Virgin has the pin-up, he says, the Saudis have the swords, the Irish the shamrock. ‘You’d know a shamrock never grew in England, sir?’
The man Pettie took the shine to nods. The woman she didn’t like says the shamrock is special to St. Patrick, which he had ready to say himself. Pettie got off on the wrong foot with her on account she gave short on the fares, but it could have been she didn’t mean to. It could have been she hadn’t checked it out. He didn’t say it to Pettie, a waste of breath that would have been. Pettie didn’t go for her and that was that.
‘He took it as a sign.’ He explains in case there is confusion about the shamrock. ‘A three-leaved clover.’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘You’d know it’s a bird on a lot of them, sir? One way or another, not that people realize. Singapore for starters, sir. Then again Indonesia. Then again Nigeria and the Germans.’
‘I see.’
‘Not much to Cathay Pacific, sir. Not much to Egypt Air.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘They give me the money, sir. What you sent.’
They nod their heads. A Friday it was when she came out here the first time, a Saturday a.m. when she said Thaddeus Davenant the first time in the Soft Rock.
‘We’re extremely grateful to you,’ the woman says.
‘They said you was grateful.’
‘More than we can express.’
The man who opened the door comes in with a tray. It’s laden down with a cake and toast cut into strips, and a plate of biscuits, and jam, and plates and cups and saucers. You can tell there’s butter on the toast from the glisten.
‘Georgina Belle recovered from her adventure?’ He planned to say that first of all, but he forgot, so he says it now. Then he asks about Iveson, how it’s spelt, explaining that he takes an interest in a name.
‘I, v, e,’ the woman says, ‘s, o, n.’
The man puts the tray down. He fiddles with the cups and saucers, setting them out. Pettie didn’t go for him, either. She didn’t like the way he looked at her when he opened the front door. You wouldn’t trust a man like that, she said. vIveson,’ the woman repeats, and he’s put in mind of Ivy On Her Own, who sang for Leeroy. Still not speaking, the man who brought the tray in goes away.
‘Why d’you call her that?’ the woman asks. ‘Georgina Belle?’
‘The baby that is, Mrs. Iveson.’
Just Georgina it is.’
He mentions Leeroy. Ivy On Her Own, he explains, Bob Iron and the Metalmen. ‘I thought it was Georgina Belle,’ he says, and explains that Leeroy’s singers didn’t exist, that no one could hear them except Leeroy. Probably no one can to this day, he explains.
‘I see,’ the woman says.
‘One of those things, like.’
He likes the cup his tea’s in, flowers all over it and a gold ring on the edge, and another round the saucer. He likes the cake he’s eating, as good as anything Mr. Kipling does. ‘You know Mr. Kipling at all?’ he asks them and then he realizes they think he means personally so he explains that Mr. Kipling is a cake-maker. Mrs. Biddle is partial to Mr. Kipling’s almond slices, he says, anything with jam in it and Mrs. Biddle’s away. When she was younger she had to watch her waist.
‘All right then, Mrs. Iveson?’
‘Yes, of course.’ vNot that Mrs. Biddle’s stout these days. Skin and bone, as a matter of fact.’
‘Would you like to see Georgina? I’m sure you would.’
She goes away and Thaddeus Davenant offers him the biscuits. The dog’s asleep, stretched out in a corner. There are more books in those bookcases than he has ever seen in a living-room before. Albert says that, keeping things going.
‘What’s his name, sir?’ he inquires, looking over at the dog.
‘Rosie.’
He remembers. And he remembers this same dog described, friendly and brown, and how he warned her that you can’t be too careful with a dog. The rain’s still coming down, sounding on the window glass.
‘They don’t like a uniform, sir. Depending on the dog, a postman said to me once.’
‘Postmen have a lot to put up with in that respect.’
He’s a man who doesn’t say much, which maybe was what she took to. She could sit in silence with a person, it didn’t matter. When they lived in the glasshouse she didn’t speak herself for hours on end. It would come on dark and he daren’t flash on his torch, but she never minded. She’d things to think about, she said.
‘You read all them books, sir?’
‘Not all of them. But most, I think, one way or another.’
Mrs. Biddle has a few behind glass in the hall. Not his business, so he never took one out. Magazines are more Mrs. Biddle’s thing. Hello! and Chic he gets her, the People’s Friend.
‘Read a Book with Me, by the Man Who Sees. You come across that, sir? I come across it somewhere, maybe Miss Rapp it was. The Home Encyclopaedia we had. Arthur Mee’s Talhs for Boys, sir? You’d have known that in your young days?’
‘No. No, I’m afraid I didn’t.’
‘You ever go on Varig, Mr. Davenant? Varig Brazilian?’ vActually, I’ve never flown.’ vThey have the rainforest down Brazil way.’
‘Yes, they do.’
Mrs. Iveson is back with the baby, and the baby’s eyes are fixed on him, not that she shows recognition. Too much to expect, in a baby.
‘Hullo, there,’ he says.
She puts the baby down on a chair, bunching it back into a corner, with a cushion in front of it in case it tumbles off, although it’s hard to see how it could.
‘Is it Albert?’ she asks. ‘I think at the time they said Albert.’
‘What?’
‘Did you tell us your name?’
He feels foolish, as he did when he forgot about the dog being mentioned. He should have given his name when he entered the room. Best to call it an adventure was what he was concentrating on, best to smile, which he did, only he forgot to give his name.
‘Albert Luffe.’
‘We guessed when we saw your uniform. We were told you took Georgina to one of your hostels.’
‘You think it’s all right?’ He strokes one lapel and then the other, to indicate what he means. They say it suits him. ‘You look ridiculous, dear,’ Mrs. Biddle said the first time he wore it, taking against it because it was something new. ‘You’re in that uniform again,’ she has taken to calling out, knowing he has it on when he doesn’t look in to say goodbye to her on his way out. Mrs. Biddle needn’t see it if she doesn’t want to, no way he’d foist something new on her. He didn’t tell her Captain Evans is going to teach him an instrument, soon as they find out which one he’d be all right on. Best not to bring it up if it isn’t what she wants.
‘Sorry about that, Mrs. Iveson.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I had it in mind to give my name first thing. Otherwise you’d be confused.’
‘It doesn’t matter in the least.’
‘I wasn’t wearing my uniform that day, as a matter of fact. I wasn’t in the Army even. To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t be in the Army if it wasn’t for that day.’
She smiles at him. She says they owe the baby’s life to his quick thinking, knowing what to do.
‘No sweat, Mrs. Iveson.’
The rain has soaked through a place in his jacket and through his trousers at the knees. He feels the dampness, colder now than a moment ago. When he gets back he’ll iron the uniform first thing in case there’s damage done. It was definitely Miss Rapp who was on about the Man Who Sees, some different magazine because Hello! and Chic weren’t going then.
‘She wasn’t kicking up a row, nothing like that. Only gurgling a bit. Many’s the time we had a baby left there. In the coke shed. By the doors. Many’s the time we’d hear the screeching first thing, wake you up it would. Newborn, maybe a day, maybe a week. “What’ll we call it?” Mrs. Hoates would say.’
The other man comes back with water for the tea. He lifts the teapot lid and pours some in. He checks the food, making sure there’s enough. He still doesn’t speak. They take no notice of him.