wasn’t there. The old job.
It doesn’t stop, I’d tell Marsh, it doesn’t go away. It’s not a job, it’s something inside, it’s how you are. Better a washed-up detective, tracking down stray husbands, than no detective at all . . .
Helen wasn’t keen, I knew. Going private. She thought it was just a bit obvious, a bit uninspired, like putting on a badge that said “Failed Cop.” She even thought it was a bit mucky (but wasn’t police work?). Her old dad.
So what should I be, Helen? An artist? A chef?
Marsh now, in the lap of retirement, still gets up early— when he can lie-in all morning—as if he’s on call. He’s told me, when we play golf.
I thought about it for a long time: taking him on. I thought: maybe only if he asks. And besides, I had Rita.
Days when Helen would come, the best days of the week. When planning a meal was all the food my mind wanted or needed or could handle.
Of course I had the simple thought—and so did she: she’s become the woman in my life now. My regular date.
I was going to go private, put myself up for hire. But that wasn’t the only issue, and when it was settled—when I was out on the snoop again—the other question didn’t go away. So, was I going to find somebody else? It happens. It’s what men in my position do.
A new woman in my life, who wasn’t my daughter. I was only forty-two. Only. And if I was getting all this—practice. If I could wine and dine. Get them round to try your cooking. Refill their glass.
“Nearly all women, Helen . . .”
But by the time I said it, by the time I made this not wholly honest or accurate remark, Helen had already come round to my being a private investigator—and she’d moved on herself, after all, from art to interior design (a switch I felt I shouldn’t say too much about). And being a private investigator had a dimension she hadn’t reckoned on—and nor had I. Full of potential for me and full of interest— entertainment?—for her. Her old dad.
I think she knew by the time I said it that I was already getting up to things.
“. . . More women than men.”
“So—are you complaining?”
13
I pass Parkside Hospital. The trim front hedge, the neat forecourt, the glass doors. It could be some discreet, unshowy hotel. Then I reach the roundabout at Tibbet’s Corner. I take the slip road for the A3, where it sweeps down between Wimbledon Common and Putney Heath. Richmond Park ahead. These chunks of tame wilderness—parks, commons, heaths. A pressing-round of trees. The road hard, humming and ruthless, six lanes wide.
I don’t know if Rachel still thinks of me, if she’s curious as well. She would have read the papers, I suppose, two years ago—the Nash Case—have read the reports which, in some cases, mentioned me. A private investigator acting for Mrs. Nash . . .
My God—that’s George. That must be George.
Curious? But I was “out of her life” now, and she was out of mine. As if when someone’s out of your life they might as well be dead.
And if she could see me now—if she could see what I’m doing now—what on earth would she think? That I’ve lost it altogether, passed way beyond the bounds?
The road drops away in front of me. There’s hardly any distance to go. The sun is almost straight ahead, so everything in front has a glint, a metal sheen, like some great glistening slide.
A head teacher now, of course. Up there on the platform at assembly, addressing the little sparkling faces on this sparkling day.
Sometimes I think she
can
see me—she’s watching over me—like I imagine she must imagine I can see her. It’s a right, an ability we both have, by virtue of having been together, once, for so long.
Watching me slide.
It’s nonsense of course. She can’t see me. Even Sarah can’t see me. Though that’s different: I try to lift Sarah from where she is, I try to be her eyes.
But Rachel can’t watch me. Why should she? How do we choose? The truth is we meet, we
It doesn’t stop, I’d tell Marsh, it doesn’t go away. It’s not a job, it’s something inside, it’s how you are. Better a washed-up detective, tracking down stray husbands, than no detective at all . . .
Helen wasn’t keen, I knew. Going private. She thought it was just a bit obvious, a bit uninspired, like putting on a badge that said “Failed Cop.” She even thought it was a bit mucky (but wasn’t police work?). Her old dad.
So what should I be, Helen? An artist? A chef?
Marsh now, in the lap of retirement, still gets up early— when he can lie-in all morning—as if he’s on call. He’s told me, when we play golf.
I thought about it for a long time: taking him on. I thought: maybe only if he asks. And besides, I had Rita.
Days when Helen would come, the best days of the week. When planning a meal was all the food my mind wanted or needed or could handle.
Of course I had the simple thought—and so did she: she’s become the woman in my life now. My regular date.
I was going to go private, put myself up for hire. But that wasn’t the only issue, and when it was settled—when I was out on the snoop again—the other question didn’t go away. So, was I going to find somebody else? It happens. It’s what men in my position do.
A new woman in my life, who wasn’t my daughter. I was only forty-two. Only. And if I was getting all this—practice. If I could wine and dine. Get them round to try your cooking. Refill their glass.
“Nearly all women, Helen . . .”
But by the time I said it, by the time I made this not wholly honest or accurate remark, Helen had already come round to my being a private investigator—and she’d moved on herself, after all, from art to interior design (a switch I felt I shouldn’t say too much about). And being a private investigator had a dimension she hadn’t reckoned on—and nor had I. Full of potential for me and full of interest— entertainment?—for her. Her old dad.
I think she knew by the time I said it that I was already getting up to things.
“. . . More women than men.”
“So—are you complaining?”
13
I pass Parkside Hospital. The trim front hedge, the neat forecourt, the glass doors. It could be some discreet, unshowy hotel. Then I reach the roundabout at Tibbet’s Corner. I take the slip road for the A3, where it sweeps down between Wimbledon Common and Putney Heath. Richmond Park ahead. These chunks of tame wilderness—parks, commons, heaths. A pressing-round of trees. The road hard, humming and ruthless, six lanes wide.
I don’t know if Rachel still thinks of me, if she’s curious as well. She would have read the papers, I suppose, two years ago—the Nash Case—have read the reports which, in some cases, mentioned me. A private investigator acting for Mrs. Nash . . .
My God—that’s George. That must be George.
Curious? But I was “out of her life” now, and she was out of mine. As if when someone’s out of your life they might as well be dead.
And if she could see me now—if she could see what I’m doing now—what on earth would she think? That I’ve lost it altogether, passed way beyond the bounds?
The road drops away in front of me. There’s hardly any distance to go. The sun is almost straight ahead, so everything in front has a glint, a metal sheen, like some great glistening slide.
A head teacher now, of course. Up there on the platform at assembly, addressing the little sparkling faces on this sparkling day.
Sometimes I think she
can
see me—she’s watching over me—like I imagine she must imagine I can see her. It’s a right, an ability we both have, by virtue of having been together, once, for so long.
Watching me slide.
It’s nonsense of course. She can’t see me. Even Sarah can’t see me. Though that’s different: I try to lift Sarah from where she is, I try to be her eyes.
But Rachel can’t watch me. Why should she? How do we choose? The truth is we meet, we
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