A Private View Read Free

responsible for her pension (another respectful word). The memory filled him with shame, as did most of his supposedly good deeds. Oddly enough he had not minded at the time. Kenneth Rogerson had noted his efficacy, and perhaps something more: his dutifulness. It had not seemed out of the way to Bland to perform the same tasks for Kenneth Rogerson himself, after the latter’s stroke. He had visited him weekly, at his flat in St James’s, again with groceries, and with the Sunday papers. Rogerson had been irascible by that stage, but after the man’s death Bland had found himself richer by a respectable portfolio of shares. This too filled him with shame. He remembered in this connection not his own kindness but an initial humiliation, the disastrous occasion when Rogerson, thinking to do him a favour, had arranged for him to have a room in a flat belonging to his niece and nephew, a brother and sister for whom he professed to have no time and little liking.
    ‘Punch and Alfreda Rogerson, my brother’s children. We don’t get on,’ he had said, apparently without regret.
    Bland had still been naïve enough to ask eager questions.
    ‘Punch? What an unusual name,’ he had said.
    ‘His name is Peregrine. Naturally he dislikes it. In many ways he has always been problematic. However, that need not trouble you. I’ll telephone him. Perhaps you’ll do the same.’ A piece of paper was handed over.
    Bland, newly arrived in London, had accepted the offer eagerly, and that same evening had gone round to the flat in Radnor Place with his suitcase, bought in Reading just prior to leaving Reading for ever. The door had been opened by a very tall, very thin man, with a look of radiant goodwill playing around a weak mouth.
    ‘Punch Rogerson,’ he had said. ‘My sister will be in later. Come in, come in! Your room’s over here. You’ll have to excuse me; we’ve got a meeting here this evening. Care to join us?’
    ‘A meeting?’ Bland had queried, his suitcase on the floor beside him.
    ‘Prayer meeting; my sister Alfreda will fill you in on the details. I’m thinking of joining an order, you see. You are a believer, I take it?’
    But before he could answer the front door had opened again, and Alfreda Rogerson, as tall and thin as her brother, came in, followed by three women and two men, all of them talking in rather loud voices. These voices had continued to make themselves heard until long after dark, interspersed with bursts of high-pitched laughter. At some point Punch Rogerson, drunk with his own merriment, and also, it seemed, with whisky, had knocked on the door of Bland’s room and invited him to join them. He had been rapidlyintroduced: ‘Jamie, Caroline, Anna, Nigel, Cressida.’ He had nodded, embarrassed. He felt tired and hungry, but found himself with a large glass of whisky in his hand. It was his first contact with the rich. He noticed how well they all looked, as if doctors and dentists had vied with each other to keep Cressida and Nigel, and indeed Anna and Jamie, in perfect condition since childhood.
    ‘We usually end with silent meditation,’ said Alfreda crossly, ‘but as it’s your first evening … By the way, if you think of joining us, as I hope you will, we can put you in touch with Father Ambrose. Our people will take care of everything.’
    ‘Everything?’ he had asked, bewildered.
    ‘That is if you decide to stay,’ she said.
    He had left the following morning, having spent most of the night composing a letter telling them of other plans, which he left on a console table in the hall. It was six-thirty; he had walked, with his suitcase, until he had found a workman’s café, near Paddington Station, where he had breakfast. At nine o’clock he was at a local estate agent’s. At nine-thirty he was at the bank arranging a loan. By the end of the week he was in his own tiny flat in a large red-brick building over Baker Street Station. When Rogerson senior enquired how he was