Mr Morgan coughed explosively, interrupting the flow of words. ‘What are you talking about?’ cried Mrs Runca. ‘It’s enough that damage has been done without all this.’
‘I’m trying to begin at the beginning.’ Ahead of her Miss Winton sensed a great mound of words and complication before she could lay bare the final truth: that Mr Morgan regarded the Runcas as people who had been in some way devoured. She knew that she would have to progress slowly, until they began to guess what she was trying to put to them. Accepting that they had failed the caretaker, as she had failed him too, they would understand the reason for his small revenge. They would nod their heads guiltily while she related how Mr Morgan, unhinged by alcohol, had spat at their furniture and had afterwards pretended to be drowned.
‘We belong to different worlds,’ said Miss Winton, wishing the ground would open beneath her, ‘you and I and Mr Morgan. Mr Morgan sees your penthouse flat in a different way. What I am trying to say is that you are not just people to whom only lies can be told.’
‘We have a lot to do,’ said Mrs Runca, lighting a cigarette. She was smiling slightly, seeming amused.
‘The bill for damage must be paid,’ added Mr Runca firmly. ‘You understand, Miss Winter? There can be no shelving of that responsibility.’
‘I don’t do much,’ cried Miss Winton, moving beyond embarrassment now. ‘I sit with my dog. I go to the shops. I watch the television. I don’t do much, but I am trying to do something now. I am trying to promote understanding.’
The photographers began to dismantle their apparatus. Mr Runca spoke in a whisper to the woman from the magazine, making some final arrangement for the following Wednesday. He turned to Miss Winton and said more loudly: ‘Perhaps you had better return to your apartment, Miss Winter. Who knows, that little dog may have another fit.’
‘He didn’t have a fit,’ cried Miss Winton. ‘He never had a fit in the whole of his life.’
There was a silence in the room then, before Mr Runca said:
‘You’ve forgotten, Miss Winter, that your little dog had a bout of
hysteria and caused a lot of trouble. Come now, Miss Winter.’
‘My name is not Miss Winter. Why do you call me a name that isn’t correct?’
Mr Runca threw his eyes upwards, implying that Miss Winton was getting completely out of hand and would next be denying her very existence. ‘She’s the Queen Mother,’ whispered Mrs Runca to one of the photographers, and the photographer sniggered lightly. Miss Winton said:
‘My dog did not have a fit. I am trying to tell you, but no one bothers to listen. I am trying to go back to the beginning, to the day that Mr Morgan first became caretaker of these flats –’
‘Now, madam,’ said Mr Morgan, stepping forward.
‘I am going to tell the truth,’ cried Miss Winton shrilly. Her dog began to bark, and she felt, closer to her now, the presence of Mr Morgan. ‘Shall we be going, madam?’ said Mr Morgan, and she was aware that she was being moved towards the door. ‘No,’ she cried while the movement continued. ‘No,’ whispered Miss Winton again, but already she was on the landing and Mr Morgan was saying that there was no point whatsoever in attempting to tell people like the Runcas the truth. ‘That type of person,’ said Mr Morgan, descending the stairs with Miss Winton, his hand beneath her left elbow as though she required aid, ‘that type of person wouldn’t know the meaning of the word.’
I have failed, said Miss Winton to herself; I have failed to do something that might have been good in its small way. She found herself at the door of her flat, feeling tired, and heard Mr Morgan saying: ‘Will you be all right, madam?’ She reflected that he was speaking to her as though she were the one who had been mad, soothing her in his scorn. Mr Morgan began to laugh. ‘Runca slipped me a quid,’ he said. ‘Our own Runca.’ He laughed again, and Miss Winton felt wearier. She would write a cheque for the amount of the damage, and that would be that. She would often in the future pass Mr Morgan on the stairs and there would be a confused memory between them. The Runcas would tell their friends, saying there was a peculiar woman in one of the flats. ‘Did you see their faces,’ said Mr Morgan, ‘when I mentioned about the dog in a fit?’ He threw his head back, displaying all his teeth. ‘It was that amusing,’ said Mr Morgan. ‘I nearly smiled.’ He went away, and Miss Winton stood by the door of her flat, listening to his footsteps on the stairs. She heard him on the next floor, summoning the lift that would carry him smoothly to the basement, where he would tell his wife about Miss Winton’s dog having a fit in the Runcas’ penthouse, and how Miss Winton had made a ridiculous fuss that no one had bothered to listen to.
Once upon a time there lived in a remote London suburb an elderly lady called Miss Efoss. Miss Efoss was a spry person, and for as long as she could control the issue she was determined to remain so. She attended the cinema and the theatre with regularity; she read at length; and she preferred the company of men and women forty years her junior. Once a year Miss Efoss still visited Athens and always on such visits she wondered why she had never settled in Greece: now, she felt, it was rather too late to make a change; in any case, she enjoyed London.
In her lifetime, nothing had passed Miss Efoss by. She had loved and been loved. She had once, even, given birth to a child. For a year or two she had known the ups and downs of early family life, although the actual legality of marriage had somehow been overlooked. Miss Efoss’s baby died during a sharp attack of pneumonia; and shortly afterwards the child’s father packed a suitcase one night. He said goodbye quite kindly to Miss Efoss, but she never saw him again.
In retrospect, Miss Efoss considered that she had run the gamut of human emotions. She settled down to the lively superficiality of the everyday existence she had mapped for herself. She was quite content with it. And she hardly noticed it when the Dutts entered her life.
It was Mr Dutt who telephoned. He said: ‘Ah, Miss Efoss, I wonder if you can help us. We have heard that occasionally you babysit. We have scoured the neighbourhood for a reliable babysitter. Would you be interested, Miss Efoss, in giving us a try?’
‘But who are you?’ said Miss Efoss. ‘I don’t even know you. What is your name to begin with?’
‘Dutt,’ said Mr Dutt. ‘We live only a couple of hundred yards from you. I think you would find it convenient.’
‘Well–’
‘Miss Efoss, come and see us. Come and have a drink. If you like the look of us perhaps we can arrange something. If not, we shan’t be in the least offended.’
