Life Goes On (41 page)

I turned from the next pointless conversation and bumped into my mother.

‘Don't you know me, then?' She kissed me and I hugged her tightly on the understanding that if I did any less I would have her following me around. It was almost seven o'clock and I had a date with Ettie and Phyllis at half past. All the same, my instinct told me to run, though not because I didn't love her. In fact, when I banged into the startling wild-haired creature I thought she was just another appurtenance to the publishing profession, and only her brassy hilarity prevented me from assuming she was Punk-three. In that fatal few-seconds flash between first sight and the death of perception which comes from recognition, I saw this willowy, sallow-faced, attractive, well-worn forty-year-old (she was fifty-five) to whom I was about to say a few flirtatious words before making my way to someone else. ‘Gilbert told me you were back.'

Her beads rattled. ‘I've just been talking to him, but he told me to fuck off. He's got some hopes. He was chatting up that syphilitic racketeer Lord Moggerhanger. I don't know what he wants out of him. He's the biggest whoremonger in Europe.' Punk-one and Punk-two were standing by, but Moggerhanger was too far off to hear. ‘I came all the way back from that lesbian commune in Turkey to be present at my husband's twenty-fifth book party, and the prick-head tries to ignore me.'

She took a glass of champagne from a tray swaying by like a magic carpet, and drank it like sherbet, then grabbed another. Dark hair crinkled down her shoulders, and her kind of beige sack dress was festooned with clinging gew-gaws. She asked how Bridgitte was, and I told her the score. ‘You lucky bleeder,' she laughed. ‘Bridgitte was always too good to live with you. How are you going to support yourself now?'

‘I'm working for Moggerhanger.'

She put the champagne glass into a haversack decorated with CND symbols. ‘Well, if you go to prison like you did last time, don't write and tell me. Only don't let him send you to Turkey and get you put in jail there. You may be my son, but I wouldn't like that. I used to belong to the Society for Cutting Up Men, but now I belong to the Society for Cutting Up Turks, and that means most Englishmen as well.'

Punk-one interposed her presence. ‘Can I introduce myself?'

My mother put an arm round her. ‘Any time, love. Do you want me to write a book?'

I slid away. My intention had been to cut it fine by leaving at seven twenty-five and taking a taxi to meet Ettie and Phyllis, but at seven fifteen I heard a loud shrill voice: ‘And you couldn't fuck half a pomegranate stuck in a lift door!'

What was I to do? Pull her away and take her home? Such a suggestion would earn me a champagne glass thrown in my direction, which is what happened to Blaskin. The scuffle sounded like someone sandpapering the floor. A circle opened. People were shouting, but above all came Blaskin's wounded roar: ‘I divorce you, I divorce you, I divorce you!'

He was blind Samson pulling out the props. An unliterary silence cleared the room even of tinkling glass. ‘Don't touch me,' she said, ‘or I'll kill you.'

‘Put that glass down.'

‘Show me you love me, then.'

‘Did I ever love anyone else?'

‘You might be a writer,' she shouted, as if just back from her elocution lesson, ‘but you're an upper-class twit to me. You stick pins in people to make 'em jump, so's you can write about 'em. Right now you're writing your twenty-sixth. I know you, prick-head! I can see that little tape-recorder going behind your left eyelash.'

His moan ascended to a scream. ‘You push me back into the slime!'

‘It's where you belong, you arse fucker. That's all you ever wanted.'

A great Oooooh! went up.

‘That was to stop you becoming a lesbian,' he threw back.

‘Any woman's a lesbian who lays eyes on you.'

‘I don't need you anymore,' he laughed. ‘I'm at an age when I can get all the young women I like.'

‘So am I!'

I made a track through to her. ‘Come away. You're going too far.'

Both had tears on their faces. If this sort of session was in store for me at fifty-five I wanted to run to the nearest bridge and jump in. Or I would accept any dangerous assignment that Moggerhanger could dish out. ‘Not half as far as that dirty bastard went. He's English to the core, which means he's worse than any Turk.'

‘You're ruining my career.' Blaskin hid behind his hands, though I suspect he was laughing. I didn't wait. They were quite capable of looking after themselves. I envied them, in a way, while never wanting to be so outspoken. It was unfortunate, I thought, as I ran out and put my hand up for a taxi, that a man of thirty-five had to have parents, and just my luck that the quarrelsome pair would live so long that I'd no doubt still be a son at seventy-five.

Twenty-One

As soon as I was away from them the pall lifted. In any case, there's something inspiring about the London crowds seen from the inside of a taxi on a weekday evening when it's still daylight. A girl ran across our track to get to Eros as we rounded the Circus, and lighted advertisements were already flashing, hardly dimmed by the sun. There was a feeling of luxury and well-being, and I would have told the driver to take me up Regent Street and down Gower Street to get to Covent Garden, except that it would have made me late. Some taxi drivers are a rough lot, but I've always had a soft spot for the way they earn their living. ‘You just come from that Blaskin party, mate?' he asked, pushing back his window.

‘Yes. A good do.'

‘Is he drunk yet?'

‘Nearly.'

He laughed. ‘There are two Mr Blaskins. One is when he's in a taxi, and then he's as good as gold. Another is when he's in his own car. Then he's a devil, and you'd better keep clear. But we like him. You always know where you are with Mr Blaskin. A real sport. I only wish I could say the same for his brother.'

I swallowed twice, and craved a double brandy. ‘Brother?'

‘The Reverend George Blaskin. Must be older than Mr Gilbert, sixty-five, I should think. He's a mean and cantankerous old so-and-so, believe me. I don't think they get on well. He's always trying to save Mr Gilbert's soul and between you and me I think he's got his work cut out. I heard them arguing once when I was driving them to Paddington. The Reverend George is a little thin chap with thick white hair, and he was really hammering Mr Gilbert. I could have laughed. Gilbert said he had no soul. Mind you, his sister can be an awkward customer as well.'

I nearly opened the door and jumped out. ‘Sister?'

‘Gertrude Blaskin. She's the matron of a hospital. I wouldn't like to get on the wrong side of her. She's six foot, give or take an inch. I saw her arguing with Gilbert on the pavement once outside the National Gallery and she hit him with her umbrella, but Mr Blaskin grabbed hold of her and gave her a terrible blow at the back of the neck, then pushed her into my taxi as I drew up. What a family. I thought mine was bad enough.'

‘Are you sure he's got a brother and sister?'

‘Certain. But they don't see much of each other, and I can understand why. There's no doubt about the relationship – they hate each other enough.'

I was appalled at the thought of such an aunt and uncle, but had no time to ruminate on the fact because at seven twenty-nine we pulled up by Covent Garden station. Being thirty seconds too early, neither Ettie nor Phyllis were there. I paced up and down. Things had been so hectic at Blaskin's party that I'd only had two champagnes, and my mouth was as dry as a tinderbox. A smell of beer wafted up the street, and I was pondering on the delights of a quick quart when I saw Phyllis coming through the crowds. ‘Where's Ettie?' I gave her a kiss on her lovely red lips.

‘She had a headache, so I sent her home.'

‘Where does she live?'

‘She's staying in my flat, till she can find a room. Anyway, she'll get Huz and Buz to bed, and meet us at Raddisher's in half an hour.'

The names rang two bells. ‘Huz and Buz?'

‘Bloody hell-raisers, but she knows how to keep them under. She's a proper little madame, Ettie is, when she sets her mind to it. Which way shall we go?'

‘Hungry?'

She nodded.

‘Famished?'

‘I'm starving.'

We walked to Raddisher's. I didn't know what to say, still jangled by the taxi driver's revelations, and in any case we couldn't stay side by side because of the crowds.

Across Charing Cross Road I took her arm. ‘I think I've heard of Huz and Buz before.'

‘They're in the Bible,' she said.

‘I mean – as living breathing people.'

I had phoned for a table at Raddisher's from Blaskin's, and we sat upstairs by a window. ‘I thought you said you owned the place.'

‘In a manner of speaking,' I said. ‘I come here so often it feels like it.'

‘I've only known another liar like you.'

‘What was his name?'

‘I forget.' The waitress took her tatty-looking coat with its rat-fur collar, and I wondered what I was doing with her when I'd seen such gorgeously turned out women at Blaskin's party. If my mother's Nottingham-style slanging match hadn't driven me away I might have gone home with Polly Moggerhanger.

Yet after a while, sitting opposite Phyllis at our small oblong table, looking at her lively dark eyes and cynically smiling mouth and high flushed cheekbones and little flattened nose, and her attractive bust sheathed in a white satin blouse from Littlewood's with an emerald Woolworth's plastic brooch holding it together, I changed my mind. ‘You're lovely. I'm glad you came alone. You know how I feel about you. Ever since I first saw you I've been in a fever of sexual excitement waiting to set eyes on you again. It was a wonder I didn't lay hands on myself.'

‘I was looking forward to it as well.' We reached for each other's hands over the table, stopped from going any further by the waitress asking if we would like to order.

‘I'll have the wine first, White Bordeaux. Then Newcastle Pope – or Pope's Newcastle – or Châteauneuf du Pape – a bottle of Jolly Red.'

‘What are you on about?' Her annoyance at my rigmarole looked like getting out of hand. Ettie came just in time, flushed and fair, her small face slightly worried in case she had missed something.

Phyllis ordered smoked salmon and tournedos steak, as if I was made of money, and Ettie followed her example, both of them wanting to throw off the demoralisation of the meatless place they worked at. I didn't mind, because Phyllis was worth spending all I had on, the sort of woman whose halfway good looks and exuberant spendthrift spirit would make any man feel cock of the walk. When we chinked glasses and began the meal she said: ‘Well then, what do you do for a living?'

‘I'm an estate agent, in Nottingham. I'm down here for a week, visiting friends.'

Ettie cut her smoked salmon into little squares, while Phyllis rolled hers up like a carpet and slid it in at one go. ‘What do estate agents do?'

‘A good question. Me, I'm the cat minder.'

‘Cat minder?'

‘It's a vital part of our organisation.' My seriousness convinced her. ‘Often when we show people around a flat or house they complain that a room isn't big enough to swing a cat in, so we decided to keep a few cats to prove that a room was – or was not, indeed – big enough to swing a cat in. We keep four, as a matter of fact. After that, most other estate agents copied us, and also kept cats.'

‘I didn't know.'

‘Haven't you noticed, when you go into an estate agent's office, a distinct reek of cats? It's not unpleasant, because they're very well housed. My job is to feed them, clean out their boxes and keep the log up to date.'

Phyllis finished off the buttered brown bread. ‘Log?'

I poured more wine. They knew how to knock it back. ‘A cat-log, in which is recorded the date, time, place and results of whenever the cat is taken out to be swung in a room to see how big it is.'

Ettie pressed her hands together. ‘Isn't it cruel?'

‘Well, no, not on a strict rota basis it isn't. And they're used to it. It's their life. They like the outings and look forward to the excitement. They only get used every two or three days. Not all clients argue about the size of a room, in any case. But if one expresses any doubt, or if we anticipate an argument we put the duty cat into the box and take him along. They're very intelligent. If the room's not big enough to swing a cat in, they're wonderful at missing the walls and avoiding bits of fireplace. They set up a meeow like a radar set to indicate that the room's too small, and then it goes back in the box. Once, though, when I was coming through the fishmarket old Whiskers got out. He leapt out of the bag, you might say. As to how I eventually got him back, that's a story for another day. I might tell it when the steak arrives.'

We finished the white, and the red came. ‘Enjoying it?'

‘Marvellous.'

Ettie's mouth was too full to speak, so she nodded. They half believed my cat nonsense, and if Phyllis didn't I could tell she liked me for taking the trouble to spin it. I half regretted not having worked such an idea into Blaskin's shit-novel, but you can't think of everything. The food and wine put some colour into Phyllis, and I stroked her cheek with my middle left finger. ‘You're the most splendid person I've ever met.'

It was obvious she had never been called splendid before, because her eyelashes went like butterfly wings. ‘I have a remote and charming little place called Peppercorn Cottage. One day we'll go there, you, me, Ettie as well as Huz and Buz. It's the most peaceful house you can imagine. How much longer are you both going to work at the Groundnut Café?'

‘I've got to earn my living,' Ettie said.