The Posthumous Adventures of Harry Whitaker

by Bobbie Darbyshire

  Calm down. Calm down. I must put a lid on myself. Scotty’s eyes are so troubled, and Richard bends in a miserable daze above the bedraggled scrap of cat he has laid on the step. These poor, dear people are suffering for my sake. The cat is dying for my sake.

  ‘Scotty, forgive me,’ I plead. ‘I’m so selfish, I know, but you wouldn’t believe how much it means to me to be here. Thank you so much, my dear friend, my dear Mr Pickles 64123.’

  He doesn’t bother to answer. He barely glances at me. He has let go of Richard, but Richard is his only concern. A picture of stricken conscience, Scotty sits on the porch wall, hugging his pinstriped knees to that same T-shirt slogan – To understand everything is to forgive everything – his bare toes curling and uncurling, watching over my son as I should be doing.

  Come on, I scold myself. Here’s a chance to do my fatherly job. Defer celebration. Give my son’s mental health my attention – and Henry V, my poor, sweet cat. It was my panic in your whiskers that distracted you from out-serenading the fox. I’m so sorry, forgive me, keep breathing, I beg of you. You have to survive and be well.

  I hover above each in turn – Scotty, Richard and Henry – churning with remorse and goodwill. I pray to all the powers of the universe: all must be well now, all must be well.

  ‘Oh no. My little friend. Is he dead? Did you run him over?’

  The voice comes from behind us. I spin round, and here is Henry V’s devotee from the side street, the buxom matron with the dimpled, round cheeks. She sees only Richard, who says, ‘Not me. I just found him like this.’

  ‘Ah poor puss, poor, poor pussums.’ She’s on her knees beside the little heap, stroking the bloodied fur. ‘Hang on, though, he’s warm. He’s still breathing.’

  ‘Yes,’ Richard says dully.

  She stands and peers into my son’s eyes. ‘Are you all right? Do you feel faint?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She takes his arm. ‘Sit yourself down. Here on the step. Head between knees. Breathe deeply and slowly.’

  Scotty is off the porch wall, fluttering anxiously with me around the pair of them.

  ‘Feeling any better?’ the woman asks Richard.

  ‘The cat needs a vet,’ he whispers.

  ‘And his owner.’ The woman lifts her head, scanning the few lights still on in the terrace.

  ‘He lives here, in this house,’ Richard says, ‘but it’s empty. The owner died a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Harold Whittaker’s house?’ she says. ‘Harold Whittaker’s cat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Problem solved,’ she says. ‘I’ll go and fetch Simon.’

  But Scotty throws his hands to the sky and implores, ‘No, please don’t do this.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask him. ‘Is Henry dying?’

  ‘Not Henry. Me.’

  Scotty’s fading, but not in the usual way. There’s no golden tinge in the air. Instead colour drains from him until he’s a husk. His face, full of anguish, turns deathly white, then transparent, and then he is gone.

  ‘Scotty,’ I cry. ‘Scotty, where are you? What’s happened? Come back.’

  Friday

  Richard

  ‘You’re very kind, but no thank you.’

  Simon was offering brandy, but Richard’s more desperate need was to be on his own. The terrifying voice in his head had fallen silent, but it could be back any moment. He focused on being sober and rational, gathering himself to resist.

  Simon was in plain need of brandy. He’d arrived wearing a silk dressing gown over pyjamas, almost in tears. ‘Dear heaven, poor Henry. How did it happen? Did some speeding bastard just hit him and leave him?’

  He’d been no more use than Richard himself. It was Maisie, the neighbour, who’d fetched Simon, found him to be useless, finally spoken to a twenty-four-hour vet and summoned a minicab. It was Maisie who’d nipped home for a fleece to wrap the poor animal in, and she who’d gone alone with the cat in the cab, leaving Richard and Simon staring after her from Harry’s porch. She had waved aside Simon’s protests with, ‘Not at all. It’s no trouble. He’s the best cat in Brighton.’

  To Richard’s immense relief, he hadn’t felt compelled to go too, but who knew what mad impulse would hijack him next? No brandy, no more waiting on others: he was determined to assert his autonomy. Backing away, forcing a smile, ‘I’ll walk along the front to my mother’s,’ he told Simon. ‘It’ll clear my head. I’ll be fine.’ He willed this to be so. ‘Let me know how he gets on.’

  Clear of Simon, he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, testing his will and muscles for resistance, braced to fight any contrary pull. He re-crossed the road to the sea-rail and set off warily towards the pier. So far, so good.

  ‘The young man’s in shock,’ Maisie had told Simon. Shock at what, though? It didn’t make sense. And Lily, oh Lily. His heart buckled at the thought of what he’d done to her for no reason he could explain. Would she ever forgive him?

  The muggy warmth of evening had given way to the cool of the small hours. A few dying fires glowed among the pebbles, and far off in the Channel a ship’s light came and went. Richard paused to watch it and to listen to the soothing, slow rhythm of the waves. I’ve had some kind of seizure, he told himself. Somebody spiked my drink in the pub, or maybe I have a brain tumour. Frightening possibilities crowded into his mind. ‘Act fast,’ said those adverts about strokes. He should get himself checked out, but what would he say to a doctor? I did things I didn’t want to do as if someone were making me. I found an injured cat, a cat that belonged to my dead father. It was as if I’d been led to it. And then I didn’t help. I should have called a cab or a vet, but instead I carried it home to an empty house.

  What would a doctor make of this? It sounded like nonsense. He would have to mention the voice he’d heard bellowing orders, pleading and offering apologies. Which would make him psychotic, wouldn’t it? Richard drew in a breath and held it, blinked back at the fragile navigation light and tightened his grip on the sea-rail, daring his mind to mutiny again.

  He remained a long time, staring out into the darkness, searching himself for anything worse than tiredness and hangover and shame and distress. Minute by minute these feelings loosened their grip and his trust in himself strengthened. His bike was miles away in Worthing and the trains had stopped running. He turned towards the pier and made his feet move again. He would do as he’d told Simon he would. He began to walk slowly west to his mother’s.

  In Hove, before turning inland, he paused to watch the dawn break. In a long moment of stillness, sea and sky emerged from the mist, shimmering silver-grey, east to west, above and below, as though he stood on the edge of a void. Walking to the sound of the sea had calmed him completely. The brainstorm had the quality now of a dream, and, apart from sleep deprivation, he felt like himself, as sure as he could be that he was neither ill nor mad. The new day was giving him certainty and purpose. The world continued to turn; the sun continued to rise.

  He must put things right with Lily: that was the main thing. It was too early to call her – he’d kill time at his mother’s, with luck manage to sleep a little – but at the first half-civilised hour he would ring and apologise, explain exactly what had happened, however odd it might sound. If Lily forgave him, then anything was possible and all might be well. If not, he’d be on the next train to London. He had to make things okay with her.

  As he eased open the door and crept into his mother’s house, he had a sense that something was different. The stale, dusty smells of his childhood were absent; instead there was the smell of clean washing. In the darkness, the hall seemed weirdly empty, and when he reached out, his fingers met no obstacles, instead found walls that for years had been lost behind towers of boxes and carrier bags. Here was a light switch. He tested it cautiously, afraid of blowing a fuse, but the ceiling bulb sprang into life, and he froze. What on earth? Was he in the wrong house?

  Someone was watching. He turned sharply to
meet eyes and a smile, but it was only Sid the Buddha, beaming welcome from the front room. The wooden statue took pride of place on an otherwise empty sideboard and wore on its bald head the barrister’s wig last seen in a heap of miscellaneous junk in the hall.

  Above the sideboard was another light switch. Turning it on, taking a step into the room, his jaw dropped. Empty space met his eyes, broad, high and wide, the few furnishings verging on Spartan. A sofa that he vaguely remembered from childhood had materialised from the chaos, and the chaos was nowhere to be seen. A yellow rug lay over the threadbare carpet, and a vase of sunflowers stood in the window. Most remarkable of all, on a small bookcase was a shiny flat-screen TV.

  Richard closed and opened his eyes, but the vision remained solid and real. He backed from the room, intending to take a look in the kitchen, but some memory nagged him. That rug, that yellow rug was familiar. It was—

  ‘Hello, Richard.’

  He jumped half out of his skin. There on the stairs, in a long, white nightgown, was Claire. Was he hallucinating, losing his mind after all?

  ‘You gave me a fright,’ she whispered. ‘I thought you were a burglar.’

  She was real, but he was too shocked to make any sense of her.

  ‘We wondered when you’d put in an appearance, but what time do you call this?’

  She was teasing. She was happy. She looked like someone who’d won the lottery and was bursting to tell.

  ‘What on earth are you doing here,’ he managed to say, ‘and what have you done with my mother?’

  ‘Shhh.’ She drew him back into the front room, closed the door and leaned against it. Glancing at the ceiling, she began to speak fast and quietly. ‘The idea just came to me. I had to move with my lease running out, and I could see your mum needed TLC. She was going to slam the door in my face, but you wouldn’t believe how that changed when I said I was having her grandchild and you didn’t want to know.’

  ‘Hang on. That’s not fair. I’ve said I’ll—’

  ‘I know you have and you will, and she knows it too. She’s on cloud nine that you’re not going to Wales or wherever it was – she’s been thanking me nonstop for that. It was the first thing I told her, and she was so grateful, clutching my hands, pulling me into the house, real tears, the whole lot.’

  Richard was speechless. A new horror took shape in his mind. An unholy alliance of his mother and Claire? Too shattered to think straight, he sank down on the sofa.

  ‘Look, don’t worry,’ she said, sitting beside him, taking his hand. ‘The more I think about it, the more I agree with you. It’s never nice being dumped, and I was scared about the baby at first, but being honest with myself, I can see that you’re right.’

  ‘You can?’

  ‘Of course. I wasn’t all that into you either. We’re not really suited. The only, only thing, I promise you, that this is about, is I had to find somewhere to live. And where better, eh? I’ll be needing a childminder, your mum’s up for it, and my parents are no use in Norfolk.’

  He stared, bewildered. ‘A childminder? Mum? But she’s batty – you said so yourself.’

  ‘I was joking. Exaggerating. I hadn’t met her, remember. She’s fine, and she’ll be fine with the baby, don’t worry. I told you I was good with old people.’

  ‘She’s not old,’ Richard said automatically, but he was beginning to smile.

  ‘Too right. She can be good fun, your mum, when she’s happy, so watch what you say from now on.’

  ‘But the house?’ He gestured amazement at the TV and the sunflowers. ‘How on earth have you done this?’

  ‘It’s good, isn’t it? Do you like it? I took one look around, and I offered her a deal. I’ll live here, I said, have the baby here, and she could share in all that. You should have seen how excited she got. I’ll be moving on somewhere eventually, I told her, but she would still be the grandma. The price, non-negotiable, was that she had to get shot of her bonkers museum, no half measures, once and for all.’

  His fears were dropping away. This was nothing but good news. ‘You’re a genius!’ he said. Suddenly anything seemed possible, except, ‘Are you sure this isn’t one of her acts?’

  Claire grinned at him, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘Of course it’s an act. She’s a bloody actress. It’s the I’m-going-to-be-a-proud-granny act. It’s a great performance, maybe her greatest – don’t knock it. And look – the stuff’s gone – she can’t magic it back again. She made a hell of a fuss at first, but I just said, ‘Fine, I’m out of here,’ and she soon changed her tune, and now she’s started she’s going to be okay. Seriously, I promise I’m not the disease, I’m the cure.’ She jumped up from the sofa, flinging her arms out and doing a twirl on her yellow rug.

  The stuff was gone, gone for good. ‘You’ve done it so fast.’ Richard stood and moved through the room, touching the walls, marvelling at the space. ‘I was here, what, only a week ago?’

  ‘It’s been wild,’ Claire said. ‘You wouldn’t believe the week we’ve had, but I was afraid she’d wriggle out of the deal if I didn’t get it done. I took time off work, filled a charity van – the skip’s still outside, did you see it? I’m hoping they’ll come for it before she starts fishing things out, but she hasn’t shown any signs.’

  ‘It’s astonishing.’

  ‘Yes, and a woman from the auction rooms came and cherry-picked too. Reckoned what she took might make a fair bit for us. There was a little bowl she got ever so excited about. A Chinese antique or something. Debs had a fit of laughing when she said it was valuable.’ Claire was laughing herself. ‘She’s let it all go, hardly made a fuss about anything in the end. I agreed she could keep Sid of course, all the really personal stuff. Wow, her dressing-up clothes! We’ve found some lovely things in amongst all the tat. She’s all right, your mum – she doesn’t mind sharing.’ Claire spun round again. ‘Do you like this Victorian nightie?’

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘The kitchen needs a complete makeover, but I’ve started on the bathroom.’

  ‘Hang on, are you okay? Shouldn’t you be taking it easy?’

  ‘I’m fine, full of energy. No morning sickness, not once.’

  ‘You must let me help, though.’

  ‘That would be great, but there’s one other thing I must tell you. I’m not sure how you’ll feel about this, but, well, I needed a bedroom, babes, so I broke into yours upstairs, and I’ve kind of taken it over.’

  ‘You’re welcome. That’s fine. I can’t thank you enough.’

  Euphoria swept through him. Lily’s face sprang in his mind. He was dog-tired, but he couldn’t rest until he’d spoken to her. There was no bed to crash in here anyway, so he’d go back to Worthing. He’d ring Lily from Worthing.

  ‘Small steps,’ Claire was saying, ‘I’m trying to broaden her interests. We’ve been to the cinema, and she adores my telly. She’s got hooked on cookery shows: we ate pan-fried duck breast last night. We’ve watched almost no Harry at all – she’s fallen in love with Tom Hanks.’ Good news kept tumbling out of her. ‘And I found an address book – people she was at school with and so on. We might throw a party or go on a day-trip to see one of them.’

  ‘I should have let you loose on her months ago.’

  ‘Rubbish, it’s the baby that’s done it – she’s counting the days to my first scan – plus huge relief you’re not going away.’ The floorboards creaked overhead. ‘Thar she blows.’

  He was eager to see the change for himself. He opened the door to the hall and called, ‘Are you up, Mum?’

  ‘Richard, darling,’ she said. She was looking down from the top of the stairs, clear-eyed and alert despite her unmade-up face. ‘It’s so early. How lovely to see you. We’re having a baby. Isn’t that wonderful? How silly of you to run away from a baby. Just like your father.’

  ‘Mum, you look great.’ He opened his arms. ‘You’ve worked miracles,’ he murmured to Claire.

  His mother’s mules slapped on the wide,
empty steps as she came down and accepted his hug. She had on a red silk kimono patterned with fire-breathing dragons. ‘Now listen,’ she said, ‘can I make you some breakfast? Do you like blueberries? I’ve only just discovered them. Why did you never tell me about them, Richard? I’ve been wondering if they might go with porridge.’

  ‘Sounds delicious,’ said Claire. ‘I’ll give you a hand, Debs. No, you stay here, Richard. We’ll bring it through. You look bushed, if you don’t mind my saying. Put your feet up in the front room.’

  He did as he was told, but only because that was exactly what he wanted to do. If last night’s weird brain-event showed him anything, it was that from now on he must be in charge of himself. The trains would be running soon from Hove station. He would eat porridge and blueberries cooked by his mother – how novel was that? – then go back to Worthing.

  He pulled out his mobile. His fingers itched to ring Lily, but it was still far too early. He couldn’t wait to explain himself, to tell her how sorry he was. Lily was an open-hearted person. She would listen to him and believe him. She’d be glad about Claire and his mum. She’d be wary – anyone would be in her place – but lovely Lily would surely give him a chance.

  Okay, that was the plan. First throw himself on Lily’s mercy, then ring Simon to ask after the cat, and next, no more excuses, he must go straight to the café – what day was it? Friday? – and put things straight with Tiffany. She could have a half-share in the business or a proper wage, her choice. ‘No rush, no pressure,’ he’d tell her. ‘Take your time to decide.’

  He’d been missing the café, he realised. It was his business, his living, but also it had once been his dream. Perhaps it could be again. It was time to re-involve himself, contribute to Tiffany’s plans, share her decisions. Time to serve some coffee, chat to some customers, see if Maurice had finished War and Peace.

  Also, starting tonight, no more procrastination, no more alphabet-Google-soup, he would plan some actual travel before the baby was born. India. The decision arrived, firmly made, in his mind. This winter he was going to see India.