Rebuilding Coventry (15 page)

CORONER:   
When you’re ready, Mrs Fox. Please, take as long as you need.

CAROLE:        Well
the girls, they were cryin’ and sayin’, ‘Daddy don’t’ and things like that.
Then he got me by the throat. He were like somebody on the telly; he’d gone
mad. He were chokin’ me and screamin’ at me. Then Coventry from over the road
come in and ‘it ‘im with the Action Main and he dropped down straight away, and
blood came out of ‘is ears.

CORONER:
Did Coventry, that is Coventry Dakin, say anything before or after she hit your
husband?

CAROLE:       
She said sommat like, ‘I’ve had enough of you’ before she ‘it im;
and after she ‘it ‘im she said nowt. She just run out and nobody’s seen her
since. Well, nobody round ‘ere ‘as.

CORONER:    Mrs
Dakin lived opposite you?

CAROLE:        Yes,
at Number 13.

CORONER:   
Your curtains were not drawn?

CAROLE:       
I ‘adn’t drawn ‘em, no.

CORONER:   
So Mrs Dakin was able to watch the events prior to your husband’s
death?

CAROLE:       
I don’t know, sorry. Could you say it again …?

CORONER:    Mrs
Dakin saw your husband beating you up?

CAROLE:        She
must have. She ‘adn’t drawn ‘er own livin’-room curtains. It’s not the first
time she’s seen ‘im have a go at me.

CORONER:    Mrs
Fox, you said your husband dropped down straight away and blood came out of his
ears. Did blood
immediately
come out of his ears or did some time pass
before you saw the blood? Think carefully, please.

CAROLE:        It
come out as soon as ‘is ‘ead ‘it the carpet. Some splashed out on me zebra-skin
rug in front of the fire. ‘Is ‘ead bounced, you see, and the blood come out.

CORONER:    Thank
you, Mrs Fox. You have been an excellent witness. You have the jury’s sympathy
and mine.

CAROLE:       
Thank you. If it wasn’t for Coventry I think it might have been
me
lying dead, instead of ‘im. She done me a favour.

CORONER:   
The jury will disregard those last remarks. Thank you, Mrs Fox.

CAROLE:        Sorry.
Thank you, your Honour … sorry, Mr Coroner. Shall I go back to where I was
sittin’ before?

27
Saturday Morning on the Algarve

Sidney and Ruth’s sweaty
bodies made a loud slurping sound as they separated from each other, like
trifle being lifted from a dish. Ruth blushed and hid her face under the damp
sheet. Sidney lit a cigarette then lay on his back, with a Portuguese folk art
ashtray balancing on his damp belly. It was the last opportunity they would
have for leisurely morning sex. Tomorrow morning they would have to be up and
packed and getting into the car for the hazardous drive to the airport.

The
bedside telephone rang. Sidney knew that this meant trouble, so he let it ring.
On and on and on and on. Ruth stuffed her head under a pillow.

‘Sidney,
please.’

‘No,
let it ring.’

‘It might
be my mum.’

‘It won’t
be, I gave her the wrong number.’

‘Deliberately?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re
awful, you are. You really are, Sidney.’

Sidney
admired his wife’s body as she got up from the bed and padded around on the
tiled floor, looking for her kimono. The telephone continued to ring.

‘Sidney,
answer it, it’s hurting my ears!’

‘No.
Jesus, you’ve got a fantastic tan, Ruth. Your back’s the colour of Marmite
toast. No, don’t put any clothes on yet, I want to look at you.’

‘You’ve
done nothing but look at me for a fortnight. It’s creepy. Sometimes you give me
the creeps. You’re never satisfied. You’re not normal, Sidney. I mean it’s not
as if I’m nice to look at, is it? … ANSWER THE PHONE!’

‘No,
come back to bed.’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘Yes.
No!’

Ruth
had played submission games in the past. Once or twice she had even enjoyed
them, but now, with the telephone ringing and with the aquarium smell of sex
still on her, she was not playing. She meant ‘NO’. She walked out of the
bedroom and into the shuttered living-room where she answered the other, more
ornate telephone.

‘Hello?’

‘Mrs
Lambert? Mrs Ruth Lambert?’

‘Yes.’

‘This
is Detective Inspector Sly, Mrs Lambert. I was just wondering if you’ve heard
anything from your sister-in-law, Coventry?’

‘Yes,
she phoned in the week. Are you a policeman?’

‘Did
she say where she was?’

‘Yes,
London. Has she had an accident?’

‘Is
your husband there, Mrs Lambert?’

‘Yes.’

‘Could
I have a word with him?’

Sidney
was still lying on the bed. He was holding a hand mirror up to the underside of
his erection.

‘Sidney!
For God’s sake, what are you
doing?’

‘I was
just checking for testicular cancer.’

‘Don’t
tell lies Sidney, you were
admiring
yourself Nobody smiles like that
when they’re checking for dancer. You’re wanted on the phone; it’s a policeman… something about Coventry.’

Sidney
lifted the receiver from the phone by the bed.

‘Sidney
Lambert speaking.’

‘Detective
Inspector Sly here, sir. Truscott Road police station. According to your wife,
you’ve been withholding information from me. When are you back in England?’

‘Sunday
afternoon, late,’ said Sidney. His erection rapidly subsided.

He also
put the phone down.

28
How the Other Half Live

Dodo wants to go home and
collect some clothes. She wants me to go with her. Home is where her brother
lives in London. We will have to be careful because Dodo thinks she is wanted
by the authorities. She lacks a signed bit of paper saying that she is
perfectly sane. I have always feared authority. I am a pedestrian, yet I’m
scared of traffic wardens. I don’t know why this should be.

We are
going out begging this morning; Dodo says that Saturday is always a good day.
In the afternoon we intend to rebuild our cardboard house, and then, in
darkness, we are going to Flood Street, where Nicholas Cutbush lives with his
wife. There are no Cutbush children; Nicholas has got unreliable genes and his
wife has a career.

This is
how we beg. We always approach women of our own age and Dodo’s class. We prefer
harassed-looking women carrying shopping bags. They are not hard to find. We
stand outside an exclusive department store (when I was a child I thought you
had to be a
member to
get inside the only such shop in my home town).
Dodo and I always carry Harrods carrier bags. We sleep on them at night to iron
out the creases in the plastic. When we see a sufficiently harassed woman, we
go into action. Dodo bursts into tears and shouts out in an anguished way, ‘Oh
my God, it had everything inside it — my purse, my Filofax, my prescriptions,
my insulin,’ then, when the harassed woman’s attention is gained (nine times
out often), ‘Oh no! Oh no! … The children’s baby pictures!’

My role
is to comfort Dodo, ask for the woman’s help and then, when the woman has been
drawn into the drama, to gasp and say, ‘Dodo,
my purse,
remember? I
asked you to put it in your handbag. Now we can’t even afford a
taxi.’
Dodo
then has to break out into fresh weeping (she’s astonishingly good at this).
Most of our harassed women cough up the taxi fare without being directly asked.
The average payment is two pounds. Do these women think we could get
anywhere
for two pounds?

So far
the most we have begged in a day is twenty-eight pounds.

We, of
course, split this between us. With my half I bought thermal underwear and
socks. Dodo blew hers on a bottle of vodka and Belgian chocolates from Liberty’s.
I know this can’t go on for ever. I don’t want to live like this.

Dodo
says, ‘Darling, we’re doing
them
a service. Think how pleased they are
at being able to help two temporarily destitute women. And it’s an anecdote for
them, isn’t it? Something to talk about to their oaf’

Dodo
calls all men ‘oafs’; she doesn’t like them much. I do, though … just
about.

We strolled along the
embankment, until it got dark and the river was only a reflection from the
lighted buildings; then we set out for Flood Street. We walk everywhere. Dodo
likes pointing out interesting buildings and landmarks. I already know which
bridge is which. Tonight we crossed Westminster Bridge and I made Dodo stop
while I had a good look up and down at the river. Dodo called me a ‘provincial’
but she looked at the views and said, ‘Good old London,’ before we walked on.
It took us an hour to reach Flood Street. I was disappointed. I’d expected
bigger houses. Hadn’t Dodo said her brother was once a Cabinet Minister? Or did
she say cabinet maker?

A car
drew up outside a house and a chauffeur got out and opened a rear door. A tall,
dark man got out. He was carrying a very large bouquet of dusky red roses.

‘That’s
Nick,’ said Dodo. ‘Looks like he’s been asset stripping Interflora.’ The car
purred off and Dodo ran up to her brother. ‘Nick!’ He leapt away from her and
scrambled his key in the lock of the shiny black front door.

‘Not
tonight, Dodo. We’ve got
people
in and I’m late.’

‘I only
want some clothes. This is my friend.’ We stood on the threshold, our feet just
inside the door like successful Jehovah’s Witnesses.

‘It’s
Caroline’s
birthday,
Dodo, we’re having a
dinner party.’

‘Then I
would like to wish her a happy birthday, Nick. Please let me in.’

‘Dodo,
you’re a complete
cow.’

‘Bastard.’

‘Bitch.’

A tall,
thin woman in a rustling dress had joined us.

‘Neck?
Is that you, Neck? What’s that with you?’

‘Hello,
Caro. Dodo, fuck off.
Fuck off Dodo!’

‘Oh
Dodo, is that really you, darling?’

‘Yes.
It’s fucking Dodo, come to spoil the fun. Oh, these are for you, darling. Happy
birthday!’

‘Thanks.
Dodo, how well you look! Are you still living raff? Come in and shut the door.
Who’s this, a friend?’

‘Yes,
we share a box. I call her Jaffa — because of her hair.’

‘How do
you do, Jaffa. I’m Caroline. I think you’ve met my husband.’

We were
crammed into the tiny hall. At the end of the passage a door was slightly ajar.
I could see a twinkling chandelier, candles, silver, linen and half of an
off-the-shoulder dress. I could hear crystal accents and comfortable laughter.
I could smell food and a coal fire and flowers. A classical tune reminded me of
‘Family Favourites’ and Cliff Michelmore.

The
door at the end of the passage opened and a famous face appeared. He was not a
celebrity; he didn’t appear on panel games; but he was on television most
nights of the week. He was something to do with the government, the law, the
police … the Home Office. He looked delighted to see Dodo.

‘Well
beggar me, if it isn’t Dodo! We were only jest talking about you. Caroline
tells me you’re now sane.’

‘Oh
quite. You’re looking awful, Podger.’

‘It’s
the new job; blame your brother. If he hadn’t got his tits caught in the
mangle, I’d still be slumbering away in Ag and Fish.’

‘Yes, I’m
sorry you lost your job, Nick,’ said Dodo.

We were
now walking down the hall towards the twinkling room. Nick said, ‘My own stupid
fault for taking an MI5 file into Groucho’s.’

‘No,
dear old son, the stupid thing was
leaving
it there for Ian Hislop to
find.’

There
was much merry laughter, which took us into the dining-room.

‘Dodo!’
shouted four well-dressed people at once. There was a scramble to embrace her.
Nick stood aside, sulking. When she emerged from the crowd, Dodo introduced me
to the company.

‘This
is Jaffa, we share the same cardboard box.’ More laughter. I shook everyone’s
soft hands, then was taken away by Caroline to freshen up. Dodo stayed
downstairs to gossip with her friends.

Caroline’s
clothes were hung around the walls of two rooms. She told me to hurry up and
pick something, anything I liked. In the background a bathtub was filling up
with perfumed bubbles.

I chose
a green satin strapless evening dress, which had a stiff flounced skirt and a
dozen net petticoats. Each one a different shade of green, like Irish counties.