Meanwhile Gardens Read online

  The chocolate-brown Mercedes jeep stopped outside the entrance to the mews. Trellick Tower, lights glittering from balconies, rose into the darkness above them.

  “He lives at number three,” Candida pointed into the little cobbled street.

  “The one with the yellow door?” Her companion was a man in his late twenties. His dark blue jeans and clean white T-shirt, stretched over his chest, couldn’t hide the powerful body underneath. From his collection of baseball caps (ironically featuring the logos of American football teams) he had chosen the 49’ers – his favourite.

  The woman nodded. “Let’s just see if he’s back yet shall we?” She took out the mobile from her soft leather bag and dialled Ollie’s number.

  “Hi, you’ve reached – ” She didn’t need to hear the rest of the message and she certainly didn’t want to leave one.

  Candida parked the jeep on the road outside. “Stay here,” she said firmly. Candida got out of the jeep and crept to the entrance of the small mews. James’ sister smiled in satisfaction upon noticing no lights were on in any of the houses. All was silent.

  Seeing her enter the darkened threshold her companion switched on the radio. He quickly found the Sports Station. This was going to be an easy job, he thought, and she’s paying well. He smiled, scratched his crotch and listened to Arsenal beating Chelsea.

  Not quite sure why, when there was no sign of life in the mews, Candida tiptoed over to Ollie’s door. She felt slightly ridiculous but was aware of Hum’s possible presence. And she certainly didn’t want to disturb him.

  Reminding herself that it is better to let sleeping dogs lie Candida gently pushed open the letterbox and peered through.

  “Can I help you?”

  The voice came from the house opposite.

  Candida remained on her knees. She ran her hands over the doorstep as if she had lost something, then gave up. Her father had taught her to be honest if caught – or lie, lie, lie like hell.

  Candida decided on a mixture of the two.

  “No, I was trying to see if Oliver was – ”

  Nicky immediately recognised the cold, clipped tones of James’ sister.

  “We had an appointment and – ”

  “ – you turned up half an hour early to snoop through his stuff again? Is that it Candida?”

  She straightened up and turned to face Nicky. The photographer stood at the window of her first floor sitting room opposite.

  “You don’t understand anything,” Candida grimaced and began walking out of the mews. She hadn’t got halfway to the jeep when she heard a door slam behind her.

  “What I do understand is that it is an offence to enter someone’s house without their permission.”

  Candida quickened her step. She didn’t look round but could hear Nicky come out of the mews behind her.

  “If I, or anyone else, see you snooping round here again Candida, we’ll call the police.”

  Trying to keep as much dignity as possible Candida opened the driver’s door and hopped up into the Jeep.

  She switched off the radio and fired the engine.

  “But they were just – ” Wayne complained.

  “In your own time bud,” she snarled, her fondness for American cop shows suddenly revealing itself. With a satisfyingly dramatic squeal of tyres she did a u-turn and headed for Holland Park.

  Wayne, adjusting his baseball cap, sulked next to her.

  7

  SPOOKS

  The shower cleared his head, the hot water pummelling away the marijuana hangover that fogged Ollie’s brain. Although the rum had quickly run out, Jake had kept a steady supply of remarkably sweet-tasting grass going Ollie’s way.

  It was only later, after Jake had told him the batch was called ‘headstone home-grown’, that Ollie found out where the ‘home’ in home-grown was.

  No wonder he had had strange dreams.

  He didn’t want to think about all the exceptional nutrients the plants had fed off to grow that sweet. Whatever the site specific minerals were he was fairly sure you couldn’t get them in a florist.

  Ollie thought back to the night before. He had a hazy memory of being ferried across the canal in a leaky canoe with Hum barking excitedly and a message from Nicky – something about Candida?

  That part remained unclear.

  What was clear, however, was the image of two newfound friends.

  Towelling himself dry Ollie wandered through to the sitting room. He must tell Auntie Gem about her ‘ghost’! He must tell them all, but it was only fair Auntie Gem knew first.

  The phone rang before he could find the number for Peters & Peters.

  “Nice to see you were out last night.” Few things slipped past Auntie Em.

  “I had a great time too.”

  “Good angel, you need to enjoy yourself more. Anyone I know?”

  “No,” Ollie smiled, “but you’ve heard of one of them.”

  “Ah, any more clues than that sweetness?”

  Ollie couldn’t stop himself, “Oh Auntie Em – I have monumental news!”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I can’t tell you until – can you and Auntie Gem come round tonight at about – ” Ollie remembered he had arranged to deliver the Allen Jones table to Johnson Ogle in Hampstead at 7:30, add in the required stopover time for chat and fitting – he would be lucky to be out of there by 9.

  “– 9:30?”

  “l’m sure we can sweetness.”

  “I’m out most of the day, I’ll try and phone Nicky but would you tell her if you see her? It’s important.”

  “My, but you are being mysterious.”

  “I might be late so let yourself in and Auntie Em?”

  “Yes angel?”

  Ollie was in two minds to whether to tell her the news now or not. He paused and decided against it, “Nothing.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to get it off your chest now, I won’t breathe a word – ”

  “Tonight Auntie Em.”

  As Ollie clicked off the phone Auntie Em realised she hadn’t told him about Candida. Still, she was sure Nicky would have told him and besides, Merlijnche de Poortje was safe with her wasn’t she?

  Ollie kept a close eye on Hum. Meanwhile Gardens was full of jagged chicken bones, a reminder of Notting Hill Carnival weeks before when millions of people crammed into West London to drink, dance and eat jerk chicken the remnants of which, it appeared, they threw as one into the small park. A faint smell of cooking oil still hung in the air, grease still stained the walkways, waiting for the autumn rains to cleanse the space.

  Although he had a duty to do his attention was soon taken by a figure near the pond. Ollie hadn’t seen the man before. He was sure of that. Such a figure, hulking and masculine, wouldn’t have slipped easily from the storeroom of his mind.

  But even without the powerful body and chiselled looks the man would have been memorable: full Aussie cowboy drag – hat, drizabone, moleskins and shiny brown boots, the whole lot topped by a natty pair of sunglasses – was just not normal attire for morning constitutionals in Meanwhile Gardens.

  He also seemed to be scratching his crotch.

  Alot.

  The funny thing was Ollie thought he recognised the dog – a little Jack Russell, white with brown blotches – called Maisie.

  The dog sort of ruined it for Ollie. Any guy that big with a dog that little had to be limpwristed. He probably did needlework, Ollie thought, his fantasy rapidly deflating. Not that he had anything against limpwristed needlework champions, he told himself quickly, it’s just they did nothing for him.

  Hum bounded over to say hello to the Jack Russell, making conversation between the two men an inevitability. Ollie steeled himself for the destruction of his fantasy.

  “Is this Maisie?” Ollie asked.

  Wayne seemed thrown for a second, before immediately recovering, “No, it’s – er – Dorothy,” he said in the accent he’d been working on for days.

  The man’
s voice betrayed no sign of mincing nor effeminacy. It bore the lazy, strangled tones of a Kiwi/South African hybrid, tempered by a satisfying East End gruffness that immediately rekindled Ollie’s fading fantasy.

  Ollie smiled, “Does that make you a friend of Dorothy?”

  The joke was lost on Wayne.

  “She’s not mine,” Wayne said quickly, realising what he was there to do. “She belongs to my aunt who had a bad fall. I’m just walking her.”

  The bedridden aunt was Wayne’s own invention and he was proud of it. Trying to think of something more to say he smiled his warmest of smiles at Ollie, put his hands in his pockets once more and jiggled away.

  Ollie looked at the man playing pocket pool in front of him and raised an eyebrow.

  “I haven’t got crabs,” Wayne said hurriedly. “It’s just I shaved my – ” he looked around him to make sure no one was in listening distance but the two men were alone in the park. Suddenly self-conscious Wayne stared at the ground before whispering, “ – my balls yesterday and they itch like crazy.”

  Ollie smiled quizzically and carried on.

  Wayne left Meanwhile Gardens near the Cobden Club. Waiting near the park gates was a young boy with cropped hair and an Umbro shirt. He looked about twelve but smoked a cigarette with the attitude of a sixteen year old.

  “It’s a tenner now. You were longer than you said,” the young boy took Maisie.

  Wayne began to argue then quickly handed over two five- pound notes. What did he care? He would claim it as expenses and let Candida reimburse him.

  “He said what?” Nicky asked.

  Ollie stood on his neighbour’s doorstep and repeated what the man in the park had said.

  “Is that like code?”

  “Does it sound like code Nicks? Come on, if there was a message there it certainly wasn’t hidden.”

  “How should I know? You guys with your nods, your winks, hankies, active this, passive that….”

  Ollie knew what she meant. He sometimes felt you needed a dictionary more than a personality to negotiate a relationship these days.

  “Could it have been a line?”

  “Nicks – if you wanted to come on to someone the word ‘crabs’ wouldn’t come anywhere near your chat up line would it?”

  “Not unless it was linked to ‘soft-shell’ ‘ginger’ and ‘Chinese restaurant on Queensway’. Give me a break Ol, I’ve been in the darkroom all morning.” Nicky breathed in the fresh air, relieved to be out of the little room under the stairs and in the daylight once more.

  “Those chemicals getting to you?”

  “And that shabby red light,” Nicky shivered at the thought. “Anyway maybe the guy was just tongue-tied for chrissake.”

  Ollie chuckled reproachfully, “I’m not the sort of guy that makes other guys tongue-tied…”

  “You will be if you carry on with the jogging.”

  “He could have been out of practice I guess,” Ollie conceded. “With a body like that he probably hasn’t needed chat-up lines in years.”

  “Did you get my message? About Candida?”

  Ollie had a vague recollection of struggling with his voicemail the previous night. “Sort of.”

  “She was snooping around again.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “There was some guy in the jeep – either that or an incredibly butch woman.”

  “Candida always gets what she wants you know.”

  “Maybe not this time.” A smile crossed Nicky’s face.

  Ollie followed the photographer into her studio which took up the whole of the ground floor. He gasped upon entering the large room.

  “They’re beautiful Nicks.”

  Hanging on a line across the back window were large black and white photos of Andy, the results of the previous day’s session.

  “I still say his name is Will though. Did he – er – ”

  “Mention you?” Nicky asked, momentarily raising Ollie’s hopes. “No sweetie, he didn’t I’m afraid.”

  Ollie moved closer to the pictures.

  “Which is your favourite?” Nicky asked.

  Ollie studied each one: Andy smiling, looking up, looking down, winking sexily, staring moodily into the distance, slapping his thigh laughing, his face half in shadow…..

  There was no doubt in Ollie’s mind. He immediately pointed to the one in the middle.

  Nicky unpegged the photo of Andy winking sexily. “Auntie Em says there’s a pow-wow at yours tonight,” she waved the photo in front of Ollie’s face, “I’ll give you this if you tell me what’s going on.”

  Ollie took the picture from her. “9:30 Nicks. Don’t be late.”

  Rion spent the early morning exploring the cemetery. She was particularly fascinated by the grand graves in front of the Anglican chapel. Families of people who hadn’t been loved during their lifetimes hoped to hide their neglect with elaborate funerary arrangements. Enormous stone caskets sat on solid bases, raised biers proclaimed superiority whilst the occupants’ social standing had long since crumbled to dust.

  It was only when she played around the tomb of Princess Sophia that Gorby saw her for the second time. The guard pulled his phone from his pocket, quickly set it to video and filmed Rion as she chased her shadow around the enormous raised sarcophagus.

  The English weather put an end to these games. What started off as mid-morning drizzle had by lunchtime turned into steady rain. Rion returned to Old George’s chamber. She felt secure in Heron Point but, more importantly, she felt dry. Although the wet weather made the chamber feel damp, Rion noticed with satisfaction that there wasn’t a drop of water inside at all.

  Outside was another matter.

  From time to time Rion pulled the blanket back and peered out. The clearing had taken on an increasingly soggy appearance. By six o’clock it lay under nearly two inches of water.

  By seven o’clock Rion was starting to feel fed up. And very bored.

  She had read the self-help book again. That made five times she had read Face the Fear and Eat It since Tanya had given it to her some months before.

  Rion had faced the fear and eaten as much as she could. She knew she had. She was here in London but doing what exactly?

  She had finished the crosswords in all the magazines, read and re-read articles, even attempted Sudoku, but now her eyes were tired – and so were the batteries in the torch.

  She couldn’t write by candlelight and it was best not to use the torch unless she had to.

  The food Jake had brought the night before was nearly finished and, she realised unhappily, he wouldn’t be back until much later.

  Hoping to God she was wrong Rion felt the familiar ache in her shoulders that normally foreshadowed a bout of illness.

  She curled up in the sleeping bag and dreamt of her new life in London, of working for Glamourista, of expensive make-up and beauty treatments, of friends, of feathered gowns by Hitherto Williams….

  Rion felt the rumbling grow and grow from deep inside her. Her breath constricted in ever shorter wheezes, her lungs expanded to their full capacity until, unable to contain the pressure any longer, she let out a magnificent, yelping sneeze.

  Outside it continued to rain.

  It was still raining when Ollie turned into the drive of Johnson Ogle’s large house on Heath Road. For an interior decorator, or ‘lifestyle enhancer’ as Johnson insisted on calling himself, he had done incredibly well. Although his many critics complained that the only lifestyle he had enhanced was his own, Johnson nevertheless had a following of loyal, and very rich, clients from Moscow to Mustique who required their various houses ‘doing’.

  Often once or twice a year.

  He had now reached the enviable stage of being in the same financial bracket as a lot of his clients, a fact represented by the beautiful corner house, with half-a-dozen winding red brick chimneys, that backed onto Hampstead Heath.

  A houseboy Ollie didn’t recognise showed him into the hall where Johnson awaited. />
  “Coffee in the conservatory please,” the lifestyle enhancer ordered before kissing Ollie on both cheeks. “I was so sorry to hear about James.” He took Ollie by the arm, leading him through to the rear of the elegant house, “You got the chocs?”

  Ollie nodded. He had never seen such an enormous box of chocolates as the ones that had arrived from Godiva the week of the funeral.

  “I thought you would find them more comforting than flowers which are just too deadly at such a time.”

  The conservatory, a Victorian affair Johnson had snapped up at a Scottish country house sale and had transported down, “at vast expense,” he always said proudly, lined the entire back of the building.

  Johnson gestured to the orchids that filled the room. “Cate gave me one when she was here and I’ve since gone completely mad for them. Of course you know Meryl has nothing else in her Manhattan bedroom, apparently they do wonderful things with ionisation – no more plugging in ugly little boxes ‘cos these babies,” Johnson surveyed the plants, “do it naturally.”

  Upon hearing a gentle rattling Johnson turned to Ollie, “Tell me what you think of the new ‘boy’ although, as you can see,” Johnson smiled, “I use the term loosely.”

  The houseboy entered wheeling a trolley upon which was an elegant silver coffee service. Ollie studied the young man in the crisp black uniform of the Ogle household. With his fresh face and tightly cropped hair he was no different from a thousand other personable young men.

  Johnson waved the boy away. “We’ll do it ourselves thank you – ” he winked at Ollie, “ – Leila.” Johnson, in that drawl so favoured by the English who travel constantly, made the name sound like ‘Lyle-a.’

  Ollie assumed it must be some pet name, either that or he had misheard. He looked after the departing houseboy. “Apart from the fact that he’s not called Gerardo and is not Latin American – ?”

  “Lesbians,” Johnson hissed, “they’re the way forward.”

  Ollie tried to digest the sentence.

  “They don’t want to mother you like straight women do and you don’t want to sleep with them like – ” Johnson fluttered his hand in the air, “Gerardo.”