Spencer's List Part 32

There was something about his pallor and the hopeless set of his shoulders that reminded her of the day that Porky had escaped and she had yelled at him. She had been furious with him then, and had been equally furious when he had given her phone number to Janette and when he'd broken the banisters, and when only a couple of days ago he had failed to clean out the bath and left the fridge door open all night and forgotten to give her three phone messages. Over the months, as they had teetered from one trivial incident to another, she had used up an enormous amount of emotion on Barry. Now, though, with the knowledge that she had actually and pointlessly risked her life for him, had almost died saving a cat, was standing in the street because he had burned her house down, she realized that there was nothing left in her armoury. She'd wasted her ammo on small fry; today's events were in a different league and for once she was floundering for a response.

'Sorry,' said Barry.

She sighed. 'You great idiot.'

'I didn't mean to.'

She could think of no appropriate reply to this. He edged a little closer. 'What are you going to do now?'

She considered the question for a while, and the answer seemed to rise up with a sound of trumpets, with banks of choirs and a thunderous organ. 'I'm going to live somewhere else,' she said.

20.

The poster drew Iris like a siren song. She had left the house with the sole intention of going round the corner to the Greek bakery and buying a bag of warm white rolls, but ten minutes and a quarter of a mile detour later she was once again walking past the covered market towards the library in search of her third fix in as many days. 'Surprise!!' the twins had shouted the first time, after they had led her the last few yards blindfold, but she had found each subsequent viewing almost as extraordinary as the first.

It was huge six foot by three a vast black-and-white photo, artistically grainy so that the images seemed to drift into focus as you approached. Tom was slightly in the foreground, only his head and shoulders visible, and his right hand which was holding an open copy of Utopia. His expression was intent, lips slightly parted, eyes apparently drowning in the text. Just behind him, in the same pose and wearing the same expression of counterfeit concentration was Robin; in his hand was a copy of The s.h.i.+ning. Tom was wearing a white t-s.h.i.+rt, Robin a black one, and the poster caption read: 'We're all different. Local libraries here for everyone. Let's keep it that way.'

'It's not just us,' Tom had explained. 'They've used five sets of twins but they said we gave them the idea for the campaign.'

'The photographer said we were brilliant,' Robin had added.

'They didn't pay us but they let us keep the t-s.h.i.+rts.'

'And they said we could keep the books.'

'Did you?' she'd asked faintly, unable to tear her eyes from the image.

'I kept The s.h.i.+ning,' Robin had said, 'but I couldn't get into it.'

She'd gone back the next day with her father and he had stared at the poster in silence for some moments.

'Has Tom read Utopia?' he'd asked, eventually.

'No,' she'd said, with absolute certainty.

'They should have asked you and me to do it, Iris.' She had been quite touched by the suggestion.

This time, in the early quiet of a Sat.u.r.day morning, with the pavement almost deserted and only the odd car swis.h.i.+ng along the High Street, Iris could do what she had wanted to do from the first moment she had seen it: stand and gape. In the frozen moment, detached from the twins' usual accompaniment of thuds and smells and amiable thoughtlessness and raucous laughter, away from the sheer ordinariness of their presence, she could look at her sons with amazement. They were beautiful; the camera saw it and so, now, did she. The combination of her own nondescript genes and Conrad's borderline-handsome ones had come up with a couple of racehorses, glossy and perfect, flawless even in gigantic close-up. She almost had to remind herself of her relations.h.i.+p to these monochrome G.o.ds; she knew now that it would be hard to counter their latest career plan, vacuous though it was. They had been planning it for weeks without telling her.

'We're just going to give it a year,' Tom had explained over the was.h.i.+ng-up yesterday. 'The photographer said he'll do us a portfolio cheap and then we could take it round to agents and magazines and things.'

'And models are getting younger,' Robin had added, earnestly, as if he had researched a paper on the subject. 'Like the top male model in Europe's only twenty and he's a millionaire. I mean, the juggling idea was probably a bit stupid ' he shook his head over the folly of youth ' but this could really work because, you know, we've got a gimmick. That's what the photographer said.'

'And instead of going to college this year we could go next year,' Tom had said, cunningly.

'So where would you live while you're doing this?'

They had looked astonished at the question. 'At home, of course. With you.'

'You don't want us to leave, do you Mum?' Robin had asked.

'... then there's the bloke who lives above Iris, he might be half of a couple, I'm not sure.'

'We'll say that's five, then,' said Spencer, counting on his fingers.

'And the family the other side there's three of them, and I think a grandmother lives there too.'

'And the three of you in the house, of course. So that makes twelve people homeless, thirteen if you count Barry...'

'It's only temporary for the rest of them,' protested Fran, 'until they sh.o.r.e it up, or flanch the side walls or whatever it is they do.'

'Still, it's a messy old result, isn't it? A lot of inconvenience all round.'

'What d'you mean?'

'Well...' He shrugged. 'You should really have hired a professional arsonist these amateurs aren't worth the tr '

'Shhhhh.' She looked around, torn between outrage and laughter, but the only people within sight were a tour party over by the catacombs, following their leader through a water-stained door into a vault. 'Please, Spence, you mustn't. Really. You shouldn't even think about that list I've tried not to.' Though she had actually lain awake in a cold sweat one night, on her camp bed in Spencer's boxroom, imagining the insurance investigator coming across their shameful, drunken suggestions miraculously preserved in the bottom of a bin somewhere.

'Sorry,' said Spencer, contrite. In the fortnight since the fire he hadn't always found it easy to judge Fran's mood; for a couple of days she had been as subdued as he had ever seen her and they had sat together on the sofa, convalescing dozily in front of the TV. Gradually Spencer's head had cleared, and Fran had regained her usual energy and started working through the practicalities, but when not engaged in haranguing the insurance company she veered between wordless brooding and a near-hysterical joie de vivre, when all subjects were fair game and no jokes off-limits. This was not quite one of those times.

'Sorry,' he said again. 'It'll be our secret.' He squeezed her arm rea.s.suringly and took a bite of egg Mcm.u.f.fin. They were sharing the flat-topped tomb of Florence Alderton, spinster of this parish, which occupied the crest of a hill within Highgate Cemetery.

Around them lay a carefully managed wilderness of ivy and angels and uncut gra.s.s still heavy with dew. Fran had drawn up a strict timetable for the day, but they had both overslept with the result that breakfast had been taken on the hoof and the ninety minutes allocated to the cemetery slashed to a perfunctory twenty, of which they had already spent ten admiring the view.

'I got a card yesterday,' said Fran, after a while.

'Oh yes?'

'The silver envelope with the mauve ink?'

'I saw that. Who was it from?'

'Mr Tibbs.'

Spencer glanced at her to gauge how he should take this. She looked perfectly composed.

'What did he say?'

'Oh, you know he's settling in nicely, his owners have found a lovely house with a garden for him in Norwich, he can never thank me enough for saving his life, he's sorry that he ever doubted my regard for him. The usual sort of thing cats say.'

'What's his handwriting like?'

'I think he dictated it. There was a note from Sylvie too, and their style's quite similar.' She caught his eye and then looked away again.

'We shouldn't make fun,' she said. 'She and Pete have been so b.l.o.o.d.y nice about everything.'

'No, we shouldn't. I think it's quite touching, actually.'

There was a second or two before they exploded. Over by the catacombs a row of faces turned to stare at them as they honked and spluttered, and Spencer ducked his head and wiped his eyes with a coat sleeve. 'Come-on,' he said, grabbing her hand, 'we've got a list to get through.'

Iris held the bag of rolls to her chest like a hot-water bottle and turned down the short cut between Dora Avenue and Beryl Close. It had worried her, how quickly she had slipped back into living at her father's house, how she had never once turned the wrong way out of the surgery or attempted to catch a bus to Dalston at the end of the day instead of walking the five minutes to Alma Crescent. Of course, it might be a sign of springy adaptability but she suspected the reverse: an easy backwards fall into the past.

Her list of resolutions for the year was, of course, laughably defunct and its failure seemed to be symbolized by the clothes she was currently wearing; during the hasty packing session that they had been allowed by the safety officer, she had been so busy supervising Tom and Robin that she had ended up stuffing any old items into her own suitcase, with the result that she was now wearing a selection of garments that were dowdy even by her own standards. 'You won't mind me saying this, Iris,' Tammy had said wrongly as it turned out when she had popped in as usual yesterday evening, 'but that's really not a colour that brings out the best in you.' Over the past few weeks she had come to the conclusion that she'd simply been tackling the wrong set of problems, window dressing instead of wielding a wrecking ball. Or a flamethrower, she thought, remembering Fran. That was how to do it root and branch, foundation to attic, rip it up and start all over again. Well, that was how someone like Fran would do it, anyway; she herself had commenced a little tentative, diffident, wrecking-ball research, a long-term demolition project, so to speak, the sort that was only carried out after extensive consultation with the inhabitants, causing minimal disturbance to the environs.

She turned the corner into Alma Crescent and involuntarily slowed her steps. A familiar figure was standing shakily by the gate, Leslie Peake's waterproof bush-hat pulled well over his forehead. 'h.e.l.lo, Callum,' she said, approaching him cautiously. It seemed to take him several seconds to register her voice, and then he swung his whole body round towards her and rocked a little, adjusting to the new position.

'Docca Carroll.'

His eyes were unfocused and there was a sticky patina in the hollow of his cheeks, and the smell of ammonia and glue flooded the air around him. She thought he had lost weight even since the last time she had seen him; his features seemed sharpened and shrunk.

'Dr Carroll doesn't live here, Callum.'

'Wanna see him.'

'He's not here.'

'Where?'

'He'll be starting back at the surgery on Monday. The day after tomorrow.'

'Mun?'

'Yes.'

'Mun.' He reached inside the slack waistband of his trousers and before she could even wonder what he was doing, pulled out the Lamazol baseball hat and held it out to her.

'You've still got it then?'

'Yuh.' He replaced it as carefully as his coordination would allow, and then turned slowly and began to shuffle back up the street, pausing at intervals to cough and spit and painfully catch his breath again. She stood and watched him go; this was the third time he had turned up at the house, and after the second one of his more lucid visits she had phoned Spencer to tell him. 'I think he thinks he saved your life.'

'How's he looking?'

'Terrible. Worse than ever.'

'Yeah. I imagine it won't be long now.'

'Until what?'

'Until he dies.'

'Oh.' She was startled by the bluntness of the statement.

'Sorry,' said Spencer, 'that must sound a bit callous, but he's been dying since the first day I saw him. It's only ever been a matter of time, there's never been anything I could do for Callum.'

Except you were kind to him and you gave him a hat, thought Iris. Which is more imaginative and more truly helpful than anything Dr Petty or Dov Steiner could have come up with.

She watched Callum's wavering progress as far as the corner, and then, suddenly remembering the cooling bag of rolls, turned towards the house.

Judging by the cake crumbs, Nina and her fathers had been at the Serpentine Cafe for some time.

'Sorry we're late,' said Spencer, pulling up a chair. 'There was a very long queue for the Crown Jewels, and we felt we ought to see them.'

'A queue? In April? Jesus Chr ' Niall looked at Nina. 'Sorry.' He held out his hand and she gave it an admonitory tap. 'New regime,' he said to Spencer. 'We were hauled into nursery for a ticking-off.'

'So what was the Tower like then?' asked Nick, crisply.

'Crowded,' said Fran.

'Good shop, though. Some good spending opportunities.' Spencer undid the top of his backpack and put it on Nina's lap. 'Here you go. See if you can find anything in there that might belong to you.'

'A present?'

'Yes.'

'What do you say to your G.o.dfather?' asked Nick, as she rifled through the bag.

'Spankyou very much.'

'Don't look at me,' said Niall. 'She picked it up at nursery.'

'It's a lady!' Nina pulled out a model of a Beefeater on a little stand. 'With a beard.'

'It's not a lady,' said Spencer. 'It's a man. In a dress.'

Nick rolled his eyes.

'What are you going to call him?' asked Fran.

Nina thought for a moment. 'Fluffy.'

She looked startled by the burst of laughter.

'Come on little 'un, come and help me get some more coffee.' Nick lifted her off the chair and she trotted after him, still holding the Beefeater.

'So Fran, how's the new landlord? A bit of a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, I've heard,' said Niall, relaxing the language barrier as soon as his daughter was out of earshot.

'No, he's very tolerant,' she said. 'I haven't exactly been fantastic company.'