Part 27 (1/2)
Fifteen minutes later his body was vibrating from a loud, hollow noise, repeated at regular intervals. It was the sound of a gong.
”Mr. Black!” a voice shouted, as if from under the bedsprings. A few seconds later Mrs. Pettybone reappeared in the doorway, releasing vapour from a violet can.
Norval watched, one eye glued shut. ”What's the fragrance of the day, Mrs. Pettybone? Guest Neutraliser? Norvalicide?”
”His lords.h.i.+p's breakfast is served.”
And so it was. Plates so full that Norval wondered if a party of stevedores would be down any minute. Fried eggs, rashers, sausages heaped on one plate, mounds of fried potatoes and tomatoes on another, stacks of toasted brown bread dripping margarine on yet another. Jars of marmalade and honey, two miniature boxes of Corn Flakes, a pitcher of milk, a pitcher of orange juice, and something grey and viscous that looked like a pot of glue.
”You're late, Mr. Black. I believe in the three p p's: punctuality, propriety, cleanliness.”
Norval arched an eyebrow, but let it pa.s.s. Mrs. Pettybone, in trainers and tracksuit, was bobbing and fidgeting like a runner in a relay, waiting for the baton. She made several adjustments to the items on the table, all unnecessary. ”Eat,” she commanded, before racing back to the kitchen.
Norval did as he was told, gratefully, ravenously, while glancing at a Nottingham Post Nottingham Post folded neatly beside his plate. Not a bad woman, actually. Must bring up the subject of money. And Gally. As he bit into an oil-popping sausage he thought he heard footsteps from above, in the vicinity of his room. folded neatly beside his plate. Not a bad woman, actually. Must bring up the subject of money. And Gally. As he bit into an oil-popping sausage he thought he heard footsteps from above, in the vicinity of his room.
Mrs. Pettybone returned with a stainless-steel pot. ”Will you have milk first or last in your coffee, Mr. Black? I'm not offering tea because frogs don't drink it.” She said these words with the speed of an auctioneer, as if she'd just consumed a pot or two herself.
”I don't take milk,” Norval replied. ”So listen, Gally mentioned that-”
”I suppose you've no money to pay for your room, am I right, Mr. Black? I do not care for economic cripples. Least of all French ones.”
Norval nodded. ”Yes, well, as a matter of fact, Mrs. Pettybone, I am a bit undercapitalised. My accountant, I'm afraid, has buried my wealth in impenetrable sh.e.l.l companies and offsh.o.r.e accounts. Very difficult to get at.”
Mrs. Pettybone's eyes narrowed. ”Very funny,” she replied. ”If I wanted a clown, I wouldn't have divorced my husband.” She began pouring milk into Norval's coffee. ”So what do you do for a living, Mr. Black? What is your trade?”
Norval hesitated, wondering how best to answer this. ”I'm a professional actor.”
Mrs. Pettybone recoiled, as if he'd said he was a professional leper, take my arm for this dance.
”In fact,” Norval continued, ”that's why I'm here in England. But there's been a few foul-ups ... Gally thought that-”
”That I'm a soft touch. We'll discuss the matter later.” Mrs. Pettybone, now wearing orange rubber gloves, removed his plate, as well as a fork from his hand. ”I'll just do the was.h.i.+ng up,” she said. ”And don't even think about lighting up that cigarette!”
By the time Norval finished his newspaper, lingered over his coffee and returned to his room, his clothes were washed, dried and ironed. Impossible, he calculated. Surely a record of some sort. Must call Guinness. Even his socks and underwear were ironed. He put on his chlorinated, fabricsoftened clothes, b.u.t.ted his cigarette, then hitchhiked into Nottingham in search of a job.
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This pattern, unbroken, continued for the next seven days. Norval, the only guest in the house, awoke to blading sunlight or a flicking lightswitch, then reawoke to a gong; he ate like a swine at breakfast to obviate lunch and dinner, went out looking for work, came back after dinner without work. Why did he stay? Because he was penniless, because Mrs. Pettybone no longer mentioned money, because he was starting to like the woman. The way she doted on him, the way she darned the darns on his socks, sewed b.u.t.tons on his s.h.i.+rts, polished and repolished his boots, appointed them with Odour Eaters. True, he could do without the ironed underwear and crease down his jeans. True, the woman was insane. But you can't have everything. Besides, there were mysteries to solve. Who exactly was Gally? And where was the inviolable innkeeper's daughter?
On his eighth day Norval got a job: playing an eighteen-year-old Rimbaud in a film based on the poet's life in London in the 1870s. He couldn't believe his luck. I dazzled the director, he thought, I was made for this role ...
Returning to the house well after midnight, with celebratory beer on his breath and a script under his arm, he got lost in the manor's dark labyrinths. He tiptoed right, left, up one corridor and down another. His memory had completely fogged. He climbed what he thought was his staircase but arriving at the top realised it went nowhere. It just stopped four or five feet from the ceiling. He walked back down, shaking his head, worse for drink than he thought. On the landing a door opened.
A figure in a man's white dress-s.h.i.+rt, torn tights and unlaced boots stepped out of the shadow. ”Monsieur Blaquiere, je presume?”
Norval scrutinized her pale, makeup-less features, radically short hair and tattered clothes. She was in utter disarray She was in utter disarray, he said to himself, the words floating back from his audition. Rattlings of death and rings of muted music made her G.o.ddess-like body rise, expand, tremble like a ghost Rattlings of death and rings of muted music made her G.o.ddess-like body rise, expand, tremble like a ghost ... ...
”I'm Teresa, Mrs. Pettybone's daughter. Are you ... hearing-impaired?”
”No, sorry, I'm just a bit ... lost. Well, more than a bit. Wholly. I went up those steps, you see, and ...”
”Unmotivated steps.”
” ... and then I ... I'm sorry?”
”They're called unmotivated steps-they lead nowhere. My grandfather liked them for some reason, liked the irrationality of it all. So do I, for that matter.”
The hall light began to flash on and off. ”Teresa?” a high voice clucked from below. Mrs. Pettybone's. ”Are you all right, dear? Is that boy violating you? He's from the theatre!”
”I'm fine, Mother!”
”And he's French!”
”You can go back to sleep, Mother!” To Norval, sotto voce sotto voce, she said, ”We'd better talk in here. Can I offer you a drink?” She smelled the beer on his breath. ”A coffee?”
Norval glanced at the neckline of her s.h.i.+rt, which had slipped to reveal the lace of a white bra. ”Well, yes, fine ...”
”It's just that ... I haven't talked to anyone in a while, apart from my mother. And doctor. I'm sort of in quarantine.”
”You're in quarantine? For ...?”
”You name it, it's a long list. I think I managed to thoroughly scare my doctor-he said if I was a building I'd be condemned.”
”That's ... some bedside manner.”
”He probably thought I was going to disintegrate right there in his office. But enough of that, I must sound like some doddering hypo chondriac. Come.”
Ignoring an amber light inside him, and the strictures of Mrs. Pettybone, Norval entered Teresa's bedroom. It was a sty, looking and smelling of sickness, a tornado aftermath of laundry and magazines and empty mugs and medicine bottles and half-filled crossword puzzles and pages ripped from sketch books and bordelloish antiques like bra.s.s oil lamps and pewter candle snuffers ... A series of candles illuminated two De Chiricos on the wall- deserted piazzas, illogical shadows, dark arcades, hidden danger-as well as paintings of her own showing shuttered summerhouses, neglected parks, marble steps overrun with weeds, paths strewn with dead leaves. Two small charcoal drawings lay on the floor: one of her mother, decades younger, and one of herself, with long wavy tresses to the waist.
After closely examining the latter, Norval sat down in a teetering wicker chair. Teresa plugged in a kettle. Under the flickering candlelight he got a better look at her: early twenties, fair and frail, sickly pale, eyes so preternaturally blue as to be from another species or universe. It was while looking into these eyes that Norval had a shocking premonition: her future, however short, would be entwined with his.
”How in G.o.d's name did you end up here?” Teresa asked with a faint smile. She had full, naturally crimson lips and teeth as white as toothpaste. ”We haven't had guests for ages.”
”Gally gave me the address.”
”Gally Santlal? Are you serious? And you told my mother?”
”It's the only reason she opened the door.” Norval rooted around in his pockets and pulled out an empty cigarette pack. ”Do you smoke, by any chance?”
”The doctor asked me the same question. I said no and he said, 'Well, you might as well.'” Teresa took two cigarettes out of a jar and tapped them on the back of her hand. One match lit both. ”So how is Gally these days? What's he up to?”
Norval shrugged. ”I don't know that much about him. He's a glazier ... as I guess you know.” He took the offered cigarette, drew on it as though it were his last. ”He'd just finished replacing windows in some church. Which were smashed or stolen. In Hucknall? Let's see ... oh, his wife died, which is why he could join me for-”
”His wife died? You're kidding. I didn't know that. Recently?”
”No idea. But he didn't seem all that shaken.”
Teresa poured tepid water into a mug, emptied a packet of instant coffee into it. ”So how ... where did you meet him?”
”Newstead Abbey.” Norval took a sip of the coffee and winced. ”At the restaurant, I forget what it's called. The one with the doilies and vomitgreen rug and squawking peac.o.c.ks outside ...”