Free MAMista by Len Deighton Page A

his ailing parents. He felt guilty about that. He’d never given any of the family anything to compare with the love and devotion they had given him. Too late now: he’d take his guilt to the grave.
    He’d tell her what he knew himself and that wasn’t much. He looked down at the pad in front of him. He’d drawn a jungle of prehensile trees, each leaf an open hand. On second thoughts he’d tell her little or nothing. He’d only be away three weeks, a month at the most.
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    Serena Lucas, his unmarried sister, lived in a smart little house in Marylebone. Ralph could never enter it without feeling self-conscious. The polished brass plate on the railings was as discreet as any lawyer’s shingle. Only the symbol beneath her name told the initiated that here lived a clairvoyant.
    A disembodied voice came in response to the bellpush. ‘It’s Ralph,’ he said into the microphone. A buzzer sounded and he opened the door.
    The short narrow hall immediately gave on to a staircase. These houses were damned small: he would not like to livein one. But it was immaculately kept. The carpeting and the furnishings were good quality and carefully chosen. On the wall he saw a new lithograph: a seascape by a fashionable artist. He guessed it had been payment for some shrewd piece of advice. She encouraged her clients to give her such gifts and usually got generously overpaid. The old witch was clever, there was no doubt about that, whatever one thought about the supernatural.
    â€˜That’s a fine print,’ said Ralph as his sister came out of her study to greet him.
    They kissed as they always did. She offered each cheek in turn and he avoided disturbing her make-up. Madame Serena was an attractive woman four years younger than Ralph. She was slim and dark with a pale complexion and wonderful luminous eyes that were both penetrating and sympathetic. Perhaps such colouring fulfilled her clients’ expectations of Bohemian blood, but the tailored suit, gold earrings and expensive shoes were another dimension of her personality. The fringed handbag with its beadwork was the only hint of the Gypsy.
    â€˜What a lovely surprise to see you, Ralph.’ She pronounced it ‘Rafe’ as one of her well-bred clients had once done. Her voice had no trace of the Queensland twang.
    â€˜I was passing. I hope you’re not too busy.’
    â€˜The day before yesterday I had a senior Cabinet minister here,’ she said. She had to tell him the moment he got inside the door. She was still the little sister wanting his approval and admiration.
    â€˜Not the Home Secretary trying to find a way out of that hospital scandal?’
    She didn’t acknowledge his joke. ‘Ralph. You know I never gossip about clients.’ And yet in her manner she was able to imply that she had been consulted on some vital matter of government policy.
    â€˜I’m sent to South America, Serena. Just a week or so. I wonder if you would meet Jennifer next Wednesdayafternoon? If not, I will see if I can contact her and change the arrangements.’
    She did not reply immediately. She led him into the drawing-room and they both sat down. ‘Would you like tea, Ralph?’
    â€˜Have you caught this appalling English habit of drinking tea all day?’
    â€˜Clients expect it.’
    â€˜And you read the tea-leaves.’
    â€˜You know perfectly well that I do not. Tea relaxes them. The English become far more human when they have a hot cup of tea in their hand.’
    â€˜Do they? I shall bear that in mind,’ said Ralph. ‘You’ll meet Jennifer then?’
    His sister and daughter did not enjoy a warm relationship but he knew Serena would not refuse. They had grown up in a warm congenial family atmosphere where they did things for one another. She took a tiny notebook from her handbag and turned it to the appropriate page. ‘I have nothing I cannot rearrange. What time is the