Читать книгу Mr Cadmus - Peter Ackroyd - Страница 7

The three cottages stood in a row at the eastern end of Little Camborne. They had once been owned by three families who worked the land of the local squire, but the badly dressed stone of the eighteenth century had been restored and replastered. They were now painted white, and the thatch had given way to tiles.

The first of them – 1, The Coppice – was owned by Maud Finch. At the age of fifty-five Miss Finch still held herself erect; she had firm opinions and a firm manner of expressing them. She wore rather severe clothes and from a distance might have been mistaken for either sex. Millicent Swallow lived at 3, The Coppice. Miss Swallow was a mild and complaisant woman; she was younger than Miss Finch, and was described by her neighbour as ‘a little vague around the edges’. She had wispy hair and her eyes watered in the wind; she favoured silk blouses and cashmere scarves, but she always looked as if her clothes had been put on in a hurry. In this respect she was perfectly unlike her neighbour, who dressed with what she believed to be finesse. How they had struck so firm a friendship was one of the small mysteries of Little Camborne.

The cottage that stood between them had been vacant for over three months. Its previous occupant had been a retired schoolmaster, Mr Herrick, who had soon become something of an irritant to both ladies. He played Chopin too loudly on the gramophone, and the offensive smoke from his pipe drifted over their garden fences. So the ladies were not displeased when he died suddenly of heart failure. Now they contemplated the fate of the empty cottage. ‘I hope it’s not people from London,’ Miss Swallow remarked nervously on the day after the funeral.

‘Or a family.’

‘Surely it’s not big enough for a family?’

‘You never know. Some of them live like pigs.’

A few prospective purchasers had visited the cottage, in the company of the agent, and one or other of the ladies managed to busy herself in her front garden as they left. ‘It is a lovely little property,’ the agent would say. ‘Quite bijou.’

‘What does that mean?’ Miss Swallow asked Miss Finch on the first occasion she heard it.

‘It is French.’ That seemed to satisfy both of them. The likely purchasers were, in Miss Finch’s opinion, all ‘ghastly’. A retired couple from Barnes were considered to be common, while two young men arriving in a smart sports-car were treated with great suspicion. ‘Don’t say anything,’ Miss Finch told her.

‘But you see them on television all the time.’

‘That doesn’t make it right.’

When the agent brought with him a single man, in his early forties, Miss Swallow was greatly relieved. ‘I know a gentleman when I see one,’ she said to her neighbour. ‘Very much of the old school.’

‘Too good to be true. The estate agent tells me that he is working for a foreign client.’

‘A foreign client? Oh my goodness.’

It was with some trepidation, therefore, that, two weeks later, they watched a large removal van draw up before the cottages. Both of them looked out of their windows at the same moment, but nothing happened. A few minutes later a small yellow car appeared around the bend of the dusty road, and came to a halt behind the van. Out of it jumped a man wearing green trousers and a scarlet sweater, with a plaid scarf tied loosely around his neck. ‘This,’ Miss Finch said to herself, ‘is the foreigner.’

Two men in green overalls now alighted from the van as the foreign gentleman opened the gate to the middle cottage and scampered up the path of the front garden. ‘Oh, this is excellent. Too excellent for words.’ He turned to the two men. ‘Well, my friends, what do you think of my lovely English cottage? Is it not enchanting?’ He put his hands to his lips, and blew it a kiss. ‘You are irresistible. Highly irresistible.’

Miss Finch noted that he had a slightly swarthy complexion, with a pencil-thin moustache. He was perhaps in his late fifties, of middle height, and seemed to her to resemble a mature Douglas Fairbanks. Miss Swallow, on the other hand, saw in him a likeness to William Holden, whom she had watched in The Towering Inferno some years before.

He caught sight of her before she had time to move away from her window, and he put out his arms. ‘Oh, my good English neighbour! I hope you will make me welcome!’ She did not know quite what to do, but she waved her hand in a timid greeting. To her acute embarrassment he blew a kiss to her. Miss Finch, half-hidden by a large vase of lilies on her window ledge, drew in her breath. She could not see what Miss Swallow was doing, but she hoped that she was not encouraging him. She now stepped out so that she was in full view, and he noticed the movement. ‘Oh, I am blessed,’ he said. ‘Two lovely ladies on my doorstep!’ He did not blow her a kiss, but put his hand upon his heart; or at least upon the relevant part of his scarlet jumper.

The two removal men had opened the back of the van, and with a flourish of his keys the new neighbour hastened into the cottage. The two ladies now pressed more eagerly against their windows. A small piano came out, followed by a wooden chest and a sideboard of polished mahogany. A single bed then emerged, as well as a divan and a dining-room table. Rolled carpets, lamps, and what looked suspiciously like tapestries, were carried into the cottage. Miss Finch could hear him singing what she took to be a Italian medley in a strong baritone voice. And what was this? A large and empty parrot cage. Several suitcases were then taken inside together with stools, chairs and leather pouffes. Some ornate candelabra were the last to leave the van.

Miss Swallow felt quite exhausted by all the activity. She sat down in her favourite armchair, covered in faded green silk. She did not think she had the strength to make herself a cup of tea. She dared not leave the house, in case he should emerge, but she desperately wanted to consult with Miss Finch. So she called her on the telephone.

‘Maud, what an extraordinary way to behave!’

‘Did you see his car? It is so yellow.’

‘But all that kissing and screaming—’

‘I don’t think he screamed, dear,’ Maud told her. ‘But he was loud.’

‘What are we to make of him?’

‘We will have to wait and see. He was singing Italian songs, by the way.’

‘Is that where he’s from?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea. Even before he opened his mouth, I knew he was foreign.’

‘Oh dear. I hope he doesn’t have any habits.’

‘Such as what?’

‘You know. Food and so forth. And late hours.’

‘I saw a parrot cage but no parrot.’

‘It will be in quarantine. Birds carry the most terrifying diseases.’

‘If it squawks, I shall complain. And what about that piano? Sound carries a long way out here.’

‘I really don’t know what to do.’ Miss Swallow was now thoroughly alarmed at vistas of parrots and pianos.

‘We must stay strong, Millicent.’

Early that evening the doorbell to Miss Swallow’s cottage chimed. It was the foreigner. He was standing on the threshold, with a box of chocolates in his hand.

‘Ah, do I intrude?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Mr Cadmus. Theodore Cadmus. Theo.’

‘Miss Swallow.’ She put out her hand to avoid being kissed.

‘These are for you, dear lady. The smallest possible token—’

‘Oh, that is too kind, really.’

‘May I?’

‘Yes,’ she added, with a hint of nervousness. ‘Do. Come in.’

He inched his way along the hallway into the front parlour. ‘Oh, this is delightful. What sweet ornaments and bouquets.’ Miss Swallow had a taste for chintz and porcelain. ‘And who is this gorgeous creature?’

‘Timothy.’

He picked up the marmalade cat and, much to the animal’s discomfiture, kissed it on its nose. ‘Extra special.’

‘May I offer you a glass of sherry, Mr Cadmus? Or wine perhaps?’

‘We will drink our fill of golden sunshine. One of your national poets tells us this.’

‘I’m afraid I only have a Beaujolais from Tesco. Or a Moselle.’

‘I am at your disposal.’ The cat, showing signs of struggle, was put down. ‘The red and the white are for me equally delicious.’

So she brought out the Beaujolais, on the very sound principle that the bottle was unopened, and made a good impression on her visitor. She suggested a chair. She did not know quite what to say to him. ‘Will you be with us long?’

‘Oh, an eternity. I have come to stay. After a storm-tossed life I am come into harbour.’ Whatever could he mean? Stormtossed? It sounded rather exciting.

‘Where do you come from, Mr Cadmus?’ She only just remembered his name. ‘If I may ask?’

‘My very good lady, I come from a small island in the Mediterranean. It will mean nothing to you.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘We are small. We are under two hundred persons.’

‘Rather like Little Camborne.’

‘Oh no, dear lady. Here you have all the blessings of a lovely land. And your lovely hedges.’

‘Hard to prune, I’m afraid.’

‘And yet so beautiful, I could weep. Here. Look. There is a tear.’

Miss Swallow looked alarmed. She wondered if the wine had gone to his head.

‘Did you have a difficult journey, Mr Cadmus?’

‘I beg your pardon, madam?’

‘From that place you mentioned. The island.’

‘No, I came here by way of London, where I have good friends. Travel is nothing to me. I take it in my stride.’

That was a mark in his favour. Miss Swallow admired enterprising men. ‘And why did you choose us?’

‘Little Camborne? I came upon it in a map. Just the tiniest dot in a map of the county of Devonshire. My father had maps of all the counties of England. He was an Anglo-style. Is that the word? And I said to myself, this will be my home. I will call myself a Little Cambornean.’

She laughed. ‘What an extraordinary man you are. I don’t know what to make of you.’

‘Make nothing of me, dear lady. Take me as I am. I am your devoted servant.’ At that he rose to leave. ‘But we will have all the time in the world to exchange reminiscences. I hope this will be the first of many happy occasions.’ He seemed pleased to change the subject. ‘And my other charming neighbour?’

‘Miss Finch.’

‘Finch and Sparrow. A nest of singing birds! We will make delightful music together.’

‘Swallow.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ He looked quickly at his glass.

‘I am Miss Swallow, not Sparrow. Not that Sparrow isn’t a lovely name. It just doesn’t happen to be mine. May I?’ She took up the bottle.

‘Oh no. I must pay my respects to our dear neighbour before it grows too late.’ He gave a last admiring look at the room, taking in the ormolu clock, the figurines of shepherds and shepherdesses, the china cats, the miniature portraits, the framed photographs, the painted boxes, the small jugs and vases, and all the other mementoes of an uneventful life. ‘You have a delicate taste, madam. I salute you.’

After she had closed the front door she returned, flushed and excited, to her armchair where she went through the conversation word for word.

A short while after Mr Cadmus came up to the cottage of Miss Finch. She was at the door almost as soon as he had raised the knocker, but she waited for several seconds before opening it. She did not wish to be seen to have hurried. She had of course observed him entering the cottage of her neighbour, and had timed the length of his visit to Miss Swallow. She was naturally irritated that he had chosen to visit her friend first, but she was determined not to let her annoyance show. ‘Who is it?’

‘Your new neighbour, my dear lady. Mr Cadmus.’

She opened the door with a flourish. ‘Delighted. Come in, Mr—’

‘Cadmus.’

‘What an unusual name.’ She led him into her sitting room overlooking the front garden. It was not filled with clutter or with bric-a-brac, as he had expected, and instead gave the impression of simplicity or even severity. The walls were painted white, and a portrait of a young woman hung in a frame of green and gold. A sideboard of highly polished oak was matched by a circular table of the same material upon which stood a tall and stately vase of the deepest scarlet.

‘This is most enchanting,’ he said. ‘I see you are a woman of discernment.’

‘Well, I have been complimented before.’

‘Of course you have. I hope you will find these to your taste.’ He presented her with a box of chocolates subtly different from the one he had given to Miss Swallow; it was slimmer and longer.

‘And I do have a sweet tooth.’

‘I had hoped so.’

‘Sit where you like, Mr Cadmus.’ The chairs were in a modern style but, as he discovered, surprisingly comfortable. ‘I think mulled wine is best at this time of year. I make my own.’ She returned with two large silver goblets. ‘Now I need to know all about you. I don’t stand on ceremony. Where are you from?’

‘I come from an island, dear lady, in the Mediterranean—’

‘That is very interesting. What island precisely?’

‘The name would mean nothing to you.’

‘Let me be the judge of that.’

‘Caldera.’ He said the word very quickly.

‘I don’t know it.’

‘We are small. We are under two hundred persons.’

‘Rather like Little Camborne.’

‘Oh no, dear lady. Here you have all the blessings of lovely land. And your glorious gardens.’

‘Hard to keep up, I’m afraid.’

‘And yet so beautiful. I could weep.’

After he had gone she wondered whether she should telephone Miss Swallow. No, she could wait. She wanted to savour the exhilaration of this short meeting. For a while she sat with her head back, staring at the ceiling. I never asked him his first name, she realised.