'Why?' 'You called me a bastard.' 'You are.' Her eyes were glutted with tears. 'An irresistible bastard.
Don't go, Lothar, please don't go.' Isabella was relieved when her father told her that he was unable to fly to London with her and Michael. Meeting her mother again after all these years, and after what Lothar had told her, would be difficult enough, without her father there to complicate matters and confuse her feelings. She had, indeed, tried to beg off going to London herself.
She wanted to, be close to Lothar, but he had been the one who insisted she make the trip.
'I will be back in Johannesburg and we wouldn't see much of each other anyway,' he told her. 'And besides that you have your duty and you have given me your word.' 'I know Daddy would give me a PR job with the company in Jo'burg. I could get a flat and we could see lots of each other, I mean lots and lots!' 'When you come back from London,' he promised.
There were representatives from South Africa House and the London office of Courthey Mining to meet Isabella and Michael at Heathrow and a company limousine to take them to the Dorchester.
'Pater always overdoes it by a mile,' Michael remarked, embarrassed by the reception. 'We could have taken a taxi.' 'No point in being a Courtney, unless you get to enjoy it,' Isabella disagreed.
When Isabella was shown up to her suite which looked out over Hyde Park, there was an enormous bouquet of flowers waiting for her with a note: Sorry I can't be with you, darling. Next time we will paint the town bright scarlet together.
Your old Dad.
Even before the porter had brought her bags up, Isabella dialled the number that Tara had given her and she was answered on the third ring.
'This is the Lord Kitchener Hotel, may I help you?' It was strangely nostalgic to be greeted by an African accent in a strange city.
'May I speak to Mrs Malcomess, please?' In her letter Tara had warned her that she had reverted to her maiden name after the divorce.
'Hello, Mater.' Isabella tried to sound natural when Tara came on the line, but Tara's delight was unrestrained.
'Oh Bella darling, where are you? Is Mickey with you? How soon can you get here? You have got the address, haven't you? It's so easy to find.' Isabella tried to match Michael's enthusiasm and excitement as they drove through the streets of London and the taxi-driver pointed out the landmarks they passed, but she was in a funk at the prospect of seeing her mother again.
It was one of those rather seedy little tourist hotels in a side street off the Cromwell Road. Only part of the neon sign Was lit. 'The Ord Kitch', it flashed in electric blue, and on the glass of the front doo were plastered the emblems of the AA and Routiers and a blaze o credit card stickers.
Tara rushed out through the glass doors while they were stil paying off the taxi. She embraced Michael first, which gave Isabell a few moments to study her mother.
She had put on weight, her backside in the faded blue jeans wa: huge, and her bosom hung shapelessly in the baggy man's sweater.
'She's an old bag.' Isabella was appalled. Even though Tara hoc never gone to any pains with her appearance, she had always had or air of freshness and neatness. But now her hair had turned grey, ant she had obviously made a half-hearted attempt to henna it back to it original colour, and then given up. The grey was streaked brassy ginger and violent mulberry red, and it was twisted up into a careless, bun at the nape of her neck from which parti- coloured wisps hoc escaped.
Her features had sagged almost to obscure the bone structure whicl: had been one of her most striking assets, and through i her eyes were still large and bright the skin around them had creased and bagged.
At last she released Michael, and turned to Isabella.
'My darling little girl, I would hardly have recognized you. What a lovely young woman you have become.' They embraced. Isabella recalled how her mother had smelled, it was one of her pleasant childhood memories, but this woman smelled of some cheap and flowery perfume, of cigarette smoke and boiled cabbage, and - Isabella could barely credit her own senses - of underclothing that had been worn too long without changing.
She broke off the embrace, but Tara kept hold of her arm, and with Michael on the other side of her led them into the Lord Kitchener Hotel. The receptionist was a black lad, and Isabella recognized his voice as the one who had answered her phone call.
'Phineas is from Cape Town also,' Tara introduced them. 'He is one of our other runaways. He left after the troubles in sixty-one and, like the rest of us, he won't be going home yet. Now let me show you around the Lardy --' she laughed. 'That's what my permanent guests call it, the Lardy. I thought of changing the name, it's so colonial and Empire --' Tara chattered on happily, as she led them around the hotel. The carpets in the passages were threadbare, and the rooms had washbasins, but shared the toilet and bathroom at the end of each passage.
Tara introduced them to any of her guests they met in the corridors or public rooms. 'These are my son and daughter from Cape Town,' and they shook hands with German and French tourists who spoke no English, Pakistanis and Chinese, black Kenyans and coloured South Africans.
'Where are you staying?' Tara wanted to know.
'At the Dorchester.' 'Of course.' Tara rolled her eyes. 'Fifty guineas a day, paid for by the sweat of the workers in the Courtney mines. That is what your father would have chosen. Why don't you and Mickey move in here?
I have two nice rooms on the top floor free at the moment. You would meet so many interesing people, and we'd see so much more of each other.' Isabella shuddered at the thought of sharing the toilet at the end of the passage and jumped in before Michael could agree.
'Daddy would be furious, he has prepaid for us - and now we know our way, it's only a short taxi ride.' 'Taxis,' Tara sniffed. 'Why not take the bus or the underground like any ordinary person?' Isabella stared at her speechlessly. Didn't she understand that they weren't ordinary people? They were Courtheys. She was about to say so, when Michael sensed her intention and intervened smoothly.
'Of course you are quite right. You'll have to tell us what number bus to take and where to get off, Mater.'
