setting back for London.
Sometimes they went on to the coast. He liked Brighton and they would roar out on the Rottingdean road with its wide view of the Channel, find a small cafè, eat, then drive on over the Downs. Although he disliked fashionable places, he was fussy about his food. A roll which wasn’t fresh, cheese which was dry, rancid-tasting butter would be pushed aside.
He would say: “Don’t eat this muck, Octavia.”
“It’s not too bad, darling.”
“Don’t eat it. We’ll buy some chips on the way home.”
She liked that best of all, sitting on the verge while the traffic swished past, the smell of chips and warm greaseproof paper, the excitement of being free and untrammelled, on the move, and yet of being secure in their private world. The purple Kawasaki was both the means of their freedom and its symbol.
But today she was to cook for him for the first time. She had decided on steak. Surely all men like steak. She had bought filet at the butcher’s suggestion, and now the two thick lumps of red flesh lay on a plate, ready to be put under the grill at the last minute. She had been to Marks and Spencer and bought ready-washed and prepared vegetables — peas, small carrots, new potatoes. They were to have a lemon tart as a pudding. The table was laid. She had bought candles and borrowed two silver candlesticks from the drawing-room. She carried them with her into the ground-floor kitchen, where her mother’s housekeeper, Mrs. Buckley, was scraping potatoes, and said without preamble: “If my mother wants to know where her candlesticks are, I’ve borrowed them.”
Without waiting for a response she went over to the drinks cupboard and took out the first bottle of claret to hand, outstaring Mrs. Buckley’s disapproving gaze. The woman opened her mouth to protest, thought better of it and bent again to her task.
Octavia thought: “Silly old cow, what’s it to do with her? She’ll probably be peering through the curtains to watch who arrives. Then she’ll sneak to Venetia. Well, let her. It can’t matter now.”
Standing at the door with the candlesticks in one hand, the bottle of wine in the other, she said: “Perhaps you’d open the door for me. Can’t you see I’ve got my hands full?”
Without a word Mrs. Buckley came over and held open the door. Octavia swept out and heard the door close behind her.
Downstairs, in her own sitting-room, she surveyed the table with satisfaction. The candles made all the difference. And she had even remembered to buy flowers, a bunch of bronze chrysanthemums.
The sitting-room, which she had never liked, looked festive and welcoming. Maybe this evening they would make love.
But when he arrived, on time, unsmiling as always, and she opened the door, he still didn’t come in.
He said: “Get into your bike things. There’s something I want to show you.”
“But, darling, I said I’d cook supper for you. I’ve got steak.”
“It’ll wait. We’ll have it when we get back. I’ll cook it.”
When she returned a few minutes later, carrying her helmet and zipping up her leather jacket, she said: “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
“You make it sound important.”
“It is important.”
She asked no more questions. Fifteen minutes later they were at the Holland Park roundabout and turning onto Westway. Another five minutes and he drew up outside of one of the houses and she knew where they were.
It was a scene of utter desolation, made more unreal and bizarre by the glare of the overhead lights. On either side of them the houses stretched, boarded up with what looked like sheets of rust-coloured metal. They were identical, semi-detached with side entrances and recessed porches. There were three-paned bay windows on the ground and upper floors and a triangular gable crossed with dark wooded slats. The windows and doors were barred. The fences of the front gardens had been wrenched away and the small patches of scrub, some with
Sometimes they went on to the coast. He liked Brighton and they would roar out on the Rottingdean road with its wide view of the Channel, find a small cafè, eat, then drive on over the Downs. Although he disliked fashionable places, he was fussy about his food. A roll which wasn’t fresh, cheese which was dry, rancid-tasting butter would be pushed aside.
He would say: “Don’t eat this muck, Octavia.”
“It’s not too bad, darling.”
“Don’t eat it. We’ll buy some chips on the way home.”
She liked that best of all, sitting on the verge while the traffic swished past, the smell of chips and warm greaseproof paper, the excitement of being free and untrammelled, on the move, and yet of being secure in their private world. The purple Kawasaki was both the means of their freedom and its symbol.
But today she was to cook for him for the first time. She had decided on steak. Surely all men like steak. She had bought filet at the butcher’s suggestion, and now the two thick lumps of red flesh lay on a plate, ready to be put under the grill at the last minute. She had been to Marks and Spencer and bought ready-washed and prepared vegetables — peas, small carrots, new potatoes. They were to have a lemon tart as a pudding. The table was laid. She had bought candles and borrowed two silver candlesticks from the drawing-room. She carried them with her into the ground-floor kitchen, where her mother’s housekeeper, Mrs. Buckley, was scraping potatoes, and said without preamble: “If my mother wants to know where her candlesticks are, I’ve borrowed them.”
Without waiting for a response she went over to the drinks cupboard and took out the first bottle of claret to hand, outstaring Mrs. Buckley’s disapproving gaze. The woman opened her mouth to protest, thought better of it and bent again to her task.
Octavia thought: “Silly old cow, what’s it to do with her? She’ll probably be peering through the curtains to watch who arrives. Then she’ll sneak to Venetia. Well, let her. It can’t matter now.”
Standing at the door with the candlesticks in one hand, the bottle of wine in the other, she said: “Perhaps you’d open the door for me. Can’t you see I’ve got my hands full?”
Without a word Mrs. Buckley came over and held open the door. Octavia swept out and heard the door close behind her.
Downstairs, in her own sitting-room, she surveyed the table with satisfaction. The candles made all the difference. And she had even remembered to buy flowers, a bunch of bronze chrysanthemums.
The sitting-room, which she had never liked, looked festive and welcoming. Maybe this evening they would make love.
But when he arrived, on time, unsmiling as always, and she opened the door, he still didn’t come in.
He said: “Get into your bike things. There’s something I want to show you.”
“But, darling, I said I’d cook supper for you. I’ve got steak.”
“It’ll wait. We’ll have it when we get back. I’ll cook it.”
When she returned a few minutes later, carrying her helmet and zipping up her leather jacket, she said: “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
“You make it sound important.”
“It is important.”
She asked no more questions. Fifteen minutes later they were at the Holland Park roundabout and turning onto Westway. Another five minutes and he drew up outside of one of the houses and she knew where they were.
It was a scene of utter desolation, made more unreal and bizarre by the glare of the overhead lights. On either side of them the houses stretched, boarded up with what looked like sheets of rust-coloured metal. They were identical, semi-detached with side entrances and recessed porches. There were three-paned bay windows on the ground and upper floors and a triangular gable crossed with dark wooded slats. The windows and doors were barred. The fences of the front gardens had been wrenched away and the small patches of scrub, some with
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