Miss Treadway & the Field of Stars. Miranda Emmerson
down. I’ll fill the coffee maker.’
Anna studied the bookshelves and called through to Leonard who was getting dressed somewhere else in the flat. ‘What’s happened to Benji’s sister?’
‘She’s in hospital for … women’s problems.’
‘Right.’ Anna was never really sure what this meant.
‘They phoned his parents two hours ago. She lost a lot of blood when they operated. They’re saying they all have to go in and be with her. We weren’t really expecting … It just came out of the blue.’
Anna slumped into a ball on one of the sofas. ‘Everything seems to come out of the blue at the moment. The policeman was nice enough but he didn’t have a single idea what had happened to Lanny and he’s meant to have been looking for her for a week.’
‘If there are no clues, there are no clues.’
‘Well, she’s gone somewhere. What about that boy that got taken from the station in Manchester? The one the Brady couple beat to death. If the brother-in-law hadn’t gone to the police would he have been found? And the little girl in the moor? She’d been missing ten months. Why did no one find her sooner?’
Leonard was back now, dressed and peering into the little silver coffee pot that perched on the stove. ‘No one’s suggesting she’s dead.’
‘Well, why aren’t they? Just because there isn’t a body doesn’t mean she’s okay.’
Leonard frowned at her. ‘Anna, come on. We’re all a bit scared but really … She’ll turn up. It’s just a horrid time.’
‘It’s a horrid time for us, but what about Lanny? What if we’re all sitting round saying, isn’t this awful, this worrying is so exhausting, and in the meantime someone’s doing something to Lanny? What if they’re hurting her? What if she’s trapped?’
Leonard shook his head and set out cups.
‘I was thinking of going down to the club tomorrow, the one she talked about in the interview,’ Anna said, though really it had only occurred to her just now. ‘I mean, what was she doing there? Was she meeting a man? Was she buying drugs?’
‘Depends on the club.’
‘I’m going to start with Roaring Twenties.’
‘See, no,’ Leonard said, putting a couple of teacakes under the grill to toast, ‘I don’t see Iolanthe in there. They’re playing reggae and ska and all sorts of weird Caribbean stuff. It’s mostly a club for coloured kids.’
‘I’ve never been in. What’s it like?’
‘Not really my kind of place. I’m not a nightclub man. It was white when it started. White-owned, white-run. You know … Jewish kids down from Hampstead pretending to be cool. Coloured musicians on the stage, whites only on the dance floor. Not overly popular with the musicians, as you can imagine. I went there a couple of times in the early days and it was fine. Quite small. Good for a night out and an ounce of weed. Few years went by and it shifted. Musicians hated the colour bar, got antsy. They got themselves a coloured manager for real. Count Suckle, playing all this Caribbean music from his enormous sound system. Honestly, it was the size of a car and the floors would shake underneath you, the whole place bouncing and rolling. He disappeared a while back. I heard he got sick of all the drugs being sold and got himself another gig up on Praed Street. So now it’s Duke Vin but very popular with the pop music lot. Ringo Starr’s been seen drinking there, Daltrey, Keith Moon, Freddie Garrity. Whoever owns it must be raking it in.’
Leonard carried over plates of teacakes and tiny black enamelled cups of coffee, while Anna shifted in her seat. She herself had long ago learned to avoid any mention of a person’s skin or nationality, and she wondered at the carelessness of Leonard’s language.
Leonard was talking again. ‘You know the big coloured guy on the door, Charlie Brown? He was John Christie’s landlord.’
‘At Rillington Place?’ Anna asked.
‘London’s much smaller than you think. Everyone is somehow connected to everyone else. Even if they do all hate each other.’
There were no curtains at the windows, only offices overlooked the room and Anna searched the sky for signs of light. She hated winter mornings, that irresistible pull back to bed. ‘Do you really think we all hate each other, Leonard?’
‘D’you know what I think?’ Leonard plonked himself down on the sofa next to her. ‘I think it’s all about money. I think we all come for the same reason and we call it jobs or houses or culture but what we really mean is money. Money makes places shiny. It makes them glitter. The rich come flooding in because they have things to do with their money. They can spend, show it off, make more of it. The poor come flooding in because poverty is terrifying and they gravitate to the place where there’s the most work. The immigrants come here because if you don’t head for where the money is you’re going to be going back on the next boat. My parents came here because the pogroms laid waste to their town and there were Jewish boarding houses and Jewish companies. Why’s Ottmar here? Why are you? We all come looking for the shiny and then we find that there isn’t very much to go around. And if all that’s binding you together is a search for shininess … well … those are very dangerous ropes to bind any group of people together.’
Anna stared, perhaps a little too intently, at Leonard’s face. ‘You never said you were Jewish.’
Leonard looked taken aback. ‘I assumed you knew.’
‘I think I thought you must be but then you never mentioned it.’
‘I don’t practise.’
‘There just … there weren’t any Jewish kids at my school. I think sometimes I just assume everyone who seems English is English.’
‘I am English,’ said Leonard. Pointedly.
‘I know … but I meant Anglo-Saxon Protestant English. Fruit scones; Book of Common Prayer; Henry-the-Eighth-had-six-wives English. You know. English English.’
‘You’re eating a bloody teacake; what more d’you want?’ Leonard worked a currant out from between his teeth. ‘Nothing can ever be too English, can it? Nothing can ever be too pure. It’s like there’s an entry test for Englishness and only twenty people pass it every year. Are you clever? Are you virtuous? Are you kind? It doesn’t fucking matter. All that matters is that you’re English.’
Anna made an apologetic face but Leonard was now in full flow.
‘It’s like the bloody countryside. Benji’s English, of course. Went to the right school. Carries the right blood. And we’re all meant to love the countryside. Wellingtons, dogs; all that bollocks. Of course we never get invited anywhere. Too queer for country houses. Too faggoty for gaudies or hunts. We have to do it ourselves. Discreetly. He makes me go on driving holidays to Wiltshire and Somerset. And I sit there, with my sunglasses on, blocking out the scenery, reading Barthes just to piss him off. “Look at that view!” he cries. But no, I will not look at the bloody view. It’s all the same anyway. Vulgar, garish greenery. Ancient oaks. God, I hate it. It’s so small. So unimportant. So fucking parochial. I hate it and it hates me back.’
Anna looked at him. There was a manic grief in his expression, alongside the annoyance and humour. She realised suddenly that she didn’t know Leonard very well at all. At work he was professional and friendly and precise but there was so much messiness to this other Leonard, this angry Leonard who lived in a half-bare flat with his city-suited lover and his odd neuroses. Anna knew the kind thing would be to hug him; to tell him to be any way he wanted. But even that little outpouring of intimacy seemed too great a leap. For a little outpouring of intimacy could easily become something more, something familiar, something desired, essential, habitual.
‘I’ve made you uncomfortable, haven’t I?’ Leonard said.
‘No. No!’ Anna assured him.
‘Shall