Old Filth - Jane Gardam [64]
Oliver had taken his mother out in his car for tea in Saffron Walden, a suggestion she had greeted with the luminous silence which was always followed by refusal.
“I’ve not been into the town for—”
“Oh, come on. You’ll be fine.”
(The black butterfly opened its wings.)
“It’s no distance and we’ll have the top down. It’s a lovely day.”
“Not on the motorway, Oliver.”
“Of course not.”
“I can’t take the motorway. Not until I’m dead.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The crem is on the motorway. I really don’t care for it.”
“Ma, would I take you to the crem?”
“Though I dare say you can get a cup of tea there,” she said. “Darling, what if the doctor saw me as we pass the surgery?”
“We won’t pass the surgery.”
“I think we have to.”
“Then we’ll disguise ourselves.”
“Oh, Oliver—what as?”
“Barristers. We’ll borrow Vanessa’s and old funny-face’s wigs.”
“I don’t think they travel with their wigs.”
“Well, get a big hat out of the spare room, and some dark glasses.”
“I haven’t enjoyed anything like this for years.”
“Hold on to your hat.”
“I will. I wore it at poor Babs’s wedding. It must be thirty years old.”
“Is Babs still alive?”
“What? Can’t hear. Are you sure this isn’t the motorway? Oliver! How dare you! This is Cambridge. It was the motorway.”
They sat by the Cam and the low sun shone through the straps of the willows. Students called to each other and splashed about, or glided along. King’s College Chapel reared up like a white cruise-liner on a grassy sea. “I’ve organised tea for us,” he said. “Come on. It’s not far.”
She walked lightly beside him on the tow-path and over a bridge. Fat common people in tight clothes licked ice creams and ate oozing buns and shouted. Some, despite the season, had bare midriffs. Some looked at Claire’s hat. She was enchanted.
“It’s a shame so many young people are bald now,” she said. “I wonder why? Is it Aids or this awful chemotherapy? I’m sure we never had either.”
“It’s the fashion, Ma.”
“Oh, it can’t be. That’s dreadlocks.”
“No, they’re out. Or at any rate localised.”
“Do they go over their pates every day like their chins? Will you be doing it, Oliver?”
“Ma, I’m nearly forty and I’m a chartered accountant.”
“Yes, and you have lovely hair, Oliver. What is Vanessa’s hair like—I mean, when she lets it grow?”
But they had reached Oliver’s old, undistinguished college; a door and a staircase of someone of distinction; a huge, gentle old man. Claire did not catch his name. He was expecting Oliver and was pleased to see them and he nodded at Claire and looked affectionately at her hat. They sat in a room with a tall window that seemed to let in little light and where mountains of books and furniture were deep in dust. They ate cinnamon scones. Other crumby plates lay about the room among the books and balled-up garments that suggested socks and what Claire thought of as woollies. What a peaceful quiet place. What a nice man. How nice for him to know Oliver.
“We thought we’d make for Evensong at King’s,” said Oliver. “Have we missed it, d’you think?”
“Oh, no. Still the same programme,” and the old man began to talk about politics. “I am very fond of Oliver,” he said as he stumbled along with them to the door of the chapel. They all said goodbye.
“Tired?” asked Oliver as they sat down in the choir stalls.
“Not in the least. Did he put on that performance just for us? I didn’t know there were any left.”
“Any what?”
“Eccentrics. Had you told him we were coming?”
“Yes, I rang him up. At the petrol station.”
“From a call box?”
“From my handset.”
“You keep his number?”
“No. I dialled directory enquiries.”
“You are wonderful, Oliver.”
“I am.”
“The world is full of miracles,” she said, “but I think you set it all up. There were computers and internets and e-mails hidden in all those books, and he was an actor who does E. M. Forster parts. I really loved him. Who was he?”
“Who’s E. M. Forster? Anyway, he liked your hat. He was the Dean.” Delighted with the day, the music, the