The Corpse at the Haworth Tandoori (4 page)

The money earned from Irish and Scottish folk songs, interspersed with bogus Neapolitan ballads, stretched to a Welsh rarebit with egg on top and a pot of tea. When the waitress brought it he ate ravenously, wiped his mouth clean of yolk with the paper napkin that had been wrapped around his knife and fork, then sat thinking. Being footloose and fancy-free was an Irish tradition, and it suited him. Still, one big disadvantage was that you never knew where your next meal was coming from, and whether it would satisfy your youthful appetite. This handyman job was probably only for the summer, but it would give him regular wages, and if he didn't like it he could simply up and leave. It certainly wouldn't do any harm to check out the place and see if it would suit.

He got up, paid the woman at the till with a dazzling smile and £3.25, and went out into Main Street again. He looked down the thigh-tormenting slope. He had known nothing like this in his native Ireland—nothing quite like it in England, either, in his five weeks in the country, though the blackened stone was becoming familiar. After the towns, after the tourist venues, where he functioned as a one-man machine for screwing money out of the unwary, a small place would be nice. Maybe it would be a farm . . . pleasant, restful. On an impulse he went into the
post office and checked. Yes, Ashworth was a farmhouse near Stanbury, with a few cottages around. Declan felt a tug that was all but irresistible.

He had been in Haworth long enough to know where Stanbury was. He retraced his steps until town suddenly gave way to moorland and fields, then took the road down the hill and followed it when it turned upward again. Stanbury, when he gained it, was approved of. The boy liked villages, came from one and felt at home in them. He stopped to ask an old man toiling along the street past the church how he could get to Ashworth, and had the path silently pointed out to him. As he turned off the road, to his right, his heart rose again: a broad, green valley. A farm with a cottage and dogs—just what he was used to. He was traveling, adventuring, but he was carrying his history with him, and was conscious of the fact. A conviction grew in him that Ashworth, when it was gained, was going to be somewhere where he could feel at home.

As he descended and rounded a corner he realized that he must be there. It was exactly as the woman in the post office had described it. Not just a farm, but a hamlet centered on a farm. That looked wonderfully promising. The boy knew he got on well with people, that his appearance predisposed them to like him, and that that didn't change when they got to know him better. He came to a gate, swung it open, and found himself among the little knot of cottages.

There was a woman bending over to weed in the front garden of one of the little cottages—a cottage in the middle of a little terrace of similar ones, with roses and gladioli
in the garden and a
JESUS LIVES
sticker in the window looking out on the lane. The boy cleared his throat.

“Excuse me.”

The woman straightened. She was wearing an old cream blouse and an even older tweed skirt, once green and brown, now generally muddy. Her face, unmade up and not particularly clean, showed a similar disregard for the opinions of others. She smiled, but he got the impression that strangers here were not frequent, were not particularly wanted, and were evaluated.

“I'm looking for Ashworth.”

“Well, you could say this is all Ashworth. We take the name from the farm.”

“Maybe it's the farm I want. There was this advertisement in the post office in Haworth.”

She nodded, obviously interested.

“Oh, yes. You're the first. It only went up Monday. . . . Well, you look sturdy enough.”

“I can do most things.”

“Mind you, it's not just physical stuff you'd be doing, not with Ranulph. You need strong mental qualities as well—tact, cheerfulness, friendliness.”

“Well, I think I've got those,” said the boy, with the confidence of his twenty or so years.

“I hope you have. I'm Jenny Birdsell, by the way.” They shook hands, then she leaned forward to impart information. “It's Ranulph you'll have most to do with in the house, if you get the job. What I've said probably has given you the impression that Ranulph is difficult. That's not really fair. He's demanding. But then, as his physical powers fail he
needs
more attention, for his art's sake. To
get the vision onto canvas. He has to be helped, moved, have all his things to hand.”

“He's a painter?”

“Ah, you didn't know? I thought the name Ranulph might have alerted you. But then, you're young. Ranulph Byatt is his full name, one of the country's greatest living painters. If I were you I would say when you go to the house that you've heard of him.”

“I will. Thanks for the suggestion.”

She put her head to one side, considering.

“Perhaps you'd better not pretend to know his work. You might be found out. It's the womenfolk there who are in charge on a day-to-day basis, them you would be dealing with.”

“Is that his wife?”

“Wife and daughter. Melanie is younger than Ranulph, but she's getting on herself, and she has her problems—arthritis, just like him. Lady Byatt we call her when we're in an irreverent mood. She was desperate for Ranulph to accept the knighthood when it was offered to him. It's Melanie who's really in charge. Martha's her daughter. Such a
drab
name she gave her. Almost . . .”

She faded into silence, having made her point without actually voicing it. The boy looked at her, in no way put off.

“So it's them I have to deal with?”

“That's right. Satisfy them that you can do the job—all the jobs, rather—and you'll be in. I'd put in a word for you, but Melanie wouldn't take any notice of
me
.”

“Who had the job before?”

“No one. They moved Ranulph round as best they could, and sometimes got in outside help for the garden
and the handyman tasks around the house. Stephen helped, of course, when it suited him, or when he wanted something.”

“Stephen?”

“Martha's son. Stephen Mates. But he'll be flying the nest quite soon, and, anyway, he's getting very Bolshie.”

The boy almost smiled at the dated word, but he damped the smile down at its source. He didn't get the impression that Jenny Birdsell had much of a sense of humor. Her way of talking about the job gave him the impression that he was wrong to regard this as only a summer job. It was meant to be permanent. Well, it didn't have to be permanent for him. That was entirely up to him. He could take off whenever he liked.

“I'd better be getting along,” he said. He turned around. “I suppose
that's
the house, isn't it?”

“That's right. The gate and the front door are just around the corner. . . . It's a pity you don't know more about art, you know.”

“I don't know much about a lot of things,” said the boy, but, optimistic by temperament, he added: “I expect I'll learn.”

“I hope you do. It will be such a
waste
otherwise. If you
can
learn you'll understand the greatness of Ranulph's contribution to contemporary art.” She smiled brightly. “Maybe you'll come to
worship
him, as we all do.”

The boy repressed the instinct to say “Maybe,” and instead delivered a cheerful “I'm sure I shall.”

The farmhouse, on the other side of the lane, sprawled invitingly. It was a low, stone building with narrow windows upstairs, more generous ones on the ground floor. Leaving Mrs. Birdsell and rounding a corner in the lane
the boy found a small front garden and, central to the block, an old oak front door with a genuine bell that, when the rope was pulled, gave out a fearsome baritonal ring. He had thought he heard, on the instant of ringing, the sound of raised voices from a distance. Now there was silence, and as he stood there in the sun, in the little garden of shrubs and border plants, he began to hear strong, young footsteps approaching the door inside the house.

“Yes?”

The door had been opened by a young man, about his own age, much darker in coloring, though, with beetling eyebrows and an angry manner. He was wearing jeans and a check shirt, but they set uneasily on him: they were the clothes of a farm boy, but he did not have a farm boy's manner or speech.

“I've come about the job.”

It took a moment or two to sink in.

“Oh, the
job!
” The boy was not quite sure what the intonation suggested: that only a hobo would consider a job like that? That it could hardly be considered a job at all? That it was some kind of cover for something else?

“That's right,” he said, with the determined good humor that he had always found got results. “The handyman's job.”

“OK, OK,” the young man said, as if temporizing. “What's your name?”

“Declan O'Hearn.”

The young man gave him a tight smile.

“Right you are, Declan. . . . Well, you'd better come in, hadn't you?”

He led the way down a wide hallway, over threadbare carpet, until at the far end he flung open a door.

“Mother. Grandmama. This is Declan O'Hearn, come about the handyman's job.”

The young man, apparently feeling he had done more than enough, threw himself on an old sofa under the window, and prepared to watch the scene sardonically. Declan stood uncertainly by the door. The young man's manner had unnerved him a little, made him socially uncertain. He had the impression he had interrupted something—probably a routine family row, something with which he was familiar. Standing by the mantelpiece were two women, one old, one middle-aged. By a bookcase adjacent to the mantelpiece was a man, tweed-jacketed, with a pipe and a mustache. He looked like a solicitor or a bank manager, and certainly not like a painter.

“Thank you, Stephen,” said the older woman, speaking distinctly and with immense condescension. “Come over here—Declan, is it? That's an Irish name, isn't it?”

“It is that. I come from County Wicklow.”

“A beautiful country, yours. Ranulph did some wonderful work there in the summer of sixty-seven—landscapes, of course.” She beckoned, and Declan moved somewhat hesitantly over to the fireplace. She looked him over like a cattle buyer. “Well, you appear capable enough. Farming stock?”

“That's right. Peasants, I suppose you'd call us.”

“Good. Call things by their honest name. Used to physical work, then?”

“Sure, I've done plenty of that in my time. But I've an education as well.”

“Splendid. Then you'll have heard of Ranulph Byatt.”

“I have.” The boy registered that he was telling nothing but the truth, though his intention had been to convey a lie.

“My husband,” she said, sinking down into a chair. “Now, quite a lot of your work would be for and concerning him. Moving him, helping him to mix paint, moving his easel, stretching and setting up canvases, and so on. Being there, in short, while he paints, and assisting in every way.”

“I'm sure I can manage that. It would be an honor.”

She nodded complacently.

“It would. But you see, Ranulph can only paint for limited periods. Two, two and a half hours at most. Sometimes he will have a little nap after lunch and then manage a little more, but mostly not. The rest of your job would be outdoor work—in the garden, the stable, doing shopping, some handyman jobs around the place when things go wrong.”

“I could do all that.”

She looked closely at him.

“You seem to be very confident. What's your situation? You look as if you're traveling around. You don't have a job at the moment?”

“No, I'm traveling the country, as you say. Getting a bit of work where there's anything on offer.” In a burst of confidence he added: “Singing for my supper sometimes, in the street. I have quite a nice voice.”

“Just so long as you don't irritate Ranulph with it,” said the old woman. “He has no ear for music.”

“Tell him about Granddad” came the voice from the sofa. Stephen was still lounging there sardonically, looking at the little group around the fireplace.

“I
have
told him about your grandfather,” insisted Mrs. Byatt. “I've made no secret it's heavy, difficult work.”

“Tell him what Granddad is
like
,” insisted Stephen. “Tell
him about the rages, the sulks, the tetchiness. Tell him about the sheer bloody-mindedness.”

“Declan said that he was educated, Stephen,” said his grandmother. “He will know that artists are . . . different.”

“Oh, Granddad is different, all right. He lives by different rules to other people's. But don't blame it on his art. Plenty of artists have looked like bank managers and behaved perfectly decently. Art shouldn't be used as some kind of excuse. That's a nineteenth-century fallacy. And Granddad would have been a monster whatever his profession.”

“Stephen!” The middle-aged woman spoke for the first time, her conventionality outraged.

“Mother, Declan's going to find out. Best tell him now so he can walk straight out of the door if he feels like it.”

“To talk about your own grandfather like that—”

“Tell it like it is. That was one of your generation's mottoes, wasn't it? Make it clear to Declan that he'll be abused, harried, hectored—kicked, if there's any strength in his legs.”

“But you'll have the satisfaction of knowing that, in a very small way, you are contributing to the work of one of this country's great artists,” said Stephen's mother, turning to Declan with a misty look in her eyes, an almost exaggerated devotion in her voice, which contrasted oddly with what seemed like personal uncertainty. “Surely that is
some
thing, isn't it?”

“It certainly would be,” said Declan, but more for something to say than because he had any such ambition.