Monk Dawson by Piers Paul Read

Author:Piers Paul Read [Read, Piers Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2013-11-12T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

One morning in June, while dabbing his freshly shaven face with sweet, astringent lotion, Dawson was reminded of Jenny Stanten: and he decided that he would call her as she had invited him to do. Her number was in the directory, but he hesitated for two days before daring to telephone. He felt that she might have forgotten who he was, that she might be offended by his having left the Church, or that her husband might misinterpret his motives in asking to visit them. On the other hand, she might be able to introduce him to a circle of people and among them might be an available girl.

In the end, he took hold of himself and dialled the number given in the directory. It was eleven in the morning. A child’s voice answered.

‘May I speak to Mrs Stanten?’ he asked.

‘Who is it?’ the child asked.

‘Edward Dawson.’

There were sounds of movement from the telephone: a child climbing down from a chest or a chair, and then a shout for its mother and the giving of his name.

‘Well, hello,’ said the voice of Jenny Stanten.

‘You said I might call.’

‘I did indeed. When can you come and see us?’

‘Any time.’

‘Can you make it this evening?’

‘Certainly. That would be very nice.’

‘What about her husband?’ Dawson asked himself, as he stood at the door of the Stantens’ eighteenth-century house in Chelsea. The door was then opened by a tiny girl of five or six dressed in her night-gown. She did not say a word but toddled back into the house, proud to have turned the handle. Dawson followed and found himself in a room panelled in dark wood. This room acted as a hall. There were old macintoshes and Wellington boots up against the wall. He followed the little girl upstairs: she said nothing but concentrated on the climb and he on keeping step behind her. She led him into a large room which seemed to cover the whole of the first floor: its walls were white; there were bookcases, a Chinese screen, Rothkos, Persian rugs, a deep sofa, armchairs and small tables — everything beautiful in itself and in elegant disorder.

Jenny Stanten came in behind him — the mistress of this London house with its long windows. She was then only twenty-six or so, and was what one might call a fashionable beauty. Her features were gentle, uniform and calm. The blue of her eyes matched the blue of her long skirt: her skin was as pale as the cotton of her blouse. Her straight blonde hair framed an excellent work in the medium of shadow and mascara: and more powerful than her scent, Pinget’s ‘Fracas’, was her slim, nonchalant body and the warm, direct look that came from her eyes — glances which appealed and smiled and looked suddenly melancholy, all within the span of a minute.

Dawson had forgotten how lovely and graceful she was: when he had instructed her he had not noticed that kind of thing. He began to

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