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Authors: Helen Simonson
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the poorer end of town, probably just beyond the popular Vinda Linda’s Curry House Take-Away by the hospital. “But I can drop you anywhere, as long as we pick somewhere before I have to go round again.”
“Ah yes, the dreaded one-way system,” he said. “I remember my wife and I were trapped in the one at Exeter once. She broke her finger falling off a horse and we spent an hour circling around looking at the hospital, but not able to find an entrance from our direction. Trapped like a ball bearing in a plastic maze.” He and Nancy had laughed later, imagining Dante redesigning Purgatory into a one-way system offering occasional glimpses of St. Peter and the pearly gates over two separate sets of dividing concrete barriers. As he spoke, he noticed, with a twinge of conscience, that it had already become comfortable to speak of his wife to Mrs. Ali – that their shared loss had become a useful connection.
“How about the shopping centre?” suggested Mrs. Ali.
“How about the seafront? Would that take you out of your way?” He knew that of course it would. The seafront was steps away on foot, but the traffic system demanded an extra turn to the left followed by a long loop down through the old town to the fishing strand. Her errands lay well inland and uphill from here. Everyone’s life was inland and uphill these days, as if the whole town had turned its back on the sea.
“The seafront will be fine,” she said, and very soon pulled the car into the small pay-and-display car park right behind the beach. She left the engine running and added, “Pick you up in an hour and a half?”
“That will be perfect,” he said, handing her the books and reaching to open the door. His mind raced with casual ways of requesting that she join him for tea, but he did not seem able to bring any of them to actual speech. He cursed himself for an idiot as she sped away again, waving.
∗
The offices of Tewkesbury and Teale, Solicitors, were in a lemon-coloured Regency villa fronting onto a small square two streets behind the sea. The centre of the square featured a tightly pruned garden, complete with dry fountain and small rope-edged lawn, smug behind high wrought-iron fence and gates. The villas, now offices, seemed to contain just the same sort of people for whom they were originally built. They were lawyers, accountants, and the occasional actress beyond her prime, all of whom cultivated an air of establishment that was slightly marred by the almost audible hum of social ambition. Mortimer Teale had the same, slightly appalling character.
The Major, who was early for his appointment, watched the bow window of the adjacent interior design shop, where a stout woman in a green brocade suit punched and prodded at a cornucopia of overstuffed pillows. Two small yapping dogs with beards darted and snatched at the braids and tassels. The Major worried that if he watched too long he would see one of them choke on a silk-covered button. He strolled a few doors down; at a strawberry-pink villa full of accountants, a youngish man, wearing a loud chalk-stripe suit and talking into a mobile phone the size of a lipstick case, ran out to a smart black sports car. The Major noted that his vigorous wave of gelled black hair was actually swept back to hide a balding patch on the back of his head. Somehow the man reminded him, uncomfortably, of Roger.
Old Mr. Tewkesbury, Mortimer’s father-in-law, had represented, if not a different breed entirely, then at least a happily mellowed and more intelligent version of the square’s inhabitants. The Tewkesburys had been lawyers here since before the turn of the century and had been the Pettigrew family lawyers for nearly as long. They had grown in stature along the way by performing admirably in their work and declining all opportunities at self-aggrandisement. Father, son, and grandson had quietly given of their time to civic duties (free legal advice to the town council being just one of
“Ah yes, the dreaded one-way system,” he said. “I remember my wife and I were trapped in the one at Exeter once. She broke her finger falling off a horse and we spent an hour circling around looking at the hospital, but not able to find an entrance from our direction. Trapped like a ball bearing in a plastic maze.” He and Nancy had laughed later, imagining Dante redesigning Purgatory into a one-way system offering occasional glimpses of St. Peter and the pearly gates over two separate sets of dividing concrete barriers. As he spoke, he noticed, with a twinge of conscience, that it had already become comfortable to speak of his wife to Mrs. Ali – that their shared loss had become a useful connection.
“How about the shopping centre?” suggested Mrs. Ali.
“How about the seafront? Would that take you out of your way?” He knew that of course it would. The seafront was steps away on foot, but the traffic system demanded an extra turn to the left followed by a long loop down through the old town to the fishing strand. Her errands lay well inland and uphill from here. Everyone’s life was inland and uphill these days, as if the whole town had turned its back on the sea.
“The seafront will be fine,” she said, and very soon pulled the car into the small pay-and-display car park right behind the beach. She left the engine running and added, “Pick you up in an hour and a half?”
“That will be perfect,” he said, handing her the books and reaching to open the door. His mind raced with casual ways of requesting that she join him for tea, but he did not seem able to bring any of them to actual speech. He cursed himself for an idiot as she sped away again, waving.
∗
The offices of Tewkesbury and Teale, Solicitors, were in a lemon-coloured Regency villa fronting onto a small square two streets behind the sea. The centre of the square featured a tightly pruned garden, complete with dry fountain and small rope-edged lawn, smug behind high wrought-iron fence and gates. The villas, now offices, seemed to contain just the same sort of people for whom they were originally built. They were lawyers, accountants, and the occasional actress beyond her prime, all of whom cultivated an air of establishment that was slightly marred by the almost audible hum of social ambition. Mortimer Teale had the same, slightly appalling character.
The Major, who was early for his appointment, watched the bow window of the adjacent interior design shop, where a stout woman in a green brocade suit punched and prodded at a cornucopia of overstuffed pillows. Two small yapping dogs with beards darted and snatched at the braids and tassels. The Major worried that if he watched too long he would see one of them choke on a silk-covered button. He strolled a few doors down; at a strawberry-pink villa full of accountants, a youngish man, wearing a loud chalk-stripe suit and talking into a mobile phone the size of a lipstick case, ran out to a smart black sports car. The Major noted that his vigorous wave of gelled black hair was actually swept back to hide a balding patch on the back of his head. Somehow the man reminded him, uncomfortably, of Roger.
Old Mr. Tewkesbury, Mortimer’s father-in-law, had represented, if not a different breed entirely, then at least a happily mellowed and more intelligent version of the square’s inhabitants. The Tewkesburys had been lawyers here since before the turn of the century and had been the Pettigrew family lawyers for nearly as long. They had grown in stature along the way by performing admirably in their work and declining all opportunities at self-aggrandisement. Father, son, and grandson had quietly given of their time to civic duties (free legal advice to the town council being just one of
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