Authors: Jonathan Coe
‘Before you go,’ said Mortimer, as she made for the door, ‘how much do they pay you?’
‘Pardon?’
‘At the hospital, or wherever it is you work.’
‘Oh. Not much. Not much at all, really.’
‘Come and work for me,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a proper wage.’ He thought for a moment, and named a five-figure sum. ‘They don’t look after me here. There’s no one to talk to. And you could paint. Nobody uses half of these rooms. You could have your own studio: a really big one.’
Phoebe laughed. ‘That’s very sweet of you,’ she said. ‘And the funny thing is that if you’d asked me yesterday I probably would have accepted. But it looks as though I’m going to be giving up nursing for good.’
Mortimer chuckled and said unkindly: ‘I wouldn’t bank on it.’ But she had gone by then.
∗
Her ministrations complete, Phoebe washed, dressed and arrived in the dining room just in time to see Pyles clearing away the plates and tureens.
‘I was hoping for some breakfast,’ she said.
‘Breakfast has been served,’ he answered, without looking up. ‘You’re too late.’
‘I could do myself some toast: if there’s a toaster somewhere I could use.’
He stared at her as if she were a madwoman.
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ he said. ‘There are cold kidneys left. That’s all. And some sweetbreads.’
‘Never mind. Do you happen to know where Roddy is at the moment?’
‘Young Master Winshaw, so far as I am aware, is in the library annexe. Miss Hilary likewise.’
He gave Phoebe a series of elaborate directions which, followed to the letter, eventually brought her out in some sort of laundry in the basement. Undaunted, she went back upstairs and wandered the corridors for about ten minutes until she heard the laughing voices of brother and sister behind a half-closed door. Pushing it open, she found herself in a wide room which seemed both chilly and airless. Roddy and Hilary had her folio open on a table and were flicking rapidly through it, barely glancing at one picture before taking up the next. Hilary looked up and stopped in mid-cackle when she saw Phoebe standing in the doorway.
‘Well, well,’ she said. ‘It’s Florence Nightingale herself. Pyles has been telling us about your little mission of mercy.’
‘Do you want me to talk you through any of those?’ Phoebe asked, ignoring her and walking straight up to Roddy.
‘Perhaps I should leave you two lovebirds to plan your glittering future together,’ said Hilary. ‘Cocktails on the terrace in half an hour, anyone?’
‘Make it a quarter,’ said Roddy. ‘This won’t take long.’
Hilary closed the door behind her and he resumed his desultory browsing. Watching him, Phoebe began to quiver with anxiety. She didn’t know which was more worrying – his silence on the subject of the paintings or his failure, so far at least, to make the smallest acknowledgement of anything that had happened between them during the night. She stood beside him and briefly laid a hand on his arm but he was unresponsive. After that Phoebe went and stood over by the window. About three minutes later he snapped the folio shut. One picture – a simple watercolour of snow-covered rooftops, part of a commission which she had reluctantly accepted to design Christmas cards for a local firm – lay on the table. Roddy picked it up, carried it over to the wall and tried holding it at different heights. Then he put it back on the table.
‘Fifty for that one,’ he said.
Phoebe didn’t understand.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Frankly, that’s more than it’s worth. But I’m feeling generous this morning. You can take it or leave it.’
‘You’re offering to
buy
that painting … for fifty pounds?’
‘Yes. It would cover that damp patch rather well, don’t you think?’
‘But what about the others?’
‘The others? Well, to be honest, I was hoping to find something a little more exciting. I don’t really see anything here that would justify an investment.’
Phoebe thought about this for a moment.
‘You bastard,’ she said.
‘There’s no need to take it personally,’ said Roddy. ‘Tastes differ, the world over. It’s all subjective in the long run.’
‘After everything you said last night.’
‘But I’d hardly seen any of your work last night. As you were at pains to point out yourself.’
She frowned and said hollowly: ‘Is this some sort of joke?’
‘My dear,’ he said, ‘the Narcissus Gallery has an international reputation. I think you’re the one who must be joking, if you suppose that any of these … studenty daubs are ever likely to find a place in it.’
‘I see.’ She looked out of the window, which was thick with dust. ‘Wasn’t it rather a lot of trouble to go to, just for a quick fuck? I mean, I don’t know what your standards are, in this area, but I didn’t think it was anything special.’
‘Well, of course, I’ve also had the pleasure of your company for the weekend. That’s not to be discounted. You’ll stay for some lunch, I hope?’
Phoebe drew in her breath sharply and advanced towards him. ‘You slimy little piece of shit. Phone for a taxi. Now.’
‘As you wish. I’ll tell him to wait at the bottom of the drive, shall I?’
Those were the last words he spoke to her. He closed the door behind him and left her alone, dumbfounded, dwarfed by the dimensions of the enormous room. But for the next few hours she managed to bottle up her rage and remained steel-eyed and silent. She said nothing to the driver who took her all the way to York station, keeping up an unbroken stream of small talk which to her racing mind was so much meaningless noise, like radio static. She said nothing to the other passengers on the train, or on the bus which took her back to the flat. It wasn’t until she returned to her bedroom and found, not only that it was still cluttered with Darren’s bodybuilding equipment but that there had been an accident with one of his dumb-bells, smashing the glass on her prized Kandinsky print, that she collapsed heavily on to the bed and gave herself over to tears: tears which were brief, cleansing and salty with hate.
Later that week, she phoned Mortimer and told him that she’d reconsidered his offer. He was so pleased that he raised her salary another two thousand on the spot.
∗
Now, more than a year later, standing in a corner of the gallery, her wineglass sticky in her hand, the wine itself warm and no longer palatable, she saw no reason to regret her decision. She was glad to have escaped the increasingly difficult atmosphere in the flat; and although Mortimer had turned out to be a demanding patient (prone to exaggerate his ailments wildly) and a disagreeable companion (incapable of concentrating for long on any subject other than his obsessive, almost murderous hatred for his family), she only had to be with him for a few hours every day. The rest of the time she was free to do her own work, and had been given a large, well-lit room on the second floor to use as a studio. It was a solitary existence, but she was allowed to have friends to stay, and to take the occasional weekend off. She missed the self-respect and the sense of usefulness she had felt as a health visitor, but consoled herself with the thought that it would not be long before she went back to it. Not that she had any intention of deserting Mortimer, who had come to depend on her more and more. But it was obvious, now, that his next serious illness would be his last.
So far as she knew, Roddy himself had no idea that she had taken this job: he hadn’t been up to Winshaw Towers once since their weekend together. When Mortimer’s birthday came round again, Roddy had discharged his filial duty by sending him a card and an invitation to the gallery’s latest private view, in the full knowledge that his wheelchair-bound father would not be able to attend. Mortimer had passed the invitation over to Phoebe with a grim smile, and given her permission to attend if she wanted to. And so here she was.
Now, sick of being ignored by the other guests, she was on the point of going over and reintroducing herself to Michael when she saw that he ind his companion were putting on their coats and preparing to go. Leaving her half-empty glass on a table top, she pushed through the crowd and followed them outside. They were already halfway down the street, deep in conversation; there was no point running after them. She watched as they disappeared round a corner, then shivered and buttoned up her jacket. November was beginning to bite. She looked at her watch and saw that she still had time to catch the last train to York.
November 1990
‘Let us leave this sordid gathering,’ said Findlay, taking me by the arm. He gestured at the pictures. ‘These gewgaws, these baubles, these gaudy trinkets of a decayed society, let us affront our eyes with them no more. The stench of ill-gotten affluence and self-satisfaction overpowers me. I can’t stomach the company of these people a moment longer. Some fresh air, for pity’s sake.’
With this he propelled me towards the door, and out into the fresh, wintry Piccadilly night. As soon as we were outside he leaned heavily against the wall, the back of one hand pressed to his forehead while the other fanned his drawn and pallid face.
‘That family,’ he moaned. ‘I can’t be in their presence for more than a few minutes without feeling physically sickened. Nauseous.’
‘There were only two of them,’ I pointed out.
‘It’s a good thing: otherwise I might have been recognized. Some of the Winshaws have got memories which go back a long way. It’s because they’ve got such dreadful secrets to hide.’
Only Roddy and Hilary had attended the private view, and neither of them – despite having met me on a number of occasions – had stooped to acknowledge my presence. At any other time I might have made a point of forcing myself on their attention, but tonight I was too busy taking the measure of my new acquaintance. He was a small man, his shoulders stooped and his body tightened in the grip of his ninety-odd years; but the gusto with which he wielded his gold-topped cane, and his spectacular head of white, sculpted hair managed to give the lie to his age. It was also impossible not to notice, at the very first, the overwhelming scent of jasmine in which (as he later explained) he was wont to douse himself before stepping out of doors, so that at least one of the riddles which had been haunting me these last few weeks was now finally laid to rest.
‘Now, Mr Owen –’ he began.
‘Michael, please.’
‘Michael. We must proceed with our business. I can feel myself recovering. The strength seeps back into my feeble bones. I can almost walk. Where’s it to be?’
‘I really don’t mind.’
‘There are a number of pubs round here, of course, where gentlemen of my own persuasion like to congregate. But perhaps this isn’t the right time. We don’t want to be distracted, after all. Privacy is of the utmost importance. I have a car parked a few streets away, provided the boys in blue haven’t removed it by force. I’m no great admirer of the police, we’ve been at loggerheads for many years; it’s one of the things you’ll soon find out about me. My flat is in Islington. Twenty minutes’ drive, or thereabouts. How does that suit you?’
‘Sounds fine.’
‘I hope you’ve brought the necessary documentation,’ he said, as we began walking along Cork Street.
He was referring to the yellowed scrap of paper, the note scribbled nearly fifty years ago by Lawrence Winshaw which his sister Tabitha, in her simplicity, had believed to provide certain proof of his guilt, but I must say that his insistence on this point struck me as rather brazen. Here was a man who had recently stolen my manuscript from the publisher’s office, followed me home twice and almost scared Fiona to death. To be sure, his letter had been apologetic enough, but still it didn’t seem to me that he was in much of a position to dictate terms.
‘I’ve brought it,’ I said. ‘I haven’t decided yet whether I’m going to show it to you.’
‘Come, come, Michael,’ said Findlay, patting me reprovingly on the leg with his cane. ‘We’re in this together. We both have the same objective – to arrive at the truth: and we’ll get there quicker if we cooperate. So, my methods are a little irregular. They always have been. You can’t change the habits of a lifetime: and a lifetime is almost how long I’ve been working on this case.’
‘Surely there’ve been others in between?’
‘Oh, a little debt-collecting here, a little divorce work there. Nothing worthy the name of detection. My career, you see, has been a little – how shall I put this – sporadic. My professional activities have frequently had to be suspended for reasons of … well, pleasure.’
‘Pleasure?’
‘Her Majesty’s pleasure, to be precise. The jug. The slammer. I’ve spent a goodly part of my life in prison, Michael: in fact, believe it or not, I had a two-month suspended sentence handed down to me only this year. I am, as the saying goes, on a bender.’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘An ironic turn of phrase, when you consider that all this persecution, this hounding that I have been subject to all my life, is what I have to pay for the sake of a few happy moments snatched every now and again in the darkness of a public toilet or the waiting room of a suburban railway station. Can you believe this society of ours would be so cruel? To punish a man for the most natural of cravings, for indulging his forlorn, lonely need to find companionship with the occasional passing stranger. It’s not our fault if it can’t always take place behind closed doors; if the arrangements sometimes have to be a little on the ad hoc side. We didn’t choose to be driven into this corner, after all.’ His tone, which had been edging its way towards anger, suddenly quietened. ‘Anyway, this is all by the by. No, this has not been my only case for the last thirty years, to answer your question, but it’s the only one which I haven’t brought to a successful conclusion. Not that I don’t have my suspicions, my own personal theories. But what we are lacking is proof.’
‘I see. And what exactly are these personal theories of yours?’
‘Well, that’s going to take a little while to explain. Let’s wait until we get to the car, at least. Do you work out, Michael? Attend a gym, or anything like that?’
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘It’s just that you have unusually firm buttocks. For a writer, that is. It was the first thing I noticed about you.’