Paul Theroux - The Family Arsenal

‘Hey!’

Murf was on the stairs. She hurried into the hall, but he was fast, moving nimbly on all fours up the last flight. He bounded to the landing and ran to the door of the back room, then crouched in an attitude of truculence like a startled sentry, protecting the room as Hood had ordered.

‘I told you not to come up here! You’re not supposed to — this here room’s private.’

He had surprised Lady Arrow with his speed and noise, interrupted her laughter. But now she saw the absurd boy with the reddened ears, puffing and holding himself so importantly in front of the door — the wrong door! — and she laughed all the harder.

‘Sneak!’

She was delighted, she was justified, she knew why she had come: it was an inspired visit. And she had a claim on them. She would stake it emphatically. Now she could reach the girl, separate her from Murf; and though she felt like an intruder and vulnerable to humiliation (it had happened before: that hysterical procuress at Holloway had screamed from her cell, ‘Here she is again to look at the monkeys!’) — her voice alone sometimes made her an enemy — she knew Brodie was hers. And the others, whoever they were: all hers. The knowledge of strength, her certitude, was comedy. She had cracked a great joke.

Downstairs she was still laughing at the thought of it, and again she saw the brass ashtray, the piece of junk they’d singled out and preferred to the small Chinese treasures and she knew how they could make such a silly mistake. But what worthless thing were they protecting in that other room?

‘Your friend was upstairs,’ said Murf. ‘Nosing around.’

‘It probably don’t matter,’ said Brodie.

‘It’s private,’ said Murf. He spoke to Lady Arrow. ‘I told you it’s private, didn’t I?’

‘You’re being awfully boring, Murf,’ said Lady Arrow. ‘What is it you don’t want me to see?’

‘Nothing. It’s just private.’

Lady Arrow had become calmer, acquired the serene smugness of ownership, though for moments she fell silent, remembered, and laughed. The situation was under control. She sat down, jamming her hips into the chair, and she had the immovable solidity of a householder in her own drawing room, as if her bottom was cemented to a plinth.

Murf said, ‘You better go now.’

‘But I haven’t had my tea,’ she said and motioned for Brodie to bring it. She took the cup and smiled at Brodie over the rim. ‘You didn’t tell me you lived in such a fascinating house.’

‘It’s okay,’ said Brodie.

Lady Arrow drank her tea, smiling between sips.

‘When she finishes,’ said Murf, ‘she’s pushing off. I’m not taking the blame for this.’

‘Dry up, Murf, it don’t matter.’

‘Blame? For what?’ said Lady Arrow.

‘Sneaking around upstairs. Sticking your nose where it don’t belong.’

‘Did I see your precious room?’

‘You wanted to.’

‘What a lot of balls you talk, Murf,’ said Lady Arrow. ‘Brodie, isn’t there anything you can do with him?’

‘Brodie knows the rules,’ said Murf. ‘No visitors. She didn’t want to tell you, so I’m telling you straight.’

Wules, strite : she almost laughed. She said, ‘You came to my house, didn’t you? Did I make a fuss? I’m simply returning the visit, doing the civilized thing.’

Murf had no reply. He glared at Brodie and repeated, ‘She knows the rules.’

‘It’s not even five o’clock. You can’t chase me away so soon.’

‘Maybe when you finish your tea,’ said Brodie. ‘Murf’s right. We’ve got this stupid rule.’

‘That rule cannot possibly apply to me,’ said Lady Arrow. She raised her cup and drained it.

‘Right,’ said Murf, ‘that’s it. You’re finished — out you go.’ He stood up and advanced on her; he was more belligerent in his own clothes — faded jeans, a black jersey, an old waistcoat — than he had been in Brodie’s. He tottered near her, but even standing he was not much taller than Lady Arrow, who was seated.

‘I adore bad manners,’ said Lady Arrow, smiling at him with her long sallow face. ‘Yours are quite terrible, Murf, but I assure you mine are much worse.’ She turned to Brodie. ‘I think I’ll have more tea.’

‘No more bloody char,’ said Murf.

‘Brodie,’ said Lady Arrow, holding out her empty cup. Murf put his hands on his hips and glowered at her. She said, ‘Oh, do sit down and stop being such a ham.’

‘They’re coming back,’ said Murf to Brodie. ‘They’re not going to like this —’

Lady Arrow looked abstracted for a moment, then burst out laughing. Wonderful!

‘— and I ain’t sticking up for you this time. It’s your look-out.’

‘It’s this bloke that lives here,’ Brodie said, turning from Murf to Lady Arrow, who was beaming at the blank wall. ‘He won’t like it if he sees you here.’

‘I’d very much like to meet him,’ said Lady Arrow. Another competitor — who? And what hold did he have? But she was unconcerned. Brodie was slim, with a fawn’s small coy face, and short hair — so awkward and small-breasted she could have been a boy. It was a type Lady Arrow especially desired, the light uncertain body, the clear skin. She wanted Brodie in a boy’s beautiful suit and velvet tie, and to make love to her before an enormous mirror, undressing her slowly and hearing her clamour for breath as she slipped the clothes from her skin.

‘He’s got this bad temper,’ Brodie explained in a monotone, tucking her white arms against her side and hunching her shoulders. ‘Like he breaks things.’

Murf was close to Lady Arrow. He showed her the pegs of his teeth and said, ‘He’ll break your neck, lady.’

‘I’ve got a very strong neck, my boy,’ said Lady Arrow, and she thought: Brike your neck — they can’t hurt me, I own them. She was buoyant. Upstairs she had proven herself unassailable. The boy with dowels for teeth stood near her mouthing threats, but there was nothing more he could do, and she pitied his helplessness. ‘I would love another cup, Brodie.’

‘There’s no more tea,’ said Brodie.

‘Don’t deny me.’

‘Take a walk!’ cried Murf, working his shoulders menacingly.

‘Dear girl,’ said Lady Arrow, ‘I do believe he’s frightened you. But you have nothing to fear — you’ll see.’

Brodie was being obstinate, and Lady Arrow saw she would have to fight to have her — she would win, but she didn’t want to destroy Murf. She hated the way Murf nagged — he looked so silly trying to threaten her with that face and those ears, the scrawny shoulders, the grubby waistcoat. She believed she could have knocked him over quite easily, but she only laughed. Seeing how she was enraging him she rose to give him room.

There were bangings at the back entrance, the slam of a door, the thud and pause of boots.

‘It’s ’ood!’ said Murf, and now he looked desperate. ‘Get out, get out!’

‘Take your filthy hands off me,’ said Lady Arrow. To free herself from Murf’s pushing she simply stood up. Then she was out of reach, and again she felt sorry for him. His anger was so futile. Perhaps it was futility, nothing more, that made him angry.

Brodie said, ‘Please go.’

‘I don’t think I shall,’ said Lady Arrow, but she had barely finished the sentence when she saw the door open and the hawk-faced man enter. He was tall, with stiff black hair and he almost frightened Lady Arrow with his squinting eyes. He wore a black raincoat and black boots, but what disturbed her most was that he said absolutely nothing. Through his posture and his fixed expression of sullen enquiry he communicated threat. She saw him as her equal, and in Brodie and Murf’s cringing she saw his hold over them. But she would not be sent away. This was her competitor for Brodie. She was glad he looked strong, and yet to win was no victory — the advantage was hers. He shut the door and stared at her.