Murder Most Fab (7 page)

At last
we reached our destination.

My
grandmother lived in a large Georgian house that sat sedately on the edge of
Blackheath, like an old-fashioned, rundown hotel looking out to a calm sea.
Inside, she showed me to a spacious, rather cold bedroom on the third floor,
furnished with pungent, dark mahogany.

‘What
an amazing view of the heath,’ I said politely, attempting to replicate my
mother’s optimism and say something I thought a grown-up would like to hear.
‘It’s so beautiful!’

‘Beautiful?
You don’t know its history, Johnny. Have you any idea why it’s called
Blackheath?’ She moved across the room to stand alongside me, eyes darting,
scrutinizing every inch like an owl. ‘Most of the people who died in the Great
Plague of 1665 are buried here — communally, of course. Something like a
million perished. This entire heath was one big graveyard. No one can build on
it even now for fear of releasing, once more, the Black Death. Poke a stick in
and take the consequences.’

‘Black
Death, Blackheath?’ I said, solving the simple riddle.

The
view curdled before my eyes. All I could see was the tangled skeletons of those
who had died a terrible death all those centuries ago. The fresh blue sky
turned yellow and septic.

‘I tell
you this because of what has happened today. Think of it as an aperitif. It is
time for you to grow up and stop believing in Father Christmas. You need to
come to terms with life a little. You and I understand your mother, do we not?’

‘As
much as anyone can, yes.’

‘Well,
this was once your mother’s room,’ said Grandma Rita, as if that explained
everything.

‘Is
Mother in hospital?’ I asked. I couldn’t shake my horror at the thought of the
plague and its victims buried just feet from where we stood. I felt more
anxious than ever about where my mother was and how she was faring. I was
confused, feeling displaced and anxious about her situation and my own, but I
could rely on my grandmother to tell the truth. ‘How is she? Please tell me.’

‘She’s
having a rest. Sit down a minute and I’ll explain.’

I sat
down obediently on an overstuffed dressing-table stool. My grandmother walked
to the fireplace, laid one hand elegantly on the marble chimneypiece and turned
to me. She said gravely, ‘There are some mushrooms that grow in the woods
called fly agaric or, to give them their full Latin title,
Amanita muscaria.
They are bright red with white spots, very much as you would have seen in the
pictures in your storybooks. The sort of thing a friendly elf would live in, if
that helps. I’m not sure what ideas of botany twelve-year-olds have, these
days. Anyway, those mushrooms contain hallucinogenic properties and are not
recommended for consumption. It seems your mother may have forgotten this.’
Grandma Rita regarded me with cool but intelligent eyes. ‘It’s rather painful
for you, Johnny, but it’s best that you hear it from me. The matter is, no
doubt, the talk of your village. You’ll have to put up with sniggers and gossip
when you go back, but I expect you’re used to that.’

High on
nature’s LSD, my grandmother told me, my mother had been discovered at dawn
dangling naked from the clock tower of Hythe town hall.

‘Alice
has never been inhibited. A blanket was required. The police rescued her and
decided that a doctor should examine her without delay.’ Grandma Rita saw the
look on my face. ‘She will be fine. The effects of the mushroom are wearing off
slowly but she’s not quite right yet. Flashbacks, you understand.’ She glanced
at herself in the mottled old mirror and touched her grey hair with an
unconscious gesture. It did not move. Like many women of her generation, she
liked to have it set once a week into a style so rigid it could withstand a
gale-force wind. She sighed, her mind clearly occupied with thoughts of her
wayward daughter. ‘It could have happened to anyone. That’s the line I, for
one, shall be taking. The countryside is full of dangers. A lamb once exploded
next to me. Gas, apparently … But perhaps some of it is my fault. I should
never have called her “Alice” — I may have brought it all on. She’ll be getting
stuck down a rabbit’s burrow next. Always blame the parents. Now. Dinner at
eight.’ She glided out of the room.

That,
it seemed, was all the explanation I would get.

I stayed for what seemed
like months at my grandmother’s house. Life in Blackheath was formal but
unhurried. Grandma Rita had a butler, a cook and a housekeeper as well as
Andrew the chauffeur, and everything ran like clockwork. She even hired a
private tutor to make sure I didn’t fall behind with my schoolwork. At dinner
each night she gave me a brief report on my mother’s progress.

‘Alice
had her restraints removed for fifteen minutes today. Apart from the chewed
skirting-board there was remarkably little damage. Her doctor thinks this is
splendid news.’

After
lessons in the morning, I would join Grandma Rita for lunch in the
conservatory, where she would ask how my studies were going. In the afternoon I
would read, explore the house or go out for a long walk, discovering Greenwich
Park, Deptford market and beyond, once I’d got the hang of the buses, to
Peckham and Camberwell. Slowly I discovered London Town, and was dazzled by all
it had to offer. I wandered wide-eyed, through the dark autumn evenings, past
the bright lights of Shaftesbury Avenue and in colourful Chinatown. Strangely,
my grandmother didn’t restrict my movements. She gave me five pounds’ pocket
money each week. As long as I was home in time to change for dinner, she showed
no sign of disapproval. Over dinner she would enquire about my activities and
listen as I told her everything I had discovered.

‘You’ve
been to Trafalgar Square and didn’t pop into the National Portrait Gallery?
That’s like going to Woolwich and not getting mugged. Shame on you!’

Slowly
she thawed and we started to enjoy our time together.

‘You
have brought great joy into my life,’ she said once, head cocked to one side.
‘Yes. Joy is the word, I think. Such enthusiasm about the
Cutty Sark
…
It’s most refreshing.’

As it happened, my
thirteenth birthday fell during this time. I was hopeful of a card from my
mother, but it wasn’t to be.

‘There
was one,’ said Grandma Rita, that morning, ‘but I didn’t consider the contents
appropriate.’ She grimaced at the memory. ‘She’s still not at all well, poor
Alice.’ Then she smiled. ‘Happy birthday, anyway, from me and your mother.
Maria has made kedgeree to mark the occasion.

‘It was
the sixties that did for Alice,’ she continued unexpectedly. ‘All that
permissiveness and whatever … it unleashed a great deal of trouble,
unfortunately, and she is the consequence. A product of her time.’ She seemed
to be thinking aloud. I didn’t make a sound for fear of stopping her. This was
a rare insight into the past and their relationship. ‘I should never have let
her go to that music festival when she was seventeen. Before that she was quite
a nice girl to have about the place. Clean and well spoken. Then, suddenly, it
was marigolds in her hair and unexplained laughter in the middle of the night.’

Just
then Maria knocked at the door and entered, carrying a steaming offering that
smelt of fish in an elaborate Victorian dish. My grandmother snapped out of her
thoughts and said, ‘Ah, kedgeree! What a treat!’

Before
it was dished up they both sang a high-pitched, vibrato version of ‘Happy
Birthday’ with shrill harmonies for the last, prolonged ‘you!’.

‘Happy
birthday, Johnny,’ said Maria, once they’d done. ‘You have a lovely day now.’

When
she had gone my grandmother dished up the kedgeree, saying, ‘This’ll put a
spring in your step.’

We ate
a few mouthfuls, regarding each other as we chewed.

‘Lovely,’
I said truthfully. Kedgeree was delicious. It tumbled about my mouth, hot and
salty, another new experience for me. So far, being a teenager was great.

Grandma
Rita looked a little uncomfortable, then took a small box from her handbag and
pushed it across the polished table to me. ‘This is from me. I hope you like
it.’

The box
was made of worn tan leather. I picked it up and opened it. Inside, it was
lined with grey silk, and nestling in the folds was a fine gold chain with a
circular gold pendant about the size of a five-pence piece. On one side was St
Christopher and on the reverse the Virgin Mary.

‘It was
your grandfather’s and I’d like you to have it.’

‘Thank
you, Grandma!’ I’d never had anything gold before.

She
picked it up and put it over my head. ‘He wore it all his life, and now you may
do the same.’

‘Gosh!
Are you sure?’ I felt different, a bit like being confirmed. Or maybe my
grandfather’s spirit was paying me a visit.

‘I was
looking through his things last night and I suddenly sensed that he wanted you
to have it. We never had a son, and he would have spoilt you, I expect. Now you
are thirteen it’s time for you to wear it. St Christopher will ensure you
arrive safely wherever you go and Mary, the Mother of God — well, she can fill
in the gaps Alice might inadvertently have left empty, if you know what I mean.’

‘She
does her best, Grandma,’ I said, bristling at any criticism of my mother.

‘Let me
put it another way. Mary will take care of your spiritual well-being,’ she
compromised.

‘Good.
I feel indestructible now!’ I said, clenching my fists and raising my arms in a
heroic pose.

She
smiled at me affectionately. Her eyes weren’t exactly brimming with tears, but
they were full of emotion. ‘You’re a very pleasing young man,’ she announced.

‘Thank
you,’ I said. ‘And you’re a very pleasing grandmother.’

‘Shall
we go to the theatre on Saturday? Would you enjoy that?’ For a split second she
looked and sounded a bit like my mother.

‘Yes,
please!’ I had never been to the theatre before, apart from amateur pantomimes
at Dymchurch town hall, and since I’d embarked on my afternoon trips to wander
around theatreland, I’d been desperate to see a proper professional show.

‘Jolly
good. I’ll have a look in the evening paper and see what is suitable.’

She
picked up the small copper bell she kept beside her wine glass and flicked it
twice. When the butler had delivered the paper she perused the offerings in the
West End.
‘Hair
is on, but I fear the nakedness on display may remind us
of your poor mother’s appearance in Hythe, so that would be an unfortunate
choice …
Hamlet?
No — Ophelia. She’s one Liverpudlian short of an
armed robbery.
Cinderella?
No, there’s a clock in it.’

In the
end we went to see the Chinese State Circus performing in a tent on the South
Bank.

‘As far
as I know your mother has steered clear of Chinese men, so there shouldn’t be
any upset. We don’t want any reminders of our mutual embarrassment,’ Grandma
Rita said, as we travelled up to Waterloo on the train. ‘I’ve always thought
that the best thing to do about Alice is not to think of her at all. Her father
said that, too, you know, and she was only five at the time.’ She gazed out of
the rain-splashed window and said nothing more until we arrived.

‘I hope
there aren’t too many children there,’ said Grandma Rita, springing to life as
we got off the train and pushed our way through the crowded station.

‘Don’t
you like children?’ I asked. She had never seemed to like me much before I came
to live with her.

She
considered the question seriously, then smiled almost apologetically. ‘Well,
if I’m being honest, not little ones, no. I don’t consider you a child any
more, by the way. Children expect you to be perfect and the pressure to fulfil
this fantasy is too much. After thirteen years with your mother you should have
realized the truth.’

The
show was an energetic display of gymnastic tumbling and choreographed
acrobatics. I was enthralled. From the moment the music started my heart was
racing. I couldn’t take my eyes off one particularly handsome young acrobat. I
was rather surprised to find that whenever he came on stage I felt an exciting
tingle in my loins. He was wonderful, I thought. Not only was he a splendid
gymnast but he was very attractive. My eye was never drawn to the girl
performers, I noted, no matter how dainty their ankles or bendy their spines.