Питер Ловси - On the Edge

Antonia tossed her fur coat over a chair. ‘Hector insisted we furnish it in Regency. He’s so hidebound. When we’ve got rid of him I’m going to strip it bare and start again. I want white walls and huge abstract paintings. Do you like Ben Nicholson?’

Rose missed the question. The skin at the back of her neck felt as if something had crawled across it.

‘The painter, darling.’

Her legs started to shake. If she wasn’t to make a complete idiot of herself she had to stay upright and mouth some words that would keep Antonia talking about the house. ‘Who did you say?’

‘Ben Nicholson.’

‘He’s a painter, is he? I can’t say I’ve heard of him.’

Antonia reached around Rose’s shoulder and gently helped her off with her coat. ‘Sweetie, you should never admit such ignorance. What you should say is, Nicholson’s all right, but I prefer Stanley Spencer or Paul Nash or — who do you prefer?’

Rose’s thoughts were still in turmoil. Name an artist. Any artist. She couldn’t. ‘I don’t know anything about modern art.’

‘Christ Almighty. Then you should definitely meet Hector. He thinks Picasso is something Italians eat. Make yourself at home in the sitting room — second door — and I’ll see if he’s in yet. He was supposed to be having lunch with a French professor. Ten to one he’s sleeping it off.’

‘Antonia, don’t disturb him on my account. I’m sure there’ll be another opportunity.’

There was a pause.

‘The opportunity is now, my flower. It’s got to be faced.’

She grasped Antonia’s arm. ‘Just a moment. I’d like to get this clear if you don’t mind. What exactly has got to be faced?’

Antonia made light of it. ‘Did I make him sound like an ogre? Don’t worry — he’s the one who should look out.’

Rose didn’t pursue the question. Mentally she was reeling. She stepped into the room Antonia had indicated. It was as large as her own kitchen, sitting room and passage knocked into one. The dominant colours were blue and white. A tall clock startled her by chiming the quarter-hour. The date 1765 was painted on it in gold. Sets of china and silver were ranged about the walls in display cabinets. Waist-high Chinese vases that she took to be Ming stood on either side of the fireplace, where a white Persian cat was staring at the flames. It raised itself, arched, yawned and came to rub its head against her legs.

She stooped to run her fingers through the fur, wanting urgently to find some way of calming her nerves. She tried marshalling the few facts she’d learned about Hector: the meeting with Antonia on the steps of the air-raid shelter; his civilian status in the war; the death by drowning of his wife, whose name Rose had forgotten. To which could be added his ignorance of modern art and his lunch today with a French professor. And the evidence all around Rose that she had never been so close to real wealth.

Antonia pushed open the door. ‘Just as I thought. He says he wants black coffee. How about you?’

‘Coffee would be nice. Can I help?’

‘No, I want to show off. We had a couple of servants until two weeks ago, a married couple, Irish. They took exception to something I said and walked out in a huff. Getting replacements is the very devil. However, I’ve learned how to make coffee, so I don’t miss a chance to impress visitors. You can come and see the kitchen if you like.’

Rose stopped in the kitchen doorway and put her hands to her face. ‘Oh, Antonia!’

‘What’s that? My fridge?’

It stood on stilts, a humming white cabinet of monumental size with a door like the front of a bank vault that Antonia needed two hands to unfasten and swing open. Rose gasped in awe at the intricate arrangement of shelves and trays inside, the Perspex storage boxes, the ice compartment and the place for bottles. For the moment her terrors were suspended.

‘You like?’

She gave a start. Her nerves were in no state for surprises. Possibly the small man at her shoulder — who could be no one else but Hector — hadn’t meant to startle her. He was so short that he’d slipped under her protective radar. She looked into a fleshy, smiling face framed in unruly reddish hair. Alert, brown intelligent eyes. Small, even teeth. A quite low-pitched voice with a strange intonation.

‘You can order one from me. In production next year.’

Antonia slammed the fridge door. ‘For Christ’s sake, Hector, she lives in a matchbox. Rosie, this impetuous little man is my husband.’

Hector was unperturbed. Whether or not he understood, he treated her remark as a recommendation. ‘Yes, I take orders now. Quality vacuum cleaners and fridges. Take the work out of housework. The only thing you hear from GEC, Prestcold, any of those companies is, fridges are on the way, worth waiting for, coming soon. Me, I take orders. How often do you wash your clothes? Soon I have a washing machine on the market better than anything in America. How do you do?’

They shook hands. He must have been ten years Antonia’s senior, possibly more. Redheaded people carry their age well.

Rose was trying hard to place the accent. She hadn’t expected a foreigner.

‘I’ve never seen such an amazing fridge.’

‘You like to see my high power vacuum cleaner?’

Antonia put a restraining hand on Hector’s shoulder. In her heels she was cruelly taller than he. ‘Hec, my cherub, you’re boring my friend already. Why don’t you take her into the sitting room and talk about something unmechanical while I brew up my delicious coffee?’

Out of earshot in the sitting room Rose confided to Hector that after all she would be interested to hear about his work.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Certain.’

‘I thought so.’ He pulled two chairs together and gestured to her to be seated. ‘Antonia has heard it many times before. It’s not news to her no more. You know, Rosie, engineering is in my blood. My father he had the first motor car in Prague. When I was still in short trousers he showed me how to strip. You understand?’

‘Take the engine to pieces?’

‘And assemble again. Clever boy, oily fingers, I went to technical school. Worked in a motor car factory seven years, made enough ackers to kiss my father goodbye, go to America. Detroit. Bloody hard work. Making automobiles by day, aeroplane parts by night. I worked six to midnight for a small guy starting up. Four, maybe five hours sleep, but no matter. This was one hell of a good time to be in aero-engineering. I had a brilliant idea for a carburettor nobody thought of. So my friend says, Hec, why don’t you give up making automobiles and be my partner? Half-share in the business. We shake hands and sign a paper. In two years, big profit. Big expansion. I expanded, too. Don’t smile. I mean I got married. Maudie, a sweet girl from Detroit who wanted only one thing — to get the hell out of there. So I told my partner the problem. He bought me out and we sailed to England. 1931. Mauretania.’

‘Romantic.’

Hector winked. ‘Good business, too, Rosie. Plenty of customers for aero parts. I made the best carburettors Britain ever saw. I started a small factory in Surbiton, handy for Vickers. In seven years I had customers all over. I built factories in Birmingham, Southampton, Oxford. Many orders. Then the war came along. Aircraft production went crazy. Lord Beaverbrook cried out for carburettors. Everyone wanted carburettors. A. V. Roe, Vickers Supermarine, Handley Page, Fairey.’

Hector was warming to his story. The cat made a run for the door as Antonia came in with the coffee.

‘Has he bored you stiff with his carburettors, darling? He talks about them the way other people talk about their operations.’

‘I find it fascinating.’