Philip Hensher - The Northern Clemency

ALSO BY
PHILIP HENSHER

The Fit

The Mulberry Empire

The Bedrooom of the Misters Wife

Pleasured

Kitchen Venom

Other Lulus

For Zaved Mahmood

what he would have done hoped to do for anyone else

E. M. F ORSTER ,
Arctic Summer, principal fragment

S o the garden of number eighty-four is nothing more than a sort of playground for all the kids of the neighbourhood?

I wouldnt say all, Mrs. Arbuthnot said. I would have said it was only the Glovers children.

All of them? Mrs. WarnerKaren, nowsaid. The girl seems so quiet. Its the elder boy, really.

Ive seen the girl going in there too, Mrs. Arbuthnot said. Its during the day with her. Shes on her own generally. I grant you, its the older boy who goes in after dark, and hes got people with him. Girls, one at a time. Therell be trouble with both those boys.

But, Mrs. Mr. Warner said. He was slow to catch peoples names.

Call me Anthea, Mrs. Arbuthnot said. Now that weve finally met.

I mean, Anthea, Mr. Warner said, why doesnt anyone tell the parents? They surely cant know.

That I dont understand, Mrs. Arbuthnot said. She was stately, forty-six, divorced, at number ninety-three, almost opposite the empty house. This isnt the best opportunity, I dare say.

They were at the Glovers. It was a party; the neighbourhood had been invited. Most had been puzzled by the invitation, knowing the couple and their three children only by sight. Mrs. Arbuthnot and Mrs. Warner had passed the time of day on occasion. They had arrived more or less at the same time; both had the habit, at a party, of moving swiftly to the back wall the better to watch arrivals. They had made common ground, and Mrs. Warners husband had been introduced. He worked for the local council in a position of some authority.

It was a Friday night in August. The room was filling up, in a slightly bemused way; the neighbours, nervously boastful, were exchanging compliments about each others gardens; conversations about motor-cars were running their usual course.

Its a nice thing for her to do, Mrs. Warner said, who always prided herself on thinking the best of others. She had left her son, nineteen, a worry, at home; she thought the party might have been smarter than it was, not knowing the Glovers. Other peoples children had come.

Shes a nice woman, I believe, Mrs. Arbuthnot said, who had her own private names for almost everyone in the room, the Warners, the Glovers included. Its a shame she couldnt have waited a week or two, though.

Yes? Mr. Warner said, who believed that if a thing could be done today, it shouldnt be put off until tomorrow.

Theres new people moving into number eighty-four, Mrs. Arbuthnot said. It might have been nice to introduce them to everyone. Theyre moving in next week.

Just opposite Antheas, Mrs. Warner explained to her husband.

Perhaps it wasnt ideal, Mr. Warner said. From the point of view of dates.

People are busy in August, these days, Mrs. Arbuthnot said. They go away, dont they?

We were thinking about the Algarve, Mrs. Warner said.

Oh, the Algarve, Mrs. Arbuthnot said, encouraging and patronizing as a magazine.

It was a good party, like other parties. Mrs. Glover was in a long dress: pale blue and high at the neck, it clung to her; on it were printed the names of capital cities. In vain, Mrs. Warner ran her eyes over it, looking for the name of the Algarve, but it was not there.

Nibble? Mrs. Glover said, frankly holding out a potato wrapped in foil, spiked with miniature assemblages of cheese and pineapple, wee cold sausages iced with fat. Her hair was swept up and pulled in, in a chignon and ringlets. They had all dressed, but she had made the most effort for her own party.

I so like your unit, Mrs. Arbuthnot said.

We got fed up with the old sideboard, Mrs. Glover said. It was Malcolms mothers, so he felt he had to take it when she went into a home. She couldnt have all her things, naturally, so we took it, and then one day, I just looked at it and it just seemed so ugly I had to get rid of it. We got the unit from Coles, actually.

You got it in Sheffield? Mrs. Arbuthnot said.

I know, Mrs. Glover said. I saw it and I fell in love with it.

Its very nice, Mrs. Warner said. I like old things, too.

I know what you mean, Katherine Glover said. I love them, really. I just think they have so much more character than new furniture. Id love to live in an old house.

There was a pause.

But its original, isnt it? Mr. Warner said, helping her out; they seemed to be stuck on the white unit, windowed with brown smoked glass.

Yes, Katherine Glover said. She gestured around the room. I think weve got it looking quite nice now. Finally!

They all laughed.

Weve lived here for ten years! she said vivaciously, as if hoping for another laugh. But

Karen Warner remarked that it was strange how you didnt get to meet your neighbours properly, these days.

This was a nice idea, Mr. Warner said, having a party like this. But he was wondering why, on this warm August night, the party was staying indoors and not moving out on to the patio.

There were five of them, the Glovers, in the room. Malcolm was in a suit, a borderline vivid blue, waisted and flaring about his skinny hips, flaring more modestly about the ankles, his tie a fat cushion at his neck. He carried a bottle from group to group, his smile illuminating as he moved on. My wifes idea, he was saying to a new couple about the party. I work in the Huddersfield and Harrogate.

You work in Harrogate? the man said. Thats quite a drive every day.

No, Malcolm said, after a heavy pause. The Huddersfield and Harrogate.

The building society? the woman said. She was a nursery nurse, pregnant herself.

Yes, Malcolm said, his puzzled voice rising. Yes, the Huddersfield and Harrogate, our main offices, just off Fargate opposite the Roman Catholic cathedral. Its women like parties, mostly. It was my wifes idea.

It was a nice idea, the husband said. Weve not met a lot of people in the street.

Weve admired your front garden, the wife said. She sneezed.

The idea was, Malcolm said, that by now thered be new people in number eighty-four. Just over there. Theyd have been more than welcome.

Thats a nice thought, the woman said, sneezing again.

But there must have been a hold-up, Malcolm said. At any rate, its still empty.

Elsewhere in the room, people were talking about the empty house, and about the new inhabitants.

Anthea Arbuthnots met them, a man was saying.

Oh, Anthea, a woman replied, and laughed. What she doesnt know isnt worth knowing.

We call her the Rayfield Avenue Clarion, someones teenage daughter said, and blushed.

I was saying, the man said, Anthea Arbuthnots met them, as Mrs. Arbuthnot came up, expertly balancing a pastry case filled with mushroom sauce.

Met who? Mrs. Arbuthnot said.

The new people, he said. Over the road.

You dont miss much, she said, in a not exactly unfriendly way. Yes, I met them, quite by chance. The house, its being sold by Eadon Lockwood and Riddle, which sold me my house too, five years back. It was the same lady, which is quite a coincidence. Her names Mary, she breeds chocolate Labradors in her spare time, which was a little bond between us, a nice lady. I saw her coming out of the house one day with a couple as I was going down the road with Paddy, my dog, you know, and stopped to say hello. Naturally she introduced me to the people, theyd bought it by then, they were just having another look over. Measuring up for curtains and carpets, I dare say.