Beyond Black: A Novel

broken it to you like that if I didn’t think you could take it. And straight talking—I think you can take that too.”

“I can take it,” Colette said. She sat down again.

“You’re proud,” Al said softly. “You won’t be bested.”

“That describes me.”

“If Jack and Jill can do it, you can do it.”

“That’s true.”

“You don’t suffer fools gladly.”

“I don’t.”

It was an old Mrs. Etchells line; she was probably using it right now, three tables down: “You don’t suffer fools gladly, dear!” As if the client were going to come back at you “Fools! I love ’em! Can’t get enough! I go out round the streets, me, looking for fools to ask them home to dinner!”

Alison sat back in her chair. “The way I see you now, you’re dissatisfied, restless.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve reached a place in your life where you don’t much want to be.”

“Yes.”

“You’re ready and willing to move on.”

“Yes.”

“So do you want to come and work for me?”

“What?”

“Can you type, drive, anything like that? I need a sort of, what do they call it? Girl Friday.”

“This is a bit sudden.”

“Not really. I felt I knew you when I saw you from the platform last night.”

“The platform?”

“The platform is what we call any kind of stage.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s historical, I suppose.”

Colette leaned forward. She locked her fists together between her knees. Alison said, “If you come into the front bar in about an hour, we can get a coffee.”

Colette cast a glance at the long queue behind her.

“Okay, say an hour and a quarter?”

“What do you do, put up a CLOSED sign?”

“No, I just put them on divert, I say, go see Mrs. Etchells three tables down.”

“Why? Is she good?”

“Mrs. Etchells? Entre nous, she’s rubbish. But she taught me. I owe her.”

“You’re loyal?”

“I hope so.”

“Is that her? Wrinkly old bag with a charm bracelet on? Now I’ll tell you something. She’s not loyal to you.”

She spelled it out: “She tried to poach me, tried to catch me as I was looking about for you: cards, crystal, and psychometry thrown in, thirty quid.”

Alison blushed, a deep crimson blush. “She said that? Thirty quid?”

“Fancy you not knowing.”

“My mind was somewhere else.” She laughed shakily. “Voila. You’ve already earned your money, Colette.”

“You know my name?”

“It’s that certain something French about you. Je ne sais quoi.”

“You speak French?”

“Never till today.”

“You mustn’t mind-read me.”

“I would try not to.”

“An hour and a quarter?”

“You could get some fresh air.”

On Windsor Bridge, a young boy was sitting on a bench with his Rottweiler at his feet. He was eating an ice-cream cone and holding another out to the dog. Passersby, smiling, were collecting to watch. The dog ate with civil, swirling motions of his tongue. Then he crunched the last of his cornet, swarmed up onto the bench and laid his head lovingly on the boy’s shoulder. The