Читать книгу The Postcard - Fern Britton - Страница 11

It was a Sunday and it was raining in Clapham. The branches of the cherry trees in Mandalay Road were bare, their leaves long ago dropped damply onto the windscreens of the cars parked on either side of the street. Rain bounced off the slate roofs like heavy artillery fire and swilled down drainpipes, startling flat-eared cats who skittered off to their catflaps. At intervals, passing cars shooshed through the deep puddles ploughing up sheets of water to drench already bedraggled pedestrians. It was a road of good neighbours and occasional street parties. The Queen’s Jubilee and the Royal Wedding were still fresh in the residents’ memories. Now, Christmas trees were already appearing in bay windows, their lights flashing and twinkling brightly.

No 47, Mandalay Road was identical in design to all the others in the terrace: an early Edwardian, two-up two-down with a small front garden. Its front door and window frames were painted in a delicate lilac, complementing the pale blues, pinks and yellows of its neighbours.

Inside, Ella was lolling on a sofa that was strewn with shawls to hide the decades of wear and tear. There was little spring left in its base but it had been Ella’s grandmother’s and was therefore treasured. She looked contentedly at the Christmas tree she had put up that afternoon.

A pot of tea, now stewed, and a half-empty mug sat on a tray by her side. On the television Julie Andrews was yodelling. All was well with the world.

She heard the creak of the floorboards above and the tread on the stairs before the door to the sitting room opened. Her brother came in, rubbing his stubbly chin and yawning.

‘What you watching?’ he said. ‘Shift yourself.’

She moved her legs and he sat in the space she’d created. She said, ‘What do you think of the tree?’

He looked at it. ‘Oh yeah. Nice.’

‘One of Granny’s baubles had broken.’

‘Inevitable after all these years.’

‘I know, but it upsets me. Each year a little more of our history gone.’

‘What’s made you so cheerful?’ he asked, prodding her with his elbow.

‘Christmas is a time for reflection,’ she said primly.

He grunted and watched as Julie Andrews and the von Trapp children worked the little puppets. ‘So, you hungry?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘I’ve got fish fingers and waffles in the freezer.’

‘I fancy an Indian.’

‘Have we got enough money?’

‘Bollocks to that. I’ll put it on my credit card.’

‘Are you going to eat that bhaji?’ Henry reached with his fork to spear it but Ella got there first. ‘Mine! I’m starving.’

Henry mopped up the last of his tarka dahl with his peshwari naan and sat back, contentedly munching. ‘God, that was good.’

‘Don’t speak with your mouth full; you’re spitting desiccated coconut on the rug.’

He grinned at her. ‘Don’t care. Want a beer?’

‘We’ve only got one can left.’

‘Share?’

She nodded and he got up to get it from the fridge.

They were sitting on the threadbare Aubusson rug – another of Granny’s hand-me-downs – backs against the sofa, watching a rerun of The Mr Tibbs Mysteries on a satellite channel.

Henry reappeared with the last tin of beer and settled himself back down. ‘I rather fancy old Nancy,’ he said.

‘She’s very glam,’ agreed Ella. ‘But then Mr Tibbs is very handsome too.’

‘I read somewhere that in real life he’s a bit of a goer,’ Henry said.

‘Really? He looks like the perfect gentleman.’ They watched as Mr Tibbs climbed in through an open window at the suspect’s house. He was closely followed by his secretary and sleuthing sidekick, Nancy Trumpet, who revealed a lacy stocking top as she slid over the casement.

‘Phwoar!’ murmured Henry.

Ella tutted.

‘What?’ her brother said.

‘You know what.’

‘What do you expect me to do when I see a lacy stocking top and a glimpse of suspender? My generation are sold short on all that stuff. You girls and your tights and big pants and boring bras! I was born too late.’

Ella laughed. ‘So Jools has blown you out, has she?’

‘No.’

‘When did you last see her then?’

‘The other day.’

‘Where?’

‘Can’t remember.’

‘So what happened?’

‘She blew me out.’

‘Ha. Why?’

‘She said she liked me and all that, but …’ Henry pitched his voice higher and posher, ‘she couldn’t see a future for us and anyway, she wanted to be free to see other people.’

‘Like who?’

‘Justin.’

‘Justin no socks and loafers?’

‘Yeah.’

Ella was offended on her brother’s behalf.

‘Well, she’s welcome to that total prick.’

‘He is a prick, isn’t he?’

‘Total.’

They sat quietly thinking about Justin and Jools and watching the television screen as Mr Tibbs slipped his penknife into the lock of the desk drawer and revealed the stolen diary he’d been searching for. The camera cut to Nancy, a lock of hair falling alluringly over one eye and a button or two of her silk blouse undone more than was strictly necessary. Henry was rapt.

‘Stop looking at her cleavage.’

‘I’m not.’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘If you must know, I was looking at the gorgeous scenery.’ The screen was now on a wide shot of a Cornish beach, the wind whipping white horses off the crests of the waves. Henry sighed. ‘I miss Cornwall.’

Ella sighed too. ‘Yep. We haven’t been back for a long time, have we?’ She poked him with her foot. ‘If you ever get a girlfriend you can take her down. Give her the romantic tour of Trevay – Granny’s old house, our old school – and she’d be putty in your hands.’

That night, lying in her bed and listening to the rain still hurling itself at No 47, Ella thought about what her brother had said after they’d finished watching TV. She did need a job. She’d had plenty of them since getting her art degree from Swindon where she had trained to be an illustrator specializing in children’s books, but none of them had been as an illustrator. She’d been a chalet maid in Val d’Isere, a nanny in Ibiza, Holland and Scotland and a barmaid in countless pubs and bars in South London. Henry had taken pity on her and offered her a room in No 47, a house he’d bought from his best friend when he’d left to get married. Henry was working his way up in a firm of commercial surveyors but he was making it very clear that he couldn’t afford to have his sister as a non-rent paying guest for ever, even if she had brought her share of Granny’s furniture with her.

She thumped her pillows into a more comfortable shape and sent a little prayer to her grandmother. ‘Granny, would you find me a nice job? Either someone who’d like me to illustrate a book or a publisher who wants to print Hedgerow Adventures? Please Granny. Night-night.’

In the morning Ella felt refreshed and hopeful. The sun was shining and every rain cloud had vanished, leaving the sky periwinkle blue. She sang along to the radio as she washed up last night’s curry plates and put some bacon under the grill. Henry appeared. ‘Bacon? Ella, you’re a darling.’

‘It’s the last few rashers but enough for sandwiches.’

‘What sort of day have you got planned?’ he asked as she plonked a bottle of ketchup in front of him.

She had good news. ‘I’m going to look for a job.’ He raised his eyebrows at her as he bit into his sandwich. She raised hers back. ‘A proper job. And I’m going to send out Hedgerow Adventures to another literary agent.’

He couldn’t hide his frustration. ‘Not another one?’

‘Yes,’ she said defiantly. ‘It’s a good story and the pictures are some of my best. Every child I’ve ever nannied for has loved it.’

He shrugged. ‘Ever thought they may have been being polite?’

‘Charming! Thank you, you really know how to boost confidence, don’t you? Ever thought of life coaching? Writing a best-selling personal help book, such as Achieve The Ultimate You by Henry Huntley, Fuckwit with Hons?’

‘Ella, I’m trying to be helpful. Hedgerow Adventures is very charming, but it’s not going to turn you into J.K. Rowling overnight, is it?’

She couldn’t disagree.

‘So …’ He stood up and put his plate in the sink before doing up the top button of his shirt and straightening his tie. ‘By all means send it to a new agent – but promise me you’ll check out the job agencies too?’

It was lunchtime and her feet were tired. Not having enough money to top up her Oyster card she’d walked for miles, checking every job agency before setting off on the long hike up to Bedford Square and the offices of the latest hotshot literary agent she’d read about in The Bookseller.

The brass plaque outside was freshly polished. She walked up the short flight of steps and pushed the doorbell on the intercom. A buzzer sounded and the blackly glossy front door opened to reveal a silent marble hall with a grand staircase curling up to the right. On her left was an open doorway and a smart young man behind the desk spoke without looking up. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Thank you, yes. I was wondering if I could have a meeting with someone about my book.’

His eyes scanned her from head to toe and back again. Expressionless, he asked, ‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘No, but perhaps I could—’

‘I’m sorry, but we don’t accept unsolicited manuscripts.’

‘I see. It’s a very short story, it would only take a few min—’

‘You must have an appointment first.’

‘May I make one?’

‘Has anyone asked to see your manuscript?’

‘Well no, but—’

‘Then I can’t make an appointment.’

‘But how do I make an appointment if no one’s read my book? And how do I get someone to read my book if I can’t get an appointment?’

He smiled wanly. ‘It’s a very difficult business.’

The phone on his desk rang and he took the call, making it clear that he’d terminated his dealings with her.

Ella was angry and felt humiliated to boot. She pulled herself up tall and walked back into the hall to let herself out.

Running down the staircase was a young woman with her hair scraped messily back from her face and a smudge of red ink on her cheek. She was heading for the front door as Ella was struggling with the handle.

‘Here, let me help you,’ said the woman.

The door opened with ease under her practised touch. She smiled at Ella. ‘Are you Gilda’s temp?’

Ella wished she were. ‘No, but …’

The woman spotted Ella’s manuscript.

‘Oh, an author?’

‘Well, not exactly, I—’

The woman smiled knowingly. ‘Supercilious Louis wouldn’t let you hand it in? Give it to me and I’ll read it. You’ve got your contact details on it, I assume?’

‘Yes, on the front page.’

‘Great. Sorry, I must rush. Meeting someone for a coffee. I’ll be in touch. You never know, this just might be our lucky day. Bye!’

Ella watched as the woman walked quickly across the square.

‘Granny,’ she murmured, ‘what have you done?’