Lynch in a bus; might be the wrong approach. It might though be the right approach to the lovely ladies of Belgrave Square. The names in Martinezâ neat address-book â Mrs James Collins, Mrs Malachi MacManus, Mrs Edward Flanagan â had been given a little flesh by Inspector Flynn but still lacked blood.
The bus was pleasantly empty: mm, two in the afternoon and buses going into town were all packed, so that he felt clever. He sat on top in the front seat, shaken about in this crows-nest by high winds and loving it. One couldnât even begin writing in the good tiny notebook but that would be ridiculous anyhow. One would do that tonight, if one lived that long, over smoked salmon (he had had oysters for lunch) â stop day-dreaming. Lansdowne Road. It meant nothing to Van der Valk, though he was something of a rugby fan, but that concrete crown of thorns flying the American flag was plainly the United States Embassy, the large houses had a new dignity, there were broad pavements with trees. He crossed a tiny river by what his map told him was Ballâs Bridge: a dear little factory made bread and was called Johnson, Mooney and OâBrien, which had surely inspired James Joyce to flights of fantasy.
Respectable neighbourhood, full of money. Tall terraced houses gave way to semi-detached villas in bullsâ blood-coloured brick; these villas got steadily bigger, uglier and wealthier, with Gothic turrets, greener lawns and leafier trees, and suddenly the name âAilesbury Roadâ flashed at him and past him and he felt contentment. These villas were just like Aerdenhout or Bloemendaal, where in Holland people like Senator Lynch lived in houses looking much the same: it wasnât a foreign country after all. The bus fled on.
Yes, he saw; that was the edge, technically, of the town. Thereafter was new suburb â concreting, gnomes and crazy pavement â which had been countryside not so long ago, and the high iron gates and stone walls of one or two large country houses were still there to prove it. He thought he understood; these houses with rambling basements and acres of field andpaddock were impossible without servants. One or two became schools â there â or convents â there â but most were carved up by the speculating builders: gold in those fields.
On the left, suddenly, was flat grey wrinkled sea: he was on a wide dreary boulevard moving fast: the houses thinned out, clustered again thickly round an obliterated village that was now a suburban shopping centre with such a High Street look one was surprised not to see Boots the Cash Chemist. âBrayâ said a road sign; âTemple Hillâ said a piece of painted metal on a wall; âBelgrave Square next stop,â said the friendly dirty bus-conductor who had a blue chin, thick spectacles and that confidential way the Irish had of talking to one, entrusting you with all their secrets. He got off the bus and was knocked sideways by all the fresh air.
Belgrave Square was a lot less impressive than it had sounded and he had expected, without quite knowing why. The London model, he supposed â he had always thought of something tall and Georgian. This was a squat Victorian terrace with stunted tiny gardens, starveling box hedges, worn strips of bare turf and daverdy gravel: the houses needed paintwork, were weedy round the doors, rusty round the iron gates. Grim little basements had bars over blind windows, flyspecked net curtains needed a wash, and dark poky halls full of prams could do with airing as well as polishing.
Not all were like this. Some houses had repaired their rotting sashes, put on a coat of that violent pink or lilac paint beloved of the French and the Irish, clipped around their tiny rose or rhododendron bushes. But his main impression was flats with absentee landlords, bohemian tastes, and more children than money. The air was soft, moist, seasidy: there were a few ragged palm
The bus was pleasantly empty: mm, two in the afternoon and buses going into town were all packed, so that he felt clever. He sat on top in the front seat, shaken about in this crows-nest by high winds and loving it. One couldnât even begin writing in the good tiny notebook but that would be ridiculous anyhow. One would do that tonight, if one lived that long, over smoked salmon (he had had oysters for lunch) â stop day-dreaming. Lansdowne Road. It meant nothing to Van der Valk, though he was something of a rugby fan, but that concrete crown of thorns flying the American flag was plainly the United States Embassy, the large houses had a new dignity, there were broad pavements with trees. He crossed a tiny river by what his map told him was Ballâs Bridge: a dear little factory made bread and was called Johnson, Mooney and OâBrien, which had surely inspired James Joyce to flights of fantasy.
Respectable neighbourhood, full of money. Tall terraced houses gave way to semi-detached villas in bullsâ blood-coloured brick; these villas got steadily bigger, uglier and wealthier, with Gothic turrets, greener lawns and leafier trees, and suddenly the name âAilesbury Roadâ flashed at him and past him and he felt contentment. These villas were just like Aerdenhout or Bloemendaal, where in Holland people like Senator Lynch lived in houses looking much the same: it wasnât a foreign country after all. The bus fled on.
Yes, he saw; that was the edge, technically, of the town. Thereafter was new suburb â concreting, gnomes and crazy pavement â which had been countryside not so long ago, and the high iron gates and stone walls of one or two large country houses were still there to prove it. He thought he understood; these houses with rambling basements and acres of field andpaddock were impossible without servants. One or two became schools â there â or convents â there â but most were carved up by the speculating builders: gold in those fields.
On the left, suddenly, was flat grey wrinkled sea: he was on a wide dreary boulevard moving fast: the houses thinned out, clustered again thickly round an obliterated village that was now a suburban shopping centre with such a High Street look one was surprised not to see Boots the Cash Chemist. âBrayâ said a road sign; âTemple Hillâ said a piece of painted metal on a wall; âBelgrave Square next stop,â said the friendly dirty bus-conductor who had a blue chin, thick spectacles and that confidential way the Irish had of talking to one, entrusting you with all their secrets. He got off the bus and was knocked sideways by all the fresh air.
Belgrave Square was a lot less impressive than it had sounded and he had expected, without quite knowing why. The London model, he supposed â he had always thought of something tall and Georgian. This was a squat Victorian terrace with stunted tiny gardens, starveling box hedges, worn strips of bare turf and daverdy gravel: the houses needed paintwork, were weedy round the doors, rusty round the iron gates. Grim little basements had bars over blind windows, flyspecked net curtains needed a wash, and dark poky halls full of prams could do with airing as well as polishing.
Not all were like this. Some houses had repaired their rotting sashes, put on a coat of that violent pink or lilac paint beloved of the French and the Irish, clipped around their tiny rose or rhododendron bushes. But his main impression was flats with absentee landlords, bohemian tastes, and more children than money. The air was soft, moist, seasidy: there were a few ragged palm
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