Tigerlily's Orchids (20 page)

She got up, looked him in the eyes and made a little formal bow. He was enchanted. ‘Will you give me a kiss, Tigerlily?' He formed his lips into a kissing shape.

She shook her head violently, turned away her face, and quickly she was gone.

Well, he wouldn't want a wife who'd kiss a man the first time she met him. A wife? The word made him flinch a bit. He thought of his parents' reaction if he turned up with a Chinese wife. But he never did turn up, did he? They'd probably never meet his wife, never have to know he'd got one. He went to the window. It was getting dark and Tigerlily's father had his headlights on as he turned into Kenilworth Avenue. The girl got out of the car first. This one looked years older than Tigerlily. It must be an arranged marriage Tigerlily wanted to escape. He hadn't known the Chinese were Muslims. No doubt other countries and other religions had arranged marriages. But why did she want a false passport? She must have a passport already but perhaps her father held on to it and wouldn't let her have it.

Of course there was no way he could get her a passport, he wouldn't know where to begin, but he could marry her. She would have to get a new passport then, wouldn't she? He realised she hadn't told him her name. That must be the first thing to get out of her on Wednesday. And was he saying that once they had met on Kenilworth Green she would never go back to Springmead? Perhaps he was saying that. He must be. That brought him unease and a shiver went through him. He suddenly thought of the responsibility he was taking upon himself, the decisions he would have to make, the cost of it all, for he would have to take her somewhere and not here to this flat. A hotel? And then what? Go to a registrar somewhere and give their names, make a date for the wedding? But to be alone with her in a hotel where there was nothing
to fear from her father, to have a safe quiet dinner with her, to drink champagne as those two old people must be doing, to go up to their bedroom together …

‘I
never wanted to own a house,' said Marius. ‘I think that was because I was on my own, but when there are two of you having a home means a lot. The idea of it. And that ought to be in a house, not a flat. Even if it's a very little house.'

‘It would have to be that, darling, because a mansion is beyond our means.'

‘Would you think of selling both our flats and buying a house?'

‘I'm already thinking of it,' said Rose. ‘Would you like some pomegranate tea? It's a beautiful colour, a bright pink, and it's very sweet but I'm afraid it's got sugar in it. Do you remember that about the time you and I first met they were saying sugar was poison? Someone called it “white death”.'

Laughing, Marius said, ‘Yes, but no one ever died of eating sugar, did they? I
like
the taste of sugar much better than aspartame or whatever it's called. And we shall never get fat, you and I. Do you want to get married, Rose – my darling Rose?'

‘It used to be against my principles and I don't think they've changed. I'm sure it used to be against yours.'

‘Indeed. Still, I think we'd better. When we've got our house we shall need to protect the one who survives against inheritance tax.'

‘Oh, Marius, I don't want to survive you. But then I don't want to die first and have you be unhappy without me.'

‘It's a dilemma, isn't it?'

‘Let the
sortes
decide, darling.'

‘ “Fair couple,” ' Marius read, ‘ “linked in happy nuptial league.” '

‘Well, that's pretty clear for marriage, isn't it?

‘I cheated,' he said. ‘I knew exactly where to find it.'

They had done nothing about Wally Scurlock beyond watching him and twice going up to St Ebba's churchyard. But on those occasions Wally hadn't been there and the only odd thing they discovered was that one single grave was well kept when all the rest were derelict and overgrown.

S
ophie's heart gave a little jump and her throat grew dry. The cash machine had told her there were insufficient funds in Olwen's bank account to meet her request for £50. She had taken it for granted that Olwen had plenty of money, a more or less inexhaustible supply. This was something she assumed in the case of all ‘grown-ups', for although Sophie was nineteen, the age at which her grandmother had twice given birth, she thought of herself, if not quite as a child, as a teenager without responsibilities or much in the way of resources. She was young, therefore carefree, immortal and free. Or this was how she had thought of herself and of circumstances until this moment.

It was not quite yet the middle of May and although Sophie knew little of financial matters, somehow she had become aware that most salaries, pensions and other sources of income are paid in at the end of the month. Olwen might be, as Noor said, several bean sprouts short of a Chinese takeaway, but she knew how much money she ought to have in the bank.
People usually did know that, Sophie thought in an increasing panic.

Empty-handed, she walked away and sat down on the low wall which surrounded the Tesco car park. Her own bank account should be in a healthier state than it had been for a long time. The balance of her grant remained in there plus the money Daddy and Mummy had paid in for her birthday present. As to her steady milking of Olwen's account, she had given up that rule of taking only £10 for herself each time. First there had been the £40 she owed Noor. Then, because it really was stupid of Olwen to think £10 a time was adequate – these old people were all out of touch when it came to the cost of living – she had taken £20 twice and £30 once. It was only at this point that she realised that the increasing amounts she was helping herself to were responsible for her present predicament.

None of what she had taken remained. She had spent it as she went along; on clothes, on new CDs, on one of those tiny iPods in a beautiful sapphire blue. But she couldn't go back to Olwen without the vodka and the gin. Miserably, she got up, went back to the cashpoint and drew out £30 from her own bank account.

The children who went to Kenilworth Primary School were out in the playground, running around, shrieking and yelling. The girls shrieked and the boys yelled. That man who was the caretaker for the flats was in the churchyard, doing something to a grave. Sophie thought she would tell Noor and Molly that he was a vampire who dug up bodies and sucked their blood. Noor, who was very superstitious, might believe her. The caretaker wasn't looking at what he was doing any more but staring at the children. Probably planning on grabbing one of them to suck
his
blood, thought Sophie, warming to her fantasy.

Olwen let her in about five minutes after Sophie rang her doorbell. These days she moved increasingly slowly, holding on to whatever she could grab, and of that there wasn't much. Sophie, as requested, brought her a cut white loaf and some sliced salami. Olwen wasn't hungry, she never was, but she thought her new feeling of sickness and savage stomach pains might be due to lack of food.

‘How are you?' Sophie asked, the enquiry prompted by conscience. ‘Are you feeling better?'

‘Not really,' said Olwen.

‘Would you like me to make you a sandwich?'

Olwen repeated her usual rejoinder and pushed the door shut almost before Sophie had backed through it.

R
eplies had come to Stuart's job applications. All were negative, some polite, some taciturn. A lot of companies simply failed to answer. April had gone by and he was still as far from getting a job as ever and still as far from acquiring money. He sat down at the computer and looked at the blank screen.

The drone of the vacuum cleaner irritated him but, apart from that, he barely noticed that Molly was there. He was preoccupied with plan-making. However he was going to ‘rescue' Tigerlily, he must have somewhere to take her on Wednesday night. To bring her back here would be impossible. They needed to go somewhere her father and maybe the rest of the family would never think of looking. The kind of hotel he had originally had in mind wouldn't do. It had to be some middle-grade suburban place. For one thing, he had to consider the cost of it. He couldn't help thinking how much easier all this would be if Tigerlily was more proficient in English so that he knew specifically what she was afraid of
and what she wanted – apart from being with him. Of this last he was pretty sure.

Were there any such hotels up here? Probably, but he didn't know where. From taxis he had squired Claudia about in, he had noticed a big old hotel in Cricklewood that had once been a pub but very much refurbished, and another newer one in Kilburn on the borders of Maida Vale. He should book a room in one of those. And then he must decide about marrying her. It was a big step but where would he find a sweeter lovelier girl? To do it would be a good deed, for it was surely what she wanted. Stuart admitted to himself that he didn't know how you went about getting a passport. Of course he had one himself, he was English, so without difficulties in this area. And if a foreign girl married such a one, such a British-born stalwart, would she automatically also become English, a citizen, a subject of the Queen, with a fine dark red British passport? Somehow he didn't think it was that easy. There was more to it. But she would get right of residence, surely? These were matters he must look up on the Internet. And then, when that was done, find a registry office and a registrar and – well, put their names down. He didn't actually know her name. When they met on Wednesday at seven thirty on Kenilworth Green he would get her to say her name. That must be his first priority. Once she was married to him they couldn't forcibly marry her to anyone else. At least he knew that this was true.

He started the computer and googled ‘Passports'. Molly had finished with the vacuum cleaner and was standing behind him asking him if he'd like a cappuccino.

‘You know, I've like gone off them. I think I'm back to hot chocolate.'

‘We haven't got that much milk but I could run up the road and get some.'

‘You do that,' said Stuart absently, and added, ‘there's a good girl.'

M
olly, who should have been at college, was standing in a queue at Mr Ali's when Carl phoned her. It was the third time he had phoned that morning.

‘There's like someone else, isn't there?'

‘So what if there is, Carly? It's not like we were engaged or anything.'

‘Maybe you weren't, Moll, but I was.'

‘Oh, come on. It takes two to be engaged.'

‘It's that Stuart, isn't it? The one that had the party?'

‘So what if it is, Carly?' Having got to the top of the queue, Molly ended the call and bought her milk. On her way back, she met Katie Constantine.

‘Did you know two flats in Lichfield House are on the market?'

‘Which two?' Suppose Stuart was going to sell his flat and move, Molly thought, and hadn't bothered to tell her? ‘Not Stuart Font's?'

‘Not so far as I know,' said Katie. ‘That Mr Yeardon who lives over there told me.' She waved a vague hand. ‘Funny you have to hear it from someone who doesn't even live there, isn't it?'

‘Yes, but which ones?'

‘Number 2 and number 3. That's Marius and Rose. Michael says they'll be lucky to sell what with this credit crunch.'

Molly felt happy to have a piece of news for Stuart. But when she told him he barely seemed interested. He was occupied on his computer, printing out reams of stuff. She stood behind him sadly for a minute or two and then she went off to wash up his chocolate mug. Stuart had discovered many
websites dealing with eligibility for a British passport, marriage to a British citizen, right of residence and right of abode. Everything seemed to be all right if you married this British citizen before 1949 but that would make you about eighty now. The first of January 1983 seemed another significant date. He didn't know why. All that was clear was that Tigerlily wouldn't become a British citizen and thus have a British passport just because she was married to him. On the other hand, suppose it was true she came from Hong Kong? Had Hong Kong once been part of the Commonwealth? His father would know but he didn't want to ask his father.

The day was fine if rather windy. He went out for a walk to think about it, watched by Molly from the window. Fresh air – or the diesel-scented fug which passed for it – was supposed to clear one's head, and as Stuart passed through the kissing gate into Kenilworth Green, he found that it was having that effect. A plain fact had emerged from all that circumlocution and bumf. Getting married to Tigerlily wouldn't help her get a passport. She would have to get on to the Home Office herself and ask what to do, a procedure which would no doubt entail holding the phone line for about three-quarters of an hour while listening to Handel's ‘Largo'. Marrying him would be no short cut. Much as he told himself he adored Tigerlily, he couldn't help feeling relief that he wouldn't have to marry her. All he need do was take her to a hotel that night, hide her from her family and find somewhere for them to live. Maybe rent a flat on the other side of London while renting out Flat 1 Lichfield House. That way he wouldn't be much out of pocket.

Sitting down on the bench under the blossoming chestnut trees, he indulged in delightful fantasies: he and Tigerlily sitting side by side, her hand in his, watching TV, he at the computer while she cooked delicious Chinese meals, she
bringing him a glass of chilled white wine or possibly champagne on a Chinese lacquer tray, kneeling in front of him like the geisha in the picture, he and Tigerlily entwined on a big low white bed.

The wind blew apple and chestnut blossom on to the grass like snow. He thought how there had been snow on the ground when first he saw her. She was the loveliest girl he had ever seen and soon she would be his. But not, luckily, his wife.