The Angel in the Corner - Monica Dickens [64]
‘I’m sorry, Joe. I wish I had the kind of mother who would be – well, a mother for you too. But Helen will come round in time, you’ll see. She’ll be nice to you.’
‘Like hell she will.’ He leaned over and ground out his cigarette on the egg-smeared plate. ‘The old girl hates my guts.’
‘Not really. Wait until they next come over. She will have got over being upset about all this. She’ll feel quite differently when she sees how happy I am.’
‘Are you happy, Jin?’ He looked at her seriously.
‘Deliriously.’ She bent to kiss him. ‘I’m going up to the flat now that I know Helen’s gone, to get the rest of my things. Heaven knows where I’ll put them,’ she looked round the room, ‘but we’ll manage. Are you going to stay here?’
‘Why? Why do you want to know what I’m going to do?’ There was an edge of resentment in his voice.
‘I’d just like to know that you’ll be here when I get back, that’s all.’
‘Afraid I’ll get away from you? Don’t worry. You’re stuck.’ He raised his arms above his head and yawned. ‘I believe I’m going to like marriage, if you’ll give me breakfast in bed every day.’
As Virginia went up the stone steps to the pavement, he looked out of the window and called after her: ‘If Spenser’s left any whisky behind, bring it.’
A moving-van blocked almost the whole width of the mews. Upstairs in the flat, two men were busy with crates and shavings and labels, packing up the contents of the drawing-room.
‘What are you doing with that?’ Virginia asked, as the younger of the men wrapped the china figure of a dancer in a newspaper and stowed it in a barrel. ‘That belongs to me.’
‘None of my business,’ the young man said. ‘Better ask Mr Fiske.’ He jerked his head to where the older, stouter man was kneeling by the fireplace, trying to persuade the fire-irons into a neat bundle.
‘You can’t take away my things,’ Virginia told him. ‘I have a place of my own now. I need them.’
‘I was told to take everything to storage,’ Mr Fiske said. ‘Only following my orders.’ He sat back on his heels, curling up the crêpe soles of his shoes. ‘I never heard anything about separating the knick-knacks. It’s a bit late now. We’re pretty near done. What do you expect me to do, miss – unpack all the boxes?’
‘Could you?’ She wanted to have her possessions round her in Joe’s room. They would make it seem like her room too.
‘Be a lot to ask.’ He shook his head and glanced at the younger man, who had paused with a clock in one hand, and a piece of newspaper in the other, disturbed at the turn of the conversation.
‘In any case,’ Mr Fiske said, standing up and cradling the fire-irons over to a box, ‘I don’t know who you are, miss, do I? It might be worth my job to let you take anything.’
‘But I used to live here! I lived here for years. Naturally a lot of the things are mine. I’m Mrs Eldredge’s daughter – Miss Martin. Mrs Colonna, rather.’ She laughed. ‘It’s hard to get used to. I just got married.’
Mr Fiske’s face broadened into a beam of delight. ‘Well, well! Isn’t that wonderful, miss – pardon me – madam, I should say.’ He threw the fire-irons into the box with a noise like Agincourt, and came forward with his hand out. ‘Allow me to offer my heartiest congratulations. I hope you will be very happy.’
‘I’m sure I shall. Thank you very much. Now, about my things –’
‘Geoffrey, come here, and shake hands with the young lady, and offer your congratulations.’ Mr Fiske was not ready to be brought back to business.
The young man set down the clock, palmed his trousers, and shook hands damply. ‘Best respects, I’m sure.’
‘What a happy, happy time for you,’ Mr Fiske said, his eyes glazed with sentiment. ‘A time to remember all your life, believe me. The wife and I often look back on our first days together. We were at Sydenham then, of course. I’ve never forgotten it.’
‘I’m sure you