Chapter 15 The One and Only
The One and Only
Ivy Shears. On balance, Flynn would have preferred the cake.
“Ivy?”
“Not lost your memory, then, I see. Because I did think that was maybe what happened to you,” she said sarcastically.
“You know—you got hit on the head and forgot who you were and where you lived. Not to mention who you were married to. And that was why you left us in the lurch like that. Are you going to keep me standing on the doorstep?”
“I didn’t forget. I did us both a favour. You know that as well as I do. How did you find me?”
“Had to hire a private detective—you’ll be getting the bill.”
He opened the door wide to let her in—not that he would have been able to stop her, she was like a human bulldozer.
The front door led straight into the living room, and Ivy gazed around with an expression of disgust. “So this is where you’re hiding out.
In a hovel in Soho.” (It was hard to defend himself against the accusation.) “You look bloody awful, by the way. Like something the cat’s dragged in. ”
“You look well, Ivy.”
She looked magnificent, in fact. The figure-hugging suit she was wearing, the make-up that could have taken on an entire studio of Klieg lights, and the heavily lacquered hair that would survive a gale-force wind—all made her seem more like a woman who had been built than one who had grown organically.
Built for battle, by the expression on her face.
She could have led a Celtic tribe against the Romans.
Ivy took a cigarette packet out of her handbag and waited for Flynn to fumble for a light. “Can I get you anything?” he offered. “A cup of tea or something?” There was no “something,” only tea and milk that had almost certainly gone off.
“I won’t risk my health, thank you. Aren’t you going to ask me what I want?”
“A divorce?” he hazarded.
“Yes. I’m getting married again.”
“Congratulations.”
“Which obviously I can’t do while I’m still married to you, so I need you to do the gentlemanly thing.
A hotel—most people go to Brighton, I’m told, as it’s already a den of iniquity.
You rent a room, the chambermaid comes in with the morning tea tray and lawks-a-mercy, if it isn’t Mr. Harry Flynn caught in the act with a woman who isn’t his wife—she’ll be a prostitute or some such.
You’ll pay her cash in hand—four pounds is the going rate, apparently.
And the maid with the tea tray—slip her a tip on your way out.
And the man on reception. They’re all in on it.
It’s a ruddy swindle. You’re in the wrong job, whatever job you’re in.
Are you in a job?” (Flynn had forgotten how garrulous Ivy could be.
She seemed to take only one breath. She could have been a pearl diver in another life.) “And also I need you to look after Veronica. We’re going to France for a couple of days. ”
“We?”
“Me and Gerald. My fiancé. Keep up. Mr. Gerald Lister. Owns a garage. Doing very well for himself. Flew Lancasters during the war. More than you ever did.” (Ivy shared the Japanese military’s contempt for surrender.) “Veronica!” she yelled so unexpectedly that Flynn jumped.
Veronica, carrying a small suitcase, appeared on cue, arranging herself carefully in the doorframe in what Flynn interpreted as an attempt at coquetry.
Mrs. Betty followed her in, looking considerably happier to see Flynn than Veronica.
Flynn sent up a small prayer of thanks to a God he didn’t believe in for Mrs. Betty’s continued survival.
As for Veronica, the skinny, knockkneed child Flynn remembered—serviceable plaits, pegs for legs and schoolgirl sandals—was in the process of being usurped by a woman.
The dress Veronica was wearing was a size too small, so that she seemed to be bursting out of it in places, the buttons straining over her burgeoning chest. “Clothes can’t keep up with her,” Ivy said.
“She won’t stop growing.” Veronica lolled against the door jamb, unrepentant about her expansion.
“How old is she now?” a horrified Flynn asked.
“I’m here,” Veronica said, rolling her eyes. “You can speak to me directly, you know.”
“She’s thirteen, and rather fresh, I’m afraid,” Ivy said. “Very forward for her age.”
“Still here.”
“You can’t leave her with me,” Flynn said. (The idea was terrifying.) “I have to go to work.”
“Oh, she’ll be all right on her own. Pop the wireless on and buy her some sweets and magazines.
She’s got a box of toffees with her. It’s best to keep her sugar up—if it drops, she starts whining.
And she’s got a couple of those detective novels she likes reading.
You can buy her more—the racier the better. ”
“Racy?”
“They’re harmless. It’s just words. Keeps her entertained. Like I said, it’s only for a few days.”
“Shouldn’t she be in school?”
“Of course she should be. You try dragging her there.”
“I’m naturally clever. School’s a waste of my time,” Veronica said, finally giving up on her affected air and flopping down on the sofa. “It stinks on those stairs,” she said. “Smells like someone’s died.”
“Rats, probably,” Flynn said. “Or the drains.”
“You can’t leave me here,” Veronica said to Ivy. “It’s a slum. It’s disgusting.”
“I know.” Ivy was unmoved. “It’s a dump, but it’s just for a couple of days.”
Surely there was someone else she could stay with?
“She’s your daughter.”
“Stepdaughter,” Flynn said defensively.
“Legally, she is your daughter. You took her on when you married me. Although we dropped the ‘Flynn’ as soon as you left. Didn’t need any reminders, thank you very much. You owe me, Harry.” She checked her watch. “Time to go. I’m flying, can you believe?”
“On a broom?”
“No need for sarcasm. Any more questions? Right, I’ll be off.
Oh, and—” she gestured towards Veronica, “she won’t eat fish.
” Veronica made a gagging gesture. “Unless it’s fish and chips, and then she doesn’t seem to have a problem, of course.
And don’t get me started on vegetables” (more gagging from Veronica), “except as before if it’s in the form of chips—yes, a potato is a vegetable, Veronica—and no coffee, alcohol or cigarettes, and she’s allergic to good manners.
You be good,” she said, turning her attention to Veronica.
She kissed the tip of her gloved finger and placed it on her daughter’s cheek.
Veronica flinched away. “I’m afraid she hasn’t improved since you last saw her. ”
—
Could he really go to work and leave Veronica all day to her own devices, with only an elderly dog to keep her in order?
She was currently rummaging in her bag—Flynn recognized it as an old handbag of Ivy’s.
His erstwhile wife had swung it at him once, hitting him squarely in the jaw.
He couldn’t remember why now, but he didn’t blame her.
Veronica eventually produced a well-thumbed paperback from the bag and sprawled on the sofa with it.
“Good book?” he asked.
“Very good,” she said, holding it up for his inspection.
The cheap cover depicted a screaming woman fleeing the menacing figure of a man who was holding a gun.
At least she could read, that was something, he supposed.
But shouldn’t Ivy be censoring at least some of this stuff?
It’s only words, she had said, as if words had no power, yet words could start wars or make women fall in love with you and they could send innocent men to the scaffold.
Or men who believed themselves to be innocent, which wasn’t necessarily the same thing.
“The Love Nest by Madeleine K. Webb,” he read out loud.
“Know what that is? A love nest? See, the man pays the woman’s bills and everything. Like Uncle Gerry, really.” She tapped the cover. “She also wrote The Viper’s Revenge and Death Comes to Dawlish—that’s a cracker. You should read it.”
“I just might.” The Love Nest, Flynn thought—the title seemed like a particularly unfortunate coincidence.
She could be lying dead behind the door of the love nest. And now he had found the love nest in Half Moon Street, but the bird had flown.
Or been killed. But she hadn’t been behind the front door.
Had she? Was Archie right and he had managed to overlook a corpse?
“Will you be all right on your own all day? There are plenty of people in the building, you can always pop down and visit them. And there’s no food in the flat to speak of, but there’s a shop on the corner. I can give you my ration card. And don’t forget Mrs. Betty, buy her some food as well.”
Veronica rubbed her thumb and forefinger together and said, “Need money for that.”
“Sorry—I’m cleaned out.” Flynn was forced to show her his empty wallet as proof.
“ ’S okay, I’ve got money, I’ll write an IOU for you.
” She produced a drawstring purse from the bag.
The purse was bulging with money. She spilt out the contents on to the cracked and stained coffee table.
The table had a wonky leg (two, actually), and Veronica said, “Can’t you afford proper furniture?
” Like the Boy’s Festival Rock, you could have broken Veronica in two and she would have had “Wealdstone” running all the way through her.
“No, I can’t,” he said. He thought of the Stock List entry for a “Room for a Businessman.” The Businessman had an easy chair, a divan, a mobile reading table, three different lamps, a desk from Heal’s and a “low coffee table” (Gimson and Slater, Vesper Works, Edgar Rise, Nottingham).
And that was just for starters. Flynn had frequently wondered if he couldn’t stealthily purloin some of the (clearly successful) Businessman’s swag, take it out of the Chicheley Street entrance at the back of the site, put it in a van and drive it back here.
Veronica was counting out coins—some notes, too—making little piles of money in much the same way that her father must have once done when he was a bank teller. Where on earth had she got all this money from?