The Emperor Waltz Page 47

  He swayed and, for a second, thought he was going to be sick onto the heads of the people below him. Then he was all right. Life, he thought, was like that, as the crowd saw that he’d finished with what must be considered a speech, though in a not very decisive way, and parts of it began to applaud uncertainly. Life was like that: thinking you were going to be sick on someone’s head, then realizing you weren’t, that you were OK really. Down there, a box was being passed over the heads of half a dozen people from where it had been safely stowed. His eye caught the eye of the rich man, the one who had lived in Chelsea and now lived in Victoria. The man looked, of all things, immensely full of pride – personal pride, as if he’d had every faith in Duncan to get through his speech without falling off the counter. Duncan realized who the man must be. He must be the man who had once, years before, picked up Arthur in the shop and taken him back to his great big four-storey house off the King’s Road. His name, he’d said, was Rupert. It was Randy. It was Rudolph. It was Raymond. No, it wasn’t Rupert – that was the name of the publisher’s rep he’d had just that one time in the stock room, the one Duncan thought he’d seen tonight, actually. This one’s name was Raphael. It was Rufus. Then the man looked around, as if nervous in case anyone might glimpse him, and gave Duncan an immense smile. Another sort of man, Duncan felt, would have given him a thumbs-up, but for Ronnie, that nice smile was enough. You could see him encouraging his staff in the City with a smile.

  Oh, yes. That was his name. His name was Ronnie.

  15.

  Annunziata had managed to finish all her shopping for Mr Hayward’s Christmas the day before Christmas Eve. That was a blessing. He would only be on his own on Christmas Day and the day after that, on his own and with his friend who was coming. She liked working for Mr Hayward. He was thoughtful and had said, as he always said, that she need not come after the twenty-third, that he would certainly be able to manage on his own for four or five days. But Annunziata was not so certain about that. She had worked for Mr Hayward for eight years now. She had worked for him when he lived on the other side of Sloane Square, in another white house, very much like this one, and she had come with him when he had moved. She had never left him on his own for as much as four days without arranging for someone else to come and help him out.

  She had bought vegetables, potatoes and root vegetables, and had peeled and prepared them all. She looked up, from the basement of the house in Chester Terrace, at the grey weather and the occasional passer-by. But there were not very many people passing by. This was a very quiet neighbourhood normally, one of the best in London, she knew, but now at Christmas there was nobody at home. They had all gone away, all of Mr Hayward’s neighbours. To the country, Mr Hayward had explained. But he was not going away this year. The carrots and potatoes and parsnips were peeled and placed in a dish and were now roasting; the smell of the garlic and the thyme was very good in the warm kitchen. That could be taken out and left for Mr Hayward to heat up tomorrow. Then there were the Brussels sprouts, only a very few; Mr Hayward had said that he did not like them, but you had to have them. And then there was the black fruit pudding, a Christmas pudding it was called. Annunziata had taken advice about that from Mr Hayward’s mother, and had bought one from Waitrose – not the luxury one, Mrs Hayward had said, but only the ordinary one; it was cheaper but better. Annunziata had the utmost respect for Mrs Hayward, and her beautiful though quite frightening manners. The pudding, too, Annunziata was cooking, in a pan of water, for Mr Hayward to heat up tomorrow in the microwave. Brandy was involved in its preparation, Annunziata remembered, but Mr Hayward could see to that himself. And the duck’s skin had been pierced, and she had poured boiling water over it, and the fat had run out from under the skin. Now it was only for Mr Hayward to put it in the oven at the right time, and take it out at the right time, and pour over the delicious sauce she had made for it, out of orange, and cornflour, and onion and carrot and celery, and the roasted wings of the bird, and all manner of spices. She was sure that there was something she had forgotten. It would come to her in the middle of her own Christmas morning, when there was nothing to be done.

  She had bought a present for Mr Hayward, too; a small china box for sweets, a very beautiful box that she was sure he would love. He had given her a hundred pounds as a present, but she was sure, too, that he had bought her a proper present as well as the money, as he had last year. She was almost sure it was waiting in the hallway, on the little table, by the photograph of Mr Hayward’s mother.

  This year, Mr Hayward was having his friend for Christmas. He was a new friend. He was a very nice man, too. Mr Hayward had had different friends over the years. One had been Italian; another had been Irish. The Irishman had lasted for two years. He had not been so nice. He had accused Annunziata of having taken a ring of his from the bedside table, in front of Mr Hayward and Mr Hayward’s friend Angela, and someone else, whom Annunziata could not remember. It had been while Annunziata was carrying in the soup for their supper on a Friday night, one of Mr Hayward’s supper parties. The Irishman had said it mildly, as if he were saying nothing so very much, but he had said that she had stolen his valuable ring, and that she must be sacked. Mr Hayward had gone very quiet and then, when Annunziata had left the room without saying anything, had followed her into the kitchen and told her that he knew that she had not done anything of the sort, and that this was the last evening that the Irishman would spend in his house. Of course Annunziata had not thought that Mr Hayward would sack her, or anything of the sort, but she had not thought that he would so promptly and quickly decide that he would rather have Annunziata than the Irishman. He had worked in the same sort of business that Mr Hayward did, to do with money, in the City of London. Six months later, Mr Hayward had said to her that he had come across Frank, the Irishman, in the course of his work again, and he had noticed that he was wearing the ring he had said had been stolen by Annunziata. Had anything been said between them? Mr Hayward was not the sort of person to create a scene, she knew. So that was all for the best, he had said, not dabbling in people who pretended to steal their own rings. Four months after that, he had introduced Annunziata to his new friend. But the new friend was quite a different sort of person; an educated person, the owner of a bookshop.

  There was a noise at the top of the steps that led down to the basement, which was called the area. The little iron gate creaked open, and a woman’s, then a child’s voice was heard. Annunziata peered up from where she was cutting little crosses in the bottom of the Brussels sprouts. It was a pair of plump legs, in black stockings with beautifully shiny black shoes, like only Englishwomen knew how to wear, and what proved to be a black coat. She was ushering down the steps a very pretty little girl, in an old-fashioned sage-green coat with white piping, white woollen gloves, scarf, hat and stockings, and a blue china brooch on the lapel. Both the lady and the little girl were carrying packages in festive paper. They were not people that Annunziata recognized, or was expecting, and she was always cautious on Mr Hayward’s behalf, but they were not people to worry about, she could see that. It was the way the mother was concentrating, with great pleasure, on her little girl, who was talking steadily.

  ‘… and then he’s going to come, I know he is, but how does he get round to everyone – I mean, everyone in the whole world, everyone? And does he get a glass of sherry from everyone, does he? Mummy?’

  Annunziata opened the door to the area, wiping her hands on her apron.

  ‘Do be quiet, Celia, just for one moment,’ the lady said. But she said it kindly. The little girl had no shyness at all, but gazed at Annunziata with a lot of interest, her hands clasped together in a fist at her chest, as if in supplication. She was dark, and might almost be Italian. ‘You must be Annunziata,’ she went on. ‘I’m Dommie – Duncan’s sister. And this is Celia. Do shut up, Celia – no one’s interested in the slightest. You know, Ronnie’s boyfriend, though he’s getting too old to be anyone’s boyfriend. I’ve heard so much about you fro
m Ronnie.’

  ‘Oh! How nice!’ Annunziata said. It was nice that the lady did not tell her how much Mr Hayward praised her or depended on her, or anything of the sort that English people so often said. It was absurd for them to say that when she knew how much Mr Hayward admired her or depended on her, much better than they could. ‘It is so cold – would you come in for a moment? I’m afraid I must continue to prepare the …’ She waved at the piles of food in the kitchen.

  ‘Well, just for a moment,’ the lady said. ‘Goodness, that smells delicious. We’ve just come to drop in Duncan’s present and Ronnie’s, too.’

  ‘I go to school now,’ the little girl said. ‘I’m in the littlest class, but I can read and I’m very good at my times tables. My name’s Celia. My best friend’s name is—’

  ‘I’m so sorry about my daughter,’ the lady said. ‘She never, ever shuts up. I wish I knew how it was done, having one of those children who never say a word.’

  ‘That’s lovely!’ Annunziata said, meaning it. ‘And you’ve brought some presents? You should have come when Mr Hayward is here – I don’t know where he’s left presents for you.’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ the lady said, ‘I don’t think we’d expect that at all – it was just a thought of Celia’s, and they’re really nothing, our presents.’

  ‘I’ve done a picture,’ Celia confided. ‘I did a picture at school, in class, and everyone voted for it to be their favourite, and it got a gold star, and it’s of Uncle Ronnie and Uncle Duncan and Mummy and me on Box Hill and the squirrel we saw, and that lorry on the way back. Whoosh, bang, smash. It’s framed – Mummy got the man to frame it.’

  ‘It’s for my brother,’ the lady said. ‘I wouldn’t dare to give Mr Hayward anything – I know how beautiful his house is – but my brother doesn’t really mind about what goes on his walls, so I thought Celia’s prize-winning picture. I got him –’ she mouthed it speechlessly ‘– a proper present. And one for Ronnie too. I hope he likes it. Just a tie, though, and some hideous cufflinks that Celia identified, he doesn’t have to wear them. Now we’ll be off, Celia. No, Celia, don’t start taking your coat off now – really, Celia, no, that’s too bad. Button up – that’s right – lovely to have met you, I’ve heard so much – and now off we go. Say goodbye, Celia.’

  ‘Father Christmas isn’t going to bring me a pony,’ Celia said, turning round at the foot of the area steps, ‘but I really don’t mind, it’s quite all right.’

  Annunziata smiled to herself as she watched them go. And now it seemed to her that Mr Hayward’s friend was quite all right. Because he had a sister and a niece in a beautiful sage-green coat with white piping. She remembered the day that Mr Hayward had gone to Box Hill: it had been in August, and she had made up a picnic basket for them, including some food that a little girl would like, Mr Hayward had specified. She had not thought about it since, or wondered who the others on the picnic had been. And now it was nearly time for her to start thinking about her own Christmas. Like a letter written on tracing paper over another letter, she thought of her own preparations while her preparations for Mr Hayward were only just reaching their conclusion. Pina, her sister, was coming over to her house in Elephant and Castle from Palmers Green, with her two boys and her husband Massimo, and their brother Salvatore would be coming too; they would all be coming tonight, a real Sicilian Christmas, and there would be a beautiful big fish at the centre, because not everyone liked anguilla. What was anguilla in English? Annunziata smiled at the idea of giving it to Mr Hayward. And almond cakes and a great sformato of vegetables that Pina was already in her house making. And the boys would have Christmas crackers, since they were getting so English, and Salvo would smoke his cigar in the garden and tell them about life in Milton Keynes; and there would be games after dinner and present-opening, and then they would go to Mass together. Perhaps Graziana would play the piano, as she used to, so beautifully; there was a nice book of English Christmas carols, and everyone liked to hear Annunziata’s daughter play so well. She did not think Graziana played the piano so very much these days, in the flat she shared with two other girls in Kentish Town.

  It was so nice, them all being in England together; they would raise a glass in memory of Mamma and Papa, together again now, and Papa dead in his bed two years ago, twenty years after poor Mamma. Sometimes Annunziata wondered if she would ever see Acireale again, now that she had no family there apart from cousins; her Sicily was in Palmers Green and Milton Keynes now. Tomorrow, if Graziana did not play Christmas carols, Salvatore and Giuseppe, her husband, would sing a couple of songs; they would sing ‘Volare’ and they would sing ‘Ciuri, ciuri, ciuri di tuttu l’annu’. Annunziata washed and dried her hands; she switched off the radio; she covered the dishes with clingfilm, leaving them on top of the work surface; she washed her hands again; she gave the sink a final wipe; she looked over the kitchen, and counted off her last few tasks on the fingers of her left hand. She took her Christmas card and her little present for Mr Hayward out of her handbag – the handbag had been Mr Hayward’s present two years ago, now she thought of it. She put on her coat, set the alarm, and left the house, locking the door behind her. It was half past twelve, and plenty of time to get home and prepare her own Christmas feast. It was a shame that she had not seen Mr Hayward this morning. He was upstairs, asleep in bed, or not asleep, but in bed, and with his friend. But Mr Hayward was a nice man. He worked so hard most of the time that he was allowed to sleep in late, or to stay in bed late, even as late as this, to be with his friend, the owner of the bookshop. She had not known men of this sort before she had come to work for him, but now she would not mind it again, and if the younger of her sister Pina’s two boys should indeed turn out to be such a man, she would not mind it, and her sister Pina would understand that it was not such a tragedy. She walked briskly towards Sloane Square and its Underground station. Two years ago, the younger of Pina’s two boys had tried to join in with his uncle Salvatore’s Sicilian song, and he had got it slightly wrong; he had sung what he always thought the words were, ‘Ciuri, ciuri, ciuri dell’ortolano …’ Not flowers all year, but flowers from the greengrocer. They had laughed so much; the younger of Pina’s two boys, Nicola, he had looked ashamed, and blushed and in the end had gone into the kitchen to console himself with leftovers. ‘Ciuri, ciuri, ciuri dell’ortolano …’ Annunziata sang, under her breath; the song of her Christmas, and the song of the flowers in the greengrocer in Sicily made a cloud of her breath, there in the grey foreign city. But she was happy now. The green of the tiles in Sloane Square station was the green of her Sicilian Christmas, and the green of a garden, and the green of the greengrocer that was never in the song at all.

  16.

  The house in Chester Terrace was still being done up. The kitchen was finished first of all – Ronnie had said he wouldn’t dare to do anything else: his Italian housekeeper Annunziata would look reproachfully at him if he decided he needed to take a bath, for instance, before she was able to cook for him. So the kitchen was done first, and then Ronnie hadn’t seen why he shouldn’t do it in a sensible, rational way, proceeding upwards from the ground floor, where the study and the dining room and the television room were, to the first floor, where the big drawing room was, and then to the second floor, where the two bedrooms and bathrooms were and then – well, the work had finished halfway through the second floor. Ronnie was still hanging his clothes in the two wardrobes he had taken from his parents’ house. And the third floor Ronnie said he only needed for his hobby, so that hardly needed doing up. Duncan had been up there only two or three times, to express admiration and wonderment at Ronnie’s hobby before coming back down again. Clearly, Ronnie had no expectation that Duncan would show the slightest interest or engagement in his hobby; there was no disappointment or engagement whatsoever with what Duncan had to say. Duncan had seen it, and was shown there was nothing whatsoever sinister about having a room devoted to your model railway, and that was that.

  The model railway had
been constructed over the last five years. Ronnie had made everything in it from scratch, apart from the wheels of the train, as you needed a lathe to make wheels. Around the track rose a town of Ronnie’s design and construction, where the shops were named after Ronnie’s family, friends and enemies. (There was a lurid sex shop called Pauline’s, named after Ronnie’s villainous colleague on the public-relations side at the bank, with a neatly painted sign, one inch high, advertising Anal Lubricants outside; it was next to the church, named St Katy’s after Ronnie’s best friend.) He had met Ronnie at the famous party to raise funds; he had gone out with him for dinner that night, and then home with him; they had met twice more before the existence of the model railway embarrassingly emerged. And Ronnie had already named a gay bookshop after him: Duncan’s Gay Bookshop, there it was.

  ‘That’s a bit creepy,’ Duncan said, not meaning it a bit.

  ‘It’s hard to get model books the right size,’ Ronnie had said. ‘You’ll just have to imagine it.’

  The whole village was called Franklin’s Bottom, after Ronnie’s awful-sounding Irish ex-boyfriend. ‘Or at any rate the main point of his appeal,’ Ronnie said.