Mr. Chartwell (13 page)

“And you’re naked,” Black Pat shouted through towels, trying to remember the quote. “But in the morning I will be sober.”

“Obnoxious guinea worm. In the morning I will be clothed,” Churchill shot back, retreating out of sight into the water. “But you will always be a bastard.”

3.00 a.m
.

E
sther awoke with a gentle jolt. The primitive departments of her brain, the units that dealt with anciently evolved instincts, were wiring encrypted telegrams to her consciousness. They told Esther in a subtle siren that Black Pat was near. The sirens were insistent, he was very close.

It took a minute of hard concentration as she listened through the shades of silence, but then it came. Underneath the sound of the sleeping street, the sound of her own breathing, was the ambiance of an animal. Esther stared at the bottom of her bedroom door, at the gap there.

The light in the porch was always left on at night, drawing a thin line under her door. Not tonight. The door strained in its frame, a weight barricaded against it.

An edgy chewing of her inner cheeks. Esther tried to think of something appropriate to say.

“Are you comfortable out there?”

Black Pat spoke with his chin on the carpet. “Compared to what?”

So he was lying by her bedroom. It was nothing. If it seemed to have an aftertaste, then Esther decided this was surely the work of an inventive mind. They talked with late-night voices through the shut door, mumbles in the hinterland of dark, and her inventive mind got the better of her.

“Do you know,” she said, playing the casual observer, “I’m finding your being there a bit—”

Black Pat’s answer was ridiculous. “Beatnik?”

“No, I was thinking more that it’s a bit creepy.”

“Not beatnik?” Black Pat didn’t believe it.

“It is quite unconventional.” She gave him that. “And also quite …” Should she say it? She said it: “… Quite unconventionally creepy. Quite a lot. Really a lot, actually.”

“Nah.” Black Pat had the tone of innocent denial, firmly innocent. “I’m just an old hound dog trying to get some sleep.”

“Right outside my door when I’m in bed? Couldn’t you be an old hound somewhere else?”

Black Pat shifted his waist, the cathedral of ribs aching from the bare floor. A chime of pain from his shoulder blade made him say
“Ooch”
and nurse it into another position. He said, “Well, I hope you’re happy in your bed, your skeletally collaborating bed. This floor is …” Out came a tinny whine. “Could I come in there with you?” He made a puppyish, earnest little noise.

Esther made a gagging face at her wardrobe, disgusted. “No.
Absolutely …” She searched for a word. She settled for this: “Ugh … 
Yugh.
”

Both parties retreated. A quiet grinding on the other side of the door made the party in the bedroom suspicious.

“Are you eating something?”

“I am not,” said Black Pat, filing his teeth on a sheep’s pelvis he had rescued from a ditch. The sumptuous taste of decayed bone; he gnawed a loving hole in one edge, scrubbing his tongue into the cavity. He let out his puppyish whine again. “Please let me come in there with you. Please, Esther …”

“Go away.”

“Even though the floor’s too—” He hit the floor with a paw, a punishing blow. “But I’m not allowed in,” he said sadly, so very sorry for himself. “You won’t let me in,” he said again, such a sad dog. There was a subtle transformation, oblongs of streetlight moving across his eyes. He said to the pelvis in an inaudible slip of breath, “Yet.”

9.15 a.m
.

B
eth was wearing a raspberry dress with a white zip on the front, a white cardigan slung in a rope over one shoulder. She slowed to skim her coffee to a manageable level, then sped up, heading to a table in the centre of the staff canteen.

Hooking the leg of a chair with her ankle, Beth sat opposite Corkbowl. He made a welcoming sound over a mouthful of flapjack and shut his newspaper. He did the universally understood spin of his hand to show he couldn’t understand why it was taking so long to swallow. It was the spin that said,
I’m bored of chewing; I can’t believe I’m still chewing
.

Beth broke off a corner of the flapjack. “Guess what you’re doing for Sunday lunch.”

“Something unexpected?” Corkbowl answered. He had another guess. “Something to do with you?”

“Bingo.” She looked at the newspaper’s front page and then wasn’t interested. “I’d love it if you could come for Sunday lunch.”

“Oh.” A surprised smile arrived, Corkbowl lifting his eyebrows. “Oh, that’s very nice, thanks.” He remembered Sunday’s agenda. “Sunday? Umm, Sunday’s a problem because I’ve got to drive Esther to Kent as she’s—”

“When do you have to set off?”

Corkbowl made a calculation. “About three.”

“Then don’t be such a prude, Corkbowl.” Beth drank her coffee. It didn’t have the appeal of Corkbowl’s flapjack. “You’ll have plenty of time.”

“Yes, I suppose,” said Corkbowl, the humble prude watching a hand stealing his food. “If you’re positive, as long as you’re positive. I don’t want you to go to any trouble for me.”

“You’re no trouble.” Beth crossed her arms in confession. “No, if anyone’s trouble it’ll be that Esther Hammerhans.” She shook her head, bothered. “She’s a nightmare; always eating everything politely, always complimenting the chef, always offering to wash up.”

Sarcasm didn’t always translate to Corkbowl. He gave Beth an apprehensive look, a very mild one. It was the look of sniffing fresh milk and then not being sure. It made her laugh as she forced in the end of the flapjack. She talked with a palm over her stuffed mouth. “Corkbowl!” She worked most of it down. “I’m kidding.”

“So”—Corkbowl tried to appear blithe—“Esther’s coming to lunch, too?”

“Which is why it’s a flawless plan. You’ll both come to lunch and then leave for Kent together.”

“Yes,” said Corkbowl. “Yes, that’s true.” A hand took off his
spectacles and rubbed an eye. Without the glasses his face was intriguing and changed. The glasses were returned and his face became familiar. “Well, thank you very much, Beth.”

“And of course this invitation does extend to two if necessary,” said Beth, the great performer.

“Two?” Now Corkbowl understood. “Ah, no, it’s just me I’m afraid.”

“No girlfriend, Corkbowl?” Beth made a show of being astonished.

“Not at the moment. My last girlfriend was a while ago.” He counted back the months. “Yes, quite a while ago.” To clarify just how distant that period was, Corkbowl added, “I had a beard at the time.”

“Those must have been heady days,” said Beth, “a beard
and
a girlfriend! Did you lose them simultaneously?”

“No.” Corkbowl smiled. A little laugh. “No, the beard stayed around for a few weeks afterwards. The girlfriend left when she realised I didn’t feel quite as serious about our relationship as she did. The beard left when I eventually realised it made me look like an animal that didn’t care if it survived the winter.”

Beth was picturing this as he shyly dismissed a suggestion and then reconsidered. “I could make something for lunch, if you like. If it would help. I’ll cook a dish and bring it to your, ah …”

Beth had a range of excited questions.

“I’ve got a cod recipe. I bake it in foil.” He admitted confidently, “I suppose it’s my speciality.” The confidence dented. “But the last time I made it, it was watery, so …” He remembered, curious. “The flavour had rinsed away, for some reason.”

Beth offered a name. “Rinsed cod.”

“Although …” Corkbowl pulled down an abacus thumb, tallying
the possibilities. “Although it might not be watery if I bake two smaller cod.” Yes, this was a plausible solution. “I think if I use small young cod, then—”

“Suckling cod.”

“Hm?” Corkbowl committed it to memory. “Suckling cod?”

“Yep, when they’re fresh from their mothers. Or maybe it’s when they’re still with their mothers.” Beth nodded at him, liking his academic frown as he made hopeful adjustments to his recipe, liking his concentration at her jackass comments.

Corkbowl said, perky, “And I’ve just bought a new jacket, so it would be a good opportunity to test it.” He suddenly got the joke. “Still with their mothers!”

Beth leant on an elbow. “Getting all dolled up in a new jacket, Corkbowl? I am flattered.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, the jacket isn’t exactly sensational.” Corkbowl made a joke of his own. “Dulled up is probably the best I can manage.”

The cardigan dropped from Beth’s shoulder as she stood. She caught it with a flamboyant midair snatch. “Then you’ll fit right in.”

4.40 p.m
.

C
hurchill was in his studio, sitting in the recess below the skylight. He was looking at a portrait of his father. His father, that obelisk in his life, was painted with a spotted bow tie partially concealed beneath a heavy fur coat, the fine points of his moustache teased into curling hooks. Churchill hadn’t painted it; the painter was unknown. Once he had attempted to copy the portrait and had hallucinated, hearing his father speaking to him. It didn’t speak now, although he wouldn’t have minded if it did. Anything the painting said would be preferable to listening to the dog, positioned like a black hole in front of the window, blocking the light, chatting in his low, horrible voice.

Churchill stared venomously at the black hole. “Can’t you move?”

Black Pat slow-walked to a new position at the studio door,
left open to let in the fertile scent of the orchard. Churchill strained round in his armchair to see where the dog had gone. The wooden armchair had been a gift from his friend Sir Ian Hamilton, its three stocky legs curving gracefully, spiralling rungs supporting the curved backrest. A rag used for wiping paintbrushes in his hand, Churchill observed Black Pat.

Black Pat wasn’t doing much, just sitting there tilting his nostrils at the ingredients in the breeze. But his presence made it difficult for Churchill to do any more work to his uncompleted painting of a pond with large golden orfe. He took the top off a tube of yellow paint and squeezed too hard. Paint coiled onto the palette in a high twisting mound.

Hanging above the studio door was another gift, a stuffed black bull’s head, its giant neck attached to a wooden plaque. The plaque read, “From one great warrior to another.” The bull was a brave and fierce fighting bull slain by Manolete, a great Spanish matador. Churchill willed the bull, with his impressive horns, to pull from the moorings, fall, and gore the dog beneath. Nothing happened. Black Pat licked his jaws, making an infuriating wet sound.

Churchill assessed the goldfish painting again, finding nothing in it to be pleased with, and considered taking it across a knee and breaking it in half. His inspiration had wasted to cinders. He checked his watch and saw it was a good time to admit defeat. Clementine could be persuaded to have tea with him, or perhaps a glass of something more invigorating. He stood and took up his walking stick, the handle a carving of a bearded man’s head, then made his way back through the orchard, following the trail flanked with flower beds. The trail joined a path running alongside a high yew hedge cut into turrets. The stone slabs of the path led to the terrace lawn and sloped up to the
house. Churchill walked alone, Black Pat cantering ahead and letting himself into the house through the French doors of the dining room, negligently leaving the doors hanging open.

“Mrs. Pussycat? Are you in here?”

She wasn’t. Churchill went to Clementine’s sitting room, a small, neat room near the main entrance at the front of the house.

“Clemmie?” There was no answer. “Foul luck,” he muttered, rerouting to the drawing room.

At the sound of his steps Black Pat’s face appeared, the huge mouth open in a slash of red. He was lying across a sofa, covering it. There were two in the room, on either side of the great marble fireplace, and Black Pat’s bulk was clearly visible over the sofa’s back.

Churchill let out a gruff
“Muh”
and carried on moving, already halfway out of the room and into the hallway.

Leaping up, pastel cushions hitting the floor, Black Pat loped after him. They walked along together. Churchill looked at the top of the dog’s massive skull and let himself flood with dusky sentiments, feeling Black Pat’s dark magnetism drawing them out. Black Pat sensed Churchill’s eyes and threw his face back, tongue slung down one cheek.

“Get away from me, you scapegrace,” Churchill said.

Black Pat said, “I know where she is.”

Churchill told him, “Our time together is a tourniquet of wire round my head, but it never leaves me so mentally destitute that I would allow myself to be led by you.”

Black Pat shook his ear at a grass seed buried in it, the wooden floor webbed with a pattern of drool.

“Clemmie?” Churchill shouted into another room, the library, feet and paws stifled on the Persian carpet.

“It won’t give you any relief, talking to her,” said Black Pat, shuffling into Churchill’s path, Churchill knocking against him. The dog stayed there, a hot muscular wall blocking Churchill’s retreat. “You should talk to me.”