On the Edge [= Dead Gorgeous]

10

A sleek white Bentley Mark VI drew in smoothly to the kerb in front of St James-The-Less Church in Moreton Street where Rose had been waiting almost twenty minutes. Antonia was at the wheel.

‘Hop in, darling. We’re about to go slumming across the river. A pint and a pork pie in the Prince Regent. Do you know it?’

Rose didn’t know it. Nor did she know the man sitting beside Antonia. His presence threw her into angry confusion. Her first impulse was to turn and march away, and ten days ago she wouldn’t have hesitated. Having it brought home to her that she was now incapable of such a simple act of independence incensed her even more as she got into the back seat. The man turned and grinned at her in a way that was meant to be friendly. He got a cold stare in return. She was in no frame of mind to be sociable. Antonia was the bloody limit. This wasn’t meant to be a pub-crawl with some fancy man in tow. It was her first chance to talk to Antonia after the hellish week she’d been through.

Talk? Rose didn’t trust herself to speak.

The car had turned and started across Vauxhall Bridge before she could bring herself to take another look at the man, and then her thoughts weren’t charitable. Probably about her own age, he had the sort of fine black hair that would start receding before he was thirty. The deep-set brown eyes and tanned skin made her think of Italian prisoners of war in work-parties she had seen from the windows of trains. She’d always ignored their waving and whistling.

Meanwhile Antonia carried on as if it was a party. ‘Say hello to Vic, darling. He’s the dishiest man in London, as you can see, and I’ve been dying for you two to meet.’

He turned and offered his hand. It was broad, with strong-looking fingers and a crop of dark hair. Rose put hers out mechanically and had it gripped.

‘Poor Rosie lost her hubby last week. A frightful accident in the tube. She’s had a basinful of sympathy, so you needn’t say a word.’

In Rose’s estimation Vic didn’t look as if comforting words were on the tip of his tongue.

She said, ‘I don’t want to go into a pub.’

‘Nonsense, darling. A drink will do you the world of good.’

The lunch-hour was noisily in session in the Prince Regent. People stood face to face bellowing at each other. They were three-deep at the bar and there was so much smoke you could have taken it for the gun deck of a man-of-war. Why Antonia had suggested this as a place to talk was beyond Rose’s comprehension.

Vic took their orders and joined the throng at the bar.

‘He’ll be ages. How are you coping?’

‘Can’t we go somewhere more private?’

‘Nobody’s listening. Now it’s all over you’ve got to return to the world of the living.’

‘Barry isn’t buried yet.’

‘I know that, love. You’ve got to pick up the death certificate, correct? We’ll do it this afternoon.’

‘Both of us?’

‘You want some moral support, don’t you?’

‘Is it wise?’

‘Calm down, Rose. It’s perfectly normal for someone else to tag along, a friend to hold your hand, so to speak. When’s the funeral?’

‘The day after tomorrow.’

‘We’ll have a couple of drinks with Vic and I’ll drive you over to the registry office. Have you filled in the insurance claim yet?’

‘The bank are looking after that for me.’

‘You bet they are, the sharks. Remember that’s your money. Don’t let them do you for a single penny.’

Antonia was wagging her forefinger like a schoolmistress. She finished by tapping the back of Rose’s hand. Then she grasped her wrist and squeezed it.

‘We pulled it off, my flower!’

Vic had cleverly succeeded in getting served at once and was edging through with a tray of drinks and slices of pie. Antonia waved her white kid gloves.

‘He’s divine, isn’t he?’

‘Who is he exactly?’

‘Ask him. He isn’t dumb. God, and we haven’t even found a table yet.’

They had to make do with a windowsill. Vic noticed that someone had dropped cigarette ash on Rose’s sleeve. He insisted on flicking it off with his handkerchief. In other circumstances she would probably have accepted him as a pleasant addition to the company. There was nothing she could object to in his behaviour. It wasn’t his fault that he happened to be unwelcome. Antonia, the real culprit, bulldozed on regardless.

‘Victor, my love, Rosie wants to know who the bloody hell you are.’

He gave Rose a tolerant smile. ‘Don’t let her bother you. She does it to me all the time. She’s probably told you already, but if it’s of any interest I lecture in chemistry at Imperial College.’

This wasn’t enough for Antonia. ‘Come on, you do research as well. You’ve got your own lab filled with the most fearful-looking chemicals.’ She swung back to Rose. ‘He could poison the whole of London if he wanted to.’

Vic rolled his eyes. ‘Now why should I want to do that?’

‘Tell Rose about your swimming, then. This is really bizarre, darling.’

He sighed. ‘Do I have to? I’m one of that eccentric band of health fanatics who swim in the Serpentine every day. I might as well tell you the rest, or she’ll make me sound like a monster. I have a liking for French films, traditional jazz and, against my better judgement, one deplorably outspoken blonde lady.’

Antonia punched him playfully in the ribs. ‘You mean sophisticated, ducky.’

‘I mean exactly what I said.’

His manner towards her suggested a close relationship. Rose wondered how much Antonia’s husband knew about it.

Antonia gave her a nudge. ‘Now it’s your turn, darling.’

Rose shook her head. ‘Anyone can see what I am: totally out of place in this atmosphere.’

‘Rubbish. Victor, you beast, I’m going to tell you something quite remarkable about my friend Rosie: she’s never comfortable with what she’s wearing. For God’s sake tell her she looks wonderfully elegant in black or she won’t let us stay for another drink.’

Rose sighed and turned up her eyes in exasperation. ‘I don’t mind waiting outside.’

However she stayed and was persuaded to try some vodka in her tomato juice. Vic secured a table for them and handed round Balkan Sobranie cigarettes. Rose hadn’t tried the brand before and found it strong. To mask the taste she finished her drink in a couple of gulps and Vic fetched her another. To her immense relief the focus of conversation shifted away from her. Antonia brought it round to female film stars and held forth about passive, wishy-washy heroines who deserved to be knocked about by sadists like James Mason in The Man in Grey. She said any intelligent woman would have stood up and applauded the scene in The Seventh Veil when Mason crushed Ann Todd’s delicate hands under the piano lid.

Rose said she hadn’t seen the films and anyway violent men had no appeal for her.

‘Sorry, my poppet. Shouldn’t have brought it up.’

Vic looked at his watch and remembered he had a lecture to give at two. They drove back across the river and put him off at Victoria, where he could get the tube.

Antonia blew him a kiss before he disappeared. ‘Isn’t he bliss to be with? I knew you’d get on famously with him.’

‘That isn’t the point. We had things to discuss.’

‘Rosie, my precious lamb, you’d better get one thing clear in your head. Postmortems don’t appeal to me in the least. I did what you asked me to do and now it’s up to you to make the best of it.’

‘Well, yes. Don’t think I’m ungrateful, but—’

‘It’s beginning to sound like it.’

Rose gave up protesting. She’d allowed her emotions to dictate to her. She had craved some human contact after the ordeal of the inquest. And the one person in the world she could share her experience with had put up the shutters. Well, perhaps it was sensible. After all, there was nothing of practical importance to be discussed with Antonia. And aside from their reminiscing about the war and their bouts of giggling they hadn’t truly found much in common. Antonia’s brashness was a strong disincentive.

Besides, she would never be able to think of Antonia in the same way, knowing what she had done down there in the tube. Rose told herself that she personally was just as culpable — if not more so — for suggesting it. Yet she would have been incapable of pushing Barry under the train. She was convinced of that. The fact that Antonia had done it in cold blood set her apart. She was uncomfortable to be with now.

Rose said, ‘You’re absolutely right. I must be more self-reliant. You don’t need to come with me this afternoon. Just drop me outside the registry office.’

‘Darling, I’ll do no such thing.’

‘I mean it.’

‘Shut up and listen to me. I won’t be coming in just to hold your hand. You’re going to help me this afternoon.’

‘Help you? How?’

‘You don’t object, do you?’

Rose hesitated. ‘What am I supposed to do?’

‘Because it wouldn’t show much gratitude, would it, little sister, after I put my precious life at risk to get you out of your particular pickle?’

‘Antonia, I’ve said how grateful I am.’

‘And now you have an opportunity to show it.’

‘Tell me what you want me to do.’

Antonia drove on for some time without answering.

Rose said, ‘So long as it isn’t against the law.’

Antonia laughed. ‘Sweetie, asking to visit the ladies isn’t illegal.’

The fire in the waiting room had gone out, probably days ago. The windows were still painted over for the blackout and last summer’s flypapers hung from the lights. Torn pages from John Bull and Everybody’s littered the threadbare lino. About twenty people sat and stood in silence broken only by a crying child and regular coughing.

Between them, Rose and Antonia got through a packet of ten Senior Service before their turn came. They’d been told that Deaths were upstairs.

‘Next.’

‘You know what to say?’ said Antonia before they went in. ‘You’re looking awfully pale.’

‘Isn’t that the idea?’

The Assistant Registrar (Deaths) Knock Before Entering had a purple twinset that tended to emphasize the papery appearance of her skin. Her coke stove was alight and the clock on the wall was ticking. She was writing the date on the top sheet of her pad of death certificates.

‘Yes?’

Antonia steered Rose forward by the arm, as if she were blind. ‘This is Mrs Bell, whose husband was unfortunately taken from her in an accident last week. I’m her friend.’

‘Is she the informant, or are you?’

‘She is.’

‘Can’t she speak for herself?’

‘She’s rather distressed.’

Rose smiled wanly at Antonia. ‘I’ll try.’

‘The name of the deceased, then?’

‘Bell. Barry Desborough Bell, DFC. Wing Commander.’

‘So his occupation was RAF Officer?’

‘No. Civil Servant. Clerical Officer.’

‘So you mean Wing Commander retired. You should have said so. I could have spoilt the certificate, couldn’t I? What was the date of death?’

‘October 10th.’

‘As long ago as that?’

‘There was an inquest.’

‘I see. I can’t do anything without a report from the coroner, you know.’

‘His office said it would be here this morning.’

‘They promise all sorts of things. Fill in this form, please. This is not the death certificate, but one we require for our records.’

The registrar snatched up a sheaf of papers from her intray and thumbed rapidly through them. Rose dipped the pen in the ink and started to write, prompted once or twice by Antonia.

‘Your name.’

‘Oh, yes.’

Suddenly Rose put down the pen and turned to Antonia. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

The registrar scraped back her chair. For a moment it seemed that she meant to escort Rose to the toilet. Apparently she thought better of it.

‘Downstairs and to the right at the foot of the staircase. Second door.’

Antonia got up and opened the door. ‘Do you want me to come?’ She mouthed the words, ‘Say you can’t find it.’

‘I can manage. It may be just a drink of water I need.’

Rose went out. The registrar started again on her sheaf of papers, watched by Antonia. The tick of the clock was like a time-bomb.

The door opened again and Rose looked in. ‘I’m fearfully sorry.’

The registrar stared at her. ‘What’s happened? Didn’t you reach it in time?’

‘I couldn’t find it. Could I trouble you to show me?’

With a sigh like a burner in a balloon, the registrar rose, yanked her cardigan across her chest and stumped to the door. ‘It’s perfectly easy to find.’ Halfway downstairs she turned and asked Rose if she was pregnant.

Somehow, Rose held herself in check. She was sorely tempted to ask the same question back. However, she’d agreed to go through with this, so she shook her head and followed meekly down the rest of the stairs to the appropriate room.

At least the woman had the grace to tell her to take her time, although possibly her office floor was paramount in her thoughts.

Rose whiled away some minutes studying the walls. She’d never understood what drove people to publicize their love and hate in such places. Then she washed and dried her hands and returned upstairs. Antonia sprang up and grasped her hand and asked if she felt any better. It seemed like over-acting, though the registrar ignored the performance. She announced that she had located the letter from the coroner’s office. The paperwork was completed in a short time. Rose paid the fee for extra copies of the death certificate and put the documents in her handbag.

Outside in the Bentley, Antonia leaned across and planted a loud kiss on Rose’s cheek.

‘You were brilliant, darling. Brilliant! It was quite a blow when she didn’t go out with you the first time. What an old dragon!’

‘Are you going to tell me what it was all about?’

‘Haven’t you guessed by now? Look.’

Antonia opened her handbag and took out a folded piece of paper. She spread it across her knees and then passed it to Rose.

‘A death certificate?’

‘A blank death certificate — with the duplicate they keep for their records.’

‘You took it from her desk? But it’s got a number on it. She’ll know it’s missing.’

‘She won’t. I’m not soft in the head, Rosie, my love. I nicked it from the bottom of the pad. Careful — we don’t want it looking dogeared, do we?’

Rose frowned and handed the certificate back. Antonia replaced it in her handbag and started the car.

‘Aren’t you going to say I’m a genius?’

Rose didn’t answer.

‘I mean, it couldn’t be easier from now on. We’ve cut out all the snags. We won’t need a doctor’s certificate. We fill in whatever we like and take it to the undertaker.’

‘What couldn’t be easier?’

Antonia smiled and swung the car into the traffic of Kensington High Street.

‘Antonia, what couldn’t be easier?’

‘How would you like to meet my husband?’