fears into words and images.
At the end of the track, Mara walked along Mortsett Lane, past the closed shops and the cottages with their television screens flickering behind curtains. In the dimly lit phone booth, she rang Jenny’s number. She heard a click followed by a strange, disembodied voice that she finally recognized as Jenny’s. The voice explained that its owner was out, but that a message could be left after the tone. Mara, who had never dealt with an answering machine before, waited nervously, worried that she might miss her cue. But it soon came, the unmistakable high- pitched bleep. Mara spoke quickly and loudly, as people do to foreigners, feeling self-conscious about her voice: “This is Mara, Jenny. I hope I’ve got this thing right. Please, will you meet me tomorrow lunchtime in the Black Sheep in Relton? It’s important. I’ll be there at one. I hope you can come.” She paused for a moment and listened to the silence, feeling that she should add something, but she could think of nothing more to say.
Mara put the phone back gently. It had been rather like sending a telegram, something she had done once before. The feeling that every word cost money was very inhibiting, and so, in a different way, was the sense of a tape winding around the capstan past the recording head as she talked.
Anyway, it was done. Leaving the booth, she hurried 109
towards the Black Sheep, feeling lighter in spirit now that she had at least taken a practical step to deal with her fears.
Ill
Banks and Jenny sat in the bar over aperitifs while they studied the menu. The Royal Oak was a cosy place with muted lights, mullioned windows and gleaming copper-ware
‘in little nooks and crannies. Fastened horizontally between the dark beams on the ceiling was a collection of walking-sticks of all lengths and materials: knobbly ashplants, coshers, sword-sticks and smooth canes, many with ornate brass handles. On a long shelf above the bar stood a row of toby jugs with such faces as Charles II, Shakespeare and Beethoven; some, however, depicted contemporaries, like Margaret Thatcher and Paul McCartney.
Jenny sipped a vodka-and-tonic, Banks a dry sherry, as they tried to decide what to order. Finally, after much self-recrimination about the damage it would do to her figure, Jenny settled for steak au poivre with a wine-and- cream sauce. Banks chose roast leg of lamb. Much as he liked to watch the little blighters frolic around the dale every spring, he enjoyed eating them almost as much. They’d only grow up SSSinto sheep anyway, he reasoned.
“…They followed the waitress into the dining-room, pleased to find only one other table occupied, and that by a subdued couple already on dessert. Mozart’s Clarinet Quintet played quietly in the background. Banks watched Jenny walk ahead of him. She was wearing a loose top, cut square across the collarbone, which looked as if it had been tie-dyed in various shades of blue and red. Her pleated skirt was plain rustred, the colour of her tumbling, wavy hair, and came to midway down her calves. The tights she wore had some kind of pattern on them, which looked to Banks like a row of bruises up the sides of her legs. Being a gentleman, though, he had complimented her on her appearance.
The waitress lit the candle, took their orders and moved 110
off soundlessly, leaving them with the wine list to study. Banks lit a cigarette and smiled at Jenny.
Despite the claims of Playboy, the Miss Universe contest and other promoters of the feminine image to men, Banks had often found that it was the most insignificant detail that made a woman physically attractive to him: a well-placed mole, a certain curve of the lips or turn of the ankle; or a mannerism, such as the way she picked up a glass, tilted her head before smiling, or fiddled with a necklace while speaking.
In the case of Sandra, his wife, it was the dark eyebrows and the contrast they made with her naturally ash- blonde hair. With Jenny, it was her eyes, or rather the delta of lines that crinkled their outer edges, especially when she smiled.
They were like a map whose contours revealed a sense of humour and a curious mixture of toughness and vulnerability that Banks, himself, felt able to identify with. Her beautiful red hair and green eyes, her shapeliness, her long legs and full lips were all very well, but they were just icing on the cake. It was the lines around the eyes that did it.
“What are you thinking?” Jenny asked, looking up from the list.
Banks gave her the gist of it.
“Well,” she said, after a fit of laughter, “I’ll take that as a compliment, though there are many women who wouldn’t. What shall we have?”
“They’ve got a nice Seguret 1980 here, if I remember rightly. And not too expensive, either. That’s if you like Rhone.”
“Fine by me.”
When the waitress returned with their smoked salmon and melon appetizers, Banks ordered the wine.
“So what’s all this decadence in aid of?” asked Jenny, her eyes twinkling in the candle flame. “Are you planning to seduce me, or are you just softening me up for questioning?”
“What if I said I was planning to seduce you?”
“I’d say you were going about it the right way.” She smiled and looked around the room. “Candlelight, romantic music, nice atmosphere, good food.”
111
The wine arrived, shortly followed by their main courses, and soon they were enjoying the meal to the accompaniment of the Flute Quartets.
Over dinner, Jenny complained about her day. There had been too many classes to teach, and she was tired of the undergraduates’ simplistic assumptions about psychology. Sometimes, she confessed, she was even sick of psychology itself and wished she’d studied English literature or history instead.
Banks told her about the funeral, careful to leave out his meeting with Tony Grant. It would be useful to have something in reserve later, if he could steer her around to talking about Osmond. He also mentioned his visit to Tim and Abha and how Burgess’s approach had soured the pitch.
