Before I Met You

57


1995




BETTY BARELY SLEPT that night.

Candy Lee had a visitor downstairs and was screaming and banging walls, and the pub over the road had its doors wide open because it was such a warm night and the street was full of the sound of Iron Maiden and long-haired men wearing eyeliner. And, of course, on top of the usual night-time Soho cacophony, there was the sound of John Brightly, on the sofa down below, moaning quietly in his sleep and shouting out every now and then words that sounded like gobbledegook.

But more than the noise was the internal monologue hammering away in her head.

As she lay there, trying and failing to sleep, Clara was in a taxi coming home from the airport. And, as she lay there, trying and failing to sleep, Dom Jones was on a plane coming in to land at Berlin airport.

He’d given her the details of a farmhouse in Gloucestershire he’d looked at on Thursday. ‘Take it,’ he’d said, ‘stare at it. Dream about it.’

She pulled it out from under her pillow now and switched on a torch, not wanting to wake John. The farmhouse was called St Luke’s House. It was part Georgian, part Edwardian and, as she leafed through the details, she saw that it was utterly enchanting in every way, from its bleached blue stucco façade, to its vine-filled orangery, its full-length dining hall with buttressed ceiling and coat of arms, and its sweeping lawns that cascaded down towards fields of corn and rape.

From below she heard Candy Lee reaching her climax and she forced her pillow over her head until it was over. For a moment it was quiet and she turned her attention back to the details of the house. But then it started up again and she felt herself filled with a kind of primal rage.

She had not, she realised, for the full eight weeks of her time in Soho, slept through a whole night without interruptions. And if she did ever manage to sleep through a whole night without interruptions, she had been awoken at five o’clock by the rubbish trucks. And if she had ever managed to sleep through the five a.m. visits from the rubbish trucks then she had been awoken at six a.m. by the first of the market traders arriving to set up their stalls. The trucks and the traders she could stomach. Candy Lee wailing and banging on walls she could not. And so, before she’d had a chance to think through what she was doing, she’d pulled on a cardigan over her pyjamas, climbed down her ladder, tiptoed past John Brightly and marched downstairs to bang on Candy’s door.

It took a moment or two for the door to be opened and when it finally was Betty did not know where to look. There was Candy, dressed in a feathered bolero, leather chaps and PVC boots, her breasts hung out over the top of a cut-out bra. She had a glass of champagne in one hand and in the other – and this was more remarkable to Betty than anything else about her appearance – a half-smoked cigarette.

‘Beautiful Betty!’ Candy beamed at her.

‘You’re smoking,’ said Betty.

‘Yes!’ said Candy.

‘But, I thought you were asthmatic?’

‘I am! Betty! Come in! Finally, you came to see me.’

‘No,’ said Betty, suddenly flustered, ‘listen. Candy. It’s midnight. I’ve got to be up early in the morning for work. I’ve had a really, really, really long day. Could you please, please, PLEASE keep the noise down?’

Candy wrinkled her face up. ‘Noise? What noise?’

Betty blanched, really not wanting to spell it out. ‘The, you know, you and your friend.’

‘What friend?’

Betty grimaced. ‘You know, whoever you have staying with you tonight.’

‘Betty! I have nobody staying with me tonight. I am alone, Betty.’

‘But the ...?’

‘What, Betty?’ Candy smiled at her disarmingly.

‘All the ...’ She paused. ‘All the shouting. And banging. You know.’

‘Oh, Betty, that is just me! Pleasuring myself! There is nobody else. Look,’ she pulled her door open wider and Betty peered in just far enough to see that the entire flat was painted lurid lipstick pink. ‘Look!’

‘Right. Yes. I believe you. It’s just. Well, nothing. I’m just tired and I want to sleep and I’d really appreciate it if you could ... do ... be a bit quieter.’

‘I tell you what, Betty,’ said Candy, her body-language suddenly becoming more hostile. ‘You stop smoking outside my window,’ she waved her cigarette around wildly, ‘I stop being loud. Yes?’

Betty sighed. ‘But, Candy, you’re smoking. I don’t understand.’

‘Yes! I am smoking. I am not passive smoking. Big difference, OK?’ And then, before Betty had a chance to work out any kind of reasonable response to such an unreasonable declaration, the door was slammed in her face.

Betty stood there for a moment. She rubbed her hands hard down her face. She shook her head from side to side. And then she turned and headed back upstairs.

John was still sleeping as she passed him on the sofa. She stopped and looked at him for a while. The moon was shining down onto him and he looked strangely pained, the muscles of his face knotted up under his skin. Instinctively she put a hand to his cheek, cupping it gently to soothe him. His eyes flickered open and he smiled at her.

‘Betty?’

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean to wake you. You just looked so anxious.’

He smiled and yawned. ‘I think you’ll find that’s my natural state of being.’

‘No,’ she said, not wanting to play that game any more. ‘No. It’s not.’

He looked at her quizzically.

‘I’ve seen it now,’ she said, ‘the real John Brightly. In the park, chilling out, larking around with cream buns. You can’t fool me any more.’

‘Damn,’ he said. ‘Cover blown.’ He brought himself up to a sitting position and Betty sat down next to him. ‘What are you doing awake, anyway?’

‘Candy Lee,’ she sighed through a yawn. ‘Bringing herself to countless extremely loud orgasms. In sexy lingerie. Jesus. I think I’m done here, you know. I think I’m finished with Soho. My mother was right. It’s not a place to live. My contract’s nearly up and I really think I might have to move on.’

John glanced at her anxiously. ‘Oh,’ he said flatly.

Betty smiled at him. ‘You sound disappointed,’ she said.

He shrugged. ‘Well, you know, I’ve got used to having you around. Where are you thinking of going?’

‘Oh, shit, I don’t know.’ She ran her hands down her face, thinking of St Luke’s House. ‘I have no idea.’ She inhaled loudly, and then she said: ‘Dom Jones just asked me to live with him.’

John blinked. ‘What?’

‘Earlier, when I went round to his. He told me he’s crazy about me and he wants to live in the country with me and become a new person.’ As the words left her mouth she felt the full ridiculousness of them and she laughed wryly.

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘No,’ she laughed again. ‘I’m not. Look.’ She brought the particulars for St Luke’s House down from her mezzanine. ‘He wants to buy this and move me in. He wants to be a “grown-up”.’

The two of them sat side by side staring at the particulars for a minute, both trying to form a suitable response.

‘So, that morning,’ began John, ‘you know, when you were coming in, early ...?’

‘Yes. I slept with him. I slept with Dom Jones. You were right.’

John groaned and let his chin fall into his chest. ‘Oh, Betty,’ he said.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘And I know you said I would and I said I wouldn’t, but honestly, John, he can be so lovely ...’

John raised an eyebrow sceptically.

‘Really. He can. And then other times he can be such a prick, and I do really like him, though I definitely don’t think I love him. But look at this place!’ she waved the paperwork. ‘Just look at it! I wouldn’t have to work again. I wouldn’t have to worry about money ...’

‘You wouldn’t ever be able to trust him. Ever.’

Betty sighed and stared at her feet. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Of course I know. It’s just. Christ. He’s a pop star. He’s a genius ...’

John snorted.

‘Well, some people think he’s a genius. And Arlette lost her chance to spend her life with a world-famous musician. She had that opportunity taken away from her and now it’s being offered to me and I kind of think it’s like history repeating itself and I’d need a really good reason not to take it.’

It was silent for a moment and Betty stared pensively at the carpet beneath her feet.

‘I can think of a really good reason.’

She looked at him curiously. ‘What?’ she said.

‘This,’ he said.

And then he brought her face towards his with warm strong hands and kissed her on the lips.

Betty stared at him. She blinked, once, and said, ‘You kissed me.’

He nodded.

‘Why?’ she said. ‘Why did you kiss me?’

He groaned and got to his feet. He paced towards the window and stared at the street below.

‘No, really,’ she continued. ‘Why?’

He turned, abruptly, and stared at her. ‘Never mind,’ he said quietly. ‘Forget it ever happened.’

Betty put a finger to her lips, touching the spot where John Brightly’s lips had brushed against hers. She was numb from head to toe. First Dom, then Candy, now John. She tried to think of something to say, but failed.

‘I’m really sorry, OK?’ said John. ‘Bad timing. I just thought ...’

‘What?’ said Betty.

‘I don’t know what I thought. But clearly I was wrong.’

‘No,’ said Betty. ‘No, it’s just ...’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said, ‘go back to bed. Get some sleep.’

‘No, I want to ...’

‘Seriously, Betty, go to sleep. Forget about it. Please.’

She stared at him for a moment, at the strong set of him, the shape of him silhouetted through the window, the fall of his shoulders. She had no idea what had just happened and no idea what it meant. But suddenly she was tired. She had nothing left to give to the day.

‘Good night, John,’ she said, climbing up her ladder.

‘Good night, Betty,’ said John, still staring through the window.


The following morning, John was gone and so were his meagre possessions. Outside, his stand was empty. Betty sighed and headed for work.


Monday was Donny’s day at nursery so Betty dropped him off there, and then she took the two girls to a Tumble Tots class in a church hall in Hampstead, and it was there, while she sat with Astrid on her lap, watching Acacia climbing up a mountain of soft multicoloured cubes, that Clara Davies called her.

‘Hello,’ said a woman with a strong London accent. ‘Is that Betty?’

‘Yes,’ said Betty, ‘it is.’

‘Oh, hello, this is Clara. Clara Davies. I got a message, from my brother Derek, to call you?’

‘Yes!’ cried Betty. ‘Yes!’ She grabbed Astrid and the phone and took them both to a quiet corner of the hall.

‘He said something about an inheritance.’

‘Yes,’ said Betty, ‘that’s right. I’ve got some news for you. I wondered if it would be possible to meet up with you?’

‘Well, yes, maybe. But I’d need to know more. I mean, who’s it from?’

‘It’s from my grandmother,’ said Betty. ‘You didn’t know her. But she knew your father. A long time ago.’

‘My father?’

‘Yes, not Edward Minchin. Your real father.’

‘Oh, my word. My goodness. How peculiar. My real father.’

‘How much do you know, about your real father?’

There was a small silence on the line and Betty moved Astrid onto her other knee.

‘I just know that he was a sailor. From the Caribbean.’

‘A sailor?’ said Betty.

‘Yes. A “boss-eyed, scurvy-riddled sailor” as my father used to describe him.’ She laughed wryly.

Betty inhaled. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Listen. Can I meet you? I’ve got so much to tell you. And I’ve also got something to give you. Something my grandmother kept for a very long time.’

Clara Davies sighed. ‘I suppose,’ she said. ‘Although I just got back from holiday, I’ve got so much to do ...’

‘It will only take a few minutes,’ Betty said. ‘I can meet you anywhere.’

Clara sighed again and then she said, ‘Yes. All right then. Come here. What time?’

‘I finish work at seven o’clock.’

‘Come here at eight then. I’m in Battersea. Do you know it?’

‘Actually,’ said Betty, thinking of her visit to Peter Lawler’s widow all those weeks ago, ‘yes, I do.’

She hung up a minute later and put her hand into her bag, checking for the small ancient book that was now, finally, after seventy-four years, about to be reunited with its intended recipient, and she smiled.





58


TELEGRAM




Arlette STOP Godfrey’s baby born STOP A girl STOP Clara Tatiana STOP Healthy and well STOP That was as much as they would tell me STOP

Minu


ARLETTE FOLDED THE telegram and she smiled. Thank God, she thought to herself, thank God. A small chink of light had forced its way through the darkness. The baby was safe. Her mother was safe. A small part of Godfrey remained.

She thought of the baby constantly over the course of the next few days. She tried to picture her, wondered if she would have the tight dark curls of her father or the smooth brown locks of her mother. She wondered how dark she would be, what colour her eyes were. She passed the children’s clothes shop in St Peter Port every day and eyed the bootees and the mittens, the tiny hats and hand-knitted layettes.

She stared into perambulators and gasped at the tininess and preciousness of new infants. She thought about the baby so much that she ached with it. And she knew that tied in irrevocably with her obsession with the idea of Godfrey’s baby girl across the Channel were her own unformed feelings about the baby she had carried and lost nine months ago. The tiny blue scrap who she hadn’t been allowed so much as to glance upon. She had been glad at the time, glad to be spared the fate of a loveless, sexless marriage to a man she despised. But although her head had made sense of it all, her heart still yearned for the thing she’d been expecting that had not materialised: the baby in her arms.

Her obsession grew as the days passed. She caught the eye of a black-faced sailor in a St Peter Port alleyway one evening at dusk and for a moment she was tempted to take him from the street into a room and to make with him a baby just like Clara Tatiana, a baby like Godfrey’s, a beautiful brown baby. The thought passed in and out of her consciousness like a bullet, gone before she’d acknowledged it. But she feared herself growing mad with it, with this need to be involved, to be a part of Clara Tatiana.

And then one day, a week after Clara’s birth, she walked into a bookshop and she said to the man who sat behind the desk wearing a threadbare suit and broken spectacles, ‘Excuse me, but do you have any stories for children, about a little black girl?’

The man looked at her aghast and removed his broken spectacles. ‘About what, Mademoiselle?’

‘About a little black girl,’ she repeated. ‘A storybook.’

He replaced his spectacles and huffed and puffed and said, ‘What an odd request. No. I’m sure we don’t. Although, if you’re not fussed about gender, I could offer you this ...’ He pulled a book from a shelf and passed it to her. The book was called The Story of Little Black Sambo and featured on its cover an illustration of a coal-black boy with a mop of matching hair and legs like string, holding a green umbrella and beaming brightly with vivid yellow teeth. Arlette recoiled. The image was alarming and unsettling. ‘No,’ she said, ‘no, that’s not right at all. I was hoping for something a little more ... realistic.’

The bookseller put his hands into the pockets of his old suit jacket and rocked back on his heels. ‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘I mean, I mean ...’ she faltered. She didn’t know what she meant. What she wanted, she supposed, was a book about a little girl who looked exactly like the fantasy girl she’d spent all week creating inside her own head. ‘Oh, nothing,’ she said eventually. ‘I just want a book for a little girl. A book she could grow to love as she grew up. A book she would like to keep for ever and read to her own daughters.’

‘Well, then,’ said the bookseller, ‘you couldn’t go too far wrong with this. It’s one of our bestsellers. Has been for years.’ He put another book into her hands. Pollyanna. The character on the front of the jacket was far from black, but she was lovely to behold, a joyful girl clutching a basket of flowers, swinging through a sun-dappled meadow. It was bright and uplifting, just what a girl born into a grimy Soho almshouse to a father she would never meet might like to own.

‘What is the story about?’ she asked, turning it over in her hands.

‘It is about,’ he said, ‘a very glad girl.’

Arlette paid for the book and watched as the dusty man wrapped it and tied it with ribbon. When she got home she wrote carefully on the inside cover and then, before she rewrapped it, a thought occurred to her. She pulled out the drawer on her dressing table and she put her fingers to the very back. From there she pulled out a tiny square of muslin. She put it to her nose and breathed in deeply, taking in the smell of Godfrey Pickle one last time, before sliding it in between the pages of the book, wrapping it and sending it to the house on St Anne’s Court.


Dear Miss De La Mare,

I thank you for this gift. I cannot aksept it. Sandy is gonn and his dorter is now sum one elsis. We won’t tork of him agin in our hows. Please do not bother us agin. You are not welcum.

Yorse,

Esther Jones