No one recognized the dead girl’s spectacles, but then he had hardly expected them to.
He made it to the Austin showroom in Oxford Street just before they closed.
“Your chariot awaits you,” the salesman said.
* * *
—
Frobisher drove at a snail’s pace, it wouldn’t do to run down a pedestrian on his first outing, or indeed any outing. He had only driven a car once before—a police driver had shown him the ropes a couple of weeks ago.
The freedom of the open road awaited. He might ask Gwendolen Kelling to accompany him on a drive, take her for a spin. They could drive to the Eagle in Amersham and have lunch in the beer garden if the weather was good. Further afield, too—they could explore the southern coast together. Hastings, Broadstairs, Rye, or, further inland, Cookham or Reigate. He would need a motoring map and perhaps an almanac of some kind.
Frobisher suddenly realized that this preposterous daydreaming had left him in thrall to Piccadilly Circus. There was building work going on—enlarging the Underground station—and he had driven around several times, unable to find an exit. Eros had already fled the mayhem for the duration. Eros, of course （Frobisher was glad that he had no children to weary with unwanted facts）， was not Eros at all but his brother Anteros, who represented a quite different kind of love, charitable and selfless rather than the rapture and lust of Eros. The thought of erotic love made Frobisher uncomfortable and he was relieved when he finally escaped the clutches of the Circus and was able to put his foot down on the accelerator pedal. （He had been assiduous in practising the naming of the parts in the preceding days.）
At the junction with Swallow Street he noticed a man on the pavement playing a barrel organ. He seemed to be an animal-monger of some kind as he was surrounded by boxes and cages. Frobisher could see canaries, budgerigars and a litter of tabby kittens. Would Lottie like a kitten? All women liked kittens, didn’t they? He remembered the tulips. Perhaps he should stop making generalizations about the fairer sex. And anyway, Lottie was a woman apart.
He drew up at the curb, which turned out to be a trickier manoeuvre than he had anticipated. The barrel organ was cranking out a tune from before the war, “I Want a Girl, Just Like the Girl That Married Dear Old Dad.” Frobisher’s own mother had been sweet-natured and endlessly forgiving of the failings of the world. How would he have fared with such a wife? Too late now.
On top of the organ, in place of the customary monkey, was a dog, some kind of small terrier, dressed incongruously in a Pierrot costume, complete with a little conical hat positioned at a jaunty angle and held in place on the dog’s head by a strap of elastic. Frobisher got out of the car. The dog gazed impassively at him. It was impossible to read what was going on in its head—boredom mostly, Frobisher suspected. Dogs rarely had free will, constantly at the whim of someone else. Not so very different from people, if you thought about it.
He had begun the day with a Pierrot, it seemed he must end it with one, too. The Fates were laughing at his expense. “How much for the dog?” he asked the organ-grinder.
“It’s not for sale.”
“Everything’s for sale,” Frobisher said.
* * *
—
When he eventually reached home, Lottie surprised him with a sunny mood and a bouillabaisse for his supper. Frobisher didn’t like fish soup, not at all, but he cleared his plate and asked for seconds in gratitude for the change in the weather in Ealing. Lottie had already pinned the brooch to the neck of her blouse. “Un oiseau bleu,” she said, pressing her face against his neck. All thoughts of Gwendolen Kelling were thankfully banished for now.
Freesias
It was the scent of the flowers that pulled Edith from the deep, acting on her with the same unwelcome effect as smelling salts. Edith shared her mother’s opinion of flowers, but felt forced to acknowledge the gesture by weakly raising an eyebrow. The freesias were lying on the pillow next to her head, which was a ridiculous place to have put them. Find a vase, for heaven’s sake, she thought.
“Is that you?” she croaked. （Clearly it was.） He sat on the edge of her bed, squashing her leg. She tried to raise her head and failed. She felt horribly frail, as if all the sap had been drained out of her. Her lips were cracked and dry, her greasy hair, she knew, was plastered to her scalp. It was undignified to be on show like this. That was the thing about hospitals, anyone could wander into your room and gawp at you when you were at your very lowest, your most unflattering. She turned her head awkwardly, trying to get away from the sickly sweetness of the freesias, and gave a little cry of pain, feeling hot spikes hammering inside her belly.