Frozen Music (52 page)

‘Nothing is wrong,' I snapped and then, as I sat down in the chair by her bed, I began to cry. I don't know who was most horrified, Audrey or I.

After a while, I felt a hand on my shoulder; pat, pat. ‘There, there.' The hand was withdrawn. ‘Is it your… you know, that time of the month?' My mother had never felt at ease around bodily fluids.

‘You mean my period? No, it isn't. And even if it were, do you really think I would be sitting here snivelling about it?'

‘It's just that I don't think I've seen you cry since you lost that pig of yours. Oh, and that time in Sweden.'

‘Pigotty.' I sniffed, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. ‘His name was Pigotty.'

‘Whatever.' There was a silence broken only by the rhythmic sound of Audrey's hand dipping in and out of a bag of liquorice allsorts. Finally she said, ‘I spoke to Olivia today. They still can't make up their minds whether or not to sell. Ulla has started crocheting. She's working on some kind of patchwork blanket, apparently. Olivia says that the hospital has the most wonderful craft workshop.
She's thinking of displaying some of what's made there at the gallery. And they're delighted about the go-ahead for the opera house, of course, and so am I. Dear Linus.'

I glared at her. ‘Oh treachery, thy name is Audrey.'

Audrey ignored me. That was why she looked so well, in spite of her accident, in spite of her age; she just ignored anything that might possibly cause her stress, pretended it wasn't there, denied its existence. ‘I'm very fond of Linus,' she said.

‘You barely know him. I hate it when you do that, when you “really like” people in that indiscriminate fashion.'

‘I don't think I'm very fond of you when you're in this mood. If you ask me, it's that… you know, your… whether you know it or not.'

‘Stress might just wash off you,' I said. ‘But on me it droppeth like the gentle rain, turning me into a homicidal maniac!' I realised that I had shouted the last bit of that sentence.

‘And I suppose it's too early for… you know… your… the change,' Audrey mused. I gripped the doughnut on the plate on my lap, squeezing every last drop of jam from its plump body. Then I stood up. ‘I think I'd better go.' I grabbed a paper napkin on my way.

‘If you must,' Audrey said. ‘Bye-bye, darling.'

I had barely got my feet under my desk when my phone rang. It was Dora Wilson. She got straight to the point. ‘I'm worried about George. Really worried.'

‘OK, Dora, what's up?'

‘He's been watching that show again, you know that American one,
My True Life Drama
?'

‘I think I know the one.'

‘Well, this time it was about folks just like George and me, only they were American. They were about to lose their house and the husband, they were married like, so in that sense they weren't like me and George…'

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Chloe enter the room – she was trying to get my attention. ‘Yes?' I said into the mouthpiece.

‘And so he tricked the man, this one was a lawyer, into their cottage,
only they called it a cabin, and put a shotgun to his head and I said to George, that's how they do it over there, all those Westerns and guns and what-nots, and he said, what's good for the goose is good for the gander…'

‘Hey, Dora, what are you saying?' I waved to Chloe with my free hand, mouthing to her to wait.

Dora sounded impatient. ‘I told you, George saw that show…'

‘Yes, I heard all that. But what are you saying about guns and geese and ganders?'

‘George said that what's good for the goose is good for the gander.' She was speaking slowly now, as if to an idiot, so she wasn't far off the mark. ‘And that he has his shotgun and he knows how to use it, which is true because he used to win prizes for his clay pigeon shooting in the old days when they still had a…'

‘Wait wait wait, are you saying that George is threatening to shoot someone?'

‘I don't know,' Dora said. ‘But he's been ever so agitated, what with them coming for us Monday and you saying there's nothing more you can do…'

‘I'm afraid that's true. We've done everything we can and we've come to the end of the line. But there's a tremendous lot of goodwill out there for the two of you…'

‘So George keeps muttering to himself, and not half an hour ago, he brought the shotgun out from the cupboard and he had a really peculiar look on his face.'

‘What would you like me to do?'

‘Mabbe if you came down. Talked to him. Mabbe if you took some more pictures, made him feel he still mattered like, that people were still reading about him. He'd think there was still some hope.' That was the other problem. We picked up people, lifted them up and put them down in a circle of light and attention, and then, when we had had enough of that particular spectacle we turned our backs, switched off the light and walked away to the next attraction. ‘It would be lying,' I said.

Dora sighed. It was a wonder of modern communications, I
thought, that such a heavy sigh could travel through the wires all the way from Kent. ‘It might calm him down.'

‘But what happens then? The eviction is being enforced on Monday and that really is it. I'm so sorry, you know I am, but I can't really see that lying will achieve anything.'

Chloe was gesticulating frantically from the doorway. ‘Look, Dora, maybe you should call your doctor. It does sound as if George is getting rather agitated. The doctor could give him something to calm him down. And talking to someone he knows and trusts…'

‘He don't trust no whipper-snapper wet-behind-the-ears lady doctor. It was different when it was Dr Crabshaw, now he was what you'd call a real doctor…'

‘Look, Dora, I have to go. Call the doctor anyway and lock away the shotgun just in case. I'll call you in a while to check that everything's all right.' I put down the phone.

‘Yes?' I said to Chloe.

‘About bloody time. We have a complete crisis on “Woman” and you'd better sort it out.'

‘What?'

‘You said last week that Cameron Diaz uses Rosewood lipgloss by Pascal to get that famous pout. You just forgot to mention that you can only get that particular shade in the States. I've had the PR from Pascal calling to complain that their counters are being overrun with customers all wanting Rosewood, which they haven't got, and poor Roz is getting about ten calls a minute, some of them abusive.'

‘What do you want me to do about it?'

‘I don't know. Just do something.'

I tried, but if asked I'd have to say that my mind wasn't one hundred per cent on the job. I kept thinking about my conversation with Dora. George had had hare-brained ideas before, most of them inspired by what he'd seen on TV, but it had all just been bluster. But back then he'd had hope, I thought, as I dialled the number of the spokeswoman for Sugar Candy, the new all-girls group. (I wanted to ask her if Candy Floss, the lead singer, would care to share the secret of her much-talked-of new cleavage, thinking that would take our readers'
minds off Cameron's pout.) It was then I had my premonition. All right, so maybe it was just a bad feeling, but it
was
bad and it involved the Wilsons. I dialled the number of Dora's mobile. There was no answer, so I tried George's. Still no answer. I grew increasingly uneasy.

Five minutes later my phone rang. It was Simon Fuller from Terra Nova Enterprises. ‘We've just had a rather disturbing message from your friends the Wilsons. I didn't quite get it all, but the old boy kept shouting about geese. He said he had a gun and wouldn't worry about using it if he didn't get his way.' Simon Fuller's voice was smooth and matter-of-fact, and it didn't alter as he went on, ‘And I have to say that we hold you and your cronies at the
Chronicle
entirely responsible for any trouble the Wilsons might cause.'

‘Hang on a minute. That's ridiculous.'

‘Think what you like. Oh, and there's a site meeting this afternoon. The architect, the council and the builders. I really hope you haven't stirred up more trouble than you can handle.'

So did I, oh my God, so did I. I dialled the Wilsons again, both numbers. Still no reply from Dora's. George's phone was switched off. I looked at my watch; twelve noon. ‘Hey, Roz,' I called across to my colleague on ‘Woman'. ‘I'm going down to Kent. Oh, and when Chloe gets back, could you tell her I've got Candy Floss's cleavage for Saturday.'

The site meeting had finished and the others had left. Linus remained, transfixed by the image of his building as he gazed at the plot of land adjoining the manor. At this hour – he glanced down at his watch, it was just after one o'clock – and at this time of year, early autumn, the sun would stream in through the glass crescent, welcoming you inside, filling the foyer with light. It would merge with that from several skylights to form an ever-shifting pattern on the white-and-black polished floors. At night the sunlight would give way to artificial light, ascending, descending, flowing in from the sides. And beyond, the cocoon of the auditorium.

He was so deep in reverie that at first he didn't hear the man addressing him.

‘Afternoon,' the voice said again.

Linus looked up and saw a small man in his seventies approach, a flat tweed cap on his head and a shotgun cocked over his arm. ‘Afternoon.' Linus smiled at him.

‘So you're here to see about that there People's Glyndebourne?'

Linus nodded. ‘Absolutely. I'm the architect. Are you local?' The man nodded, his small eyes fixed intently on Linus's face. ‘So what do you think about what we're doing?'

‘Everyone's got their opinion around here,' the man said. ‘But if you're the architect I reckon you'd be interested to see this cottage that's in the way.'

Linus looked more closely at the man. ‘You wouldn't be George Wilson, would you?'

‘That I am.'

Linus felt himself turn pink as he rolled up the drawings and placed them back in the cardboard container. What the hell was he supposed to say now? He bent down and closed his document case, which sat on the ground by his feet. Straightening up, he looked at George and said, ‘I know how very difficult this has all been for you and your sister.'

‘If you come with me I'll show you the cottage. Dora will give us some tea. I'm sure you'd like a cup of tea.'

‘That's very kind of you.' Linus tried not to look at the shotgun as he spoke. ‘But I'm afraid I've got to get back to London. Another meeting.'

‘I reckon that meeting can wait,' George said.

‘I'm afraid it ca…' Linus paused as he found himself looking down the end of a shotgun barrel. ‘Then again, if you say so.' He started walking towards the ramshackle building in the distance, which he knew from his map to be Rookery Cottage. ‘Actually,' he said without turning round, ‘you don't have to point that thing at me. I'm quite happy to go back with you and see your… the house. Anyway, what would you do if someone saw us? We must look a bit odd.'

‘There's no one that will come here this time of day,' George said firmly.

As they approached the front door an elderly woman, larger than George but with the same small sharp eyes, appeared.

‘I brought the architect with me. Thought we could have a cup of tea and a chat,' George called out to her.

Linus said, ‘Hello, you must be Miss Wilson?' trying to behave as if he often came to tea with a shotgun at his back. They all turned at the sound of tyres skidding on mud. The car, which was small and black, screeched to a halt and its only passenger stepped out. It was Esther Fisher.

‘Esther Fisher! What's she doing here?' Linus wanted to know.

‘I called her,' George said. ‘We need publicity.'

‘That's what his film said,' Dora agreed. ‘“Without publicity you are lost in the shadows of life.”' Her voice had taken on a High Priestess quality as she quoted the programme's American voice-over.

‘That's right.' George fixed his eyes on Linus.

‘Esther!' Linus called to her. ‘Get back in the car…' He got no further as George, with surprising speed, shoved him in through the cottage door, slamming it shut.

Linus was inside the cottage with a shotgun held to his head, or it might be his chest or his stomach. I was alone outside.

A minute or so before, Dora had stuck her head out of the first-floor window, and called out, ‘I'm ever so sorry, Esther, but George says to tell you that if council don't stop that eviction he's going to shoot the architect.'

I stared up at her face, which looked pretty much its usual florid self, only a little better, framed as it was by the late-flowering autumn roses growing on the climber.

‘Tell me this is all a bad joke,' I pleaded with her.

Dora shook her head, regretfully, it seemed. ‘It's that TV show I told you about. George says that if this kind of thing helped in America then it can help us over here. “Don't give up when everything seems lost because that's the time the Good Lord picks up His fists on your behalf. And with His help, and the power of the media, you will win through!” That's what they said on that show and George believes them. So if you'd just call those people at the council and tell them.' Her head disappeared and the window was slammed shut. It was opened again almost immediately. ‘Oh, and George says if you call the police he'll shoot for sure.'

My hands trembled as I dialled Directory Enquiries for the number of the local council. I got through to Maureen. She was sorry but she was the only one there apart from Jason Shaw and he was in Refuse and Sanitation anyway. Maureen wondered if she might help.

I asked where everyone else was. Maureen told me that they were out of the office, but could she help?