Before and After (2 page)

Bless.
I smiled at the sulky school girl and flicked over the page to her brother Harry, known as Hal. Was no-one called by their full name in this family? Hmm, just as I thought - a nineteen year old toying with the idea of university, but more likely to do the ubiquitous travelling bit for a year somewhere safe yet sunny, where he doesn’t have to learn another language, like Australia. Apart from his tendency to score pot from a dodgy dealer and an unconfessed liking for the art of a certain Mexican naive painter there wasn’t too much of interest here. Although he was undeniably handsome.

I
sipped more water and glanced at the grandfather clock, although why I don’t know. It had stopped over three years ago, but all the same, the mere act of skimming the surface of a clock face I find very soothing. I know, of course that it’s the height of bad manners to keep people waiting, but I often like to imagine that I am late, just to feel the frisson of tension mounting between my brows. I judged by the sun that I had at least another half hour before the taxi arrived. Of course, I
never
wear a wrist watch, they are the height of commonness in my mind.

Mr
Amble was next.

I
stared at the photograph till I had his image fixed in my mind. I then set light to it, and watched it burn in a Murano glass ashtray that I keep by my chair for this very purpose.

He
was a tall man, well over six foot. His thick black hair seemed at odds with his very English way of dressing, and yet… there was something about him that breathed of the boulevards. It may have been the angle of his head that suggested a hint of, what? A rake? No, nothing as strong as that, but a ladies man, I would guess, from the clear, knowing bright blue eyes and the silk handkerchief peeking from his pocket. He was standing in front of an ornate fountain that was spurting flumes of water, holding towards the camera a glass of what looked like red wine, smiling gently and lifting his eyes as if sharing a joke with a good friend who had recently taken up residence in heaven.

I
peeked at his notes, but was arrested by an undeniable rumble from my stomach. Oh dear. Perhaps this called for the yoghurt and apple remedy? I tilted my head and consulted my inner self. Damn. Yes. I thought so. I pushed the rest of the notes into my bag, I would read them in the car and went to my bathroom. I have to be
so
careful with my health, but then, who doesn’t?

I emerged twenty minutes later, lighter in weight and spirit. I gave a cursory glance at the notes whilst I was waiting for Ray. A photograph of Mrs Amble fell out on the floor.

Poor
woman.

One
look was enough really. A slightly hurt pair of eyes gazed out from long hair that had not a few grey streaks in it. She was sitting on a chair that was slightly in front of a large decorated Christmas tree (trimmed, I noted with interest, by professionals as there was no margin on that tree for childish sentimentality. It was a hideous affair in pink and frosted glass) She had a parcel in her lap and was caught looking at the camera with a bewildered expression. One that said – I know that this is meant to be fun - but when does it start? Her make-up was at least five years too young for her and the size of the diamond on her fingers merely seemed to weigh her down rather than create any sparkle or gleam, as it would have done with any other woman aware of the carats so carelessly dangling from her fingers.

I
heard a rustle behind me and saw from the corner of my eye Percy, my cat, lounging in the shadows. A pure bred Siamese, he knew when it was time to say goodbye. I formally patted him on his head and bade him go to Cecilia’s down the road, where he would be welcome. I couldn’t take the risk of having him with me this time. He hadn’t behaved at all well on my last mission, although to be fair, his distaste of the amount of insects that were to be found in that house fully justified a bit of cat vandalism.

He
twisted himself around my legs and without a glance backwards headed out of the door that I opened for him. Training a cat can be very tiresome indeed, but, I do have a knack for making animals (and I count humans in this category) do what I want them to do. I call it bending them to my will. It sounds nicer, don’t you think? How do I do it? I think it’s a little too soon in our acquaintance for me to divulge secrets, but I will tell you that a wonderful Hungarian book (now sadly out of print, but can no doubt be tracked down by the zealous book lover amongst the stalls of antique books that line Charing Cross Road) called
Mesmerism
and
Mantras
to
Enslave
by Count Emmanuel are part of my powers. Chapter Eleven is particularly efficacious. The eye commands are helped by the judicious use of greatly diluted belladonna, and I always keep a small bottle of the tincture about my person.

I
heard a car engine outside and stepped into the daylight, feeling the surge of blood in my head that told me I was ready for my new task ahead.

A
rusting estate car, held together with rope and wire stood at the curb and a large man with no hair, wearing a sweat stained shirt jumped from the driver’s seat.

I
stared at him in dismay. This was
not
my usual driver. This was
not
Ray.

He
advanced towards me, looking, I noticed, equally as dismayed. Perhaps he thought I was going to a funeral?

He
pointed to a badge on the lapel of his jacket which proclaimed in a Gill Sans typescript, if I’m not mistaken, the single word Jake. I continued to stare at him, not having the heart to tell him that his name was a derivation of the word lavatory. I eventually summoned up the wherewithal to shake his proffered hand.

We
stood shaking hands for a while, and he said, “Miss Tate?”

I
nodded.

“So
then, I was told you’d be waiting and they weren’t wrong. Yer usual man, he’s off on his holidays and so you’ve got me. Big trunk, is it? I was told about that, too. Well, point me in the right direction and we’ll be off.”

I
gestured towards the hallway and helpfully held the door open for him. I pride myself on making the best of, and though bitterly disappointed that my lovely driver was not to be, I shouldered the frustration and prepared to pull towards the main goal, which was, of course, shopping and the delivery of myself to the Ambles.

Jake
struggled with the trunk till beads of sweat appeared on the roll of pink naked flesh above his shirt collar, but eventually with a lot of grunting and puffing, the trunk was installed in the car.

Jake
held the car door open with a congenial, if slightly malodorous air, and said, “Now, have you got everything? Have you locked the back door, cancelled the milk, got yer passport, wallet, spectacles and testicles as they say?”

I
gave a tight smile to indicate that I had indeed done everything, and was not immune to his attempts at ready conversation, though really I had no wish to encourage it.

I
settled myself in the lumpy back seat of the car and stared at the green painted front door of my house. I am always loathed to leave home even though I should be used to it by now. Moving, as I do, every ten years, is a trying experience, to say the least.

“Now
then Miss Tate, I was told that you always do some shoppin’ an’ that first, so where are we goin’?”

I
considered the Ambles notes, but with a lurch of a well gunned accelerator the wind from the open car window whipped them from my hand, letting them flutter over the pavements of London like giant confetti.

Plugs
and parsons and all things vile.

“Sorry
Miss?”

I
hadn’t been aware that I had said the curse aloud, but then age makes us all muttering idiots,
n’est
-
ce
pas
?

Ah
well,
tant
pis
and all of that. The notes were beginning to bore me anyway. Archie and Sylvia Amble, two children and a dog. Blah blah blah. How difficult could it be?

I
always arrive bearing presents to my new family and I take great care in choosing them, but, I’m also flexible. I like to have something concrete in mind, but I am willing to be seduced by the moment, to capture the fleeting pleasure of spying the perfect object in an unlikely shop window. I considered the family that I was about to descend on like a fallen angel. My stomach gave a little churn.

“Oh,
do you know Jake, I think the first port of call is Warwick Avenue taxi rank, we’ll stop there to fortify ourselves with some sausages and mash before our arduous task ahead, they do the best sausages in London, do you know it? Hmm, I thought you might. I find I cannot think properly when I’m hungry, so first things first, the rumble of the stomach should always be pandered to, even when inconvenient, so let’s go,
on
y
va
!”

We achieved the cab stand in record time, considering the amount of traffic, and I was greeted by Mr Warren, the cook there, as a long lost friend. Jake and I settled down to sausages, and I tasted the mustard first.

“Mustard,”
I pronounced, “Is the measure, or standard, if you will, of any catering establishment, if the mustard is OK, then the cook is OK, the stock market is OK, London, the country and God are all OK.”

I
let the fieriness roll around my mouth for a while, savouring the sudden clearness of my nasal passages.

“OK?”
Jake said anxiously, waiting for my reaction.

I
smiled at him, and saw that he breathed a sigh of relief.

Rule Number Two

“
The
care
in
selecting
gifts
for
others
reflects
the
measure
of
our
affection
and
esteem
for
them
.
Therefore
only
spend
money
and
time
on
the
people
you
truly
‘
love’
.”

I decided on Liberty’s for a spot of shopping for the gifts (one should never arrive empty handed anywhere, although I sometimes bring with me something more than mere presents) and told Jake to wait by the entrance. He wanted to go and ‘park up’ but I insisted that he wait exactly where I told him. I never have any need of a personal shopper (a strange concept, I always think) and know the store intimately. After all it’s hardly changed since 1864, and the familiar black and white shop, although rambling, is child’s play to any dedicated retail addict. I swooped around the book section for a while - is there a nicer smell in the world than that of sparkling newly printed pages? I doubt it - and bought a book of black and white photographs on the history of the garden shed.

The
make-up department kindly provided me with a comprehensive range of products for Arabella, all packaged in a smooth silky gilt and purple enamel which was swoonable over. I looked longingly at the impressionistic eye shadows but firmly gave myself a shake and moved on.

Archie
benefited from a Florentine leather folder to house his no doubt undisclosed bank statements in, cleverly fitted with a minute lock that two miniscule keys dangled from, I naturally secreted one of them and mused, not for the first time on the sheer cleverness and inventiveness of the Northern Italians when it came to leather work. Not just leather of course: their poisons, assassins, witchcraft and way with every sort of almond confectionary, have all touched our lives in one way or another.

I
bought Hal a sensuous silver key fob, it was the sort of thing that an Edwardian godfather might have given him for a minor birthday, but then Hal has never had the pleasure of a godfather (the Ambles were curiously unreligious, not even observing the niceties of tribal rituals that all the other middle class parents obeyed. That much I had managed to glean from the notes. I wasn’t even sure if the children had been christened. Usually, in a family like the Ambles that was the ‘done’ thing, even if just for the sheer amount of silver swag they’d accrue).

I
hesitated over Sylvia, she was undeniably a bit of a problem. A green chamois leather duffle bag caught my eye, and whilst stroking the pelt like substance of the bag I was seduced into buying it. I wasn’t quite sure about it, though, and needed a back-up. A feathered and glittery tiara and a pink net skirt would do. I thoroughly recommend a trip to the teenage girls shop across the road from Liberty’s by the by, a most exciting and
inexpensive
emporium. Girl Heaven, I believe it’s called. Sheer bliss. What? Too young for Sylvia Amble, you say? Nonsense. Who amongst us females can resist a bit of glitter? Or the charming word,
bling
, which I’ve recently learnt.

I
pushed my way through a group of Japanese tourists and hurled the packages in the back of the cab. Jake was relieved to see me and told me tales of policeman and traffic wardens. I waved away his complaints and ordered him to Selfridges food hall where I made a very quick stop for jars of sauerkraut and a quantity of salt beef. I also found time to use the quaintly named powder room to reapply my lipstick.

I
find lipsticks
the
most trying thing to buy, and now order mine by quantity online. I have never deviated from the colour, which I suppose you
could
describe as raspberry, but I like to give it its true name which is # 003 in matt velvet. Very few shops stock it now, too expensive they say, but quality always comes at a price.

I
ordered Jake to drive through Regents Park, on the way to the Ambles, as we were a little ahead of schedule. I always arrive at an awkward time for my new clients. I find it keeps people on their toes. Three in the afternoon is very trying indeed, too late for lunch and yet too early for tea. I usually go straight to my room for a siesta, and let them speculate about me for a while.

The
car stopped outside the house, it was unfortunate that Jake managed to hit the curb, knocking over an injudiciously placed flower pot, it did seem to rather mar the entrance but I brushed aside the unworthy thought and dismounted from the back of his aged car as gracefully as I could. Jake nervously told me the fare. I counted out the notes, and watched, as yet again, Jake struggled with my trunk towards the front door. The house had a pretty glass and wrought iron-covered walkway, a portico, quite common in these parts of St. Johns Wood. Originally designed to hide mistresses from prying eyes, they now form part of a very convenient feature that stops prams and shopping being rained upon. Ivy twirled its way round the front door and the white painted window sills held empty window boxes. The paintwork was a little faded and peeling slightly in places, giving the house the air of faint neglect. The curtains, too, looked as though they could do with a wash.

I
sniffed cautiously, any whiff of drains would have me running for my scent spray. I gingerly poked the leaf covered drain with the tip of my parasol, after all, you can never be too careful with your own comfort and health. No, nothing in the air other than the slight tang of a bonfire from somewhere. That and the smell of a disappointed household, not sad, you understand, just vaguely
thwarted
somehow.

I
said goodbye to Jake, and he told me that - “it had been a bleedin’ pleasure. Miss Tate, an absolute pleasure. And I’ll remember what you said about me posture, I do get a bad back now and again.”

He
waved genially at me and gave a little tootle on his hooter as a farewell. The sound caused a few neighbours to look up, horrified at the rusty car that was polluting their pristine street. I waved amiably to them and then as swiftly and as professionally as an apothecary, dripped a few drops of the tincture into my eyes and then knocked at the door with my parasol, I heard Marmaduke give a half-hearted bark. It was the noise of a dog who knew that he should try just a little bit harder, but really couldn’t be that bothered. I heard advancing footsteps and braced myself for my first meeting with an Amble.

Sylvia
Amble opened the front door herself, looking faintly nervous. She pushed her hair out of her eyes with one hand, whilst hanging onto Marmaduke’s collar with the other. The dog was wagging its tail and making welcoming yelps. I immediately sat down on the door step and introduced myself to him, feeding him slices of the salt beef which I had kept in my hand.

“Do
excuse me for a moment, won’t you?” I said to Sylvia, “Only I think that Marmaduke is going to be most put out if I don’t greet him first.”

I
busied myself with the dog, feeding him slice after slice of the meat which disappeared into his gaping pink mouth. I heard Sylvia Amble give a nervous sort of appeasing laugh, and felt her hover behind me. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her shoes, which were a scuffed dark leather with pointy toes. I watched her feet shuffle about a bit, and after stroking the dog’s head and whispering in his ear so that he could get a good fix on me, I eventually stood up.

I
held my hand out and put my head on one side.

“Flora
Tate, I believe you are expecting me?” I said with a smile, making sure that I only released my grip when she had looked me in the eyes for a good two seconds or so. It was a shame that she would never remember the colour of them. Green. The colour of unripe gooseberries, should you be interested.

“Yes,
yes, how do you do? Please, do come in, your luggage, is that it? I think perhaps my husband might have to carry that –“

“Oh
yes, the trunk? It
is
rather cumbersome, but then, modern travel is really very tricky, isn’t it? Yes, let’s leave it for Mr Amble, shall we?”

I
stepped smartly into the hallway and made my way past Sylvia and headed towards the kitchen. I heard her make small surprised sounds behind me, and guessed that she was trying to usher me into a reception room. I heard her pattering feet, like those of an alarmed field mouse, scamper behind me.

I
passed several dark, badly executed family portraits along the walls, and pushed a swing door open at the end of the hall. Maria Kandinsky was standing at the kitchen sink, her arms immersed to the elbows in soapy water. I gave her a greeting in her native tongue and placed the jars of sauerkraut on the table.

Her
mouth fell open in surprise and her eyes widened with pleasure. I smiled at her and left her to her watery business. I saw her watching me as I left the room, with a degree of puzzlement in her eyes. Well, she’d soon get used to my ways.

Sylvia
Amble was wringing her hands in the hallway, looking, if it’s at all possible, even more anxious than before. Really, had she never had a guest before?

“Perhaps
you’d like to show me to my room?” I said, taking pity on her.

“Oh
yes, yes, of course. You may like to wash after your journey, was it a long way? I’m not sure I know where you’ve actually come from –“

“The
ferry crossing
was
a little rough,” I confided, running my hand over the smooth surface of the dark wooden handrail, noting that the banisters were in need of a polish, “but the captain assured us we were in no danger and then I do keep a packet of ginger biscuits with me when at sea.” My long skirt flowed rather nicely behind me as I trailed up the stairs behind her, and she turned to give me a look of surprise. I wound my cashmere throw a little closer about me and continued after her. I reminded myself that she had no reason to suppose that I had only been in Jake’s cab for an hour or so, and a little sympathy after a rough sea crossing never goes amiss, don’t you think?

Sylvia
turned right at the top of the stairs and continued down a wide pale yellow corridor, she stopped at the third door on the left and opened it.

“I
do hope this is OK,” she said, indicating the room.

I
carefully stepped inside. It was pleasant enough, but it wouldn’t do. Not at all.

“I’m
afraid not Mrs Amble, it simply faces the wrong way.” I took out a compass from my handbag, and flipped it open showing it to her. (Just between ourselves I only have the faintest idea how to read a compass, but say anything with enough authority and most people are fooled) “You see, when I went to see Dr Cavilleri, do you know him, by the way? Oh charming,
charming
man, perhaps we’ll dine with him whilst I’m here. He assures me that part of my sleeping problem lies in the direction that the head faces during REM, so, let’s see the rest of the bedrooms, shall we?”

I
re-traced my steps, and paused when I thought I was outside the master bedroom. I flung the door open, and had my thoughts confirmed. A large double bed, heaped with rosy satin spreads and eiderdowns stood in splendid isolation on a shiny floor of cherry wood parquet. A bow window draped in muslin, a dressing table with a silver vase of freesias, and framed photographs that stood on top of a chest of drawers let me know I was in the main bedroom.

“Perfect!”
I said, showing her the compass again.

I
snapped the instrument shut and briskly turned my back on her. I started to take out the presents I had bought with me, laying them one by one on the bed. I narrowed my eyes and gave Sylvia Amble every chance to reclaim her territory, but she didn’t take it.

“Oh.
Um, I see, well, I suppose, we could – well, yes. I’ll have to move a few things out of here – of course, I always wanted the bedroom the other side of the house, but Archie insisted …” Her voice trailed off and she started to walk towards what I guessed to be a bathroom, located in the corner of the room. (I never, ever use the vulgar term,
en
suite
, and I urge you to do likewise. Eschew it firmly)

“Oh,
no need to do it now,” I said, unwinding my shawl and taking my turban off.

Sylvia
gasped as my hair was revealed and I stood, kindly letting her view it, before I hid it from sight again. It is I know a shocking sight. Sometimes, I catch sight of it myself and it even surprises
me
. It is the colour of the hottest part of a flame. A bright, light dancing gold. It flows in fluid ripples down my back.

The
length of my hair never changes. It has remained level with my hips for so long that I sometimes think it has simply stopped growing. It’s as if it has reached the ultimate goal of perfection and has just voluntarily arrested its growth.