Meanwhile Gardens Page 9

  “Or Eduardo, Rodolfo, Diego ….” Ollie added.

  “Exactly. It always ends in tears. Just too much trouble. And so – ” Johnson fluttered his hand again as he tried to find the right word, “ – temperamental,” he said finally.

  Yes, Ollie thought, all of your lovers had tempers and all tended to be mental.

  “But lesbians – they’re perfect, they love to wear uniform and they’re reassuringly dependable which, of course, fits in perfectly with my own modus operandum.”

  Ollie had heard Johnson’s philosophy spiel before. He made the decorator stew for a few seconds before asking, “Which is?”

  “Well,” the decorator began, happy to tell his story again, “you know the secret of my success is to be reassuring and dependable. I can always be relied on to find something ‘just so’ for a library or guest suite, and I’m always there to walk them to the opera or some ghastly ball and they know I’ll make them enjoy it.”

  Listening to Johnson Ollie could see what his clients saw in him. Everything about him was reassuring, his voice was calm and rich, his looks were ruggedly Harrison Ford – albeit Harrison Ford on a bad day as Johnson always said.

  “Or Harrison Ford on a fag day,” Ollie joked.

  “Harrison doesn’t have fag days,” Johnson smiled at his guest, revelling in the ease with which he dropped the star’s first name. “But Harrison on a bad day is better than 98% of men on their best days.”

  Ah, that ever-elusive 2% of men – wherever were they? Lulled by Johnson’s warm manner Ollie looked at the rain outside and wondered how Rion was coping. With Jake’s experience he was sure she was doing just fine.

  “And of course I’m gay, which the wives find reassuring – they know that with me they’re not going to get some minimalist crap pressed on them by some devoutly hetero family man with an obnoxious puritanical streak, no, with me they can swag and tassell with handmade Venetian fabrics until they drop.”

  Ollie looked around him. Apart from a riot of gilt, some dubious trompe l’oeil columns and the odd tiger print cushion, Johnson’s house betrayed more of the minimalism his clients hated than the swagging they loved.

  “And the husbands find it reassuring ‘cos they know that I’m not going to jump their wives and that, whilst with me, their wives are not going to jump the lithe surfer poolboy or the studly stable manager with the sexy Gloucestershire burr – Lady Chatterley is still an inspiration to many of these women.”

  Ollie’s thoughts wandered once more to the wellbuilt guy in Meanwhile Gardens. Did what he said really classify as small talk? Ollie was brought back to the conservatory in Hampstead by the clapping of hands. He looked up to find Johnson beaming at him.

  “But let’s see this table shall we?”

  Ignoring Hum’s reproachful look from the passenger seat Ollie opened the back of the van. He observed the new house‘boy’ as she helped carry the two carved wooden pedestals, and the blanket-wrapped plate of glass that fitted securely on top, into the morning room.

  The only thing Ollie noticed was the complete lack of spots or the beginnings of stubble that the seventeen-year-old boy she looked like would have. But then being twenty-two and female her hormones would be entirely different.

  Johnson looked at the pedestals, “Do I know the model?”

  The two wooden bases, both exactly the same, showed a male form on his knees, his muscled back flat over his body. His head and neck were straight as if looking at something on the floor in front of him. The figure’s arms were curled behind him, his hands demurely covering his backside.

  “Not unless you’re 2000 years old.”

  Johnson looked in one of a pair of gilt Louis XV mirrors. “That reminds me,” he put his hands beneath his temples and lifted them up to make the already smooth skin on his face even smoother, “it’s about time I saw Dr Richardson.”

  “Dr – ?” Ollie gave Johnson an enquiring look.

  Johnson lightly slapped his temples. “Fillers,” he explained.

  Ollie lifted the sheet of glass, easily slotting it into the two prepared grooves at the base of the man’s neck. The table was now in place.

  “Bit modest isn’t he?” Johnson sniffed. “I was expecting something more fully frontal.”

  “But it’s not for you is it Johnson?”

  Johnson hummed and hawed, certain if Ollie knew they were for someone else he would raise the price, “Weeeell...”

  Ollie took out his ever-present notepad and pen.

  “Is this more what you had in mind?” He quickly sketched an upside down man in the crab position. “I could make a pair of mainly decorative tables which, by making the stomach really flat, you could put a mug on – ”

  “It’s a cup and saucer in this house.”

  “ – but perhaps little else, or,” Ollie gestured to the table he had just assembled, “I could make them bigger, more of the coffee table size – ”

  “Hmmmmm,” Johnson examined Ollie’s sketch. “Let’s go for the decorative tables for the time being but,” Johnson took Ollie’s pen and drew in a more bulging crotch, “make them more like this ok?”

  Johnson looked at the rain pouring down outside and gave an oversized sigh. “Such a shame the weather’s so foul. I was hoping to go for my exercise.”

  Ollie knew this was a cue for a compliment. Johnson looked at him with big eyes, waiting.

  “I thought you looked well Johnson.”

  Johnson smiled. “Well I’ve been going for regular aerobic exercise, what we in Hampstead call, – ” he paused then whispered conspiratorially, “ – blow-jogs.”

  Ollie hadn’t heard the term before but the words were self-explanatory. Just in case he had missed the meaning Johnson explained, “Everybody’s at it this time of day. All the City boys and dealers come back from work, jog up to the Heath and – ”

  “I get it. I get it.”

  “There must be a lot of spouses mystified as to why their partners are still as unfit as they were before. It’s taken over from walking the dog as the favourite excuse and not a moment too soon. There’s nothing more offputting than having someone go down on you only to have Fido come sniffing round….”

  Unwilling to hear any more of the sex lives of Hampstead denizens Ollie got up, “I have to go Johnson. I’ll let you know about the tables.”

  By nine o’clock Rion was ready to move out. Water had started trickling over the high first step about half an hour before. In the flickering candlelight she could see several large pools on the chamber floor – several large pools getting larger, she realised unhappily.

  It was time for action.

  Wriggling out of the snug sleeping bag Rion was surprised at how cold it was. With her throat beginning to burn and her limbs feeling suddenly heavy, Rion struggled into her black and white checked trousers, pulled on her fleece and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

  The first disappointment was finding her trainers, an island of shoe in one of the large pools beneath the bed. She shivered. There could be nothing worse than squeezing cold feet into already wet sneakers.

  Rion felt she was starring in her own Gothic horror film as the guttering candle threw uncomfortable shapes over the ceiling and walls. She grabbed the pencil-torch from the shelf, pulled on her white pac-a-mac and drew back the now sodden, heavy pink blanket from the doorway. The accompanying breeze blew out the already sputtering candles.

  Switching on the torch Rion was dismayed to find its weak beam barely pierced the darkness. “Here we go Rion,” she said to herself, strengthened by the sound of her own voice. “Think of Blondin, think of crossing – ” the next word came surprisingly naturally as Rion took her first step into the pool that had once been the little clearing, “the Niagara,” she said miserably, feeling the cold water slosh into her shoes and around her feet.

  To keep the demons away Rion began to whistle and then sing one of her favourite songs. It was a chirpy number by Candi Staton that always lifted her spirits, b
ut this time her voice struggled hoarsely with the tune.

  Before she got to the end of the second line her foot met with one of the stones around what was once the fire. With her toes well and truly stubbed Rion did a hop of pain. She momentarily lost her balance, slipped and landed bum first in the unfortunately refreshing water.

  A second later she heard a small splash which, with a sinking feeling, she realised was the torch.

  Deciding it would be useless to look for the torch which, in any case, would now be completely unworkable, Rion made for the dimness of the opening. Thinking she couldn’t get any wetter she pushed through the dripping saplings, realising once more, how wrong she could be.

  Now completely soaked Rion found her way to the fence, squeezed past the broken railing and entered the cemetery. Shivering she knocked into several headstones as she headed for the mass of Jake’s tree. He would want her to go there, she told herself, to get warm and dry, perhaps a change of clothes…Rion quickened her step – a change of clothes! The notion at first sounded so remote it appeared inaccessible.

  Lost in the dream of warm dry clothes Rion didn’t notice the headlights coming down the avenue.

  Until it was too late.

  From the interior of the guards’ jeep Rion appeared lit up as an eery ghoul. Toy figures, masked and dancing, dangled from the jeep’s rearview mirror.

  “What the hell is that Gorby?” Beck, the young guard, turned to the driver.

  “Beats me,” Gorby replied winding down his window. “Hey!” he shouted into the night.

  Rion turned round to be blinded by the powerful lights. Panicking she ran onto the woodchips of a smaller path, the lights of the jeep showing her the way between the tombs on either side.

  Hearing a door slam behind her she ran on, ignoring the voices calling into the night. Her wet clothes hung cold and heavy against her, restricting her progress, her waterlogged trainers chafed her feet, but Rion ran as fast as she could.

  When she was out of the jeep’s glare she turned round to see two powerful torches searching the night in her wake. Rion squelched on, soon ducking behind an ornate mausoleum to catch her breath and get her bearings.

  She figured she was on a small path off South Avenue, not far from the main entrance gateway, that would, at this hour, be securely locked.

  What had Jake told her again? She wracked her memory. Something about another escape route through the fence near the Reformer’s Memorial? Or was it the Dissenter’s Chapel? They were both in the direction she was going – she would find out when she got there.

  Rion could hear the guards coming closer and closer. She held her breath, certain they could hear her beating heart.

  Or her chattering teeth.

  She saw the torches light up grieving angels and marble steles, the powerful beam flashing over burial plots and into corners in their search for the trespasser.

  Feeling another huge sneeze come on Rion watched, eyes watering, as the two guards gave up the search. Halfway to the jeep Gorby turned round and flashed his torch at the ornate tomb. The momentary adrenaline rush scared the sneeze away although Rion wasn’t sure if she had jumped back fast enough.

  “She’s vanished,” said the younger guard.

  “Spooks always do,” Gorby replied, although he wasn’t so sure. He was intrigued though – this ‘spook’ could be just what they were looking for.

  8

  AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL

  Ollie had only been back for five minutes before Hum barked ahead of an urgent knock on the door. He opened it to find Nicky on the doorstep.

  “Come on! Come on!” Clutching a bottle of wine she pushed past him, “Don’t you know it’s raining out there?”

  Ollie looked at his watch. It was quarter past nine. “You’re fifteen minutes early,” Ollie grumbled as he followed Nicky up the stairs and into the sitting room.

  “Yeah, well, I thought I might get a headstart on the news if I arrived early.” Nicky rummaged through the cutlery drawer, found the corkscrew and quickly opened the Cabernet Sauvignon.

  “Not until Gem ‘n Em get here.”

  Nicky poured a glass for Ollie and then one for herself, “How was Johnson?”

  Ollie began telling her about the lifestyle enhancer and his blow-jogs when again Hum’s bark preceded another series of knocks.

  “So when you say you’re going jogging we’re not going to find you, trousers around your ankles, in the bushes along the canal?” Nicky called to Ollie as he went down to open the door.

  With a smile Ollie swung open the door to let in Auntie Gem and Auntie Em.

  “We’re not too early are we dear?” Auntie Gem asked.

  “Nicky’s already here. She thought I might spill the beans before you arrived.”

  “And did you?” Auntie Em kissed him on the cheek and went up the stairs.

  “He wouldn’t, would you child?” Auntie Gem tickled his ribs as she followed Em up to the sitting room.

  “Of course not.”

  The two very different ladies – Auntie Em, white, tall, in her early fifties and Auntie Gem, five foot one, black, closing on seventy – settled themselves on the sofa.

  Nicky handed them a glass of wine each, “Don’t worry he hasn’t told me anything.”

  “Now precious,” Auntie Em began, “what is this ‘monumental news’?”

  “Firstly, it’s just – ” Ollie began pacing up and down in front of the fireplace. “What would you think about if – and that’s all it is at the moment an ‘if’ – someone moved into lA?”

  His question met with silence. Even Nicky was quiet. 1A, the house next to Ollie’s, was known as the ‘unlucky house’ due to the mishaps that befell its residents. It hadn’t been lived in since the McGuires left four years ago.

  Auntie Em was the first to speak. “You know how we feel about that angel.”

  Ollie did know. Auntie Em, in some way, felt responsible for the unhappiness that had affected the inhabitants of lA. In her eyes everyone who had moved in there had met with misfortune.

  Two had ended up in addiction clinics, one had been sectioned, the Robinsons had divorced, prior to that Lily McGuire’s son had met with that terrible accident – Auntie Em linked a whole catalogue of wretchedness to the ‘unlucky’ house.

  “But if you think about it Auntie Em some of those disasters were actually blessings. Harriet and Sasha have been clean now for several years, Martin got the help he needed, the Robinsons – well, they weren’t really suited anyway and Lily’s boy – when they removed the spike they found he had a much more serious condition which, if left untreated, would have been potentially fatal.”

  Nicky came to his aid, “Sasha and Harriet say getting clean was the best thing that happened to them.”

  “Who is it that wants to move in?”

  “Well, that’s just it Auntie Gem. I haven’t told her – this person – about lA but I have a feeling she needs our help, or will do soon.”

  “Ollie, this isn’t one of your lost causes is it?” Nicky asked, her tone had changed from one of support to one of suspicion.

  “You’re very sweet, angel, but you can be too trusting sometimes,” Auntie Em chimed in.

  “And too nice. Remember Stan?”

  Ollie really didn’t want to. “But he – ”

  “Remember Stan?” Nicky persisted.

  “Yes,” Ollie said crossly, remembering the builder who came to replaster the sitting room ceiling, moved in with Ollie before promptly moving out with his stereo, record/cd and dvd collection, alongwith one of Nicky’s cameras. It was only after some diligent sleuthing that they found everything at the Record & Tape Exchange in Notting Hill Gate.

  “We got it all back though.”

  “That’s not the point Ol.”

  “Why don’t you tell us a bit more about this person?” Auntie Gem asked. She refilled Auntie Em’s glass, before standing to top up Nicky’s.

  “Well,” Ollie said, “you sort of know her Au
ntie Gem.”

  It was at that moment Rion chose to make her entrance. Having made it to Meanwhile Gardens Mews she found the door to number three was open ajar. From his bed at the top of the stairs Hum opened one eye and half-heartedly wagged his tail.

  As Auntie Gem moved round to pour some wine into Ollie’s glass she felt a blast of cold air come up the stairwell. She looked over the banister.

  What she saw froze her blood.

  Seeming to hover halfway up the stairs was the ghostly figure of the young girl from the cemetery, but this time, Auntie Gem noted, she looked like she had crawled through the gates of Hell. Large, haunted eyes looked up at her, her mouth opened beseeching, beseeching, croaking some satanic message from the otherside.

  Rion’s long bedraggled hair was matted to her mud spattered face, her white-pac-a-mac floated around her in the current of air. With her sore throat killing her she tried to call Ollie’s name but nothing came out apart from a dreadful hoarse growling. Looking up Rion saw a horrified black woman holding a bottle of wine.

  With a scream Auntie Gem collapsed back into the sitting room and fainted dead away.

  The rain had finally slowed to drizzle when Jake made it home to Kensal Green Cemetery. The house painting in the wilds of Stoke Newington would take another three days at least. If they finished before the weekend the actor whose house it was had promised a handsome bonus. It would be another early start in the morning.

  Jake looked at his watch to see it was nearly twelve thirty. He had to be away by six which meant, he realised, five hours sleep maximum.

  He had tried to convince himself all day that Rion would be all right. After all Old George had seen off much worse weather with never a drop on the chamber floor.

  He had tried to convince himself but failed.

  Underneath he had this nagging feeling that Rion wasn’t ok, that something unfortunate had happened to the young girl.

  Squeezing through the railings and the dripping saplings Jake whistled his arrival. He wasn’t too put out when there was no welcoming whistle in return – Rion would surely be wrapped up in the sleeping bag, fast asleep.