Old Filth - Jane Gardam [6]
“I was sorry to hear about Betty,” said Veneering.
“I was sorry about Elsie,” said Filth, remembering her name and her still and beautiful—and unhappy—Chinese face. “Your son—?”
“Dead,” said Veneering. “Killed. Army.”
“I am most terribly sorry. So dreadfully sorry. I hadn’t heard.”
“We don’t hear much these days,” said Veneering. “Maybe we don’t want to. We had too many Hearings.”
Filth watched the arthritic stooped old figure shamble across the room to the decanter.
“Not good for the bones, this climate,” said Veneering, shambling back.
“Did you think of staying on?”
“Good God, no.”
“It suited you so well.” Then Filth said something very odd. “Better than us, I always thought. Better than me, anyway. And Betty never talked about it. She was very Scotch, you know.”
“Plenty of Scots in Hong Kong,” said Veneering. “You two seemed absolutely welded, melded, into the place. Betty and her Chinese jewellery.”
“Oh, she tried,” said Filth sadly. “She was very faithful.”
“Another?”
“I should be getting home.”
It dawned on Old Filth that he would have to ask a favour of Veneering. He had already lost a good point to him by calling round wet to the skin. Veneering was still no fool. He’d spotted the telephone business. It would be difficult to regain his position. Maybe make something out of being the first to break the silence? Maturity. Magnanimity. Water under the bridge. Christmas Day. Hint at a larger spirit?
He wouldn’t mention locking himself out.
But how was he to get home? Mrs. Thing’s key was three miles off and she wasn’t coming in again until New Year’s Day. He could hardly stay here—Good God! With Veneering!
“I’ve thought of coming to see you,” said Veneering. “Several times as a matter of fact, this past year. Getting on, both of us.”
Old Filth was silent. He himself had not thought of doing anything of the sort, and could not pretend.
“Couldn’t think of a good excuse,” said Veneering. “Bit afraid of the reception. Bloody hot-tempered type, I used to be. We weren’t exactly similar.”
“I’ve forgotten what type I was,” said Filth, again surprising himself. “Not much of anything, I expect.”
“Bloody good advocate,” said Veneering.
“You made a damn good judge,” said Filth, remembering that this was true. “Better than I was.”
“Only excuse I could think of was a feeble one,” said Veneering. “There’s a key of yours here hanging in my pantry. Front door. Chubb. Your address is on the label. Must have been here for years. Neighbours being neighbourly long ago, I expect. Maybe you have one of mine?”
“No,” said Filth. “No, I’ve not seen one.”
“Could have let myself in, any time,” said Veneering. “Murdered you in your bed.” There was a flash of the old black mischief. “Must you go? I don’t think there’s going to be a taxi. It would never make the hill. I’ll get that key—unless you want me to hold on to it. For an emergency?” (Another hard look.)
“No,” said Filth with Court decorum. “No, I’ll take it and see if it works.”
On Veneering’s porch, wearing Veneering’s (ghastly) over-coat, Filth paused. The snow was easing. He heard himself say, “Boxing Day tomorrow. If you’re on your own, I’ve a ham shank and some decent claret.”
“Pleasure,” said Veneering.
On his own doorstep Filth thought: Will it turn?
It did.
The house was beautifully warm but he made up the fire. The water would be hot, thank God. Get out of these clothes. Hello? What?
He thought he heard something in the kitchen. Hello? Yes?
He went through and found it empty. The snow had stopped at last and the windows were squares of black light. He thought, peering forward into the gloaming: Someone is looking in. But he could see no signs of footprints anywhere, and drew the curtains. He peeped into cupboards to make sure of things for tomorrow. Didn’t want to look a fool. There was a can of shark’s fin soup. Tin of crab-meat. Good rice.