Three Brothers (20 page)

“I can mention this to Mr. Ruppta?”

“He will be delighted. Overjoyed. Tell him that I am sending a little letter to Sir Martin Flaxman. Have you heard of him?” Sam shook his head. “Even better. Better and better.”

As instructed, Sam returned to the Blue Elephant two days later. “Here is the famous letter,” Pincher Solomon told him. “It is my epistle to the Romans. Fallen brethren, you see. This is what you must do. You must present yourself at the front door of this residence.” He tapped the address on the envelope. “You must say that you have an important letter to deliver personally to Sir Martin. Personally. There will be the usual bustle and refusal. Then you will say this. ‘Tell him it is about Tuesday evenings.’ Repeat the sentence. He will see you then. Take my word for it. Give him the letter. Stay there if you can, while he reads it.”

Asher Ruppta had borrowed the jackdaw from Solomon, so that the practised thief might steal Sparkler’s diary; Ruppta knew that Sparkler had been asking questions about the arsonists in Britannia Street, and he wanted to prevent him from doing so. If he had evidence of Sparkler’s illegal activities as a prostitute, he could at the very least evict him from his lodgings.

When Ruppta saw the contents of Sparkler’s diary, however, he paused and reflected. Here was the name of Sir Martin Flaxman. Ruppta was also interested in another name. It was that of Stanley Askisson, who had carried the bribes from Ruppta to Cormac Webb at the Ministry of Housing.

Of course the jackdaw had first copied out the entries made by Sparkler, and then handed the paper with a flourish to Pincher Solomon. “The bum boy,” he said, “has been careless.”

When Solomon saw Flaxman’s name, his eyes widened; then he smiled. In the letter conveyed by Sam, he suggested that Sir Martin might like to reconsider his plan to enter the business of racecourse betting.

When Sam knocked on the door at Cheyne Walk, it was opened by an elderly woman wearing an apron.

“I would like to see Sir Martin Flaxman.”

“Well you can’t. He’s not available.”

“Is he here?”

“It makes no difference whether he is here or isn’t here. He is otherwise engaged.”

“Engaged in what?”

“In
what
? How do I know? I’m only the cook.”

“It’s urgent.”

“So is my steak pudding. Piss off.”

“Tell him it’s about Tuesday evenings.”

“What was that, you cunt?” Flaxman stepped into view.

“Tuesday evenings.”

“Let him in, Mrs. A. Come with me.” He took him upstairs to a small office, and Sam took the envelope out of his pocket. “What is this?”

“It’s a letter.”

“I can see that it’s a letter. What are these?” He pointed to his eyes. He opened the envelope quickly, and read the letter in an instant. His face flushed, and small beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He glanced briefly at Sam, with such a look of shame or embarrassment that Sam turned away. “Who do you work for?”

“Mr. Asher Ruppta.” It was the truth. He saw no reason to hide it.

“There will be no reply,” he said. And then he walked out of the room, leaving Sam to make his own way out.

As he left the house he heard another woman crying out, “I forbid steak pudding in this household!”

Sam was working in Ruppta’s office on the following morning, when Stanley Askisson came into the room. The door to the inner study opened at once.

“Ah, Mr. Askisson, you come at a good time.”

Sam could hear their murmured voices, and put his ear against the door. “Our friend has gone,” Ruppta was saying.

“You mean Cormac Webb? Yes. He is gone.”

“And who has replaced him?”

“Alford of the bad breath.” There was a pause, an interruption that seemed to Sam to be full of meaning. He imagined Ruppta looking at Askisson, focusing his gaze upon him, imparting his thought without giving verbal expression to it.

“I have come across a diary,” Ruppta said. “Your name is mentioned. It is all very discreet.”

“My name?”

At that moment Sam heard someone beginning to open the door from the corridor; he took three paces back, and simulated a yawn.

“You should never let a lady see you yawn,” Julie Armitage said. “It is not polite. Not unless you put your hand over your mouth.” She brought out a large packet of nuts from her bag. “Do you want a peanut, cheeky monkey? Who’s in there with him?”

“That one you followed.”

Her eyes opened widely. “The one Ruppy gave money to?” Sam nodded. “Oh my giddy aunt.” They looked at one another with mounting excitement, sharing the same recent inheritance of silence and secrecy. They were whispering. “What’s Ruppy up to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have some more peanuts. They help you think.”

When Stanley Askisson came out of Ruppta’s office, he walked to the door without glancing at Sam or Julie—perhaps
even without noticing them. They both looked at him carefully, almost greedily, as he opened the door and left the room.

Ruppta came out of his office, whispering or singing softly to himself. “I am rehearsing a
limbay
,” he said to them. “It is one of our songs. It brings down a guiding spirit. And then I offer it a sacrifice.” Julie looked at Sam with an expression of irrepressible humour. “You may laugh, Julie. Laughter is good.”

She swallowed her laughter, and looked around at Sam. “We were talking about Terry Thomas,” she said.

Another layer of dust had settled in the Camden house since the death of his father. Sam had removed and altered nothing. A coronation mug still sat on the mantelpiece, together with a jewelled miniature of a young woman; they were joined by a small chest, lined in velvet, that held some old coins; there was also a toy music box which, when wound up, played “Underneath the Arches.” On a side table had been placed a framed photograph of the three brothers at an early age; they were standing, smiling, in front of the stone pillars of some public building. On the wall above the mantelpiece hung a painting of the Embankment that Philip Hanway had purchased before his marriage. A small bookcase beside the mantelpiece contained a score or so of volumes, among them
Cold Comfort Farm
by Stella Gibbons and
Look Homeward, Angel
by Thomas Wolfe; Roget’s
Thesaurus
stood snugly beside the
Penguin Book of Greek Myths
. On the round dining table against the opposite wall was the copy of
The Listener
that Philip Hanway had been reading before his heart-attack.

Sam sat down in the frayed but comfortable armchair which his father had usually occupied. A slight flurry or ruffle of sound caused him to turn his head towards the mantelpiece, where the coronation mug was sliding slowly to the right. The lid of the small chest then opened, and one of its
coins jumped out. The painting of the Thames Embankment came off its hook, and sailed across the room onto the circular table. At this moment the strain of “Underneath the Arches,” as interpreted by tiny metal keys, could be heard.
Cold Comfort Farm
and
Look Homeward, Angel
flew from the bookcase and landed on the carpet. Sam watched the proceedings with interest and without any fear.
The Listener
rose from the table and hovered in the air. The coins and chessmen now came out of their boxes and began to fly about the room. Some of them fell noisily to the floor but when they collided with Sam they merely brushed past him like feathers. The photograph of the three brothers sailed above his head, accompanied by the
Penguin Book of Greek Myths
. Sam sat there, entranced, as the familiar objects performed their dance.

Sausage land

E
VER SINCE
Harry Hanway had become Sir Martin Flaxman’s son-in-law he was considered to be, in the words of one of the night-editors, the “heir apparent”; sure enough, he was soon appointed as managing editor of the newspaper, and moved to a large office on the highest floor of the building from where he could see the steeple of St. Bride’s and the dome of St. Paul’s. He enjoyed his new eminence in every sense, and discovered to his surprise that he was capable of malice. He wanted to make sure that the nominal editor, Andrew Havers-Williams, understood who was really in charge of the enterprise. To that end he snubbed or humiliated him in a number of petty ways. He did not return his calls; he kept him waiting for meetings; he walked around the newsroom, selecting items and suggesting stories, without the editor’s knowledge or permission.

“Is my daughter a good fuck?” Sir Martin was standing in Harry’s office, looking over the rooftops of Fleet Street.

“Sir?”

“I take it she is no longer a virgin.”

“No. She is not.”

“So you got what you wanted. But I think you are after
much more. Good for you. I like that. You’re still hungry. You like to devour, don’t you? Money. Power. It’s all the same to you, Harry.”

“I wouldn’t quite put it like that.”

“Oh but I would. I am like everyone else, you see. I judge people by my own standards. I wonder what I would do if I were in their position.”

“And what is my position, sir?”

“I don’t know whether you married my daughter out of ambition or out of greed. Either way, I don’t mind. I don’t
blame
you for it. I
applaud
you for it. I would have done the same. I am glad that she has married such a dynamic person. I am growing fond of you, Harry.”

Harry was driven home that night in one of the company cars. Flaxman had bought the newly married couple a house in Mount Street, just off Park Lane, in Mayfair. It was a good address, and Harry relished the wealth of the neighbourhood. He had always wanted to live in just such a house and in just such a neighbourhood. He woke up each morning amused by his success.

Guinevere was still a social worker in Limehouse. “I’m worried about Sparkler,” she told her husband that evening.

“Who?”

“The boy in Limehouse.”

“Oh, the pansy.”

“I don’t think that is a good word.”

“All right then. Poof.” Now that they were married Harry did not feel it necessary to defer to her sensibilities in every matter.

“He seems so weak. So
weary
. He coughs all the time. I really don’t know what the matter is. It really frightens me. I can get benefit for him, I think, but money is the
least
part of it.” Two days later she had more news about Sparkler. “The good thing is that a community of nuns lives in the neighbourhood.
Poor Magdalens, I think. Poor something, anyway. I was walking past their convent this morning and I thought to myself, I’ll just walk in. Impulse. I told one of the nuns that a sick young man nearby needed care and attention. Do you know what she said to me? ‘That is
exactly
what we are here for. God has sent you.’ Isn’t that amazing?”

“Amazing.”

There was another matter that concerned Guinevere. “I don’t like ‘it,’ ” she had said.

“What is ‘it’?”

“You know. The funny business.”

“What funny business?”

She pointed at his trousers. “Sausage land. It hurts.”

“Why didn’t you mention this before?”

“I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

Harry agreed to abstain. He had not married her, after all, for sex.

He was surprised, two weeks later, to find his mother-in-law sitting alone in the dining room of Mount Street with a glass of sherry before her on the table. “Hello, darling,” she said on Harry’s entrance. “It is all too vile and uncomfortable.”

“Is it?”

“Sir Martin is. He’s behaving very oddly.” Guinevere came into the room, and her mother stayed silent for a moment. “No. I will speak. Am I a pressure cooker? If you conceal your feelings, Guinevere, you can get lung cancer. Or so I have been told.”

“What are you talking about, Mummy?”

“I am talking about your father. And please don’t raise your voice to me.”

“What is the matter with him?”

“He has become excitable.” Harry glanced at her; he had noticed the same change in Flaxman’s behaviour. “He jumps
whenever the telephone rings. Like a jack-in-the-box.” She laughed at her own description. “I hate those creatures.”

“They are not real, Mother.”

“That’s not the point, is it? And then he snaps at me. I said to him the other day, what’s happened to Tuesday evenings? He gives me what I can only describe as a very strange look. What about Tuesday evenings, he asks me. You always used to go to the club to play poker, I tell him. He then utters a profanity about poker that will never pass my lips. Wild horses could not drag it from me.”

“Did he say ‘fuck poker’?” Guinevere asked her mother.

“That is my daughter for you.” Lady Flaxman was looking at Harry with an expression of mild satisfaction. “Your wife, I should say. Foul-mouthed. Like her father. I am the first to admit that I am not an angel, but I am not a fishwife either. I do hope that Mrs. A. does not intend to boil something in a bag.” Mrs. A. was the cook and housekeeper who had moved from Cheyne Walk to Mount Street, where she now lived in a small self-contained flat in the basement—she had been, according to Lady Flaxman, “practically given away.” “During the War, you know, corned beef was a great luxury. We live in a very different world. Guinevere dear, pour your mother another drop of sherry. Just the teeniest bit.”

Harry went over to the window that looked out on the back garden, still glowing with the colours of the autumn. He did not know the names of the flowers, or the trees, but he appreciated the spectacle of the golden yellow and the green against the background of the changing leaves. Then he observed a shape emerging from the shade of the trees; it was that of a man standing with his arms apart as if in greeting. Harry saw his father at the bottom of the garden. His father was looking straight at him with that curious piteous glance he had adopted in life. Then he stepped back and was gone.

“Just going outside,” Harry said, “to get some air.”

He walked down the passage towards the door into the garden and, as he approached the threshold, he felt a curious sensation in his left arm as if he were being held very tightly by a strong hand. A cloud passed across the sun as he walked into the garden, and the shade deepened. His father was standing where he had stood before, but he had changed; he seemed to have become larger, and more fierce. And then he faded.