Before and After (24 page)

Is
ever there a question asked that sinks the heart so readily as that? I wondered.

I
nodded brightly and started to recite Portia’s speech from The Merchant of Venice in my mind to blot out the adolescent ramblings of a sexually frustrated teenager. I find Shakespeare can be wonderfully soothing and has the added advantage of being able to blot out bad verse. When I heard her voice cease, I waited for a few, respectful, sacred moments.

“Lovely,
Bella, and I do think the very clever play on the word
knead
to read as
need
wonderful indeed. But you know Bella dear, that you will have to go back to school. It’s the law here, or so I believe.”

Bella
stared pleadingly at me with tears in her eyes.

“Oh
Flora,
please
don’t make me go back, it’s so awful and I’m really dreadful at all the lessons. Besides, think what savings pa would make if I didn’t ever go back,” she said her voice rising to a wheedling whine.

I
considered her plump, miserable little face. It was indeed a waste of time to send her back there, but what was the alternative just now? I wasn’t going to be here long enough to tutor her at home, and really, what was the point? She was at home in a kitchen and that was going to be her life from now on. At least, it would be if Fiachra was man enough for the job.

“Where
is everybody, anyway?” I asked, changing the subject.

Bella
shrugged and turned to the sink again.

“Since
Maria’s left the whole family never seems to be here,” she said running some hot water into the sink.

That
was true. Maria’s regular bouts of cooking and cleaning were sadly missed, although not her rather tedious devotions. But really it wasn’t worth employing another housekeeper for the time the Ambles had left here.

“Bella,
come and sit down. You must be tired. I shall cook for us all tonight and it will be your job to smile and keep me entertained whilst I do so. Perhaps you could read me some more of your poetry? And do cheer up child, I have a feeling that within the next twenty-four hours you’re going to be very happy indeed.” I said, pushing Bella gently into a wooden kitchen chair.

Whilst
I contemplated the contents of the fridge, and hauled out vegetables and began to chop, I played most of The Magic Flute in my head to drown out the turgid prattle of Bella. Never have I heard such breathless rubbish in all my life. Well, other than a night once with The Inkies in Oxford, but that’s another tale completely. Let’s just say I am as one with C.S Lewis about the preponderance of elves in Tolkien.

Fragrant
rice, steamed vegetables and shredded chicken were soon bubbling on the cooker. It was all I could come up with from the limited resources to hand. I am, of course, a superb cook and am able to create anything from one of Carême’s apple meringue hedgehogs to a deceptively simple cheese soufflé, but usually I am graciously content to be served by others. Being served is an art form in itself, by the way, pasting on a smile and making a hearty noise of appreciation when given a plate of burnt toast spread with too little butter when one had in mind a smothered blinis, for instance, is not for the faint hearted or greedy. I
can
and
do
cook, of course, but on the whole, domesticity is not for me. I was mixing soy sauce with some grated ginger when I heard the front door open.

Archie
came bounding into the room clutching an enormous bunch of white lilies which he flailed around with till I took pity on him and graciously thanked him.

“Oh,
err, yes, of course, do have them, I mean they were meant for Sylvia, but do, yes. That’s the ticket.”

I
smiled at the obvious lie that had come from his mouth. Meant for Sylvia indeed. What nonsense. Men and their dubious untruths
can
be endearing, I suppose. The poor man was just embarrassed and the least I could do was to help him out of his own mortification.

The
front door opened and closed again and this time Sylvia entered the kitchen holding a rather more imaginative bunch of champagne coloured roses.

“How
lovely,” I exclaimed, trying to keep a false note of jollity out of my voice, otherwise it would sound far too upper sixth for comfort. “My
absolute
favourites. Bella dear, do you think you could find two vases for me? One for the kitchen and one for the bathroom I think.” I didn’t really want them in my boudoir, after all.

Sylvia
stared blankly at me for a moment or two.

“Oh,
yes do have them of course, if you like them, I bought them to go in my bedroom really, but –“

Good
grief. Neither of the Ambles seemed to have any idea whatsoever of how to present a bunch of flowers to the object of their affections. Oh well, if they needed the props of a social white lie, who was I to forbid it?

I
set the table with some cutlery and invited everyone to sit down and to eat.

“Nothing
too grand I‘m afraid, more a scratch sort of meal really. Think of it as eating the fridge. Now then, tell me, what sort of day has everyone had?” I said as I helped us all to bowls of food.

I
listened to Sylvia’s breathless account of her day spent with John Taylor in tracking down an original Shanghai carved screen,
with
silk panels, but
without
tassels and acknowledged that Archie’s feigned interest was nicely judged.

As
usual the sheer good manners of the Ambles was to be saluted. I doubt that any other family of any other country could have managed such exquisite behaviour. Can you imagine a married French couple breaking bread with the woman that they had both just spent the night with? No, nor me. They would either have to have discussed it all in great solemn, Gallic detail, with lit Gauloise and a bottle of wine, tediously going over and over the finer details of emotions or a
crime
passional
would have been committed. I, of course, had to pay equal attention to both of them as you would do to a fractious couple of twins, making sure that neither one of them received more than their fair share of my time. It was very tiring. My face was beginning to ache with the effort of smiling quite so much.

Archie
and Sylvia were glancing at one another with what looked like a bad case of suppressed laughter, but I know my English middle class, and I put this firmly down to nerves. After all, I saw very little to actually laugh about, so that’s what it must be. I may be a lot of things but a figure of fun I am not.

It
seemed the Ambles had but a poor appetite, and a lot of food was left as I cleared away the debris of the meal, waving away any offers (of which there were many) of help. Though I think my way of washing up confused them all, I simply pushed all the bowls and plates and saucepans into the bin, and firmly sealed the top together. In my defence they were very simple every-day-use white china, nothing valuable at all, and washing up really is going one step too far in my job description. I
have
to draw the line somewhere or I find that I could easily be taken advantage of. I am
so
giving and nurturing. I kissed Bella goodnight, telling her that she needed her beauty sleep, and waited till she had left the kitchen (after she made herself a large sandwich of some sort or another.)

Then
I even went so far as to offer to make coffee for us all (not that I ever touch it, but I thought it would do no harm to show willing).

“No,
no coffee for me,” Archie said valiantly, glancing with horror at Sylvia. Perhaps the food had been a touch too spicy for them and they doubted my ability with the coffee beans?

I
needed to tell Archie that he had a reduced status (
and
salaried) job, as well as plant the idea that he was going on holiday. If not to Asia, then perhaps the Lake District. Then I had to gently sow the seed that Bella was going to be paired off with an Irish builder. Perhaps coffee wasn’t the drink at all. Hmm, maybe a nightcap was called for. The drink for heroes sprang to mind.

“Brandy,
anyone?” I asked.

Or,
perhaps, and I hardly ever do this,
perhaps
I could just do a Maria. You know skedaddle in the middle of the night and leave them all to sort out their own problems. On reflection, this seemed like a simply marvellous idea.

Rule Number Twenty Five

“
It
is
entirely
possible
to
fall
in
love
with
the
wrong
person
.
Under
normal
circumstances
I
encourage
this
at
least
once
.
However
,
it
is
entirely
unreasonable
to
expect
to
receive
love
(
or
even
lust
)
in
return
.”

I was settling down with a snifter of Archie’s finest when the door bell rang. We all looked blankly at one another. We all knew that Maria wasn’t going to walk through the cold and dusty house to answer it and it was simply far too late for a casual caller. Besides, in my short time with the Ambles I knew that they were curiously short of the sort of friends that just drop in. Quite right too, of course, nothing worse than being ambushed by a well meaning neighbour when you are having a well earned rest and a moment of private time – making a cheese soufflé perhaps, or having an absinthe and musk navel massage.

We
all continued to stare at one another, no-one moving at all until the doorbell echoed around the gloomy, dusty house again.

Sylvia
sighed and made a move to stand up, but Archie, with a manly wave of the hand, forestalled her. I shrank slightly in my seat as in my experience, a late night caller only means one thing. Trouble.

A
slightly flustered Archie re-appeared followed by an obviously tipsy Fiachra.

“So
here we all are then,” The builder said pleasantly enough beaming at us all.

Sylvia
glanced questioningly at me, as did Archie, I noticed. Why everyone thinks that these midnight callers are anything to do with me is something I have long ago given up wondering about. ‘Twas ever thus, and it is a cross that I must bear.

The
young Irishman stood, swaying slightly in the kitchen doorway, a slight sheen of sweat beading his forehead, a lurid floral print shirt proclaiming its origins of nylon not cotton with tell tale rings of perspiration in the armpits.

“So,
where is the lassie? Let me at her, that’s me ready and, god willing, able.”

He
beamed again in our direction and started, incredibly enough, to whistle. It was I believe the introduction to ‘Fly me to the Moon’, but I may be mistaken, popular music of this century not being one of my fortes.

Damn
the fool. He’d got the wrong night. He’d obviously appeared ready for the seduction (if that can possibly be the right word for the plucking of young, plump and eager Bella).

Cormorants
and ants and tax inspectors and
warts
.

As
usual yours truly had to pick up the social slack.

I
motioned to a chair at the table and bade him sit. Before he fell. I was about to offer him some much needed coffee when he spotted the brandy snifters and made a grab for one of them.
Mine
, I was alarmed to see.

He
drained it in a single gulp and with the absorbed care of the inebriated gently and unsteadily replaced it on the table.

Wiping
his mouth with an air of passing regret that his glass was empty, he said, “Well, best be getting’ to work, lead me to her,” conferring his crooked smile on all of us again.

I
cleared my throat ready for the kindly yet firm speech I knew I must give. You know the one, blaming the demon alcohol on all, and ushering him out into the night. I had just opened my mouth to start when there was yet another ring at the door.

We
all jumped slightly and I took the opportunity to show willing and practically leapt from my chair.

“No,
no, I insist, my turn!” I carolled gaily as I neatly tripped through the wires and cables, joists and planks, dodging the heavy girders propping the ceiling up.

A
welcome break was just what I needed before propelling Fiachra out of the house, I thought crossly. I had made myself crystal clear to him, so what on earth was he doing here now? People are all the same, Dukes or Dental Hygienists, Counts or Carpet Layers, they all conspire against me. I had no qualms about leaving him alone in the kitchen with Archie and Sylvia. I had after all, taken the precaution of the eye drops with them, and besides, they were all far too shy to start talking without me.

I
flung open the front door and saw to my horror that it was the shoe woman.

I
slammed the door shut again and leant against the stripped and now bare-bricked wall for some support, whist somewhat childishly half believing that she would just disappear if I just wished hard enough. After all, stranger things have happened.

But
no.

The
inside of the letter box moved inwards, revealing the lipsticked mouth of Victoria.

“Coo-
ee! Hello Flora, it’s me Victoria, do open the door.”

Without
hesitation I wrenched the wires attached to the doorbell from the wall. I know, I know, madly impetuous of me, but there you are. I could see no other solution. I raced back to the kitchen to deal with the love struck swain.

“
– so you see, although it’s not me own way of dealin’ with these ‘tings, Miss Flora says I was to, forgive me, give yer daughter one and –“

“Yes,
indeed. Giving Bella a valuable lesson in stippling and dragging would be simply marvellous, but perhaps another time, it
is
a little late,” I said confidingly to Fiachra, tugging him to his feet and pushing him none too gently towards the door. I could still hear Victoria pleading through the letterbox and spoke loudly to cover up her wailing.

I
smiled brightly at Archie and Sylvia who looked bewildered.

“Who
was that Flora?” Archie said.

“Who
was what?” I replied, wrestling the brandy bottle from Fiachra.

“At
the door, just now.”

“Oh,
the
door
.”

I
had him in a firm half nelson (I knew that the wrestling lessons so lovingly given to me by The Lady Demon of the Mat would one day come in handy.)

“Yes,
the door, who was it?” Sylvia demanded.

“Oh,
you know, the usual.” I said, propelling Fiachra up the hallway, guiding him deftly over all the obstacles.

“The
usual
what
?” Archie called out crossly.

“Jehovah’s
Witness. They are
very
persistent and I really don’t think this is the time for a theological debate, do you?” I had him now by the front door and thrust him into the arms of a surprised Victoria.

“Go
away, both of you,” I hissed, closing the front door firmly on them. There. No-one can say that I shirk my duties.
And
at this late hour.

There
was muffled speech from behind the door which I didn’t linger to try and hear. Bella was calling from upstairs, demanding to know what the noise was about, but I told her to go back to sleep and returned to the kitchen.

Sylvia
was in the middle of what looked suspiciously like putting the brandy away.

“What
a good idea,” I said warmly, holding my glass towards her. She hesitated and poured me what can only be described as a
mean
measure.

I
held it for a fraction in my view and swallowed it in a gulp.

“Well,
bed, I think, don’t you?” Archie said with a terse voice.

I
coaxed myself into a shy look at him, “Oh yes, what a super idea.” I said.

Archie
looked alarmed and Sylvia put her hand to her heart with a fluttering motion not seen in these parts since the days of handkerchiefs and smelling salts.

With
firm husbandly and wifely looks at one another the couple left the room and a few seconds later I heard the unmistakeable sound of two bedroom doors being not only closed, but locked, too.

If
I’m brutally honest with you I also think I heard Archie mutter the words ‘Never again’ to Sylvia as they mounted the stairs but I choose not to dwell on that.

Ah
well. Their loss. I poured myself a slightly more generous dose of the medicinal liquid than Sylvia had given me and prepared to depart upstairs myself. I suppose at least a night alone would give me time for some much needed nocturnal beauty attention. I do urge you to do the same. One can never be lackadaisical in these matters, and to that end I mixed my usual skin scrub of honey, salt, olive oil (extra virgin
not
necessary) and oatmeal, with a few drops of chilli oil. I know I’m having a Treatment soon, but really, it does pay to be exfoliated and buffed to perfection before hand. The scars have less to grip on to, if you see what I mean.

After
my ablutions I took the precaution of peering cautiously through the windows, half expecting to see Fiachra and Victoria staging a sort of two man protest in the front garden. Perhaps
dear
Victoria would whip up a homemade placard or banner, with my name writ large in India ink. I could feel a frown develop on my brow and banished the thought of the trying shoe woman from my mind immediately. Once again, I gingerly moved the curtains to check. But great joy. Happily all was well. I was a little worried about how I was going to deal with all the minor problems, but - and this is one piece of advice I freely give you, and indeed
beg
that if you heed nothing else I have told you, take this to heart - never, ever lie awake with worry, I implore you. Not only is it frightfully aging, but - and here’s the thing to remember –
it
does
no
good
whatsoever
. To that end I slipped a very efficacious sleeping draught into my night time glass of hot milk, what? Oh yes, I agree with you, nothing nastier, but it works. Need I say any more?

I
settled down in my, oh dear,
The
Amble’s
, extremely comfortable bed to the sleep of the just.

Eleven miles away, Jack the gardener lay in a narrow, white hospital bed. His breathing was laboured but he was not uncomfortable, thanks to the enlightened, palliative care that is now blessedly routine procedure. His bronchitis was slowly but inexorably turning into pneumonia, and the bubbling sound that could be heard from his chest, was his lungs. He was slowly drowning.

The
nurses tried to make sense of his ramblings, but soon lost interest. He had been trying to tell them that the silver foil shapes that they had swept away as rubbish from his bedside locker, were amulets from Maria Kandinsky and were tokens for St Camillus de Lellis, the patron saint of the sick.

In
Jack’s confused state he had the most satisfying dreams. The reoccurring one that pleased him most, was of a mellow walled garden, at the height of summer with apple trees that had his favourite clematis trailing through the branches. The light in the garden seemed to be coming not from the sun, but from the trees and plants themselves. Jack didn’t question this, but dutifully felt for his ancient ball of garden twine, which even in his dreams, was where it was always to be found; in the back pocket of his well worn corduroy trousers.

Maria
Kandinsky and Father Absolom had just left Jack, and were walking through the reception area of the glass bricked, over heated hospital. On the counter, in a corporate effort to cheer the patients and staff, was a large dried flower arrangement. Ghostly dead thistles fought with desiccated grasses with an air of enforced bravado. Embalmed blossoms that never die, but are never going to be alive again, stiffly stood to attention. Maria clutched Father Absolom’s arm with a grip that made the priest wince. Pointing at the arrangement with a shaking arm, she remembered the English word that she had been searching for describe Flora Tate.

Father
Absolom sighed. Her stay at the vicarage had been full of such outbursts, and he had learned to deflect them with a gentle yet firm hand and the suggestion that she cook something that contained cabbage. He dragged her away from the immortal flower arrangement with the promise of a mass said for Jack in the lady chapel of the church.

He
then promised her that he would take her to the Ambles soon, so that she could formally say farewell to them. She was going to be received into a closed order of nuns deep in the heart of the Sussex countryside. Maria’s sobs echoed down the hospital corridors.