When the World Was Steady (9 page)

‘Too true.’

‘I must head home, Angel, love. But I will pray for those
boys. And I’ll certainly pray for Nikhil.’

As Angelica waved her friend out, she said, ‘So, Virginia, will I.’

The walk home was downhill, smooth and quiet. It was past eleven, and Virginia strode as swiftly as she could without appearing nervous. There was no moon, and the trees and cars cast black shadows in the blue night. Virginia hummed a hymn as she went, and tried to understand the evening.

She had never felt so torn before, so self-conscious about her religious life. Knowing a little how Nikhil felt—certainly more than she had gleaned during brief silences in Angelica’s flat on earlier evenings—made her retroactively self-conscious about all the times he had been there listening to them and judging them all. Only now, quite suddenly, did it seem extraordinary that he had never volunteered anything about his beliefs, because only now did it strike Virginia that he actually
had
a spiritual life. In his flat, it had been clear that he felt passionately about his faith and about his sister’s disregarding it; which didn’t make Virginia question her own, exactly, but it made her wonder.

And it reminded her that she had made a choice, that she had joined the church ten years before from a spiritual vacuum, in an act as drastic as Rupica’s abandonment of her family. In that decade, she had never thought about it as a choice; rather as the Truth washing over her in a wave and showing her an absolutely Right life. Not perfect, obviously, but Right. She hadn’t ever thought—not consciously, only dismissively—that others, like Nikhil, had different lives that to them were Right too, and that they might (and this was the worst of it) see hers as wrong. Then a thought came to her that she dismissed almost immediately, turning instead to practical matters and fumbling for her house-key: the thought was that Rupica, whose behaviour was so patently wrong
and whose husband could not be a
real
Christian, might nonetheless have been moved by an experience as cataclysmic to her young mind as Virginia’s conversion had been for her; that is, that Rupica, misguided though she obviously was, might have seen her clandestine marriage and her departure for Scotland as the only possible path to the Right life.

All in all, Virginia thought as she slipped into the darkened Simpson home and registered her mother’s whistling snore emanating from the front bedroom, the evening had been most distressing. Nikhil was now more troubling to her than Stephen and Philip combined, and she felt more strongly than ever that the one safe and joyous haven in her life was under siege.

It was only a little later, as she slid between the taut sheets of her single bed and reached to the bedside-table for her leather-bound Bible (from which she read every night before sleeping) that she realized the Book had been left behind, dropped, like a textbook on the EC or contemporary Latin American politics, among the papers and scribblings on Nikhil’s sofa. In penance, she recited all the psalms she could remember and prayed for guidance and forgiveness. But it was a very long time before she finally found sleep, and as she drifted off she could hear the earliest morning birds between her mother’s snores.

Melody Simpson began banging pots shortly after eight. The crash and clatter was so dramatic that Virginia thought her mother must have fallen to the floor carrying half the fitted kitchen with her. In fact, when Virginia made it to Melody’s side, nightgown askew and big toe stubbed on the way, she found her mother sitting at the table, comfortably slapping two frying-pans together like a child playing with cymbals.

‘Are you completely mad? What will I do with you? Are you mad? Mother?’

Mrs Simpson stopped and looked up, knowing and amused. ‘Good morning, dear. I hope you slept well? I didn’t want to waken you, but I couldn’t find any coffee beans. You
did
buy some? And you did, I hope, have fun painting God’s town red? It must have been midnight—’

‘Oh crumbs, Mother, look at the time!’

‘I know. As I say, you were in so late I didn’t want to wake you.’

‘Come on, I’m not twelve, I’m half a century old. And I’ve got to go to work today like any other, so you can keep swilling your coffee, or your whisky for that matter … You did this on purpose.’ Virginia was frantically scanning the cupboards, the fridge, the freezer, for coffee, but knew as she did so that there wasn’t any left. Mrs Simpson just smirked.

‘Tea. Tea, Mother. Tea it is. That’s all we’ve got. You could’ve at least put the kettle on. I’ve only got half an hour.’

‘The world won’t end and Ramsbottom won’t choke if you’re a little late. But you go and dress, and I’ll do the business.’ She hauled herself up and shuffled to the sink, practically pressing her daughter out of the room as she did so.

As Virginia scrubbed her torso, combed her hair, flossed her teeth, she cast a quick glance at her long face, with its noble profile but slightly buck teeth and protuberant, heavy-lidded grey eyes. Her chin, despite her slimness, was beginning to wattle. Her hair, always fine and straight, was frizzing and coarsening with age to thin steel wool.

She could hear her mother muttering and organizing next door. What, she wondered yet again, was going wrong? But when Virginia emerged, dressed and tidy, Mrs Simpson was looking out of the window at the morning bustle, and the breakfast was impeccably laid as always. There was no clear indication that Melody Simpson was losing her wits; it seemed rather as though she was letting her nature loose a fraction more
each day, allowing her sly and spiteful facets fuller range than in the past. Madness or senility might have been more benign.

Mrs Simpson watched as Virginia gulped her tea and stuffed toast into her mouth, registering pleasure at the crumbs and drops of marmalade her daughter scattered on the table, her lap, across her chin. The older woman sipped daintily from her cup, fastidious as a cat, and even in her haste Virginia could tell there was more of her mother’s private joke to come. Sure enough, as Virginia stood to leave, Mrs Simpson spoke.

‘It’s such a fine day again today, Virginia dear, I thought it would do me good to get out.’

Virginia raised an eyebrow.

‘I thought, if you weren’t doing anything, I could come and join you for lunch. It’s been years since I saw your office.’

‘Oh
Mum
!’

‘Of course, if it’s a burden and you don’t want me, I can just stay here like every other day …’

‘Don’t be silly, it’s not a burden, it’s just that—’

‘No, never mind. I’m sorry I—’

‘Come. Come then. I’d love it. One o’clock. Take a taxi. And be on
time
. I’ve got to run.’

‘I’ll bring a picnic!’ Virginia heard her mother call as she dashed downstairs.

Virginia worked for the University, in an administrative—or rather, executive—capacity, and her office was one in a warren of cubicles on the third floor of the University’s austere central building. She was not important enough to have a window on to the street, as Simon Ramsbottom now did, but she did have a window on to a courtyard with a view of other windows, and she did not aspire to more than that. Her title was Deputy Director of Personnel (Temporary), which did not mean that she was to hold the post
temporarily (she had been in it for years), but rather that she was responsible for the hiring (and occasional firing) of temporary staff. She had discovered over time that most people outside of her particular niche of puce and olive paintwork had no idea of what this post entailed. When considering the function of the University, outsiders did not stop to count the secretaries, janitors, security guards, cooks, bottlewashers, switchboard operators, maintenance staff and chambermaids the continuing well-being of the institution demanded. And because of this oversight, they could not conceive of the seasonal swellings or contractions in overall numbers, of the unforeseen illnesses, maternity leaves or deaths in the family, or of the weeks of carefully planned holidays that left posts vacant for anything from a week to six months. All these jobs still needed to be done: Virginia was responsible for the people behind the people behind the scenes.

For years Simon had been her direct counterpart, Deputy Director of Personnel (Permanent), but his recent promotion meant that he no longer bothered himself with printers or drivers or even secretaries, and was involved instead in the recruitment of big-shots: accountants, business managers, the occasional assistant to the director of a department. (This week, she knew, Ramsbottom was trawling for someone to fill a post in Tropical and Infectious Diseases around the corner, thus far with little success.) He had moved from two doors down on her side to directly across the passage, and even with her door shut she could hear him chortling with his secretary, a boy named Martin who, at twenty-seven, looked a decade younger than he was: his suits were sharp, his glasses tinted, his laugh a little too loud. In her more dour moments, Virginia had been known to say to Mandy, the secretary she shared with Simon’s replacement Selina, that they would see the day when Martin, laughing with the boys, would bypass the lot of them to take Simon’s job. And that, Virginia always finished with a sour flourish, was the day she would resign.

So in the enclave there were Simon and Martin, Virginia, Mandy and Selina. A happy family, Simon liked to say, but it had its hidden disruptions. While Virginia suffered from her recent and inexplicable attraction to Simon, it was nothing next to Mandy’s naked adoration for the man. Simon was typically oblivious and thought Mandy ‘charming’ but insignificant.

Rather, it was Martin who paid Mandy undue attentions, fawning and placing a careless palm on her shoulder or her waist. Virginia had half a mind to tell him to stop it, but loathed him so much she could barely speak to him. This loathing was born of the fact that Martin seemed intent on stealing her job, a little at a time. She had mistaken his overtures for helpfulness at first, but was soon able to see clearly.

For years, as well as interviewing and recommending all temporary applicants, Virginia had been obliged to compile the bi-weekly internal newsletter of posts available, both temporary and permanent, one on blue paper, one on gold. It was an unrewarding task, and Virginia had always complained about having to do it. When Martin arrived, shortly after Simon’s promotion, he had offered first to take the typing off Mandy’s hands, to which the latter readily agreed. Then he offered to do the lesser listings—janitorial, say, or works department, just the temps at first. But now he was doing more and more—as the listings all went through Simon’s office before coming to Virginia, Martin saw them first—and whenever Virginia said, ‘About the newsletters, I’ll have them done by tomorrow,’ Martin would grin his sinner’s grin and reply, ‘Oh, Miss Simpson,’—never had she heard such a pointed ‘Miss’—‘they’re just about done. I thought you wouldn’t want to bother with them.’

It was unspeakable. She had practically stopped saying anything about them at all, and she was certain of his triumphant sneer on Thursday mornings when the newsletters went to press. This was such a morning, and Virginia was determined not to clap eyes on
Martin until after lunch. Or at least not for a while.

She was shuffling papers and drinking the tea Mandy had left on her desk before she arrived, when she heard the secretary outside her door, rattling the knob.

‘I can’t understand it,’ Mandy was saying. ‘She’s
always
on time. I thought I left this door unlocked. She may have been held up, or … it’s not like her, it’s most unusual. Don’t worry, we’ll find her.’

Virginia hesitated. She knew at once who it was: her first appointment of the day, an American student named Calvin Jones, over for the summer on a temporary work visa and dying for one of the University’s ill-paid menial placements. The Americans always were—Virginia loved them. But she didn’t feel like seeing one just now. She could simply lie low, drink her tea and wait for Calvin to give up; an equally avid substitute would soon follow. But she heard Mandy babbling on: ‘Just a minute,’ she was saying, ‘I’ll run and get the key. You can wait in Miss Simpson’s office, it’s more comfortable. I’m sure—’

‘Mandy, is that you?’ Virginia spoke loudly and tried her best to sound surprised. ‘What
are
you doing out there?’

‘But Miss Simpson,’ Mandy said, ‘It’s locked. I had no idea you were here.’

Virginia stepped across and smoothly turned the key. ‘Silly me,’ she said, smiling at an alarmed Mandy and a scrubbed youth in a button-down shirt, ‘I’m so used to locking it when I leave at night that I must’ve done it this morning when I came in.’

Mandy, dim though she was, didn’t believe a word of it. ‘Right. Well,’ to Calvin, ‘I told you we’d find her. Miss Simpson, Calvin Jones.’

‘I was expecting you.’ She sat the boy in the vinyl armchair opposite her desk and returned to her seat.

‘Calvin Jones,’ she began.

‘Yes ma’am?’

‘You have a permit, I assume. Did you bring it? Good. And your passport? Thank you. I’ll have Mandy take copies in a minute. We have to, of course, to protect ourselves.’ She laughed, to make Calvin more at ease. The ruse did not appear to work. ‘So, three months?’

He nodded.

‘We might have just the thing. A post is coming up next Monday, for three months, or almost.’ She looked from the list of jobs on her desk to the boy’s square, callow face. ‘You said on the phone that you can’t type, am I right?’

‘Well, not
can’t
. Just not fast. But I can type.’

‘Yes, of course, all Americans can, more or less, can’t they?’ She smiled again, and this time drew a response. ‘But never mind, the point is, for this one you don’t need to. Do you have any filing experience?’

‘Um …’

‘I’m sure a bright fellow like you would have no trouble. Are you methodical?’

‘Yes ma’am.’ He seemed quite certain of this, and added, as if by way of explanation, ‘I major in History. It’s on my resumé.’ He pointed at the folded piece of paper he had passed her along with his passport and working permit. A cursory glance told her at once that he was grossly overqualified for the job. But he wouldn’t mind: the University looked good enough on the CV, if he didn’t tell the truth about what he’d done.