The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [120]
Norval did as he was told, gratefully, ravenously, while glancing at a Nottingham Post folded neatly beside his plate. Not a bad woman, actually. Must bring up the subject of money. And Gally. As he bit into an oil-popping sausage he thought he heard footsteps from above, in the vicinity of his room.
Mrs. Pettybone returned with a stainless-steel pot. “Will you have milk first or last in your coffee, Mr. Black? I’m not offering tea because frogs don’t drink it.” She said these words with the speed of an auctioneer, as if she’d just consumed a pot or two herself.
“I don’t take milk,” Norval replied. “So listen, Gally mentioned that—”
“I suppose you’ve no money to pay for your room, am I right, Mr. Black? I do not care for economic cripples. Least of all French ones.”
Norval nodded. “Yes, well, as a matter of fact, Mrs. Pettybone, I am a bit undercapitalised. My accountant, I’m afraid, has buried my wealth in impenetrable shell companies and offshore accounts. Very difficult to get at.”
Mrs. Pettybone’s eyes narrowed. “Very funny,” she replied. “If I wanted a clown, I wouldn’t have divorced my husband.” She began pouring milk into Norval’s coffee. “So what do you do for a living, Mr. Black? What is your trade?”
Norval hesitated, wondering how best to answer this. “I’m a professional actor.”
Mrs. Pettybone recoiled, as if he’d said he was a professional leper, take my arm for this dance.
“In fact,” Norval continued, “that’s why I’m here in England. But there’s been a few foul-ups … Gally thought that—”
“That I’m a soft touch. We’ll discuss the matter later.” Mrs. Pettybone, now wearing orange rubber gloves, removed his plate, as well as a fork from his hand. “I’ll just do the washing up,” she said. “And don’t even think about lighting up that cigarette!”
By the time Norval finished his newspaper, lingered over his coffee and returned to his room, his clothes were washed, dried and ironed. Impossible, he calculated. Surely a record of some sort. Must call Guinness. Even his socks and underwear were ironed. He put on his chlorinated, fabricsoftened clothes, butted his cigarette, then hitchhiked into Nottingham in search of a job.
This pattern, unbroken, continued for the next seven days. Norval, the only guest in the house, awoke to blading sunlight or a flicking lightswitch, then reawoke to a gong; he ate like a swine at breakfast to obviate lunch and dinner, went out looking for work, came back after dinner without work. Why did he stay? Because he was penniless, because Mrs. Pettybone no longer mentioned money, because he was starting to like the woman. The way she doted on him, the way she darned the darns on his socks, sewed buttons on his shirts, polished and repolished his boots, appointed them with Odour Eaters. True, he could do without the ironed underwear and crease down his jeans. True, the woman was insane. But you can’t have everything. Besides, there were mysteries to solve. Who exactly was Gally? And where was the inviolable innkeeper’s daughter?
On his eighth day Norval got a job: playing an eighteen-year-old Rimbaud in a film based on the poet’s life in London in the 1870s. He couldn’t believe his luck. I dazzled the director, he thought, I was made for this role …
Returning to the house well after midnight, with celebratory beer on his breath and a script under his arm, he got lost in the manor’s dark labyrinths. He tiptoed right, left, up one corridor and down another. His memory had completely fogged. He climbed what he thought was his staircase but arriving at the top realised it went nowhere. It just stopped four or five feet from the ceiling. He walked back down, shaking his head, worse for drink than he thought. On the landing a door opened.
A figure in a man’s white dress-shirt, torn tights and unlaced boots stepped out of