Portobello (30 page)

Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, he thought of the quest in his
dream and its purpose. He had been doing what had been a regular
feature of his life before the virus struck him, shopping for sugarfree
sweets. Not just a regular feature but the whole aim and
purpose of life, his controlling obsession, the demon he was in
thrall to. Now, as far as he knew, he had none in the house. It
was November. The previous weekend the clocks had gone back
and darkness had come by four. It was getting dark now but no
matter, he must go out and find a shop that sold his fix. The one
in Golborne Road itself, perhaps, or the sari lady's or Elixir in
Kensington High Street or . . .

He stopped. He thought about what he was doing and realised
something. He hadn't tasted or even thought about Chocorange or
Oranchoco for more than two weeks. Now when he created one
of the sweets in his imagination – once a surefire way of making
him long to open a new packet – he felt a small quiver of nausea.
He went out into the hall and felt through the pockets of those
of his coats and jackets that hung in the cupboard there. He found
one, just one, in the right-hand pocket of his leather jacket. The
smell of it made his throat rise and he gagged. His reaction to the
idea of actually putting it into his mouth, of the touch of it on his
tongue, was much the same as it would have been to chewing
something scraped off the pavement.

He opened one of the french windows to the garden. Icy air hit
his face. A cold breeze had got up, making every branch and bough
and twig dip and sway. But still he stood there, breathing deeply.
He was over it. His addiction, habit, whatever you liked to call it,
was gone. Seven months, excepting a few days' 'phasing-out', it had
been with him but it had gone. A virus had beaten it and without
his knowing that the process was happening. Bathsheba, bathed
in a greenish radiance from his neighbours' lights, her blue coat
turned to emerald, stared at him from the shelf on the wall and
it seemed to him that her gaze had become mild and even benevolent.

'It's gone,' he said aloud to her. 'It's over.'

He went back inside, closed the door, locked and bolted it. He
should be rejoicing, overjoyed, congratulating himself that he was
cured. But all he could think of now was that for this stupid fixation,
which flu had had the power to destroy, he had lost Ella.
For something so absurd, so base, so easily banished – and for
good, for ever, as he knew somehow that it would never come
back – he had lost her. She was gone as irrevocably as if he had
betrayed her with another woman or physically wounded her. For
those offences she might have forgiven him but not for this, not
because he hadn't been able to give up sucking sweets for her
sake. He had lost her for ever.

Her fortieth birthday hadn't been the depressing day she
dreaded because Eugene had been with her. Then, in
that early morning, when she woke up in the light from
the street lamps to see him coming back to bed, she confidently
expected him to be with her for the rest of their lives. She could
remember every detail of the brief conversation they had had. He
told her what he had seen out of the window and then wished
her a happy birthday in that funny old phrase she had last heard
when her grandfather used it. 'Many happy returns of the day,
darling.'

She was getting her returns of the day, though not in the way
he had meant. That morning and their lovemaking kept coming
back to her. His words repeatedly returned, those spoken in the
middle of the night and those when he made her breakfast, brought
her cards to her that the postman had left, told her about the new
car he had bought her, which would be driven round to the house
later in the day. Forty had no longer seemed anything to fear but
rather the start of the first decade she would spend as Eugene's
wife.

Why think of it? Why let it all run round in her head? Because
she couldn't help it. Because whatever else she tried to think about,
to concentrate on, their conversations and, worse, their embraces
and the real passion she had thought he felt for her as she did for
him, kept coming back, and with a fierce intensity. How could he
have said the things he had, repeatedly told her he loved her, and
then callously rejected her for a childish fixation? She didn't know
how he could have, only that he had.

Gemma Wilson was back in the medical centre. A fortnight had
gone by since Ella had prescribed sleeping tablets and now she
wanted more. She had tried to do without them but her worries
were keeping her awake. This time Gemma had brought Abelard
with her and Ella, who had known him since he was born, seemed
to look at him with new eyes. Had he ever appeared quite so beautiful
to her before? He was the perfect blond blue-eyed infant, his
skin pink and white, his body strong and neither plump nor thin.
Ella, who had never before given much thought to him except to
check on his health, now yearned for him.

Writing a second prescription, her head bent so that Gemma
shouldn't see the tears that had come into her eyes, she said, 'He's
a lovely boy, Gemma, a credit to you.'

'Yeah, I know. I love him to bits.'

'You're not worrying about him, are you?'

'It's my bloke, it's Lance. They reckon he'll be coming up for
trial next month. And he never done that fire, Ella, I know he
couldn't have.'

'No?'

A cautious look had come into Gemma's face. It was the kind
of look that speaks defensiveness but at the same time a need to
confess reprehensible things at no matter what cost.

'He wasn't near that house. He was in someone's place in the
next street to yours, on the nick if you want to know the truth. It
was September fourteen at one in the morning – well, September
fifteen by then. Lance never hurt no one but he was on the nick
in this lady's house that was away.'

And then Ella knew too. Without her usual warning about not
getting into pill-taking habits, she handed the prescription to
Gemma. She knew what she had to do and she had to do it
quickly.

* * *

The films on offer were all on immoral themes. One was actually
called
American Gangster
. All of them made a feature of
gangsterdom and sexual licence. Instead of studying house prices
in the free or discarded newspapers he picked up, Uncle Gib
scanned the cinema pages for film ratings, the number of stars
awarded each one by reviewers and what they said about dramatic
content. Eventually he chose one showing at the Electric Cinema
in the coming week. It was called
Elizabeth; the Golden Age
and
was historical and very likely pretty to look at, which was something
women liked. Its being set hundreds of years ago had nothing
to do with its sexual content but any excesses would give him the
opportunity to air his feelings, comparing the depravity of that era
and this one. And this might be no bad thing in his efforts to
present himself as a paragon.

This outing was to mark the first stage in his courtship. That
was what you did, he remembered from the first time round, you
took her to the pictures. And he had chosen the Electric, not only
because it was the nearest cinema – after all, there were buses
and what his dad had called Shanks's pony – but because it was
there he used to take Ivy when they were courting. This memory
had nothing to do with sentiment. Uncle Gib was essentially a
practical man with an eye to the main chance. He knew the
Electric. If it had been given a makeover and now comprised three
or four theatres instead of just one, if it had been newly decorated,
still it would hold no major surprises for him. It stood where
it always had, its façade was the same, though now painted
turquoise, and he could have found his way to it blindfold. Of
course, in the old days you could smoke there – everyone did and
some, though not Uncle Gib, smoked marijuana – but for years
now the smoking ban operated there, as was lamentably true of
every cinema in the United Kingdom and Europe too, for all he
knew. But never mind. He could smoke at home, as he was
beginning to refer to Maybelle's house. She had even taken up
cigarettes herself, a move he saw as a tribute to her guest as a
man of discernment.

His invitation was accepted but only after a sign of doubt. 'You
don't think it's too soon after Reuben's passing, do you, Gilbert?'

'I wouldn't encourage you to do anything what was wrong, now
would I?'

'No, that's true.' Maybelle struggled with her cigarette, trying to
learn the art of inhaling.

'The only thing that bothers me is us living here together under
the same roof. A single man and a single woman, I mean. If someone
was to write to me at
The Zebulun
that they was doing that I'd
have to advise against it. Maybe I should think of moving out.'

'Oh, don't do that, Gilbert,' said Maybelle, coughing.

He said no more. The seed had been planted.

There was nothing to be done about it. Lance Platt must take
his chance. Those were Ella's first thoughts. Besides, if she
called Eugene, what was to stop him putting the phone down
as soon as he knew who it was? She couldn't call him. So her
pride was to get in the way of doing what she could to give a
man back his freedom? It wasn't so simple. Eugene might have
forgotten, he might have made himself forget. He might refuse
to do anything about it. She could write to him. This seemed
to present insurmountable difficulties. She asked herself how
she would begin the letter and how end it, how to refer to the
past without letting love creep in or resentment or recriminations,
and what she would do if he didn't reply. Surely the
chances were that he wouldn't reply. He would tear up the letter
and throw away the pieces.

She went home to her depleted and no longer comfortable flat,
took a ready meal out of the freezer and poured herself a glass
of wine. Every time she did this it reminded her of having wine
with Eugene in the study and any enjoyment she might have had
was lost. How about a broken heart as a cure for alcoholism?
Not that she was in danger of either condition, she told herself
firmly.

Gemma's anxiety had been at the back of her mind all day. She
hardly needed reminding of it but an item on the BBC six o'clock
news brought it back into the forefront. A man had appeared in
court that day, charged with the murder of Feisal Smith, twentyeight,
of Notting Hill, west London. The accused was Ian Pollitt,
twenty-seven, of Harlesden, west London, and he was committed
for trial and remanded in custody. It had nothing to do with the
detention of Lance Platt, she was sure, but it reminded her of
Gemma.

Ella switched off the television. She poured her wine down the
sink. She knew what she had to do and it was best done without
thinking about it. Hadn't someone in history or a play said that
there was nothing good or bad but thinking made it so? She would
walk. Even after only half a glass of wine she never drove. It was
a mild damp evening, dark as midnight but bright lights polishing
every surface. Although Guy Fawkes Day was past, fireworks were
still going off and would go off somewhere every evening for weeks
to come. Rockets made their high-pitched whine as they mounted
into the dark-grey starless sky, bursting into a cascade of red and
green sparks.

Most people would have advised her not to walk alone after
dark through this part of London but she knew it well and the
streets were full of people, dozens of them spilling out of the Fat
Badger on to the pavement, drinking and laughing. I would like to
drink and laugh, she thought, and not be alone.

No woman had ever held Gilbert Gibson's hand. There had
never been the occasion to do so. In his day a man and
woman walked arm in arm or separate from each other. Shaking
hands with his friends was something he and his friends never did.
But they had been sitting in the Electric cinema for no more than
half an hour when he felt Maybelle's hand slipped into his. It was
warm and soft and rather plump. His own had been lying on the
seat arm between them and when hers locked into it, quite tightly
at first, he moved the two joined hands to rest, not on his thigh
or knee, but on the edge of the plush seat.

He could never have said he had been touched or moved by
this gesture of Maybelle's. It was a sign, that was all. The film
seemed to be holding her interest entirely. She gazed at the
colourful activities of Elizabeth's court with rapt attention, her
mouth slightly open. It was possibly many years, Uncle Gib
thought, since Reuben Perkins had taken her to the pictures. Most
likely he, Gilbert Gibson, would never take her again once they
were married.

The film held no attractions for him. Films hadn't in the days
when he was courting Ivy. Reality was the thing, as far as he was
concerned, and the rest of the world could keep their stories, their
fantasies and their dreams. All he really wanted was a cigarette
but lighting one would lead to an argument, a row and eventually
his forcible removal. His mind moved purposefully on to a practicable
future, free of speculation and baseless hopes. When his house
in Blagrove Road was finished he would let it out in flats. It would
make three fine apartments. Uncle Gib grew almost dizzy at the
prospect of the money he could make in rents and when he let
out a sort of gasp Maybelle thought it signified his enjoyment of
Cate Blanchett's performance and she squeezed his hand.

The fireworks reminded Eugene of his own childhood when
you had been able to buy rockets and Catherine Wheels and
Prince of Wales Feathers without age restriction and no one tried
to stop seven-year-olds setting them off themselves. He had bought
his off a stall in the Portobello Road between Cambridge Gardens
and Chesterton Road a long way up from his father's shop. It was
from somewhere up there that these seemed to be coming, red
and dazzling white sparks falling in showers over those streets,
Talbot Road, Golborne Road and Powis Square which, in his youth,
his mother told him to keep away from. They were infested (her
word) with hippies and flower people and immigrants from good-
ness knows where. Now the hippies had grown old or died and
the immigrants' children were respectable executives who owned
smart houses in those same streets with fuchsia and taupe front
doors and window boxes full of petunias.

He watched the fireworks from his bedroom window, wondering
at himself for doing something so unlikely. But now almost everything
he did was out of character from this harking back to the
past to staying in every evening, mooning dismally about what
might have been. He turned away. The pyrotechnics were over.
Whoever had produced this display had run out of rockets. Eugene
went downstairs wondering what nasty ready meal to take out of
the freezer or if just not to eat at all might be the better option.
It was strange, all of it, inexplicable, because when Ella had been
here with him it was mostly he who did the cooking. In his drinking
days he would have got through a bottle of wine instead and in
the Chocorange era consumed a packetful. He was standing in the
kitchen thinking how pointless it was to eat if you were not hungry
when the doorbell rang.

On Hallowe'en, he had answered the door to three teenagers
who, when he refused them money and told them to go away,
threatened to break his windows. Far from being intimidated, he
had said he was calling the police and picked up his mobile. They
had fled, he pursuing them to the gate. Since then he had made
it a rule never to answer the door after dark unless he expected a
caller, and the dark came very early now. But there had been no
callers. He went up to the drawing room window from which he
could see the front path, though not the porch and doorstep. The
bell rang again.

He waited. Whoever it was had given up. Down the dark path
a woman was walking away. She turned her head to look back and
he saw it was Ella. He ran to the door and flung it open.

In a manner quite unlike him he shouted, 'Ella!'

'Gene,' she said and she took a few steps towards him.

He gasped, 'Come in. Please do come in. Don't go away.'

'All right. I won't.'

They confronted each other in the hall and Eugene closed the
door. Ella looked back at the door as if things were moving faster
than she wanted.

'Take your coat off, please. Please let me take your coat.'

'I didn't mean to stay.'

'Oh, Ella, Ella,' he said, his voice full of longing.

'I came to ask you to go to the police.'

'To do
what
? Don't stand there, not here, come in.
Please
come in.'