Blind Date (3 page)

One did not carry one's own heavy shopping in this town. One might carry back in triumph the dress you had bought from Molly's if you were thus inclined (Diana was not; too vulgar), but that was all. Transaction complete (on the account, please), she strolled through more of the same. Fruit, asparagus, furniture polish, paper goods, environmentally friendly cleaners, polite greetings given and reciprocated with a regularity and consistency which Diana regarded as quintessentially English and infinitely reassuring. Then on her way home, she was jarred by a sudden memory of Elisabeth lying in bed, reclining in state, announcing her own, alien opinions. “My God, Mumsy wumsy, if that man in the butcher's smiles any wider, he'll disappear up his own arse.”

“You'd rather live in your crazy bell tower than
here?”

“You bet. Soon as I can.”

“What's wrong with people being pleasant?”

“Nothing, Mumsy. If only it weren't so fucking relentless.”

D
iana detoured home, excusing her self-imposed delay on the basis that young Matthew was keeping Elisabeth company, and thus making the mood of the patient sweeter. She herself felt suddenly helpless, furious that fate was undermining her yet again. Angry, that with all her hard won dignity, she still carried that contagion of pity which made people so sweetly careful of her, as if she were afflicted with some antisocial disease. Lately it had been less infectious because she was so obviously strong, but then the same unkind fate which ruled her life sent home to roost the daughter who was scarcely mentioned in the shops, because she had brought the trouble with her. No, not brought it, reinvented it. Disinterred it, unable to let it rest. With one daughter already in the graveyard, Diana Kennedy felt that these were challenges that she simply did not deserve. Only an iron will could resist them.

S
teven Davey,
son-in-law to Diana, watched her from the top window of the foremost house on the hill, owner lately deceased. A glimpse of her white hair lifted his spirits, assured him of the continuity of his life.

“The view's marvellous from here,” the American said. “What's it like in winter, though?”

“What? The view?”

What did he mean? The view would be the same in winter; same sky, same stretch of sea, same outlook on the garden at the back, same view of the railings at the front. What did he think? Same view, different colours, less inviting in mid-December than July, obviously; did he want a guarantee of the weather? It was difficult to remain affable in the company of someone who was wasting his time, but the only way out of a downward route into ill manners was to act as if the man was the best friend he had ever had. He must resist the impulse to throttle him, pretend he was interesting and his questions intelligent, while acting at the same time as if he did not despise him for the simple crime of having limitless money. The village was rich, but this man, immeasurably richer. Rich and loud, the perfect North American cliché.

“Oh, of course, I see what
you mean. The ambience in winter? Rather nice, actually. Usually mild, quite a lot going on, very friendly community coming into its own, if you get my drift. People remember that they know one another, need one another. Is there anything you'd like to see again?”

There was always this conflict: sell the house and gain the commission as well as the kudos and sense of achievement, or sabotage the whole issue, because he could not bear to have this idiot as a near neighbour. If in doubt, remain as charming as your mother-in-law throughout because you never knew if the customer might have nicer acquaintances he would recommend.

“You sure this is the finest house in town?”

Steven drew a deep breath. “Well I've lived here most of my life, so I'm bound to say that this is the finest village on the coast, aren't I? And I'm bound to say, that local opinion has this as the finest house. Because it has such a commanding position …”

“And because it's so expensive.”

“Yes. And because it doesn't change hands very often.”

“Pardon me?”

Steven did not hate Americans. He simply found them exasperating and uncomfortable because they did not speak his language any better than he could follow their laconic code. And they seemed to have the strange tradition that when they were buying a superfluous house with their ridiculous supplies of cash, it was the man who chose it, and houses chosen by men were always wrong for their women. Perhaps this creature who resembled a frog with the watchful eyes of a lizard would go home and insert a brick from the place down his wife's suspender, by way of a gift. Then they would visit once or twice over three years and sell it again because it was too far from an airport and she had not wanted it. He brightened at the prospect.

“This
ain't the finest house,” the American said. “Maybe the prettiest, but not the finest.” He was standing by the window, jabbing his finger, pointing at the hill, to where the green shutters of Diana's house were distinctly visible in the sun. “Now that one there, that's the finest. By my standards, anyways.”

“That one?” Steven asked, pretending not to understand. “Oh yes. Not for sale.”

“Why, if the price is right …”

“Because it's spoken for. Anyway,” he added, “it's got a curse on it. Now, are we finished here?”

Ever fastidious, he brushed the dust from the sleeve of his jacket, and fingered the knot of his tie. Such a smart young man, the American remarked to himself, disliking the vision of a well-dressed realtor so clean he almost shone with it. As if a suit, however casually cut, made any difference. Certainly not in this heat.

“That house got ghosts?” he asked.

“Some.”

The American sighed and sat down heavily in the chair by the window, the only furniture in the room. “I just love ghosts,” he said. “My wife, she always did love a house with ghosts. Tell me about
that
house.”

It was less of an invitation than a command. Steven the servant shrugged. Why not? He could act as if there were a dozen calls on his time, but there were not, and he had given up pretending even to himself that the American was going to buy anything more than a portable antique in this town. Maybe a silver pepper pot from the messy antique and bric-a-brac shop opposite his office. There was also something about the man's superiority which he wanted to shock. Chicago would always condescend to naive little England, where everyone was nice and no-one died, as if they were all in a film.

“You're right. It is
the finest house, even if it isn't the most beautiful. It's been in the same family for generations, passed down from father to son. The man who would be the current owner died after a sailing accident, oh, about thirteen years ago, leaving the present occupant, his widow, and two daughters, one she brought to the marriage, and he adopted, and then the one they produced. I married the youngest when we were both scarcely out of our teens.”

The American chuckled. “Well, I never. You didn't let a good one get away. Do you inherit?”

“Someone seems to suffer untimely death in every generation of that family,” Steven continued, as if talking to the wall. He was feeling bored and angry. “First her father, then my wife. We were living in London. She was murdered. In our house, culprit and motive unknown. He put a black bin liner over her head and kicked her to death. I brought her back here to be buried. We shouldn't have left. The finest house will belong to our son, when he's older, of course. So don't even think of it.” He smiled, to forestall any suggestion of offence.

“Jesus.”

There was nothing else to say. They creaked downstairs in silence, Steven closing the front door behind them, before they turned into the sunlight, blinded by it. Halfway down the hill, the American forgot to be tongue-tied. What did it matter if he offended this smart young widower? He was never going to see him again. Nor buy a house in a village which was clearly not as idyllic as it seemed, what with the weirdo summer visitors he'd heard about, throwing acid, for God's sake—who needed guns?—and now, this. He grabbed Steven's sleeve.

“That's some family history you have there. What about the other daughter? Can't you marry her and square it all up?” His laughter was artificial, embarrassed and loud, echoing into the walls. He was remembering the woman with the piled, white hair he had seen from the window.

“How very
neat,” Steven said with his widest, official smile. “My son would approve, but I doubt if she would. We both loved my wife. Goodbye, Mr. … what was your name? I do hope we shan't meet again.”

M
att was on the beach. Twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven stones he had thrown into the sea. His aim was to chuck one whole hundred; but the ambition had outweighed the interest. His skin was copper coloured with a clear demarcation zone where his shorts ended, his trainers began and the sleeves of his polo shirt flapped against his thin upper arms. The sheen on his uncovered flesh bore scant resemblance to the lily limbs which had begun to spread themselves on towels and chairs. A group of young women and men, day trippers from somewhere else, laid out in rows to catch the rays, their English faces already pink. They had nothing else in common, except for a slight, as yet faintly expressed, irritation with the boy throwing stones. As if one of the pebbles he skimmed on the flat water between the sluggish waves could rebound and hit some exposed flank of flesh.

H
e could hear his name being called from the door to Gran's garden—think of the pride of walking past them all, into his own door. Or maybe that was all in his mind, his name being called, like a constant echo, making him wander round with his fingers in his ears. Matthew! Come and help me. Or was it, Matthew, help? He sat heavily, listened, decided that twenty-eight stones were quite enough. He would try, once more, to make one of them bounce not twice but three times, in a minute. His feet scrunched slowly as he rose and walked down the line of swimsuit-clad bodies, stopping to stare. How strange it was that whether they knew one another or not, they arranged themselves with such symmetry, as if they were cars parked by an attendant in a car park.

He was
looking for his mother. Long, slim, fair, beautiful, with a voice like music. She was not like Aunty Elisabeth; she was not like anyone, although Elisabeth came closest before she got so crumpled, and there was always the hope she could be here, even though he knew she would never be here, not a chance. Not a chance after what he struggled to forget.

He found himself examining a bare bosom. Two nipples; interesting. Someone told him to piss off. Stop staring, little boy, haven't you got a home?

“I'm looking for jewels,” he told them under his breath. “There's treasure on this beach, did you know?”

He turned on his heel and faced Gran's house. Given the chance, they would send him away. Everyone was sent away, in time. Sent away or lost. He dreaded his turn for either eventuality and only knew he wanted to postpone it. He turned again, picked up a stone at random, watched for a space of seconds, and skimmed it across the shallows. Once, twice, thrice, it bounced. Someone who had watched him with sympathy rather than irritation, clapped.

It was indeed a place of enchantment.

Y
ugh!

The
familiar smell of the hospital corridor made Elisabeth sick. With the taste of bile in her mouth, all she could remember was the food and that miserable card, sent round with supper, asking what she would want the evening after, which, when it arrived, was always the wrong choice, a bland pulp, neither hot nor cold, never delicious. The irony of it: to be hungry, with nothing good to eat; at leisure for once to enjoy, while everything tasted of paper and all the time she was outmanouevred by pain, pain, relentless, irritating pain. They were all in it together, a team of torturers, led by a surgeon with a smile as sharp as his scalpel and a bedside manner as plastic as his art. A teeny-weeny man, a skin-deep bastard. (You are doing so
well
, Elisabeth: we're all amazed: you must let us show you off … a demonstration … let the others know how it's done …) And she, recalcitrant, but vulnerable enough to succumb to flattery, had agreed.

You should
never agree to anything, skinny Lizzie. Never.

A
porter was wheeling her into a lecture hall. Bright lights, a theatre full of people. She was one of the surgeon's triumphs.

Dream on, Liz. Waft your perfume, insist on a cigarette in a long, ivory holder: you've been selected for stardom, a celebrity at last. In a moment they would applaud, recognize the fact that she had come by this debilitating status and ugly hospital gown as a result of something brave. Not an injury from a boiling pan she had failed to notice, but a proper, full-frontal, national newspaper headline injury on a day when she was the only good news. Read all about it …
BLONDE HEROINE RESCUES BOY FROM FIRE ON BURNING BOAT
…
amazing courage
…
BLONDE HEROINE HOISTS GRANNY TO SAFETY ACROSS RAVINE … SAS VENTURE LED BY
…
near tragedy averted by stunning show of skill. Miss Kennedy clambers down the edge of a vat of hot oil to rescue a colleague stuck on ledge, overcome with the fumes. Hurray! She succeeds and bears her scars nobly. “It was in a good cause,” she said, falteringly, from her bed of pain. “Of course I would do it again.” The shy, brave darling, wincing slightly at the intensity of the camera flash, cornflower-blue eyes as bashful as a princess. We love you, Elisabeth.

There was a man with a camera on the lecture room stage. She blinked at him, unable to detect personality; a photographer, she guessed, hidden by the glare, hired to record what the surgeon was about to describe. His purpose did not include communicating with the patient. She could not see his features, felt rather than saw a smile as he darted forward, knelt as if abject, raised his thumb, like that, and retreated into the shadows until summoned again. A tall man, with a pony-tail.