Before and After (23 page)

I
held the phone away from my ear and yawned. Blustering men are very tedious aren’t they?

Then
came my opportunity to say my
favourite
line of all time. Without exception.
Ever
.

“Blackmail
is a very ugly word, Sir George.” I paused, relishing the sounds of the words and trying quite hard not to laugh. Oh, the joy of speaking a line from a black and white film never fails to thrill, I can assure you. “Oh, and do give my best to Anthony Rockminster when you see him next, he’s
such
a duck isn’t he?”

A
moment of respite as Sir George’s rather grubby mind whirled into action. I had handy the number of Archie’s bank account into which Sir George could deposit the sum I had in mind. I was just about to trip the numbers prettily off my tongue when the conversation took a turn for the worse.

‘What?
What’s that you said? You and me and Lady Pat and Anthony should go to Paris for the weekend? Are you
mad
? No, out of the question. Archie’s expected in on Monday at a new office? In
Sidcup
? Wherever that is. At a reduced salary of
how
much
?’

I
staggered back and absorbed the shock. I tried hard not to let the horror of the situation sound in my voice. I marshalled all my resources to give Sir George some parting words of wisdom, after all, as you know by now, even in moments of crisis I’m
always
thinking of others.

“Very
well. Do give my regards to Lady Patricia, perhaps mention to her that a softer shade of chestnut wouldn’t go amiss the next time she tints her tresses. That copper hue is really far too cruel. Goodbye.”

Oh
dear.

Elbows
and dandruff and earwax and
pustules
.

Damn
the man.

I
decided to give myself the afternoon off. After all, I had worked very hard the past couple of days and all of us deserve a little recreation now and again. It was hardly
my
fault that things had gone awry. Now what would be a satisfactory reward? A matinee perhaps? West End theatres have a marvellous way of restoring energies. For a start, one can always think to oneself, thank goodness it’s not me making a fool of myself prancing about on stage trying to emote, and then there’s the added advantage of never bumping into anyone you know. Being caught at an afternoon performance by an acquaintance is so unlikely that you could bet your last marble on it. The entire audience is made up of coach-loads of lovely women from the shires clutching overpriced boxes of chocolates to their cashmere-covered bosoms. Delightful. I could well stop on the way at a book shop and browse through the latest offerings.

I
decided to make a swift get away before Archie stumbled downstairs. I called goodbye to Bella and pushed Marmaduke back in the front door as he was under the mistaken belief that dogs were allowed into an afternoon performance of As You Like It.

I
swung happily down the road, clicking smartly past the cream houses and the tidy trees. Glancing back I saw that the Ambles house now stood apart from the rest of the street as a blackened tooth does in a mouth of otherwise impeccable pearly gnashers. Scaffolding and a bright yellow skip stood outside like sentries guarding a dishevelled, but valuable, treasure trove. A heap of sand and a pile of bricks jostled for place with the ubiquitous builder’s white van, causing those neighbours that were around, to tut with annoyance at the lowering of standards in St Johns Wood. I bade one of them a cheerful good morning as I passed, causing her to automatically respond, though I could tell it was much against her will.

As
I turned into the high street I was accosted by a woman calling my name. I turned in surprise at being hailed in such a familiar manner by someone I didn’t recognise immediately.

“Flora,
Flora Tate? I thought it was you! I’ve been waiting for you, well, not exactly waiting, but hoping to see you” said Victoria Langley standing solidly in front of me, looking ready to pounce.

“Yes,
but I’m afraid I have no time to stop, I’m fearfully late for a hospital appointment,” I said, scanning the road for the welcome sight of a yellow for hire sign on a taxi.

“Well,
you’ll need company then, won’t you? Hospitals can be very depressing places and I’m just the sort of cheery person you need! I don’t have a thing to do today so –“

“Really,
there’s no need,” I said, making sure I made her meet my eyes. “I
adore
my gynaecologist, and it’s just the tiniest touch of syphilis, a few anti-whatsits and I’ll be fine.”

There
was a shocked pause and then the creature actually laughed. I know, incredible, isn’t it? I was even more agog when she had the effrontery to link arms with me. The cheek of the woman!

I
was astonished. Never have I been the victim of such relentless, enthusiastic, persecution. It was exhausting, she was as sticky and as hard to get rid of as honey on the tips of your fingers.

She
dragged me up the road with her, talking all the time. She seemed very keen to tell me about the spare room at her flat. God knows why. I hardly listened, being fully alert to the possibilities of escape.

I
only managed to disengage myself by rather rudely pushing her away from me as I jumped into a cab. But I remembered my manners and waved genially at her as she stumbled away from the fast-retreating taxi.

Rule Number Twenty Four

“
All
women
know
the
route
to
the
heart
of
a
man
.
But
a
woman’s
heart
lies
at
the
end
of
a
road
less
-
travelled
.
I
find
that
certain
signposts
can
be
put
along
the
way
.
These
are
instructive
and
best
kept
short
.
They
include
: ‘
Stop’
, ‘
Don’t
Stop’
.
And
‘
Harder’
.”

The play was pleasant enough, although I do despise modern day dress in Shakespeare. It seems such a
wasted
opportunity. There aren’t many chances nowadays to see sumptuous fabrics and velvet bodices, not to mention codpieces, in every day life nowadays. I assume the director knew what he was doing, though I think the ladies of the shires agreed with me in my vociferous comments during the interval, where we all took the opportunity to compliment one another on our highbrow choice of performance and to chomp away like mad on brazil nut toffees.

To
get my blood coursing through my veins after so long sitting in one position on a cramped, badly-upholstered, tiny Edwardian theatre seat, I decided to walk home. I like to mingle now and again with the populace of London, and what better way than to mill around the streets of our capital? I breathed in greedily the smell of humanity. I felt starved of such anonymous freedom, and realised that I had been surrounded by one family and their attendant bit players for some time now. Never a good thing. I become inordinately fond of others, just by the sheer propinquity of sharing their day to day lives, and by having such a kind loving nature I suppose.

I
let myself be jostled and crowded by the crush of commuters and office workers, shop assistants and media players that throng Covent Garden these days. What a difference from when it had been a far distant, risqué, horse and carriage sort of place. The cobbles were the same though, and I could still connect to the past, with just a leather sole between my flesh and the past delights of the infamous streets.

By
the time I reached St Johns Wood I was thirsty and decided to go straight to The Plumbers Arms and await Fiachra. The pub was familiar to me now after my meeting with the weasel, so I sat snugly down in the corner next to a very welcome fire (admittedly electric and not apple log, but nonetheless warm) and waited. I attracted a few stares, but I am quite used to that, and sipped my drink and read a newspaper till the door opened blowing in the cold evening air and a newly washed and brushed up Irish builder.

Fiachra’s
face split into a wide grin when he saw me, revealing the crooked teeth and chipped enamel that Bella evidently found so fascinating. He had the air of young man who might just have in his pocket a winning lottery ticket.

I
stood to my feet and kissed his cheek in a pantomime of delighted greeting. I caught a whiff of after shave and noted that his teeth, although crooked, had at least the benefit of being rinsed with a strong mouthwash.

“
Evenin’ miss, I mean Miss Tate, I mean –“

“Flora
will do quite well, do sit down and let me buy you a drink,” I said coming to his rescue.

I
went to the bar and gave a cold stare to the landlord who had just witnessed this exchange, and had tried to win me over by allowing me to be the recipient of a huge, grossly intimate wink. He had the grace to blush slightly as I continued to stare uncomprehendingly at him and I asked for a pint of Guinness in a clear, high voice. Did this beery little man really think that I was having a secret assignation with the likes of Fiachra?
Really
. The indignities that I suffer for my work. I continued to stare at him as we waited for the creamy black liquid to settle in the glass.

“Umm,
won’t be long. Anything else I can get you?” The landlord asked, desperately trying to sound confident but failing to stem the flood of colour that was suffusing his swollen neck and stubbly jowls. I debated whether or not I should continue in tormenting the man, and decided, frankly, the answer was yes.

“Indeed.
I think I’d like a long slow comfortable screw against the wall, please.” I answered in a clear carrying voice - with, dare I say it? - an immensely posh accent.

I
had the immense pleasure of watching the beer-bellied landlord flush an even deeper red.

“Umm,
yes, yes of course, that’ll be umm, vodka and –“

“One
ounce of sloe gin, vodka, and southern comfort, a lot of ice, top with orange juice and float a little Galliano on the top.” I said crisply, earning myself a few wolf whistles from some of the regulars at the bar, who had witnessed the exchange.

The
landlord helplessly took down a pint mug and began to fill it with ice searching the dusty rows of never used bottles on the top shelf for anything he could use.

The
calls of abuse were strong in the bar as his cronies mocked his cocktail-making skills.

“Bloody
‘ell, hardly Tom Cruise is ‘e?”

“The
lady don’t want it in a mug you Muppet!”

“Ooh,
get him. Got any cherries?”

“Come
on Nigel, pull yer finger out, she ain’t got all night, have you love?”

I
smiled at these sallies and watched Nigel flounder behind the bar for a few moments.

“Never
mind, it seems
far
too much trouble for you. Perhaps I’ll have a Guinness myself, but just a half pint as I find stout mildly diuretic, don’t you?” I said pleasantly.

“Indeed
yes miss, umm, I’m sure I do, I’ll bring ‘em over to you. No, no, these are on the house,” Nigel said waving away my outstretched ten pound note with relief at finally having poured a drink.

I
gave a small smile of minor triumph as I repaired to my fireside seat. I tried to chide myself for feeling triumphant after this minor routing, but really, who amongst us can claim to be otherwise on such occasions? The snubbing of a rude shop assistant can be as gratifying as the successful execution of a public speech.

I
settled down with Fiachra and began quizzing him. After just a few questions the most marvellous stroke of luck came my way. Of course, I don’t
really
believe in anything so arbitrary as luck. Let’s call it serendipity or plain old fate, but there it was staring me in the face.

“Well,
you see miss, it’s not that I don’t like the work, but still now, someone’s got to send the money home and with the others still in school and me mam strugglin’ with the rent on the bakers, ‘tis only right that –“

“Bakers?”
I interrupted eagerly.

My
mind fled to a country bakers shop in the green wet villages of Ireland. Grey stone cottages and a few donkeys, old men playing dominoes, women in aprons rushing in for some soda bread or potato scones. Perhaps a few geese dotted like small cotton wool blobs on a distant hilly field? I was hardly to know that the baker’s in question was in the middle of a what can only be called an industrial landscape north of Cork.

“Yes.
With me da dead and buried this last year, god rest his soul, me ma’s findin’ it very hard indeed.”

“Yes,
she would.” I said vaguely my mind still dwelling on the dubious delights of rural Ireland.

I
pulled myself together and smiled winningly at Fiachra. He smiled back at me and moved his chair closer to mine, his hand moving slowly across the pock-marked copper table so that it rested, a hair’s breadth away from mine.

I
glanced sharply at him and was dismayed to see that he did indeed think that his luck was in.

Oh
dear.

This
wouldn’t do at all.

“You’re
a shining lady, so you are, Flora, a bit long in the tooth, some might say, but I don’t mind that, no, not at all,” he said, slowly raising his glass to me, the look of lust and adoration clear in his eyes.

I
registered a moment of horror and dismay before I spoke. The long in the tooth bit could haunt me later. Really. I ask you.

I
cleared my throat and began to speak in a very business like way, dispelling any ideas that he may have about the possibility of a liaison with
me
. “Now then, this is all very interesting, but I really don’t have much time. So would you do me the courtesy of paying
very
close attention to what I am about to say to you?”

Fiachra
nodded self importantly whilst wiping away a faint moustache of foam from his upper lip. I could see that he hadn’t given up the faint hope that I was willing to succumb to his Irish charm, but, he was at least paying close attention to me. I spoke quietly and with authority. I kept repeating certain key words again and again. Bella. Money. Bread. Bakers. Family. Settlements. Bella.

It
is of course a fairly crude form of hypnotism, the sort that door to door salesmen employ, but efficacious nonetheless. I gazed levelly into the young man’s eyes and repeated the mantra again. Bella. Money. Bread. Bakers. Family.

By
the time we had finished our drinks the matter was settled. I was satisfied that Fiachra was neither a wife-beater nor a thief, and would indeed do as well as a partner for Bella as any chance coupling is, for any relationship has a chance of failure as well as success. Admittedly, Fiachra was perhaps not the class, or even the religion that Archie and Sylvia might have chosen, but they are trifling matters and can be easily overcome. And, I always think that a few obstacles early in a relationship are very fortuitous and can be a rewarding experience. Bella would be happy. That was the most important thing. Removed from a school that she was floundering in, from a home where she was barely noticed, and from a society that no longer valued the qualities that she had to offer, she would thrive amongst the yeast and flour. And if she doesn’t – well, I really can’t be responsible for that, can I?

I
smiled at Fiachra. “Now then, one more thing. Tomorrow night I shall make sure that the house is empty. Arrive at eight and spend the night, and I mean the
whole
night with Bella. I assume that you are at least familiar with the art of pleasing a girl in bed? The first time of being intimate for a girl like Bella is most important. I would advise a certain amount of romantic nonsense - you know a gift of flowers, light a few candles and so on - and then a display of masterful tenderness. Do you think you can manage that?”

A
range of emotions played over the young man’s face. A struggle not to be shocked, pride, shyness, and then a visible determination to be man enough for the job. I stifled an inclination to laugh.

“Of
course, if you can genuinely manage to fall in love that would be highly commendable, but I truly think that the amount of money that Archie will settle on his daughter will
very
helpful to you in that direction,” I said as earnestly as I knew how. I have to confide in you that earnestness is the very hardest of things for me to do
well
.

I
stood up and shook his hand in farewell, leaving him looking stunned yet pleased.

“
So
kind of you to have met me, and I very much look forward to the wedding,” I said as I left the pub, waving to Nigel, who was doing the ancient art of the landlord; glass polishing with what looked like a remarkably dirty tea towel.

Marmaduke
gave an excited yip of greeting as I let myself in to the deserted ground floor of the house. Cold and dusty, it stood a forlorn shell of its former glory.

I
found Bella in the kitchen wiping away the traces of the day’s meals, moodily tracing away the dust from work surfaces with a damp sponge. I made a mental note to provide her with some rubber gloves, as too much water will, eventually, play hell with anybodies cuticles. A thought suddenly occurred to me. “Bella dear, shouldn’t you have been at school today?”

Bella
blushed, “Well, I suppose so, but you know Flora, someone has to be here to look after – well, I haven’t been there for a while now, and no-one seems to have noticed really and I do so hate it. But I wrote a lovely poem today, would you like to hear it?”