The Keeper of Stories, page 9
Perhaps this is where Decius gets it from?
Tiberius, in a more moderate tone, adds, “I’d better get going. I don’t want to miss the train.”
In one swift movement Janice is on her feet and back out the door. She shuts the door quietly on a “WTF” look from Decius and rings the doorbell. Her hand is shaking.
Walking across the fields with Adam later, she is unusually quiet – not that she thinks Adam notices. He’s too busy racing Decius and creating obstacles for him to jump over like he’s about to enter him for the fox terrier gymkhana. Her heart lifts as she listens to his running commentary; oh, such a boy still. And for this half an hour at least, she genuinely believes he has shaken off his terrible burden. She watches as he wallops through the undergrowth, springing off logs, shouting encouragement to Decius to get a clear round. In a small, unexpected way, it is a perfect moment.
She keeps watching the boy and dog playing as she reviews the conversation she’s just heard. She can’t kid herself – that definitely was eavesdropping. She’s glad Adam is so preoccupied as she needs time to think. Was Tiberius right? Is it safe for Mrs B to live there on her own? And really, shouldn’t the space be for students, not one cranky old woman? She hates to admit it, but maybe her son has a point. What would her husband have thought? She only has Mrs B’s view on that. And what did he mean about the money? What money? And if there is money, wouldn’t she be able to afford something nice and much more suitable? Images of Mrs B being thrown out of her home by her son into a smelly care home are fading fast.
Her mind starts to drift elsewhere. That smile on the bus. She can’t help returning to that. It was a nice smile, a friendly smile. She may have felt a fool but she doesn’t think the bus driver who looks like a geography teacher was laughing at her. It was much more like he was sharing something with her. It’s just she has no idea what.
Fifteen
The oldest story in the world
Mike is off unexpectedly early, waving a handful of folders under her nose as he passes her on the landing. “People to go, places to see.”
Janice smiles perfunctorily at the oft repeated joke. She still has no idea what he’s up to but she presumes he must be getting some interviews (at the very least), as he keeps disappearing off for meetings. She’s glad when he’s gone as she wants the bedroom to herself so she can choose what to wear in peace.
Her brief is a difficult one. She needs an outfit that is suitable for wearing when you have your head down other people’s toilets, but that also – on the off chance you should bump into a bus driver who looks like a geography teacher – says: I am a friendly woman; I am never going to be beautiful but hopefully I’m not past praying for; I am the sort of woman who likes to walk and I might manage Snowdon if you didn’t go too fast; and I am definitely not a woman who blurts things out without thinking. And all this, without looking like mutton dressed as lamb, or as if she has gone to too much effort.
Carrie-Louise greets her with, “Now … tell me, darling … I can see you have done … something. Is it your hair? Well, whatever it is … I approve!” Janice would like to hug her. The bus had been driven this morning by the Hell’s Angel – “Mornin’, love” – and she hadn’t known whether to be disappointed or relieved. However, for now, she has other things to think of: Mavis is due for coffee and she needs to get baking.
Janice puts down her tack hammer and pulls the fabric tighter on the footstool she is repairing for Carrie-Louise. She is working in the dining area and although the partition doors are closed into the drawing room, she can still hear Carrie-Louise and Mavis’s conversation quite clearly. She has been thoroughly enjoying it but if she’s honest she does think Mavis might be winning on points. Despite the delivery of homemade Florentines on the best tray, Mavis has managed to flaunt a forthcoming trip on the Orient Express, a visit to Glyndebourne, and her dance mobility class in Carrie-Louise’s face. Carrie-Louise had countered with, “Oh my … five days on a train with George … No, no … it will be marvellous … darling.” But then Mavis played her trump card, and drew her new smartphone from her handbag. Carrie-Louise is fearful of most forms of technology and Mavis was soon talking to her about apps and the joy of Audible. “That would be so good for you now you can’t get out so much.”
Mavis’s phone has just sounded (“Ring My Bell” by Anita Ward).
“Oh, Josh is such a card; he keeps changing my ringtone.” This is a slam-dunk as far as Mavis is concerned; her grandchildren live in Worthing, whereas Carrie-Louise’s grandchildren are 10,000 miles away in Melbourne. Mavis spends some time on the phone chatting away to her daughter. Bit rude, Janice thinks, and she wonders about putting on her white apron and going in with more coffee. She might even bob Carrie-Louise a curtsey to cheer her up.
She needn’t have worried. Mavis ends her call and Carrie-Louise gets started. “Darling … you … sounded so … different.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just then … on your … new phone.”
“Oh, really?” Mavis asks, sounding unsure.
“Yes… so, so … different.”
“How do you mean?”
“You know … just different … when you were talking to your daughter.”
“Well how, how was I different?”
“Oh, I don’t know … darling … just different.” Carrie-Louise says, vaguely this time:
“Yes, but what do you mean, different?” Mavis says again, getting slightly shirty.
“Well … you sounded…”
“Yes?” Mavis is getting more impatient.
“Well … you sounded … really, really … lovely.”
Janice starts hammering again to mask her laughter. There is no doubt about it; that is a late knock-out by Carrie-Louise.
Janice arrives early at Mrs B’s, giving her a chance to call in to the Porter’s Lodge to see Stan. She has brought him some of the Florentines from Carrie-Louise’s. First, they cover a few generalities over a coffee: how Arsenal did last night against Liverpool, whether they are going to have a bit of snow, and who will be dancing the lead in Les Sylphides when Stan goes to Covent Garden this weekend. He and his wife, Gallina, are very fond of the ballet. Janice then brings up the subject of Mr B.
“You must have known him when he was Master here?”
“Certainly did. He was here for quite a few years. A nice man. Private, mind. But I suppose that comes with having done the job he did. We had to have all sorts of extra security when he was in the college.”
“But he lived here, where she is now?” She nods in the general direction of Mrs B’s accommodation. She can’t quite bring herself to call her “Lady”, but feels it would be disrespectful to call her “Mrs B” to Stan.
Stan nods. “That’s right, just the two of them. It’s funny, she wasn’t half so bad back then. Still a bit uppity but they were one of those couples … you know…”
Janice waits.
“I don’t think they felt the need for other people.”
Janice keeps quiet; she feels there is more.
“Always felt a bit sorry for their son. I mean, he’s a right twat, but sometimes I think they barely noticed he was there.”
“Do you know anything about the arrangement with the house, how it was left when he died?”
“Ooh, can’t help you there, love. I think it was pretty complicated, something to do with a will, or covenant? But that’s all I know really.”
There is one final thing Janice wants to check. “When I’m not here, I mean the rest of the week, do other people look in on her?”
“Not really. Her son comes over every couple of weeks. His wife used to but her ladyship gave her one hell of a time and she stopped coming.”
“And if something happened, there are fire alarms and … you know…?”
Stan nods. “Goodness, yes, there are very strict rules on health and safety with buildings of this age. It’s the same with most of the colleges.” He coughs and shifts in his seat. “She has no idea I do it but I always check on her on my rounds. Just a quick look in the window to make sure she hasn’t fallen or anything like that. So you mustn’t worry too much.” She has the feeling he’s going to reach out and pat her hand, but he ends up by vigorously rubbing his hands together. “I tell you what though, she seems to have perked up a bit since you’ve started coming by. Maybe the old girl was lonely.”
Janice wonders what Mrs B has done to deserve such kindness from a man whose name she cannot be bothered to remember. As she gets up to leave, she comes to a decision. “Thanks for the coffee, Stan. You’ll be seeing a bit more of me, I’m afraid. I’ve decided to split my hours so I come in two or three times a week, rather than once. It will suit me better.”
Stan looks at her from under his brows but says nothing.
As Janice works her way around the upper gallery dusting the shelves, she replays the conversation she overheard between Tiberius and his wife in her head. Mrs B is particularly grumpy today and is reading in her usual chair below. Janice wonders if she’s had another bad night. Maybe this place is too much for her? Perhaps her son is right? But how could she ever talk about it to her when she’s made it perfectly clear she wouldn’t report back on anything she overheard at her son’s? Mrs B would be bound to know something has changed and might even think she had been talking to her son about her behind her back.
As she moves down to the ground floor and starts dusting there, she can feel Mrs B’s eyes on her. After a while she proclaims, “You look different.”
Janice keeps on dusting but doesn’t say anything.
When she is closer to her chair, Mrs B says slyly, “So, all dressed up to meet your husband later? I expect you’ll be going to the bingo and then to the pub for ‘Steak Night’.”
Janice knows she is trying to get a rise out of her. She will not give her the satisfaction.
“I believe it’s two-for-one on a Thursday.”
Janice just keeps on dusting. But something in her face, something in her demeanour, must have alerted Mrs B – the predator.
“Ah, so not your husband. Like that, is it?”
All the joy is stripped from her day. She is left feeling sordid and cheap, a ridiculous woman in a red sweater and jeans, a feather duster in her hand.
“I’m going to clean the bathroom,” is all she says.
When she returns to the main room to start organising the piles of books, Mrs B has made her a hot chocolate. She has spilt most of it getting it to the table. Janice cannot bring herself to touch it.
“So, Becky is about to become a mother,” Mrs B starts. Janice knows she is watching her, but she will not look at the old woman who has just stolen one of the few bits of happiness that belonged solely to her.
Mrs B’s voice is unusually quiet when she begins. “I cannot imagine the birth was a pleasant experience … if they ever are… Becky gave birth in one of the worst hospitals in Paris. I imagine if Charles Dickens had seen sixteen-year-old Becky struggling through the doors he might have rubbed his hands together and picked up his quill. But of course, this was 1907 and Charles had been dead for nearly forty years.”
Janice can’t help noticing that Mrs B talks about Charles Dickens like he’s a personal friend. She moves down the room to work; she does not want to get drawn in further.
Mrs B’s voice becomes louder, “I do wonder if her father drove her to the hospital in his Hackney cab. Who can guess what would have been going through his mind? However, the point is that Becky gave birth to a healthy baby girl. I wonder, if it had been a boy, would things have been different? Yes, a golden, curly-haired grandson might have found a place in that home. But Becky gave birth to a girl, and we can imagine what her parents thought of having another miniature Becky in the house. So it was not long before the baby and Becky’s shame were hidden away, out of sight, on a farm in the country well away from Paris. Becky, they threw out onto the street.”
Mrs B leans down and turns on her electric fire. “I think at this point it would be hard not to feel sorry for Becky. But as they say, what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. Becky took up the only profession open to her, the oldest one in the world: she started working the streets of Paris. To muscle her way in among the other whores, to arrange herself in that dark doorway, to take her first customer … and to do all this with a smile on her face – I think we can assume she would not have let the other whores see her cry – well, that must have taken great strength. Maybe the nuns had contributed something useful to her education after all – as I said, what doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.
“It wasn’t long before Becky came to understand that there was a definite hierarchy within the world she had entered, and being Becky she was keen to climb the ladder. And as luck would have it, there were always women – Madams, shall we say – who trawled the underworld looking for enterprising girls like Becky. These were the girls who would move from being la prostituée professionnelle, to la fille d’occasion, until ultimately they became la crème de la crème; la courtisane.”
Janice wants to ask the difference between the three, but won’t.
Mrs B pauses expectantly, before continuing. “Once recruited by the Madam, Becky’s education began in earnest. Within an elegant, discreet establishment in the Sixteenth Arrondissement, Becky began her lessons. And no, not the education in sexual practices that you are considering, Janice, although no doubt that was included too.”
Janice slams a book down on top of the pile she has been sorting.
“Her main education involved elocution lessons, how to dress, dancing classes, and how to wear her hair so she appeared to her best advantage. She learnt which heeled and jewelled shoes drew the eye to the ankle and which exotic fragrances best suited different occasions – and where on her body to wear them. Becky revelled in this new and unfamiliar role; for the first time in her life she was the most gifted and valued student in the class. She quickly advanced in her studies, uncovering the mysteries of her new profession: the perfect timing of a slow lowering of the lashes, how to languidly extend a hand to show the flash of the underside of a snow-white wrist, when to tilt her chin in just such a way to give a laughing, sideways glance. Oh, Becky loved learning it all. The only thing her new Madam did not have to teach her was how to sing; the nuns had taken care of that, and Becky had a beautiful voice.
“Now, a girl like Becky working as a fille d’occasion, was expected to ‘entertain’ the clients of the house, but that was not the limit of her world. She might choose to grace Les Folies Bergère with her presence – the management always encouraged girls like Becky to mingle with their customers. And we need to remember that the Beckys of this Parisian world were not hidden away in some shameful corner; the men they associated with wanted to flaunt them in front of the world. And that suited Becky just fine. A typical day for her might start with riding in the Bois de Boulogne (Becky was extremely fond of horses), then lunch at the Café de Paris, before heading off to the races. Becky had never had so much fun in her entire life. By the late afternoon, Becky would be available for ‘work’ at the discreet house in the Sixteenth Arrondissement; after all, she was une cinq à sept.”
Mrs B stops talking. Janice stops dusting. Janice wants to know what this means. She knows Mrs B wants to tell her. They are back playing chicken. But Janice’s heart isn’t in the game.
“Would you rather be a prostitute or a cleaner?” Mrs B suddenly demands.
She wonders if sometimes there is much difference. No, she is being ludicrous and self-pitying – cleaning up after people is not the same as selling your body. She doesn’t want the next thought, but it comes anyway. Is it worse to sell your body than to have it picked up and put down by a man reaching for something convenient to relieve himself into? She cannot bear to think of this anymore, to remember last night’s quick grapple in the dark. She knows Mrs B is watching her but, like Becky, she will not let anyone, especially this woman, see her cry. She looks away from her, still not answering her question.
“You do know, Janice, that you are an exceptional woman.”
This does make her look back, this time in surprise.
“I do not know you, so to make cheap assumptions about your life was wrong of me and I apologise. However, what I can do is talk about facts. And the fact is that you are an exceptional cleaner. I believe you to be an exceptional woman too. But for now, let us deal with factually recorded evidence.” She adds dryly, “I believe you underestimate yourself, but I’m not sure you will listen to my opinion. After all, I have proved myself to be a crass and thoughtless old woman, so, as I say, I shall just deal with recorded evidence rather than my opinion. These are the facts: you are an excellent cleaner who also bakes to a very high standard; you can and do use a soldering iron, a multi-purpose power tool, and, I believe, a chainsaw was even mentioned. You know the rudiments of upholstery and make your own cleaning equipment – although why you are cleaning a doll’s house is beyond me. Even my daughter-in-law is impressed by your ability to dismantle and clean all the working parts of her outlandish coffee machine – something that is well beyond herself and Tiberius. One of your employers mentioned your ability to put all sorts of people at their ease and made specific references to your ability to break up fights. I will not embarrass you by repeating the many things that were also recorded about your extraordinary sensitivity and kindness.”
“But, where’s this all coming from?” Janice exclaims.
“My husband was head of MI6. I myself for a time worked in covert operations. You did not think I would take up references and investigate a relative stranger who I was going to let into my home?”
