Death of a Unicorn

‘It doesn’t matter. You know, I’m almost sure I’ve seen this in a book somewhere. Or its spit image . . .’

‘Your coffee’ll get cold.’

‘Oh, all right. I’ve found some terrific chocs.’

‘You haven’t!’

‘I’ve only eaten two so far, darling.’

When we’d had our coffee I went off to B’s exercise-room and found a bandage, lint, and some antibiotic ointment he’d brought back from America. We settled side by side on the sofa so that I could get at Jane’s hand. Her whole mood seemed to have changed, becoming sleek and purring.

‘Does he love you, Mabs?’ she said.

‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t say. I’m fairly sure he likes me. I love him.’

‘Really? I mean it would be easy to persuade yourself, in the circs.’

‘Oh, I know. I’m having fun. And I like being told and shown. That was extra good wine I gave you, did you realise? I can tell now. Would you like some proper brandy?’

‘Don’t twist the knife, darling.’

‘Luxury is lovely.’

‘Is he really stupendously rich?’

‘Oh, no. It’s other people’s money mostly. I get the impression he’s had a pretty good year, but there’s never enough for what he wants to do. He gets very frustrated sometimes about not being able to move it around as fast as he wants. You know, exchange controls and things. He thought the Conservatives were going to sweep all that away when they got in.’

‘I thought that was only to stop you getting money out of England. You can be as rich as you like here. Some of these things must have set him back, Mabs. Brancusis aren’t cheap. And that little Pietà . . .’

She pointed towards the dead grey face of Christ in the picture on the wall.

‘He gets them in Germany,’ I said. ‘There’s probably a lot of things just turning up still, and antique shops not knowing what they are.’

‘I bet I can find out what that ivory is. Ouch!’

‘Sorry. One more. There. Did you wash it before you put the bandage on?’

‘Course I did.’

‘It doesn’t look very nice, darling. I hope this stuff is all right. It says burns and cuts.’

‘Slap it on, Brown Owl. I wonder how you start getting rich.’

‘In our case you become a master dyer and snap up a monastery.’

‘But now? What about him?’

‘I’ve no idea. Mrs Clarke once dropped some warning hints, though.’

‘Sounds thrilling. Why don’t you ask him?’

‘Fatal.’

‘I think he really must be Bluebeard, darling.’

‘It was Sister Anne caused all the trouble, Sister Jane.’

‘Don’t you?’

‘At least two of his exes are still alive.’

‘That’s a relief.’

‘But you’re right in a way. There is something dangerous about him. I realised that the first time I saw him, at Fenella’s party, you remember, when we had that stupid fratch about Penny’s dress. He’s sort of wild. Not tame. And there’s only one of him. Our rules don’t apply. I’d better wrap this a bit tight so that it stays tidy. If it starts to hurt badly you’ve got to promise to show it to a doctor.’

‘Promise. It’s a pretty civilised sort of wild, Mabs. Brancusis and things. Stamping through the forest in his jewelled collar.’

‘Spot on. That’s him. And he’s tame for me.’

‘Lucky you.’

I wound the bandage slowly, partly to make sure of getting it neat and firm, but partly to prolong the process. The old magic of touching was having its effect, softening the scar where we had once been joined. In that mood it did seem possible, almost desirable, that Jane should move in, not upstairs but down here. B could take her to galleries, and to ballet which bored me almost as much. Nobody would know it wasn’t the same girl. And when we were alone, three who were almost two . . .

I tied the knot and snipped the ends off but didn’t let go of her hand.

‘What shall we do now?’ I said. ‘Shall I wash your hair for you? You can’t do it with a bandage, and it’s high time by the look of it.’

‘Mummy’s trying to make me go back to having it frizzed.’

‘Don’t stand any nonsense.’

She eased her hand out of mine and tucked herself into the far corner of the sofa.

‘You aren’t there now,’ she said.

I had been, for more than twenty years, but there was no point in saying so.

‘Anyway, shan’t I wash it for you?’

‘No thanks. I don’t feel like it.’

‘All right. How’s the roof?’

‘Nothing happening. She’s sacked the architect again.’

I asked B about the ivory statuette next evening.

‘South German,’ he said. ‘Early. A bit unusual. Got an Italian feel about it.’

‘Jane thought it was dreamy. I brought her down here to bandage her hand. She’d burnt it with a blow-lamp. I’m afraid she ate some of your chocs.’

(He was bound to notice so it was sense to warn him.)

‘Tell her it’s only a copy,’ he said.

‘Is it?’

‘If I say so. What did you put on her hand?’

I had to explain in detail. He seemed much more interested in that.

IX

He came in with a brown paper parcel under his arm and put it on the corner of his desk.

‘Something’s come up,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go abroad.’

‘Oh. When?’

‘Tonight.’

‘Germany?’

He shook his head.

‘Barbados?’

‘That general direction.’

‘Can I . . .’

‘No.’

‘Is your mother all right?’

‘As far as I know.’

‘What about the theatre?’

‘You go. The tickets are in the telephone drawer. Take your sister.’