Arcana Read online

  Letitia and the chauffeur sat and watched their elders eat their way through the better part of the menu. Hendrik forced a foaming beer upon his driver, but Letitia found she was neither hungry nor thirsty, merely enervated.

  That feeling did not leave her the whole afternoon, during which the four of them motored around avoiding the sights, focusing instead on the food and drink. Letitia thought it was lucky that Hendrik had an appetite to match Aunt Octavia’s, otherwise he would have recognised so much eating and drinking for the gluttonous waste it was.

  When they returned to the clinic, the first person Letitia saw was Ste Critchley. She almost didn’t recognise him without his entourage. He had found a twig and was poking it idly into the earth in one of the terracotta pots of limp flowers that lined the drive.

  Aunt Octavia said, ‘We’ll leave you to it.’ She and Hendrik walked up the steps hand in hand. The chauffeur scowled and drove the car around to the stables, which had been converted into garages.

  ‘Look here,’ Ste said, as they walked through the grounds together. ‘I can’t see there’s any use beating about the bush. Never have been the sort of cove to do that with anyone, least of all a lady.’

  Letitia concentrated on her breathing, which was suddenly demanding far more of her attention than its wonted share.

  For a direct and to the point sort of chap, Stephen appeared to be having some difficulty continuing. Letitia said, ‘Stephen—’

  ‘Call me Ste.’

  Letitia had to sit down before she fell. She knew there was a gazebo behind some bushes and led Ste thither just in time for the red-painted wood to interpose itself between her and the ground.

  Sitting in seclusion only seemed to impede Ste’s speech further. After several false starts, he managed to say, ‘I am, as you may be aware, rather fortunate with respect to money. Pater is a decent enough chap and cares little what I get up to, as long as I keep out of what remains of his hair.’

  ‘I thought you were going with him to America,’ Letitia said.

  ‘I was. But I’ve been to America before, and though I know Germany quite well too, I thought it would be a jolly wheeze to come over here and look you up. And here I am.’

  ‘And I’m glad you could come,’ Letitia said. In her own ears she sounded about as grateful as if Ste had turned up at her birthday party without an invitation.

  Ste seemed not to be discouraged. ‘The thing is, Letitia, I think you’re awfully nice and I was wondering—’

  He faltered again and Letitia, with much to fear from the prolongation of his discomfort that was hers too, said, ‘Oh Ste, I was wondering too.’

  Somehow they found themselves in each other’s arms without the boon of further explanation.

  Perhaps Letitia’s accessible clinic attire was to blame, but Ste’s hands moved remarkably quickly for one so lately affirmed in the reciprocation of his wishes. Acutely aware she was dressed in a manner amenable to all sorts of assumptions, and that she had led him in an unseemly hurry to a sheltered spot, Letitia laid her hand over his. Ste interpreted this as acquiescence, and hastened his progress.

  ‘I’m not—’ Letitia said, but Ste stopped her mouth with kisses. Letitia could taste liquor behind them.

  She closed her eyes.

  The kisses ended as abruptly as they had begun. Ste was dragging himself out of the bushes into which Hendrik had flung him. Ste’s fists were already up.

  ‘Look here, I don’t want to make a scene with an old fellow, but—’

  Hendrik swooped in under Ste’s guard, landed a blow and withdrew.

  This time Ste made much more of a fuss about getting up. He had left his offer to be reasonable upon the ground. He directed a savage rain of jabs towards Hendrik, but the old man danced lightly out of his way. Letitia thought Hendrik seemed reluctant to harm Ste, but in those close confines there was little room to retreat. Hendrik moved from dodging Ste’s blows to parrying them with his forearms and thence to counterattacking. Though there was no malice moving Hendrik’s fists, Ste seemed to take the hits badly.

  Very soon, though not soon enough for Letitia, it was over. Hendrik was gracious in victory, trying to help vanquished Stephen to his feet, but Stephen would have none of his aid. Reluctantly, Hendrik turned his attention to Letitia.

  ‘I’m so sorry about what’s happened. I don’t believe for one moment you behaved at all improperly. Young men will get wild ideas.’

  ‘It was a misunderstanding.’

  ‘It was nothing of the sort. Rest assured: this fellow will be punished for what he has done.’

  ‘I don’t want him punished. I want him to go home.’

  ‘I am not sure that will be possible. Let us see.’

  Stephen had achieved a sitting position. He was nursing one hand in the other.

  Hendrik said, ‘Answer this question honestly, if you are capable of honesty. Do you know the way of a man with a maiden?’

  ‘I know it well.’

  ‘Well enough to put it into practice?’

  Stephen looked sullenly at Letitia. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Is that the truth?’

  ‘What would you have me swear by?’

  ‘Swearing will not be necessary. But I am afraid this means you cannot go home.’

  Letitia fumbled for words of protest. Stephen frowned; he had time to do no more before Hendrik dealt him a great blow athwart the head that reunited him with the cold ground.

  Hendrik picked Stephen up casually, flung him over his shoulder and strode towards the clinic.

  There was nothing for Letitia to do but follow. She felt she ought to protest, but her feelings for Stephen were strangely vacant and she was too scared of Hendrik to remonstrate with him. His liking for Aunt Octavia seemed like thin ice upon which to cast her lot.

  She trailed the great gaunt figure, unbowed by his burden, into the clinic by way of the conservatory. They passed several patients and one doctor, but nobody looked twice.

  Hendrik took the stairs three at a time. Letitia was winded before they reached her floor. She leaned against the landing wall to get her breath back.

  She emerged from the stairwell on to her corridor in time to see her door close behind Hendrik.

  Stephen lay prone on Letitia’s hard narrow bed. Hendrik had unlocked the cupboard Aunt Octavia said contained fresh linen, and was working the levers inside. A sprung mechanism thumped and spikes leapt out of the mattress.

  Letitia ran to Stephen’s side. Not spikes: needles.

  Letitia fled.

  In the entrance hall she found Hendrik’s young chauffeur listlessly reading a newspaper. She ran up to him and clutched at his arm, but he shook her off.

  ‘Whatever’s got into you?’ he demanded. ‘Anyone would think you didn’t know.’

  ‘And you did?’

  The chauffeur resettled himself in his armchair. ‘Hendrik has always been honest with me. It’s the only thing about him I still respect.’

  ‘You have the use of his car. We should leave now.’

  ‘And go where?’

  ‘To the police.’

  ‘What good would that do?’

  ‘They must close this abominable place down.’

  ‘And all the rest too?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  The chauffeur shook his head. ‘Do you pay the police? Do I?’

  ‘The council must pay them.’

  ‘And who pays the council? How much do you earn? How much tax do they get out of you?’

  Letitia was dumbfounded. Mrs. Stephen Critchley would not have required a head for figures.

  ‘What can we do?’ she demanded.

  The chauffeur lowered his voice. ‘Every now and again, when Hendrik is in his cups, he’s foolish enough to slip me a few coins. I’ve been saving for years now.’

  ‘You’ll never be able to afford the treatment here. I hear it’s frightfully expensive.’

  The chauffeur spat on the marble tiles. ‘I don’t want to
be one of them. I want an operation that means I’ll never be able to have children. If I had any, their grandparents would prey on them just as they prey on us. And if I can’t pay a professional then by God I’ll do the job myself.’

  The chauffeur screened himself off with his newspaper. A doctor came up and took Letitia by the elbow.

  ‘Where have you been? Your aunt is expecting her afternoon tea.’

  Pet Food

  It was by accident that I hit upon the idea of putting down animals for a living. I had to do something. If necessity were indeed the mother of invention, she was the sort of mother who wouldn’t hesitate to ground me for a month.

  All I ever wanted to be was a chef.

  No. Don’t get the wrong idea about me. I would never feed a dead animal to a living person. Never.

  What I might do—indeed, what I have done on numerous occasions now—is to give an animal that last little push. Only ever those that were already clearly on their way out. So said their owners, who knew them better than anyone.

  I was saying: all I ever wanted to be was a chef. It is a cruel Fate indeed that makes us perform so poorly at the things we enjoy. We might be forgiven for expecting she would compensate us by making us good at something we dislike. But she doesn’t. While I was killing animals, I never once had any of the feelings more enthusiastic careers advisers and less jaded middle management say you should experience at work: never in the zone, no flow, nothing. For me it was only ever a means to an end.

  At first the end was not to go broke.

  I had sold all my inessentials. All I had left was my phone, my TV and my sofa. I lay there wondering whether I could possibly sell the TV and make do with just the phone, but the screen was so small and so scratched. Besides, there had probably been some new technology brought out since I had finally paid off the TV. Everyone else probably had holograms in their front rooms these days.

  The doorbell rang. If I had been able to afford coffee, I would have spilled it in shock. No-one ever came to visit, and when they did they never rang the bell. Debt collectors preferred to knock, for the same reasons actors do breathing exercises and musicians run through scales.

  I opened the door. It was the lady from the flat downstairs. She must have lived there for years. I had no idea of her name.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you. I just wondered whether I could borrow some coffee.’

  ‘I don’t have any,’ I said, but by then the die was cast: the huge dog at the lady’s heels had lumbered into my flat.

  We all went inside. The dog had been here for a matter of moments and already the place stank. Worse than it had done before. At least it made a change: the predominant smell had been the burning of my latest attempt at lasagne.

  The lady looked around. I had been meaning to invite her to sit down, but I could see she wanted to recoup her dog and get the hell out, because obviously absence of furniture was the surest sign not of impecunity but of insanity.

  The dog went straight for the kitchen.

  By the time I got there, it had found the lasagne on the edge of the worktop and devoured it.

  What must its usual diet consist of?

  I was glad I had opted out of the lasagne. The dog died.

  I went back into the lounge, where the irresistible lure of TV had made the lady sit on my tired sofa against her better judgement.

  ‘Your dog’s dead,’ I told her.

  Lulled by the better world of TV, she replied, ‘He hadn’t been himself for a long, long time. I just couldn’t bring myself to have him put down. It’s a decision no pet owner should have to make. And it can be so expensive.’

  I was surprised. I had never owned a pet. If I had, I would have had to sell it long ago. But I thought pet owners were supposed to be hugely attached.

  We sat and watched a soporific quiz show together and little by little the answer came to me. It was the very attachment that made it difficult to pull the trigger. What people needed was exactly what had just happened: an accident. Much easier to justify to themselves than the messily explicit business of one last trip to the vet.

  Even after the credits had rolled, the lady did not shed a tear. I carried the body downstairs for her. I should have dragged it, but I thought that would be disrespectful.

  I very nearly put my back out.

  #

  There the matter might have rested, except that the following evening I received a visit from two more old biddies.

  One had a dog even older and more decrepit than yesterday’s. And a bit smaller, thank God. The other’s dog was tiny and yappy. It looked perfectly alright and kept trying to lick my hand.

  At first they were reluctant to state their business, so much so that I began to wonder whether they were the world’s oldest or subtlest debt collectors. Finally, ‘Millie recommended you,’ one said.

  After that all became clear. I had just enough lasagne left for two more portions.

  The three of us sat on the sofa and let the dogs roam the barrenness of my flat. Once one of them decided to go into the kitchen and eat some lasagne, it wasn’t long before the other one followed suit.

  Nature took its course swiftly and, I hoped, painlessly.

  I had learned two things from my previous experience. I provided bin liners and even double-bagged the larger one, so that my clients could remove their property themselves. But before I did anything, I advised the ladies of my price. This was dictated less by an accurate assessment of the value of my current services than by the staggering amount of debt I had incurred while studying cookery. I was reluctant to impose such a heavy burden on these innocent pensioners. But I justified it because it seemed likely that the nearer we get to meeting our Maker, the more highly we must value a clear conscience.

  Both of them opened their purses and settled in cash.

  I was pleased. One of the things that had attracted me to the catering industry was the chance to help people. Maybe this calling wasn’t so different after all.

  #

  After six months, I could no longer believe my luck. Despite negligible likelihood of repeat business, despite total reliance on word of mouth, I was flourishing.

  It was not even as if I appealed to many demographics. Younger pet owners, Health & Safety’s children, must still prefer to go the official route, whatever it cost them to give the instruction. My customers were exclusively elderly, veterans of a harsher time when life was more likely to end abruptly, and hence more precious. They thought my approach thoroughly humane: they loved it that their dogs could roam my flat freely, and choose in their own time to die with dignity. They also enjoyed watching TV while they waited, especially after I upgraded my set to one that covered the entire wall. They all said it was far easier to see than their little ones.

  I made a couple of experiments. It was relatively simple to tweak my lasagne recipe so I could make it with cheaper ingredients. The customers never complained, and I knew for a fact the practice was widespread in the processed food industry. I also tried branching out into cats, but unless they had been starved first they proved to have too highly-developed an instinct for their own survival.

  So the elderly dogs of elderly owners became my stock-in-trade. That was how I met Felicity.

  ‘Gran can’t drive herself any longer,’ Felicity explained.

  ‘Are the antiques on?’ Gran demanded.

  Felicity, Gran and I sat on my new leather sofa and watched the antiques. Even though Gran was sitting between us smelling of lavender, it was still the most romantic encounter I had ever had. When Gran’s faithful Rusty ate his last lasagne, I wept.

  Felicity put a tentative arm around me. It was a beautiful moment.

  I asked whether I could see her again. ‘Under happier circumstances,’ I felt obliged to elaborate, not wanting her to think I supposed she had a great stash of pets all on their last legs.

  ‘OK. You weren’t proposing to cook, were you?’

  #

  We went out. We we
nt out for the six happiest months of my life.

  Felicity seemed perfectly at ease with the way I made my living. Certainly she appreciated the flexible hours and the manifold opportunities to keep up with the latest TV series. She even offered to help cook the lasagne, but I refused to disclose my recipe. I had no reason to believe she would ever leave me, let alone set herself up as a rival, but I had dedicated years to my culinary art and I resented the implication my accumulated genius could be reduced to one single recipe.

  Business, if you will pardon the pun, tailed off. Luckily Felicity had an ordinary job and could help to tide me over. She would come home from work to find me sitting on the sofa, ready to rest my head in her lap.

  Of course I had not been idle. I had been thinking hard. It seemed to me I ought to go the extra mile and offer a full menu.

  That took a lot of work: I found myself working longer hours and leaving Felicity on her own in front of the TV. But I owed it to my clients to keep my skills sharp, and I was on the verge of realising, albeit in modified form, my old dream of one day owning a restaurant.

  Long nights of research paid off when I perfected my fish pie and could start welcoming cats to dine with me. I drew more clients than ever.

  By then Felicity was beginning to make unjustifiable demands for inconveniences like furniture.

  ‘How would our guests cope with furniture?’ I demanded. ‘This isn’t our home. This is our place of business. We need to keep it simple and stripped down. The last thing I want is customers saying we funnelled their pet straight into our kitchen against its will, without even the opportunity of a final free roam, one last scratch at the sofa. Everything that dies here dies with dignity.’

  This evening Felicity did not come home. She sent a large man in a dark suit instead.

  He has told me I can have the run of the flat and take as much time as I like. I think I will stop writing now and go and watch the quiz.

  A Wedding

  The poet Balachirene Spong was composing as he landed.

  But soft! What lovelight shines from yonder star?

  It is as nothing ’gainst my love’s sweet smile.