She Died Young (27 page)

chapter
37

C
HARLES WAITED UNTIL BRENDA,
his stepmother, was in the basement kitchen washing up, before speaking to his father. In the drawing room his mother’s chaise longue still flaunted its arabesques at an angle to the chimney piece, but Brenda had placed a Pierrot doll cushion on it. She had also introduced Murano glass ornaments representing Pinocchio and other Disney characters along the chimney ledge. A large, new, walnut-encased television had replaced his mother’s rosewood bureau.

‘There’s something I need to talk to you about, Dad.’

Dr Hallam glanced warily at his only son.

Charles carried his confession off with a convincing mixture of regret and self-blame, tinged with just a tiny suggestion that Penny was perhaps a bit reckless. He summoned public-school understatement to the words ‘Of course, I’d do the decent thing’, spoken with stiff upper lip fully in place.

‘I’m disappointed to hear a well-brought up, well-educated girl should have … well, ensnared you in that way,’ said Dr Hallam. He seemed stiff with embarrassment and awkwardness.

It really hadn’t been like that, Charles hurried to insist. It had all been his fault. He’d got carried away … he had taken precautions, but …

Charles tried to gauge his father’s response. Yes – more than anything else he was embarrassed. He seemed irritated rather than angry: a messy business, but these things happened. ‘You should have been more careful. You’re not really in a position to get married, but I suppose in the circumstances, as you’re prepared to stand by her—’

He shouldn’t have said he’d stand by her! That had been the wrong approach. ‘She doesn’t want to get married,’ he said, feeling he sounded slightly hysterical. That wasn’t it at all. He’d offered to marry her, but she’d refused. She wanted to finish her degree – was desperate to stay at Oxford – her whole future at stake. Also (and it was important to get this point across, although it wasn’t true) if
he
got married it might mean the end of his D.Phil. Professor Quinault would take a very dim view.

‘Penny’s in a terrible state. She’s really quite suicidal – she’d do absolutely anything rather than bring shame on her family and ruin her future. I’m terribly worried about her.’

Charles watched the play of expression on his father’s face. ‘It’ll ruin both our careers.’

Dr Hallam walked up and down, poured himself, unusually, a whisky. Finally: ‘You say the girl’s mental state …? Well … there are circumstances … if she really is distraught … It is a serious matter, but I’ll see what I can do. She’ll have to see a psychiatrist, though. But for God’s sake be more careful in future.’

As his father spoke Charles noted a subtle shift of mood. Social embarrassment and a dislike of upsetting the conventions were displaced by the worldly understanding that existed between men. Charles got the message that he’d been a bloody fool. However, sheltered girls sometimes went off the rails when offered the freedom of student life and shotgun marriages were not always the happiest. Moreover, a young man’s career was not to be put in jeopardy by an accident of this kind.

Above all, however, and more important than any other consideration, Charles recognised his father’s unspoken, but heartfelt and exhilarating sense of relief, because now he could hope his son was not after all, as he’d feared for so long, a homosexual and a pervert. It had been, thank God, just a phase.

Charles described his success to Fergus as they approached Regine’s Kensington villa. ‘Penny will have an abortion and Dad won’t worry so much about me being queer – for a while, anyway.’

‘And to think I thought it was chivalry on your part. No doubt you have an ulterior motive for introducing me to Mrs Drownes as well.’

‘Not at all. That is pure kindness.’

‘You seem really close to her, but she’s so much older than you. Does she prey on young men? Doesn’t she realise she won’t get anywhere with you?’

‘No, it’s – she confides in me. I don’t know many of her friends, so I’m not in a position to gossip.’

Charles had occasionally wondered himself about the bond that held them together. Yet he knew, really. It was Freddie, of course. In a peculiar way he’d become a kind of substitute for Freddie. This he did not bother to explain; it would have involved too long a story.

It was one of Regine’s young authors’ afternoons, but Charles could not help noticing how distracted she seemed. Her interest in Fergus’ articles for
Isis
and his poetry, published in a ‘little magazine’, quickly flagged. The other guests drifted away. Regine murmured to Charles: ‘Darling – stay for a little longer, could you?’

Fergus took the hint. ‘I’m afraid I must be off, Mrs Drownes. So delightful to have met you …’

Regine drew Charles down on the sofa beside her.

‘You seem a bit … is something the matter?’

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t concentrate on your friend. I’m sure he’ll go places. He has that look of steely determination about him.’ Her laugh was halfway between mocking and sympathetic. ‘But I’m so worried I can’t think and there’s no-one I can talk to – I’ve got to tell someone. Rodney’s in a fearful state about it.’

Oxford was mistier than ever. Damp seeped into mossy grey buildings. Rain-washed streets dissolved into blurry distance. On Sunday morning one church bell after another rang with plaintive, unbearable insistence. For ever afterwards the plangent call to worship from all over the city was to be the sound that – wherever he was – returned Charles to that Oxford time and the dank melancholy of long-drawn-out Sundays.

He seldom bothered to read the
Oxford Mail
. He was therefore unprepared for the news Fergus imparted to him when they met for coffee in Betty’s.

‘You see this? One of the refugees drowned.’ Fergus folded the paper back at the relevant page. ‘An early morning runner saw the body floating in the Cherwell.’

Charles took the newspaper. He read the item with the stifling dull stupefaction of shock.

‘The body of Andras Ferenczy … whether an accident or suicide …’

Andras had been worried – no, more than worried, he’d been frightened. The men who came to see him …

Fergus was staring at him. ‘It wasn’t the one—’

Charles nodded. ‘I was supposed to meet him. He didn’t show up. It was the evening we went to hear Quinault …’

‘Christ. I’m sorry.’

‘I bet it
was
suicide. God, I feel …’ But he didn’t know what he felt. ‘I should have done something.’

‘What could you have done?’

‘I should have talked to his friends … but I hardly knew them … I only met them once.’

‘You’re not Florence Nightingale. You can’t save everyone.’

‘Apparently not.’

‘Are you upset?’ enquired Fergus, looking curiously at his friend.

‘Of course I’m upset.’ Charles moved sharply and sent his coffee cup hurtling to the floor. It didn’t break, but left a puddle of liquid, some of which sprayed onto his trousers. ‘Oh, damn.’ He mopped at the mess with a paper napkin. ‘I don’t know what the hell I feel.’

‘You need to talk to someone.’

‘I certainly do.’

Unfortunately, there wasn’t anyone – apart from Fergus, of course. It was out of the question to bike up to Headington now. He couldn’t easily talk to Andras’ Hungarian friends and he absolutely couldn’t talk to the people in charge. He couldn’t tell them he’d had an illegal sexual relationship with the drowned refugee. It wouldn’t bring back Andras and might even get Charles himself reported to the police.

It preyed on Charles’ mind that he might have in some way contributed to the fatal impulse. It
must
have been suicide. Andras had been in such a state. As he thought back to their night together, he recognised in retrospect some kind of desperation in the way Andras had behaved.

Perhaps it had been the prospect of living with his uncle, the priest in Winnipeg, that had driven Andras to take his own life. Charles preferred to think that. He didn’t want to feel guilty.

Charles had always taken it for granted that he loved the beauty of the university city. Today, as he moved restlessly around the narrow, secretive side streets, its hoary ancient colleges began to repel him. He bought coffee beans at the coffee shop in St Michael’s Street. He went into the grocer’s, Grimbly Hughes, in Cornmarket and sat on a high cane chair while a white-coated assistant fetched cheese, butter and tins of baked beans. He crossed the road and made for the covered market and Palms, where you could get salami and Parma ham. He visited the bread stall.

It was all pointless because he wasn’t hungry. He couldn’t think why he’d bought so much stuff. He biked back to Park Town with the parcels in his basket. He ran upstairs and then, in his room, had no idea what to do.

He lay on his divan and tried to read Donne’s poetry.

He took some codeine and fell asleep.

chapter
38

H
OUSES HUDDLED TOGETHER
in the cramped East End streets, their pinched terraces unchanged since Dickens’ time. Here and there monumental flats rose from what had been a bomb site, without making any impression on the general air of smallness and of buildings shabby beyond decay, of things hanging together by a thread. It was the raw new blocks that looked out of place.

Men and women in dark garments made their way along pavements hampered by market stalls. Buses swept by in clouds of dust and exhaust. Bicycles jangled and wove between lorries. A pony-drawn rag-and-bone cart limped along, the man’s plaintive cry piercing the noise of traffic.

The Bethnal Green Road was wide enough, yet crammed with sluggishly moving vehicles until it widened out by the Green itself, where the buses swept round to the stop. Blackstone looked about in search of the Italian café. He saw it at once. Its fare was advertised in coarse red and black capitals on its windows. Inside, the white-tiled walls were clean and the signora was friendly.

Blackstone’s arrival caused little interest. There were few customers during this slack period between breakfast and midday dinner. The signora wiped her hands on a cloth and stood over him solicitously. He ordered coffee and a cheese sandwich.

The tea urn hissed behind the counter. Blackstone watched his fellow diners surreptitiously. A workman in dusty overalls in the corner was clearly just that: a labourer. Three youths with Elvis Presley quiffs at the centre table wore distant memories of teddy-boy gear. They muttered to one another. One boy jiggled his leg compulsively. Blackstone considered asking them if they knew Archie Le Saux, but before he’d made up his mind a fourth young man entered the café.

There was a break in the atmosphere. The three youths stopped talking. The signora stiffened as she stood at her station. Even the urn held its breath.

The tension cut across the fug of steam and lethargy, but passed almost before you clocked it. Blackstone watched the young man slouch across to a table in the corner. Slight and girlish, he had blond hair, a lock of which fell in romantic fashion across his forehead. His blue eyes were reddened with fatigue. He lifted a languid hand in the direction of the signora. No words were exchanged, but moments later she brought him a mug of tea.

The three youths scraped back their chairs and left. The labourer was poring over
Titbits
. The signora disappeared behind the scenes.

Blackstone watched the young man pour a stream of sugar into his mug. He didn’t stir it. Blackstone judged him somewhere between boy and man, as if he’d got mislaid in the middle. His jeans and leather jacket suggested a claim to some sort of outlaw status, which his slumped posture contradicted. He fished a tobacco pouch from his pocket and made a roll-up.

Blackstone edged his chair close. ‘Trouble you for a light?’

When the boy smiled he looked suddenly angelic. He passed some matches across to the adjacent table.

‘I’m looking for Archie Le Saux – told he comes in here most mornings.’

The smile disappeared. The boy stared.

‘Wondered if you might be him, as a matter of fact.’

‘And if I am?’

‘Can I get you anything?’ Blackstone extracted a banknote and waved it vaguely in the direction of the counter. Le Saux shook his head. ‘Well …’ Blackstone left the money under his plate.

‘Why you come looking for me?’

‘I’d like to talk about Valerie.’

The bloodshot eyes were watchful.

Blackstone let the silence drift on a while. ‘Tragic end for a lovely girl like that.’

‘You knew ’er, did you?’ Le Saux’s voice was sarcastic.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact I did.’

Le Saux looked at him with slightly more interest.

‘Needed someone to look after her, I thought.’

Blackstone hadn’t expected his words to have quite the effect they achieved, for he saw that Le Saux was close to tears.

‘Terrible, what happened, shocking accident,’ said Blackstone softly.

Le Saux squinted against the cigarette smoke. ‘Weren’t no bloody accident.’

‘No?’ Blackstone waited. Le Saux had sunk back into his torpor. ‘I was fond of Valerie,’ said Blackstone, trying to coax a response. ‘Couldn’t believe it when I heard.’

Le Saux slouched in his chair. He wasn’t looking at Blackstone. ‘I know you ain’t the bloody Bill,’ he muttered, ‘but who the sodding hell are you?’ Then he seemed to lose interest and sat staring at the blank, steamed-up window.

Blackstone was beginning to think it could be a big story, but he’d have to be very patient, treading on eggshells. He was conflicted too, because he didn’t want Valerie to become a big story. He waited, smoking, outwardly casual, but seething within. He ordered more coffee from the signora. The workman left. Two more came in.

‘I’m here to help you, Archie,’ said Blackstone. ‘It must be tough, being your uncle’s nephew. Have to do as you’re told. Your mother’s so ill. Your uncle doesn’t want her upset. Very fond of his sister, I believe. I suppose you have to keep quiet, do you, take it on the chin? Shut up about what happened to your girlfriend.’

Le Saux became more animated. ‘It’s not his fault. It’s down to Mallory.’

Blackstone smoked.

‘He didn’t like me. And when Mallory doesn’t like someone or something …’ His voice faded and Blackstone wondered if he was coming down off something, although he had no idea what. Le Saux’s attention came and went in waves. And he should have been more suspicious than he actually seemed to be of this stranger who was asking him questions. ‘But why’d he have to sack her?’

‘He didn’t like you? Was he jealous? I’ve heard he wasn’t interested in girls.’

‘Mallory likes power. Likes people being in his power. And if they try to get away he don’t forgive them. I’m lucky I only got a smack in the jaw.’

‘He didn’t like it on account of your uncle?’

‘He didn’t like what happened.’ Le Saux’s voice faded again. He began obsessively to pull out more strands of tobacco from the packet. He carefully laid out a cigarette paper and assembled the strands on it, licked the edge, lit up again. ‘Who are you, anyway? Why am I talking to you?’

‘Because we cared about Valerie.’

The boy’s eyelids drooped. He seemed to have lost interest.

‘What did Mallory do?’

‘Mallory don’t like my fucking uncle and that’s the truth.’

‘Enemies from way back, eh? I remember that. Used to work round here myself.’ At once he wished he could have bitten it back; the wrong thing to have said. If the boy knew he was a reporter … but luckily Le Saux wasn’t alert enough to pick up on it.

‘Mallory thinks he’s better’n the rest of us. But he ain’t.’

Blackstone agreed soothingly.

‘Didn’t think I was good enough for one of his girls.’

‘Mmm. Because …?’

‘Work for my uncle, don’t I? Ducking and diving. I’m the errand boy.’ There was bitterness in his voice.

‘So you were warned off, is that it?’

Le Saux didn’t reply, overtaken by another wave of lethargy. This time his silence seemed set to continue indefinitely. He simply wasn’t listening; he wasn’t even there. Blackstone stood up. He left the note lying under his plate. ‘I’d like to talk to you again.’

‘Yeah? I’m always around.’

A February sun washed the dirty London sky with the sweetness of winter sunshine in mild weather. Blackstone barely noticed.

He could not accept that that wastrel had been loved by Valerie. A petty criminal, for that he surely was if he worked (a euphemism) for his uncle – his uncle’s errand boy, he’d said – had been Valerie’s knight in shining armour. The idea of Archie Le Saux as the love of Valerie’s life was unbearable. He rejected it out of hand. It could not be true. Yet apparently it was.

Le Saux had as good as accused Mallory. Could
that
be true? Mallory had a past, but not that kind of past. The way he’d toughed it out against Jack Spot, for example. Hadn’t resorted to violence himself in spite of all the provocation, but had faced him down and then done the clever thing and got police protection. Mallory was a businessman – a crooked one, true, but a businessman, not a murderer. Too clever to need to resort to murder. Yet everyone was pointing the finger at Mallory.

Le Saux was in a bad way. Blackstone was sure it was about more than the girl’s death. Sure, he’d lost his girlfriend in horrible circumstances, but his state expressed something beyond grief … resignation, perhaps. More than that. Surrender. He was someone who’d given up. He’d thrown in the towel. Blackstone had sat in the café with him for less than half an hour, but he’d felt that aura coming off him, of a man who had given up hope. The question was: why?