Three Brothers (18 page)

By the time of the reception, in the Ritz Hotel just across the park, Sir Martin had recovered his composure. He had already decided that he wished to make a speech, and so a microphone had been set up in a corner of the large room in
which the party was being held. The walls glittered with long mirrors, and the thick scarlet carpet glowed in the light. The sun shone through the high windows so that the chandeliers, with thousands of pieces of intricate glass, seemed to swim in the general brightness. It had been noticed by some of Harry’s colleagues that this was entirely a Flaxman affair; none of Harry’s family had appeared, and it was presumed that none had been invited. Did he in fact have a family at all? One suggested that he was a Barnardo’s boy, while another speculated that the Hanway relatives were too poor or too uncouth to be shown.

“I stand here a happy man,” Sir Martin Flaxman was saying into the microphone. “Almost as happy as Harry. He is the cat who gets the cream, isn’t he? I never thought Guinevere would marry. I thought she would become a nun. Seriously. I hope for Harry’s sake that she doesn’t behave like one.” There were loud guffaws from some of the male guests. “I wish you luck, Harry. You’ll need it.”

“Really this is too much.” Lady Flaxman had turned to her elderly mother. “He has no finesse. No style. No bearing.” Her mother suffered from severe tremors in the lower part of her face, and could scarcely get the glass of champagne to her lips. When she felt the rim on her teeth, however, she gulped it down greedily. She was about to reply. “Shush!” her daughter told her. “I need to listen to this.”

“I have an announcement to make,” her husband was saying. “When I die—if I die—I intend to leave the business entirely in Guinevere’s hands. I have watched her. I know her. She will make a good chairman of the board.”

“Jesus H. Christ. This is an absolute insult.” Lady Flaxman turned to her trembling mother. “I have a much better business brain. Guinevere is a mere girl. Do say something, Mother. Please.”

In the middle of the night, one month later, Harry was lying awake beside Guinevere; she was sleeping, although she was as always restlessly dreaming. He could not sleep; he was making intricate plans for the future, visualising every scene and scheming every move. So he remained alert. But then he saw something. He saw what seemed to be a structure of light rising from Guinevere’s body and taking her shape. This silver outline then seemed to sit upright. It was taller than Guinevere, by a few inches, but it bore the impress of her features. Then it bowed down, apparently in sorrow, before disappearing.

The goddess of wind

“I
DON
’
T
blame Harry for not inviting me to the wedding. I understand. I sympathise.” Daniel Hanway was writing to Peter Palmer. “He wants to escape from his past. Including his family. I don’t want to see him any more than he wants to see me. Other news. I have started writing fiction reviews for the
Chronicle
! The literary editor there is called Damian Etheridge. Very much a
journalist
. A bit stupid, actually, but friendly enough. He sends me notes with the books saying ‘Don’t hold back’ and ‘Lay down the law.’

“I know you are going to say that I have always despised novels. This is true. I stopped reading them when they reached the twentieth century. The funny thing is that this is the best possible preparation for reviewing contemporary fiction. Most of it is just embarrassing.
Excruciating
. You have never seen such garbage. Yet of course the regular reviewers treat these so-called writers as if they were Tolstoy or Proust. If I see the phrase ‘an accomplished debut’ or ‘a return to form’ or ‘a magisterial performance’ or ‘voice of his generation,’ I shall scream and scream until I’m sick.

“It actually makes me angry, although I admit that anger is an unworthy emotion. As you know I am the most mild-mannered person imaginable. But put me behind a typewriter
and I become a
fiend
. I like to go for the established names. Braine. Golding. Greene. What a lot of charlatans they are! And I get paid thirty pounds a review!”

Still, he was getting noticed. At literary parties, for which he often travelled to London, his name was becoming recognised. “So you,” one writer said to him, “are the
enfant terrible
.” He pronounced the French phrase exquisitely.

“I wouldn’t say that.” As usual, Daniel was very modest.

“Oh I would.” There was a touch of contempt in his voice. “You like to pick a fight, don’t you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why don’t you do some serious reviewing?”

Daniel did not understand why he was so angry with him. Daniel discovered later that he had criticised a novel by one of his friends.

“You are making waves,” another writer said. “Make sure that you don’t go under.”

At Cambridge of course he was ready to dismiss his journalism as a matter of no consequence—if anyone had asked him about it. But his colleagues did not mention it. He knew very well that it was considered vulgar and even indecent to appear in the “public prints.” Yet he had an advantage over his contemporaries in the English Faculty. He had been commissioned to write a book.

One of the editors at Connaught & Douglas, Aubrey Rackham, had invited him to lunch at The Tramp in Air Street. “I have been keeping an eye on you,” Rackham said as they sat down at their table. He had a low rasping voice, at once affable and conspiratorial. “You are terribly naughty in your reviews.” He always wore a bright red handkerchief in the breast pocket of his suits, and was known to his acquaintances as “Hanky Panky.” “Pure poison, dear. You are a wicked
witch
. I’ll have a gin and It, please.” He nodded to the waiter, and then winked at Daniel. “In this restaurant, they know what ‘It’ is.” Daniel
had no idea what he was talking about, but he laughed all the same. “Bottoms up,” Rackham called out as the drink was placed in front of him. Daniel was then greeted with another expansive wink.

“Is there a book in you?” Rackham asked him after the first course was over.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Not literally, dear.” Rackham squealed with delight. “You should be so lucky. I mean, do you think you could write a book?”

The idea had in fact often occurred to Daniel. There was, however, one obstacle to his ambition. He could never hit upon an appropriate subject.

“I admire your style, you see,” Rackham was saying. “It just needs direction. Thrust.” He settled comfortably into his seat. “A little bird told me that you are a cockney boy.”

“I was born in Camden Town.”

“Out of earshot of those silly bells. But you are a Londoner.”

“Oh yes.”

“I come from Devon originally. Home of old cows. Just up to lipstick level, darling.” A waiter was refilling his wineglass. “There is a book I would like you to think about. Can you guess what it is?” Daniel shook his head. “The Writers of London.”

He was perplexed and a little disappointed. He had been expecting Rackham to mention an academic topic, perhaps a book of literary criticism, or a new edition of a celebrated classic. The writers of London had never been part of the university curriculum. “London writers, or writers about London?”

“You can have it both ways, my dear. If you know what I mean.” Another wink. “Look at that waiter. Straight out of Caravaggio.”

So a few weeks later, after Daniel had prepared a synopsis, he was commissioned to write the book. He tried casually to mention the fact to Paul Wilkin.

“What?” He looked incredulous. “Who has commissioned you?”

“Rackham at Connaught & Douglas.”

“Hanky Panky? That old queen?”

“Is he?”

“
Is
he? Is the pope Catholic?” It was quite like him, Daniel thought, to use a vulgar phrase.

“How much advance are they giving you?”

“A thousand pounds.”

“A thousand pounds!” Wilkin tried unsuccessfully to conceal his envy and resentment. “So what’s it about?”

“The writers of London.”

“So it won’t be a long book then.” Now he was sneering at him.

Daniel decided that he had seen quite enough of Wilkin for the time being. He invented an urgent meeting and walked away.

He visited Sparkler on the following Sunday. They kissed amicably when he arrived at the little flat in Britannia Street. “I do believe,” Sparkler said, “that you are looking well.”

Daniel laughed. “How was I looking before?”

“You were looking like a piece of warm dripping. But now you look better. A few months ago—”

“Oh now you’re going back to that drunken night at the party—”

“You was so drunk I could hardly see you.”

“In—”

“New Bond Street. Next to the hatters. Opposite the jewellers.”

“How do you know that?”

“Know? There is nothing about London I
don’t
know. I’m
on first-name terms with the sparrows and very chummy with the pigeons. I’m like a black cab. I get about.”

They went that evening to the Spit and Sawdust, a public house close beside the river. It was a few yards down from the local police station, and so was patronised by many officers. But it had also become a haunt for Sparkler, who enjoyed their company; they knew him to be a petty thief and a part-time prostitute, but this was no reflection on his character. Two of them were sitting in the saloon bar when Sparkler and Daniel entered.

“There you are,” one of them said with a laugh.

“You are absolutely right,” Sparkler replied. “Here I am. This is a friend of mine. He doesn’t say much. What can I get you, Bill? And you, Ben?” He never did call them by their right names. He brought the drinks over, with the help of Daniel. “Bungho!” he said as he raised his pint of Guinness.

“Here’s looking at you!”

“One in the eye!”

“That hit the spot.”

Daniel said nothing. He did not feel at ease with these two policemen.

“What have you been up to, Sparkler?”

“Well, gentlemen, that is a leading question which I may not be at liberty to answer.”

“Let me guess.”

“Now don’t embarrass me. I have feelings, don’t I?”

“I’m weeping.”

“Enlighten me on one thing, Bill. I came into your station about a month ago. To tell you about the arson attack on my block.”

“Oh did you?”

“Yes I did. No one never gave me a ring about it.”

“Did they not?” They looked at each other and smiled.

“You know that Asher Ruppta is the landlord.”

“The wog? Of course we do. He is the big cheese around here.” Ben was rubbing together his thumb and first finger. “He’s got the lolly.”

“If it was him what did it, and I only say if—if it
was
him, then he should be stopped.”

“Where does your friend come from? Not around here.”

“University.”

The two policemen looked with suspicion at Daniel. “He ain’t a student.”

“I am a lecturer.”

“Is that so?” He looked back at Sparkler. “You don’t want to be worrying about Ruppta.”

“I want to find him out.”

“He has a lot of friends.”

“I’m not scared of him. I’m not scared of anyone or nothing.”

The other policeman had been watching Daniel. “What’s a nice boy doing with a villain like this?”

It was not an easy question to answer. “Dry up,” Sparkler answered for him. “None of your business.”

“But it’s yours, is it?” Both officers burst into laughter.

Daniel blushed, and looked away.

Sparkler changed the subject. “I might need a little bit of help.”

“For what?”

“Finding them.” It suddenly occurred to Daniel that this was the reason Sparkler frequented the Spit and Sawdust—“help” was offered and taken in both directions. Information was passed on.

“And what do you mean by them?”

“Them bastards that started the fire.”

The policeman stared at Sparkler, his level gaze suggesting perhaps that this was not the best idea. But he said nothing. Then his colleague offered a diversion. Someone was sitting at
a nearby table. He was a tall and emaciated figure, with long yellow hair. He must have been in his early twenties, but he was wearing the clothes of a middle-aged man—a black overcoat, black trousers, and a black cap. “Do you know who that is? That’s the jackdaw.”

“The jackdaw?” Sparkler looked up with surprise and interest. “What’s he doing around here?”

“Sizing up the neighbourhood, I should think. You’ve got competition.”

The young man with the black cap looked over towards them with what seemed to Daniel to be a contemptuous expression. The “jackdaw,” as Daniel soon learned from Sparkler, was a notorious thief and receiver of stolen goods who operated south of the river in Southwark and Bermondsey. He had a reputation for viciousness. Although Sparkler had never met him, he was acquainted with several people who had been slashed or beaten by this emaciated young man.

Daniel noticed the thin creases upon his face, and the lines about his mouth; he noticed his slightly curled lip, and his insolent stare. The black coat and the black cap were old-fashioned. And there was something else. He was wearing brown shoes. Black trousers and brown shoes. The jackdaw was not someone who paid attention to his appearance or, rather, he was someone who advertised that fact.

“How long has he been here?” Sparkler asked them.

“A couple of days. No more. He’s got nerve. He knows this is our pub.”

“I wonder what he wants.”

“What do you boys always want?”

“We don’t normally cross the water.”

“True.”

“I’ll be watching out for him.”

“So will we.”

Sparkler and Daniel walked back slowly to the flat, Sparkler looking behind from time to time. “What’s the matter?” Daniel asked him.

“I want to see the man who isn’t there.”

They trod the dark streets in silence. There was fog in the street, spreading from the river; there was an acrid smell in the air, too, as if the fog were smoke from a bonfire. This was a damp and unwholesome place. The lights were burning in the downstairs rooms that they passed; where the curtains were not drawn Daniel could see plates on tables, cheap prints hanging from the walls, plain furniture, and people sitting or standing in silhouette.