Somewhere in the Picture: A novel of Primrose Hill by Patrice Chaplin

Author:Patrice Chaplin [Chaplin, Patrice]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lume Books
Published: 2017-08-16T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

With some unease I realised Miranda Jebb, the widow at the well-off end of the street, was not unfamiliar but I had no idea in which part of my ‘colourful’ life, that's how my past was politely described, she belonged. Of one thing I was sure: This woman behaved in a manner that signalled disapproval. If I joined her small group around Charlie she would stop the conversation and wait for me to move on. She made it obvious on all occasions I was not welcome. Once, my mind on other things, I automatically smiled at her as we passed on the pavement and she turned her head away so sharply she'd be giving an osteopath work for a week. She had the manner of someone who had been quite pretty but would prefer to be remembered as beautiful. She was sure of herself, wilful, always right, charming when necessary. I got that at a glance. I assumed she had come from a conservative English family, what was used to be called ‘blue stocking’. Her accent was top drawer. I thought she had perhaps worked as a Head teacher at a public school. After being snubbed for the third time I did wonder if she had mistaken me for someone else. Did she have it in for Maggie Smith? Lou couldn't be bothered with it “You're becoming paranoid. You've got to start the next book and make it saleable this time. The woman probably doesn't even know you exist.” So I turned it over to Charlie. He could do without food. I’d never seen him eat. He smoked rollups and didn't need much beer to get tight. He didn't bother with London transport and liked to walk. But he mainlined on gossip and thrived on drama. I asked about the widow at the end of the road.

“You mean Miranda Jebb MBE.” He liked the haughty name tag. I knew he was working for her on a roof job which had just come in time so he'd be circumspect. I asked what she was saying about me. Without allowing even a pause he replied he had never heard her say a bad word about anyone. This did not sound too good. “What about a good word?”

His face was pale and delicate in the fading light. Its aloof expression showed he would not give much away. He could look not unlike a swan as he travelled, head held high, to and fro along the realms of his territory overseeing the widows and the old railway workers long retired who remembered his family. His voice clear and measured he assured me she never said a word about me, good or bad. The tone, so over pure, belonged in a court of law where he was defending his innocence. I knew that face and tone and didn't like it. He had remembered where his loyalties lay. I thought it time I bought him a drink.

After the second pint he knew Ms Jebb was solvent, briefly married, had lived in the street for years.

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