The Walking Stick

  ‘Have you been,’ I began, ‘were you artistic yourself?’

  ‘No, not from me. I never could draw at all. But his dad paints lovely water-colours of flowers. He always says he hasn’t got a garden so he has to paint one . . . But it’s a hobby with him, you see. He thinks it ought to be only a hobby with everyone. With Leigh. That’s why they fell out.’

  ‘Was it your husband’s sister who left Leigh the legacy?’

  ‘What?’ She stared. ‘Oh, that bit of money. No . . . it was his grannie, Joe’s mother. He won prizes at school; two drawing prizes. But he wouldn’t work at other things. He’s clever, you know that.’

  ‘Oh, yes . . . I know that.’

  We sat in a strangely companionable silence. While she was talking I had listened to her light, pleasant voice. There was nothing there of Leigh’s harshness. It was almost without accent.

  I said: ‘Leigh’s never told me much about this legacy. But I’m afraid he’s spent it now.’

  She said: ‘Oh, Grannie Hartley didn’t leave any money, but she left a little house, and we sold that. Half went to Joe and half to Leigh . . . Yes, I’m afraid he’s spent it long since. That’s what Joe doesn’t like – living above yourself, he calls it.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘And Joe thinks Mr Foil is the wrong influence. Joe thinks that’s wrong.’ Mrs Hartley got up. ‘I really must go. It’s been nice.’

  ‘It’s been very nice.’

  ‘Leigh’s told me about you, of course; but he – he sort of doesn’t want us in his new life, I think that’s it.’

  ‘If you were my mother,’ I said, ‘I’d want you in my life.’

  She flushed again. ‘Oh, d’you mean it? It’s lovely to hear you say that . . . Really lovely. Don’t tell him I’ve been, will you, dear?’

  ‘I’ll say I found the note. Actually I’m only here by chance – because of something that happened in my office . . .’

  He got back at six, looking just the same. Clear eyes – like his mother’s – narrow nose, curly, tight, untidy hair, heavy lids, brilliant teeth. Leigh. My love. My lying love.

  He was full of questions. He wanted to know every detail . . . He didn’t look at all tired for the loss of a night’s sleep. His headache had lasted till midday but unlike mine was now gone. I turned the questions. The jewellery, he answered, had gone straight to Jack Foil. For two or three days more nothing would be done; then it would be moved by easy stages to Amsterdam. The money would take time to come through.

  Until the visit of Mrs Hartley I’d been pressed by fears of the police. Though these fears still stalked I felt unable – at least temporarily – to discuss them with him. I’d been standing on rock and part of the rock was quicksand.

  He didn’t mention the shop in Lambeth.

  I pointed out the letter and he opened it.

  ‘From your father?’

  ‘Well, more or less. He wants me to go and see him. Maybe I will. Next week, maybe, I’ll take a day off and go.’

  I said: ‘Was it your father’s sister who left you this legacy?’

  ‘What? Oh . . . sort of. It was an aunt.’

  ‘How much did she leave you, Leigh? How much have you got through?’

  He took my shoulders and kissed me. ‘It’s gone, that’s what matters. It wasn’t much. But now there’s a lovely lot to come. God, I was scared last night. I was so scared at the beginning that I could hardly think straight. D’you remember how I snapped at you when you came back? Sheer funk. I never thought I’d be so weak in the knees and paralysed with funk.’

  ‘I was scared myself.’

  ‘You didn’t show it. You were bloody marvellous. I shall never forget the way you played along right through to the end.’

  ‘That’s the way I’d like it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘To be able to play along right through to the end.’

  He shifted uneasily, sensing something in my voice, I suppose.

  ‘D’you know,’ I said, ‘I never knew you’d worked for Jack Foil in his shop?’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Ted.’

  He looked at me, but his gaze seemed to be centered more between my eyes than actually looking into them.

  ‘Yes, I worked for Jack for about nine months before I got the legacy and moved in here. It was interesting but I got bored. Then I came in for this money and moved.’

  ‘Was this after you married Lorne or before?’

  ‘Oh, before. Look Deb, I’ve got to go out again. I – ’

  ‘How did you first meet Jack Foil? You’ve never told me.’

  ‘In a pub. Ted first and then Jack. I was in a dead-end job pushing a pen, but wanting to paint, aching to. I meet Jack and he says he’d like to see some of my stuff. I show it him and he takes one for his antique shop – a flower painting of all Goddamn things – and sells it, and sells it! Maybe he wasn’t as surprised as I was. But he took an interest from the start. The first professional ever to see real talent in what I did. And he’s never lost faith, that’s still more!’ Leigh took up his leather jacket and began to struggle into it. A piece of the lining had come away, and he made a couple of attempts before finding the sleeve. ‘After I’d known him about six months he said would I like to work in his antique shop, as a sort of assistant and general helper. I jumped at it, because it meant I could get time to paint.’

  ‘Did you know he was a fence then?’

  ‘Not on your life! He wasn’t such a fool as to confide in a youngster.’

  ‘Leave your jacket tomorrow,’ I said. ‘I’ll mend it.’

  ‘What? Oh, I only did it yesterday. Look, I don’t know what time I’ll be back.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘With Ted to lose that old Austin. The risk’s very slight but there’s just a slight one – you know, some copper took the number while it was parked outside Whittington’s, that sort of thing. The idea is to ditch it. What’s the time now – just after half six? Oh . . . should be back well before ten. But don’t wait up if I’m late.’

  ‘Leigh,’ I said as he moved to go.

  ‘Yes?’

  We stared at each other but I said nothing. I was looking for some warmth, some reassurance, some companionable glance which told me we were still two against the world.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’

  He smiled cheerfully and was gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Prowling taxis don’t prowl in the East End. I got one at Tower Bridge. Albert Road is on the north side of Clapham Common, and No. 28 is a corner house with a view of the common through the bare trees. There were three bells and I pressed the top one. After a while Mrs Hartley opened the door. She stared.

  ‘Oh, Miss – er . . . Oh, I didn’t expect. Is anything wrong?’

  ‘No, no, but I just wanted to see you again for a minute or so. Do you think I could?’

  ‘Why, yes.’ She hesitated. ‘Come in . . . I’m afraid it’s a long climb . . .’

  I followed her up two flights of stairs.

  ‘You must think it strange – my coming so soon after you called.’

  ‘No, no. Pleased, I’m sure.’

  ‘It was just that I thought . . . Leigh was out and I thought . . .’

  We went into what originally had been an attic but was now, for all its sloping ceiling, a well-furnished sitting room. Everything was neat and in good condition. Style modestly modern. A gas fire licked its white gums and kissed at the television, which flickered back. Between them sat a short bald man with a moustache. He wore a shiny blue suit and was in his shirt sleeves.

  ‘Oh, Joe, this is – Miss Dainton. I’m sorry, Miss Dainton, we weren’t expecting visitors.’ She hurriedly switched off the television and put on another light.

  Mr Hartley got up and shook my hand and looked awkward. I said I hoped I wasn’t spoiling his programme, and Mr Hartley’s chest rattled and he said no, it was a poor thing: some
times you just went on looking because it was too much trouble to get up and switch off.

  Polite conversation. He was about five feet six and stout, with a thick neck. His voice was much more like Leigh’s, hadn’t the roundness of his wife’s, and you could see where Leigh got his stockiness from. His moustache was trimmed to look fierce, but his eyes had a way of twinkling when the cough didn’t empurple them. A good lot older than his wife.

  We talked about the railway and the weather and the troubles of housing. They had three rooms on the top floor: a kitchen, a bedroom and this sitting room. Three years ago the house had been bought by a Pole who had tried to turn them out. The people below had been intimidated and had gone.

  ‘Not us,’ said Mr Hartley. ‘Not that it’s much to look at but we’ve nowhere else. Then they put coloured people in the flat below. Now I’m not anti-colour. If you don’t believe in the brotherhood of man there isn’t nothing to believe in. But this became a whorehouse. Couldn’t get up and downstairs. Fighting. Shouting and screaming all the night. Couldn’t sleep. I went to the County Council. Man there said he couldn’t do nothing. Wasn’t his business. If we didn’t like it, hadn’t we got somewhere else to live? Relations? Well, I ask you.’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ said Mrs Hartley.

  ‘What did you do?’ I asked.

  Joe Hartley had a discussion deep in his chest. It was an earth tremor without being an earthquake. ‘We hung on, Miss Dainton. It was, well, I can’t properly describe it. I was afraid for the wife, oftentimes with me on night shift. But she wouldn’t move either . . . In the end it was all right. The police done it – did it for us. Cleared them out. So we’re still here.’

  ‘Was Leigh living here then?’

  A shadow on the plump red face; eyes losing their fun. ‘No. He’d gone before then.’

  I said: ‘You know, I expect, Mr Hartley, that Leigh and I are – in love with each other, that I’m living with him?’

  His eyes seemed to go to my thin leg, then moved on. ‘The wife told me.’

  ‘I expect you don’t like that.’

  ‘There’s worse things.’

  I said: ‘I know I’m putting things badly – too bluntly – but I felt I had to come and see you after meeting Mrs Hartley this afternoon. It was only this afternoon, but I wanted to see you.’

  ‘I like people to be straight.’ His smile was half-interrupted by the earth tremor in his chest. ‘I like that. But why did you want to see me particular?’

  ‘. . . I felt I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘About Leigh?’

  ‘All sorts of things. That chiefly.’

  ‘Has he been telling you lies?’

  I ran a hand down my cheek; it seemed to hurt. ‘Does he do it so often?’

  ‘The wife told me she’d seen you. It’s hard to get a grasp of my son. I’ve never been able to Miss – er – what’s your Christian name?’

  ‘Deborah.’

  ‘Deborah. I never have, I tell you. He said he was an orphan, was that it?’

  ‘He said that he had no mother. I . . .’

  ‘It don’t make sense, do it?’ Mr Hartley bent down to clear his throat and his bald head shone in the light. ‘What’s it you want to know, Deborah?’

  ‘. . . It’s just with seeing Mrs Hartley . . .’

  ‘Ask what you like. I don’t mind.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been left feeling so confused, not knowing what to believe. This legacy, for instance? It really did exist?’

  ‘From his grannie? Yes. Three hundred and fifty pounds it come to. It wasn’t much but it gave him ideas. He was working for this man Foil, and he thought he’d branch out and become a proper artist. Foil found him this flat, this studio in Bermondsey, and he went to live there with no proper work to do.’

  ‘Three hundred and fifty pounds? But that wouldn’t keep him!’

  ‘Nor did it for long. Mary tells me he’s working now. That’ll be good for him. Perhaps you’ve been good for him, Deborah.’

  ‘But how has he lived for two years?’

  ‘Ah, that’s for him to tell you. Perhaps he’s worked on and off. We don’t know.’

  Mrs Hartley came in with a tray of tea. The crockery and the way it was laid showed she knew how it should be done. She put the tray on the oak gate-legged table and put up one leaf. The chairs in the room had flowery chintz loose covers and the curtains were of yellow ribbed nylon.

  We were helped to tea. ‘Lovely flower pictures,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, those are my husband’s, Miss Dainton. Aren’t they nice? Remind you of spring. My favourite is those wallflowers.’

  ‘That’s what Leigh should have done.’ Mr Hartley supped at his tea. ‘Paint for pleasure, work to live. Maybe he would have but for this man Foil. Though I don’t know. He was always a queer lad.’

  ‘Is he seeing much of Mr Foil now?’ Mrs Hartley asked.

  ‘Yes . . . quite a lot.’

  ‘Possessive, that’s what they call it,’ said Mr Hartley. ‘Possessive. He got hold of Leigh, influenced him, like. More than I ever could. Likes people running after him, doing little jobs, at his beck and call. Queer, men like that. Queer. Not queer in the other sense, mind. He’s got a wife. Sort of baby doll. Though I did think once, I did think once he might be queer in the other way, the way he took it when Leigh married Lorne Riley.’

  I put my cup down. It wasn’t Rockingham but it was a pretty good imitation. ‘Didn’t Mr Foil like Leigh’s wife?’

  ‘Well, part of the trouble, I reckon, was that he done it – did it without telling Foil. Leigh took up with this Lorne girl about three months after he’d moved into the studio, and I reckon Leigh thought Lorne had a bit of money put by and between them they’d be able to manage without Foil. Well, he didn’t like that at all. By then he thought he owned the boy.’ Mr Hartley stopped and rumbled. ‘Am I saying too much?’

  ‘No. Please go on. Don’t stop him, Mrs Hartley.’

  Mrs Hartley said: ‘Joe, it wouldn’t have broken up if they’d been really in love. Mr Foil just helped it along.’

  Mr Hartley said: ‘He just helped it along. But that’s why I wasn’t sorry to hear Leigh had taken up with someone else. It shows he’s still able to order his own life. Has Foil tried to break it up between you and Leigh?’

  ‘No . . . He seems to approve. I don’t know why.’

  Mrs Hartley offered me another cup of tea. I shook my head.

  ‘D’you know,’ said Mr Hartley, wiping the ends of his moustache, ‘I remember when I was a lad hearing a parson say: “Christ commands you to love your enemies. He doesn’t say you’ve got to like ’em.” Well, d’you know, I sometimes feel that way about my son, God help me. I love him – of course I love him. But I can’t truly say I really like him!’

  ‘Joe! What a thing to say! In front of someone who – who—’

  ‘Oh, I know, I know. But it’s not that I’m saying there’s nothing good in the lad. He’s full of good intentions. And agreeable enough, most of the time. Couldn’t wish for a better lad to share a day off. And serious in some ways. Oh, it could have been worse, much worse.’

  Mrs Hartley said: ‘All that’s true and much more. And never one to go after the girls much – rather shy.’

  ‘Shy,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t have thought that.’

  ‘He hides it by pretending not to be. You think he’s full of confidence and really he’s terribly short of it. I say to Joe he’s got much more confidence than Leigh has but he doesn’t need to bluster and show it.’

  Talking for a few more minutes. Somewhere in the conversation another poisoned arrow. Sometimes you get them shot into your soul, but you can’t exactly locate them. It was something I’d said myself; that was curious.

  Time to leave. I must go. Mr Hartley got up and had a conversation in his chest and then said goodbye. ‘Come again, please. I believe you’ll make a man of him.’

  Mrs Hartley insisted on showing me out. We went down the first fli
ght in silence, but as we began the second, she said: ‘You must think it awful, Joe saying what he does about Leigh.’

  ‘No. He’s a very honest man.’

  ‘He is, Miss Dainton, he is. To him, telling untruths, cheating even in small ways, stealing even in the way they called “winning” things in the army – he can’t stand any of them. It’s never done him much good in his job, all the same. He’s never got any promotion because of it . . . And it never helped him to get on with Leigh, who has this artistic temperament, half dreamy, half practical, like. He couldn’t understand why he had a son he couldn’t understand.’ She laughed nervously. ‘If you see what I mean.’

  We got to the front door. She peered at me anxiously. ‘If you’re in love with each other I hope nothing we’ve said will spoil it.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘There’s so much good in Leigh. We never had trouble with him as a boy. And as for leaving home . . . well, it wasn’t much here to have to sleep on a pull-down bed in the sitting room, it wasn’t much privacy for a boy to have, or a place to keep his things. You can’t wonder that he jumped at the chance to leave.’

  She was holding the door so that I couldn’t go through it. I wanted to go now.

  ‘You’re a lady, Miss Dainton, aren’t you. I can tell. Haven’t you always found Leigh gentlemanly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I mean it’s all the little things that count. Modesty for himself and for others. He has a sort of taste, a sort of delicacy. D’you know, from when he was eight he never let me in the bathroom when he was in the bath – would always lock the bathroom door. And – and he always puts down the toilet seat after using it. And he never took liberties, never was vulgar. He swears a bit, but I’ve never known him use a vulgar expression. Some people may laugh at these things, but it’s so easy to be slipshod, not to care. I think those things count.’