Ladies From Hell (4 page)

He tipped the whisky back. “Don’t play bloody word games with me,” he said viciously. “I know what’s going on. And you haven’t got a chance.”

I have a great line in exits. “I’m sorry,” I said frostily. “You must think what you choose.” I turned to leave, and he called me back. “All right,” he said, “I shouldn’t have said that. Get yourself a glass, there’s no point us quarrelling as well.”

It takes two to make a quarrel. But I got a glass anyway. He sat brooding for a time; it was obvious something else was coming. Finally it burst out. “I can’t understand you,” he said. “Any of you. I’ve tried, because it’s my job. But I can’t.”

I was quiet for a bit myself. I was thinking back to the evening I did the sketches for the costume life. It was at the last Summerfest, at the Wellcomes. Jill and Barney had been there, and Clancy and Pete Merriman and Di Tranter. Di perched on a window seat in the long old room; the light from the orchard outside was still intense, it suffused her outline with an emerald dazzle. Baskets of Russets stood about, filling the air with a scent like heavy spice. It was a night for marvels; and Am walked in with the buckled leather brace on her wrist, stepped on to the throne and became still. Her hair was short, like a boy’s, and raven-black. She wore an open-necked shirt, and her legs and arms were slim and very brown.
Une Déesse, en mini et chemisette ambrée
. After the session Clancy played Villa-Lobos; and supper was cheese and crusty bread.

I looked up. I said, “There’s nothing to understand.”

“What?”

I said, “Picasso liked the colour blue. Escher liked crossword puzzles. Peter Paul liked wine and large ladies. I like Am and Clancy. It isn’t a code, there’s nothing there. Only what you see.”

He didn’t answer, just set his mouth again and
looked haggard. He could still pull the fat out of the fire, if he wanted to. Nobody else could do it for him. But he wouldn’t. Adonis is a force of nature, he doesn’t understand. Not like that.

The Assistant arrived toward the end of May. I was feeding Lady A’s Birman at the time. Horrible great mog, the bane of my life. It only sharpened its claws on a stretched canvas once though. I will say this for cats, they’re fast learners; we’ve established a good working relationship since. Anyway when James did his hemming and shuffling bit in the doorway and I turned round I got the surprise of my life.

She was tall, taller than me by an inch or more with her heels on. Good forehead and line of jaw, firm chin; I suppose you’d have called her features regular rather than beautiful, but stap me, she was handsome. Her hair was dark blonde, drawn into a soft chignon that accentuated the slenderness of her neck. She wore a quietly elegant suit of business grey; her eyes were grey too, with flecks of another colour in them that I never really managed to define. “
Une pure Celte dolichocéphale
,” thinks I, “whatever next?” If this was the sort of thing the Department was sending out, things were definitely looking up.

She had a nice cool handshake and her voice was just right too; light, with a hint of huskiness, and not too
loud
. She introduced herself as Netta Sandringham (A-tone in the surname for a change) and said she very much hoped she wouldn’t be in the way. I couldn’t see that possibility arising for some time to come, and said so; it produced a couple of quick dimples, but she was still unsure of herself. “It’s all very new to me,” she said, looking round the Barn in a troubled sort of way. “It’s my first Attachment you see, I’ve never met an artist before. Well, not a proper one. I shall just have to learn the ropes as quickly as I can.”

“My girl,” thinks I, “you’ve come to the right place for that.” I was busy assessing her age. I put it at thirty-one or two, which was also fine. Women don’t really wake up till they’re into their third decade. Models get their Venus Rings then, sopranos get their voices; all sorts of interesting things start to happen.

I handed Tiddly Poo to James, who looked faintly miffed.
The Assistant didn’t coo over the beast to ingratiate herself, which was ten more points to her. I swept her into the lounge, got her sat down and scurried off to make coffee. George, the naughty lad, had nipped into Town for a noggin and a breath of turps-free air; he wasn’t going to be best pleased either when he got back. I bustled about, making the best of my head start; by the time he walked in his Assistant was sitting happily on the lounge carpet, smoking a Balkan Sobranie and surrounded by canvas and folios, while I extolled the virtues of Paul Nash. We’d got through the Great War stuff and the Dymchurch period and were well launched on the Avebury series. “I was always fascinated by art at school,” she had said. “I even thought about taking it up, but you know how it is; if you want to get on …” To which I had merely smiled, and made appropriate noises. I’m always amazed by the sheer hypocritical depth of my sexism; if a bloke had said a thing like that to me I’d almost certainly have belted him up the trunk.

‘Not best pleased’ turned out to be a mild description. A thundercloud with eyes on, that was George. The gold tooth winked fitfully through the murk as he strove to bring his charm to bear. It seemed he hadn’t known who he was getting either, so I was poaching his preserve in more ways than one. Still, I always know when to retire gracefully; Netta was borne away at speed to have her credentials examined, and I went through to the Barn and pottered about. I was surprised to notice Coventina had developed a faint but definite leer. I put it down to a trick of the light; after all it was a fairly overcast day.

The couple of weeks that followed definitely didn’t show the Overseer at his best. Under normal circumstances it was obvious he’d have sailed into the comely Miss S. carrying all before him. Or tried to. But the circumstances weren’t normal. Despite her Grade there was an even chance she was reporting independently; the Service does tend to work like that. So he had to start doing everything by the book again; which meant that everywhere he went, I had to go as well. Just like the nursery rhyme. In the end it got to be difficult to tell just who was hung round whose neck.

Not that I couldn’t see his point of view. I mean, if you were
trying to seduce an attractive, intelligent young woman and had to tow a scruffy, rotund little portrait painter everywhere with you, how would you feel? Particularly if he had a faintly Rabelaisian sense of fun and a limitless capacity for plonk. I’d have given up before I started; but I’ll give George his due, he was a tryer. Our
ménage à trois
got to be a familiar sight round Town, even in pricey joints like the old Antelope; we sallied farther afield, to Salisbury, once the Druids at Stonehenge; we sampled French cuisine and National Provincial, Indian and Italian, Spanish and Greek. I think if George had come across an Icelandic Kebab House he’d have had a go at that as well, out of sheer frustration. Through it all, Ms. Sandringham remained
chic
. She said the right things, and did them; she knew her wines, Deferred to Rank; and she talked about Art. It was Blake with the Birani, and Pablo with the paella; Seurat with the smorgasbord, sometimes even Klee with the koffee. And through it all the gold tooth winked and invited, distant as a star. “I think he’s sweet,” she said to me once of its owner. “I think he’s a very nice
man
indeed.”

Oh, the subtleties of our old patchwork of a language! It sometimes makes me wish I’d been a writer instead.

She wasn’t Celtic by the way. She hailed from Aberdeen; which as I pointed out to the Overseer made her that rarest and most swep-up of academic birds, an accentless Scot. And also of course a Viking; though as I also observed, that was nothing against her. Very misunderstood people, the Vikings; like a sort of ninth century Class D’s. All that bad press about braining priests with reliquaries, then it turned out they were really keener on digging drains. Which in turn led to the thought—

“Oh for Christ’s sake
shut up
,” bellowed George. He took to his heels, slamming the Barn door behind him. I stared after him in surprise and dismay. It wasn’t his usual form by a long way; I could only conclude he’d been overdoing things somewhere along the line.

Matters came to a head when he caught Netta in the Barn
helping me prepare a canvas. She’d asked how they were primed; so since practical experience is the best sort to have I’d given her the size and whiting and told her to get stuck in. She was wearing an old shirt and scruffy jeans; she’d tied her hair back into a pony tail, which made her look about nineteen, and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself. He ordered her out, peremptorily, then turned on me; but for once I wasn’t having any. How the Department ran its affairs was no concern of a humble Class D, and I said as much. Also she’d been sent into the field to learn, which she was certainly doing; at a faster rate, it seemed, than some of her superiors.

He opened his eyes very wide at that, then narrowed them to slits. He turned on his heels and stalked out; and I had the distinct feeling I’d just spoiled a really beautiful friendship.

After that I saw less of the Assistant. In fact most days I saw nothing of her at all; the Overseer kept her pinned down in the Office writing and rewriting endless Reports. Bit of a low-down trick, but it’s another fact of life; if Adonis can’t have what he wants, he usually gets very mean indeed.

At about the same time George started getting letters from home. Leastways I presumed they were from home; they weren’t official, and the handwriting—a woman’s—was always the same. Whatever was in them, they made him snottier than ever; I wasn’t at all surprised when he announced with some brusqueness that he was taking a weekend off. He added some dire but luckily unenforceable threats about what he’d do if I weren’t official, and the handwriting—a woman’s—was always hour later, belting down the drive in the bright red Alpha provided by a grateful Government, who hadn’t in fact had a sight of choice in the matter. He was in a hurry too, or a damned bad temper; he nearly took one of the Stately Gateposts with him.

When I went back inside Netta was leaning in the Office doorway looking worn. “Hello, love,” I said, “how’s it going?” She grinned at me, but the old sparkle just wasn’t there. “He’s been an absolute
bugger
,” she said. “I don’t care if he never comes back, I don’t want to set eyes on him again. Or his expensive tooth,” she added vindictively.

Dangerous talk that, from a Class A to an inferior like
me; I was moderately surprised. “Well, at least he’s out of the way for a couple of days,” I said. “How’s it feel to be in charge?”

She stuck her lip out. “I’m not in charge,” she said. “I couldn’t be, I’m not even cleared. Nobody knows he’s gone, he’s just left me to cook the books. There’ll be hell to pay if we get a spot check.”

“We’ll face that as and when,” I said cheerfully. “In the meantime, you look as if you could use a break.”

She shook her head. “No chance,” she said. “You should see the stuff he’s left me to do, I shan’t get through the half of it. And he wants it all ready when he gets back.”

I know how to be firm, when the occasion demands. I took her arm and pulled. She came with me, it seemed not too unwillingly. “The first thing we’re going to do,” I said, “is have a cuppa. We’ll nick that tin of Orange Pekoe he keeps on top of the cupboard, the one he thinks I don’t know about. Then you can come down to the brook. I’ve got some sketching to do; and you need the fresh air.”

She looked doubtful, then rebellious. “I’m damned if I don’t,” she said. “The work will just have to wait, none of it’s urgent anyway. How’s your new painting coming on?”

The afternoon turned out to be one of those you remember for a long time. We walked along to the deep part by the bend, where the willows cast a cool green shade; I set the easel up, she lounged on the bank beside me and watched. It was nearly full summer, the irises showing colour and a haze of blue over the brooklime. Damsel flies staggered about above the reed beds like little bright World War One biplanes; a cow was lowing somewhere in the distance, but there were no other sounds at all.

I worked for an hour or so, then sat back. I lit my pipe and propped a sketchbook on my knee. She
half turned to me and grinned. “It’s marvellous,” she said. “I feel better already.”

“Shush,” I said. “Don’t move, I’ve just seen Coventina.”

“What?” she said. “Where?”

“Keep still. You’ll see her in a minute.”

In fact she kept still a good deal longer than a minute, her arms round her knees and her hair moving slightly in the puffs of breeze that reached under the trees. But when I dropped the book in her lap she laughed. “That’s not Coventina,” she said. “That’s only me. I’m nothing like her.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” I said sternly. “Who’s the artist round here anyway?”

Lady A even sent a picnic tea down from the House; strawberries and oatcakes, a round of peat-smoked cheese and a carafe of home-made lemonade. James the Footpad didn’t care for that either; the tweeny was having the afternoon off, he had to bring it himself. Nor did the good things end there. I played music, in the blueing dusk; Butterworth, and the best of my Hoist settings. The Assistant curled on the sofa in a pricey-looking shirtwaister in blue-grey and white. Summery, but still with that hint of the Official. Later she talked; about herself and the Service, how she’d come to be doing what she was. It was an ordinary little story, though no less sad for that; a marriage, a bustup, a hastily-built new life. He’d been well connected, and a louse; his people knew they owed her a favour. “So that’s that,” she said bitterly when she had finished. “I’ve had all the kicks I’m likely to get; now I suppose I just settle down to a Good Career.”

“For God’s sake, girl,” I said, “you haven’t even started yet.” I’ve heard of folk doing some daft things on the rebound but joining the Civil Service had to be the daddy of them all. Life’s all we’ve got; signing it away is the only thing that ever really makes me angry.

I marched through to the kitchen. A week or two before, Old Ardkinglas had had a spurt of Christian charity and presented me with a couple of bottles of Eiswein; the real stuff, none of your supermarket tractor fuel. I’d had them in the cooler since the morning. I
took one through with a couple of glasses, uncorked and poured. “This,” I said, “is the only drink for a perfect summer night. Think of the snow on the grapes.”