A City of Strangers (8 page)

Lynn chose to treat this as a purely practical question.

“Ah, well—it seems to me that there are some avenues that suggest themselves. First of all, the vendor: Dr. Pickering. He was our neighbor here for—what?—six years. One of us could certainly approach him.”

“But what would be the point?” asked Jennifer Packard, pricked by some impulse of mischief that had presumably been aroused by her husband's strain of pomposity. “If he is asking a certain price for The Hollies, and if this man can come up with the money, why should he care about anything else? Market forces rule—OK.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” spluttered her husband.

“It means that you've always been against sentiment entering into what ought to be purely commercial transactions.”

“I wouldn't call it sentiment—expecting him to have some consideration for us, as ex-neighbors.”

“But that's what it
is,
isn't it?”

“I've always found Dr. Pickering rather brusque.” said Adrian Eastlake sadly. “And so has Mother.”

Lynn Packard felt the meeting falling apart. He was conscious of the satiric eye of Evie Soames on him.

“My point is that we have to explore every avenue. Another possibility is the estate agents whose hands the house is in. Another is the building society they'll be going to for loans.”

“The same consideration that applies to Dr. Pickering applies to the estate
agents,” pointed out Evie Soames, with an obvious relish. “Why should they care? If the Phelans—let's be brave and give them a name, shall we?—can come up with the money, that's all they will care about. We've no certainty they will need to go to a building society for a loan, and if they do the society won't need
us
to tell them their business: Anyone with half an eye could see that the Phelans aren't the best risk in the world.” She got up. “I've got to go, I'm afraid. But as far as I'm concerned the question of whether or not we want them as neighbors simply doesn't arise. There's nothing we can do. You can't choose your neighbors. The only conceivable thing you could do would be to club together and buy it yourselves. But
then
you'd be on dodgy ground when you came to selling it again if you tried to stop the Phelans buying it.” She smiled around, giving them the aggravating impression that she regarded them as comic. “So you'd best resign yourselves to your own impotence.”

There was general relief when she had gone.

“It seems to me your good lady is thinking too negatively,” said Lynn to Steven, who sat there sweating and embarrassed, but thankful Evie had not heard herself described as his good lady.

“The suggestion about clubbing together is the only practical suggestion we've had so far,” pointed out Daphne Bridewell, who had also registered and not relished Lynn's phrase. “Though as a retired person I wouldn't be in a position to come in on it. Neither, I imagine, would Mr. Cartwright. Banks and building societies don't rush to give loans to elderly people.”

Algy Cartwright nodded. Adrian Eastlake looked round in despair. That left three householders. Where would he lay hands on thirty-odd thousand?

“There's also the question of the police,” said Lynn, looking down at his notes. “From what I hear he's the sort of man who must have a record.”

“I remember some trouble with the police while I was Deputy Head at the school,” confirmed Daphne Bridewell.

“I can't say too much,” said Adrian Eastlake, looking around at them pinkly, “because of my job, you understand. But when I had to call on him, I did some . . . background research, and he does have a criminal record. Though of a minor kind,” he concluded lamely.

So what? Jennifer Packard wanted to say. What was there to stop criminals buying houses? It was one of the things they most frequently used their gains for, and no wonder, the way house prices were soaring. But she had stored up enough black marks that evening already, marks which would be brought up against her when everyone had gone, so she held her peace. She sat there wondering what they would have done if not the Phelans but an ordinary family from the Belfield Grove Estate had won the pools and decided to buy The Hollies. Nothing, she supposed. Lynn would have wanted to, though. Yet he himself had grown up in a back-to-back, with nothing to
spur him on but an ambitious and doting mother and his own rather brutal sense of priorities.

The talk was now turning general. Frustration at not being able to think up specific measures, combined with Evie's insistence on naming the Phelans, had led them to home in on the family's personal and collective awfulness.

“The eldest boy was always a troublemaker,” Daphne Bridewell was saying. “In fact, he was a delinquent by the time he came to us, and that was when he was nine.”

“You may remember the newspaper stories about child prostitution in the Carrock area of town,” said Adrian. “I happen to know that the eldest daughter was heavily involved there—she was only thirteen at the time.”

“How many children are there?” asked Lynn Packard.

“Six,” said Daphne Bridewell promptly.

“Catholics, I suppose,” said Lynn, with a moue.

“Christ, it's not religion makes them have all those kids,” said Steven too loudly. “It's to scrounge more out of the Social Security.”

He pulled himself up short, appalled. He sounded like a Thatcherite. He thanked his stars once more that Evie had gone early. But Daphne Bridewell was nodding.

“You're probably right. I don't believe for a moment that lots of people on welfare benefits have children in order to get more handouts, as the tabloids tell us. They're not that stupid. But the Phelans are. The only time I talked to the parents, when Kevin and June were in Middle School and creating merry hell there, the father made it clear he resented having to send them to school at all. Bloody waste of time, he said: They should be out earning money. Kevin was then eleven. I got the impression that if we started sending children down the mines again, or into the mills, he'd be first in the queue to register his lot.”

“It's no wonder they've grown up as they have done,” said Lynn. “That makes me all the more determined they're not coming here. A slum is containable. A potential buyer needn't know about it, beyond the garden. But slum children infect the whole neighborhood, and I'm not having
my
children catching the disease.”

Everyone nodded with understanding, though Jennifer thought he ought to have more faith in his own sons.

“Now—right. Who's going to do what? We need someone to approach Pickering.”

“I can do that,” said Adrian Eastlake. “He's still officially my mother's doctor, though he's never been very understanding. . . . But I suppose we know him as well as anyone.”

“Splendid!” said Lynn, with a hollow ring to his voice. He had never
known a wimp achieve anything yet. “And perhaps Mrs. Bridewell can back you up.” He did not notice the expression of distaste on her face. “You two are among the oldest residents here. And what about you, Mr. Cartwright?”

Algy shook his head dubiously.

“He's a brusque kind of chap,” he said. “A mite short in his manner. Happen three of us would put his back up.”

“Good thinking. Well, you've done your bit anyway. Now I think I'd better do the building societies. It's something for someone in the business world, and I know some of the local heads. What I can do is limited, of course, but I can
warn.
Then there's the estate agents. Who are handling the house?”

“Greenheads, unfortunately,” said Daphne Bridewell. “One of the biggest.”

“Yes—a family firm would be more approachable. . . . Perhaps you, Dr. Copperwhite—or is it Professor?—”

“Mr.,” said Steven, with a strained smile. “Pure and simple. Well, I suppose I could have a try. What sort of line do you think I should use?”

Lynn Packard had once more to suppress irritation. These bloody intellectuals, he said to himself: They seem to need a nanny all their lives.

“Well, you could point out that more unreliable purchasers could hardly be found, that they would have a disastrous effect on the neighborhood and amenities, and that potential sellers in the Lane in the future would hardly be likely to use Greenheads, if they make a sale of that sort. . . . ” It sounded feeble even to him. He rubbed his hands together with fake enthusiasm. “Right. To work. We know what we've got to do. Let's get down to it. Another meeting to report progress here in this house as soon as possible. Shall we say Tuesday, same time?”

His enthusiasm was not infectious. They pushed back their chairs and got up to go, but Steven Copperwhite murmured to Adrian Eastlake, “Bonny Prince Charles on the eve of Culloden.” That about summed up the general feeling. The terrible prospect of the Phelans as neighbors had galvanized Lynn Packard into action, but it was factitious action, because essentially there was nothing they could do. Lynn could dominate a meeting, but he could not enthuse one. They all felt sheepish rather than bullish.

In the hall Daphne Bridewell detained Adrian by the arm.

“I was awfully pleased that your mother took the initial action in this.”

“Oh—well, yes, I think she was shocked for my sake. I had an unpleasant brush with the Phelans in the past.”

“I know. Do you think this could be the beginning of her—well, getting out a bit, taking an interest in things?”

“Oh, I think it would be very premature to hope for that. Mother is a confirmed invalid, you know.”

“Yes. I've not called these last few years because she made it clear she didn't want it. But do remember, if there's anything I can do, Adrian . . . ”

He pressed her hand, and they all went through the front door and evaporated into the night. Adrian went back to Willow Bank to talk things over with his mother, Daphne Bridewell knocked on the door of the basement flat to The Laburnums to report to Carol Southgate, and Algy Cartwright went into the empty silence of Rosetree Cottage and turned on the television for
A Taste of Death.
In York House Jennifer Packard prepared to be niggled at for the rest of the evening over her “cheap gibes” about the free market, and at Ashdene Evie's car was not in the garage, and the house was still. Steven Copperwhite let himself in by the gate, and spoke to the two cats sitting on the living-room windowsill: his cat Runty and Mrs. Bridewell's cat Victoria—the gangster and his moll. They were something to talk to. Once inside the house he went through to the living room to pour himself a whiskey, then went down the hall to the study. There on the desk were the piles of student essays waiting to be read, the manuscript of
The Burden of Male Dominance,
just returned from Macmillan's, and the smaller manuscript pile of
You're Only Young Twice.
That feeling of dissatisfaction, of having taken a wrong turning, of being in a blind alley, returned to him.

He picked up the phone and dialed again the well-remembered number. This time his ex-wife answered.

T
he bus was crowded on Monday morning, and Adrian Eastlake had to go upstairs. It was his day for a late start at the Social Security office, but the bus seemed to be full of early Christmas shoppers. He wrinkled his nose slightly at the fug of pipe and cigarette smoke, and went resignedly down the back.

Looking down to the pavement at the next stop Adrian thought he saw a head, a bulk, he knew. Seconds later he heard heavy tramping up the stairs, then saw in the convex mirror the well-remembered face surveying the upper deck. Jack Phelan, shaven, less dirty than usual, but still extremely unprepossessing. Adrian looked down at his lap. His heart thumped with relief when he saw someone sitting near the stairwell start to get off, and Jack sink into the vacant seat, take out a packet of cigarettes, and begin generously adding to the fug.

What was Jack Phelan doing, going into town at twenty to ten? He was usually still on his doorstep, in trousers and pajama top, first can of the day in hand, trading insults with neighbors off to work. With a sinking heart Adrian remembered he had to ring Dr. Pickering later in the day. He had been rung by Mrs. Bridewell shortly after the meeting at the Packards', suggesting that she should contact their ex-neighbor first, and then he do the follow-up early the next week. Adrian suspected that she had been put up to this by Lynn Packard. Adrian was very used to people doubting his abilities. Daphne Bridewell had told him later that her phone call had met with no greater success than a promise from Dr. Pickering that he would “think over” what she had said. Now it was his turn. Decisions, action, initiatives. . . . Like most inadequate people Adrian felt that the world was continuously calling for evidences of his own inadequacy.

Jack Phelan smoked continuously the two and a half miles into Sleate.
Past the jail they went, past new red-brick office buildings with mirror windows that gave nothing away. Adrian hoped he would get off before him, but he went on sitting there, puffing and scratching himself. Only when the bus was approaching Adrian's stop, the library stop, did Phelan heave himself up and start down the stairs. Adrian held back and let him get off. Once out into Head Street he looked curiously to see where Phelan was going. Not to the library, that was for sure. He was walking heavily ahead to the lights and making as if to cross the road. Adrian looked at his watch, saw he had five minutes to spare, and threaded his way across the traffic ahead of the lights.

The handsome, filthy city of Sleate had its usual morning bustle, and Phelan looked incongruous among all the business people. Adrian saw him begin down North Parade. What business could he have there? A fine arts auctioneer, a solicitor or two, an estate agent. Hope lifted Adrian's heart momentarily: Perhaps he was looking at other houses? He followed him down North Parade, and groaned when he walked past the estate agent. He stopped to look in a window. Adrian did not stop soon enough and was afraid his reflection had been seen. But Phelan turned and went on. He was looking at numbers. Ah, now he was going up steps and through an ornate Victorian doorway. Adrian dallied. He did not wish to be caught by Phelan if he came straight out again. Then he walked briskly past, flicking an eye momentarily up to take in the plate on the wall: Simon Carbury, Solicitor.