Irene’s version took in several of these questions – the main ones – and provided answers. Reasonable answers? Well, pretty reasonable, and she knew how to spell out her points with force and shape. Yes, that confidence and perkiness he’d listed among her qualities earlier, remarkable and very wonderful in someone with absolutely no memorable figures among her forerunners.
‘I suppose, Bas,’ she said, ‘that what we need to decide first is which was the bigger mistake – putting the bullets into Blake, or feeling so guilty about putting the bullets into Blake that you give up the gun to Ember.’
No, Enz would have liked to reply, but didn’t, that isn’t the priority. It’s intellectual fucking flimflam and philosophizing. The immediate need is to guess, and guess right, whether it would be a doomed mission for me to go and ask Ember to return the Smith and Wesson. Another refusal after Timmins would really clobber his morale. He said: ‘Ember’s a moody sod.’
People on the telly seemed to be getting very steamed about clips from a French film. Enz switched off vision also. And then, as he should have expected, Irene quit the waffle area and went very practical. ‘In a way, it’s sadly ironic, isn’t it?’
That was one of her favourite chichi words – ironic, meaning contradictory, as diagnosed by those with acute sensitivity. ‘What is?’
‘Well, one of the reasons you felt so compelled to make a big thing of your apology was you wanted Ember to reverse his ban on you. Yet the place is a total, undeniable dump, isn’t it? Should anyone care about being banned, especially you?’
Enz had thought of this, naturally, but he’d tried not to think of it too much. Male members of his family in the past would have been elected to top-notch London clubs – The Reform or even Boodle’s. Now, here was their descendant fretting about expulsion from The Monty, eleven, Shield Terrace. Not a cheerful idea. Yes, he wanted to hold on to what he had, or what he used to have: The Monty, and the business that The Monty might put his way if things between Ralph and him were smoothed. Giving back the pistol to Enz would prove things had been smoothed.
‘Why are you so keen to get the gun, anyway?’ Irene said.
‘There’s activity. I can smell it.’
‘What sort?’
‘Not sure.’
‘Peugeot woman a part of it?’
‘You thought that yourself, didn’t you, Irene? You cited the art connection via “I Spy”, Ralph, me. I might need some protection – self-protection.’
Irene looked alarmed, but, of course, she would have realized that if he needed a gun he must feel threatened. To hear him speak the thought, though, as something matter-of-fact, something obvious, seemed to make it more actual for her. She nodded a couple of times, hurriedly, as if wanting urgently to put distance between what she felt now and her previous cool brusqueness. ‘So, yes, perhaps you should try Ember.’ She stood and came and bent to put her arms around him in his chair. ‘Meanwhile,’ she said, ‘you’re at home, with no notable art on the walls, but safe. I think we should go to bed now.’
TWENTY-THREE
Ralph had a visitor at the club early in the evening. At the time he was busy with his rampart. He’d had this brought down from its usual spot near the ceiling and laid across the seats of three straight-backed chairs, as if taking a due rest after its long vigilance at altitude and its vulnerability to mad gunfire. Pulleys and ropes lay behind it when the slab was on station, and a barman had brought a ladder and gone up to fix the descent.
Although The Marriage Of Heaven And Hell illustration had been very skilfully repaired after the shooting, Ralph thought he detected a hint of a join where bullet holes in the beard had been worked on and the treated surface then restuck; only a hint, but enough to trouble Ralph. He’d noticed this from ground level while the steel rectangle was still in place above, and it had been brought down temporarily so that he could look more closely at the spot. He was afraid the heated atmosphere of the club when crowded would cause curling of the join’s edges, giving a dilapidated look to the picture, like some old, untended placard. Also, the loosened, drooping segments might become unpleasantly discoloured.
This was the very opposite effect he craved from the Blake, of course. Its purpose was to bring distinction and elegance to The Monty, not scruffiness. He’d admit that the picture was only decor. The equipment’s chief function was to stop Ralph getting his head blown apart while sitting behind the bar at his little accounting desk. The painting had no real relevance to this. It was the metal, not the print, that gave Ember protection. But appearance did matter. It had to contribute positively to The Monty’s aura and image. Several Monty members might have heard of William Blake, owing to Jerusalem and the stuff about building on the green belt. They’d know he was near the top of the pile with some of the greatest poetic names, and they’d feel, as Ralph did, that The Monty garnered some of that quality by having The Marriage Of Heaven And Hell so prominent. Although Ember intended to bring The Monty up to the social standard of the best London clubs, he realized that, say, The Athenaeum would have neither the elevated rampart nor the Blake illustration in its bar. They would be regarded as unnecessary and non-metropolitan. But, for the present, The Monty had problems that would not affect The Athenaeum, and Ralph needed to devise special precautions for his club and for himself.
He knew he could easily get a new copy of The Marriage Of Heaven And Hell, but he’d been keen to show that the damage caused by that prick Enzyme would be righted in, as it were, situ. The Marriage Of Heaven And Hell rebuilt was a demonstration that appalling behaviour like Enzyme’s could be effectively countered. It was a kind of home-grown, resourceful triumph over gross malevolence. Sending away for a new copy would be like a defeat, Ralph thought; an admission that outside aid was needed as an answer to Enz. Also, there would be a delay because the book illustration of the Blake needed considerable enlargement for use on the bastion, and this would require high-grade photographic handling, by a separate firm.
He saw now that he was correct. Although the reconstruction of the beard had been carried out with brilliant care and delicacy, to someone with the kind of uncompromising, scrutinizing eye of Ralph, it was still palpably a mend. Something of a small revelation came to him then: did he need to confine his thinking to The Marriage Of Heaven And Hell, or even to Blake? Certainly, Blake was important, but not unique when it came to prettying up a defensive length of steel. Ralph asked himself: why shouldn’t he win something positive from the situation and scrap the impaired pic? Forget about ordering a new copy and, instead, get an utterly fresh topic by a completely different artist? This would help demonstrate, wouldn’t it, that The Monty’s proprietor had range, as well as taste; was not confined to some isolated bit of knowledge he might have picked up by fluke, such as The Marriage Of Heaven And Hell, but had a magnificently broad outlook which would almost certainly lead ultimately to transformation of The Monty?
Ralph wondered whether there was a picture somewhere of Spartan women leaving some babies out in filthy weather on cliffs or mountainsides so they would either toughen up for the wars or snuff it. He liked classical references. That kind of illustration – coloured, or black and white – was bound to bring a very intriguing aspect to the barrier. A pity Enzyme’s mother hadn’t left him out as an infant for too long in a storm on a cliff – for, say, three weeks, supposing the ancient Greeks had weeks.
He put his hand gently on The Marriage Of Heaven And Hell, particularly at the wound area. It did feel secure, despite the undeniable sign of restoration. Naturally, a fondness for the Blake had established itself in Ralph. It had helped take care of his safety for quite a while now and had more or less come through that deplorable Enzyme savagery intact. But Ralph refused to sentimentalize for more than a couple of moments. Progress might require brave, hard action. To have the Blake scraped off and discarded would be rather like taking a loved old dog or cat to the vet to be put down. He hated to think of the noise caused by the removal. It would be meta
l on metal, a chisel or something like and the steel of the barrier. The sound would be so impersonal – a screeching, insistent, heartless din, a sort of suitably atrocious background music to betrayal of the Blakeian figure.
Occasionally, though, decisions about change must be resolutely taken. He’d do some Googling to see if he could find an illustrated volume about the history of Sparta and its conquest of Messina. He wondered whether those Spartan children who survived had a warrior look to them, even as toddlers. This kind of classical example would show club members that, yes, life was difficult and challenging – to take a modish term – but, also, that ways of dealing with those difficulties, these challenges, could be, and should be, prepared in advance.
True, some Monty members wilfully brought difficulties on themselves via lawless and/or violent lives, and probably no amount of lessons from legendary, BC Greece would impress them. But these were the kind of members he wanted to be rid of as The Monty developed. Ralph would rigorously apply his own survival tests then in deciding which requests for membership should be accepted. Clearly, no cliffs or mountainsides would be involved, but he meant to use a strict selection procedure just the same. He had something precious to look after here – namely, The Monty – just as those children who beat pneumonia and croup grew up to look after their precious homeland, Sparta.
‘Why, Mr Ember, you look as if you’re giving the kiss of life to a stranded whale.’
He recognized the mix of British and US accents and intonations at once in this boom-boom, heckling voice. ‘Mrs Lamb!’ he said, looking up from the doctored rip. ‘This is a surprise.’ So true: she plainly wasn’t a member personally, but nor had her son Jack ever come to the club.
‘Well, no, not a stranded whale,’ she replied. ‘Nothing like so defeated and helpless. This is the celebrated flying buttress there’s been so much gossip and laughter about, isn’t it, as featured mischievously in “I Spy”?’
‘I wouldn’t call it gossip and laughter,’ Ralph said. ‘There has certainly been a report in the Press of certain rumours, but rumours of a really quite unpardonable, serious incident.’ He realized he must sound heavy and plonking but, fuck it, he wasn’t going to have this noisy old baggage mess him about. ‘I don’t feel “mischievous” is the term for that Press tone,’ he said. ‘Flippant and irresponsible, rather. Yes, made something of in “I Spy”, but how does the rhyme “I Spy” go on? It’s “I spy with my little eye”, isn’t it? This little eye is incapable of seeing large, grave issues. It’s a kind of pathetic blindness.’
‘And now you’ve brought it down to give a health check to the star of the depiction, yes? You must feel almost as naked as he is to be without your usual sentry in the upper reaches, Ralph.’
She had on a sort of Sherlock Holmesian long, tan greatcoat with anti-storm panels fronting each shoulder. She wore a big-peaked navy cap and navy and white training boots. She must be around six feet, thin faced, too juttingly aquiline. ‘Is there some way I can help you, Mrs Lamb?’ Ember replied.
‘Alice.’
‘Alice.’ He hadn’t wanted first names. She’d started just now with ‘Mr Ember’, which was fine and proper. But she must feel they had already progressed in comradeliness during their talk: stupid of her. She shouldn’t be here at all, and especially not to make fun of the grounded, special – in fact, probably unique – literary fitment. Ralph had an idea, though, that this was how a certain kind of American woman would behave by nature – just breezing in to a private facility because she wanted to, no other justification, never mind how unappealingly dressed, and because to her an open door said she would be welcome to go through it. Presumptuous. Boundaryless. She might answer that she wasn’t American, only an American import; but enough of her was that full US thing to explain the casualness and cheek of her approach now. None of her clothes would have been big enough for Jack, so they were not borrowed, she had actually bought them somewhere, and sales staff must have kept a straight face until she was out of the store. Although foul, the items did not look cheap. ‘I need a private confab, Ralph, if you don’t mind,’ she said.
If you don’t mind. But her thinking plainly was that he wouldn’t mind. This was more of that cool, egomaniac audacity. ‘The club will start to get into its stride soon, and I—’
‘Before it gets into its stride. Why I came early. This shouldn’t take us more than fifteen minutes.’
Ralph gave orders that the fortification should be hoisted back for the rest of the evening and night. It was occupying too much space and the three bar chairs. He showed Alice Lamb to his office.
‘Our attitude in the States to some events is not at all like yours, Ralph,’ she said, almost as soon as she’d sat down. ‘When I say “yours”, I’m not getting at you as an individual. I’m talking of Brits in general. OK, once again I have to say, yes, I’m a Brit, too, but other factors have affected me during my years over there.’
‘That’s natural.’ Regrettable, but natural.
‘I want to mention something to see how you evaluate it – that is, you as a Brit, but also you as you.’
Him as him. Who else could he be? ‘Interesting,’ he said. Ralph kept a bottle of Kressmann Armagnac and some brandy glasses in the office, and he poured drinks for her and himself now.
‘I do quite a bit of horse riding while I’m with Jack on holiday,’ she said, after taking a sip and nodding to show that she recognized the quality: very smooth, slightly and satisfyingly dry, sugarless. ‘He keeps several very fine mounts at Darien. Sometimes I’m alone, sometimes with Jack’s live-in, Helen, a sweet, bright kid. Very occasionally Jack will join us. Well, Helen and I were out the other day, Chase Woods area, and what did we come upon, d’you think?’
She did a deep, theatrical, mea culpa groan. ‘That’s a stupid thing to ask you, because you can’t have any idea of what we came upon. It’s me doing my nursery tale performance, from when I used to make up stories for Jack as a kid, some years ago now, keeping him alert with the question. Often I slip back into that mother mood when I’m visiting GB.’ She paused, smiled for a moment, perhaps enjoying memories of Jack as a small boy, well before he reached six foot five and over 250lbs. Ralph found it almost touching and almost genuine.
She left that mood. ‘Anyway, what we come across is – you know Chase Woods, naturally. Not far from your house, Low Pastures. On a slope. Part of it overlooks Jack’s place. Darien. We’re nearing the end of our ride when we sort of surprise a woman doing what that explorer does in the poem that Jack took the name of his home from. You’ll remember, Ralph. “Stout Cortez” in the Keats sonnet gazes at the Pacific from his spot up that mountain in Darien, Panama. This woman is gazing – is gazing with field glasses – not at the Pacific, no, but gazing at the property. This is a thorough, methodical examination of the building and grounds. Alongside her, there’s a green Peugeot. She’s solo.’
‘There are great views of three counties from the edge of the woods,’ Ember said.
‘Yeah, maybe. But she’s not concerned with great views of the counties. She’s casing Darien.’
‘Famous for the views. In guidebooks. She’s a tourist, maybe.’
‘This tourist isn’t aware of us until too late. The horses are walking only, not much noise. We can see her before she knows we’re there. Suddenly, she does hear. What does she do? She turns and – very fast, but not fast enough – opens a rear door of the car and shoves the field glasses under a coat on the rear seat. Also, while the door is open, she leans in and adjusts something on the front passenger seat. Then she closes the door very softly, so as not to pull our eyes in that direction. But this is a case of shutting the door after the horses have turned up behind her. If a visitor is simply out looking for vintage views, why should she worry about being caught taking the views through field glasses? That’s one of the things field glasses are for – helping with views, wouldn’t you say, Ralph?’
‘It’s a fine, old manor house. She might be intereste
d in the history of important country dwellings, as are many. And this particular country property apparently had quite a role in the Civil War, on the king’s side. Perhaps the woman is a student, doing a thesis and looking to see how Darien would be placed strategically if there was a seventeenth-century skirmish in, say, Chase Woods.’
‘We talked total shit,’ Alice Lamb replied, ‘the three of us. No surnames. No mention of Darien. Van Gogh, yes. Wind farms, yes. San Francisco, where I have a condo, yes. Nature, yes, my ex-husband, yes. Your place, Low Pastures and its chimneys, yes; power stations, yes.’ Her voice rose like an oration. She took some more Kressmann’s. ‘Jack’s place, under our noses, impressive and significant, no. Helen gets down and has a stroll around the Peugeot but sees nothing out of the ordinary. A closed ring binder on the passenger seat. This woman’s mapping Darien and its surrounds? Was she shutting the ring binder in that move after hiding the field glasses? She doesn’t intend us to see maybe notes and sketches that might give away her focus on Darien? She’s made sure nothing can be read there from outside. There’s a bulge under the coat on the back seat, according to Helen. Of course, Ralph, you’ll remember that Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes tale?’
Was that why she had the coat on? Did she dress to suit a forthcoming topic? Perhaps Jack’s occasional taste for army surplus was inherited, with a slight amendment, from his mother. ‘Which?’ he said.
‘The dog that didn’t bark. Normally, in mysteries a dog that does bark helps the detective deduce something vital. Here, the opposite. It’s silent. That seeming negative turns out to be a priceless, positive clue for Sherlock. Same kind of thing in the Barbara Stanwyck Double Indemnity film. Why didn’t the murdered husband make a claim on an accident insurance policy although he’d broken his leg? Answer: he didn’t know the policy existed. His wife wanted to cash in on his death. Likewise, Ralph, why didn’t this woman refer even for a moment to Darien? I’ll tell you: because it was Darien alone that concerned her, and she excluded it from the conversation in case this became obvious. Well, it did become obvious, when the woman tried so blatantly to keep it unobvious. The omission was very flagrant, Ralph, and very meaningful.’