Who is Harrington? What is Harrington? Above all, where is Harrington?
“Scarpered, I should think,” says Jeremy. “Made off with the takings. Which bank did you say he was with? Ah, them. Still trading, I think, but you’d better watch the press. Don’t worry, darling. It’ll get sorted somehow. Now, I know you’re not supposed to be my agony aunt, but I’ve had this idea. It’s Stella’s birthday on Saturday, and I’m wondering if . . .”
Anton texts Rose: Is not heaven now like Sunday but I can think of it. I have bought very small eggs—quail, yes?—to remember. Today I read front page of The Guardian—except hard words. I must buy dictionary. Which is best?
Charlotte was reading What Maisie Knew. It was perhaps an indication of progress that she was able to venture into deeper waters. No more magazines, no more rereading of P. G. Wodehouse. She had to ask Rose to fetch the book from her own house. Rose said: “Some people would be needing their spare glasses, or that blue cardigan. You need a book. Of course.”
“A deficiency?” said Charlotte meekly.
“Not at all. The need defines you, that’s all.”
Defined by a need for Henry James. Oh dear. Actually, it was not so much Henry James that she had wanted as a novel that would feed thoughts about the versatility of fiction, prompted by that conversation with Anton about the need for story. Story, yes, indeed, but the fascination of story is what it can do. Henry James can tell it through the eyes of a child, and make you, the reader, observe the adult chicanery and betrayals of which the child is unaware. Charlotte needed to remind herself of the sleight of hand whereby this is done. She sat in Rose’s garden, reading. A blackbird sang, piercingly; bees rummaged in the flowers; her hip was not hurting, or only a bit. Tra-la.
Rose texts Anton: Cook quail eggs three minutes only—in boiling water. Eat in private—don’t waste on the boys. Hard to say which dictionary. You need to see some. Perhaps more shopping?
The flowers caught Stella off guard, wrong-footed. There was this delivery man at the door, with a huge bouquet, and of course she took it. Brought it in, wondering vaguely—who? Fought off the cellophane and the raffia bow—lovely huge bunch of peonies and lilies, her favorites—found the envelope and the card.
“Happy birthday, darling. Thinking so much of you. Hope you are doing something nice. Wish I was doing it with you. Please—have dinner with me next week? All my love, Jeremy.”
She wasn’t doing anything nice. It was Saturday, so she wasn’t going to the surgery. Presently she would fetch the girls from their music lessons. Make lunch. Ferry the girls to and from homes of friends. Make dinner.
She arranged the flowers, placed the vase on the kitchen table. They lit up the room—extravagant, voluptuous, eloquent. She put Jeremy’s card in the waste bin. Five minutes later she took it out. Read it again. Put it on the dresser.
Marion had put the phone down on Jeremy. At least, she had put it on the table and could hear him bleating on from there.
I do not give a hang whether or not you send Stella flowers for her birthday. I am not interested in your negotiations with your wife. Truth to tell, I’m not sure how interested I am in you. It may soon be time for us to talk about this.
Marion was interested in George Harrington. Or rather, the black hole into which George Harrington had disappeared. She was compelled to take a bleak interest in her bank statement, in those bills, in the problem of the Poles.
“Are you out of your mind?” says Gill, hectoring Stella from forty miles away. “Have dinner with him?” Her voice is quite hoarse with indignation.
Stella holds the phone away from her ear. “Well, I just thought . . . Maybe just to hear what he’s got to say . . .”
“Flowers! I think I should come over, Stella. I can tell you’re in a bad state.”
“No, no,” says Stella. Somehow, she feels she’d be better without Gill just now. Actually, she doesn’t feel in a particularly bad state.
“Anyway,” says Gill. “You can’t. See him. Not while the divorce negotiations are under way.”
“Can’t?”
“Definitely. Just ask Paul Newsome.”
Paul Newsome makes a kind of hissing noise—a breath drawn in through the teeth. It is the sound a builder makes, inspecting dry rot, or a mechanic, staring at the innards of an ailing car.
“Inadvisable.”
“Oh,” says Stella. “Oh, I see.” Then, nervously, “Why?”
Paul Newsome sighs. “. . . compromise our position at this delicate stage . . . expose yourself to disagreeable confrontation . . . insidious demands . . . special pleading . . . pressure.”
“Yes,” says Stella. “Yes, I see. Well, I suppose . . .”
She puts the phone down. The peonies and the lilies bloom away, on the kitchen table; the room is rich with scent.
Charlotte found herself much appreciative of What Maisie Knew. Even the most convoluted of Henry James’s sentences are easily accessible. I must be getting better, she thinks. Mind and body both.
She surfaces from Maisie’s story to consider her own—wayward, fortuitous, with none of the careful grooming of fiction. She thinks briefly of her mugger, now vanished into his or her own impulsive narrative; serial assaults upon elderly women, or merely the occasional raid when needs must? One will never know, which is probably for the best. She remembers hearing of some scheme whereby offenders and victims were brought together, presumably in order to induce guilt and regret in the offender, achieve forgiveness, or—worse—that questionable condition known as “closure.” She has not the slightest desire to meet her mugger.
Rose comes into the room, staring at her mobile.
“I am actually enjoying Henry James,” says Charlotte.
“What?”
“Henry James. Enjoying.”
“Oh,” says Rose, who has not heard.
I would very much like dictionary shopping, says Anton’s text. When you are able to. Quail eggs were very good. I think I am the only worker on the site who eat quail eggs for lunch.
Stella dithers. She is in a state of acute dither—no, terminal dither. She reads Jeremy’s card again, puts it into the waste bin, retrieves it, returns it to the dresser. She reads it once more, is going to tear it up this time, put a stop to this silliness; she reads again, twitches her head from side to side, does not tear it up.
She sniffs the lilies half a dozen times a day. The peonies have great blowsy silken centers; they are luxuriant, complacent. Does that Marion woman get sent lilies and peonies on her birthday?
Marion bites the bullet. She must sack the Poles. The amiable, harmless Poles. Oh, they will find another job, but it is tough. They have given nothing but satisfaction.
She calls the nephew; she explains, grimly. “So if you could come round, this afternoon. I want to be able to tell them exactly what has happened, why I’ve got to do this. I’m so sorry about it.”
When the nephew arrived, Marion took him to one side. She set out the situation, which he accepted at once, apparently without surprise.
“The guy’s made off? Dodgy, I imagine. Hope he hasn’t stung you for too much.”
Marion was not going to elaborate on her affairs to a seventeen-year-old schoolboy. “So could you explain to them that I’m just not able to finish the job, to keep them on. It’s absolutely no reflection on their work. I’ll be happy to give any references they’d like.”
The boy said thoughtfully, “Interesting, a City type like that going AWOL. I’d love to know what he’s been up to.” He addressed his uncles in Polish—crisp and succinct, no messing, this is how it is. There were mutterings of dismay and regret; the elder Pole laid his hand for a moment on Marion’s arm, with a murmur of sympathy, shaking his head. She felt even worse.
“Don’t worry,” said the boy. “I can fix them up with something else soon enough. We’ve got a pretty good database now. Actually, I’m thinking of moving them into commer
cial contracts—long-term stuff.” He spoke like some plantation overseer. “I take it you’re giving them a reasonable pay-off?”
Marion nodded.
“Good. We can work out the details.”
At last, all three left, the Poles slung about with their bags of tools, their work kit. There was much shaking of heads, voluble expressions of regret. Marion kept saying, “I’m so sorry.” “No matter,” said the Poles. “No matter.” The boy advised Marion to get on to Interpol: “They may have something on your guy—very likely, if he’s dodgy.”
Alone in the flat, she looked around—at the meticulously selected shades of Farrow & Ball, the halogen lights, the power shower, the Miele kitchen appliances. What would become of it now? To whom, indeed, did it belong? Not to her, that was for sure. All she could do was lock it up and leave it. If a man owns a property worth a couple of million, does he not at some point lay claim to it?
Henry stared in disbelief at Delia Canning’s letter. He put it aside, picked it up, read the letter again and it still said the same thing.
Rose came into the room. “That Mark is on the phone—the television person.”
Henry scowled at her. “I do not wish to speak to him.” He waved the letter. “I have just received this from Ms. Canning. Apparently the project has been canceled. Aborted. They have pulled the plug on it. My time has been wasted. I do not wish to speak to anyone from Ms. Canning’s office.”
Rose said, “Actually, he’s not phoning from there. He says it’s a personal matter. He seemed to . . . to think you might be a bit reluctant.”
Mark had not thought—he knew. He knew all about the letter because he had read it in Delia’s office, and had anyway been present when Delia viewed the results of that day’s filming: “Say no more. We can’t use him. It was worth a try—but no.”
Delia might not be able to use Henry, but Mark reckoned that he could. Mark had his own fish to fry, in the form of a proposal to a rival concern for a film about the presiding figures of history: Macaulay, Carlyle, Trevelyan, Tawney, Namier et al. Working title—merrily—The Dinosaurs, though one would have to come up with something else if the project took off. Which was a bit of a long shot—this was an arcane subject for an increasingly philistine medium, but worth a stab. It would be amusing to work up, and the material could always come in handy for an article, or even, one day, a book. Mark saw this stint in the world of television as a flirtation. He had every intention of making his real career in academia, as soon as the opportunity arose to get going. No messing about with an assistant lectureship somewhere in the sticks; a proper job at a Russell group university, or nothing. It was a matter of biding his time, and keeping up his contacts with a few people who might help, in due course. A chair by the time he was forty, that was the idea. Vice-Chancellor somewhere, perhaps, eventually, if one could be bothered with the admin.
“. . . entirely understand your feelings,” he said to Henry. “Between you and me, Delia is known to be a bit . . . well, inconsistent. Judgment not always spot-on. But the thing is, this might all work out for the best. There’s a scheme I’d rather like to run past you, an idea I’ve got in which . . . well, in which, to be frank, you might play a rather crucial role. I wonder if I could come and see you?”
Henry grunted. He was feeling bruised, humiliated. One should never have let oneself in for this sort of treatment at the hands of some jumped-up young woman. And now here was the boy, who appeared to have defected, and was saying pleasingly critical things about Canning. What was all this about?
“We’ll have to see what my diary looks like,” he said. “Have a word with my secretary—she takes care of that.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
George Harrington made the six o’clock news—the tail end, admittedly, merely a coda, but there he was: “. . . investment banker George Harrington has been arrested in Bermuda, charged with insider trading.”
Marion heard it in her kitchen, distractedly chopping an onion for soup, her mind not on soup at all but on the bills, the bank, the bills. She heard it, subliminally, and then registered properly, and the knife fell from her hand.
Oh.
Insider trading?
Which is . . . ? I know—to do with shares, buying and selling. You’ve bought or sold when you have some insider information, so you’re cashing in, and that is illegal.
Arrested.
George Harrington is in prison, which means forget trying to find out where he is, in order to have a chat. You are not going to be having a chat, either now or in the foreseeable future. George Harrington has neatly removed himself, or been removed. At some point he will emerge, and there will be a court case, and either he’ll go back to prison for rather longer, or he won’t, but in any event I am not going to be able to seize his attention, so forget it. I shall have to discover how I go about trying to get what’s due to me, which will mean endless letters, and probably a solicitor, and it will take forever. Which leaves me, right now, alarmingly overdrawn, and nothing coming in until some well-heeled and reliable client turns up.
How can a man do this to someone? To me. Easily, it seems—because George Harrington and his like do not operate as I do myself, and as do practically all those I have come across, in a nice do-unto-others-as-you-would-be-done-to-yourself way; his is a climate of sauve qui peut, and never mind anyone else. George Harrington will not be giving me a thought, if he ever did—except as someone who was useful.
Thank you, Uncle Henry, for George Harrington. That blessed lunch in Manchester, at which I should not have been.
Marion had not intended to tell Henry about Harrington. She was prompted to do so over Sunday lunch, a lunch that was the last thing she needed right now, but Henry had been insistent: “I need some company, my dear. And Corrie has promised oxtail stew.”
The prompt was Henry’s extended grievance, which lasted through the tomato soup (tinned) and well beyond the oxtail stew: “. . . dumped, frankly, and one is not accustomed to such treatment. I should never have got involved with those people—exposed myself to such behavior. And all because of that Manchester business.” With uncharacteristic candor, Henry had been explaining why the humiliation of the occasion had made him feel that he needed to restore his reputation. “If that lecture had gone as it should have gone, it would never have occurred to me to make myself available for television.”
He’s complaining about Manchester, thought Marion. What about me? And so she had talked of Harrington, of the flat, of Harrington’s defection. Henry was shocked and, to his credit, sympathetic. “Outrageous. A man without a moral compass. Some kind of banker, you say? One has never dealt with such people, except of course for necessary services. You must take legal steps.”
“Yes,” said Marion wearily.
“The present Lord Chief Justice was a student of mine, briefly. I could have a word.”
Marion said she doubted that the problem was within the remit of the Lord Chief Justice. “I’ll get it sorted, Uncle Henry. Eventually. Somehow.”
“We are both the victims of circumstance,” said Henry. “I have the greatest mistrust of circumstance, whether in private life or public affairs. History is bedeviled by circumstance. Ah—here’s Corrie. Am I right in thinking it’s the rice pudding, Corrie? Excellent! Progress is forever skewed by circumstance—the unforeseen event, an untimely death, the unpredicted circumstance, and the course of history would be one of seamless advance. Without the Manchester circumstance you and I would be carefree.”
Insofar as I ever am, thought Marion crossly. Has Uncle Henry ever lived in the real world? “Just a tiny helping, thank you, Corrie. Delicious, but I’ve eaten so much already.”
“However, as it turns out, circumstance may also have thrown
up something useful. There’s this boy, what’s-his-name, Mark something—well, young man really, I suppose—worked for the Canning woman but seems to have left her, came here a couple of days ago,
and I believe he may have made quite a promising suggestion.”
Mark had arrived in midmorning and at once set about establishing himself with Rose: “I’d love a coffee, how sweet of you, but only if Lord Peters is having one. This is such a lovely room—so atmospheric—I adored it last time I was here. Books do furnish a room, don’t they?”
No one had ever called Henry’s study lovely before. Gratified, Henry gave Mark a tour: the inscribed copies, the Gillray print, the bust of Walpole. Rose withdrew to make coffee, having got the measure of Mark. On the make, she thought. Heaven knows what he’s doing here, but no doubt we’ll find out.
In fact Mark was not entirely sure himself what he was doing here. His initial enthusiasm for the founding fathers of history project had already withered somewhat after he had floated the idea with the producer in question and failed to arouse any sort of response. Mark was not a man to waste time on unprofitable ventures. He was already wondering if it was not the moment to chuck television and get back onto the academic ladder. He had thought of canceling his date with Henry, and then some instinct told him that it might be expedient to keep up the connection.
Once settled in Henry’s study, with Henry in full spate about his newly discovered—or rather, rediscovered—contempt for the popular medium of television, Mark considered Lansdale Gardens and perceived that Henry was not short of a bob or two. This was of academic interest only; Mark was not concerned with money for the sake of money, merely as the necessary prop for what you wanted to do, and that, in essence, was to make a name for yourself, probably in the university world.
Mark had, of course, an eerie affinity with Henry himself, and would have been offended to be told that. Like Henry, he recognized determined application to an area of scholarship as the route to distinction: make yourself the ultimate authority on something or other and you were away. It didn’t terribly matter what, but you needed to be sure there weren’t too many people in there already. He was thinking of taking over the Scottish Enlightenment entirely—flood the market with articles, then a book (beef up his thesis, so not too much extra work), elbow out the competition by hinting that all were superannuated hacks. This would take time, during which he needed an academic post, or funding in some other form.