He had forgotten: a long-mooted Sunday lunch and he had a horrible feeling it coincided with Barbuda’s half-term or similar exeat. He had noticed a distinct increase of the Barbuda element in his dates with Stella and suspected she was trying to improve lover-daughter relationships. The lowering of spirit he experienced on hearing her voice told him something else too: it was time to bring the affair with Stella Bull to a decent and humane end.
Chapter 17
Dymphna’s journalist friend was called Bram Wiles and he had said he was more than happy to have his brains picked. Consequently, Lorimer had arranged to meet him in the Matisse at midday where and when Lorimer was duly present, his habitual fifteen minutes early in a booth at the rear reading the Guardian, when he felt the shudder of someone sitting down on the bench opposite.
‘Shite of a day’ Marlobe said, filling his pipe with a blunt finger. ‘Your motor looks desperate.’ Lorimer agreed: there had been a thick frost and the harsh wind had risen again. Moreover, the previous night’s combination of rain and freeze seemed to have encouraged the rust to spread on his Toyota, exponentially like bacteria multiplying in a petri dish, and it was now almost completely orange.
Marlobe lit his pipe with great spittley suckings and blowings, turning the immediate area a blurry bluey grey He inhaled his pungent pipe smoke deep into his lungs, Lorimer noticed, as if he were smoking a cigarette.
‘Your Kentish daffodil grower doesn’t stand a monkey’s in this weather.’
‘I’m afraid I’m expecting someone,’ Lorimer said.
‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘I’m having a sort of meeting. He’ll need to sit where you are.’
The sullen Romanian waitress slid his cappuccino across the table at him, making sure some of the foam lapped over the side and pooled in the saucer.
‘What you want?’ she asked Marlobe.
‘Sorry darling.’ Marlobe bared his teeth at her. ‘I’m not stopping long.’ He turned back to Lorimer. ‘Whereas… Whereas your Dutchman is sitting pretty.’
‘Really?’
‘State subsidies. Three guilder per bloom. Your Kentman and your Dutchman are not on a level playing field in the world of daffs.’
This was clearly nonsense but Lorimer did not feel like arguing with Marlobe so he said, vaguely, ‘The weather’s bound to improve.’
Marlobe gave a high screeching laugh at this and banged the tabletop fiercely with his palm.
‘That’s what they said at Dunkirk in 1940. And where did it get them? Tell me this, do you think von Rundstedt stood in the turret of his Panzerkampfwagen and wondered if perhaps it would be a bit milder tomorrow? Eh? Eh?’
‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about.’
‘That’s the problem with this country. Looking on the bright side. Always looking on the stinking bright side. It’s an illness, a sickness. That’s why this nation is on its knees. On its knees in the gutter looking for scraps.’
A boyish-looking young man approached their booth and said to Marlobe, ‘Are you Lorimer Black? I’m Bram Wiles.’
‘No, I’m Lorimer Black,’ Lorimer said quickly. He had asked the Spanish duenna waitress to direct anyone asking for him to the booth.
Marlobe stood up slowly and glared at Bram Wiles with overt hostility.
‘All fucking right, mate. No hurry. We got all fucking day.’
Wiles visibly flinched and backed off. He had a long blond fringe brushed straight down over his forehead to meet the rims of his round black spectacles. He looked about fourteen.
Marlobe, with even more deliberate, challenging slowness, edged out of the booth and then stood blocking entry for a while as he relit his pipe, matchbox clamped over the bowl, huffing and puffing, and then moved off in a vortexing whirl of smoke, like some warlock in a movie, giving Lorimer the thumbs-up sign.
‘Nice talking to you. Cheers, pal.’
Wiles sat down, coughing, and flapped his hands.
‘Local character,’ Lorimer explained, managing to attract the attention of the sullen Romanian and order another coffee. Bram Wiles had a small goatee but his facial hair was so fine and white-blond that it was only visible at a range of two to three feet. Lorimer often wondered about grown men with long fringes – what did they think was the effect as they ran the comb down their foreheads, spreading their hair flat across their brow? Did they think they looked good, he wondered, did they think it made them more attractive and appealing?
Wiles may have looked like a fourth-former but his mind was sharp and acute enough. Lorimer simply laid all the facts out before him, Wiles