Chapter Five #3
Before Daisy could think of a polite way to enquire where Patrick was coming home from and what he’d been doing there, the waitress arrived with a tray.
And then it was too late. Audrey revealed that she had read Daisy’s latest article in Town and Country, because “Mama Moira said I ought, with you living next door. I’m not much of a reader,” she confessed, laughing.
“I just don’t seem to have time. But I really enjoyed your article. ”
She had lots of questions, and Daisy never managed to steer the conversation back to Patrick Jessup. At least she now knew his name!
HOME SWEET HOME
Here’s little Sir John in a nut-brown bowl,
And brandy in a glass;
And little Sir John in the nut-brown bowl
Proved the stronger man at last.
And the huntsman he can’t hunt the fox,
Nor so loudly blow his horn,
And the tinker he can’t mend kettles or pots
Without a little of Barleycorn.
As a child, Patrick had found the long lift ride at Hampstead tube station spooky, though he’d have died rather than admit it to his brother or his friends.
Once he was old enough, he preferred to climb the three hundred steps to the surface from the deepest platforms in the whole Underground network.
Though the staircase was pretty grim and gloomy, at least he wasn’t shut up in a cage.
He used to say it was to keep himself fit for cricket.
Arriving in London on a rainy afternoon with Mickie Callaghan in tow, he assumed they would take a taxi from the boat train to Constable Circle.
“Nix,” said Callaghan. “Cabs can be traced. We take the subway, or whatever you ride in in this burg.”
The implications did not make Patrick happy.
He was already unhappy about taking the Irish American home to his family.
They had crossed the Atlantic together, Callaghan hiding in their cabin most of the way in a most unsettling manner.
Patrick still wasn’t sure what the man was after, but it seemed impossible to get rid of him.
His father had set up this whole affair. Patrick had carried out his part successfully. His father would have to deal with Callaghan.
They reached Hampstead station just early enough not to have to stand in line for the lift, but Callaghan took one look at the lift attendant and said, “We take the stairs.”
“He takes thousands of people up and down every day. He won’t remember you.”
“We take the stairs.”
Maliciously, Patrick failed to inform him that they were not much less than two hundred feet below ground level.
Callaghan, silent in his rubber-soled shoes, set off at a fast pace that would have taken him quickly to the top of a four-story building.
Patrick didn’t attempt to keep up. He was not at all surprised when he caught up with Callaghan plodding upward, looking disgruntled.
Knowing from experience that taking the climb too slowly was as exhausting as attempting to take it too fast, Patrick kept going, giving the disgruntled American a wave as he passed.
“See you at the top.”
Callaghan scowled.
The last step behind him, Patrick was pleased to find that he was less out of shape than he had feared.
He was breathing hard but by no means winded.
Leaning against a poster advertising The Lost World, starring Bessie Love, he waited for Callaghan, who appeared at last, after a considerable interval.
He came up the final flight breathing easily.
Patrick was sure he had stopped to rest on the last landing.
If he had learnt anything about Mickie Callaghan, it was that he’d go to considerable trouble to avoid being caught at a disadvantage.
As always, it was a relief to exit into the open air.
The rain had stopped, but dark clouds hung overhead, bringing an early twilight.
Patrick turned left and left again, into Flask Walk.
Callaghan, silent and morose, kept pace with him along the narrow paved lane, past the Flask public house. It was just opening.
“Let’s stop in for a pint,” Patrick suggested, trying to postpone the moment when he’d have to introduce his companion to the family.
“Nix. I bet you’re known in there. They’d remember me.”
The two-story workmen’s cottages opening directly onto the pavement gave way to larger houses and big trees as they crossed into Well Walk.
At the old Chalybeate Well monument, they left the street and took a passage uphill between two large redbrick houses.
They came out on the south side of Constable Circle.
“We’ll cut across the garden,” said Patrick, turning his head to speak to Callaghan, who had fallen a step or two behind.
“Nice place. Which is your house?”
“To the left of the one at the top.” He pointed. Someone was coming down the steps. “I think that’s my brother.” In the dusk, he couldn’t be sure.
The man crossed the street and started down the path. It was Aidan. Good old Aidan! Patrick had never in his life been so glad to see the old sobersides. He waved. Aidan waved back and they both walked faster. Callaghan fell behind Patrick.
A man stepped out of the bushes and accosted Aidan. He spoke too softly for Patrick to hear at that distance, but his gestures were forceful. Aidan brushed him off and kept going. The man persisted, striding along at Aidan’s side, gesticulating. He seemed to be angry.
They all converged on the fountain.
The stranger’s rant cut off abruptly, as if he had suddenly noticed he and Aidan were not alone. He stared towards Patrick.
“You!” he exclaimed, his tone venomous. Thrusting his hand inside his coat, he took a couple of quick paces forward. His hand reappeared gripping a pistol.