The Walking Stick (21 page)

Leigh was watching me as I read this.

I said dryly, ‘Well, there’s no harm in asking.’

‘It’s a pretty tall order, I must say.’

‘Leigh, I’ve been thinking over the people at our bonfire party. You said this man was there. I can’t begin to guess who it is.’

‘Don’t try, love. It’s better not.’

‘You always make it sound so dramatic. Is Jack Foil in this?’

‘Why bother to ask? The less you know, the better.’

He looked very young. Sometimes I felt so much more than a year older. Perhaps I ought to have thought for us both, to have gone on refusing to do this thing. But although in character I was
more mature, maybe better balanced, physically he was the master. I suppose if there’s any excuse for me, that’s it.

I needed an excuse during the next two weeks at Whittington’s. I suppose in seven years I’d been in the strongroom thirty or forty times and seen the safe opened every second visit.
But I’d gone in casually with someone, or got one of the directors to open the door because I wanted the records of 1963 sales, or something of the sort. I’d done this with a perfectly
clear mind and face, never bothering to think about it. But now I needed an excuse, and it took me ten days to think up something that sounded genuine to my own sensitive ears. Then I had to get
John Hallows to open the door, which made matters worse, it being him. And then unlock the safe.

He left me for about three minutes which was more than enough . . . 951063 . . . On the middle bolt, as they’d said. Copied now on a corner of my catalogue. When he came in again to lock
up I said: ‘Is this room on some sort of a burglar alarm at night?’

‘Yes.’ He smiled. ‘Why?’

‘I thought I heard one of the Safeguard men talking about it this week—’

‘Yes, there’s a trembler alarm over there. It’s at the back there, between the cupboards. When it’s set, if anyone opens the door or tries to break in, opening it alters
the air pressure in the room and that sets the trembler off.’

‘Ingenious.’

‘Yes, if anyone tried to get in here they’d be in for a few nasty surprises.’

‘Good,’ I said, and
so
meant it.

‘Answer to questions,’ I typed before Leigh got home.

When I’d finished I pulled it out of Leigh’s old machine and read it through.

I was helping – already more than I had ever intended to. But when and how to stop? For a few minutes I had been tempted to give them the wrong numbers of the safe, but to tell them any
deliberate lie which later could be checked was asking for trouble of the worst kind. For Leigh as well as for me. So I was now co-operating in a prospective burglary. This was a confused dream, a
sleazy nightmare. It was like being ill; you lost your sense of reality. You said, Is this really happening to me? and you answered, Yes, but it still had no conviction.

I screwed the paper in a ball, but before I could find the waste-paper basket Leigh came in, so I gave him the paper instead. This is the rationale of nightmare. Take only one step out of
reality, and all the rest logically follows.

Perhaps it is more like driving in an unknown town and taking the wrong spoke at a roundabout. You go on quite happily for a time afterward, not realizing your whole direction
has changed and you’re heading north instead of south.

The information was passed. No comeback. Leigh hadn’t received the money but he seemed to have no doubt he would get it. He was in his cheerful mood and carried me along. Except for two
Saturdays when he went with Ted Sandymount to watch Charlton Athletic, he seemed to see less of his other friends, and I began to feel that with luck we might break free of them even yet. Weekends,
apart from the two matches, we spent together, Saturdays mainly looking for a shop or some small premises that we might rent.

Sunday mornings sometimes at low tide Leigh would wander off on his own along the river beach. It was more than I could do, what with the big stones, and here and there walls and jetties to
climb; but he enjoyed it, came back knee-wet and muddy. I thought then that he would have really liked to live on an island like Gauguin, existing on a few pounds a year, carefree, responsibility
free, free to laze and wander and paint . . .

Sarah got engaged to Philip, and Leigh and I twice went to have drinks in his rooms. Although so different in temperament, Philip and Leigh got on together; I could see an agreeable future in
their friendship. Once Sarah suggested calling at Jack Foil’s antique shop but I headed her off.

Leigh wrote a legally dictated letter to Lorne asking her to come home, but she didn’t answer. The agency reported her as living a celibate life, but Leigh told them to keep a man on the
case.

One day I came home and met a good-looking youngish-middle-aged woman leaving the studio. We just moved to each other as we passed, and when I got in Leigh was looking upset.

‘Dad’s next door neighbour. She’s up here for the day. Says he’s been ill.’

‘Why don’t you go and see him?’

‘I will sometime. But he’s all right again.’

‘Do you ever write?’

‘A couple of times a year, I reckon.’

‘Let’s both go and see him. You never talk about your family.’

‘No . . . wait till we’re married. He’s conventional that way.’

Shopping days to Christmas shortened with the daylight. Weekly we skated. I was good now, went on my own, didn’t fall. Weekly theatre too but little music – except for pop music we
couldn’t enjoy the same things. Douglas and Erica asked us up. We went but it wasn’t really a success, though everybody tried.

I took the opportunity of collecting more of my precious china and porcelain. Since meeting Leigh the pieces had come to mean less and less to me; no longer the almost animate comfort
they’d once been; but I still prized them, and it was fun to have them all in the studio, arranging them and rearranging them. I explained each one to Leigh, explained why each one was
beautiful to me, gave him an idea of its value. We talked about how we would build up a stock in the shop, what it would be good to specialize in.

Christmas came and went. This time last year I’d have peered at myself with incredulity. Different person. Looking back, I now saw that little trappings of invalid-ism had been there
– and incipient old-maidism perhaps. These gone. So I could stare both ways. Two or three at Whittington’s remarked on a change. They didn’t know the half.

On New Year’s Eve, which was a Saturday, I took and passed my driving test. This was a surprise and a great thrill. I felt so elated and when Leigh came home for lunch he was just as
delighted.

The rest of the day we spent alone. A quiet misty day, with all the river buildings wrapped in cellophane. A hazy sun hung over the river for a few hours and then went out. But no fog when night
came; the same cold distant haze, the same brooding quiet. We put on the record player and listened to records until just before midnight, then went on the balcony. At midnight the clocks chimed
and bells began to ring in the churches. Then suddenly all the ships in the port of London let off their sirens and fired Very lights into the misty night. It was like another firework display,
like a Coronation, a flowering of a great city and then a dying. The quiet air quivered with the wailing, hooting, snoring noise; waves of it came backward and forward across the river, colliding,
echoing. Buildings blanched as Verys fell, the cranes flickered against the pink sky. Then as quickly as it began it all stopped. The last of the lights faded, the city sank back into its shadows
and the nearer ships fell silent. But away, far away, in Blackwall Reach and Bugsby’s Reach and Woolwich Reach and Gallion’s Reach, the sirens were still sounding like an echo of the
first explosion, dying, dying, dying . . .

In the new year Leigh left the job in Percy Street, took another as a clerk in a drawing office in Margaret Street. A pound a week less, but more scope.

Jack Foil. One day at lunch. ‘May I share your table? D’you mind? A trifle crowded,’ he said, overlooking the empty tables. ‘Just come out of Sotheby’s. Fine stuff
going this morning but most of it over my head. Or over my pocket – ha-ha. Whittington’s have a dull week all that Victorian furniture. Just a snack, waitress. Just a plate of underdone
beef, cut thin, and a salad if it’s fresh. Miss Dainton, you’re not eating. D’you prefer to be alone?’

‘Of course not.’

‘I’ve an envelope for Leigh, thought it would save the postage – ha-ha! – the wife and I were saying only the other day that we don’t see enough of you both.’
Signet rings flashed on furry-dark fingers. ‘That lovely party in November. Such an original idea.’

I looked at the thick white envelope. ‘For Leigh?’

‘Yes. A business matter. But you know about it. Very helpful you’ve been, Miss Dainton.’ His piece of bread had holes in it and he covered those rapidly with butter like
someone puttying the cracks. ‘Very helpful. You’ve a very efficient mind, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

I left him in doubt.

‘Your father and mother are very elite sort of people, too – I hadn’t had the pleasure before that evening. We talked about collecting. They don’t believe in
it.’

Ruminative silence till his food came. When he cut his meat he held his knife between first finger and thumb, like a pencil.

He said: ‘Is there a private line?’

‘What?’ I looked at him, startled. ‘D’you mean . . . ?’

His eyes wobbled. ‘Yes. You didn’t say.’

‘I haven’t found out. I can’t.’

‘We have to know, you know.’ He sprinkled vinegar on his lettuce and then a touch of sugar. ‘Talk to the guards.’

‘I don’t know them – except just to nod to. I’m usually gone before seven.’

‘Stay on. Exchange a pleasantry or two. A joke. A pretty girl like you.’

I wasn’t eating now but I watched him eating.

‘There’s usually catches, that’s the trouble. Little booby traps, or things of that nature.’ He wiped the outside corners of his eyes. ‘Things the intruder
doesn’t know about. Only make one mistake. Who’s in charge of security, d’you know? In the firm, I mean. Who deals with Safeguards?’

‘I don’t know.’ I did know; it was Smith-Williams.

‘Find out, will you?’ The lettuce crackled and a smear of oil ran down from the corner of his mouth. ‘It should be easy. Most people talk easily, love telling things when
it’s in confidence. It’s lovely to have a secret and to pass it on. That’s the way the world goes round.’

I said stiffly: ‘Does Leigh know you’re meeting me?’

His eyes were nothing but glass; he was looking down at his plate, disappointed that the thin beef was gone.

‘I’m sure you’ll help us, Miss Dainton. It’s – part of the agreement, isn’t it? I hope it’s not asking too much.’

It is, it is.

‘There’s no efficiency in the world,’ he said. ‘That’s why I admire you. One of the elite ones, you know. You and Leigh, if you can set up in business
together.’

I said: ‘Are you the leader in this, Mr Foil? Leigh says there’s someone else but won’t say who.’

‘You must come and see us again.’ He put his knife and fork together on the plate and smiled at me. ‘I’ve some new plants. Interesting. There aren’t any leaders,
Miss Dainton. It’s just among friends, as the saying is . . . Don’t forget your envelope!’

Two hundred pounds in ten-pound notes. Sight of them is curiously corrosive. (What you could buy; go into a shop with three or four; not earned; not taxed; free to squander. I’ll have
this
and
this
and
this
; things I’ve always wanted; no, I’ll pay cash.)

‘You must give them back to him,’ I said, ‘so as to pay off part of what you owe him.’

‘No, he doesn’t want it; he’d be insulted. This is a fair payment for what we’ve done, what
you’ve
done. I’ve done nothing.’

‘But it’s essential to get clear of them, don’t you
see
?’

‘This isn’t enough. I owe him five hundred. There’s one thing certain: if you’re going to kick clear you don’t try to until you really can. That’s straight
common sense, love.’

It was.

‘This
mustn’t
be squandered, Leigh.’ Lovely to squander, to dress well, to dine at the Savoy, to . . .

‘No, that’s sense too. It should go in a long stocking, so as we’ve made a start saving up for the shop.’

‘It won’t get us far, but—’

‘Well, there’s more to come. Perhaps much more to come . . .’

‘Mr Smith-Williams,’ I said, ‘how do these safety precautions work against burglary? I mean to do with the Safeguards.’

‘Why d’you ask?’

‘I was talking to my father last night about the burglary in Hatton Garden. He said he thought Securicor were best.’

‘They’re certainly bigger. We chose Safeguards because they specialize in premises such as ours.’

‘What would happen if we did get broken into? Would they be responsible?’

‘Oh, no, not unless we could prove negligence of some sort. But of course it’s a very black mark against them if their precautions, for which a firm pays a pretty high rate, prove to
be ineffective.’

‘There’s an awful lot of inefficiency in the world.’ For some reason I quoted Jack Foil.

‘That’s a very cynical remark! I hope you don’t find it in this firm.’

‘Oh, no.’ Laughing. ‘We’re the exception!’

It isn’t easy. You angle for information but the fish doesn’t bite. And whose side are you on, fundamentally? ‘I can’t get what they want,’ I say to Leigh,
‘they’ll have to find out some other way.’ ‘Do what you can, love. When’s the next big jewel sale?’ ‘The end of February. Does that mean . . . ?’