Читать книгу My Fair Man - Jane Gordon - Страница 9

It was Jon who attempted to calm a furious Toby on his return from helping Tom and Mamie into their chauffeur-driven Bentley. And it was Jon who drove Hattie, Claire and Jimmy to the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital and helped to carry him into Accident and Emergency – although it pained him almost as much as Jimmy to do so.

Even at this hour and in this place they made a curious bunch, he thought, as he noticed their reflection in the plate-glass automatic doors. The tall, good-looking sophisticated man accompanied by the two young women in the bloodstained designer clothes, carrying between them the dishevelled, wounded homeless boy.

The woman behind the reception desk eyed them all sceptically.

‘Name and address?’ she commanded.

Jimmy grunted uncomprehendingly.

‘No fixed abode,’ said Jon pointedly as they stood waiting for the woman to fill in the necessary forms.

‘Well, where did you find him?’ she asked, glancing at Jimmy with evident distaste.

‘He came to my—’ Hattie began but Jon quickly intervened.

‘We just saw him lying by the road,’ he said hastily.

‘Good Samaritans,’ said the receptionist cynically to Jon before turning her attention back to Jimmy. ‘Social security number?’

‘Why are you so obsessed with names, numbers and roll calls? This man needs to see a doctor urgently,’ said Claire angrily.

‘So does everyone else here. He’ll have to wait,’ the woman replied dismissively.

They sat down on the mesh metal chairs and waited, aware that even amongst the motley collection of people gathered here – many of whom seemed to be drunk or drugged or mentally challenged in some way – Jimmy was an unwelcome outsider. The ranks of waiting patients moved apart in disgust in order to let them have more space.

‘We should have given my address,’ said Hattie anxiously as they waited.

‘I don’t think that would be a very good idea. Although I have to say I think he might have been seen sooner if he had a fixed abode,’ said Jon.

‘Well, he’ll have to come home with me after they’ve seen to him,’ said Hattie nervously.

‘You can’t be serious,’ Jon began.

‘Of course I’m serious. He can hardly go back on the street in this state. And you know they don’t keep you in hospital nowadays unless it’s terminal. Where else can he go?’

‘Some sort of hostel, Hattie. You can’t possibly take him back to your flat. Toby would go mad.’

‘Well, he can’t come back with me,’ said Claire quickly.

It became clear in the next couple of hours that Jimmy was very low down on the casualty department’s priority list. A nurse did come over and attempt to take some more details but it was obvious from the expression on her face – somewhere between exasperation and contempt – that since Jimmy’s injuries were not life-threatening he would just have to wait. Gradually the chairs began to empty as one after another the people were taken away for treatment.

It was gone four in the morning before the nurse returned with her clipboard and took Jimmy away to a curtained cubicle within the treatment area.

‘I think we should go now, Hattie,’ said Jon.

‘I can’t just leave him here, Jon.’

‘Of course you can.’

‘Can’t you imagine how awful it would be to find yourself in Jimmy’s position? No home, no life, no job, no family. And no compassion from your fellow human beings.’

‘But I never would find myself in that state, Hattie.’

‘Oh Jon, how do you know that? It could happen to anyone—’

‘Hattie, let’s not argue about this here and now. You know my feelings. And perhaps now you’ve seen the hopelessness of Jimmy’s case – Christ, he can’t even make himself understood – you’ll forget our stupid bet. Let’s call it quits and I’ll take you home.’

‘I wouldn’t think of it. I’m even more keen now to prove you wrong. And to show these people that Jimmy does have some worth. But you can go home. I’ll get a taxi when they’ve finished with him here.’

‘Rather you than me,’ said Claire, who was, with every passing moment, wishing that she hadn’t got caught up in this whole bet business.

‘I’ll wait and see you home. And I’ll try and find out how he is,’ said Jon insistently, getting up at the exact moment that Jimmy walked back through to the reception area. Apart from a nasty cut above his eye – which required three stitches – the rest of his injuries proved to be superficial. He looked dreadful though, his face bruised and pale and his clothes spattered with blood.

‘You’re coming home with me, Jimmy,’ said Hattie gently as she guided him through the door and back into Jon’s car.

‘Is Rex there?’ he asked.

‘Rex?’ Hattie replied blankly.

‘My dog, like. Rex …’

They had been in such a rush to get Jimmy to hospital that Hattie had scarcely paid any attention to the dog that had followed him into her flat.

‘Yes, I’m sure Rex is back at the flat with Toby,’ she said, although she rather doubted it. Toby hated dogs.

Toby was so angry that even when he was finally alone with Hattie and the prone figure on the sofa, he could barely speak.

‘You’re not leaving him and his bloody dog here?’ he said.

‘What else do you suggest,’ said Hattie, ‘that we carry him up and put him in our bed?’

‘That we carry them both to the door and throw them out,’ said Toby angrily.

‘I’d rather throw you out than him,’ she said with an unexpectedly hard edge to her voice.

‘You might have to. If they stay, I go,’ snapped back Toby.

At this Jimmy attempted to pull himself up as if to leave, but Hattie pushed him down, placing a crisp white pillow beneath his bruised and battered head.

‘Well then, you’d better go,’ said Hattie to Toby.

Shock took over from anger then as he realised that she meant it.

‘I can’t leave you alone with this man. He might do anything,’ said Toby.

‘I really don’t think, Toby, that he will do anything more tonight but sleep,’ said Hattie coldy.

‘I must say that was a great finale to the evening, Hattie. Something only you could have thought of.’

‘I didn’t organise it, Toby, it happened.’

‘Christ knows what Tom Charter thought,’ said Toby, running his hands through his hair in a gesture of despair.

‘I don’t give a damn what Tom Charter and his ghastly wife thought,’ said Hattie.

‘You don’t give a damn for anyone but yourself.’

‘That’s absurd, Toby. I spend my whole life bloody well thinking of others—’

‘Sad strangers maybe, but not the people you should be concerned with. Not the people who love you. Not me or your family. All you care about are social inadequates like that creature on the sofa. You are incapable of showing any affection or consideration to anyone that you might consider your own equal. You spend your whole life administering to the poor and needy and deluding yourself that in doing so you are escaping from your élitist roots when in fact all you are doing is being the lady of the manor, albeit a bloody great big manor like London,’ he said with disgust.

Hattie’s silence informed him that he had hurt her.

‘It isn’t just the disadvantaged that need warmth and emotional comfort, Hattie. Or support for that matter. It might not mean anything to you but tonight was very important to me. My success didn’t come easily to me; I was not born with your advantages. My daddy didn’t buy me a £300,000 flat, I don’t have a trust fund and no doors are opened for me at the mere mention of my father’s name. My parents worked hard to get me a future that was denied them. You might dismiss their values as misplaced and middle class but, my God, you can afford to, can’t you? You have everything, Hattie, and you have the nerve to arrogantly deny me the chance of achieving what I want. Which, compared to what you already have, is bloody nothing.’

But Hattie, partly because she didn’t want to hear any more and partly because she was so absolutely exhausted, had turned away and was watching the now sleeping body of Jimmy.

‘I’m tired, Toby, you’re tired. Let’s leave this now. We can talk tomorrow,’ she said softly.

Hattie woke just before nine to sounds of distress from somewhere below their bedroom. Leaving Toby sleeping soundly she pulled on a wrap and made her way down the stairs. Jimmy was standing in the kitchen with a blanket pulled around his shoulders.

‘Is anything wrong? Are you in a great deal of pain?’ asked Hattie anxiously, noting the bruises that had emerged across his face during the night.

‘Nh, pet,’ he said, looking round the steel kitchen as if it were the futuristic galley of some strange space craft. ‘Rex needed to go out and I thought I’d make meself some tea, like.’

‘Peppermint, Camomile, Lapsang Souchong, Earl Grey, Darjeeling?’ Hattie responded, helpfully pulling open one of the cunningly disguised cupboards to reveal the wide selection of specialist teas and coffees that she and Toby had accumulated. Jimmy looked so confused. She made a pot of her normal breakfast tea gestured to him to sit on one of the stools while it brewed.

‘Owt for Rex?’ he asked, indicating his dog, skulking beneath the table, and who was, Hattie thought, in very nearly as dreadful a state as his master. His coat – short and coarse-haired – was a salt-and-pepper grey through which you could clearly see the outline of his ribcage. Here and there across his body were sections of hard skin and small round patches of baldness.

‘I’m not sure what I’ve got that he’d like. There are a few scraps from last night but it’s not quite Pedigree Chum,’ she said as she took from the fridge a plate of sushi and a bowl of linguine con cozze and scraped them together into a dish.

‘Here, Rex,’ she said.

Rex took one look at her, growled savagely and then retreated back beneath the table, whimpering pathetically and looking up appealing at Jimmy.

‘Eee, man, I’d better give it to him,’ said Jimmy, taking the dish from Hattie and placing it close to Rex under the table.

The dog cautiously sniffed at the offering and, with one wary eye on Hattie, eventually decided to eat.

‘Now, breakfast for you, Jimmy? I think I’ve got pain au chocolat, brioche, pain au raisin and croissants,’ Hattie said, eager to make him feel welcome.

He looked at her as if she were speaking a foreign language which, she realised with some embarrassment, she was.

‘Ee, I’ll just have a tab,’ he said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lighting one.

Toby would be horrified. He didn’t allow anyone to smoke in the flat. In fact, smoking had been a major issue in their relationship. When they had first met, Hattie had a twenty-a-day habit that Toby had insisted she give up. Now and again, when Toby wasn’t around, she would sneak a cigarette – she kept a packet hidden at the bottom of her underwear drawer – but she had always been too anxious to smoke here. The only time Toby had relaxed his no smoking rule had been the previous night when his odious client had lit a fat cigar. Lord knows what he would say when he saw Jimmy smoking.

‘Would you like some toast?’ she asked.

Jimmy nodded as she pulled a loaf out of the fridge, sliced it and put it into the big Dualit toaster. Then she opened another cupboard and began to bring out a selection of expensive preserves, conserves and confitures.

‘Any jam, pet?’ said Jimmy, looking through the jars before him, most of which were labelled in a language (chiefly French) he was unable to decipher.

‘I’m so glad you came, Jimmy. Did you get my messages?’ Hattie asked tentatively as she sipped her tea and watched him devour five slices of toast covered in the entire contents of a jar of Toby’s favourite Tiptree redcurrant jelly. She wished he would close his mouth while he ate. Her view of his masticated toast – and more unpleasantly, his stained and twisted teeth (one of which, the important front left incisor, was missing) – was repulsive.

‘Noowhere to go, like, that’s all. I’ll not be staying long.’

‘No, you mustn’t go. You’re not fit to go anywhere, least of all out on the streets again. You must stay here.’

‘And him?’ Jimmy moved his head to indicate the bedroom upstairs where Toby still slept.

‘Oh, he doesn’t really mean you any harm. He was just eager to impress those people that were here last night,’ she said.

There was an uneasy silence.

‘What really happened to you last night?’ she said eventually.

‘Some kids, looking for someone to kick aboot. It happens,’ he said as he lit another cigarette.

‘You mean they attacked you for no reason?’ He nodded.

‘Jimmy, that need never happen to you again. I can make sure of that, if you’ll only trust me,’ she said.

He looked at her with his astonishing eyes and she, for some strange reason, had to look away.

‘Why me, though?’ he asked.

She couldn’t tell him about Jon’s bet. It would hurt him and might even frighten him away. He couldn’t think that she wanted to help him just in order to win a wager thought up over dinner in some smart restaurant. It was better, she persuaded herself, to make him believe that it was a professional matter, to do with her work. Which, in a way, it was.

‘It’s very important to me, Jimmy, for my research, and it could be life-changing for you,’ she said, not daring to meet those eyes again and instead fixing her gaze on the series of earrings that punctured his left ear.

He was looking round the huge flat as if taking an inventory of her and her life. And if her range of teas, coffees and confitures had invoked in him some kind of culture shock her home was even more incomprehensible to him.

‘Where’s your telly?’ he said.

‘It slides away into the wall,’ she said, moving across to the living area to demonstrate.

‘Why d’ya wanna do that?’ he said incredulously.

‘Because, Jimmy, the person who designed this place suggested it. It’s funny really but televisions – in the circles I mix in – are something rather shameful. We hide them away in the way that other people might hide things that they think might betray basic instincts in them that they would not like others to see – like pornography or Jeffrey Archer novels …’

‘What?’ he said, his face creased up with confusion.

‘I like bare space,’ she said, suddenly thinking how very pretentious the term ‘minimalist’ was.

‘I like places to be a bit more cosy, like,’ he said. ‘No offence, mind.’

Gradually she began to talk to Jimmy in rather the way that Toby spoke to their Bosnian cleaning lady: very slowly, choosing her words carefully so as not to baffle or confuse him. It wasn’t that she thought that he was stupid, just that he came from such a different world to hers that it really was as if there were some international barrier between them.

‘Can I watch it, like?’ he said, indicating the television.

‘Of course. I’m going to get dressed and then we can talk some more.’ Hattie handed him the remote control.

In the bathroom she rang Claire, who sounded a little grumpy, and insisted that she get herself over as soon as she could. When she emerged, bathed and dressed, she found Toby making himself some coffee in the kitchen. His mood, she instantly surmised, was no better for a good sleep, and she had to suppress a smile.

‘He’s still here then?’ He nodded his head towards the figure of Jimmy who was flicking from channel to channel on the remote control, a fag burning in his other hand.

‘Yes, and so are you,’ Hattie said sharply.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he replied.

‘Oh Toby, I haven’t the energy for another row. Claire is on her way over to help me with Jimmy. If we get our way he’ll be staying here for a while.’

‘You aren’t seriously saying you’re taking Jon up on his bet?’

‘Ssh, the boy doesn’t know about the bet. He thinks that he’s helping me with some research paper I’m writing,’ she hissed.

‘But does he have to stay here? Does he have to take up residence with us? Christ, Hattie, he’s smoking in there!’ A look of disgust and horror passed across Toby’s already disgruntled face.

They were saved from further argument by the doorbell and the arrival of Claire, now in high spirits.

‘Well, where is he, darling?’ she shouted as she came through the doorway.

‘Ssh,’ said Hattie. ‘He’s watching television.’

Jimmy had given his channel hopping a kind of rap rhythm. With split-second timing he wove between terrestrial and cable programmes, oblivious of the two women who stood watching him or the irritation he was causing Toby, who was clearing up in the kitchen, washing up last night’s glasses that would, he always claimed, be ruined in the dishwasher.

‘Hadn’t we better clean him up first?’ said Claire, her enthusiasm dimmed by her first glimpse of Jimmy in daylight.

‘I didn’t know quite how to raise the subject,’ said Hattie in a whisper. ‘I didn’t want to offend him.’

‘Leave it to me,’ said Claire, walking across to Jimmy and grabbing the remote control from his hand.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I don’t expect you remember but I was here when you arrived last night. I’m Claire. I bet you would like a nice hot bath, and a shave. I’ll go through and run one for you.’

Jimmy’s eyes lit up. ‘I divvant know if she had one, like. What with the telly in the wall and all. I had to pittle in the sink this morning …’

‘Pittle?’ said Claire in a bemused tone.

‘Eeee, you know – pittle, piss …’

At this Toby, who had been rinsing the last of the glasses, threw in the mop. ‘Christ, I can’t take any more of this,’ he said, looking distastefully into the murky waters of the kitchen sink. ‘I’m going out.’

Hattie was enormously relieved to see him go and smiled encouragingly at Jimmy whilst making a mental note to rewash the glasses that were standing on the stainless-steel rack in the kitchen.

Claire was organising things in the bathroom, pulling from the concealed cupboards an assortment of pungent bath oils, soaps, shaving foams and razors for Jimmy.

‘Don’t forget to clean behind your ears,’ she said, glancing with disgust at his matted hair as he walked in, his face wide with wonderment at Hattie’s bathroom.

‘Eee, man …’ he said as he looked around him.

‘The towels are in the cupboard by the loo,’ said Hattie in a maternal fashion as they closed the door on him.

The two of them stood cautiously outside as Jimmy wrestled with the power shower that pounded down into the sandstone bath.

After what seemed like an age, but was probably closer to half an hour, the door opened and from the steamy interior Jimmy finally emerged with a waffle towel wrapped round his waist.

There was about him, the two women suddenly realised, an extraordinary beauty. There were, of course, physical indications of the life he led. A series of tattoos covered various regions of his body – girls’ names entwined in hearts on both arms, a dagger in the centre of his chest and, across his back, a prowling tiger. And there were a number of vivid scars and bruises gained, Hattie guessed, during his time on the streets.

Hattie had noticed his eyes right from the start but the rest of his features had been obscured beneath grime and facial hair. With his dreadlocks shampooed and slicked back from his brow, and his chin clean-shaven it was as if one man had gone into the power shower and another had come out.

‘My God,’ whispered Claire breathlessly, her interest suddenly and dramatically aroused.

And if the beauty and sensitivity of his face was a surprise, exposed at last beneath the dirt and hair, his body was, well, a revelation.

Perhaps that had something to do with the fact that now he was holding himself upright – rather than crouching down as he had been when they had first seen him – and was no longer swaddled in the thick layers of filthy clothes that now lay, in a horrid heap, on the bathroom floor, destined only for the rubbish bin.

Hattie and Claire looked as blankly at him as he had looked at them when they had first disturbed him in his own mean quarters on the streets. As if it were now they who were inferior creatures, not him.

The silence was broken by a long laugh from Claire.

‘Hattie, do you remember what you said that night with Jon? You said that you believed that all men were born equal. Well, you were wrong and Jon was right. Some men are born more equal than others. But not Jon or Toby …’

Jimmy suddenly became self-conscious and crouched down again to reclaim his old clothes.

‘Oh, don’t put those back on,’ said Claire. ‘You can wear something of Toby’s, can’t he, Hattie?’

Hattie went upstairs and retrieved a white Paul Smith T-shirt, some Calvin Klein Y-fronts and a pair of Toby’s button-fly jeans, and handed them to Jimmy, who moved back into the bathroom to get dressed.

‘I really don’t think our task is going to be too difficult,’ said Claire confidently when Jimmy was out of earshot. ‘I mean, what was it the bet said: “make him a man of worth”? I think that most women would count him that after a simple bath. Just as long as he didn’t open his mouth to reveal those teeth.’

Hattie was quiet for a moment as she took in the flushed face of her friend. It would be just like Claire to mess this whole thing up by bringing sex into the equation.

‘I think you’ll find that we will need a great deal more than soap and water to help Jimmy achieve his potential,’ she said curtly.

‘Oh Hattie, don’t be so prim. In the right clothes, with the right props, with a few very cosmetic changes we could pull off this bet tomorrow. He’s bloody perfect,’ said Claire with a wistful smile.

‘But he is lost, Claire. Can’t you see that? I think he has had a very limited education and if he is to be more than a gigolo or a bloody rent boy he can’t just rely on his looks.’

At this point Jimmy came out of the bathroom dressed in Toby’s clothes. They were too small – Hattie hadn’t realised how tall he was – so that the jeans were far too short and the T-shirt was strained around Jimmy’s unexpectedly muscular body. But the effect, despite the tightness of the clothes (or perhaps because of the tightness of the clothes) was devastating.

‘We’ll have to take him shopping,’ said Claire in wonderment, ‘and he’ll need a good haircut and some radical dentistry …’

The two women continued to appraise him as they all made their way down to the kitchen, Claire making some mental notes on how she might – with her renowned taste and styling skills – effect a transformation.

‘We’ll start tomorrow. I’ll try and clear some space in my diary and make some appointments. I know this wonderful cosmetic dental surgeon just round the corner from Harrods. He’s done them all …’ she named a couple of celebrities, taking command in a way that slightly irritated Hattie.

‘That is, if Jimmy agrees to go along with all this,’ Hattie said, glancing across at Jimmy who was beginning to look more at ease – at home even – in her flat.

‘Will you help me with my research, Jimmy?’ she asked.

‘Aye, man, why not?’ he said as he opened the fridge and surveyed the contents. ‘Where d’ya keep the brown sauce?’