Dying on Principle Read online

  ‘I do believe,’ he said at last, ‘that you wanted to drive this thing. Didn’t you? Like you did the Marilyn.’

  So the boat had a name, did it? I should have taken more notice.

  ‘I’d love to,’ I said, as if he’d just given me a formal invitiation.

  He laughed again. ‘Have you any idea how to drive something like this? A five-litre engine?’

  ‘No. But as they say in another context, it’d be fun finding out.’

  ‘I do believe you mean it. I really do believe it. Alas, my dear, you’ll have to preserve your soul in patience: I’m very much afraid it’s insured exclusively for Me.’

  I could almost see the capital letter.

  ‘And for my chauffeur, of course.’

  I shrugged lightly.

  ‘But a simple telephone call to my insurance broker—’

  ‘Even your broker must have Saturday afternoon off,’ I said, as the number rang and rang. ‘And there are plenty of days beside today.’

  ‘You’re wrong. You mustn’t think that way! The only way to live is as if this is your last day. But then, you must also act as if you’re going to live for ever. That’s the secret.’

  There’s a bit in the Bible where the Devil takes Jesus up on to a high mountain and shows him everything he can possess if only he accepts the Devil as boss. That’s how it was beginning to feel, seeing all Richard Fairfax’s kingdom. I’d been shown his car, his boat; now I was to see his house. I didn’t want to see it; I wanted to go home and resume my normal life. I only agreed because he said he needed to pick up some more medication and I could quite see he needed it. He’d taken one phone call which seemed to upset him, from a man who didn’t give his name. He just announced that the work was incomplete because William had turned up unexpectedly.

  ‘Finish it as soon as he’s gone,’ Fairfax barked. And then had started to press his stomach as if to push away the pain.

  ‘You really ought to take it easier if you’ve got an ulcer,’ I said mildly.

  ‘I do not have an ulcer.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘My dear young lady, I do not have an ulcer. Do you wish to see the X-rays? Stress, that’s all that’s the matter. And stress, in my position, comes with the territory.’

  I couldn’t argue.

  Fairfax lived in the most exclusive part of Edgbaston, in a late Georgian house. Its gates opened as he approached, and shut themselves behind him. His garage doors were equally obliging. There was a trellis-covered walk to the side door.

  Inside was a narrow hall – presumably one used by the servants years ago – with a Minton-tiled floor that put Aberlene’s to shame. It led to a big, square entrance hall, also tiled, and graced by what appeared from where I stood to be a marble statue. But I wasn’t to penetrate that far yet; I followed Fairfax into the kitchen. It was huge. This floor had Provençal tiles, and the sort of expensive wooden fitted units that look as if they grew there. Nothing plastic for Fairfax. Someone had laid a tray, covering the china with a lace cloth. Without asking, he made tea, but didn’t object when I picked up the tray and followed him down the corridor to a room he called his snug. The snugness had nothing to do with an intimate size; this room was bigger than my living room, and there were clearly others too.

  Neither was his dog a contributory factor. Fairfax spoke to it briefly; it stared at me, and resumed its position in front of the French window. Fairfax settled in a green leather chair at right angles to the one he gestured me to, and let his eyes close. I poured. He opened his eyes a moment to acknowledge the cup beside him, and then shut them again. I drank my tea; had another cup. His went cold. I removed it. He slept on. He looked too ill to disturb, and there were a couple of magazines on a side table, so I thought I’d let him rest for a few minutes. When I reached for the magazines, however, the dog growled. I’m not a dog lover at the best of times, and black creatures the size of small donkeys with an imposing set of teeth upset me. Was this a Doberman? I was afraid of their very reputation! I let the magazines lie where they were. The dog subsided.

  I looked around for something else to occupy my mind. The pictures were rather poor but impressive, with heavy varnish. I suspected the books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves were the sort you get in some stately homes – spines only. There was a panel set in the bookcases that looked the right size for a TV screen. It was about time for the sports results, but Albion weren’t playing so I resisted the urge to press a few buttons on the remote-control handset beside me.

  By this time the need to fill my mind was getting more urgent – I had to think about something other than my bladder. On the floor by Fairfax’s feet was a set of pocket files, the ordinary coloured card sort we had at college. They bore the new college logo – and the same names as those I’d seen on la Cavendish’s desk. ‘College without Walls’, ‘Newtown Site’. By some excruciating coincidence a third file was masked by the others, so I could still see only ‘Provence’. I shifted slightly. No response from Rover. If I moved my toe another inch I could at least slide the top files an inch sideways. There. ‘ntre, Provence’. A town? Or – another half-inch? This time Fairfax stirred. But at least I had ‘ent Centre, Provence’. Perhaps another inch? It would be no bad thing for my bladder if Fairfax woke. I’d only got as far as ‘ment Centre, Provence’ when he opened his eyes.

  He started to splutter an apology.

  ‘No matter,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid, though, I have to go now. And your dog doesn’t want me to.’

  I didn’t like Fairfax’s smile. ‘He wouldn’t. But he’s a friendly old chap when he gets to know you. Here.’ He chirruped.

  The dog stood immediately and padded over. He put his head in Fairfax’s hand and his tail wagged blissfully as Fairfax scratched his ears.

  ‘Say hello to Sophie,’ Fairfax said.

  The dog came and stood before me. He lifted a front paw the size of a cannon ball.

  ‘Go on: shake it.’

  Dog and I did as we were told.

  ‘I really have to go now,’ I said. I stood up.

  The dog wagged his tail and shoved his head into my hand. I found myself stroking it. I moved towards the door, and he stopped wagging his tail. But as soon as he saw Fairfax was on his feet he lolloped back to him so they could both accompany me to the door.

  ‘I’ll have to use your loo first,’ I said.

  A downstairs cloakroom complete with shower. Some loo. But it was a good job I used it because Fairfax didn’t offer to take me home, or even enquire how I proposed to get there without him. Normally this wouldn’t have worried me, but my knee had seized up and was demanding its frozen peas. So I limped slowly to the nearest bus stop, which turned out to be half a mile away – they obviously didn’t rely on public transport in this neck of leafy Edgbaston. At least I had plenty to think about while I walked and while I waited.

  20

  I suppose it was a sign of my times that when I saw police cars in Balden Road I associated them with some further tragedy, major or minor, in my life. I limped up from the bus stop as fast as I could, my eyes ready to shed tears of self-pity. But when I saw the policeman on duty outside Aggie’s house, anger took over.

  Several of the neighbours were straggling over the pavement. I ought to have shown a friendly and gossipy concern, but I slipped through and tried to catch the red-headed constable’s eye. As luck would have it, he was a young man I’d not met when I was out socially with Chris, and I’ve met more cooperative Belisha beacons. But I heard a voice calling from inside, ‘If that’s young Sophie, wheel her in.’

  Yes, I nodded, and prepared to step inside; but the constable stretched his arm out to stop me. It took me an irritating moment to realise he was unlikely to consider me young.

  ‘Come on, Sophie!’ Ian yelled. The constable bowed to greater authority.

  Ian was standing in Aggie’s kitchen looking disparagingly at the tea bags. Before I could speak, though, he said, ‘She’s OK. Stirred but not shaken, if
you get my meaning. I’ll take you over.’

  ‘Over?’

  ‘Selly Oak Hospital. I’ll explain on the way.’

  I didn’t fancy the frisson that went through the neighbours as Ian and I emerged. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that I stumbled down the step, and he caught my elbow to steady me.

  ‘Leg still bad?’ he asked. ‘Chris told me what happened.’

  ‘Bad business when you can’t even jaywalk without getting run over,’ I suggested.

  ‘And you can’t even spray your neighbours’ roses without getting smashed on the head. That’s right,’ he added, opening the passenger door. ‘She didn’t approve of your greenfly so she decided to give them a dose of whatever she was using to attack hers. And these two guys come up to your front door, she asks if she can help, and they turn and push her over. Hard.’

  ‘Who found her?’ I fastened my seat belt and Ian started off.

  ‘She found herself. In your front garden. And crawled, bless her, crawled back to her place and phoned Chris. Didn’t want to bother the ambulance people, thought he wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘He’d just got into the shower. But he turned out, of course. And then called an ambulance anyway. Thing is, she reckons she might have seen them before, earlier this afternoon. Which is why Chris asked me to hang on for you.’

  I felt as if someone had hit my stomach. ‘Visitors?’ I asked with dull irony.

  ‘Visitors. But your security system’s pretty good, of course—’

  ‘Ought to be: young Gavin fixed it.’

  Ian sighed. I knew that sigh.

  ‘Oh, Ian, give it a rest. Chris and I are friends, and he’s as free as I am to fancy someone else.’

  ‘But he doesn’t.’

  ‘Well, neither do I at the moment, as it happens. In any case,’ I added maliciously, ‘it isn’t Gavin that’s asked me out for a drink – and to see his office, Ian, so he must be serious! – but Dave Clarke.’

  ‘You wouldn’t go! He’s had his hands in more knickers than … no, Sophie, love, not Dave.’ He looked sideways at me. ‘OK, OK. But didn’t I hear something about you and a musician?’ He managed to curl his mouth round the word as if it were next thing to a blasphemy.

  ‘Another friend, Ian. And he won’t be after my knickers. Not that way inclined.’

  ‘You don’t half pick them. Honestly, Sophie, I sometimes think you go out of your way to choose wrong ’uns.’

  ‘Chris apart, of course. Tell you what, Ian, pull into Sainsbury’s car park: I can get Aggie some flowers.’

  Chris was sitting on the far side of Aggie’s bed, holding a saucer while she drank from a cup. Her free hand, bandaged, was patting his other wrist. They looked relaxed together, as if he were a favourite grandson. He reached to tuck away a wisp of her hair. She noticed me first.

  ‘You shouldn’t have,’ she crowed, her eyes gleaming at the sight of the flowers. ‘They’ll have cost you a week’s pocket money.’

  ‘And the gravy,’ I said cheerfully, wondering if I dared embarrass her by kissing her. I compromised by taking the hand that had held the teacup. She gripped it and shook it a little from side the side.

  Ian took the flowers and went to charm a couple of vases from a nurse who looked ready to weep with weariness.

  I perched on the bed, still holding Aggie’s hand. ‘Couldn’t they have got you into a private ward?’ I asked, and was suddenly appalled to find myself using Fairfax’s tone.

  ‘I’d fixed it,’ said Chris.

  ‘And I unfixed it,’ said Aggie, with a cackle. ‘Might as well see a bit of life while I’m stuck here.’

  ‘But you promise me you’ll go and stay with your granddaughter when they let you out?’ Chris said urgently.

  ‘I reckon as I ought to stay and guard Sophie’s house,’ she said. ‘I’ve done a good job so far. Mind you, I liked that young Simon better than this afternoon’s lot. You know what, he smiled when he done it. While he was clouting me, there was this ugly grin on his face. I’ll give him smile when I see him.’

  ‘Didn’t notice his car, did you, Aggie?’ Ian said, rearranging a rose to his satisfaction.

  ‘No. Be nicked anyway, wouldn’t it? Young Chris tells me they often nick a car to do a job. Stands to reason – wouldn’t do it in their own, would they? Now, you see that girl over there? They reckon,’ she said, dropping her voice to a carrying whisper, ‘that she’s been on TV in that Bill thing.’

  When her granddaughter arrived, we left them to it. This time I did kiss her, and gripped her hand again. Chris got the full works, both arms round his neck, while she winked hugely – and, I think, painfully.

  ‘Not often I get the chance to cuddle a handsome young man,’ she said. And she gave Ian a sound bussing too.

  Once outside, Ian made himself embarrassingly scarce, leaving Chris and me together.

  ‘You look dreadful,’ I said.

  ‘Tired.’

  ‘Anything in particular?’

  ‘The usual. Pressure. I keep missing my Alexander lessons. And now bloody Trevelyan’s done a runner. Signed herself out of hospital. No idea where she’s gone. Not home, not without us knowing.’ He rubbed his hands wearily over his face. He needed a good hug, but wouldn’t want one.

  ‘Tell you what, why don’t I drive? I’ve been itching to get behind the wheel of a decent car all day. I’ll go via Sainsbury’s if it’s all the same to you – I’ve forgotten to shop this week – and I’ll fix you a meal while you have a snooze on my sofa.’

  He smiled and held out the keys.

  The Sunday-morning car-boot sale was in one of the Harborne car parks, organised, I now saw, by Roy, in another existence my hairdresser. He was looking harassed and didn’t notice me. Neither did Phil, Muntz’s technician, burrowing through some rusty garden tools. Simon was in his element, citing all the times he’d seen on the Antiques Road Show car-boot items worth thousands. I was not to show excitement, no more than casual interest. The racks of women’s dresses, the piles of books – they were being sold by dealers, and I should avoid them. He would let me prowl on my own: he didn’t think I’d be interested in electronics. What I was interested in was what ordinary people like me should want to get rid of. There was a microwave cooker in the tail of someone’s Peugeot. That might interest me. Another man was selling a heterogeneous collection of CDs: had he bought the Bee Gees at the same time as Yuri Bashmet playing the Brahms Viola Sonatas? Come to think of it, he didn’t look the type to have bought either. I didn’t say anything, just handed over the cash for a whole pile of promising-looking material to form the basis of my new collection – it really was time to get a proper sound system. That would please Aberlene and Chris – and, yes, George.

  ‘You OK?’ Simon asked, returning to my side. ‘Hey, where d’you get those?’

  I gestured.

  To my amazement he wrote down the man’s car number. ‘You never know,’ he said enigmatically. ‘People pinch the weirdest things. A mate of mine lost all his CDs the other week – and his video, his computer and his best clothes. Maybe your Chris or one of his minions might be interested. Anything else you want?’

  ‘There was a microwave over there.’

  But it had been sold already.

  We had a last stroll round together. By a boot overflowing with home-made raffia work I just managed to avoid Sunshine, who looked as pleased to see me as I was to see him. Instead I had a natter with a couple of people from William Murdock – it was reassuring to learn I hadn’t been forgotten.

  Simon found nothing to take his fancy, and was due on the MSO’s coach at one – the orchestra was playing in Worcester in the evening. So I had a solitary lunch. Then the weather, which had been grey and overcast all morning, started to brighten. I would leave visiting Aggie till later and spend a little time seeing how my knee enjoyed cycling.

  It would have made sense to buzz off somewhere pleasant, but on a whim I fished out my A to Z
and headed towards one of Brum’s less salubrious parts. ‘Newtown Site’: I thought I’d have a look for it. If Muntz was moving, maybe the staff ought to know.

  I’d given up and was painfully picking my way through mean streets of derelict factories when I saw the Muntz logo. It was stencilled on a letter box beside the front door of a dilapidated warehouse, which now, judging by the droppings at my feet, housed half the area’s pigeon population. Where there had been windows, there was now corrugated iron. Grass grew from what guttering was left. To the left of the building was a huge gate covered in BNP slogans. Someone had obligingly kicked in a few panels, so I could see through to what resembled a bomb site. And this was to be an outpost of Muntz’s empire? Another outpost – hadn’t Aberlene mentioned one somewhere else pretty unlikely?

  I stood back for another look. There were some hand-painted signs: TRADE ONLY. NO PUBLIC ALLOWED. BILL POSTERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. Not much help there. Without looking inside, I could have no idea how much work it would take to convert it into buildings suitable for students. I was tempted to try and prise away a piece of corrugated iron, to explore this Marie Celeste of a place. And then I thought sensibly of rats and rotting floorboards and vulnerable knees, and resolved to leave it. At least, I amended, getting stiffly on my bike, until I could find a like-minded person to explore it with me.

  21

  I was reclining on the sofa, the picture of decadence, a glass of wine in the hand that wasn’t steadying the review section. The only thing that spoiled the image was the bag of frozen peas attempting to return my knee to something approaching normality. There was another thing, actually: I was bored.

  Six o’clock on a Sunday evening is not a good time to be bored.

  I heaved myself over to the kitchen clipboard, found a pile of bills awaiting my attention, and wrote a number of cheques, including a large one for my phone bill. Full of self-righteousness, I wanted to cheer myself with an evening of phone calls to distant friends.

  But what could I say to them with those ears alert?