Jane Gardam - Last Friends

After the coffee, Fiscal-Smith made for the London Underground feeling greatly restored. Yet as the tube rattled along to King’s Cross, everybody sitting blank and dreary staring at their thoughts, his good-humour ebbed. It was now mid-afternoon.

In the Flying Scotsman, heading North — not the old patrician Flying Scotsman but a flashy lowlander calling itself so — the seats, his being one of the last free, were lumpy and small. The train was cold. In two other seats at the small table for four there were two lap-tops plugged in and hard at work. In the fourth seat was an unwashed young man rhythmically nodding his head, an intrusive metallic hissing emanating from the machinery in his ears. The journey was to take three hours, the corridor packed solid towards the Buffet and a cup of tea. No drinks’ trolley. Where had he put his over-night case? The luggage rack was too narrow for anything but a brief-case or a coat. He was wishing for a coat. A coat on his back. He was really cold now. Actually, he was shivering.

Nobody spoke. Nobody smiled. Many coughed. Above the perpetual restless shuffling noises of the lap-tops, raucous, overhead messages about where the train was going and where it would stop and which would be the next station-stop quacked out every few minutes. Ding-dong signals shouted into mobile phones up and down the coach had one loud universal message: that their owner was expecting to be met by a car at his destination.

Met. Fiscal-Smith had made no arrangements to be met at Darlington. He was slipping. Why ever had he wasted all that time telling those old bores on the Bench about the lion-tamer’s apprentice of over sixty years ago? Shouldn’t drink at lunch-time. Broken the life-time rule of his profession. Long day. Those church vestments! That time with Susan on Tisbury station telling her about Veneering. Sulky Sue. Feeling hot now. And cold. Not so young as I was. Ninety in a few years. Ye gods!

At York many alighted but many more struggled aboard. ‘You OK, chum?’ asked a Jamaican who was replacing the man with the electronic ears. Still strange to see a Jamaican up north. Like Jamaicans. Good case there once. Six months sunlight. Veneering’s junior. Old Mona Hotel outside Kingston. Sunsets. Lizards. Rum and pineapple. Case about a gigantic drain. Old Princess Royal there. Could she drink gin! Wouldn’t go to bed. All her ladies-in-waiting asleep on their feet. Queen Mother? Blue eyes. Blue as Lady Mountbatten’s. Now, there was a—. Should have told those babes in arms at the Inner Temple how the Queen Mother once came to dinner in Lincoln’s Inn and beamed round and said, ‘What a lot of Darkies.’

I really do feel rather ill.

At Darlington he clambered out, the Jamaican helping with his bag, coming along the platform with him, trying to find someone to give the old guy a hand.

No-one. Dark night.

He tramped the long platform, down the steps and through the tunnel of white glazed brick. Contemptuously — no contemporary —with Stevenson probably. Graffiti. Strange faces in the shadows. Urine-smells. On the empty taxi-rank he waited, feeling his forehead. It was on fire.

‘ Where ?’ asked the taxi driver twenty minutes later. ‘Yarm? It’s ten miles!’

‘The Judges Hotel.’

‘I doubt it’s going to be open this time of night. It’s dark.’

‘I can’t get to my own house tonight, it’s up on the moor. On my grouse moor, actually.’

‘They’ll have to fly you in then. I’m not risking that road up. Come on then, mister, hop in. We’ll try the Hanging Judges. I’ll give them a bell.’

‘I was ringing church bells this morning at half-past five,’ Fiscal-Smith told him, and thought, I’m wandering. This day is a feverish dream. Not good. Lived too long.

But through the oak door of what had once been the very comfortable Assize-Court lodging for itinerant judges, a woman in disarray was coming running, shouting and waving a torch.

‘Whatever time o’ night d’you call this, Fred? Why din’t yer book in? Yes, there’s a bed and yes you can have the downstairs Sir Edward had with the gold-fish and the bears. Quick, you’re not well. Top and tail wash while I find you a hot-water bottle. I’ll bring you a tray to bed. At your age! Should be ashamed. A man with a good brain — except for living in that daft place up the hill. Hot milk and aspirins. No — no whisky. You’re shaking. It’ll be the bird flu and stress. Doctor first thing tomorrow. I looked down the Telegraph list of folk at Sir Edward’s memorial service and first thing I thought, Now then, did he tek his coat? I meant you.’

Deep in good wool blankets — none of your duvets — roasting with two hot-water bottles, fore and aft — and a tray across his stomach (ham sandwiches which he did not want) Fiscal-Smith sank into fitful sleep. Old Filth had slept in this bed. What’s left of him now in Malayan swamp? Gold-fish bubbling. Terrible teddy bears. Queer massage machine for feet. Chamber pot! Chamber-pot ! Like the Cossack and Muriel Street. ‘Please do not feed the fish.’ ‘Click here for music’. No, no. Silence in court.

Someone was switching things off. Covering him with an extra blanket. Talking about him, but just to herself. Didn’t have to answer. North is a better country.

* * *

Did I really tell them about that case? The ladies’ parted legs? The ‘smiles’? Personally never seen such things. Wouldn’t want to. Dulcie. Very long day. Poor Veneering dead on Malta! Never thought ahead. None of us.

I shall probably die now. Bugger the Temple, The Knights Templar.

What’s left of them will have to come up here to mine. Do them good.

About ten years after the Guy Fawkes Party, London blazing and bombardment of cities all over the country, Terry Venetski, safe from the Works, and now one of Mr. Fondle’s elite, came home from school at The Towers one day to No. 9 Muriel Street carrying a third letter to his parents, formally addressed and sealed.

He was taller now than either of them, broader and stronger. His hair was still extraordinary, wild and long, and white gold, and he had the same alert charm as the baby born nearly fourteen years ago after the Russian circus came to town. The letter said:

“In view of hostilities in the south of the country and the attacks on our ports and industrial centres I and the Governors of my School, The Towers, are asking for parents’ views on its evacuation to Canada in September.

A magnificent newly-built cruise-liner recently completed in India, The City of Benares , has generously been put at our disposal by the government, mostly for London children rendered homeless by the Blitz. There are berths for two hundred children, all of whom will travel free. There are also private passengers, trained voluntary foster-parents for the journey, excellent fostering promised for the time in Canada, however long this may be.

The ship is luxuriously appointed with excellent food, entertainments and comforts. The stewards are highly-trained, and love children. They almost all come from the city of Benares in India. All are ready for torpedo attacks and the ship will of course be escorted by corvettes of the Royal Navy. Mrs. Fondle will be accompanying us and we plan to remain in Canada for the duration of the war.

Nothing can be agreed upon unless all parents support the evacuation. We ask for an immediate reply . Signed HAROLD FONDLE, M.A. OXON.”

Terry tossed the letter upon the bed as he came in, then went out again and down to the Palace Cinema where he met up with a waiting girl and they went into the back row, supposedly to watch Deanna Durbin in A Hundred Men and a Girl .