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Authors: Ruth Rendell
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poor, sick, deprived young man from what sounds like a council estate behind Euston Station?”
Mary looked at her. She felt stricken by a small panic. “I wish you hadn’t been away,” she said. “I wish we could have had this conversation before I asked for his address.”
“And if I’d advised you, would you have taken my advice? Of course you wouldn’t.”
“It isn’t too late,” Mary said slowly. “I haven’t been in touch with him. I just know his name and where he lives. What would your advice be?”
Frederica laughed. “Are you passing the buck? Laying the responsibility on me?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps. I’m in the habit of doing that. Or I used to be. Advise me.”
“Tear the letter up, give me the pieces, and on my way home I’ll drop them in a litter bin.”
“So that I couldn’t get them out and piece them together again? It wouldn’t be any use, I’m afraid. I know his name now. I have the address by heart. Wouldn’t I always regret it if I didn’t write to him? But perhaps he won’t answer.”
Frederica laughed. “He’ll answer.”
• • •
On the front doorstep in Albany Street, Edwina Goldsworthy gave Bean formal notice that she would be going away on holiday in ten days’ time and McBride would be taking up residence in kennels.Bean disapproved of kennels and his manner became chilly. But he had to go inside for the necessary paperwork, having first tied his dogs up to a lamppost, and this delayed him.
“Don’t be surprised if he loses weight in there, madam,” he said, and he cast a critical eye over Mrs. Goldsworthy’s bulky form before adding, “Pining does more than diets, as I always say.”
She was dependent on him, she couldn’t say much, none of them could. They were in his power. Without him they would have to leave their beds an hour earlier, sacrifice their cocktail hour, get up off their arses and muddy their shoes. Bean smiled to himself. Power was not something he had personally experienced in his years as the late Anthony Maddox’s and then the late Maurice Clitheroe’s servant, but now he was making up for lost time. Absolute reliability, “sirs” and “madams” sprinkled among his remarks, a genuine love of dogs, punctilious punctuality, all this made him indispensable. He disliked being even five minutes late, for this detracted from his power, and he quickened his pace as he and the dogs made for Cumberland Terrace, home of Marietta, the chocolate poodle.
The actress Lisl Pring hadn’t noticed the time. She kissed Marietta and had her makeup licked off. Bean had never seen anyone as thin as this woman, except in famine photos. They said telly made a person look fatter, which was no doubt the reason. He wondered how she did it, lived on salad, no doubt, or maybe she was like that model he’d read about who had nothing in her fridge but a lemon.
He reminded her of his seven-days-notice-of-holidays rule and she shrieked something about never having a moment to go anywhere, darling. If it wasn’t shooting it was rehearsals from five A.M . till midnight, believe it or not. Bean nodded. He didn’t really believe it. She must be rich. Up here in the hinterland of the terrace was like being in some Georgian spa, Leamington or Cheltenham, all mellow stone and ivy, blossom coming out and ferns uncurling, a smell like the country, green and sharp. Bean thought he wouldn’t half mindliving here himself, only he’d never afford it the way things were. He must put his power to wider use.
The bag lady with the green plastic bundles was meandering slowly up the Outer Circle as he came out of Cumberland Terrace. Her name, he knew, was Effie but in his mind Bean called her a horrible cow. Boris and Charlie and the rest of them always wanted to sniff her. This propensity of theirs, sometimes seeming to prefer people who smelled nasty to people who smelled nice, was his only objection to dogs. He tugged the leashes away with an
Mary looked at her. She felt stricken by a small panic. “I wish you hadn’t been away,” she said. “I wish we could have had this conversation before I asked for his address.”
“And if I’d advised you, would you have taken my advice? Of course you wouldn’t.”
“It isn’t too late,” Mary said slowly. “I haven’t been in touch with him. I just know his name and where he lives. What would your advice be?”
Frederica laughed. “Are you passing the buck? Laying the responsibility on me?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps. I’m in the habit of doing that. Or I used to be. Advise me.”
“Tear the letter up, give me the pieces, and on my way home I’ll drop them in a litter bin.”
“So that I couldn’t get them out and piece them together again? It wouldn’t be any use, I’m afraid. I know his name now. I have the address by heart. Wouldn’t I always regret it if I didn’t write to him? But perhaps he won’t answer.”
Frederica laughed. “He’ll answer.”
• • •
On the front doorstep in Albany Street, Edwina Goldsworthy gave Bean formal notice that she would be going away on holiday in ten days’ time and McBride would be taking up residence in kennels.Bean disapproved of kennels and his manner became chilly. But he had to go inside for the necessary paperwork, having first tied his dogs up to a lamppost, and this delayed him.
“Don’t be surprised if he loses weight in there, madam,” he said, and he cast a critical eye over Mrs. Goldsworthy’s bulky form before adding, “Pining does more than diets, as I always say.”
She was dependent on him, she couldn’t say much, none of them could. They were in his power. Without him they would have to leave their beds an hour earlier, sacrifice their cocktail hour, get up off their arses and muddy their shoes. Bean smiled to himself. Power was not something he had personally experienced in his years as the late Anthony Maddox’s and then the late Maurice Clitheroe’s servant, but now he was making up for lost time. Absolute reliability, “sirs” and “madams” sprinkled among his remarks, a genuine love of dogs, punctilious punctuality, all this made him indispensable. He disliked being even five minutes late, for this detracted from his power, and he quickened his pace as he and the dogs made for Cumberland Terrace, home of Marietta, the chocolate poodle.
The actress Lisl Pring hadn’t noticed the time. She kissed Marietta and had her makeup licked off. Bean had never seen anyone as thin as this woman, except in famine photos. They said telly made a person look fatter, which was no doubt the reason. He wondered how she did it, lived on salad, no doubt, or maybe she was like that model he’d read about who had nothing in her fridge but a lemon.
He reminded her of his seven-days-notice-of-holidays rule and she shrieked something about never having a moment to go anywhere, darling. If it wasn’t shooting it was rehearsals from five A.M . till midnight, believe it or not. Bean nodded. He didn’t really believe it. She must be rich. Up here in the hinterland of the terrace was like being in some Georgian spa, Leamington or Cheltenham, all mellow stone and ivy, blossom coming out and ferns uncurling, a smell like the country, green and sharp. Bean thought he wouldn’t half mindliving here himself, only he’d never afford it the way things were. He must put his power to wider use.
The bag lady with the green plastic bundles was meandering slowly up the Outer Circle as he came out of Cumberland Terrace. Her name, he knew, was Effie but in his mind Bean called her a horrible cow. Boris and Charlie and the rest of them always wanted to sniff her. This propensity of theirs, sometimes seeming to prefer people who smelled nasty to people who smelled nice, was his only objection to dogs. He tugged the leashes away with an
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