Cup to the way that John Major walked. As a taxi driver, Merv was used to a captive audience. An American visitor had once hired him to drive her to Leeds and back twice a week for a month. ‘It’s cheaper than my analyst,’ she said. ‘And it does me more good.’
‘Let’s sit down,’ said Galina.
She led him to a table where a bunch of her mates were protecting a couple of empty chairs by smashing their bottles down on any hand foolish enough to grasp them. They greeted Joe with their customary silent incredulity that one of his advanced years could still be moving with no apparent mechanical aid, then went back to their conversation which consisted of an interchange of staccato screams. The only alternative was to lean forward so that your lips were almost touching your interlocutor’s ear. This was the mode preferred by Joe and Galina, and if Aunt Mirabelle could have seen them in this position, the worst case scenarios hypothesized by her spies would have been positively confirmed.
A tape of the conversation would have been more puzzling.
‘You got anywhere yet?’ said Galina.
‘Give me time,’ said Joe.
‘It’s been a week.’
‘Six days,’ said Joe firmly. ‘I said it would need to be slow else you could end up getting what you’re trying to avoid.’
‘Yeah? Maybe publicity’s what we need, get it out in the open, make them show their hand.’
‘We’ve been through all this,’ said Joe gently. ‘If they’ve nothing to show, all you’re doing is giving the loonies a feast. There’s no such thing as good publicity. You see a headline saying: BISHOP NOT BONKING CURATE’S WIFE, it doesn’t stop rumours, it starts them. Get a hint of this in the papers, makes no matter how innocent they say your granddad is, there are enough loonies out there to give him and you and the whole family a really lousy time. Is that what you want?’
‘Of course it’s not,’ said the girl. ‘Only I hoped …’
Her voice tailed off, though he could still feel her breath warm on his ear lobe. He knew what she hoped. That in bringing her worries to him, she’d be told in no time flat that she had nothing to worry about. That’s what people often wanted, and they had a nasty habit of blaming him when he couldn’t give it to them.
She said, ‘He’s been round at the club again, asking questions. I got a proper description this time.’
She took a piece of paper from an inner pocket. It was warm from her breast. On it she’d scribbled: 5’8"–5’10" (bigger than me but not too much) reddish hair. Blue eyes. Swollen nose. Big feet. Olive-green jacket.
Joe said, ‘This sound the same as the one who got talking to your mum?’
‘Yeah, except she didn’t say anything about his nose. Maybe someone’s hit him since then. Gets in my range, it’ll be more than a swollen nose he ends up with!’
Joe regarded her gravely and said, ‘You’re not stupid enough to do that, are you, Gal?’
In fact, he knew she wasn’t stupid at all. And the more he talked to her, the brighter she seemed. He’d known her for a long time without really knowing her. She was a cashier at the Luton and Biggleswade Building Society where Joe stashed what little money he managed to save from his erratic income. She was pleasant and personable and always greeted him by name and passed the time of day as she updated his book.
He’d never seen her outside the building society except for one night he’d been invited to the Uke, the local Ukrainian Club, by a client and he’d spotted her sitting with a middle-aged couple and an older white-haired man. She’d given him a wave and he’d gone over and been introduced to her parents, George and Galina Hacker, and her grandfather, Taras Kovalko. Joe’s client had filled him in later. Taras was one of the numerous displaced persons who found refuge in the UK after the war. He’d settled in Manchester, married an English girl, had one daughter he called Galina after his own mother. She had married George Hacker, a salesman, and they’d gone to live in Luton. Widowed and retired, Taras had come to live with them a couple of years ago.
Joe, who’d hitherto guessed that the girl’s unusual name was merely one of those Anglo-Saxon flights of fancy which filled the classified ‘Births’ with Clints and Garths and Meryls and Kylies, was pleased to know it had a real meaning. He believed in families. Blood was thicker than water, though he wasn’t so sure about Guinness.
Then about a week ago, when he visited the building society to draw out a little of the little that was left, the girl had asked in a low voice if she could see him professionally.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘When?’
‘It’s my half day today,’ she said.
‘Fine,’ said Joe, smiling at her. In her M & S cardie with minimal make up and straight brushed hair, she looked about fourteen. He didn’t fancy making her walk down the rather seedy street which housed his rather scruffy office, so he said, ‘How about four o’clock in the Sugar ’n’ Tongs?’
The Sugar ’n’ Tongs was the kind of place people took their grannies, very safe, very central.
‘OK,’ she said.
He’d got there early so she wouldn’t feel uncomfortable arriving by herself. He realized he stuck out like a sore thumb among the mainly formidable female clientele. But he’d been united with them in conversation-stopping surprise when a spiky-topped alien in a skirt like a guardrail above a dizzying drop, and a halter straining like a tops’l in a Force Ten gale, had come through the door. The unity had been shortlived. From being a spectator he became part of the spectacle as the newcomer headed straight for his table and from that vermilion mouth came the words, ‘Hello, Mr Sixsmith. Good of you to see me.’
Though the noise level here was decibels below the Glit, they set the pattern for future conversations by leaning close together to thwart the straining ears.
What was said would probably have disappointed the would-be eavesdroppers, but Joe it deeply dismayed.
‘I was down at the Uke last week helping with the refreshments. It was a ladies’ social night, Mum’s really keen, it was her actually that got Grandda started going, he’s never been a one for living in the past, but since he joined he’s been really enjoying it. And I got talking to Mrs Vansovich, you may remember seeing her, little old lady, about the size of a garden gnome and she looks a bit like one too. The men make a joke about her, Vansovich always a witch, very funny ha ha, but she is a bit of a gossip, no denying. She started telling me about this man who’d been asking questions, said he was trying to contact someone called Taras something beginning with a K. He said his grandmother had got to know this Taras after the war when she was a driver for some colonel in charge of dealing with displaced persons in southern Germany. He said his grandmother was bedridden now and would like to see this Taras again, but she couldn’t remember his second name except that it began with a K, and she thought he came from Vinnitsa which is where Grandda was born, and Mrs Vansovich knows this because she was born there too and is always wanting to talk about it.’
Tea arrived and she paused for breath. When the waitress had gone, Joe said, ‘Galina …’
‘Gal. My friends call me Gal. Or Gallie.’
Joe, conscious of the presence of some of the sharpest observers in Luton, didn’t think this was a good time to offer her the familiarity of calling him Joe.
He said, ‘Gallie, if you could get to the point …’
‘Sorry. It’s not easy, not without telling you all this. The upshot was that old Vansovich must have told this man everything she knew about Grandda, and he said it might be the same one but he wasn’t sure, and could she please keep quiet about it till he was, as he didn’t want to embarrass anyone with talk of an old flame. He went off then, leaving Vansovich convinced there’s been some great romance. She’s a bit frightened of mentioning it to Mum, I think, but me being young, she thought I’d be interested.’