The Posthumous Adventures of Harry Whitaker

by Bobbie Darbyshire

  Richard dropped back into the armchair. The alcohol wasn’t working. His mind was in overdrive. He needed to talk to Lily. She would understand how he felt.

  He brought the watch on his wrist into focus. It was what – four in the morning? But Lily was his sister. A sister wouldn’t mind being woken. A sister would forgive him. That was what sisters were for.

  He reached for his mobile – damn, not here – lumbered upright and into the bedroom – nowhere to be seen – and collapsed across the bed on his stomach, groping for the blessed thing on the floor, playing in his mind how the conversation would go, how she would completely understand and accept that they should neither of them ever have anything ever, ever to do with…

  Somewhere his mobile was buzzing. His eyes opened to blinding sunlight falling in through the undrawn curtains. He’d been talking to Lily. Lily must be calling him back. Where was the phone?

  He set off through the flat in pursuit of it. His head hurt. His mouth was parched. He’d been talking to Lily on the bed five minutes ago. How had the phone got into the kitchen?

  Here it was by the breadbin. He picked up. ‘Hello, Lily.’

  ‘Who’s Lily?’ said Claire.

  His head buzzed and his sight grew foggy as sweat broke all over him. Sagging to his knees, feeling queasy, holding on to the sink, he croaked, ‘What day is it?’

  ‘Tuesday. Are you all right?’

  ‘Hung over.’

  ‘And Lily?’

  ‘My half-sister. Long story. Harry spread it about a bit. How are you, Claire?’

  ‘Still pregnant. I said I would let you know.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve decided to have the baby.’

  ‘Right.’ He pressed his head hard on the edge of the sink and stared down at the floor tiles.

  ‘You said you would stay around? Be a dad?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I did. Will.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Oddly, she was laughing. ‘Well, I guess that’s it then for now. Drink lots of water.’

  ‘What’s so funny?’ he said.

  Silence. No answer.

  ‘Damn it, Claire, what the hell is so funny?’

  The line was dead, he discovered. He jabbed at the phone. It rang again in his hand.

  ‘Claire?’

  ‘Mr Lawton. Good morning.’

  ‘Sorry, who?’

  ‘It’s Pearl, Mr Lawton. Pearl Allen. The DNA kit has arrived. When would you like to come in?’

  The wall clock said five past ten.

  He felt sick. He couldn’t think straight about DNA tests. Not today. ‘What day is it?’ he said again.

  ‘Tuesday.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ he offered.

  ‘Tomorrow it is. Would eleven suit you?’

  ‘Fine. Okay.’

  He dropped the phone and only just made it to the bathroom, where he vomited once, retched several times, then lay curled for a while on the floor, trying to come to terms with his life.

  Harry

  Another long afternoon takes forever to unwind itself before another interminable night. I don’t know what time it is – the auctioneer took all the clocks – but I’m watching through the French window as the shadows creep, left to right, across the wall at the end of the garden. The grass is parched, the foliage droops, and out front the neighbours’ car alarms keep going off. It must be a baking hot day.

  Beside me Henry V snoozes time away in a wicker armchair lined with down cushions. Before the carpets were rolled up and carried off, he spent his afternoons stretched out upstairs in the sitting-room sunlight, but bare boards are not to his liking.

  I follow him constantly around the house now, much preferring his company to my own. The bedrooms and study are shut to him, and although I can slip beneath doors in my restless patrols of the house, there is little to hold me in those empty rooms, and soon I am out again, heading to wherever he is. When they find him a new home, I’ll be sorely tempted to attach and go with him, but I absolutely must not. A cat’s life is short, and he’ll only end up dead in a ditch somewhere, or in an incinerator.

  Whenever he’s awake, I project myself into his skin, adopting the world view of a cat, sharing his frustration as he natters at birds flying free beyond the windows. When he sleeps, I contemplate his felinity and meditate on his breathing. Sometimes, as now, while I wait for his fathomless green eyes to open, I ponder the chances I have let slip away. So many opportunities I’ve squandered unthinkingly, and now my options are dwindling and each still holds its terrors.

  I could have attached myself to one of the small treasures Mrs Butley has pilfered, followed it to whatever tasteless dump she inhabits, become acquainted with her husband and grandchildren and dog or whatever, before taking my chance in a car boot sale or a pawnshop. At least I would have been among people. I may care for no one, but I crave the fuss and eventfulness of humanity. When Henry goes, that will be the last I shall see of Mrs Butley’s tin-opener and hear of her grumbles.

  So many people I shall probably never see again: the whole of my acting acquaintance, my legions of fans, not even daft Deborah, or my solicitor, or my bicycling son. I could have escaped in Deborah’s fake-Regency reticule with that little hand-painted bowl, could have been half-buried now in the tip she calls home. Or I could have followed the maps to Simon’s failing antiques shop, enjoyed his doomed efforts to get their full value, gone on with them goodness knows where. I might have ended up with some dry-as-dust, dreary collector, but who knows? They could have been pounced on by a dealer, resold at auction, and any day now I would have been bound for the New World. Or else I could have gone in the Sotheby’s van to London, played Russian roulette in the auction room between a life of adventure or some dead-end existence as one of my precious objects went under the hammer. As it is, there is only the Hockney to follow now or the house to remain in. The odd sticks of furniture that are left aren’t worth risking an eternity on. I expect Simon will offer the lot to a clearance firm, but I’ve had a good look and a think and I shan’t be going with any of them.

  The Hockney, I keep telling myself, I must choose the Hockney. I love it dearly, and it will surely take me to some public place where not only the painting but I myself will continually be noticed and praised and admired. Yes, no doubt about it, it has to be the best option. And yet the house tugs at me, has me wondering should I let the picture go and stay here to haunt it. After all my struggles to return, it will be painful beyond words to leave. These rooms hold memories that even now soothe my distress. The parties of the great and the good I have hosted here. The beautiful women I have caressed. The calls from producers I have taken. The marvellous scripts I have read and got under the skin of. I have to keep reminding myself that my home will be invaded by strangers, rarely thinking or talking of me, who will gut the building, knock rooms through, erase all trace – no, no, I must go with the Hockney.

  And yet, and yet. I stare out through the French window at the terrace, the parched grass and the shrubbery. The Hockney, the house – two last things – I love each of them so dreadfully much, yet can have only one. I must tour my sad, echoing home one more time, in search of whatever it is that I cannot bear to lose. I turn from Henry V and float towards the hall and the stairs—

  And it hits me full force. But of course, it’s so obvious. In a few short days it has become second nature, and I’ve forgotten to treasure it. What my house gives me is freedom of movement: the ability to glide upstairs and down, wearying of one scene, trying another. More even than this, it offers me views of the world beyond, from three levels, front and back, south over the sea and the promenade, north over streets, gardens and treetops. How can I relinquish these torturing glimpses of weather and season and seascape, of people and animals, flowers and green leaves? If I go with the painting, I’ll be in some gallery. Will I ever know daylight again?

  The choice is cruelly impossible. From the foot of the stairs, I drift back to the garden-room to gaze gloomily thr
ough the window, where darkness is falling. The sunlight no longer dapples in the breeze through the wisteria. Here comes night, when time slows to a halt and fear and loneliness threaten to swamp me.

  Behind me, Henry V wakes, yawns and stretches, starts to lick a back leg, then thinks better of it and heads for the hall. I hurry after him, up to the kitchen, where he finds his bowls empty. As he laps water, my mood sinks in dejection because I know what comes next in his daily routine, and yes, he is on the move again, fast, with me close behind him, padding down the stairs, back through the garden room, making straight for the cat flap.

  There’s no time to hesitate. I’m going to risk it. As his tail slips through, I slip through with it, and the flap bangs behind us. It will be fine – nothing bad will happen to him or to me – he’ll return as he always does – and the Hockney will be here – they won’t come for the Hockney so late in the day – but it’s too late for second thoughts anyway because here I go, towed by a speeding cat across the grass into bushes. For a moment it’s glorious and I dance on the end of my leash. Whichever I choose, house or Hockney, Hockney or house, for now it’s pure joy to be out under the sky.

  Henry pauses to squat by a clump of lavender. Can I transfer to the lavender, I wonder? Explore the garden without being dragged everywhere? Work my way back when I wish to, across shrubs, grass and terrace to the house?

  Too hazardous, I decide. Safer to stick with the cat. Trees and plants are all very well, but my garden was only an occasional passion; I can’t trust that anything in it is a qualifying object or be sure what does or doesn’t have a welcoming aura.

  Henry scratches over his doings, sniffs at them, takes a good look around, then heads off into the undergrowth at the end of the garden, with me very firmly attached.

  Wednesday

  Richard

  He frowned at the cotton bud in his latex-gloved hand. There was no point in withholding his DNA. The gesture would cost him twenty-five thousand pounds, and Quentin Griffiths would still be his brother. Just do it.

  He drew the swab firmly, once, twice, three times, across the inside of his cheek and handed it over. Pearl dropped it into the plastic container, screwed the lid shut and put it in a Jiffy bag. She stripped off her gloves and tossed them with his own pair into the wastepaper bin.

  ‘Done,’ she said.

  ‘Done,’ he echoed, lowering himself to the chair by her desk.

  She was busy checking through papers now, signing things. She had to vouch that she’d witnessed the test, that this was his sample and nobody else’s, that the passport he’d handed her belonged to the person who had given the sample.

  Lily was his sister, he reminded himself as he watched. That was the good thing to hold on to. He must ring Lily soon. From being so desperate to speak to her when he was drunk, he’d swung the opposite way. Claire’s decision had numbed him into turning his phone off and tuning his brain out. He had steered clear of the café too, unable to face telling Tiffany that he couldn’t sell up after all. He felt such a heel snatching the business back from her. She was entitled to something – a share if she wanted one. He needed to think the café’s future through properly. And his own. He could no longer dream of putting air-miles between himself and his troubles. He was staying in Worthing forever, becoming a father.

  He supposed, in a way, that this was a second good thing to hold on to. A baby. He began to imagine it, a tiny hand gripping his finger, a little face looking up at him, a child, boy or girl, calling him ‘Daddy’. He’d like that. But the Quentin connection would blight even this. The story would erupt in the tabloids, and reporters would come knocking.

  ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t already gone public,’ he said aloud.

  Pearl was watching the scanner hum its way over his passport. She looked up and smiled. ‘Quentin? I’ve advised him to make certain of the DNA result first.’

  ‘No need,’ Richard said glumly. ‘He’s got Harry written all over him.’

  ‘It won’t take long to prove it. He’s giving his sample tomorrow.’

  Richard’s breath caught in his throat. ‘He is? Coming here?’

  ‘The TV company is driving him down. We’re expecting a Bentley or a limo or something. Shall I give him your number?’

  Richard’s thoughts wouldn’t join up. ‘Well... yes... I suppose so.’

  Shit. He tried to imagine the conversation. He would have to be friendly, at least to begin with. His viewings of Tomorrow’s Tycoon had been paranoid drunk. The guy was charming, everyone said so. He shouldn’t judge him in advance. Shit.

  Pearl sealed the Jiffy bag. ‘The company works fast. I should have the result in less than a week. I’ll just give it to Chloe to post.’ She went into the outer office, leaving the door standing open.

  Richard contemplated the brick wall beyond the window, determined to look on the bright side. A third possibly good thing was his mother. She’d been suspiciously chirpy when he’d checked up on her before going incommunicado. She didn’t know he was staying in Worthing, she still thought he was leaving, yet, ‘I’m fine and dandy,’ she’d asserted on the phone, with only a slight edge of Bette Davis. She hadn’t pressed him to visit her and he hadn’t offered. He’d no wish to be drawn into her latest machinations. Still her cheerfulness cheered him. It had to be an improvement on tears and pleading. No shoplifting – he reached to touch the wood of Pearl Allen’s desk – no calls from flummoxed police officers. Simon’s red-carpet welcome must have done the trick, straightened her out at last. Quentin’s media circus had better not ruin that.

  ‘By the way,’ Pearl Allen was back in the room, ‘Lily Caruthers tells me the estate owes you twenty-one pounds fifty-eight.’

  He twisted to look at her. ‘Pardon? What for?’

  ‘Your share of the expenses to track Quentin down. Would you prefer cash or a cheque?’

  While she went to fetch cash, he struggled not to feel snubbed. Such an impersonal way to refund him. Why hadn’t Lily claimed the whole thirty and paid him herself next time she saw him? Good at numbers, his sister. Good at writing him off when a better brother turned up.

  Stop that, he told himself sharply. He was being unreasonable.

  Here came Pearl with the money. He signed the receipt mechanically, his mind still on Lily. Lily was lovely. She would never go cool on him. She’d probably been trying to ring him.

  Pearl was speaking.

  ‘Say again?’

  ‘Is there anything else I can help you with today?’

  He looked at her blankly. He needed to step out onto Western Road now and ring Lily. ‘No. No, thank you.’ He got up. Offered his hand.

  There was something else though. Something niggling at him before the baby and all this Quentin kerfuffle. He pulled his mind back to the will and the money and Harry. ‘Actually, I did have a question. Not that it matters, but—’

  ‘Fire away,’ said Pearl.

  He didn’t know how best to put it. ‘I imagine my father was worth a mint. All those Hollywood movies.’

  He ground to a halt. Was she frowning?

  ‘I’m going through the papers,’ she said. ‘Contacting the bank and the stockbroker and so on. I’ll need to verify the savings, price the assets, add it all up, deduct expenses and inheritance tax. It’ll be a while before we—’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean – it’s not the amount – my question is, who did he leave it to?’

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Ah, I see.’

  She didn’t see, not at all. She thought he was greedy.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong – I’d like to understand him, is all. He’s given his flesh and blood almost nothing. You’ll say it’s none of my business.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ she said, ‘beneficiaries have a general right to know the main points of a will. Once probate is granted it becomes a public document, and—’

  ‘What?’ he interrupted. Was he hearing right?

  ‘Once probate is granted—’

  ‘Our na
mes and all this DNA nonsense will be public?’

  ‘In the probate registry. Anyone interested would need to apply—’

  ‘But some journalist is bound to do that!’

  Pearl Allen looked steadily at him.

  ‘If Harry was alive,’ he muttered, ‘I would personally kill him.’

  ‘Yes... well,’ she said. A second ticked by. ‘The main legacy, though – I’d be happy to tell you. May I count on your discretion until there’s a formal announcement?’

  She brought up a file on her screen. Scrolled down. ‘Here we are. The details are complex, but this is the bones of it.’ She read: ‘The residue of my estate subject to the payment thereout of my funeral and testamentary expenses and all debts due by me at the date of my death shall be held in trust by the Royal Shakespeare Company according to the terms set out below for the establishment and running of a new theatre in Dorchester, to be called The Whittaker Theatre.’

  She looked at Richard over the top of the will. ‘I’m not sure if you knew, but Dorchester is where he was born.’

  Richard suddenly saw the funny side. He got up from the chair, laughing. ‘Well, of course. Doesn’t that just take the biscuit? Keeping his name in lights – what else would he spend it on? Does The Whittaker Theatre need a props department, I wonder? No, don’t answer that – just thinking aloud.’

  He reached for the door handle. ‘Forgive me. You’ve been so nice and so helpful, and I’ve been all over the place.’