Half Broken Things (4 page)

‘You see, it's Jeff, you said, isn't it, you see, Jeff, I think the vicar would say it's not the value so much as the fragility. Do you know, nobody's even meant to touch them without gloves? I couldn't take it upon myself, you see. But the vicar might let you handle them, if you came back when he's here.'

Michael pressed his eyebrows into an angle of scholarly disappointment. ‘Yes, yes, that would be marvellous, except I'm due back in Norfolk by the weekend, you see. And one does so need to examine them. The main idea for my little book revolves round certain dating uncertainties, as I said, and only close examination gets one any further forward . . .'

‘Oh, but we're quite confident they're genuine sixteenth century, because—' Michael was too taken up with noticing how hamstery she looked to hear the details. Her hair might have been red once, and was still abundant. Twisted wires of it were held under a knitted hat and a gingery down surrounded her small mouth, which worked too quickly. Michael took a deep breath for one last effort and interrupted her to explain that his hypothesis, based on his understanding (imperfect, of course, just a little interest of his, though a publisher
may
be getting keen) of the religious iconography of Northern Europe, the details of which he would spare her, was that the figures might be much older.

‘They might, in fact, even be twelfth century. Though one must get them in one's hands, you see, as the weight and density of the material is key. And a little scrape test on the base would confirm, and so on. But if I'm right, they'd be so rare you could say they were priceless.
Immensely
valuable.'

This had worked before. It was extraordinary how the unwillingness of some people to put their important and valuable objects into his hands could suddenly evaporate at the suggestion that a closer examination might reveal even more importance and value. But infuriatingly, inexplicably, it was not working now with Hamster Woman. Was she simple?

‘Oh my goodness! That would be something for the PCC, wouldn't it! But oh, you
should
have telephoned the vicarage first, it's too bad you've missed the vicar! Though to be honest I'm not sure if he'd have been up to it, he's
exhausted
. It's only four and half weeks since she finally went and such terrible timing, just in the run-up to Christmas and you can imagine Christmas nearly finished him but no, he wouldn't bow out of a single service, he's like that, throws himself into everything,
too
hard if you ask me. And oh, he did need the break, we could all see that. She was only fifty-nine and towards the end, you see, with the nursing, well. The bishop's quite good about things like that. The new bishop I mean, the last one wasn't quite so
aware
, not at the grass roots. Though as a parish, we all try to be terribly—'

‘No, well! Sadly, I didn't know. Ah well, very sad. Another time. Well, I won't ...'

Michael was not finding the right words in the way he had once been able to, and his face was definitely ticking now. Why was it calling for greater effort each time? This part of it, the part of the whole business that should be fun, that might even in a strange way have been the point of it once, was now becoming more and more difficult. His attention tended to wander, and that was dangerous. Or perhaps, Michael considered, pulling a hand across his face, he was allowing his attention to wander
because
it was dangerous, because the fire he was playing with had been cooling over the course of the last few trips and a little more danger might generate a little more heat from it. Or was he just tired, tired beyond words, like the vicar,
exhausted
?

Michael bestowed his curatey smile on the woman once more and concentrated hard. He was not Michael, he was Jeffrey ‘everyone calls me Jeff' Stevenson. He adjusted his voice to reveal his gratitude, his smile to show his regret, his eyes to leave her in no doubt about his sincerity. He ran it over again in his mind. He, Jeff, was a Church of England curate taking a few days' holiday, researching his special interest in devotional objects. He was a curate; disappointed and philosophical, but (because they all were) demonstrably, quintessentially
nice
.

Nicely, he said, ‘It's my own fault, I should have planned better, but sometimes it's good to wander whither one wilt, so to speak, and just drop in. Ah well, back to Norfolk, disappointed! Unless we can prevail upon someone else ...'

‘Oh, Norfolk! I'm very fond of Norfolk! So where is your church, exactly?'

Michael swallowed and tried not to stare at her with the naked hatred he was beginning to feel.

‘St Margaret's, Burnham Norton,' he told her, also reminding himself that today he was Jeff Stevenson of St Margaret's, Burnham Norton, and that there was no need to panic. He could, if required, reel off the biographical details of Jeff Stevenson that he had memorised from Crockford's Directory of the Clergy. Part of Michael's brain now pictured the real Jeff Stevenson going about his pathetic business in Norfolk, unaware that he was being impersonated (and rather well) on the other side of the country. Michael knew that whatever the day might hold in the line of duty for Jeff Stevenson, it would include a little light comforting of the old, the lonely, the sick: jollying up, calming down, smoothing over the truth that most people's lives stank whether there was a God or not. Michael believed that comforting was just another form of lying, which made Jeff Stevenson no better than he was.

‘Oh, yes, but just where
is
that?' asked the woman, her voice squeaking with what sounded, unbelievably, like genuine interest. How was it possible? Michael wondered. Really, how was it done? And most of all,
why,
why this curiosity, this caring about details in the lives of strangers? Then the thrill that had been missing from the day stole over him. Beyond its being in Norfolk, Michael had not a clue where Burnham Norton was. And it would be such an exquisite disaster if, by one of those coincidences that were so common, he was about to be found out. He waited, perhaps half wanting it, to hear the ‘because my sister lives there, you
must
know her!' or the ‘but the curate of St Margaret's is my goddaughter's nephew. You're not the curate of St Margaret's!' One day it was bound to happen. Was it to be today? The more little trips he made the more he risked it, and with every time he got away with it, the closer came the day when he would not.

‘Is it on the coast?'

The question seemed to ring off the walls of the church and eddy round the display case where the pair of effigies stood smug behind the glass. Michael moved casually towards the door.

‘Well, if you know where Norwich is it's not so far from there, I suppose. Look, I think I'd better—'

‘But in what direction? How many miles? Is it anywhere near oh, what's it called . . . I can picture the place, I went there as a girl—twice in fact—'

‘Oh, is this your leaflet?' Michael blurted. ‘May I take one?'

‘Oh, do! Here, take a few and you can hand some on,' she said, pushing a wad of pale green leaflets at him. ‘There's quite a bit there about our effigies, we are rather proud of them! And we do like our visitors!'

‘Oh,
may
I? Thank you.'

‘Take plenty, do. Well, remember where we are, won't you? The vicar'll be back by the end of this week. Have you signed our visitors' book? There
should
be a pen but they do walk!

‘Oh, not to worry! It's been lovely just to see the church. Yes, I've signed the book,' Michael gushed back. ‘As soon as I arrived, before you came in. Thanks so much!'

‘And do,
do
come back at the end of the week when the vicar's here!'

‘If I possibly can, I will! Thank you!'

‘Give my regards to Norfolk!'

‘I will!' And if you say one more word, he thought, beaming at the woman before he turned to go, I shall club you to death.

Michael parked in a lay-by on the edge of Sherston, swiped up the pile of pale green leaflets from the dashboard, wound down the window and pushed them out. He stared at them as they settled and shifted on the ground. The twitch in his face had travelled down to his throat, and he began to cry. The van needed work, the electric bill was overdue and even supposing he could shift the six kneelers straightaway, once he counted in his petrol he would be no better off. He sank his head onto the steering wheel and gulped. He was due back in court tomorrow for falling behind with his fines again, and he had nothing for the arrears. But even that was not the worst of it. The unbearable part was that, despite the practical clothes and the shiny clean hair for today's little performance, he was not Jeff Stevenson. Once again, inescapably, he was only himself.

 

On Tuesday, the day after the teapot and Shelley's telephone call, Jean filled her cardigan pockets with keys and set off round the house. The largest key opened the locked room at the front, which turned out to be a study, not of the proper working kind but with a battered, easy-going air, as if any studying ever done in it had been allowed to evolve in its own fashion. The furniture was comfortably mis-matched, apparently brought in piece by piece and then allowed to stay, however useless it became. One solid mahogany desk had been joined by an oak one, smaller and less attractive, on which stood an ancient IBM golfball typewriter. A four drawer filing cabinet stood next to one of another colour, half its size. There was a computer and printer, and a disconnected fax and answering machine. Next to the computer squatted an old adding machine, and behind the cordless telephone sat a white plastic one with a round dial.

Jean was not especially curious about what business might have been conducted here, but it seemed to her, peering at the shelves of Cricketers' Almanac, the stacked software boxes with titles such as Mensa Ultimate Challenge and British Plant Guide, that it was less than all-absorbing, and perhaps indistinguishable from recreation. Quite possibly no business at all, in the commercial sense, but only household matters were run from here. She looked round blandly. All offices and businesses were, in the end, the same to her. She had worked in several, the last in 1984, when she had left just in time to avoid having to grapple with word processing. Work in offices bored her and always had: all it ever came to was the talking, typing, sending, filing of what were in the end just words and numbers. The people around her had seemed unaware of the futility of what they did all day, so she had learned to keep her mouth shut, do what was expected of her and look as if she gave a damn. But it amazed her. The wonder of offices, she felt, was that so many people could waste so much of their lives in them and think their time well spent.

Two of the newest and smallest keys opened the filing cabinets. Jean flicked through the folders in the top drawer, marked with names such as
Current Account 1, 2
and
3, Telephone, Insurance (Buildings), Insurance (Contents), Appliances, Oil, Electricity, Pool, Suppliers: Various.
In the lower drawers the first few files were labelled
Bonds, Deeds
and
Inland Revenue
. Jean could not be bothered to look further. It was all financial or legal stuff, statements and accountants' letters about trusts, investments and so on, and a lot of correspondence with some firm called Sadler Byng & Waterman who called themselves Independent Financial Advisers. Jean closed the drawer. It was sure to be disappointingly mundane in the detail, even if she were ready to make the effort to understand it. If she found herself at a very loose end some wet afternoon she might come up here and take a proper look. Before she left the room she checked that the computer and fax were indeed unplugged, but noted reproachfully that the old electric typewriter on the oak desk by the window was not. She left it as it was.

She tried another of the large keys in the carved door at the end of the main landing. It turned. The door opened with a sigh of its hinges, and showed to Jean—as if a curtain had been raised on a scene from a glamorous play—a room so light, pristine and pale that she felt immediately dirty and unworthy. She hesitated, finding it necessary to gaze from the doorway as if to check that the room was indeed empty; for something inside, something surely alive though not human, was beckoning to her. She stepped out of her shoes and walked in, where the perfection of the room expanded and grew inclusive. As she moved, she stirred the trapped smells of dry grass, clean cotton and lemon oil, which now began to animate and scent the air she breathed. With every step across the white carpet she summoned magic; she was rousing spells long asleep in the stillness. Moving from window to window she looked out at the dank gardens and then back, trying to accustom herself to the changed picture that she must make, framed by the room. Slowly she grew used to the thought that now she was in the room she was also
of
it, transformed from the sneaking outsider on the threshold into the perfect room's perfect occupant. She looked round at the pattern of faded flowers on the thick curtains, the soft carpet and green rugs, the bleached stone fireplace and the silver candlesticks on the mantelpiece. They seemed to be congratulating her on her safe arrival; they breathed their acceptance and conferred their brightness upon her. Jean sat down on the edge of the large bed, then slid into the centre of it and stretched out. The room was cold, and at once the goose-down quilt beneath her grew warm and nest-like. She lay and allowed something that felt very like happiness to lap through her, wondering if this feeling might be the live thing that she had sensed in the room as she had stood on the threshold. But then, had she not herself brought the feeling with her into the room? She lay smiling, pleasantly unsure whether she were the giver or recipient.

Later, she wandered into the dressing room, where she found that the wardrobes, which lined three walls, still had keys in their doors. Opening one, Jean was dismayed that the full-length mirror on the inside should so nearly spoil things. It showed her that she did not, after all, quite perfectly belong; in her heavy skirt and cardigan she was the only dark thing in the room and was not merely dark, but a muddy, lilac dark. But that she should now be shown this was a kindness, really, in the manner of the room's many kindnesses, because the door's swinging open like that and offering Jean her own reflection was revealing also the most obvious and natural solution. The wardrobe was full of women's clothes, most of them hanging from silk padded hangers. Jean counted eight cashmere twin sets and perhaps ten skirts, several blouses of white and cream silk and linen, at least a dozen striped and plain cotton shirts. The drawers alongside held trousers, heavy sweaters, belts, scarves, underwear. Behind the next door hung suits and dresses. For many years Jean had bought clothes of the better sort second-hand, from discreet little places invariably called ‘dress agencies'. She had almost developed the necessary blindness to evidence of previous ownership that was betrayed by a slightly bagging skirt, an armpit crease, a curl in a lapel. But nearly all of the clothes in these wardrobes had been so little worn that it was like staring at shop rails. They had the pleasantly impersonal, un-owned look of clothes in the classic English style—yet they might be, Jean thought, biting her lip, just slightly too young and daringly coloured for her. Or perhaps, she thought, with a nip of elation that the prospect of new clothes had not induced in her for three decades, perhaps only too young and daringly coloured for her current view of herself, which now seemed, suddenly, unduly and unnecessarily depressed. The dark figure she had seen reflected in the long mirror was already an embarrassment, a mystifying guest who had turned up uninvited and looking all wrong. As she sifted along the rails she began to see that really, the clothes were actually already hers and always had been; it was only she who had strayed from herself. These clothes would restore her to her proper self—the version of herself that she and other people had mislaid so long ago that everyone had ceased to notice that the dark, muddy Jean who had been going about in her place was the wrong one. The real, elegant, cared-for Jean had been found, and now she was burning to get out of the wrong clothes and prepare herself for the right ones. Turning carefully away from the reflection she undressed and slipped on a long dressing gown of cream alpaca.