‘Oh, Miss Casey, someone tried to call while you were out earlier this evening, but by the time I got to the door, whoever it was had gone.’
‘Oh? Well, they might have waited.’
‘I was slow,’ apologized Sylvie, ‘I am afraid I was. I called out Please wait. But Tom was-on his pot and I must stay with him.’
Nell nodded. She knew the importance of Tom and his pot and the rituals that went with it. Heaven forbid you should omit them or tamper with them in any way, or the worst happened.
‘Not important,’ she said.
Who knew she was here? A small card stuck by the bell said CASEY. In Los Angeles and even more in New York, people had seemed happier to call her Casey. She liked it. Casey felt free and vibrant and, although very female and attractive, sexless in an interesting kind of way. Not one to be put down. An achiever, that was Casey, and Tom was a bit of her equipment like a Gucci handbag or a bottle of Giorgio. But now she was in London, she couldn’t help noticing that the English air was converting her back to Nell. Nell would lower her voice a decibel or two, would probably drop that scent and wear another (the new Guerlain, say?) and admit freely that Tom was the person she adored.
‘I didn’t expect anyone,’ she said.
‘It was a man, I think.’ Sylvie picked up Tom and stood there with him straddled on her hip.
‘Oh, why?’
‘Heavy feet,’ said Sylvie thoughtfully. ‘On the stairs. I opened the door and heard the feet. Then the front door shut. That was heavy too.’
As the two disappeared towards bed, Nell went to get a raincoat. The flat was small but conveniently arranged, she had a bed with what amounted to a bathroom and dressing-room attached. They had been here over twenty-four hours but not all her clothes were unpacked yet; however, she knew where to find her raincoat.
She took a quick look round the room before she left it. A wide bed, pale wood for the dressing-table … Not bad for a furnished place, she had known worse. Many worse in her upward career. It was nice to have a bit of money to burn, the TV series had done that for her. But now she was back, to do some serious theatre work, starting with the play for the Festival. Her agent had already sent some scripts for her to read. It was a beginning. This flat would make a very good base from which to operate.
Stella Pinero had been so encouraging and helpful, she really liked Stella, admired her as a performer, respected her as a person. Stella had been through the mill and knew what it was like.
She felt optimistic and happy, lovely to have things to look forward to, lovely to be back in London.
If only Gus wouldn’t mess things up. There was no love left between them, surely there wasn’t, but Gus was a powerful and disturbing force in her life. She had great regard for his talent, which was huge and still growing, but as a man he could be frightening. The guy that had died in Sydney had been torn in two by Gus, destroyed as a person and as an artist by Gus’s criticisms in class, never mind any sexual element that might have come in, through her or Gus. And she didn’t think Gus knew what he had done. The memory troubled her. Almost everything about Gus troubled her.
I didn’t like the way he looked at Tom. She went down the stairs, unlocked the heavy front door to let herself out into the garden. I ought to have brought a torch. But there was light coming from a street lamp.
She could see the garden walls where a strong cotoneaster grew, and the edging of flowerbeds of daffodils and tiny irises. A conifer stood up in the middle of a patch of lawn. The garden ran round the corner of the house before terminating in a high brick wall. This corner garden was nothing but a strip of grass. The street light barely reached it but light came down from lighted windows in the flats above. They were the windows in her own dwelling.
A bit too eager, she said to herself. Gus definitely looked a bit too eager. I hate that look on his face. She wished he hadn’t seen Tom. Why was she frightened of Gus? He couldn’t hurt her, couldn’t hurt Tom. I can look after Tom and myself. She had been independent and self-supporting for a long while now. It had been a hard slog but she had done it. The two of them could afford a reasonable way of life now. Which included Sylvie, who was responsible for the loss of the valued Bonzo.
He wasn’t in the garden. She had searched and the Bonz was not there. Since he could not walk, someone or something had taken him. An urban fox or a rat? But would any creature of right mind want an aged stuffed dog?
If it was hungry enough, perhaps.
The thought of there being animals around here hungry enough to eat Bonzo made her shiver. She hadn’t cared for Bonzo, he had been too much trouble to her, the constant focus of alarm and crisis, nor did she care for his black and white spotted coat and his bold and leering eyes. Eye, one lost. Still he had deserved better than being a London meal. But if so, wouldn’t there be a bit of Bonzo left around? A calico ear and bit of tail, a scrap of stuffing?
She looked around again. Nothing.
But under the oak tree was a small mound with a piece of wood stuck into it.
If I didn’t know that it couldn’t be, she told herself, I would say that was a grave.
A small grave with a tiny inscribed wooden stake.
She knelt down on the damp earth and in the light from the street lamp tried to read what was written. On one side was the faded name: Rosa alba. Just plucked from the garden here, she thought, but this is no rose and she was not reassured.
On the other side was one word, fresher, and unfaded, it appeared to have been written in black pencil and it said:
TOM.
March 5 to March 6
Nell drew out the little wooden slip, she couldn’t bear to leave it there in the mud with Tom’s name on it, and crept up the stairs. The flat was quiet. Tom’s room was dark but with the door left open, as he liked. Sylvie was locked behind her own door, she was playing a pop record but very, very faintly.
Must get her a Walkman, thought Nell as she moved past, keep her happy. If you have a Tom in your life, then you also need someone like Sylvie, that is, if you are a working mother. There had been a period when Nell had been a solo parent and it had been tough. Either way it was tough: if you were working, then you paid someone an arm and a leg to look after the beloved offspring, which left you penniless, and if you were unemployed (and that happened frequently in the theatre world) then you did it yourself and were still broke. But to have a child, that counted.
Nell stood by the child’s bed. He was deep in sleep already, on his back, arms flung wide, his face flushed with the comfort of his slumber.
‘You all right?’ she whispered, touching his warm cheek gently. Yes, he was well and happy. He had been abused by the misuse of his name, but he personally was not touched.
But Nell felt the threat. Inside that tomb was Bonzo, but it could have been Tom.
She went back to the sitting-room where she dialled Stella Pinero’s number. For a time there was no answer, still she hung on, praying that Stella was home, alone and not entertaining anyone. The chances were good. Stella hadn’t looked in that sort of mood.
‘Hello?’ Stella’s sleepy voice.
‘It’s Casey. Nell Casey.’
‘You still on New York time?’ said an aggrieved Stella. ‘I was asleep. What is it?’ She was awake now and beginning to be alarmed. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’ve found Bonzo.’ Stumbling in her speech, Nell told her. ‘In a grave.’
Oh, come on now, Nell.’ Stella fumbled on the bedtable