Memento Mori

‘Which paper, where?’ he said, reaching out for the Manchester Guardian.

‘It was the Mirror,’ she said. ‘I wonder what I’ve done with it? He said anyone can live to a hundred if they keep God’s laws and remain young in spirit. Goodness.’

‘The government robbers,’ he said, ‘won’t let you keep young in spirit. Sheer robbery.’

Olive was not listening, or she would not have chosen that moment to say, ‘Eric’s in a bad way, you know.’

‘He’s always in a bad way. What’s the matter now?’

‘The usual,’ she said.

‘What usual?’

‘Money,’ she said.

‘I can’t do more for Eric. I’ve done more than enough for Eric. Eric has ruined me.’

Then, as in a revelation, he realized what had put him off Olive’s suspenders that afternoon. It was this money question, this standing arrangement with Olive. It had been going on for three years. Pleasant times, of course … One had possibly gained … but now, Mabel Pettigrew — what a find! Quite pleased with a mere tip, a pound, and a handsome woman, too. All this business of coming over to Chelsea. No wonder one was feeling put out, especially as one could not easily extricate oneself from an arrangement such as that with Olive. Moreover …

‘I’m not so strong these days,’ he commented. ‘My doctor thinks I’m going about too much.’

‘Oh?’ said Olive.

‘Yes. Must keep indoors more.

‘Goodness,’ said Olive. ‘You are wonderful for your age. A man like you could never stay indoors all day.’

‘Well,’ he admitted, ‘there is that to it.’ He was moved to look longingly at her legs at the point where, beneath her dress, the tip of her suspenders would meet the top of her stockings, but she made no move to reveal them.

‘You tell your doctor,’ she said, ‘to go to hell. What did you see the doctor about, anyway?’

‘Just aches and pains, my dear, nothing serious of course.

‘Many a younger man,’ she said, ‘is riddled with aches and pains. Take Eric, for instance —’Feeling his age, is he?’ ‘I’ll say he is. Goodness.’ Godfrey said, ‘Only himself to blame. No, I’m wrong, I blame his mother. From the moment that boy was born, she —’

He leaned back in his chair with his hands crossed above his stomach. Olive closed her eyes and relaxed while his voice proceeded into the late afternoon.

Godfrey reached his car outside the bomb site. He had felt cramped when he rose from that frightful modern chair of Olive’s. One had talked on, and remained longer than one had intended. He climbed stiffly into the car and slammed the door, suddenly reproached by the more dignified personality he now had to resume.

‘Why does one behave like this, why?’ he asked himself as he drove into the King’s Road and along it. ‘Why does one do these things?’ he thought, never defining, however, exactly what things. ‘How did it start, at what point in one’s life does one find oneself doing things like this?’ And he felt resentful against Charmian who had been, all her life with him, regarded by everyone as the angelic partner endowed with sensibility and refined tastes. As for oneself, of Colston’s Breweries, one had been the crude fellow, tolerated for her sake, and thus driven into carnality, as it were. He felt resentful against Charmian, and raced home to see if she had made everything all right after upsetting Mrs Anthony and Mrs Pettigrew. He took out his watch. It was seven and a half minutes to six. Home, home, for a drink. Funny how Olive never seemed to have any drinks in her flat. Couldn’t afford it, she said. Funny she couldn’t afford it; what did she do with her money, one wondered.

At half past six Alec Warner arrived at Olive’s. She poured him a gin and tonic which he placed on a table beside his chair. He took a hard-covered note-book from his briefcase. ‘How are things?’ he said, leaning his large white head against the yellow chair-back.

‘Guy Leet,’ she said, ‘has been diagnosed again for his neck. It’s a rare type of rheumatism, it sounds like tortoise.’

‘Torticollis?’ said Alec Warner.

‘That’s it.’

Alec Warner made a note in his book. ‘Trust him,’ he said, ‘to have a rare rheumatism. How are things otherwise?’

‘Dame Lettie Colston has changed her will again.’

‘Lovely,’ he said, and made a note. ‘What way has she changed it?’

‘Eric is out again, for one. Martin is put in again. That’s the other nephew in Africa.’

‘She thinks Eric is responsible for the telephone calls, does she?’

‘She suspects everyone. Goodness. This is her way of testing Eric. That ex-detective is out.’

‘Chief Inspector Mortimer?’

‘Yes. She thinks it might be him. Funny, it is. She has no sooner got him working privately on the case, than she thinks it might be him.’

‘How old is Mortimer?’ he asked.

‘Nearly seventy.’

‘I know. But when exactly will he be seventy? Did you inquire?’

‘I’ll find out exactly,’ said Olive.

‘Always find out exactly,’ he said.