Mr Wrong (12 page)

He looked at her, and just caught a wary, flitting little grin. He’d never thought of any of them as having the slightest sense of humour.

‘It’s not snowing today,’ he agreed smoothly. ‘Now – let’s see what you can do. Remember, when you wake up – at first – you don’t even know
where you are.’

‘On the floor?’

‘Fine.’ He chucked a pillow from the sofa.

She lay on the floor with the pillow tucked under her head, and did what he’d told her – woke up in a strange house wondering where on earth she was. ‘Now, start calling for
your Aunt.’

It was not at all bad. She didn’t hurry the waking up, and she moved well. Her voice wasn’t so hot – the years of training to be cute and shrill had taken their toll. He told
her to do it again, and to use her ordinary voice: ‘how you’d call out if it really was you.’ At once she complied, and there was nothing wrong with her own voice. He made her do it once more, telling her this time a little
more about the scene, to find out how she took direction. The third time was all right. She had a kind of throw-away intensity – if you could put it like that – that would suit the part
very well, and he felt that he could quite easily get very much more out of her.

‘Right,’ he said, after the third time. ‘Well done. That’ll do nicely for now.’

She picked the cushion up from the floor and advanced to the sofa with it, one hand brushing back her hair.

‘Do you want me then?’

He had already made up his mind, but he pretended to do so now – ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

‘Right. But I’ll only do it on one condition.’

‘Oh now Fern, I am
not
, repeat
not
going to report your mother.’

‘It’s not that.’

‘What is it then?’

‘Get my mother down, and I’ll tell you.’

There was no trace of childish hysteria: she was absolutely calm – and determined. He found himself calling Jake on the intercom and a few minutes later the room was full of Mrs Bracken
again.

For a fleeting instant, Ted wondered whether the whole thing was worth it: instinct told him a scene was on the way, but every other child he had seen had been indescribably worse than Fern . .
. no, he hadn’t any choice.

‘I think Fern will do very well for the part,’ he said, smiling generally in Mrs Bracken’s direction (he could not meet her fishy grey eyes); ‘but she seems to want to
say something about it first.’

Everybody looked at Fern, who stared straight at her mother.

‘Yes. I had this dog, you see, but Mummy wouldn’t give me any food for him, and so my food wasn’t enough for both of us so in the end I had to get the R.S.P.C.A. to come and
fetch him. But I’m pretty sure from how the man was that they won’t find him a new home which means they’ll have to assassinate him.’ She turned to Ted. ‘Another cruelty, you see!’

‘Fern, whatever are you talking about!’

‘
You
know perfectly well. I’m telling Mr Strong. If you don’t get the dog back and promise on your honour to buy him proper dog’s food, I won’t do the part!
I won’t
ever
do
any
part. And however much you don’t give me any meals or anything it won’t make any difference because I’ll get you reported to the R.S.
People Society. That’s what I’ll do. And what I
won’t
do,’ she added for full measure.

Mrs Bracken got to her feet: she was smiling, but uneasily.

‘You know what quaint ideas they get in their heads,’ she said to Ted and Jake. ‘Over-excitement, I’ve no doubt, and she’s got ever such an imagination. Come along,
dear, we must be going home.’

‘Not till you’ve rung up the Society. You’ve got to do it now. In front of Mr Strong. Or I won’t do his part.’

Mrs Bracken smiled harder. Jake said casually:

‘Why not give them a call? I’ll find the number for you.’

He was rewarded by a smile from Fern so brilliant that Ted saw for the first time what she might be like when she was grown up.

‘I don’t know what’s come
over
you,’ Mrs Bracken was saying beneath her breath, but weakly.

‘Would you like me to make the call?’

‘No. She must do it. Thank you. She must ask for us to be able to fetch the dog now.’

And Mrs Bracken had to do just that. What with her anger, the audience, and the fact that she clearly felt that she had no choice, her telephone voice went to pieces. She sounded quite nervous
and conciliatory. But while she was dialling the number, Ted observed that Fern was even more nervous, and went over to her.

‘You mustn’t bite your nails,’ he said gently. ‘You’ve won, so what are you worrying about?’

‘They may have – they might already have – you know.’ Her face looked pinched with anxiety.

‘Assassinated him? I don’t think they would have done that till they were sure they couldn’t find him a home.’

‘I do hope not.’ Her intensity was such that he began fervently to hope not also.

They hadn’t. The dog was available, and when Mrs Bracken had turned to the room with ready-made benevolence to convey this, Ted said: ‘Hang on a minute.’ He walked over to the
window, seized the telephone and said, ‘If you’d put the dog in a taxi, I’ll pay for it.’ There was some demur at this, and he had to go into his top gear of high-powered
charm. In the end, he sent Jake in a taxi to fetch the dog, and Jake, surprisingly, went with the minimum of implied martyrdom. When he got back to Fern, who had gone to the far end of the long
room, he saw that she was silently crying.

‘All’s well,’ he said as heartily as he could. Then, uncomfortably remembering something, he said, ‘Like something to eat while you wait?’

She swallowed and then looked at him so eagerly that he knew he was right – or rather that he
had
been wrong. ‘Sausages, eggs, bacon, fried bread?’ he said, trying to make the most of the meagre choice available.

‘Oh yes,
please
!’

‘Perhaps your mother would like to pop round to the shops to get the dog’s food while I knock it up for you. We can have a nice quiet talk about the part while you’re
eating.’

He looked commandingly at Mrs Bracken, who now smiled, or at least showed her teeth if anyone looked at her. It worked. Mrs Bracken seemed quite broken-in. She murmured something about having
some shopping to do anyway, and went.

Upstairs, in the kitchen, his breakfast things were lying on the table and she said:

‘Could I eat just a spoonful of that marmalade?’

‘Help yourself.’ Then he looked at her. ‘Are you all right?’

‘A bit dizzy. Can I use its own spoon?’

‘Here – have a piece of bread – or toast, if you like.’

‘Aren’t I going to have it fried?’

‘We can run to more than one piece.’ Children of that age are always hungry, he thought – rather uncomfortably.

There was a shortish silence while he fried things and Fern ate.

‘All right?’

‘Lovely. I’m eating it especially slowly because my dog eats so fast. He hardly gets time to enjoy his food.’ Then, with no pause at all, but as though she was breaking
entirely new ground, she said, ‘I wanted to ask you something.’

‘Is this another of your conditions?’

‘Not – exactly. But I wondered whether you could pay
me
some of the money I’ll be earning. You see, if you pay it all to
her
, I don’t get any, and with the dog I’ll be needing it, I really will. He wants a collar
and a lead and one of those medal things with his address on it and a towel to dry him when he’s wet and I want to keep a sort of emergency amount –’

‘Look, Fern, I don’t pay anybody – someone else does all that. I couldn’t possibly arrange to split your salary up.’

‘Oh.’

‘Cheer up – here’s your nosh.’ He put in front of her a plate that looked like the advertisement for some famous sauce.

‘Can I start?’

‘Feel free.’

There was another silence while she ate and he watched her.

‘When did you last eat?’

She looked up. ‘Lunch – yesterday. She wouldn’t let me give it to the dog, so I ate it, or she’d just have taken it away. She locked him out in the rain all night. I
told
you she was wicked. If I could just fill in a form and leave her, I would.’

Ted lit a cigarette. Mrs Bracken was undoubtedly a disagreeable old bitch, but he didn’t want to get involved. ‘You can’t do that,’ he said.

‘I know I can’t.’

‘Look. Here’s a fiver. To start your dog off with.’

‘Oh – Mr Strong! Oh –
thank
you!’

Poor little thing, she seemed quite overwhelmed. Hell – he
was
getting involved.

‘I’ll never forget you. What you’ve done for the dog,’ she said.

‘Anyway – you’ve won with your mother – hands down.’

‘I haven’t finished yet. I’ve just started really.’ She put half a tomato on to a piece of fried bread and into her mouth and chewed contentedly. ‘I used to wish
sometimes that she was dead, but now I don’t. Not now I know what to do.’

‘How do you mean?’

Her knife and fork were poised in the air, and she spoke dreamily. ‘I don’t want to kill her any more – I want her to stay alive and get slowly more and more miserable.
I’m going to end up being to her just like she was to me. I know how to do that now.’

Ted, startled, stared at her and she smiled, but her eyes were grey and cold as a fish.

Robin Boston-Crabbe had scarcely brought the Mercedes to a halt before the commissionaire had a white-gloved hand on the door-handle of the car.

‘Good morning, sir.’

‘Morning. All right if I leave her here?’

The commissionaire clearly hesitated.

‘I have an appointment to see Mr Medusa.’

The commissionaire’s face cleared. ‘Certainly, sir. You know your way, sir?’

‘No, but I imagine it’s at the top.’

‘Right, sir. But it’s not on the board. I’ll ring through for you, sir.’

While he was doing this, Robin read the gold-painted names of the other occupants of Dorado House, as the luxury block was called. He also noticed that there were two lifts, that nobody got into
or came out of either of them, that there were live goldfish in the pool round which a number of opulent ferns were grouped, and that there was no sign of a staircase or even of a door that led to
one.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting, sir.’

Robin had already moved towards the lifts, but as he was about to press a button to summon one, the mirrored panel between them swung gently open.

‘Mr Medusa has his own lift.’

‘So I see. Thank you.’

The walls were covered in cork flecked with gold and there were only two buttons. One said ‘up’ and the other ‘down’. Robin pressed the ‘up’.

In the lift he had time to feel nervous. This was the opportunity that so many waited all their lives for in vain: if he made the wrong impression now, he would never get another chance. He had
dressed with care and he wore clothes well – had several times been asked, in fact, to model for some high-class advertisements that involved standing about in blazer or tweeds outside a
country house leaning on a sports car or being leaned on by a red setter but, naturally, he had refused. He had always been careful of his image and, judging by this morning, it seemed to have paid
off.

The butler was waiting for him; of course.

‘Good morning, sir. Mr Medusa is expecting you.’ He opened a red leather door and led the way down a passage lined two deep with Paul Klees. A further red leather door led into a
very large sitting-room, studded with pots of flowering shrubs. A huge fireplace contained a log fire – burning now with some aromatic fragrance.

‘If you will be seated, sir, I will inform Mr Medusa of your arrival.’

But Robin was too fascinated by the room to sit down in it. Apart from the pictures – Chagall, Soutine, de Staël, and others he did not recognize – there was a beautiful
T’ang horse, and a silk rug in apricot and yellow. There was also an enormous pedimented mirror (Chippendale?) with amazingly carved cupids and fruit. He advanced upon this to have a final
checkup of his appearance. His hair had really been very well cut; he smoothed it back and gave himself a tentative, encouraging smile.

At that moment, a low, voluptuous growling began – like prickly velvet, and Robin turned sharply on his heel to find his host a few yards away and accompanied by the largest Alsatian he
had ever seen.

‘Mr Robin Boston-Crabbe! Be
quiet
, Felicity! I cannot say she is perfectly harmless – she is not. But she will do as I tell her.’ He advanced to the fireplace and pulled
a green silk tassel. Then he stood, a small, frail figure, wearing a superb tussore silk suit, with his back to the fire, surveying his guest in so penetrating a manner that Robin’s general
nerves accentuated to a specific shyness. The Alsatian subsided watchfully on the hearthrug and the butler reappeared.

‘Ah, Ipswich. Champagne, please. If that suits you?’

‘It sounds great.’

‘Do sit down. You look in wonderful shape. Skiing evidently agrees with you.’

Robin smiled. He always knew exactly what shape he was in, but he liked to have it noticed.

‘As a matter of fact, a film producer in Gstaad actually asked me whether I would be interested in appearing in a film he was doing.’

‘Really? And what kind of film had he in mind?’

‘Oh – one of those dear old super-spy epics.’

‘How amusing! How extremely funny!’ Mr Medusa’s heavily hooded, almost turquoise eyes screwed up while he laughed. He was, Robin decided, not only a very striking man, but
possessed of exceptional charm. It was impossible to determine his age. He realized that Mr Medusa was again regarding him closely, and said, ‘I was admiring your wonderful plants.’

‘Were you really? Well they
are
a joy. It is so teasing of camellias not to smell, but I’ve managed to get my chap to bring on the stephanotis to be with them. The best of
both worlds, which is really the only point of having a little money. Give us a glass each and put the bucket next to Mr Boston-Crabbe, Ipswich.’

‘I suppose it is.’