Pandora (67 page)

When he’d applied for a bed in a hostel, the counsellors had advised him to take his old friend to Battersea.

‘You don’t stand a chance of accommodation with a dog.’

And Alizarin had shouted that it was the only thing he did stand a chance with. He’d have walked into the Thames if it hadn’t been for Visitor.

Taking refuge in a side alley near the Middlesex Hospital, Alizarin crept into his sleeping bag. It was getting colder. He’d pawned his watch but he could read the hours of the night like Braille. People were still coming out of clubs, being sick in the gutter, swearing because taxis very sensibly refused to take them. Alizarin could hear the dull thump of Visitor’s tail as other tramps put their sleeping bags beside his, particularly if there were dusty mince pies on offer.

Because Alizarin was large, the rest of the homeless community hadn’t messed with him. He also had a dignity, a kindness and an ability to listen which had inspired a similar love in his students. He had made friends since he had been on the streets, not with work-shy scroungers, but quietly desperate people who, like himself, had lost their way in life.

Alizarin adjusted the greatcoat around Visitor, always so cheerful and uncomplaining, and, drawing together the strings of his own sleeping bag, waited to be warmed by his own breath. His thoughts strayed wistfully to Foxes Court and the dry leaves flying out of the hedgerows laying a warm blanket over the tender green shoots of the winter barley. Then he dreamed of Sophy, and falling asleep beside her sweet softness.

He was woken by a din. Tramps were always getting drunk or stoned, and picking fights. Best not to get involved. But the screaming was getting louder. Alizarin shoved his head out, gasping at the cold. In the street light, he could see shadowy forms in frenzied movement and just make out a woman bent back over a dustbin, her skirt up over her breasts. A man was fucking her. She must have been having a period; blood, black in the moonlight, was streaming down her white legs, awakening some terrible distant memory. Alizarin found himself screaming, yelling, sobbing for them to stop. Visitor staggered onto his arthritic legs, barking. The man swore, pulled out of the woman, lurched over and viciously began kicking Alizarin.

He must have passed out. He woke to even more excruciating pain in his head and Visitor licking his face – sweet Visitor always there for him. A drunk was kicking a tin in the distance; Alizarin could hear the hiss of the dustman’s lorry, banging bins, a clatter of bottles like the emptying of a fisherman’s net.

Then, gradually, as consciousness reasserted itself, he groped round in panic. Not only had the case containing his dole book, his sketchpad, Etienne’s drawing of Galena and her palette been stolen from inside his sleeping bag, but he couldn’t see a thing. Perhaps it was still dark, but there was the first tube shaking the pavements. He could hear the whirring bristles of the cleaning machine sucking dirt up from the gutter, the thud of newspapers being sorted: it must be nearly morning.

Every so often as the hours passed, last night’s horror returned and he trembled with terror. It must be the kick on the head. Oh dear God, bring back my sight. If he were blind how could he feed Visitor? He could hear cars going in and out of the Middlesex Hospital and footsteps approaching. As an ultimate humiliation because he couldn’t find his cap to lay upside down in front of him, he was forced to thrust out shaking hands.

‘Please help me, I’m blind,’ he stammered.

‘Another of those scroungers from Kosovo,’ said a voice disapprovingly. ‘Why don’t you stay in your own country?’

‘I’m fucking English,’ Alizarin heard himself shouting.

He was drenched in icy sweat which made him even colder.

The next couple, women, judging from the click of their heels, also clicked their tongues, muttering how disgusting it was for work-shy folk to use poor old doggies for begging, then spend the money on themselves.

‘It’s my dog I’m trying to feed,’ yelled Alizarin. Then, as their heels clicked hastily away, remembering other tramps telling him people sometimes came back if you were polite, he added: ‘Have a good day.’

Tubes rumbled, the pavement was filling up with footsteps, buses roared, ambulances jangled into the Middlesex. Alizarin breathed in cigarette smoke as the next passer-by quickened his pace, not wanting to be caught. The next approached tentatively, pausing, smelling faintly of eau-de-Cologne like an aunt.

‘Please, please, help me feed my dog,’ begged Alizarin.

There was a long silence. Then a desperately embarrassed female voice with a soft Scottish accent murmured, ‘I think your wee doggie’s passed away.’

How could he have forgotten to check Visitor? He had been so distraught about not being able to see. Frantically Alizarin reached out, hugging Visitor’s shaggy body, calling his name, waiting for the familiar thud of his tail, realizing how cold and stiff he was.

‘Don’t be dead, please don’t, Visitor.’

Crouched over him, parting his matted hair, Alizarin listened desperately for the faintest heartbeat – nothing. ‘Oh, please, God.’ His howl of desolation must have wakened the dead in Limesbridge churchyard.

The kind Scottish lady burst into tears and was joined by the two secretaries, who, feeling guilty at muttering about ‘work-shy folk’, had returned with a tin of Pedigree Chum. One tried to comfort Alizarin, the other fetched a policeman.

Gordon Pritchard, a heart specialist so revered that God was rumoured to walk six paces behind him when he toured the wards, was on his way to hospital when his Rolls was halted by the traffic. Seeing a crowd gathered round some kind of accident, he lowered the window.

‘Can I help?’

For a second, the man slumped over a shaggy yellow dog looked up. Tears streamed down his grey face. Like Munch’s
Scream
, his wide-open mouth was a hollow of agonized outrage.

‘Alizarin?’ called out Gordon Pritchard in horror. ‘Alizarin Belvedon?’

Pritchard had often stayed at Foxes Court and bought Old Masters from Raymond, who in turn he’d looked after when Raymond had had a heart murmur, five years ago.

‘Alizarin, it’s me.’ Pritchard jumped out of the Rolls.

Only when Alizarin totally failed to recognize him did Pritchard realize he was blind. When he tried to get him admitted to Casualty, the main stumbling block was that Alizarin wouldn’t part with Visitor. Such was his colossal strength, no-one could prise his dog away from him. Racked by coughing and tears, he kept crying out for Sophy.

Getting no answer from the flat in Duke Street, St James’s, Pritchard grimly rang the gallery. Sophy, who was opening the post, handed the receiver to Jupiter.

‘I see, I see, I’m terribly sorry. We’ll be over at once.’

As he put down the receiver, Jupiter was trembling violently.

‘Hanna?’ whispered Sophy.

‘No, Alizarin, he’s been sleeping rough’ – Jupiter’s voice broke – ‘and he seems to be blind, and Visitor’s just died. Oh my God, how could we have done this to him?’

Then, pulling himself together: ‘I must go to him.’

‘Can I come too?’

Forgetting to lock up, forgetting the stock sale, they ran up Cork Street, up Regent Street, across Oxford Street.

It was rush hour, the sales were on, but not an orange ‘For Hire’ sign appeared anywhere. Shoving shoppers and commuters out of the way, they passed All Souls and the BBC on their left and raced along Mortimer Street. Jupiter was ten times fitter. Sophy thought her lungs would burst as she pounded after him.

There was still a crowd around Alizarin. Two policemen, a couple of nurses, an ambulance man and Gordon Pritchard were trying to reason with him. Seeing him sitting like a child clinging to a giant teddy bear, Visitor in his arms, the picture of despair, Sophy fought back the tears. She mustn’t add to his misery.

‘Alizarin, it’s me.’ Jupiter patted his brother’s shoulder.

Sophy fell to her knees. ‘Alizarin, it’s Sophy,’ she panted. Putting a hand round his agonizingly aching head, she pressed it to her heaving breast. ‘I’m so terribly sorry. Thank God we’ve found you.’

‘Sophy?’ Alizarin looked round in bewilderment. ‘It is really you. Oh, Sophy.’

‘Really me. There, darling, it’s going to be OK. You must come inside and get something warm inside you.’

‘I can’t leave Visitor. He took care of me. If they take him away, I’ll never see him again.’ Helplessly Alizarin ran his hand over Visitor’s face, smoothing his fur, stroking his velvet ears.

‘He looks really peaceful.’ Sophy’s voice was choked with tears. ‘His eyes are closed, and his tail looks as though it’s about to wag as he arrives in heaven.’

‘Promise he’s dead, it’s not just a trick to take him to Battersea?’

‘I promise. We’ll take care of his body. Feel.’ She took a blanket from the ambulance man and rubbed the rough wool against Alizarin’s hollowed cheek. ‘We’ve got this to wrap him in.’

‘I’ll take him straight down to Limesbridge’ – Jupiter’s voice was choked too – ‘and bury him beside Maud.’

Only then did Sophy manage to remove Visitor from Alizarin’s clutches.

He was admitted to hospital with pleurisy and pneumonia. There was no flesh on his body to protect him from the cold. Only his colossal strength had saved him. Clutching on to Sophy’s hand, he raved on and on about Galena pouring with blood.

‘I couldn’t save her and I couldn’t save Visitor. He froze to death because I couldn’t afford to feed him. Oh, Sophy.’

‘He was fifteen, he died of old age, darling.’

As the morphine kicked in, Alizarin lost consciousness.

Jupiter was in shock, wondering how on earth to get Visitor home, when his mobile rang.

‘What the fuck’s going on?’ demanded Rupert Campbell-Black. ‘I’ve just rolled up at your gallery after a cheap bargain for Ricky France-Lynch’s birthday, place deserted, door open, pictures on the walls. Tempted to help myself.’

When Jupiter told him, Rupert was very sympathetic, and offered his helicopter. Visitor had been, after all, the great-great-grandson of Rupert’s revered black Labrador, Badger.

Gordon Pritchard, however, hadn’t finished with the Belvedons. Having handed Alizarin over to the top eye specialist, who’d promptly admitted him to Intensive Care, he proceeded to give Jupiter a very nasty five minutes.

‘What the fuck happened?’

‘There was a row over the Raphael.’ Jupiter flushed slightly. ‘I thought Al was having an affair with Hanna. Anthea wanted the Lodge for holiday lets. Together we chucked him out.’

‘Anthea was always a bitch,’ said Pritchard. ‘He knew in June he was going blind. Told no-one.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘We’ll run some tests, but it doesn’t look good.’

‘I’d better ring Dad,’ said Jupiter.

Raymond, in bed with flu and a persistent cough, was devastated not least by the death of Visitor, whom he, Grenville and all the family had loved so much.

‘Jupiter’s bringing his body down later,’ Raymond told Anthea. ‘Pritchard found Alizarin sleeping rough in Mortimer Street, in seven degrees below. Pritchard claims you and Jupiter slung him out. It can’t be true.’

‘Course it wasn’t. You know how paranoid and shirty Alizarin is. Jupiter and I reproached him mildly for tipping Zac off about Pandora. Al went into a sulk and stormed out.’

Raymond’s eyes fell first.

‘Poor old boy, poor darling Visitor. I must go to him.’

‘You can’t, you’ve got a temperature. I’ll go’ – Anthea sighed to indicate huge sacrifice – ‘and bring him back. We’ll get a nurse in, he can sleep in Dicky’s room till half-term.’

Anthea caught the next train. Alizarin must be made to come home before such a damaging story reached the press. She and Jupiter must also get their stories straight – but Jupiter wasn’t answering his mobile. After all, she kept telling herself as the train rumbled past grey frozen fields, Alizarin had been the one to walk out.

Arriving at the Middlesex, having redone her face and drenched herself in Shalimar in the taxi (she had always thought Gordon Pritchard most attractive), Anthea was horrified to find Emerald’s fat sister
in situ
, looking quite awful. Sophy’s eyes were swollen, her hair unbrushed, and she was bound to sneak to the Cartwrights.

‘Where’s Jupiter?’ demanded Anthea.

‘Taking Visitor’s body back to Foxes Court. He should be home by now. Rupert Campbell-Black gave them a lift in his helicopter.’

Anthea was hopping. No opportunity to get her story straight, and to miss a chance of receiving Rupert Campbell-Black! Alizarin seemed to have tubes coming out of everywhere. He had the dreadful pallor and sunken features of Christ just down from the cross, and Sophy that sanctimonious stricken bustle of all those Marys who hung round him.

‘How is he?’ demanded Anthea.

‘Asleep.’ Sophy put her finger to her lips. ‘He’s had a massive dose of morphine.’

‘I’ve come to take him home.’

‘Well, you can’t.’ Sophy lost her temper. ‘You chucked him out, and as a result he’s got pneumonia, and isn’t going anywhere. Why don’t you bugger off?’

Anthea would have stood her ground if Gordon Pritchard hadn’t rolled up, whisked her into a side room, and subjected her to an even more unpleasant five minutes than he’d given Jupiter.