Corduroy Mansions

21. In Mr Wickramsinghe’s Kitchen

‘I hope that you don’t get too much noise from our flat,’ said Jenny. ‘We’re immediately above you and I suppose we do walk about a bit. And Jo - she’s one of my flatmates - sometimes plays music a bit loudly.’

‘It is no trouble at all,’ said Basil Wickramsinghe as he slit open the newly purchased packet of white tea. ‘I sometimes hear a bit of noise, but nothing serious. And it reminds me that I do not live all by myself in this building.’

‘One is always aware of other people in London,’ said Jenny. ‘The problem is that one doesn’t necessarily know who they are. I suppose there are people who live in this city and yet don’t know a soul. Strange, isn’t it?’

It occurred to her as she spoke that Basil Wickramsinghe himself might fit into this category for all she knew, and she wondered whether she had perhaps unwittingly offended him. But he did not appear to mind and simply nodded his agreement.

‘Big cities can be impersonal, but I never feel that about London,’ he said. ‘When I first came here, I was worried I would be very lonely, but it hasn’t been the case. I came from a very friendly place, you see.’

‘Which was?’

‘Galle, in Sri Lanka. Have you heard of it?’

‘No. I’m sorry. I’m sure that I should have, but I haven’t.’

He smiled. ‘There is no need to apologise for never having heard of Galle. It is not like Colombo or Kandy or places like that. It is quite small. It has a harbour and an old fort and some very nice old Dutch houses. You would like it.’

They were standing in his kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. Jenny looked around; it was very neat, and far cleaner than their kitchen upstairs. Containers marked Rice and Beans and Flour were neatly lined up on the shelves alongside pots, chopping boards and various cooking implements.

Basil Wickramsinghe took two cups out of a cupboard. ‘Living in a place like this, one wonders who the other people in the building are. I have often thought about all you people upstairs. William, I know what he does - he is a wine merchant - and that son of his is nothing, I believe. I do not think that he works. But when it comes to the four of you, I have no idea at all.’

Jenny laughed, and told him what she and the others did. ‘I would never have guessed any of that,’ said Basil Wickramsinghe. ‘Never.’

‘And you, Mr Wickramsinghe?’

‘I am Basil, please. Me? I am an accountant. It is very ordinary. But there we are. That is what I do.’

He poured two cups of tea and passed one to her. There was silence as they both sipped the scented brew. Then Basil Wickramsinghe glanced at his watch.

‘I mustn’t keep you,’ said Jenny.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘It’s rude to look at one’s watch. But I have remembered that I am expecting somebody.’

Jenny drained her teacup. ‘You must come and have tea with us some time,’ she said.

He thanked her and went to show her out. Just as they reached the door, the bell sounded.

‘My guest,’ said Basil Wickramsinghe, almost apologetically.

He opened the door and Jenny saw a thin woman standing outside, holding a dripping umbrella. It may have been the rain or it may have been her dress, but the overriding impression she gave was of dowdiness. When the woman saw Jenny, she gave a start.

‘My neighbour,’ said Basil Wickramsinghe quickly.

She’s jealous, thought Jenny.

The woman glanced at Jenny and then looked away. ‘Am I early?’ she said.

Basil Wickramsinghe’s glance darted to Jenny and then quickly back to the other woman.

‘This is Miss Oiseau,’ he said, in introduction.

Jenny took the other woman’s hand and shook it. It was wet, and had a clammy, lifeless feel to it. She smiled at Basil.

‘Thank you for the tea.’

‘I’m glad that you enjoyed it.’

She slipped past Miss Oiseau and out into the hall as the other woman went into the flat, and the door closed behind her. Miss Oiseau had left her umbrella in the hall, propped up against the jamb of Basil Wickramsinghe’s door, and a small puddle was growing at its tip. Jenny was about to climb the stairs when she heard voices from inside the flat.

Miss Oiseau had a thin, reedy voice, with the quality of an old gramophone record. ‘Who’s that?’

‘As I said, she’s one of the neighbours. There’s a flat full of girls upstairs. She’s one of them.’

‘Is she a sympathiser?’

Jenny could not help but incline her head closer to the door; who would not act thus in such circumstances? She heard Basil Wickramsinghe laugh. ‘But how am I to know that? We didn’t discuss anything like that. I only met her in that organic place. We hadn’t talked about anything very much.’

‘But do you think she might be?’

‘It’s impossible to tell. You can’t ask people outright, can you? You have to be circumspect. There are signals. You know that.’

Something else was said that Jenny did not catch. Then the sound of the voices faded; they had moved away from the door. Jenny, thoughtful - and guilty - set off up the stairs. She was trying to make sense of the conversation she had overheard, and not getting very far. All she knew was that the anaemic Miss Oiseau and Basil Wickramsinghe had some cause in common - a cause which attracted sympathisers, of whom she, for all she knew, might be one. And signals came into it - although exactly how rather taxed the imagination. Were they . . . ? No, it seemed absurd. Were Basil Wickramsinghe and Miss Oiseau involved in something illicit? And was all this happening in Corduroy Mansions, of all buildings, in Pimlico, of all places?

Don’t be absurd, she said to herself. The quiet accountant and his dowdy friend were not very likely co-conspirators. But were co-conspirators ever likely? The newspapers were full of instances of unlikely offenders, who had to live somewhere, after all. Jenny was not of a suspicious nature, but it was difficult to interpret the conversation she had overheard as anything but . . . intriguing, perhaps.

A sympathiser? Was she?