My role is to comfort Dodo, ask for the woman’s help and then, when the woman has been drawn into the drama, to gasp and say, ‘Dodo, my purse, remember? I asked you to put it in your handbag. Now we can’t even afford a taxi.’ Dodo then has to break out into fresh weeping (she’s astonishingly good at this). Most of our harassed women cough up the taxi fare without being directly asked. The average payment is two pounds. Do these women think we could get anywhere for two pounds?
So far the most we have begged in a day is twenty-eight pounds.
We, of course, split this between us. With my half I bought thermal underwear and socks. Dodo blew hers on a bottle of vodka and Belgian chocolates from Liberty’s. I know this can’t go on for ever. I don’t want to live like this.
Dodo says, ‘Darling, we’re doing them a service. Think how pleased they are at being able to help two temporarily destitute women. And it’s an anecdote for them, isn’t it? Something to talk about to their oaf’
Dodo calls all men ‘oafs’; she doesn’t like them much. I do, though … just about.
We strolled along the embankment, until it got dark and the river was only a reflection from the lighted buildings; then we set out for Flood Street. We walk everywhere. Dodo likes pointing out interesting buildings and landmarks. I already know which bridge is which. Tonight we crossed Westminster Bridge and I made Dodo stop while I had a good look up and down at the river. Dodo called me a ‘provincial’ but she looked at the views and said, ‘Good old London,’ before we walked on. It took us an hour to reach Flood Street. I was disappointed. I’d expected bigger houses. Hadn’t Dodo said her brother was once a Cabinet Minister? Or did she say cabinet maker?
A car drew up outside a house and a chauffeur got out and opened a rear door. A tall, dark man got out. He was carrying a very large bouquet of dusky red roses.
‘That’s Nick,’ said Dodo. ‘Looks like he’s been asset stripping Interflora.’ The car purred off and Dodo ran up to her brother. ‘Nick!’ He leapt away from her and scrambled his key in the lock of the shiny black front door.
‘Not tonight, Dodo. We’ve got people in and I’m late.’
‘I only want some clothes. This is my friend.’ We stood on the threshold, our feet just inside the door like successful Jehovah’s Witnesses.
‘It’s Caroline’s birthday, Dodo, we’re having a dinner party.’
‘Then I would like to wish her a happy birthday, Nick. Please let me in.’
‘Dodo, you’re a complete cow.’
‘Bastard.’
‘Bitch.’
A tall, thin woman in a rustling dress had joined us.
‘Neck? Is that you, Neck? What’s that with you?’
‘Hello, Caro. Dodo, fuck off. Fuck off Dodo!’
‘Oh Dodo, is that really you, darling?’
‘Yes. It’s fucking Dodo, come to spoil the fun. Oh, these are for you, darling. Happy birthday!’
‘Thanks. Dodo, how well you look! Are you still living raff? Come in and shut the door. Who’s this, a friend?’
‘Yes, we share a box. I call her Jaffa — because of her hair.’
‘How do you do, Jaffa. I’m Caroline. I think you’ve met my husband.’
We were crammed into the tiny hall. At the end of the passage a door was slightly ajar. I could see a twinkling chandelier, candles, silver, linen and half of an off-the-shoulder dress. I could hear crystal accents and comfortable laughter. I could smell food and a coal fire and flowers. A classical tune reminded me of ‘Family Favourites’ and Cliff Michelmore.
The door at the end of the passage opened and a famous face appeared. He was not a celebrity; he didn’t appear on panel games; but he was on television most nights of the week. He was something to do with the government, the law, the police … the Home Office. He looked delighted to see Dodo.
‘Well beggar me, if it isn’t Dodo! We were only jest talking about you. Caroline tells me you’re now sane.’
‘Oh quite. You’re looking awful, Podger.’
‘It’s the new job; blame your brother. If he hadn’t got his tits caught in the mangle, I’d still be slumbering away in Ag and Fish.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry you lost your job, Nick,’ said Dodo.
We were now walking down the hall towards the twinkling room. Nick said, ‘My own stupid fault for taking an MI5 file into Groucho’s.’
‘No, dear old son, the stupid thing was leaving it there for Ian Hislop to find.’
There was much merry laughter, which took us into the dining-room.
‘Dodo!’ shouted four well-dressed people at once. There was a scramble to embrace her. Nick stood aside, sulking. When she emerged from the crowd, Dodo introduced me to the company.
‘This is Jaffa, we share the same cardboard box.’ More laughter. I shook everyone’s soft hands, then was taken away by Caroline to freshen up. Dodo stayed downstairs to gossip with her friends.
Caroline’s clothes were hung around the walls of two rooms. She told me to hurry up and pick something, anything I liked. In the background a bathtub was filling up with perfumed bubbles.
I chose a green satin strapless evening dress, which had a stiff flounced skirt and a dozen net petticoats. Each one a different shade of green, like Irish counties.
‘How old are you?’ asked Caroline, when I was bathed and dressed and brushing my hair.
‘I’m forty tomorrow,’ I said.
‘Are you? Shit!’
I replaced the hairbrush on the crowded dressing-table, where you needed an A level in French to find your way around the little pots and perfume bottles.
‘Do help yourself, Jaffa. They’re all duty-free pongs. Not terribly romantic, is it? My old man, late for his plane, goes roaring like a bull into duty-free and grabs a bottle, any bottle, from the perfumery counter. “Got to keep the wife happy,” he’s thinking. “Take her a little prezzy.”‘
She looked sharply at my face.
‘You’re not wearing any slobby-dosh?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Meek-up, no meek-up?’
‘No.’
‘Shit! You mean that’s just your face?’
‘Yes.’
She ushered me out of the room and down the stairs. She laid her white hand on my arm.
‘By the way, Jaffa, don’t be offended, but never, never, say “pardon”. “Pardon” is what belching business men say in bistros in Birmingham.’
Dodo joined us on the stairs. She was transformed, as I was. Her black hair was scraped back and twisted into a bun. Her dress was velvet and had no back to it. Her neck was clean. Caroline disapproved.
‘Black again, Dodo?’
‘Oh I couldn’t wear a colour, Caroline. I’m not nearly happy enough.’
‘It’s time you got over Geoff now, Do. He’s been mouldering in his coffin for three years.’
Dodo said to me, ‘We’ll go and see Geoff tomorrow. It is Sunday, isn’t it … ? Yes, we’ll take Geoff some flowers.’
‘I’m meeting my brother’s plane tomorrow,’ I said.
‘Time to do both.’ Dodo squeezed my hand and we went into the dining-room.
Throughout dinner the company forced Dodo to tell amusing anecdotes about Cardboard City. Hardly anything she said was true. I didn’t join in the laughter much. Cardboard City isn’t funny. It’s a real place.
The famous politician asked Dodo the question I’d been wanting to ask her myself, ever since we’d met.
‘Why do I live in Cardboard City, instead of in this house? Well, let’s see.’
She kept us waiting for her answer but eventually said: ‘I couldn’t stand to live in this house; Caroline wears rubber gloves when she wipes her bum, don’t you, Caroline?’
‘I fail to …’ Caroline clamped her lips together.
Dodo went on. ‘Anyway, I’m still officially loony; the police are looking for me.’
Nick said: ‘She’s compromising us all by her presence, especially you, Podger. If the press …
/> Podger leaned forward over the table; one elbow made contact with a slice of Kiwi fruit left abandoned on a hexagonal plate, but nobody alerted him; he was too important.
‘Why are you wanted by the police, Dodo?’
‘Because I’m a murderer.’
The communal gasp almost put the candles out.
‘I murdered Geoff’
‘Stop showing off, Dodo. Geoff’s death was an accident, the coroner said… . God! Who’d have a sister like her?’
Nick appealed round the table but everyone was looking at Dodo, hoping for more revelations. Caroline drawled: ‘That poxy cat killed Geoff. That cat lived so that Geoff might die.’ Dodo sipped on her champagne and said, ‘Yes, I really should have killed the cat. I made the wrong decision.’
After this, everyone, apart from me, relaxed. I was still tense from working out the cutlery. And the artichokes and the finger bowls. And the jokes. And the references. I felt suffocated by my awful, awful proximity to the famous politician. I did hear some interesting talk, though. It was most enlightening. Scandal with a capital S. According to the table, all bishops and chief constables were buffoons; a member of the Royal Family was snorting cocaine; judges were ‘senile old sods’; the Army, Airforce and Navy top brass were respectively ‘gaga’, ‘psychopathic’ and ‘a snivelling sycophant’; and Podger’s mistress was in Los Angeles having the fat sucked out of her thighs and knees, thus enabling her to wear the new short skirts.
Over coffee one of the guests, Amanda, said, ‘Podgie, when are you and your mates going to be sensible about the unemployed?’
I breathed more easily.
‘You’re spoiling them, darling, doling out all this cash into their grimy little hands. It’s no wonder they don’t want to work. Who would?’
‘Balls!’ It was Dodo.
‘I think not balls, Dodo.’ Amanda was smiling. ‘One only has to read the jobs columns in The Times. There’s plenty of work for those who want it. Aren’t I right, Podger?’
Podger lifted his famous face reluctantly. He didn’t quite catch Amanda’s eye, as he said: ‘In the main you’re right, of course, though …’
‘You see, Dodo. The minister agrees with me.’
Caroline was lurching around the table taking photographs of her birthday guests with a polaroid camera. Podger pulled my head towards his and draped his hand casually over my bare shoulder. His index finger was a quarter of an inch from the swelling of my left breast. When the flash went off he opened his mouth, faking bonhomie; obviously he was used to having his photograph taken, and had developed good timing.
At twelve o’clock Caroline announced the end of her birthday, and the beginning of mine.
Heppy birthday to you,
Heppy birthday to you,
Heppy birthday dear Jaffa,
Heppy birthday tu-u-yew.
Dodo fell asleep with her head on the table, and everyone said, ‘God is that the time? We must go.’ But nobody did, they stayed on to talk.
AMANDA: You can say what you like about Hitler, but he knew a thing or two. He knew how to prioritize.
CAROLINE: Have you noticed, there’s not a single yid around this table. Isn’t it wonderful?
Laughter
PODGER: I say, we’re being awfully Third Reich. Loud laughter
ANNA [journalist]: I’m sick of seeing black faces in Harrods — either side of the counters.
Baying agreeing noises
DODO: I can’t live in this house because I’m a communist. My dearest wish is that one day I shall see your grisly heads on the end of pikestaffs. Paraded … where shall we parade them, Jaffa?
ME: On Westminster Bridge.
Silence
Caroline said, ‘OK Dodo, I thought you might amuse us for a few hours, but you’re getting tiresome now. I’ll order the car for you. Cardboard City, isn’t it? You may have to direct the driver.’
We went upstairs to change our clothes, but Caroline followed and said to me: ‘Keep the green frock, you stupid northern oik. Do you rally think I’d wear it after your nasty sweaty prole body has been in it?’ Dodo grabbed Caroline’s fingers and bent them back. Caroline screamed like a schoolgirl. Nick bounded up the stairs two at a time. He reached the two women and grappled them apart. His face was horribly contorted. ‘Git owt of my harse, you detty little commie, and nivver, nivver come back!’
The dinner guests mobbed about on the landing, separating brother from sister, but not before Dodo had scratched Nick’s face, and had drawn blood. Similar scenes can be seen and heard on the Grey Paths Estate any night of the week. The slight difference here was that the people screaming, fighting and bleeding had money, power and status — and knew they wouldn’t be arrested for breaching the peace of Flood Street. Even though there was a policeman sitting in the kitchen.
We were burdened down with packages and suitcases as we left the house. Dodo had taken all of her clothes and some of Caroline’s. We jammed everything into the boot of the big black car, then got in and settled down in the back seat. The car moved off.
‘Driver, please put the interior light on. Jaffa, look what I nicked off the dining-room table.’ Dodo showed me the polaroid photograph of myself — looking half naked — and the famous politician looking fully debauched, with his hand appearing to be holding firmly onto my left breast.
‘Where are we going, madam?’ asked the driver.
‘The Ritz.’
‘Thank you, madam.’
Dodo had stolen a thousand pounds from her brother’s sock drawer. She justified this by saying that her brother was thoroughly corrupt, and that anyway half of the Flood Street house belonged to her; but Nick wouldn’t sell until the Arabs started moving West. It all seemed quite fair to me.
The porters at the Ritz were very kind about the unwieldy luggage and within half an hour Dodo and I were exploring a suite of rooms. A laconic Italian waiter brought us champagne and hot buttered toast and told us that we were beautiful. Ten minutes later he was back with a basket of Norwegian wild flowers.
‘Somebody die; shame to waste.’
In the bath I asked Dodo if she really was a communist. She got out of the foam and rummaged through her luggage and came back into the bathroom (one of the bathrooms) carrying a small card. She was a card-carrier all right.
There were four beds to choose from. We chose two and sank down to sleep. In the drowsy minutes before my eyes closed I told Dodo that my name was Coventry Dakin and that I had murdered Gerald Fox.
‘I know,’ said Dodo. ‘Your face was plastered all over the papers last Saturday. True, now you don’t look anything like your photograph in the papers, but I twigged. Clever, aren’t I?’
In the morning Dodo felt guilty about staying at the Ritz so she overtipped the waiter who brought us our breakfast trolley and newspapers. I didn’t feel a bit guilty; I loved everything. The thick bathrobes, the soap, the freshly squeezed orange juice, the warm croissants, the bacon, the gold furniture, the pink walls, the triple glazing, the hot water and the misty view across the park (Green Park, Dodo said).
Nick telephoned before we’d finished eating.
‘You bloody little thief.’
‘You bloody big thief’
‘I want my money back, and Caroline wants her Jean Muirs. I’ll give you until midday and then I’m calling the police and the loony bin.’
We checked out of the Ritz at 11.55. We took a taxi to Cardboard City and stowed all the luggage inside our freezer-box house. James Spittlehouse was threatened into guarding our possessions.
‘If you take your eyes off our house for one moment, Spittlehouse, we’ll expose that virginal pink winkle of yours,’ said Dodo.
Unfair, but effective. We left him eating the remains of our Ritz breakfast. He had a pink linen napkin tucked into the top of his greasy, buttoned-up overcoat. A croissant crumbled down his chest. He asked what time we’d be back. We said we didn’t know.
We were busy women. We had things to do. Vis
it a grave and meet a plane.
29 Sunday Morning
Tennis Ball and Bread Knife looked across the breakfast table at each other. The BBC had just informed them that their daughter, Coventry, was in London, of all places.
‘What’s she doing in London?’ said Coventry’s father, as he rolled his little fat body away from the table.
Coventry’s mother crinkled her lips together in cartoon style and said nothing. She disapproved of London. The popular press had informed her that London was entirely populated with dirty, drug-crazed pop stars and filthy communist councillors. True, the Queen lived there, but she was protected from the scum by a high wall and security patrols.
She cleared the breakfast table and then began the laborious task of washing up. Every bowl, plate, cup, saucer, knife, fork, spoon and eggcup was washed, rinsed three times and then polished with a sterilized tea towel before being put away into a daily disinfected cupboard.
Coventry’s parents had not discussed the murder of Gerald Fox and their daughter’s involvement in his death. They had told a baffled policewoman sent to interview them that they were ‘clean people’, who changed their bed sheets and towels every day, ‘not weekly, like some dirty people’. When Coventry’s mother was asked if her daughter had been having an affair with Gerald Fox, she had replied, ‘I get through five bottles of disinfectant a week, don’t I, father?’
Coventry’s father had nodded and the policewoman had given up and left the antiseptic house.
As she placed the last apostle spoon in the crumbless drawer the front door bell rang and Bread Knife heard the voices of her grandchildren quarrelling in a desultory fashion on the doorstep. They always visited on Sunday morning. It was a great inconvenience.
‘Ask before you borrow my things, Mary.’
‘Oh shut your face, it’s only a scarf’