Marble Heart. Gretta Mulrooney

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СКАЧАТЬ Joan of oxtail soup. By the till was a notice stating, PLEASE DO NOT ASK FOR CREDIT AS REFUSAL EMBARRASSES. Mornings were punctuated by Mrs Jacobs’ steaming Bovril at eleven and in the afternoons the malty odour of her hot milk drink hung over the acrylic jumpers. Joan measured customers’ bosoms and hips and discussed the qualities of triple-panel girdles while her employer wrote out price tags and talked on the phone to members of her Bowls club.

      There had never been a great amount of custom and once the ageing female clientele started to die the doorbell rang less and less. Mrs Jacobs hinted that she didn’t need help any more so Joan took to scanning the job centre window.

      The forced move had been a blessing in disguise. Living on her own, the evenings used to drag when she worked from nine to five. Alice paid more and Joan liked knowing that she would be out in other people’s houses some weeknights instead of sitting in with a glass of sweet vermouth, keeping the TV on for company while she worked one of her tapestries. Of course, since she’d got to know Rich she wasn’t available on Sundays any more. She had told Alice about the plans she and Rich had made for when they could be together. Alice was the only person she had confided in about their situation. Joan knew that she was discreet and broad-minded. Her own son had been in trouble a couple of times so she lent a sympathetic ear. Back then, Joan would have said that people who had suffered in life were more understanding; that was certainly true of Alice. But afterwards, when everything had fallen apart, she wasn’t sure of anything.

      ‘I’ve got a new lady for you,’ Alice said that morning, munching. ‘You’ll have to watch your Ps and Qs from the sound of her.’

      If someone else had made that remark Joan would have taken offence but she was used to her employer’s sense of humour and knew that Alice appreciated all the times she’d put up with vulgarity and rudeness. The old boys were the worst, exposing themselves, pretending they couldn’t manage their underpants. Some of the old women were no better though; the ones who were losing their minds could be terribly crude. It was just as well that Joan’s attitude was one of live and let live.

      Alice leaned forward with the details she’d written down. ‘She sounded very top drawer on the phone, not quite our usual customer. Her name’s Nina Rawle, aged forty-six. She needs someone every day.’

      ‘What’s up with her?’

      ‘She didn’t want to go into it when she rang, said she’d discuss things with you. She asked for you in particular, by the way, said someone recommended you.’

      Alice gave her a satisfied smile. Word of mouth wasn’t unusual; quite a few clients came the way of the agency through the grapevine, especially people who’d had Joan working for them. Joan liked it when this fact was acknowledged, although she would always be quick to add that she wasn’t one to blow her own trumpet. When she saw Nina Rawle’s Crouch End address she decided that it was probably the woman who’d needed help with the baby a couple of months ago who had put her on to the bureau.

      After she’d finished the usual formalities with Alice, Joan headed off to Crouch End. Before she started the car she pulled on her work tabard. Alice was rightly proud of it. She had designed it herself, in apricot polycotton with a cream trimming. It had AA on the front, in fancy gold lettering, which often brought a smile to clients’ faces.

      The address Alice had given her turned out to be a big Edwardian house in a leafy street. It was divided into flats and Nina Rawle’s name was on the ground floor bell. Joan rang and waited. There was one of those spy holes in the door so she made sure she placed herself dead in front of it with the AA of her tabard showing. After some time the door opened slowly and a woman with grey shoulder-length hair and the biggest eyes Joan had ever seen was standing there, supporting herself on two sticks.

      ‘Good morning, I’m Joan Douglas from the Alice Ainsley bureau. Are you Mrs Rawle?’

      The woman nodded and gestured with her head, already turning back into the house. ‘Close the door, will you,’ she said in a firm voice, the kind that Joan always thought of as BBC.

      She stepped into a beautiful hallway, wide with polished floorboards and a huge gilt-edged mirror along one wall. The wallpaper was dark green, patterned with tiny red flowers, the kind that she guessed cost a day’s wages per roll. Classy, she thought; you’d need a bob or two to buy a place here. She followed Nina Rawle along the hall and through her own front door. Nina walked slowly, head bent, leading Joan to a long, high-ceilinged living room. The walls were freshly painted in pale cream but completely bare. There was a leather two-seater sofa, a recliner easy chair, stacks of boxes and at least two dozen plants in china bowls. The floor featured the same polished boards as in the hall, with one soft Persian rug covering the centre. A small table had one coffee cup and a lap-top computer on it. There was a slightly empty, impermanent feel to the room. Mrs Rawle might be moving in or out, it was hard to tell.

      Nina lowered herself into the recliner chair, gesturing Joan to the sofa. The way she fussily settled her sticks next to her leg reminded Joan of an old woman and that was when she realised that this new client resembled her grandmother. She was wearing a dark blue tracksuit that obscured her shape but her body looked thin. Her face was pale; her cheeks marked with pink blotches, the skin stretched so finely that it seemed as if layers had been stripped away. Her neck was scrawny, her big eyes dull. You’re a poorly creature, Joan thought, but she said how lovely the carpet was because she liked to start on a positive note with all her clients.

      ‘Yes, I think so too,’ Mrs Rawle said, propping her arms on the sides of her chair. Her voice was the strongest thing about her. ‘It’s good of you to come so promptly. I’m sorry I can’t offer you tea but it would take me ages to get it. Maybe you’d like to make us both a cup in a minute.’

      ‘Of course,’ Joan said, ‘I suppose that’s why I’m here.’

      ‘You’re not bothered about routines, are you?’

      ‘Some like them and some don’t,’ she replied, guessing what was on Mrs Rawle’s mind. ‘My older clients prefer them but with younger people it’s different. Basically, I’m here to do whatever you ask.’

      Mrs Rawle looked at her coolly. ‘Then could you take off that horrible apron? The colour reminds me of vomit.’

      She stared, taken aback. ‘People tend to find it reassuring,’ she said.

      ‘I’m sure, but I’m not “people”. Really, it’s nasty, I can’t sit and look at it. Reminds me of hospitals, of officious busybodies.’

      Joan undid the side ties and pulled it over her head, thinking she had a real nit-picker here. But as Alice never tired of saying, the customer’s always right. Over the years Joan had had a few classy clients like Mrs Rawle. They all shared the same tremendous confidence about coming straight out with what they wanted. Her gran used to say that toffs got their own way through sheer brass neck.

      ‘There,’ she said, ‘I shan’t wear it here again, I’ll leave it in the car.’

      Her client positioned a cushion and sat back. ‘I’d like some tea now. Earl Grey for me with no milk. Please help yourself to whatever you want. I think there are biscuits in the tin. The kitchen’s through there.’ She switched on the portable CD player that was clipped to her waist, hoisting the head set draped around her neck up to her ears.

      The kitchen was narrow, no bigger than Joan’s but beautifully fitted out in light oak with marble worktops. It was what Joan called slubbery: littered with bits of food, dirty crockery and saucepans. The tiled floor was tacky and the built-in hob had tomato sauce spilled on it. Her fingers itched to get cracking. Nothing pleased СКАЧАТЬ