Free Somewhere Beyond Reproach by Tim Jeal Page A

I had been lazy about the furnishing of my half a dozen or so rooms. I had had fitted carpets all over the flat except in the kitchen. I had not taken the trouble to choose different colours. A uniform grey covered the whole floor area. I had been equally lazy about the curtains: all these were a warm yellow ochre. The effect, if monotonous, did notdisplease me. I had not bothered to furnish my second bedroom or the hall. The sitting room contained a black leather-covered sofa and two arm-chairs to match. A white marble-topped table, nothing much else. I lived alone. What point is there in living in a beautiful house if there is nobody you care about enough to show it to?
    I took the tank and several of the soldiers out into the long thin hall. At one end I placed two soldiers; I walked to the opposite end and knelt down with the tank. I loaded, looked down the barrel and fired. One of the soldiers toppled. I fired again. The other rolled over. I looked at the tank with even greater satisfaction.
    I wondered what Simpson’s attitude to these deadly toys would be. I started to hum ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ as I packed them up.
    That afternoon I rang up the Simpson flat, as had previously been arranged. Andrew answered. His mother had already gone out. I put down the receiver and snatched up my parcel.
    I was outside the well-known mansions within quarter of an hour. The hall was at least clean. On a large sham-Jacobean table the letters of the residents living in flats 18 to 36 were placed. Simpson’s flat was 23. I crossed the tiled floor and got into the antiquated lift. The doors were heavy and stiff. The sides of the lift were decorated with marquetry work, several elephants, the odd palm tree in different-coloured woods.
    When I got to the relevant floor Andrew was waiting outside the lift. He had evidently been watching for my car. For a moment I thought that he was not going to ask me into the flat. He turned, however, and beckoned me along the corridor, silent as a native guide not wishing to disturb hostile animals. The door was open. I looked in on an uncarpeted hall. On one side was a long table covered with comics, papers and opened letters. Beside it was a folded wheelchair. A well-filled laundry basket half blocked the floor. A towel was sticking out of one side. As we stepped over it I saw the bathroom to my right. A pulley arrangement over the bath to aid Simpson. On the shelf above the washbasin were bottles of cream and a large assortment of cosmetics . Various toy boats and animals lay about on the floor. Andrew shut the door as though conscious of the direction of my gaze. The next room we passed appeared to be a study. I saw a desk and bookcase out of the corner of my eye. I would not make the mistake of seeming inquisitive again. I was led into the sitting room. At the far end was a french window leading out on to a balcony with elaborate Victorian railings. The room was light and not unpleasant. The chair covers did not match, one a bold chintz, another yellow, another olive green. A selection of worn rugs covered part of the parquet floor. Simpson would have to be careful on that surface with his stick. Andrew knelt down by the window and started to unwrap my offering. He did it carefully , without hurrying, as though loath to lose any of the pleasure of anticipation. I recognised the blue china vases that Dinah had once had on her mantelpiece at her old Paddington flat. These were on top of an upright piano to the left of the door. In the centre of the mantelpiece was a carriage clock in a leather case, on each side of it were matching china bowls. On a table by the french window was a large toby jug and a Chinese plate on a stand. How unlike my own home! There was something accidental about the layout of the whole room, a feeling that the objects and furniture themselves had been acquired by chance. I wondered where the bedroom was. Would there be clothes lying about, a rumpled bed? Judging by