Before and After Read online

  I ignored Bella’s groans and Archie’s sighs. I chivvied the Ambles upstairs and went to settle our account with Candy from the wedge of £50 notes stuffed in the envelope from Charles Carlton.

  “Ellie sends her love, but she’s breakfasting in bed this morning,” Candy said in a low voice, bending over a sheet of paper, adding figures up. The tip of her tongue was pushed between her teeth as she concentrated on her addition.

  “Quite wise, too,” I said warmly. “She must be very tired. It was a late night for her.”

  Candy raised her eyes from her paperwork and gave me a slight but perceptible wink, and went back to the bill.

  We left the club and stretched our legs along the prom. White horses glinted out to sea, those charming white waves that catch the sun making you realise that although not too windy on shore it was very choppy indeed on the sea. I pitied Hal for a fleeting moment, the Jolly Spree may well have been fitted with every known bit of machinery and gadgetry known to man, but nothing other than the hand of Neptune stilled the exhausting swell of the sea on a boat. Rather him than me was my final thought on the matter. My sort really doesn’t travel well on the water.

  I urged the Ambles onto the pier and as we sauntered down the long wooden decking towards the funfair at the end. As usual I was aghast at the amount of shell-suited, trainer-clad white trash, as I believe they’re called, that crowded the pier. We attracted quite a few stares, but then, I’m used to that. My wardrobe, my demeanour and my looks have always been noticed. The Ambles gave off an air of moneyed arrogance that is easily picked up on, and that too caused some second glances. Bella pleaded for us all to go on the ghost train, and reluctantly Archie and Sylvia agreed. Bella clambered aboard and gestured for me to go beside her, but I gently ushered Sylvia towards her and then nimbly popped into the two seater enclosed bench beside a disgruntled Archie.

  We watched as Sylvia and Bella jerkingly moved off on the rails in front of us, their cart pushing through double doors that had garishly painted skeletons on them. A very bad audio tape cranked into gear and screams and crashes could be heard following their progress. It sounded like a very bad domestic row. Our own little seat made a juddering movement and soon we were off following them.

  “You know Archie,” I said as we nosed through the doors, “Last night was a revelation to us all in different ways. I really would try to forget it if you can.”

  Archie flinched, though whether it was to do with my words, or the fact that we were hurtling towards a brick wall smothered in fake blood, it was hard to say. Bogus cobwebs brushed over our heads and I obligingly screamed and held Archie’s arm. Come on man, I mentally urged him, react. The part of the ride where the cart swung out on railings over the sea, did in fact make me jump, and there was no insincerity in my clutching convulsively at his arm. He responded by squeezing my arm, and I felt that perhaps the shock had been worth it. The cart slowed down and we were crawling upwards past imitation coffins and mannequins dressed as ghouls when Archie suddenly seized my hand and pressed it manfully in his own. I gave a practically Edwardian simper and allowed him to continue to hold it for the rest of the ride, till we emerged from the dark into the light when I discreetly disentangled his flesh from mine.

  “I feel like a fool, Flora,” Archie confided as we stepped on to the slatted wooden floor of the pier.

  “We all do, from time to time. No real harm done, everything will be fine,” I repeated, staring into his slightly bloodshot eyes.

  “Everything will be fine,” Archie obediently said, flinching from my gaze but then meeting it manfully.

  I patted him on the shoulder, and gave probably the millionth-heart felt thanks I have made to Count Emmanuel and his book.

  I sped them to the Dolphin Derby, where I won a neon purple furry toy, and then onto the penny arcade. Rushing them through the noisy arcade was a hard task. Neither Bella nor Sylvia had the slightest idea that these sorts of places existed, and they had the look of intrepid explorers on their faces.

  “Oh look mummy, look at the funny boys,” Bella said in her clear upper middle class accent, pointing at a huddle of what looked like young crack junkies crouched around a slot machine that was vomiting out silvery tokens. The men were cramming these into every pocket they could find, and wearing the ubiquitous army issue uniform of the disenfranchised. They were all clutching bottles of cider and furry toys purloined from the pier. Archie stood, bemused by the noise and the chaos of the working class, reacting like a man who was sleep walking through a very bad dream indeed.

  I dragged them back outside and galloped them down the pier. I glanced at Archie and decided to take pity on him.

  “Wilton’s, I think. Oysters and a bottle of Sancerre for lunch, then the train home?”

  Everyone concurred.

  I applauded my tact and decision. After all, I needed Archie in a good mood. It won’t do at all if he was going to be so shell-shocked as to be useless to me. I reminded myself that he had lost his yacht, a not inconsiderable amount of cash, the company of his son, and had witnessed the unsuspected and unleashed passion of his wife, catching her, as he had, in flagrante delicto. I stifled a smile. Really, things were going terribly well.

  Archie seemed to revive a little over the wine, and started to talk of his evening spent with Charles Carlton.

  “Odd sort of fellow, I thought. Still, he obviously knows a thing or two about money I would say. Told me he doesn’t believe in insurance! Can you believe it? Said that if you need insurance you can’t afford it and if you can afford it then you don’t need it. Odd sort of fellow. How do you know him Flora?”

  Indeed, how did I know him? I fabricated a quick story for the Ambles about knowing his mother when I was younger and let it pass. But I remember the day very clearly when I had first met him all those years ago. How he was desperate for help, how he had stood before me covered in blood and begged me to assist him. What had made me do so? It was hard to say really. Perhaps a belief that he was in fact a man that I half recognised as similar to myself, and despite whatever you may or may not think about me, there are fewer of us than you would like to believe. I wanted to protect the species. Perhaps it was a simple as that. Oh, and then there was the money of course. That always helps I find, don’t you? The cushion of wealth should never be shrugged off lightly. Besides, Veronica needed me, and I have never knowingly turned my back on the needy.

  I sipped my wine and encouraged Bella to eat some bread liberally spread with butter whilst we waited for our oysters. Neither Sylvia nor Archie noticed what their daughter consumed, although I knew that Sylvia sometimes stared in astonishment at the increasing swell of her daughter’s hips. Being a svelte woman herself perhaps she didn’t quite understand the simple correlation between calorie intake and girth. I take the view (not a popular

  .3one I know) that one must take happiness where one finds it, and that in her daughter’s case it was to be found amongst all things yeasty. Therefore there was simply no point in denial or diets.

  Bella was not ever going to be a beautiful woman. Nor, even with training, a stylish one. Not for her the pulled back chignon and a barbaric necklace of heavy coral. Not for her the elongated nails and chic but distinctly odd designer shoe that distracts from the plainness of face or the lumpiness of figure. Even with the extreme clothes and skinny hips of a Wallis Simpson Bella would never be a stylish woman. It simply wasn’t within her. Harsh, you think to judge at such a young age? Hardly. Besides, I can tell. Just looking through the mask of chubbiness made me see what Bella would look like in five or ten or even twenty years. She had neither the vigour nor rude health of her father, nor even the air of slight mystery from her mother. Her fulfilment would be found in an apron and a kitchen. Not for her the dusty books that hold fascination and ambition, the Bunsen burner bubbling with breakthrough ideas, or the sheer physical thrill that came with athleticism. Oh no. Not to say that she was ugly, or stupid, but she was what she was and would ever be such. Why fig
ht against fate?

  I pushed the bread basket nearer to her and smiled. Archie would surely struggle to love a fat daughter. But it would creep up on him so slowly that like most men, he would only notice when it was too late. The love he had for his daughter was going to be tested. The comfort that Bella found in bread and bagels, rolls and baguettes that turned to sweetness in her blood, her father would have to find in the rolls of flesh that she would carry like heavy shopping. Could he overcome his dislike of her appearance for the sake of his paternal love? Shall we have a bet on it?

  The oysters were delicious by the way. I always have mine with some red wine and shallot vinegar. I highly recommend it.

  Rule Number Twelve

  “All cats are grey in the dark.”

  Women are good at waiting. That’s what they do. Women wait for all sorts of things that men never even dream about. Women have waited throughout history, usually for their unruly men to return from war, or hunting, or from their latest conquest. Women have sat metaphorically, by the eternal telephone for centuries. Of course, they employ tricks to make the damn thing ring. I’ll have a bath and then he’ll call. I’ll bake a cake and then he’ll call. I’ll just have one glass of wine and then he’ll call. Following that they bargain. I’ll start going to the gym tomorrow, if he calls now. I’ll donate fifty pounds to cancer research, give up smoking, knit for the orphans and clean behind the cooker if he just calls me now. Under certain circumstances they pray. But on the whole they just wait. There’s enough female blood in me to make me genetically capable of waiting – of course I don’t like it, no-one likes it. But I can do it. When necessary.

  I was prepared to wait. Like a lioness lying in wait for the kill, I would stalk and worry my prey until the time was right. After all, I had a lot at stake. My reputation, my health and my bank balance relied on it, but perhaps most of all it had become personal. It’s not something I’m proud of, but then again, I accept that it happens. Archie had begun to annoy me, his complacency, his refusal to change, his ignorance of the feelings of his family, his abiding belief that his world was the right world and nothing else counted. And I hate being annoyed. Trust me, you really don’t want to annoy me. Ever.

  But, like all good hunters I knew when the time was right to strike, and it wasn’t just yet.

  The following week was one of struggle and turmoil. Hal left for the isles of Greece with the Jolly Spree and Bella was off school with a nasty case of sore throat/lovesickness. Archie and Sylvia tripped over one another and remained distant. The house was in a shambles. Maria became more and more jumpy, crossing herself with the slightest of provocations. I might have to do something about her. Even Marmaduke spent most of his time with Jack in the garden shed, for really, the house had become more and more uninhabitable. Loose wires trailed from sockets, buckets of plaster stood sentinel at the foot of the stairs, a bright yellow skip stood in the front garden filled with jagged, unwanted pieces of wood and rubble. Only the kitchen was a sanctuary and that became crowded with Bella and Maria vying to feed the ever demanding appetites of the voracious builders.

  Archie spent more and more time at work, coming home later each day, whilst Sylvia retreated into the demands manufactured for her by John Taylor. He whisked her round London choosing fabrics and light fittings, flooring and paint finishes, antique furniture and silks whilst secretly ordering the ones that he’d chosen in advance. Needless to say, they were all of the highest quality and price that could be found. When John Taylor wasn’t leading Sylvia around town, she retired more and more often to her bed, clutching the phone to her in a mysteriously annoying manner. Probably waiting for the quote for the hideously expensive Chinese screen that she and John Taylor had ordered.

  This left me ample time to do what I do best. I meddled. I poked my nose into every nook and cranny. I read old school reports of the children, I looked at passports, I combed medicine cabinets (no real surprises there, though there was an out of date bottle of valium in Archie’s name which made me raise an eyebrow). I also took the opportunity to search through all the old tat accumulated in the cupboards and attics. Rubbish holds so much fascination and promise, as any junior paparazzo ordered to search through the bin bags of the famous will tell you. I highly recommend that the nervous amongst you invest in a paper shredder. Wading through the battered guitars, the unstrung tennis racquets, the boxes of fading photographs was a heady task, not one that yielded a good return on my investment of time perhaps, but satisfying none the less. After one gruelling afternoon that I spent in the attic sifting through hampers of faded linen and tattered velvet curtains I descended to the kitchen to revive myself with a sparklingly fresh cup of green tea. Fiachra was there, impressing Bella with his array of tattoos. She was tentatively touching a particularly revolting depiction of a rose encircled with barbed wire that was on his bulging upper arm, asking him in a little girl voice if it had hurt when it had been done.

  “No, get away with you now, it’s just a little scratch,” Fiachra said manfully, jumping back from Bella when he saw that I had arrived in the kitchen.

  “Please, don’t mind me,” I said, moving efficiently around the room laying a tray of tea for Sylvia as well as myself. “Tattoos are always most interesting, aren’t they? So unique, so charming, so individual I always think. Do you have any more elsewhere on your body?” I asked Fiachra, giving him a long green glance.

  He blushed and muttered that he’d best be getting on and throwing a swaggering backwards glance at Bella he sidled out of the room. She gave him a little wave, then looked at me to see if I was being sincere or sarcastic.

  I gave her my best smile and said, “You know Bella, there’s a tattoo parlour not very far from here, you should pop in there! It would be a lovely surprise for Fiachra wouldn’t it?”

  “Pa would go ballistic,” Bella said eyeing me with excited incredulity.

  “Pa would never have to know. Not if you had it done where perhaps only Fiachra was going to see it,” I said, pouring boiling water into a blue and white china teapot. “Just a thought. It would make you look so much older, wouldn’t it? Anyway, have you seen Maria? Where is she?”

  Bella shrugged, her mind already wandering over the possibilities of Fiachra being entranced by seeing his own name in gothic script across her rolling bottom. I left her to her fantasy and wandered into the cold winter garden to see if Maria was in the garden shed with Jack and Marmaduke. I noticed that the winter jasmine could do with tidying up and that the dead wood from the forsythia needed clearing. Really. What do we pay for if I have to think of every little chore myself? I thought crossly as I pushed open the door of the garden shed.

  Maria and Jack looked up guiltily. They were kneeling on the cold damp floor, their knees protected by sacking.

  I stood in the doorway for a moment, not quite knowing where to look. It was barely four o’clock in the afternoon for goodness sake. They both had duties to perform and here they were indulging in that most unhealthy and unenglish of habits. Praying.

  “What are you both doing?” I said, frowning at them.

  “It’s not what you think, miss –“Jack stammered out grappling with his arthritic knees to an upright position. He started to cough with the effort of it, wheezing and gasping for breath.

  “Please don’t presume to know my mind, it’s very annoying. And what’s all that nonsense?” I asked pointing at what looked like silver foil twisted and bent into small shapes that were dotted around a candle.

  “Mice,” Jack said nervously, twisting his hands together.

  “What?”

  “St Gertrude of Nivelles,” Maria stuttered, “she is the patron saint of gardeners. I have been instructing Jack and together we pray for his soul. The silver mice are the little offerings she likes and we –“

  “Nonsense. Pure nonsense. Maria, back to the house, and take a tray of tea that I have prepared for you up to Mrs Amble. Quick as you like. And you Jack have more than enough on your hands with th
at very unruly forsythia I would have thought, although by the sound of that very nasty cough you have, perhaps you should go to the doctors. I’ll see if I have any of the Italian medicine for your chest upstairs, but praying indeed! I have a very good mind to report all this to Mr Amble, and I shall indeed do so if I ever find this sort of popish nonsense going on again. We’re not in the Vatican, you know!” I swept out of the shed, followed by a tearful Maria who was still crossing herself as she entered the empty kitchen.

  “I am so sorry Miss Tate, I pray for you tonight,” Maria sniffled.

  I tried to smile at her, but I must be honest and tell you that the incident had troubled me some what. Not because I hold any belief in Romish mummery. It’s all jiggery pokery to me. But because I didn’t know that it was going on, and judging from the amount of silver foil mice littering the shed, and the box of used candle stubs, it had to have been going on for some time. A nasty shock, I think you’ll agree.

  “You can pray for whoever you like Maria, but I suggest you do it in your own time from now on,” I said, ushering her out of the door and up the stairs to Sylvia.

  A quick look round the decimated and largely wall-less ground floor told me that Bella had slipped out of the house. I did hope that the tattoo wouldn’t hurt her too much, but then needles bounce off puppy fat, don’t they? And really, as long as the needle was sterile we couldn’t possibly hope for anything more. Unless it was to wish fervently that the tattooist wasn’t dyslexic of course.

  I waited for a moment or two and then went upstairs myself, tapping lightly on Sylvia’s door and then opening it and sailing across to the bed where Sylvia lay in a swaddle of shawls, sipping her tea.

  “May I join you?” I asked pleasantly clearing a place for myself on the bed, moving brochures and colour swatches out of the way. I balanced on the edge of the mattress and looked down at Sylvia, who looked nervously up at me.