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  She turned then and looked at the box. A long narrow rectangle of dull grey metal, deep sided, with a flat lid over it. She put her bag down on the floor, and stood in front of the shelf for a long moment, still staring at the box. What was in it? Money? Banknotes in wads? Or handfuls of jewels, like the ones in children’s stories about pirates? Twinkling gold and silver and diamonds, heaped high?

  ‘Stupid.’ She whispered it aloud, and the sound came back at her dully from the heavy in-pressing walls. ‘Stupid.’ The box was too small to hold a pirate’s hoard. It was no iron-bound fairy-tale chest. But there had to be something in there of value; Friese had been quite clear on that. The wherewithal to settle the mortgages that encumbered the Westpark hotel, that was what was in there. Somewhere in the region of two hundred thousand was owed, Friese had said, in mortgages and debts to private set-ups as well as to banks. A lot of money. Unless it was paid off, and paid off soon, the whole place’d be lost. She wouldn’t get it, and neither would Ida.

  Maybe that’s what I ought to do, she thought suddenly. I hadn’t thought of that before. If I refuse to open this box, refuse to take the legacy, then Ida gets the hotel, and the debts and that’ll be that. She’ll lose it anyway, just as much as I will. Unless – she lifted her head and stared at the ceiling. Unless her mother had also arranged that if she refused, Ida should have access to whatever was in this dull grey oblong? She would know as well as anyone else what would happen if Ida was left the Westpark with nothing to help her pay her way. So she was back where she started. Facing the box and having to open it.

  She had put her hand out and lifted the lid. Beneath it was a pile of paper. Envelopes tied up with white tape; squares of pasteboard, grubby and dog-eared, with rubber bands round them; folded sheets, held with little bulldog paper-clips.

  She put out one finger and touched the pile of pasteboard, thinking ‘Photographs –’ and suddenly a scent arose from the box; faded and far away, like the sound of a piano played in a distant room in a big house and she closed her eyes as memory overwhelmed her, almost physically, for her throat tightened and her chest felt as though someone had taken hold of it in a tight grip.

  The smell of chypre, that flowery yet heavy scent Dolly had always used. Her face climbed up out of the depths of memory and hovered in front of Maggy’s closed eyes; the faded red hair dyed to a ridiculous flame with streaks of brassy yellow in it, the round chipmunk cheeks and the soft drooping mouth, the brown eyes so big and dark in that pale face. And then another vision; a smooth plumpness, the way Dolly had looked when Maggy first remembered her, Dolly young and soft and –

  Maggy snapped her eyes open and stared furiously at the blank wall in front of her. Oh, Christ, but this was going to be awful. For years now, she had hated Dolly. She’d made up her mind to that, tried hard to keep to it. Why should she suddenly remember her as she used to be, and feel like crying?

  With a business-like movement she picked up the first sheaf of paper that came to hand. They were the folded sheets, and she took the bulldog clip off and spread them out on the shelf in front of her.

  They were bills, mostly, and letters to do with leases and rentals and whether or not rates were due, and she picked them over with fastidious fingers. The address all these related to was the one in Brixton; Effra Road, and she stood and stared at the shape the words of the address made on the paper and could see the house. Peeling stucco and a weedy front path that had once been handsome with black and white square tiles, but which the years had battered and made pitted and dangerous; the stained-glass window set into the front door, with a green slant-eyed girl with rippling hair in among blue and yellow and violet fishes under a turquoise sea; the smell of cooking that pervaded the narrow hallway, the broken sign over the front door reading ‘Hanover House, Rooms Available at All Times’. It was extraordinary how vivid the picture was, for she had been very young when they had left there – barely eight or nine. If that.

  She shook her head again, and rifled through the rest of the papers. They seemed to be a record of the whole of the Brixton time, starting in 1945, at the end of the war, when they had come there from – where? Maggy didn’t know. She had been barely – she did the sum in her head – four years old at the time; and they had stayed there until 1949. It was as though Dolly had taken those four years of their shared life and wrapped them up in a few legal documents; as though having a receipted rates bill made those years solid and real, not just lost time.

  She went through them again, wonderingly. Could these carry some information about the ‘means that would be made available’ to disentangle the finances of the Westpark hotel? Surely not. Thirty-year-old scraps of yellowing paper to do with a building long since derelict, signed by council officials and bank managers long since retired, probably dead, like Dolly herself; how could there be anything here?

  She clipped them together again, and set them on one side, beginning to relax a little. There was clearly no treasure of any kind in the box, nothing that would make that Friese character’s eyes brighten. He could have these bits of paper and welcome for all the good they would do him. The whole thing was a nonsense, one of Dolly’s foolishnesses.

  She picked up the next pile. It was the same again. This time the papers related to the place in Acton. Creffield Road, Acton. Dolly had called that one the Windsor Hotel, her grandiloquent ideas enlarging from a mere Hanover House; that had been bigger, made of two semi-detached houses knocked into one, with a scrubby privet hedge in front and the remains of the front gardens covered in white-flecked black pseudo-tarmac which went sticky in hot summers and smelled of pitch. Maggy had hated that house too, sitting there in the middle of the would-be genteel but rundown suburban road, with battered dustbins huddled against the front hedges and rubbish thrown over by passers-by; there had been that time when she had found what she thought was a discarded toy balloon there and taken it to Dolly, and Dolly had gone white and hit her and told her she was a filthy little bitch to touch such a thing. Her nine-year-old fury and bewilderment rose in her again now, remembering. How was she to know what the bloody thing was? How could poor little Margaret Rose possibly know? For she had still been Margaret Rose then, Margaret Rose in white socks and black patent ankle-strap shoes.

  She began to flick the pieces of paper over more rapidly; bills and receipts, letters to do with an argument with the council about rubbish collection and another series all about noise complaints from the neighbours. It seemed, reading them, that Dolly had won that battle, for it had all happened in 1951, and they had still been there five years later. It wasn’t until – when was it? Maggy lifted her head and stared again at the blank wall. When did I leave at last? When did the end come? I was fifteen. I remember that, fifteen, 1956. So long ago. Only yesterday to think about, but so long ago.

  These too she clipped together again, for there was nothing there that was of the least interest. Nothing that pointed in any way to those mysterious means to pay off mortgages. Unless correspondence about old mortgages was a clue of some kind? She looked again, but there was nothing. Nothing that made any sense of today at all.

  And so it went on. She rifled through pile after pile of paper, finding nothing but receipted bills and dull letters, and in one pile, menus. Lists of meals longs since eaten and forgotten, and she was diverted for a while, reading the prices. Two shillings and sixpence for a three-course lunch, with soup and a main course and a pudding, coffee thrown in as well. Twelve and a half pence today – she felt old, then, for a moment. To remember such differences in prices was a very old thing to do.

  The last two packets were different. One was apparently all newspaper cuttings, and she unfolded them carefully, because they were old and the paper was fragile and tore easily. There were a lot of them and she looked only at the first few and then folded them again, quickly. Reports of her own doings, reviews of concerts, scraps from the gossip columns – she had seen these before and had no wish to see them again. But she felt uneasy as she
slipped them back into the envelope in which they had been. It was somehow an uncharacteristic thing for Dolly to have done, to have kept her daughter’s cuttings. That was something sweet loving mothers did, not the Dollys of this world. Why should she have done such a thing?

  Because she didn’t feel towards you as you’ve always thought she did. As you’ve always tried to persuade yourself she did, a secret voice whispered deep in the recesses of her mind. Because she was a sweet and loving mother, after all, and –

  ‘No.’ Maggy said it aloud and pushed the cuttings back into the bottom of the box. She was here to look for – well, she wasn’t quite sure precisely what. But it was certainly not digging over of the old coals that had once burned between Dolly and her daughter. No way was she interested in that. Not to be thought about, now or ever. So she picked up the last package, uneasily, and turned it over.

  And found herself staring down at Dolly’s face. A black and white photograph, crumpled a little at the edges, but clear enough. Dolly, sitting on a stool and looking coquettishly over her shoulder into the camera, her hair in tight marcel waves, yet still contriving to look bushy and hard to control; her eyebrows plucked and arched but with the faint shadows of her own natural ones showing underneath, even in this old photograph; her mouth set in a silly cupid’s bow pout. Dolly, about eighteen years old in a sleeveless dress with fringe over the skirt and white stockings with pointed one-bar satin shoes. Dolly, young and hopeful and looking for all that absurd 1930s tat so like Maggy herself that she couldn’t bear to look at it.

  And she pushed the photographs back into the box, slammed the lid on it, and thrust her finger hard at the bell beside the door. She’d had enough, more than enough. If she didn’t get out of this place right away she’d lose control, or be sick, or something. She’d had more than enough.

  3

  The Haymarket was as hot and stinking and crowded as ever, but she stood there on the pavement taking deep breaths and willing the glittering lights in front of her eyes to fade away, to leave her in peace again. The stumbling journey out of the cool sub-basement had been dreadful, with nausea threatening to overtake her at every step, but she had managed it, somehow, willing herself to be controlled. The woman had made her sign another form on the way out, and told her that from now on she was to keep the key and could return at any time she chose; the uniformed man had nodded at her brightly and tried to get her to stand and listen to him complain about the air-conditioning, and she had managed not to shriek at either of them, or to throw up on the carpet at their feet. Now, standing on the pavement as the afternoon crowds thickened into a rush hour mob, she began to feel better. This was now, today, and she could cope with that. Down below was yesterday and a lot of pain she didn’t want to remember, and that was what made her feel so sick.

  ‘Well, well, if it isn’t my dear old Maggy, then.’ The voice almost made her jump, coming as it did from behind her, and seeming incredibly loud, even in the roar of Haymarket traffic, and she whirled to stare at him.

  ‘Oh,’ she said after a moment. ‘Oliver. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Just a little stroll, lovey, that’s all. Felt a bit bogged down, you know? Thought I’d take a walk, and look what happened – finished up here! Must have been walking for ages, didn’t realize how far I’d come –’

  ‘Really?’ she said, uninterested; becoming aware of the heat, she took off her jacket so that she could sling it more coolly over her shoulders. At once he helped her, and as he touched her she felt the old feeling creep into her again, that mixture of revulsion and fascination.

  ‘I can manage fine, thanks,’ she said sharply. ‘And I must go.’

  ‘No – not yet, lovey! Can’t just go like that! Come and have a quiet drink with me, eh? For old times’ sake? I’m awfully lonely now, Maggy, and it’d be good to talk to you for a while – We could pop over to the Cabin and have a quick one –’

  ‘No, Oliver, really, I don’t think – I want to get home –’

  He looked at her sharply then. ‘You’re looking a bit green, love! What is it that got to you? Come on – I insist on a drink. You look as though you need it.’ And he took her arm and with a masterful air led her across the road towards the pub they had gone to so often when they used to record for the BBC at the Paris Theatre, long ago.

  This time she felt no reaction to his touch. She was drooping now, as suddenly tired as she had been suddenly sick, and it was easier to go with him than argue. And she was thirsty too; there was a metallic taste in her mouth she would be glad to wash away.

  He found a corner of the already crowded pub where there were two stools and then brought her a vodka and tonic and a tomato juice for himself, and she sat there, her shoulders sagging and her hands floppy on her lap and waited, her mind empty. She felt lousy, too lousy even to wonder why.

  But the drink cooled and refreshed her and after a while of sitting staring moodily into space she stirred herself and sat up a little straighter.

  ‘That’s better,’ Oliver said. ‘What happened, then? You really were feeling it in there for a bit, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said absently, and then looked at him. He looked very comforting, suddenly. He’d made her very unhappy, once, but that was a long time ago now, and it really didn’t matter; at least, at the moment it didn’t, though heaven knew whether she’d think the same way this time tomorrow. So she smiled at him.

  ‘Thanks, Oliver. I needed that drink.’

  ‘So tell me what happened.’ He leaned forward cosily.

  ‘I don’t know. Mad, really. I just felt ill suddenly. Not a bit like me.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know love. You aren’t quite as tough as you make yourself out to be, you know. You always used to go on about how strong you were, never ill, never tired, but I knew better. Remember? This is Oliver, sweetie, not one of your Johnny-come-latelies. This is old Oliver. And you’ve every right to feel a bit off. What with the heat, and the upset of Dolly and then having to go through the box –’

  At once she was all on edge, sitting up very straight and staring at him. He looked back at her with his eyes wide and limpid, his face blank of any expression, just the usual soft look, the sagging muscles that made him seem like a wax doll that had been left out in the sun too long.

  ‘What box?’ she said sharply.

  ‘Dolly’s safe deposit box, darling. You’d just come up from there, hadn’t you? When I bumped into you? What else would you be doing standing on the pavement just there?’

  ‘What do you know about that box? What business is it of yours?’

  ‘Sweetheart, do be reasonable! I lived with your Mum for fifteen years, remember? There wasn’t much about her I didn’t know! Course I knew she had it!’

  ‘Well, so what if she had? What has it got to do with me?’

  ‘She left it to you, didn’t she?’ Oliver opened his eyes even more widely. ‘Who else would she leave it to? Not me, darling, nor Ida either. You, of course – so don’t go getting all agitated at me. It was natural I should ask –’

  ‘Maybe. But it’s not natural for me to answer. So I shan’t.’

  ‘Bless you, darling, you sound like a naughty little girl – shan’t, shan’t, shan’t! All right, then, ducks, don’t. No one’s forcing you. I was just interested in why you felt ill so suddenly. I thought, there must have been something there that upset her, poor kid, I thought. That’s all.’ He turned his head to look round the pub, ostentatiously relaxed and she stared at his profile and thought – he used to look so marvellous. The first time I saw him I – have I changed so much, as well?

  Aloud, she said abruptly, ‘What if there was? What difference can it make to you?’

  ‘Would you believe I love you? In my own stupid way, I love you?’

  ‘Really? There’s a turn-up for the book, then,’ she said harshly, and couldn’t look at him. ‘And there was me, all those years ago – oh, go and get me another drink. And shut up.’

  Whil
e he was at the bar, she tried to sort out her confused thoughts. Why be so upset by the stuff in that damned box? What possible reason could there be for getting in such a state? Mad, really mad. She didn’t care about Dolly. Dolly was dead, and just didn’t matter. The only reason for going to the box in the first place was to stop Ida getting her hot little hands on it, to stop her from robbing her even more than –

  ‘Oh, damn, damn, damn,’ she said aloud, and then wanted to laugh; it sounded so stupid. And Oliver, coming back, grinned comfortably and said, ‘That’s better. Even the smell of a drink and you look like you’re enjoying yourself. Drink it up and we’ll really have a ball.’

  She drank, and he leaned forward after a while and said earnestly, ‘Look, Maggy, I’m sorry if I upset you, prying. I wouldn’t upset you for anything, you know that. I mean, I hurt you enough in the past, didn’t I? But that’s all over, and I want us to be friends. Truly, sweetie, I need you, and you know something? You need me. No, don’t look like that. You do. Who else is there you can be really comfortable with? No need to put on any sort of sexy act for me, the way you have to for other men. Theo and – well, no need with me. And I really know you well, you know that, Maggy? I’m one of the few people who do, if not the only one, now poor old Dolly’s gone. You put on that great show of being all tough and hard-boiled and you’re as soft as marshmallow underneath. Purest, softest marshmallow. You’re so vulnerable it hurts to look at you sometimes, and the more you try to be hard the more vulnerable you are. I’m right, aren’t I? And who else is there who knows about you? Only Oliver, silly old Oliver. So who else can you trust the way you can trust me?’

  She looked at him through the faint haze the vodka had set before her eyes and thought – he’s right. He is the only one I can be comfortable with, if I let myself. He’s certainly the only one I never have to be on guard with. Never have to pretend with. If I want to hate him I can, and then I can come back and he’s forgotten or never cared –