Curtain Call (29 page)

‘If you want to make yourself useful you can start chopping that parsley,' said Jimmy, busy whisking a white sauce. ‘For the starter I'm making one of my specials – egg croquettes
à la
Erskine. I hope your young friend has a good appetite.'

Tom's immediate priority was to drink a large glass of the Chablis. He wondered about that appetite: she was awfully thin, his ‘young friend', now he came to think of it. He had actually never seen her eat anything. He experienced a flash of panic as he imagined them sitting down together, the oddness of it, as if he were introducing a girl to his parents. What on earth would she make of Jimmy? From the little he knew of her she was all of the things Jimmy wasn't – quiet, modest, unassertive, somewhat remote and inscrutable.
Oh God
. He had just opened the wine and was about to dispose of the cork when he decided to take a Gamble With Fate. If I can land this cork in the bin, he thought, lunch will be a success. Tom had a decent eye (he was good at darts) and lined up his throw with a practised squint. But should he try a darter's jerk from the shoulder, or was an underarm lob the safer option? Holding his breath, on the count of three he propelled the cork from his fingers in a long arc. It looped promisingly towards its target, bounced insolently on the rim of the bin – and dropped on the floor.

He turned to find Jimmy staring at the space between him and the unchopped parsley on the board. With a little
huh
he took up the knife and muttered, ‘Typical. Need a job done prop'ly, do it yourself.'

Too stunned to argue, Tom filled a glass and quaffed it down in gulps.

Madeleine had never seen so many paintings and drawings in a single room. She knew that Tom's employer (‘call me Jimmy') was a theatre critic, but to look at his walls you would have supposed him to be an art collector. From the outside his residence looked like any other mansion block in Bloomsbury, soot-scarred, cloudy-windowed, a little shabby. Inside, though, all was vivid and luxurious. Cream-coloured carpets, dark blue walls, plush sofas, an extravagant gramophone cocking its ear trumpet, every surface strewn with knick-knacks. On the mantelpiece stood a silver-lustre jug with peonies, flanked on either side by framed photographs of the master of the house: Jimmy as a boy, Jimmy in uniform, Jimmy shaking hands with an important somebody, Jimmy on horseback, and here was one of Jimmy and Tom at a dinner together, laughing to the camera.

Tom had looked white-faced with worry on answering the door, but he seemed to relax once he realised that Jimmy was in a good mood. The latter had emerged from the steaming kitchen wearing an apron and an expectant smile. He took Madeleine's hand and raised it, in gentlemanly fashion, to his lips.

‘Welcome, Miss Farewell!' he said, candidly appraising her. ‘What a lovely coat that is – I remember Sarah wearing one just like it. Tom, would you kindly fetch our guest a drink?'

Jimmy chunnered on for a while, casually answering her curiosity about the provenance of this or that painting, before disappearing back to the kitchen. Tom had brought in a tray of tall glasses in which he had mixed gin and pep. They clinked glasses. ‘Here's how,' he said. Madeleine looked searchingly at him and said, in a low voice, ‘I'm sorry to have kept phoning – were you very ill?'

Tom waved her apology away. ‘Just a mild attack of – you know. I'm fine now.'

He too had kept his voice discreet, and she understood his illness was still a matter of secrecy. She saw from his clothes that he had made an effort to look smart, and it touched her. She took a sip of the gin – goodness, he'd mixed it strong – and pointed to the photograph of him and Jimmy on the mantelpiece.

‘You both look so happy there,' she said with a little lift of her eyes.

Tom, who hadn't really looked at it in ages, smiled back. ‘It's from years ago, a Critics' Circle dinner. I think Jimmy had just won something – that's why
he's
looking happy.'

‘You must have been very proud, with him being your . . .' She realised she was fishing, but Tom evidently didn't see the bait.

‘I suppose I was . . . Those were the days! He won a few awards back then.' He glanced cautiously towards the kitchen doorway as he spoke.

Madeleine's expression was puzzled of a sudden. ‘Who's Sarah, by the way?'

‘Oh, he meant Sarah Bernhardt. She was Jimmy's idol.' He looked at her for signs of recognition, and found none. ‘French actress, last century – died about ten years ago?' She gave a helpless shake of her head. That was possibly something else Jimmy oughtn't to hear about.

‘How's your friend, the doctor – Peter?'

‘Pretty well, I think. He was very taken with you that night we met at the theatre.'

Madeleine looked wistful for a moment. ‘How lovely it must be to have such old friends.'

‘Well, it's he and Jim who are the old friends, really, I came in –'

‘Who are you calling “old?”' said Jimmy, back on the threshold.

Tom raised his eyes heavenwards. ‘I didn't mean “old” like that. I meant
long-standing
– Madeleine was just saying how nice it is having old friends.'

Jimmy grunted, warily appeased. He hated people thinking he was old – not yet sixty, for heaven's sake! ‘Well then. Luncheon is served. Tom, would you show Miss Farewell –'

‘Oh, it's Madeleine, please.'

‘– would you show
Madeleine
to the dining room?'

Madeleine had not tried egg croquettes
à la
Erskine, or indeed
à la
anybody, before. They were delicious, and Jimmy nodded complacently when she said so. He had learned to cook in France during the war, he explained, and once he had rooms with a kitchen of his own he became more adventurous. The first cookery book he bought was Boulestin's
Simple French Cooking for English Homes
. It still had pride of place on a bulging shelf with the other broken-spined, well-thumbed, food-flecked volumes he had stored there since.

‘He reads recipe books in bed, you know,' said Tom.

‘The better to dream of food,' Jimmy admitted, and Madeleine laughed. She was rather enjoying herself, in spite of Jimmy's scrutinising her as though he had never seen a woman before. She was also intrigued to see how Tom behaved in the company of a man with whom he had professed such a disaffection – from the first time they'd met she had heard him complain of Jimmy as morose, selfish, penny-pinching, absurdly conceited and monstrously rude. He had told her he couldn't wait to leave his employment. And yet here they were, if not a picture of perfect companionship then at least one of domestic familiarity, like – well, like a loud uncle and his patient nephew. She sensed how prickly Jimmy might be, and it reflected only credit on Tom that he behaved with such forbearance around him. While Jimmy did the cooking, Tom did everything else, the answering of the telephone, the serving, the wine, the clearing, even the fixing of the old man's napkin about his throat – he was a messy eater. If there had ever been something more between them, and she was not sure that there had, it was over long ago.

Jimmy for his part was delighted by their guest. He had felt disposed to like her from the off – really, how could one resist a girl called ‘Miss Farewell'? He could see what Tom admired in her too, the vague air of unworldliness, the beautiful sad eyes, the little hesitation before she spoke. My God she was skinny, though – she could have played a Dickensian waif with bones like that. Still, she had made short work of the egg croquettes, he noticed, and she'd been putting away the drink without much trouble, either. Only when the main course was served did he detect a doubt.

‘Is something the matter, my dear?'

‘Oh . . . no, I was just wondering . . .'

‘It's called Sea Pie, basically a steak pudding with the crust on top.'

Madeleine nodded. ‘It's very good. I'm just not used to eating meat – on a Friday, I mean.'

‘Ah, so you're a Roman?' Jimmy's eyes gleamed with renewed interest: he had an unaccountable respect for the Catholic Church. ‘I bet you haven't changed since you were at the convent.'

‘The nuns would think I've changed,' she said, and her gaze dropped. ‘And you?'

‘Never at a convent! My parents were Unitarian. We went to chapel on a Sunday – much good it did me.'

Tom said, ‘So d'you still practise?'

She shook her head. ‘Not really. I sometimes call in at a church to light a candle, say a prayer.'

‘Really?' said Jimmy, leaning forward. ‘For what? I mean, what sort of things do you pray for?'

For my life to be spared
, she thought, remembering the man in room 408, and the murder in his eyes. His hands pressing on her windpipe. She had prayed then – and she had been answered. But that incident was never to be spoken of. She didn't want Tom knowing she had been in a hotel room with a stranger.

Tom, construing her silence as embarrassment, said, ‘It's personal, Jim. Perhaps Madeleine would rather not talk about it.'

She looked at him gratefully. ‘No, it's not that. I did pray, quite recently, about something . . .' She told them about the dream she had had, of the city on fire, of how it came down in great sheeting torrents, and her terror on seeing people's heads wreathed in flame. It was an apocalypse, she supposed, recalling the word from her religious doctrine classes. She had prayed that it would never happen in their lifetime.

‘How absolutely frightful,' said Jimmy, with feeling. ‘And what do you suppose it meant? Another war?'

Madeleine shrugged. ‘I was talking to somebody the other night who said there was no chance of a war. There's too much to lose.'

‘Yes, that's probably right,' said Jimmy, trying to reassure himself. She asked Tom what he thought.

‘I wish I could be so optimistic,' he said, clearing the plates. ‘But there seems an appetite for it. Just look at what the German air force have done in Spain. They could bomb us into oblivion if they wanted to.'

Jimmy shuddered visibly. ‘
Thank
you, Thomas. Would you kindly go and fetch the apple tart, it's cooling on the stove.'

While he was out of the room, Jimmy took the opportunity to have another long gaze at Madeleine. She brought to mind girls he had admired in his youth, back in the nineties, when he was still uncertain of his own predilections. It was the paleness of her skin heightened by the dark shadows beneath her eyes, like those poor creatures who slaved all the hours in match factories. And now he had made her blush with his staring.

‘I beg your pardon, my dear, but you have the most remarkable physiognomy.'

It took her a moment to realise that he was talking about her face. ‘Oh . . .'

‘I have a theory that all women's faces belong in one of three categories. Bird, bun or horse. Bird is small and pointy. Bun, of course, is round. And horse is long, perhaps a bit chinny. D'you see?'

Madeleine wasn't sure she did. ‘Which one am I?'

‘Well, that's just it. Usually it's quite obvious – glance at a lady's phiz and one can tell straight away. But you . . . yours is something else. From the side your cheekbones would shade it towards “horse”, yet head-on there's a delicacy of feature that suggests “bird”. It's almost as though you have two different faces.'

Madeleine covered her confusion with a laugh, which Jimmy echoed. Tom, returning with the pudding, enquired as to their amusement.

‘Jimmy says I've got a face like a horse, or maybe a bird.'

Tom groaned. ‘Not bird-bun-horse, Jim, it's hardly polite . . .'

‘No, no, as I ex
plained
to our young friend, her own face transcends the categories. It is
sui generis
!'

Now she was really lost. ‘Suey what?'

‘One of a kind,' said Tom with a sudden earnest look. ‘Which is true.'

‘Good, then we're agreed,' said Jimmy, stirring a jug of cream. ‘Now, Madeleine, may I interest you in some tart?'

After she had gone, Tom began clearing up while he reflected, with relief, on the afternoon's success. Madeleine had seemed to enjoy it, had eaten everything set in front of her, and, best of all, had given his hand a squeeze as they said goodbye. That gesture, probably insignificant to her, had triggered a dizzying little skip of joy within him. She was glad to be his friend! And Jimmy had behaved himself – no, better than that, he had gone out of his way to charm her, stumbling only once with that bird-bun-horse sortie. She hadn't really understood he was offering her a compliment. Not many women would have done.

Having restored the kitchen to some semblance of order, he made a cup of coffee for Jimmy and carried it into the drawing room. Jimmy, slumped on a sofa, had a cigar in blast. He himself was rather wistful about their recent guest and the memories she had prompted of his not-yet-errant youth. Lucky the man who won her heart, he thought, watching Tom's approach.

‘So. Miss Farewell . . .' he began, accepting the cup.

‘I got the impression you liked her,' said Tom hopefully.

‘Liked her? My dear fellow, she's the cat's miaow. The monkey's maracas! Where did you find her again?'

‘Oh . . . someone introduced us. A party –'

‘Well, you should grapple her to you with hoops of steel. She's a rare bird.'

‘Or horse, in your taxonomy.'

Jimmy sighed. ‘Ah. If I were thirty years younger, and five stone lighter . . .'

And didn't prefer boys, Tom silently supplied. Then he wondered if Jimmy might have been attracted to women in his younger years. It was not impossible. ‘Thanks for being so nice to her,' he said, meaning it.

Jimmy waved this away and took a sip of the coffee. ‘You might try warming the milk, Tom,' he said, wrinkling his nose. ‘And pass me that
Mail
again, would you? There's a car I think we should have a look at.'