stepmother. The two of them got into the car and shot off in the direction of the main road. Dusk was coming early because it had been a dull day and lights were already showing in some of the houses when the front door of Springmead opened and Tigerily came out. She paused on the step and looked to her right and her left. Then she came quickly to the gate and
crossed the road. Although she must have seen Stuart at his window she gave no sign that she had. He heard the swoosh of the doors, a light footstep in the hallway and then his bell rang.

She slipped inside immediately he had opened it. He would have liked her to be dressed in diaphanous white or ankle-length black but she wore what he liked least – jeans and a loose white shirt. She was still wonderfully beautiful, her almond-shaped black eyes grave and steady, her hair hanging loose and water-straight from a centre parting.

‘Hi,' she said. ‘Hi.'

He took her hands, led her into his living room. ‘What's your name? I call you Tigerlily.'

‘Ti-ka-lee-lee,' she said, and she smiled. She's Chinese, he thought. That's what she is. She peered into his face, touched with a forefinger the scorings on his cheeks Claudia's nails had made. ‘You cut?'

‘It doesn't matter.'

She smiled a very small smile. Then she astonished him. ‘Ti-ka-lee-lee name go in passport.'

What did she mean? ‘No,' he said, ‘must have real name for passport.' Involuntarily, he was speaking pidgin English. ‘Sit down. You like drink?'

She shook her head, refusing seat and drink. ‘You good man,' she said, a statement, not a question.

He smiled, nodded, because he didn't know what else to do. He was mystified. If only she would sit down, so that he could. But she stood there, stock-still, her eyes turned to the window. ‘What do you want, Tigerlily?'

‘Ti-ka-lee-lee,' she said again. ‘Want passport. You get?'

He knew then. It had been going on since he was a child, since before he was born. A friend of a friend of his mother's had married a man from somewhere in Asia to give him British
citizenship. It had been easy then. Would it be as easy now? Somehow he doubted it.

‘You want you and me get married?'

She didn't understand. She shrugged, held out her hands, palms upward. ‘Passport,' she said. ‘I make photo.'

If he married her she wouldn't get a passport at once. He knew that much. His thoughts rushed almost too fast for him. She'd get something called right of residence, wouldn't she? He could find out, the Internet would tell him. But
marry?
When the time came where would he find a lovelier wife? Wives, in his experience, were like his mother and Claudia, good-looking, bossy, constantly talking, over-emotional, greedy. Tigerlily was none of these things except the first – and that in abundance. ‘Sit down,' he said again and this time she did.

She perched on the edge of his sofa, still watching the window, clasping her knees in her slender white hands. Flip-flops were on her feet but her insteps were so arched that she might have been wearing high heels. Women from her part of the world, he thought, made good wives because they liked waiting on men, making themselves beautiful for men. They weren't always arguing or asking for things. Vaguely he remembered seeing pictures of geishas kneeling at men's feet, holding up trays of food and drink. Or was that Japanese? But marriage – it was a big step.

He said carefully, ‘I look after you, Tigerlily. You savvy?' Where had he got that ancient word from? One of his father's friends maybe or that caretaker? He tried again. ‘I care for you. Understand?'

She was smiling, nodding.

‘We must meet again.'

How to tell her where? Somewhere he had a London A—Z. There weren't many places it could be and he soon found it in the cupboard part of his bedside cabinet. She looked at
the map he showed her – this part of north London – and her face was full of wonder. It took him a few minutes to make her see where Springmead was, where he was and the extension of Kenilworth Avenue with Kenilworth Green and St Ebba's Church. The church was marked on the map by a cross and when he pointed to that she nodded, managed, ‘Understand.'

‘Today is Friday.'

This was beyond her comprehension. The procedure he had to go through was like looking for the A—Z but worse. At last he found the calendar of English beauty spots his mother had sent him along with her present at Christmas. How well he remembered the letter that came with it, especially the bit about never seeing him and never being invited to his new home, so she had to send his present. The calendar he had never hung up and he found it at last in a drawer under some shirts he never wore.

He knew at once that she couldn't read the names of the days. Of course. She couldn't read – what was it called? – yes, Latin script. ‘Today,' he said, ‘Friday. Yes?'

‘Friday.' She made the
r
into an
l
as he had heard the Chinese did. ‘Good,' he said. He counted on his fingers, ‘Saturday, no. Sunday, no. Monday?'

She moved her head slowly from side to side, said, ‘Monday, no,' and she shuddered. ‘No Tuesday.'

‘Wednesday?'

For the first time a ‘Yes'.

‘Wed-ness-day,' she said. ‘Good.'

‘Wednesday at Kenilworth Green.' He said it again, over and over again, and then he showed her the time on his mobile. It said 19.31. ‘Same time?'

Another nod. ‘Same time Wednesday.'

‘Kenilworth Green.'