Cages by David Mark (reading fiction TXT) 📗

‘Indeed,’ says Wendy, with a sad sigh. ‘We have several residents with equally fascinating stories, of course. Ex Battle of Britain pilot passed away last month. Arthur, in the Feltham room – he used to play for Preston North End. Marjorie – she struggles to recall why she’s here or whether it’s breakfast or bedtime, but sit her at the piano and she can play like Liberace. It’s fascinating to me – they’re like these Russian dolls; different versions of themselves all the way through.’

Rufus makes a show of being impressed with the phrase, and mimes writing it down on his palm.

‘I must admit, Wilson is one of our more – shall we say – enigmatic residents. He’s been here for a little under four years, but he was really quite fit and active until the last year or so.’

‘He’s eighty-five, eighty-six …?’

‘Eighty-six, I think. A proper gentleman, there’s no mistake about that. Still insists on wearing a collar and tie and even though he can’t get his feet into his shoes any more, he brushes his slippers with a wire brush as if he were blacking his boots for military parade. Hugely intelligent, which is why the deterioration is so sad to watch.’

Rufus nods again, wondering whether he has sufficiently ingratiated himself with Wendy to start asking questions that matter. A journalist would know, he tells himself. A copper. What are you, Rufus? What are you even doing here …?

‘He gave some fascinating talks over the years,’ says Wendy, smiling to herself. ‘Not just here. Libraries, all the Women’s Institute groups locally. Very much our Renaissance man.’

‘Fretted instruments, yes?’

‘That’s his speciality. Violins, violas, guitars – things I hadn’t heard of until he did his slide show in the lounge. He’s lived quite the life. That’s why I suggested it might be worth engaging him in conversation: if you get him on his chosen subject it’s as if the fog clears. Otherwise it may be a wasted journey, as his other visitors have found out.’

Rufus keeps his face neutral. ‘Does he have many visitors?’

‘No family,’ she says, sadly. ‘The occasional old friend, or one of the volunteers from the local groups that come in and sit with our residents to help them feel less lonely. No, a confirmed bachelor, Mr Iveson. Quite the life, as I’m sure you’ll know already.’

‘Always happy to hear more,’ says Rufus, hoping he sounds charming and fearing that he sounds like an idiot.

‘He was quite the charmer, until he took poorly,’ says Wendy, her voice not much more than a whisper. ‘Always had little presents for the staff or would get the young ones giggling with some phrase in Italian or Latin or Greek. He once told me I was his Helen of Troy – a face that launched a thousand ships, though I probably spoiled it when I asked if that meant I had a face like a champagne bottle. But he could chat for hours if you showed an interest. Lived with a rather eccentric lady in the 1960s, helping her turn this big old stately home into a kind of bohemian paradise. He kept the house as a base after she died, while he was off buying his instruments and valuing them, giving talks, arranging insurance policies for their worried owners, that kind of thing.’

‘Fascinating,’ says Rufus, his mind whirring.

Wendy stops suddenly, her mouth clamping shut like a fly-trap. She eyes him, quizzically. ‘The book you’re writing – you said the central character is a collector? Rare instruments?’

Rufus nods, finally in his comfort zone. He can bullshit about books for ever. ‘It becomes an obsession for him,’ he says. ‘He’s a very remote person – emotionally distant – seeking out the sublime at the expense of the everyday. He’s never really been there for his children, even as they’ve been jumping up and down for his approval. He has something of an existential crisis when he has a bit of a health scare – begins thinking about the choices he’s made, about what he’s leaving behind. When he suffers a stroke and can no longer take care of himself, his daughter and her son move in with him to help him, and the boy shows a real gift for music. It’s a journey of exploration, really, and the instruments that line the walls are symbols of elevated sublimity versus grounded, primal, everyday forms of love. I can feel the story taking shape – I’m just woefully underprepared for the level of detail required to pass inspection when it comes to such a nice area as vintage musical instruments, and then my publisher told me about Mr Iveson, and well, I’d rather speak to the best.’

Whatever brief moment of doubt had scuttled across Wendy’s mind appears assuaged by his story. She puts a fleshy palm on his forearm, just to reinforce the burgeoning bond between them. ‘Sounds a wonderful book,’ she says. ‘Perhaps a little over my head, but then, I’m four foot eight.’

‘You looked a bit worried there,’ says Rufus, pushing his luck.

Wendy looks pained. Wrestles with her conscience and decides there’s no harm in a little gossip. ‘We’ve had a few unsavoury types over the last few weeks,’ she says, and the word ‘unsavoury’ seems to cover a multitude of sins. ‘One or two journalists posing as old friends. One even brought his so-called “grandson”, if you can believe it.’

Rufus looks puzzled. ‘What’s the interest?’

‘He was guardian to a man who did some very bad things. Stepfather, I suppose. I don’t know the case myself but apparently there was some documentary about some missing people, and this particular man’s name kept coming up, so a few reporters did some digging and found out that Mr Iveson looked after the house that the man still owns – the bohemian paradise I mentioned to you. I’ve seen photographs of the place and it’s exquisite, it truly is. Of course, it’s hardly