Adam and Eve and Pinch Me (16 page)

Jeff Leigh, alias Jock Lewis, once Jeffrey Leach, read the
Telegraph
Magazine
by chance. Someone had left it on the bus he was taking back from reconnaissance in Westminster. He only looked at it because a line in white letters on the cover told him that one of his ex-fiancées was writing inside,
Natalie Reckman Meets a Modern Carmen.
He still had a soft spot for Natalie. She’d kept him without complaint or resentment for nearly a year, got engaged without expecting a ring, and parted from him with no hard feelings.

She’d been tough on Zillah and serve her right. Why was she keeping the children’s existence dark? During the past week he’d twice been back to Abbey Gardens Mansions, but there had been no one there. The second rime the porter told him Mr. and Mrs. Melcombe-Smith were away but he had no idea where the children were. Jeff tried to press him but he must have become suspicious because he wouldn’t even say if there were any children living in apartment seven. Could Natalie be right when she implied Zillah had somehow disposed of them? Yet that hysterical letter she’d written him—he’d picked it up off the doormat in the nick of time before Fiona got there—said he could have access, see them when he wanted. The way, of course, to settle all this would be for him to write to Jims and simply tell him that Zillah’s husband was alive and well, and still married to her. Or even write to that old bat Nora Watling. But Jeff was reluctant to do this. He was aware of how much Jims disliked him, a feeling that was mutual, and this antipathy was shared by Zillah’s mother. They might simply disregard his letters. And if they didn’t and everything came out into the open, Fiona would very probably find out.

For all his wedding plans, organizing the ceremony and reception, talking happily about the forthcoming event, Jeff hoped not to have to marry Fiona while still married to Zillah. He vaguely planned putting off the wedding, finding a reason for postponing it till next year. And although he wanted to know that his children were safe and, come to that, happy, he shied away from having them to live with him. That would be too extreme a step. If he exposed Zillah as a bigamist and Jims abandoned her, as he surely would, the powers-that-be—police? Social Services? the court?—might well take the children from her. The obvious place for them to go would be their father’s home. Especially with a broody future stepmother pining to look after them.

Jeff remembered the ridiculous promise he’d made to Fiona, while light-headed on chardonnay, that he’d be a house husband, stay at home and look after their baby. That could mean looking after Eugenie and Jordan too. Closing his eyes for a moment, he pictured his life, shopping in West End Lane with a baby in a buggy, holding Jordan’s hand, hastening to be in time to fetch Eugenie from school. Jordan’s constant tears. Eugenie’s didactic speeches and general disapproval of everything. Getting their tea. Never going out in the evenings. Changing nappies. No, having the children wasn’t feasible. He would have to think of a reason for continuing to live with Fiona without marrying her. Was it too late to say he was Catholic and couldn’t be divorced? But Fiona thought he was divorced already . . .

He got off the bus and walked slowly down Holmdale Road. In all his six-year-long quest to find a woman who was young yet rich, a home owner, out at work all day, good-looking, sexy and loving, willing without demur to keep him, he’d never come across one who satisfied the criteria as well as Fiona. Sometimes, especially when he’d had a drink, he even felt romantic about her. So how was he going to juggle the three slippery balls of keeping her in love with him, obtaining access to his children, and avoiding marrying her?

He let himself into the house and found her watching Matthew Jarvey’s television show. He kissed her affectionately and asked after her parents, whom she’d been visiting while he was out. On the screen Matthew, looking like a famine victim, was gently interviewing a Weight Watchers woman who’d lost twenty pounds in six months.

“Must be nuts, that guy,” said Jeff. “Why doesn’t he just get himself together and eat?”

“Darling, I hope it doesn’t upset you, but did you know there’s a big piece in the
Telegraph Magazine
about your ex-wife?”

“Really?” This would solve his dilemma of whether to tell her or not.

“Mummy kept it for me. She thought it terribly naff—I mean, the people who write this stuff. What kind of a woman would be such a bitch?”

For some obscure reason, this innocent attack on Natalie Reckman made Jeff angry, but he didn’t show it. “Have you got it, darling?”

“You won’t let it upset you, will you?”

Fiona handed him the magazine and returned to watching Matthew chatting to a man who failed to put on weight no matter how heartily he ate. On rereading, the bits about Zillah’s clothes and her souk jewelry restored his good temper and made him want to laugh. He assumed a gloomy expression. “I admit I’m anxious about my children,” he said quite truthfully when the program ended and Fiona switched off the set.

“Perhaps you should consult a solicitor. Mine’s very good. A woman, of course, and young. High-powered, doing very well for herself financially. Shall I give her a ring?”

Fleetingly, Jeff considered it. Not because he had any intention of involving the law—nothing could be more dangerous—but he liked the sound of this woman: young, high-powered, rich. Good-looking? Richer than Fiona? He could hardly ask. Regretfully, he said, “Better not, at this stage. I’ll fix up a meeting with Zillah first. What shall we do this evening?”

“I thought we might stay in, have a quiet time at home.” She edged closer to him on the sofa.

Zillah also had a quiet time at home. Jims had dumped the suitcases in her bedroom and gone off to spend the night with Leonardo. A note by the phone informed her that her mother had removed the children to Bournemouth, being unable to stay in London because Zillah’s father had had a heart attack and was in the hospital there. Zillah picked up the phone and, as soon as it was answered, got a mouthful of abuse from Nora Watling. How dare she go off without leaving the phone number of the hotel she and Jims were staying in? And never to call once from the Maldives! Had she no concern at all for her children?

“How’s Dad?” asked Zillah in a small, wretched voice.

“Better. He’s home. He might be dead for all you care. I may as well tell you here and now that I never in my life read anything so disgusting as that article in the
Telegraph.
I haven’t kept it for you. I burnt it. More or less calling you a prostitute! A Gypsy! When you know perfectly well your father and I come from good West Country stock for generations back. And that picture! As good as topless you were. And calling poor James a pervert!”

Zillah held the receiver at a distance until the cackling ceased. “I don’t suppose you’ll feel like bringing the children back?”

“You ought to be ashamed to ask. I’m worn out with nursing your father. And I don’t know what to do about Jordan’s crying. It’s not natural a child of three crying at the least little thing. You’ll have to fetch them yourself. Tomorrow. What do you have a car for? I’ll tell you something, Sarah, I didn’t know my luck all that time we barely had any contact. Since you went to London, I haven’t had a moment’s peace.”

In Glebe Terrace, in Leonardo’s tiny but extremely smart Gothic house, he and Jims were reclining on the huge bed that filled Leonardo’s bedroom but for a few inches between it and the walls, listening to
The
Westminster Hour
on the radio. They had eaten their dinner (gravlax, quails with quails’ eggs, biscotti, a bottle of pinot grigio) in that bed and made some inventive love afterward. Now they were relaxing in their favorite way, Leonardo having comforted Jims by telling him not to worry about the
Telegraph.
There was nothing offensive about him in it, rather the reverse. It was Zillah who got all the stick.

A couple who had been spending the evening in a similar way were Fiona and Jeff. Their lovemaking had also been inventive and satisfying, but their dinner had consisted of papaya, cold chicken, and ice cream with a bottle of Chilean chardonnay. Fiona was now asleep while Jeff sat up in bed rereading Natalie Reckman’s piece. After a while he got up and, treading softly, went downstairs to find the address book he kept in an inside pocket of his black leather jacket. Fiona, as she’d no hesitation in telling him, was far too honorable ever to look in jacket pockets.

There it was: Reckman, Natalie, 128 Lynette Road, Islington, N1. She might have moved, but it was worth a try. Why not give her a ring for old times’ sake?

Chapter 13

NEARLY A MONTH went by before Minty got to see Josephine’s wedding photographs and then she was expected to pay if she wanted a set of her own. She hadn’t the money to waste on things like that, but she carefully scrutinized the photos for a hint of Jock’s presence before handing them back. Auntie had had a book with amazing spirit photos in it, taken at seances. Sometimes the spirits looked solid like Jock and sometimes transparent, so that you could see the furniture through them. But there was nothing of either sort in Josephine’s pictures, only a lot of drunk people grinning and shrieking and hugging each other.

For a week, while Ken and Josephine were on a deferred honeymoon in Ibiza, Minty had been in charge of Immacue on her own. She didn’t like it but she had no choice. Once, when she was in the back ironing and she heard a man’s voice, or rather, a man’s cough from the shop, she thought Jock had come back again, but it was Laf, his kind face looking doleful and apologetic.

He was in uniform, an imposing figure, all six foot two of him and, it seemed to Minty, exaggerating, nearly six foot two round his middle. “Hallo, Minty, love. How are you?”

Minty said she wasn’t so bad, thanks. Josephine would be back the next day.

“It’s not Josephine I want. It’s you. To be honest with you, it’s no good me popping in next door with Sonovia the way she is. She’s got a nasty tongue when she likes, as you know. But I thought—well, me and Sonny are going to see
The Cider House Rules
tonight and I thought—well, you might like to come along. No, don’t say anything for a minute. I thought, maybe you’d meet us there and sort of come up to us and say hello or whatever and Sonn would—well, she wouldn’t make a song and dance of it in a public place, would she?”

Minty shook her head. “She’d ignore me.”

“No, she wouldn’t, love. Believe me, I know her. It’d be a way of putting things right between you. I mean, it’s not right the way things are, never being able to pop next door, me not allowed to pass on the papers, and all that. I reckon if you did that, she’d apologize and then maybe you would, and everything’d be grand again.”

“I’ve nothing to apologize for. She ought to be glad I had her outfit cleaned. I’ve still got it, did you know that?
And
I’ve had it cleaned again since I wore it. If she wants it back she can fetch it.”

Laf tried more persuasion about the cinema visit but Minty only said, No, thanks. She’d been going to the pictures on her own lately, it was quieter and there was no one whispering at her. Because she had no quarrel with Laf she didn’t say anything about the popcorn. He went off, shaking his head and saying she hadn’t heard the last from him, he’d mend the rift if it was the last thing he did.

Anyway, she didn’t want to see that film. She didn’t care for the sound of it. Jock had once bought her a half-pint of cider and she’d had to leave it, it tasted so sour. Jock. She’d seen him several times since the wedding, so she knew sticking a blunt knife in him hadn’t got rid of him. Again he came into the cemetery when she was putting tulips on Auntie’s grave, called her Polo, and said he preferred narcissi because they had a lovely scent. All the rest of that day, though she couldn’t see him, he kept whispering “Polo, Polo” at her. The next sighting was in her own house. Once more he was in that armchair. He got up when she came in and, lifting his shirt, showed her the bruise the dinner knife had made in his side, a purplish blue blotch. Minty went out of the room and shut the door on him, though she knew closed doors couldn’t keep him in just as they couldn’t keep him out. But when she went back again, he was gone. She’d been trembling so much she’d been walking through the rooms touching one color wood after another, but there weren’t enough different colors to do any good.

Bruising him wasn’t much use. The knife she had used had been too small as well as too blunt. She needed one of Auntie’s long carving knives. As a police sergeant, Lafcadio Wilson had had to be an observant man and when he came into Immacue to reason with Minty he’d noticed something like a bar or wooden baton lying horizontally across her waist. But it was mostly concealed by the loose garment she wore, and it was only when she was backing away from him and turning her body round to face the other way that he saw the end of it push out the hem of her sweatshirt. He thought no more about it. Minty was eccentric, everyone knew that. He never suspected the truth, that what he detected was a fourteen-inch-long butcher’s knife with a sharp point and a bone handle.

Minty had sharpened it on Auntie’s old-fashioned oilstone and she was surprised at the edge she’d achieved. She laid it against the skin on her forearm. One touch and the blood leapt from her arm in a string of beads. She wrapped the knife in one of Auntie’s linen table napkins, securing it in place with elastic bands, then with more bands attached it to the bum bag. Provided she wore really loose tops, it wouldn’t show.

Often now she heard his voice, but it never said more than “Polo, Polo.” Not so Auntie’s, which had joined his. All the time she’d been praying to Auntie at the grave she never got an answer and she didn’t now. It seemed to her that Auntie spoke when days elapsed since she’d been to the cemetery, as if she protested at neglect. The first time she heard the voice she was frightened, it was so clear, so plainly Auntie’s. But in life she’d never been afraid of her and gradually she became used to this new invisible visitor from beyond the grave; she’d even have liked to see her, as she saw Jock. Auntie never appeared. She only talked. The way she had when she was alive, about her sisters, Edna and Kathleen, about her friend Agnes who’d brought the baby Minty to be looked after for an hour and had never come back, about the puréed prunes and the duke of Windsor and about Sonovia not being the only person on earth with a son a doctor and a daughter a lawyer.

Then, one day, while Minty was having a bath and washing her hair, Auntie’s voice came very clearly and said something new. “That Jock’s evil, Minty love, he’s really evil. He’s dead but he can’t ever come where I am because he’s an imp of Satan. If I was back on earth, I’d destroy him, but I can’t touch him from this holy place. I’m telling you it’s your mission to destroy him. You’ve been called to destroy him, and then he can go back to hell where he belongs.”

Minty never answered Auntie because somehow she knew that though she could speak, she couldn’t hear. She’d been deaf for a couple of years before she died. The voice persisted for most of the evening. From her front room Minty watched Sonovia and Laf go off to the cinema. The evenings were light now, the sun still shining. But it had always been rather dark inside this house, perhaps because Auntie and now Minty only drew the curtains back halfway across the windows. For inner London and in parts a rough area, it was also very quiet. Mr. Kroot on one side lived in dim silence, while the Wilsons weren’t keen on television or loud laughter. Into the absence of any sound Auntie’s voice came back, telling her to destroy Jock and rid the world of his evil spirit.

Next day the top she put on was tighter and shorter, and the knife showed through, sticking out like some sort of frame. She tried other ways of carrying it and finally found that wearing it under her trousers against her right thigh, strapped in place by a belt, answered best.

A lecture awaited Zillah in the morning. Jims was dressed as she hadn’t seen him for the past ten days. Perhaps she’d never seen him so svelte and elegant. He wore a charcoal suit, impeccably cut, for which he’d paid £2,000 in Savile Row, a frostily white shirt, and a slate-colored silk tie with a vertical saffron stripe. Zillah belonged to that school of taste that holds that a man is never so attractive as when dressed in a dark formal suit, and gloom descended on her. She hadn’t slept well and her hair needed washing.

“I’ve something to say to you. Sit down and listen, please. Recriminations are quite useless, I realize that. What’s done is done. It’s the future I’m concerned about.” All of Eton and Balliol were in his tone. “I don’t wish you to speak to any journalists at all, Zillah. Do you understand what I’m saying? Not any at all. There must be no exceptions. Frankly, I had no idea when you began on your press campaign that you would be as rash and uncontrolled as you have been. I expected a modicum of discretion, but I’ve said there are to be no recriminations, so let that be an end to them. The key phrase for you to remember is, no contact with the media. Right?”

Zillah nodded. She was remembering the charming boy of her adolescence who had been such a sweet and funny companion, and the gracious man who visited her in her loneliness at Long Fredington and who always seemed close to her in a happy and intimate conspiracy—Zillah and Jims versus the world. Where had he gone? Her heart sank like a stone when she thought:
This is my husband.

“I would like to hear you say it, Zillah.”

“I won’t talk to the media, Jims. Please don’t be so angry with me.”

“I shall tell Malina Daz to hold you to that. Now you’re off to fetch the children today, I think you said. It would be a good idea if you were to stay a few days with your parents.”

“In Bournemouth?”

“Why not in Bournemouth? It’s a very pleasant watering place and the children like it. It will give you an opportunity to check on your father’s health. How do you suppose it would look if it got about—if it got into a newspaper—that (a) you failed to return from the Maldives when your father had had a coronary, and (b) you failed to rush post-haste to his bedside once you did return?”

“But I didn’t know he’d had a coronary till last night!”

“No, because you didn’t once take the trouble to phone your mother while you were away, although your children were with her.”

It was unanswerable. Even Zillah could see that. “How long do you want me to stay there?”

“Until Friday.”

It was a lifetime.

The traffic was heavy, and it was nearly six by the time Zillah reached her parents’ house. Her father lay on the sofa, boxes and bottles of medicaments on the little table beside him. He looked perfectly well, his eyes bright and a rosy flush on his face.

“Poor Grandad fell down on the floor,” said Eugenie importantly. “He was all alone. Nanna had to bring me and Jordan down to save his life and I said, ‘If poor Grandad dies, we must get someone to bury him in the ground,’ but he didn’t die.”

“As you see,” said Charles Watling, grinning.

“We went to the hospital and Nanna said to Grandad, ‘Your daughter’s gone to the ends of the earth and I don’t know her phone number.’ ”

Nora Watling had packed up the children’s things and prepared sandwiches for them to eat in the car on the way home. When Zillah said they would be staying till Friday, she sat down heavily in an armchair and said flatly that they couldn’t. Even one more day of Jordan’s crying and Eugenie’s officiousness would be too much, not to mention the presence of Zillah herself.

“No one ever wants us,” Eugenie said calmly. “We’re just a burden. And now our poor mummy is too.”

Weakening, Nora put an arm round her. “No, you’re not, my darling. Not you and your brother.”

“If we can’t stay here,” said Zillah, “where are we supposed to go?” Had she known the passage, she might have said that the foxes have their holes and the birds of the air their nests, but she had not where to lay her head. “To a hotel?”

“Your husband had enough of you, has he? That’s a good start, I must say. I suppose you’ll have to stay, if that’s what you want. But you’ll have to help me. Do the shopping, for one thing, and take the children out in the afternoons. Never mind about Eugenie’s schooling. That’s the last thing on your mind. But you mark my words, there’s no doubt one never gets rid of one’s children. No matter how often you think they’ve gone for good this time, they always come back. Look at me with you.”

“You see, you’ll never get rid of us, Mummy,” Eugenie said happily.

Zillah had to sleep in the same room as the children. Jordan went to sleep crying and woke up in the night crying. This began to worry her and she wondered vaguely if she should take him to a child psychiatrist. In the daytime the three of them spent the mornings food shopping and fetching prescriptions, and in the afternoons, because the weather was fine, they went to the beach. It was as bad as being back in Long Fredington. On Thursday morning Charles Watling became ill again, breathless and with a pain down his left side. The GP came and he was rushed into hospital.