Instances of the Number 3 (14 page)

Frances’s car was still in the garage having the scratches—the legacy of the trip to Painter’s—repainted. Her old school was a short distance away and she had planned either to walk or take the bus. But the confrontation with Zahin had made her late. She didn’t want to arrive hot and bothered. In the end, she rang for a taxi.

But the taxi driver, flouting the time-honoured ruling which decrees that all taxi drivers shall be bastards, stopped first for a bag lady to meander across the road and then, worse, to let into the congested line of traffic a coach carrying a party of Down’s syndrome children. The coach’s incursion made way for other drivers, swift to take advantage of this piece of professional imbecility. While Frances fumed, the children pressed their noses to the coach windows, making their happy, pink, moon faces flatter than ever. By the time the taxi reached Brook Green she was late, a thing she disliked being at the best of times.

‘More haste less speed,’ observed the driver as she almost tripped over the hem of her dress getting out of the cab.

‘Thank you for that,’ said Frances. And then stung to unusual asperity, ‘Since you seem to be so free with tips you won’t need any from me.’

Apart from Zahin, another reason for Frances’s bad humour was that she had been unable to fasten the skirt of her favourite wheat-coloured linen suit. Troubled by the likely worldly successes of her peers, she was concerned to make at least a good appearance. The long dress over which she had nearly come to grief getting out of the taxi, was in place of the suit, to hide any signs of unwelcome girth.

A wave of familiarity hit her as she ascended the stone steps and entered the hall. Almost at once a voice called, ‘Frances!’

‘Christina!’ Christina Stack had also ‘done’ art—the pair of them had been ‘dim’ together.

Christina’s label on her cherry-red jacket announced that she was now called ‘Stein’; she had photographs of a large house in Dorset, with a pony and three children. Frances had forgotten this would be one of the ordeals she would have to face: the sight of children, which she herself had never had. And husbands, of course.

Christina’s husband turned out to be a barrister, well able to supply both the house in Dorset and the pony. Other people also had husbands but quite a few were divorced. Some had never married and what a relief that in spite of the discarded suit, Frances was still one of the better dressed!

A tall woman with big earrings detached herself from a group and came over. ‘Hi, I’m Susannah. I’m looking at everyone’s skin.’

Frances, who was startled to recognise in this groomed,
confident woman plump, tearful Susannah—who had excelled at netball and lacrosse, but suffered mysteriously from something connected to her periods—instinctively put her hands to her face. ‘I should think mine’s deteriorating by the day.’

‘Looks pretty good to me. Are you on HRT?’

‘I hadn’t thought about it.’

‘You should. You don’t look as if you’re at the “change” yet. Are you?’

‘No,’ said Frances offended and bounced into a candour she immediately regretted—actually, she had been meaning to see a gynaecologist. She had forgotten the reputation for directness which made girls from her school occasions for fear. Hardly ‘girls’ any more, she reflected, eyeing her peers who, in varying conditions of confident early-middle age, were queuing up for quiche and two types of salad, plus orange juice or one glass of dry white wine.

Lunch was rather more fun. One of the old girls gave a speech about the need for ‘women like us’ to influence public opinion. ‘Why ever would we want to do that?’ enquired Frances’s neighbour, who, as a schoolgirl, had had a head of flaming red hair and a personality to match. The hair had tempered to auburn, and Lottie now ran a bookshop—‘not very successful’, Frances was glad to learn. Nor did Lottie have a husband, or children. The speaker, a square woman in a powder-blue, box-jacketed suit with gilded buttons, whose face was better known to Frances from the newspapers than recollection, most assuredly had a husband, as well as quantities of children and a powerful parliamentary position. The very thought of ‘public opinion’ made her feel tired, Lottie said. She
and Frances agreed to meet one day and re-explore Hogarth House.

Hogarth House was in fact one of the places Peter had taken Zelda. Zelda had seemed to enjoy the experience, although she had been bothered about her eye make-up running.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Peter had assured her, ‘you look lovely however you are. I don’t know why you bother with make-up.’

Zelda had intimated that not to ‘put on’ her ‘face’ was an impossibility only to be suggested by the laughable ignorance of an English gentlemen. She was wearing her white jeans and was worried also that these might be stained by the grass. Peter, who wanted to lie next to her, had taken off his shirt and offered it as a makeshift rug.

It was the thought of Zelda’s young bottom encased in the tight white jeans, which, on that fatal day when the lorry driver lost concentration, had caused Peter to change his mind about the route he was taking and had led him into the one-way system which is death.

Zahin was out when Frances got home, which could only be a relief. She kicked off her shoes—bought specially from Hobbs and not yet properly worn in—and lay down on the sofa inspecting her hands. Bridget’s hands, she had noticed, were mannish, the fingernails ragged and not always quite clean. Looking at her own—long and pale with scarlet-lacquered tips—she missed the sapphire ring. Hadn’t she put it on?

Maybe because of the fuss with Zahin she had forgotten it before hurrying out, though she was almost sure she hadn’t, since she had had it half in mind—should the matter of her single status threaten to become humiliating—to give an impression of its being an engagement ring, the gift of a fiance? dead of cancer, for example, or some other socially acceptable disease. In the event, the meeting with Lottie had removed the need for any such deception. But where was the ring?

Perhaps it was still on her bedroom table in her mother’s glass powder bowl where it lived when not on her finger. But the cut-glass bowl yielded nothing more
than a dried-up rosebud from some distant dinner with Peter, she couldn’t even remember which.

Frantic now, Frances riffled through her bag for the number of the League secretary.

A voice on the answerphone commanded her to ‘speak slowly and clearly’—just as well, as panic does not encourage clarity.

‘Lindsey, it’s Frances Slater. Stupidly, I seem to have lost a ring—a sapphire ring—quite valuable. Could you find out if anyone found it today when clearing up?

‘It was lovely to meet you again,’ she added—untruthfully, for she didn’t think they had even exchanged so much as a glance.

Anxiety about the ring precluded further rest so that when the phone rang she was glad to answer it. But it was Ed Bittle, and not the League secretary.

‘Hi,’ said Ed. ‘I was wondering how you were.’

‘Not too bad,’ said Frances, cautiously. She hoped this was not more Roy business.

‘Only…’ said Ed.

Frances waited. She felt drained—the reunion, then the loss of her ring. She really didn’t want to have to do anything for anyone. But she had helped Ed—and those we help we feel tender towards, which is one reason why helping others is not always the wisest policy.

‘D’you fancy a curry or something?’

‘Do you know, not really,’ said Frances, trying not to sound rejecting. ‘Only I had to go to my old school today and it’s tired me out.’

‘Oh,’ said Ed’s voice, crestfallen.

‘Tell you what,’ said a part of Frances relenting, ‘if
you’d like to come over we could get a takeaway, if that doesn’t sound too unglamorous.’

Apparently it was sufficiently glamorous for Ed to arrive thirty minutes later, wearing his leathers and with his hair standing up, like some urban elf, in small waxed spikes. It appeared that he had driven over on his motorbike at top speed from Stepney.

He fancies you, warned the knowing part of Frances. Don’t be absurd, said the other, rational, part. I’m fifteen years older than him.

Ed’s motorbike drove off to the Bengal Tiger and Frances took the opportunity to smooth the bedcover and reapply lipstick and mascara.

So why are you doing that, then? asked the knowing part. If you imagine anything could take place with Zahin here…! said the rational part, primly putting the other in its place.

Frances warmed the foil containers in the oven, then took them out again colder than before. ‘I’ve forgotten to light it,’ she apologised.

There was an unwholesome smell of gas in the kitchen so they ate in the living room, under the coquettish glance of the Kavanagh nude. Although she would normally have felt mortified by the error with the gas, Frances found with Ed she didn’t care. The poppadoms had fragmented in his bike bag and most of the mango chutney had leaked out of its container and deposited itself among the shards.

Most human emotion is reactive. Perhaps because he was so anxious himself Ed inspired a kind of soothing calm. Difficulties were made light of and Frances found herself becoming expansive, almost witty, describing the gallery’s various upheavals over the years.

But at midnight, conscious that Zahin might arrive any minute, she tried not to look at her watch.

‘I’ll be off then,’ Ed said, with the superior discernment of the slightly paranoid. He made no move to go.

‘It’s been lovely,’ said Frances enthusiastically. And nothing’s happened, she pointed out to the knowing part, which was lying low.

‘Shall I see you again then?’

‘Yeah…?’ said knowing, biding its time.

‘Well, I—’

She didn’t know how he had managed to get his arms round her but she didn’t resist when he steered her backwards to the bedroom, and only whispered, ‘Be careful, I have a lodger…’

But there was no sign of the lodger when an hour later she said, ‘I’m sorry,’ as Ed offered to go.

‘It’s not you,’ she said, apologetic at the door. ‘It’s me—I’m not quite right yet from someone else.’

See! said knowing, thoroughly irked. That’s what happens when you don’t listen!

Peter, vigilant as Frances anxiously watched Ed’s departing shoulders in their leather jacket, in turn watched her, and understood how, unexpectedly, she was reminded of Zahin
.

Frances called Bridget the following morning. ‘It
was
his sister, you were right.’

Zahin had not returned. Frances couldn’t say she much cared what had happened to him. Although she knew that it was quite unfair of her, she felt angry with the boy for what had happened with Ed.

Ed had removed the long dress with chisel-scarred hands, surprisingly small and deft. What had happened after that had been a mystery, because just at the moment when she should have melted, she had frozen and they had had to call it a day—or a night, she supposed, recovering a sense of humour. It was Peter, of course, or the ghost of him—his memory—which had got in the way.

Bridget said something incomprehensible which Frances had to get her to repeat.

‘You don’t mean the child is back with you?’

‘It seems so. He was in the kitchen when I came downstairs this morning.’

‘For heaven’s sake!’ said Frances, thunderstruck. ‘The
little monster!’ Some part of her wished she had known the evening before that there would be no one to interrupt her with Ed Bittle. Maybe then…but probably it was for the best. At least she was rid of Zahin’s taxing politeness.

Bridget had been enormously relieved to see Zahin when she descended, in Peter’s dressing gown, to the kitchen. In fact, it was the smell that had summoned her: an unmistakable smell, of roast coffee and warm toast.

Neither of them said anything about the reasons for Zahin’s departure but when he granted Bridget one of his dazzling smiles she knew she had missed him. Frances would never understand, she thought protectively.

During Zahin’s absence there had been time for a satisfying amount of dust to settle, debris to accumulate. Zahin set to, tackling the housework as if the house had been taken over by a band of noisome squatters. Sitting in her old oak chair—a bargain in an Auvergne sale—Bridget watched the zealous operation with affection. It took a kind of genius to clean so thoroughly. He wore, she noticed for the first time, the make of rubber gloves generally used by surgeons.

‘Zahin, are you wearing nail polish?’ There were unmistakable hints of red showing through the thin rubber. Her mind flickered up to her dressing table and back again. She hardly ever wore nail polish; only occasionally, to weddings for example, and then only Cutex Clear.

Zahin, who was bending down, sweeping under the sink, where none but a fanatic would ever look, did not immediately answer. When he spoke his voice was muffled.

‘It is my sister. She likes to try it out on me before she puts it on herself.’

Bridget thought she might as well let the matter of the sister drop. So long as the little minx didn’t wear any more of her things it was no concern of hers.

‘We must have a feast,’ Zahin announced later, house filled with the satisfying scent of lavender Pledge. ‘To celebrate. We should ask Mrs Michael.’

This was a stroke of genius: to consolidate his return by seeking to win round the enemy. Bridget congratulated him inwardly and outwardly offered fifty pounds for supplies.

‘No, no, it is my treat. To make up for my sister’s bad behaviour…’

This was the only reference to their quarrel other than the superhuman cleanliness which met Mickey when she arrived with Mrs Thatcher hair, freshly tinted and blowdried, and wearing, on the lapel of her blue suit, the Mickey Mouse badge which the clientele of the Top and Bottle had given her for her seventieth.

‘O Mrs Michael, such a darling brooch.’

‘Get a way with you!’ exclaimed Mickey, resentment melting with fickle ease into enchantment. ‘I must say, Bridget, the place looks a lot better since when I was here last.’

The last time Mickey was a dinner guest was in fact the evening that Peter had first taken instruction from Father Gerard. Father Gerard was a large, slightly lumbering man with bags beneath his eyes, which gave a faintly decadent air. Perhaps it was this, or the coincidence of name, but at first sight, Peter thought, he looked improbably like Gerard Depardieu.

‘So, you have come to be instructed,’ Father Gerard had said. ‘And my first question to you is this: Do you have faith?’

‘My God,’ Peter had answered spontaneously, ‘I have no idea!’

This turned out to be the right answer. Father Gerard beamed as if Peter had presented him with a fat donation to the mission in South America, whose work was illustrated on a multicoloured chart behind his head. He embarked on an introduction to the Catholic cosmology: this earth and the three levels of the next—heaven, hell and purgatory.

Rather in the way that the name of a clandestine love cries out to be spoken, Peter had introduced the topic at supper that night. Mickey was dining with them because she was ‘all electric’ and there had been a power cut in the street.

‘D’you believe in the afterlife, Mickey?’

Bridget was making gravy, and Peter hoped to avoid attracting notice.

‘There’s two kinds of people, Peter: those who believe and those who don’t—I’m one of those who don’t, but my mum was a believer and I’ve always hoped for her sake she was right—bless her.’

‘Do you think it makes any difference,’ Bridget had asked, abruptly arriving with a leg of lamb, ‘whether you believe? Either a thing’s true or it isn’t—facts don’t alter, do they, whether they are believed in or not?’

‘There’s two kinds of people…’ Mickey was saying, again.

The phrase came from her favourite Clint film:
The
Good, the Bad and the Ugly
. Clint, ‘the Good’, says it to Eli Wallach, ‘the Ugly’, in a graveyard where the loot is buried, next to the grave of the money’s originator. ‘There are two kinds of people, my friend,’ Clint declaims in his inimitable voice, ‘those with guns and those who dig. You dig!’ Even without seeing the film you can tell, from the way it is phrased, who is in possession of the gun.

On this occasion Mickey was referring to the food Zahin had prepared, explaining that there were those who were foolhardy enough to sample unfamiliar food and those, like herself, who preferred to stick to what was tried and tested—a pity, for Zahin had excelled himself and the length of Bridget’s French farmhouse table was garnered with plates of exquisitely arranged food. An old heel of Cheddar was found, which was grated on to Mickey’s plate with such salad as she was willing to sample—tomato with not too much onion; definitely not the bean, or the stuff which looked like rice, but wasn’t. It was a shame, Mickey felt, after all this time coming to supper again at Bridget’s, that they should be having cold.

Mickey’s—or Clint’s—phrase had been a watchword with Peter and Bridget, one of those shorthands which first establish, then maintain intimacy. And the saying has validity: in any situation often there
will
be two kinds of person—those who will be brave and those cowardly, those rash and those cautious, those well- and those ill-mannered, and so on.

But there is a third kind of person, who is both brave and cowardly, rash and cautious, well- and ill-mannered, and on the whole this kind is the most common. Father
Gerard’s question to Peter, and Peter’s response to it, revealed this about him: that he both had faith and, equally, didn’t have it. Over this Father Gerard expressed frank satisfaction.

‘At least I don’t have to be spending all that time undoing the faith to find the doubt beneath, Peter. This way we know where to start!’

Father Gerard sprang on an expression of doubt as if it were a potsherd from a rare and ancient pot and he a keen-eyed archaeologist whose task was reconstruction. Like all fanatics he exuded an energy which, when it wasn’t tiresome, could be attractive. For Peter, who had lived most of his life in a miasma of uncertainty, the fervour of Father Gerard was reassuring: it suggested to Peter that what he had embarked on, entering the Catholic Church, was the right thing to do.

There exists also a fourth kind of person. For this kind, ambiguity of response is not only true but the truth of it is known to him or herself. Such a person will be aware that, in certain circumstances, they might collude with the Nazis, or rob a friend, or murder their mother—or, perhaps they might not: time, and the particular situation, alone could tell. This insight rarely brings the possessor fortune or happiness, but it means they can be trusted not to put too much faith in their own opinions. Among those who survived Peter, neither Bridget, nor Mickey, nor Zahin, nor indeed Father Gerard was such a person. Frances might have been, and Peter, himself, was; but it took Father Gerard—or, more accurately, the procedure Father Gerard was entrusted with—to reveal this truth about Peter.