Let's Dance (29 page)

‘I love you, Serena B. Whatever happens to me, I'll
always be that way. I hope you find this. It's for remembering words with.'

A few weeks before Isabel would have been insanely jealous of George, indeed had been. For knowing her mother better than she ever would and meaning so much more. It did not matter where he came from and what he might have done. He had the password to her mother's affection and that was all that mattered. He was a good man in his own way, capable of mistakes, possibly violence. That gave him and Isabel something in common, she thought wryly. And if Mother was going to screw up her life, had done, would continue to, she did not see why George should be put on the same bonfire.

‘I like this green tinsel best, don't you, Mummy? But I like the glass balls best of all.'

‘Balls! Oh very funny,' Serena giggled like a girl who has just discovered how funny the word bottom is.

‘Not those kind of balls, Mummy. Honestly not.'

Glass baubles, light as air, turquoise, silver and blue, to be dusted and handled with care. Isabel's mind went blank at the prospect of Christmas, apart from a calm conviction that she would still be here, but not for much longer afterwards. She would do what she could, but nothing was definite.

‘What did you do with these, Mummy darling? Hang them on a tree?'

Serena was not able to tell her how the house had once been decorated. Isabel, who had avoided Christmas like the plague, could scarcely remember.
The day itself had always featured Mab, she recalled; Mab had also starred in the preparations, doing the boring bits Mother loathed.

The radio played softly, not bothering either of them. Twigs painted white, that was what Mab did, she had whitened or silvered winter twigs, fixed them in chicken-wire inside a huge silver vase, hung the turquoise, silver and blue baubles from them and placed them above the fireplace. Serena had always wanted more colour than this conservative arrangement, but Mab's taste prevailed. The thought filled Isabel with curious unease, and yet the idea appealed. Mother's preference now was a series of fat little Santa Clauses, highly coloured plastic, suspended on frayed scarlet ribbon. Things from the market, plastic flowers, bright and artificial. Who cared about taste?

T
he sky was the pink of optimism when she went out into the garden on one of the most peaceful afternoons of her life. She was not a daughter any more, she had no allegiances, no rights, but there were aspects of the place she loved. The colours of it, the determined grandeur that stood proud over the desecrations of time and neglect. There were ghosts on the tennis court, cavorting among the moss. The lumpy lawns, which she had earlier regarded as a shame, retained the right to be a lawn, but only just, while the kitchen garden had long since relinquished identity. The orchard where she had walked with her nephew. She was not really out here to collect twigs; she was walking
in a widening circle with open eyes. Wondering where poor, daft George was and how cold he must be. He might have lived for her mother; she did not want him to die for her. The dog went ahead, found the car in the last outhouse, scarce big enough for a car and certainly not designed for anything better than pigs. He must have pulled the rotten door across, leaving enough space to enter and exit. There was a residual warmth about the place, a smell of exhaust fumes, but of himself no sign. Isabel found a clean tissue in her pocket along with a Biro, and wrote, ‘Come in the house, G, Serena needs you. Love, Petal.'

Words were everything, they were all a person needed to get on in life. He might not come because he was cold: he would come if he were needed. He must have watched them long enough to know all other visitors were temporary. He might be watching now. Watching her usher the dog away home, the dog taking two steps forward and one back, yelping the way it did so rarely and only then for those worth affection. The pink sky had turned grey. No red sky at night, to be shepherds' delight. There had been red in the morning, shepherds' warning. The day had begun as it died, ominously cheerful.

She wanted to tell Andrew all this, because her clarity of vision now cast him on the side of the allies, and, even if he were not, then in all likelihood he would do as she asked. It was not much to ask. Since he was likely to arrive anyway, on one of those carefully contrived errands that so often coincided with early
evening, Isabel felt she did not have much choice. Depending on which of them arrived first. There was no master plan about any of this: she was not a planner. It seemed important to follow instinct, like the dog did a scent. That was the only thing the dog was good for.

Inside, it was warm again. Colourful with the tinsel, while Serena tinkered and one of them waited.

Do what you like with my life for now, Ma, Isabel said. Not with George. She was hanging more tinsel over the drawing-room window where the snow had drifted in and Isabel had done her best with damaged hands and cardboard. They were somehow, waiting on those damn fish and chips.

Isabel noted, with some satisfaction, the dog nuzzling round the cellar door. Seven o'clock, dark as midnight, and the snow had begun to fall again. Serena came back into the kitchen, took up a knife, looked at it quizzically, and began to peel a potato.

‘Too cold,' she said. Isabel laughed. ‘Yes, and when it's cooked it'll be too hot.'

‘Who else is coming? People?'

‘I don't know.'

Serena's face puckered.

‘Now, now, sweetheart. No feet stamping, please. Be a good girl.'

Serena wandered away into the pantry, looking for something more interesting than the potato. It had all been sweetness and light and now she was bored. Isabel's thoughts drifted, hung between anxiety and a
strange contentment. She hardly noticed her mother sidling out of the kitchen, back to her fireside, did not mind. Serena in the vicinity of the kitchen sink was more hindrance than help. The dog at the cellar door grew more agitated, looked at Isabel in dumb appeal, pacing around her legs, telling her something.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘I know, yes. In a minute. These things take time.'

She went to the pantry for the frozen fish, wishing there was more than frozen vegetables. Maybe a cheese sauce would do something for tasteless cauliflower.

Serena appeared at her elbow, giggling. She had moved so quietly all day, the result of slippers rather than boots.

‘You know what I've done?'

‘Stabbed a spud?'

‘No. I turned on that thing. People coming. Soon, I think.' Serena grinned with enormous satisfaction. For a moment Isabel was back to wanting to hit her, then she shook her head in furious amazement at what this wandering, wavering, determined intelligence could achieve. Serena was in search of a party, therefore switch the alarm on and call the police, simple. It took ten minutes, driving at speed. They were already looking for George; they would be here any time now. She opened the back door and heard, sure enough, the distant whine of an engine.

‘Mother, you're an idiot. Go and put your hat on.'

If there had not been the question of that poor simple-minded fugitive down in the cellar, Isabel might
have seen how farcical it was. There was time to wonder if the coalhouse fire, which had been the spur for her coming here, had been merely the result of Mother's desire to attract large men to the premises. Lights appeared in the backyard. Serena was tidying her hair with busy fingers, watching though the window.

Isabel stepped quickly to the cellar door, the dog getting in the way. She called down urgently. ‘George! Stay where you are, for God's sake. Don't go out. They'll go round the side. Stay where you are.'

As the first burly officer blinked in the light of the kitchen, Isabel was in the act of closing the cellar door behind her.

‘Good heavens,' she said gaily. ‘What are you doing here?'

Andrew appeared behind the third officer. He saw her raised eyebrows and shrugged.

‘Coincidence,' he said. ‘They overtook me. What goes on?'

They might have been less patient about the whole débâcle and their wasted time and the hazard to their vehicles bumping up this track if Isabel had not been such a pretty sight. Hand over mouth, fluttering eyelashes, enormous eyes wide with worry to have caused so much trouble.

Andrew watched what he could see was a performance. He wondered why it was she would not step away from the cellar door. Amazing to see a police officer simper. They searched the house anyway, just to be obliging. One walked around the outside of the
building quickly, hugging himself against the snow which began again in earnest. They might have stayed longer but for the twittering of Serena as she followed them about, the obvious, delicately protested mistake and the fact there was, by now, a man in the house with a proprietorial gleam in his eye. They lingered in the kitchen long enough to warn the young lady that if George Craske should by any remote chance appear, she was not to let him in on any account.

She said, of course not. Wicked George Craske. Sorry about my mother's busy fingers.

George sat shrouded in the painting clothes, conscious of the smell cutting across the more unpleasant smell of his own body, bathed in the hot flush of sweat that had turned to ice on his skin. This was prison without the crowds; this was humiliation and despair; he had never felt weaker, or more profoundly ashamed. Tears dripped down his face; no sobbing, simply tears, turning to icicles on his chin. He could hear the reverberations of noise in the house: the sound of many feet, voices which he could not distinguish. He waited in misery for the light to shine on him, to discover him like a rat in a trap. Men to bundle him upstairs, banging his head against the crusted walls as they went, himself unable to fight, limp like a corpse.

When the silence fell, it covered him. There was nothing to do but wait and hope.

‘What was all that about, Isabel?' Andrew asked.

She turned to him, put her arms around his waist and buried her head in his neck. Was this a performance
too? Let it not be. He squeezed her gently; it was the body of a greyhound, slender and deceptively strong, the flesh warm. If she kissed him, he would know she was acting, but he would let himself be fooled. He was disappointed as well as relieved when she did not, simply remained closed against him until she sighed an enormous sigh into his shoulder.

‘Go and keep Mother company, would you?' she asked, withdrawing from him, no longer the flirt. ‘I've got to get George out of the cellar.'

He held her at arms' length, looked at her questioningly. It was a look which said, ‘Do you know what you are doing?' but he did not accompany it with words. It was a satisfying thing to have her judgement unquestioned, a novel experience.

Serena was trying to attract Andrew's attention, pulling at his sleeve. The departure of all those lovely men had left her at a loose end. Andrew was the only one left.

‘Come and see my decorations,' she demanded coyly.

‘Of course,' Andrew said gravely. ‘Delighted.'

I
sabel opened the cellar door, put on the light and got on with peeling potatoes. After counting she added several more and put on the radio, loud. She could see the snow falling outside the window, and wished she was making a more ambitious meal. Never mind, they could have candles. Give the place that party air Serena craved. No one would be going anywhere tonight.

George emerged into the warmth of the kitchen blinking like a mole. Shrivelled with cold and the more corrosive effect of anxiety, he stumbled in and smiled at her. A proper smile.

He was dirty and the smell of him overcame all other odours in the kitchen. Isabel considered the immediate offer of a bath, then decided that this was the kind of implied insult that would offend him. It could wait.

‘Could you lift in that coal for the fire, George? Just outside the door. Thanks ever so.'

As if nothing had happened. She was the Janice, he the friend. Each to his proper place.

‘Can't let the fire go out,' he said.

‘Oh no. Never do that.'

He stood awkwardly, looking round the kitchen as if he had never seen it before, nodding with satisfaction. The dog stuck her nose into his crotch: he fondled her big head absently. Order had been restored in here. Isabel continued peeling potatoes.

‘Is she all right then?'

‘Yes, George, she's fine. Oh, you know. I lose my temper with her from time to time, but I've got better at it. The dog's been missing you as well.'

He nodded, easing slightly. He was not in a position to judge someone for loss of temper. Then his legs seemed to buckle and he sat abruptly on the edge of the table, arms folded across his chest, like a drunk pretending to be sober.

‘Oh dear, George, take a chair. I don't think you're looking after yourself properly. Have some tea.'

She thrust it in front of him, along with biscuits, continued with the supper so that she would not watch him eat chocolate-chip cookies with the same speed the dog ate dinner. He was temporarily restored, his complexion turning from yellow-white to pink. There were the dark marks of exhaustion beneath his eyes. The health was fair, she decided. George would last a long time out in the cold. Far longer than she would have done herself.

‘Thanks,' he said.

‘No bother, George. Sorry about all that row, earlier. Ma set the alarm off. Why are the police looking for you, George?'

He grunted. ‘I beat up one of the burglars. May be that.'

‘Oh, I see. You'd better stay here, then. They won't be back for a while.'

There was a comfortable silence.

‘Do you know what, George, I think I'll poach this fish rather than fry it. What do you think?'

‘Fry it.'

The dog's head on his knees was like a hot-water bottle.

‘And I think I'll put some masking tape over that bloody alarm switch.'

‘Good idea.'

Another pause. The sound of waltz music drifted down the corridor.