The Keeper of Stories, page 10
Janice cannot help it – she doesn’t want to, but she smiles at Mrs B.
“Really, Janice, I may rate you as a cleaner, but sometimes I do wonder about your intelligence.” But Mrs B’s tell-tale muscle is twitching in the side of her face as she says this.
“Would you like a hot chocolate?” It is all Janice can think of to say; she certainly doesn’t feel able to digest all the things her employers have said about her.
“Yes, I would and please make yourself one. I did try to fix you one earlier but I seem to have thrown most of it on the floor.”
Once Janice is sitting at the table sipping her hot chocolate she asks, “So, come on, what is une cinq à sept?”
“This was one of the ways Becky would have been described. This is because it was between these hours, five to seven, that men would call at the discreet house in the Sixteenth Arrondissement and consider which girl they would like to spend the early evening with. I believe there were photographic albums depicting the various girls, and by their stance in the photograph a client could appreciate, shall we say, their preferences. Then a message would be sent to the girl of their choice and they would arrive to entertain their guest.”
“A bit like ordering from Argos,” Janice can’t help interrupting.
“Argos? Oh, is that the store that sells things from a catalogue? Yes, just like Argos. I believe Becky’s images within this particular catalogue suggested a fondness for lesbianism and bondage – although who was being bound, her or her client, I cannot say.”
Mrs B stops suddenly and looks thoughtful. “Or maybe I can,” she says slowly. “I believe she liked to dominate other people.” She looks at Janice and says enigmatically, “Remember that, Janice. It will come into our story later.”
Mrs B sips her hot chocolate. “Now we come on to Becky’s transition from la fille d’occasion to la courtisane. As la fille d’occasion, she was linked to a house but the aim was to become an independent – la courtisane. However, there was rarely a clean switching of roles; it was a gradual process. A man might take more than a passing interest in a girl like Becky. He would want to be seen with her – often after the cinq à sept hours; he would take her to dinner, to the opera perhaps. It might be that he would see her more often, take her to lunch, to the races, even set her up in her own apartment. He would become a ‘significant man’ for her. However, these relationships were rarely exclusive and even when a woman was a fully independent courtesan – not linked to any one man or Madam – she might pop back to her old ‘house’ now and then and do a bit of, what we could call, ‘overtime’.”
“So, did Becky meet a ‘significant man’?”
“Oh, many such men. She was rarely exclusive, but at times some were more prominent than others. I can give you an example of one such man who she met early on in her transition to la courtisane. He was forty years old, a married man, obviously very wealthy. His family had made their money as wine merchants and I understand provided the wine for the Vatican. I am sure that made Becky smile, and, oh how those nuns would have choked on the blessed sacrament had they but known. This man set her up in one of his sumptuous villas where he had a fine stable of horses – I remember telling you that Becky had a great fondness for riding. He took her with him on trips to Morocco and Venice. I believe I also said earlier that men derived considerable prestige from being seen with a magnificent courtesan. Becky had lustrous auburn hair, a sensuous mouth and figure that would make young men openly blush and their mothers cross themselves. She was not a beauty as such, but…”
“She had great presence,” Janice cannot resist contributing.
Mrs B gives her a double look. “As I was saying, she was an extraordinarily attractive woman. But before we paint a portrait of a paragon that any man would desire, we must remind ourselves that this is Becky. She had a filthy temper and was ruled by one single obsession: herself.”
“What happened to the wine man?”
“Theirs was a very tempestuous relationship. They were known to strike each other in public and on one occasion he was so angry with her he locked her in the villa. Becky got the last laugh though; she let all his horses out of the stables and let them run through the house. I can picture her in a beautiful silk gown, laughing as she chased them through the rooms. I wonder if she rode one through the villa? I rather like the idea of her clearing a Louis XV chiffonier as if it were a fence. In the end, her temper was too much for him and they parted company. I believe he paid her a handsome pension.”
“Even though he’d had enough of her?”
“Yes, and this, like the bondage, will come into our story later. It is important to note that there were strict rules around these types of relationships.”
A bit like cleaning, Janice can’t help thinking.
“A gentleman, if he had formed a significant connection with one such as Becky, was expected to behave generously towards her when they parted.”
So, not like cleaning.
“Now, for the time being, we must leave Becky as the talk of Paris. Best to leave her there in blissful ignorance because, unbeknownst to Becky, storm clouds are gathering. A war is coming. It is also well past the time you should be leaving. You must go or you might miss your bus.”
Janice glances at her watch; she can’t believe what time it is.
“I hope you don’t expect me to pay you for that last hour?” Mrs B is back to barking.
“Oh no, I would never expect that, Mrs B.”
She can see the tell-tale muscle start to twitch. “Are you quite sure I can’t call you Mrs P? It has such a ring to it. I believe it suits you.”
Janice doesn’t grace this with an answer.
As she goes to collect her coat, Mrs B announces, “I did manage to telephone Mycroft and he’s coming to see me the week after next. I think you will enjoy meeting him.”
Oh, so she is meant to be there. War is coming here too and Mrs B wants her as part of her war committee.
Janice puts on her coat and collects her money. As she closes the door behind her, she thinks of Tiberius and of his, probably valid, concerns about his mother alone in this house, and of the woman who, today, had humiliated her and also touched her to the core. She wonders, if it comes to war, whose side will she be on?
Sixteen
There may be trouble ahead
The post has arrived early and there are a number of letters on the doormat: the usual array of bills, which leaves Janice with a sinking feeling somewhere below her ribs; a catalogue depicting an old lady on a stair lift, which makes her smile as she can’t help thinking of Becky; and a postcard from her sister. She puts the other mail aside and sits down on the bottom stair holding the postcard. It’s from Antigua and her sister and husband appear to be having a wonderful time. Her eyes follow the familiar loops and sweeps of her sister’s handwriting and, rather than the lines that tell of a diving trip and rum punches, all she can picture are the words, I remember what you did.
She is still sitting there, frowning, when Mike comes down the stairs. “Shall we have a coffee together before we both head off?”
She translates this as, “I’ll have mine white with two sugars and whilst you’re at it pop a couple of biscuits on the side.” What she can’t interpret is what is behind him suggesting they have a coffee together. She can’t remember the last time they had a chat over a coffee or a drink. A new job maybe? She looks at the bills still sitting on the small table by the front door and fervently hopes so. And also that his new employers don’t take the Mrs B approach when it comes to interrogating references.
What follows is one of the most bizarre conversations she has ever had with her husband. Although, as she finds very little to contribute, she thinks it might be more correct to call it a monologue.
Mike: “You know I’ve always admired how you’ve tackled your cleaning career.”
Career? Since when has it been a career? And admired me? Most of the time you’re embarrassed I’m a cleaner and I rarely go to the pub with you because after a few pints you make that quite obvious by making not very funny jokes at my expense.
Mike: “You’re very professional and I think that’s important when it comes to the domestic arena.”
What are you on about? The “domestic arena”?
Mike: “In some ways you’re like the perfect brand: always reliable, always the same.”
Have you been drinking?
At this point she manages to say, “Mike, what are you on about?”
Mike: “It will become clear.”
Janice: “When?”
Mike: “You may have wondered about the meetings I’ve been going to.”
Janice: “Well, I was hoping they were about a job.” (But I’m now thinking AA)
Mike (grabbing his coffee and two biscuits and heading for the kitchen door): “Just be patient, I’ve got a few more meetings to go to yet. I may be late a couple of nights this week.”
She wants to ask if he’s having an affair, but doesn’t know how to say it without sounding hopeful.
Mike (now in the hallway but peering back around the kitchen door): “I’m glad we’ve had this chat. You’ve always been very supportive, I know that, and I like to think we make a good team.”
She doesn’t even know where to begin with this one. It sounds like something from a bad motivational speaker. Perhaps that’s what the meetings are about? Oh, please God, don’t let it be that, Mike is going to set himself up as a motivational speaker. It’s one of the few avenues he hasn’t tried yet. The man of a thousand jobs? It doesn’t bear thinking about. She imagines seeing his face on posters stuck to lampposts and empty shopfronts inviting people to hear him speak in community halls and libraries. Then she imagines herself following the same route with Decius, trying to take them all down.
She walks to the bus stop wondering if she could talk him round if this is really what he’s got in mind. Would he even listen to her? He certainly hasn’t in the past.
“Oh, it’s you.”
She’s been so lost in thought she doesn’t realise it’s the geography teacher driving until he’s talking to her. He repeats, “Oh, it’s you,” whilst smiling at her in a way that makes her stomach drop through the floor of the bus.
“Yes, about that…” she starts to say.
And then from behind her comes the inevitable, “Come on!”
“Right-o!” is all she manages, before moving into the body of the bus and sitting down. What was she thinking of? Right-o? No one says “Right-o!” unless it’s Captain Hastings in some made-for-TV Agatha Christie. She wishes she had Decius by her side so he could look up at her with that “What the fuck were you thinking of, woman?” look in his eyes.
And what’s she going to do now? Should she try and say something as she gets off? But that would mean going to the front door of the bus rather than the side door where people normally disembark. Should she just wave from the side door and hope he turns around and sees her? But will he know what stop she’s getting off at? She tries to think what Decius would advise, and even though he is miles away, she finds she can imagine the expression on his face. And it is very clearly saying, “Carpe Diem”, which is quite profound for him – but then, he is named after a Roman emperor.
She gets up at the last minute, just before her stop; she’s going to do this quickly and has decided on a pleasant, “Have good day”. When she gets to the front door of the bus he looks up and smiles. Before she can get the words out, she realises she’s staring in horror at a bank of CCTV images that show the driver the inside of the bus. She points at them, and all she can say is, “But you can see.”
“Yep.” He nods.
“You saw me last time.”
“Yep.”
“Moving up the bus and watching you.”
“Yep.”
She turns to leave, all shreds of dignity gone.
“It made my week,” he says quietly.
She glances back at him, not sure she’s heard right.
“Actually, it made my year,” he says, more firmly. She notices he has a slight accent – Scottish? – and his eyes, which seem to be sharing some joke with her, are greeny-grey. She wonders if as well as being a man that likes walking up Snowdon, whether he might like dancing. Then he steals her line, which makes her wonder if he’s been thinking about what to say too.
“Have a good day.”
She can’t remember the walk to collect Decius, and has no recollection of her conversation with Mrs YeahYeahYeah. She knows she wouldn’t actually have said, “Whatever”, to her face, but she’s pretty certain she was thinking it. By the time she gets to Fiona and Adam’s house she has herself more in hand. Decius, she notices, is particularly bouncy today, and whilst they wait for Adam to appear he is like a dog on a spring. Each time he hits the ground he looks up at her and his face seems to be smiling. If a fox terrier can laugh she thinks maybe this is it. She knows how he feels; she wants to laugh too.
Fiona and Adam both come to the door, and as Adam and Decius chase around each other, Fiona taps Janice on the arm. “Would you mind if Adam took Decius around the block on his own? He won’t go far. I thought it would be nice to have a coffee.”
Janice wonders what Fiona wants to say to her. She knows there is something, but she also knows it can’t be as weird as Mike’s conversation this morning.
“That’s fine,” she says, adding, “but I think he needs to be kept on the lead.” She doesn’t want to be explaining to Tiberius that his pedigree dog has gone missing. She knows she can trust him but says to Adam, “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Adam, it’s just he’s not my dog and I can’t let anything happen to him.” To try and lighten this, she adds, with a laugh, “I just couldn’t bear it.”
He looks at her, and she suspects it is the same look that he gave his “twat” counsellor. “And you think I could?” He walks away, Decius’s lead firmly wrapped around his hand.
Fiona has the coffee already made in a cafetière and biscuits laid out on a plate. She’s been planning this, Janice thinks, and wonders what’s coming next.
Fiona fiddles with her glasses in her lap for a while. “I was going to build up to this gradually…” She looks up and smiles crookedly. “You know, chat about the weather. But what I want to know is…” She looks out of the window, in the direction that Adam and Decius have gone. “…Do you think he’s doing okay?” She rushes on, oblivious of the fact she hasn’t poured either of them a coffee. “It’s just that he seems so happy when Decius is coming over and for a while after he gets back he’s like the old Adam. And I wondered if he ever says anything? And I know I shouldn’t ask. He would hate me for it. But I’m so worried about him. I mean, he’s doing okay at school and they’ve been really good. He has a couple of friends from football but I don’t think they’re that close. I’ve said he should ask them over and all he said was, ‘What, on a playdate?’ and stomped off to his room.” Fiona is crying by now. Not with big noisy sobs but with tears that run in a stream down her face like they already know the way. “And the one person I could talk to, the one who loved him like I do, fucking left him. And I don’t know what to do.”
Janice is on her knees in front of the chair with both of Fiona’s hands in hers. “He has you,” is all she can think of to say. “He has a mother who loves him and is always there for him.” She sits back slightly but still holds on to Fiona’s hands. “I don’t know what you should do either.” She instinctively adds, “I’m just the cleaner,” and she sees her instinct is right. Fiona gives a half-laugh. “Thanks for the reference by the way.”
“You’re welcome. She was a bit of a battle-axe on the phone. Are you sure you want to work for her?”
Janice is not, but says by way of explanation, “She was a spy.”
“Oh.” Fiona nods as if this makes perfect sense, which Janice knows it doesn’t. She sits back in her chair and pours them both a coffee. Fiona reaches for one of the tissues she keeps ready in a box for the recently bereaved. “Convenient,” she says, pulling one out.
Janice has literally no idea what to say, so rather than think about it she just talks. “When we go walking I think Adam has moments when he is just a twelve-year-old boy playing with a dog. You said you didn’t want him to be defined by John’s death. I don’t know the answer to that one, whether we can choose our own story or not. But I can tell you that in the fields playing with Decius—”
“Bloody stupid name for a dog,” Fiona interrupts.
“His owner is called Tiberius.”
“Blimey! I don’t know who I feel more sorry for.”
Janice does, but does not offer this up. “What I was going to say is that there are times when Adam is playing I can see he isn’t defined by his dad killing himself.” She says this bluntly because she knows this is not the time for “passed on” or “no longer with us”. “He hasn’t forgotten it of course; it’s probably part of him like the blood running through his veins, but he finds some peace whilst living with it – if that makes any sense.”
Fiona nods.
“I don’t have any answers. I wonder who does. But when I see that boy, I really do think he will be okay. There will be more and more times like that in his life.” She adds, “You should come out with us sometimes.”
Fiona sighs like she is suddenly very tired. “I’d like that.”
Janice wants to say one more thing.
“When I was Adam’s age, my mum wasn’t really around and I would have done anything to have had a mum like you.”
“Ah, thanks,” Fiona says. But Janice understands that she has no idea what she’s talking about, in the same way as Janice can never really know what it’s like to have been married to a man who killed himself.
When she returns Decius back to his home, Mrs YeahYeahYeah is waiting for her just inside the back door. Janice is absolutely exhausted but is immediately wary. She tries to look like a “quiet nothing”. She senses it is better to be underestimated in whatever is to follow.
