Jane grins. ‘You told me not to be too good.’
‘Exactly. Don’t be too blinking good, I said, and make the rest of us look like amateurs, and you went and let me down, Jane. How could you?’
Jane laughs and starts to tell the audience about the exciting week she’s had. Phil thinks that she’s not in bad shape for a civilian, but she could be a different species to Toby. The lack of dental work alone gives her away. Her skin is dull, despite the make-up and Phil spots a chicken pox scar above her eye. In her ear lobe he sees the traces of three or four closed-up holes. Teenage piercings – another small sign of lack of care. She has great warmth, though; the viewers have taken her to their hearts.
At the end of the series the winning team will choose a charity to donate the prize money to. Phil will stand behind the piles of bank notes and ask them to nominate the good cause. He will listen gravely as they outline the important work the money will support. He thinks now of the cash he gave to Michael. He wonders if the audience would applaud that donation so enthusiastically. Would they judge that cause to be a good one?
The two guests are thanking each other now and urging the viewers to vote for them. Phil watches Toby in action and feels a thousand years old. He’s conscious of eleven million pairs of eyes mercilessly fixing on his every wrinkle, every age spot, every grey hair. He sees himself laid out naked on an autopsy slab on high-definition plasma-screen TVs across the nation. A brutal overhead light shines down on his withered body and he wants to scream out for someone to turn the bloody lights off. Instead he turns to the cameras and says: ‘Thank you, everyone here in the studio, and there at home, for watching. You’ve been a marvellous audience and we hope to see you again next week. Think you could do better than our guests? Well, just remember: two can play that game!’
He waves, smiling at the camera, and thanks God that this will all soon be over.
42
Frank looked at the day’s menu, presented on parchment in an elaborate curling font:
Baked winter squash and goat’s cheese cannelloni
Slow-cooked lamb shank with thyme
and roasted winter root vegetables
Pan-fried salmon with crab and herb crumb, and
asparagus and shellfish dressing
Walter appeared at his side. ‘Would a shepherd’s pie be too much to ask for? The occasional egg and chips? I don’t know where they get these chefs from.’
‘It always sounds lovely, Walter – like eating in a top restaurant every day.’
‘I don’t want to eat in a top restaurant every day. Who would? I’m not Michael bloody Winner. I like to eat everyday food every day. I can’t stand this fiddly stuff – it’s no good if you’ve got arthritis in your hands. The other week I spent fifteen minutes chasing two tarragon-buttered prawns around my plate before giving up. I’d be skin and bone if it wasn’t for the cheese and crackers in my room. Course the Gestapo have got wind of those so I get regular little talks from the nutritionist. I’ve told her about the menu, told her it’s not appropriate, but it’s balanced apparently – that’s all she cares about. I told her: “Well, it’s not the food I was raised on. I’m not bloody French.” That was an error, though. Turns out her husband’s French and she thought I was making a point. Me and my big mouth.’
Frank laughed.
They sat at a table and Walter shook the dominos out. Frank looked over at the television while the tiles were arranged. A middle-aged couple in blue T-shirts were jubilant that the plate they’d bought for £15 at a car boot sale, had sold for £18 at auction. The man punched the air and whooped. Someone changed channels.
Walter placed his first tile. ‘You remember Leonard, don’t you, Frank?’
‘Of course.’
‘I went up to see him today.’
‘How’s he doing?’
Walter shook his head: ‘That bloody place.’
Leonard was now looked after in the Golden Days facility at Evergreen. Back when Maureen had first moved to Evergreen, Leonard had been a fellow resident of Helping Hands. He had seen himself as a kind of self-appointed social secretary, liaising with Evergreen’s activities co-ordinator, planning various excursions and evenings, and went out of his way to make Maureen feel welcome. Frank had watched with a mixture of amusement and pity as Leonard’s efforts were met with Maureen’s steely determination to be miserable.
His optimism, though, had remained undimmed. ‘I think I may have found the key, Frank.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yes, indeed. Now, we’ve established, have we not, that she’s not interested in trips to local markets, country and western evenings or the majesty of the Peaks.’
‘Yes, I think we’ve established that.’
‘They are all, Frank, rest assured, crossed off my suggestions list for Maureen.’
Frank didn’t doubt that such a document existed.
‘But I think I’ve come up with something to get her up and about and involved.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, Frank. Next Saturday, a brass-rubbing excursion to Lichfield Cathedral – all materials provided.’
‘That sounds great, Leonard.’
‘Right up her street, I reckon.’
‘The thing is my mother’s never really been a team player – she likes her own company … well, I’m not sure she even likes that, but she’s stuck with it. I mean – don’t feel bad if she doesn’t go along. She just isn’t a joiner.’
Leonard nodded. ‘I know that, Frank. I know some people like to keep themselves to themselves and that’s the end of the story, but I don’t think that’s true with your mother. I think there’s something else there. I think she wants to join in; she just doesn’t know how.’ Frank thought Leonard was as wrong as he could be, but said nothing. Leonard smiled. ‘You’ll see. I’ll get her enjoying herself yet.’
As it turned out, though, Maureen’s will had outlasted Leonard’s. The first time Frank noticed anything wrong was when Leonard suggested a day trip to Salisbury Cathedral. When Frank said that a three-hundred-mile round trip seemed a bit too much for one day, Leonard had frowned at him and told him he’d often made the journey in fifteen minutes. As the months went on, Leonard became more confused about where he was, often thinking he was back in the Wiltshire village he had grown up in and waiting for his mother to bring his sandwiches. Six months ago on a trip to Warwick he disappeared from the group and was lost for hours. He was found by police walking along the hard shoulder of the M40 believing it to be the road to Swindon.
He moved into Golden Days shortly afterwards.
‘What’s it like up there?’ Frank asked.
‘It looks the same as down here. Same decor, same bloody menu even, but … bloody hell, Frank, is that what we’ve got to look forward to? People joke and say it’s better than the alternative, but I don’t think it is.’
‘How’s Leonard?’
‘Oh, he’s okay, I suppose. Happy if you take him some sweets; beams at you, he does. Hasn’t a clue who I am or where he is. But what chance has he got? You could go in completely compos mentis and you’d lose your marbles within a week. There was one old fella up there with no legs in a wheelchair. Almost knocked me over, whizzing across the floor, face like thunder. He goes haring across the room and I think he’s going to smash into the wall, but he brakes right at the last minute in front of some mirrored doors. Starts shouting: “Out my bloody way, you bugger!” and all this – turning the air blue. He doesn’t recognize his own reflection, Frank, thinks there’s some old codger in a wheelchair blocking his way. The nurses wheeled him away eventually, but he was still shouting.
‘Then some old dear next to us started crying. So I went over and said, “Come on now, love. It’s not that bad.” But she looked at me, and her face – you’ve never seen such pain, like she’d just lost everything and everyone. She was in a terrible state, really wailing. Then this nurse came over, a Philippine woman. I don’t know her name. She says: “What�
�s all this, Eva? Today’s not a crying day, it’s a smiling day!” She takes the old dear’s hand and shakes it gently like it’s a baby’s rattle. “Yes, a smiling day today. We’re all smiling all day. Not a crying day.” And do you know what?’
Frank shook his head.
‘She stopped crying.’ Walter’s eyes were wet now and he had to fight to control his voice. ‘Completely stopped crying. She started to smile – a big bright smile. Jesus Christ, Frank.’
Frank could think of nothing to say and they played in silence. After a while he noticed that Walter was smiling.
‘Your mother was saying the other day how much she loved the sea.’
‘Was she?’
‘Yes. It’s something we have in common. Funny really, both lived here, as far as you could get from the sea all our lives, and yet always had this hankering.’
Frank felt a little defensive. ‘I could take her to the sea if she wanted. She’s never said. I mean – I’m always asking her where she’d like to go.’ He wondered if he should add that Walter could come too, if he should acknowledge the friendship that seemed to be developing between the two of them. He decided against it. His mother wouldn’t acknowledge it – why should he?
It was a while before Walter spoke again. ‘You know, I feel just the same.’
Frank looked up. ‘Sorry?’
‘Inside. I’m seventy-seven now and I feel just the same today as I did when I was forty-seven or twenty-seven even. Nothing’s changed in here.’ He tapped his chest. ‘This fella’ – he indicated his heart – ‘is still the same stupid bugger he always was.’
Frank considered Walter for a few moments before answering. ‘I guess that’s a good thing, isn’t it?’
Walter smiled. ‘I think it is, Frank. I think it is.’
43
They stood on the landing with the ladder between them.
‘Are you sure you want to come up here with me?’
‘Yes. I’m going to help. Mom says you’re not very good at throwing things away.’
‘Well, Mom shouldn’t say that. I’m very good at throwing things away that are broken or unwanted. Your mother specializes in throwing away perfectly good things, things we still want and use. That’s not a virtue, Mo, that’s a mental illness. She throws away my clothes all the time – perfectly good clothes.’
Mo, who had helped her mother do the last sweep of Frank’s wardrobe, said nothing to this. She remembered how they had both laughed at a sweatshirt of Frank’s they’d found with a picture of a dog on it.
Frank looked up at the loft hatch. ‘Because you never used to like it up there.’
Mo rolled her eyes. ‘That’s when I was a baby, Dad.’
Frank nodded. ‘And you don’t get scared of things now, right?’
Mo shook her head emphatically.
‘It’s just, how can you know you won’t be scared when you haven’t been up there for years? You know, Mo, I remember the last time. You insisted that you wanted to come up and then when we got up there you didn’t like it. Do you remember? I don’t want to go through that again. We couldn’t calm you down. People in Birmingham could hear you scream.’
Mo tutted. ‘You’re an exaggerator, Dad.’
‘I’m not. I promise you I’m not. Do you remember what set you off?’
Mo shrugged.
‘Remember the coat on the hanger. You thought it was someone hanging.’
Mo smiled weakly, but Frank could see that she’d forgotten about the coat until now. He saw her bite her lip.
‘So, for the last time, are you sure you want to come up? You don’t have to. I can clear it out on my own.’
Mo nodded.
‘Sure?’
She nodded again, but her face still showed uncertainty.
Frank started up the ladder and turned back. ‘Would you like me to go up first and take the coat down?’
She shrugged, but when Frank raised his eyebrows she cracked and nodded rapidly.
Frank climbed the ladder and wondered if the clear-out was really necessary. The sale seemed to be going through, but after so long waiting he still couldn’t quite believe they might finally be leaving the house. The buyer was a solicitor and his family relocated to the area. News of their interest and subsequent offer had caught Frank and Andrea unawares and after so long thinking only theoretically about where they would ideally like to live they were now having to find somewhere quickly.
He removed the coat from the hanger and called Mo up. They stood at the top of the ladder near the hatch and looked at the scene around them. There was an overhead light, but Mo had insisted on bringing a torch and shone it now from one perfectly visible pile to another.
‘What is it all, Dad?’
‘Stuff.’
‘It looks like as much stuff as we have in the whole rest of the house.’
Frank nodded slowly. ‘Yeah. I think you’re right.’
‘Where did it all come from?’
‘My parents’ house mainly. When Gran moved out of her house she could only take a few things to Evergreen. So we put it all here. A lot of it should have been thrown away back then, but we didn’t. It’s easier to put things off, isn’t it, rather than do them straight away. It’s a terrible habit, Mo. I hope you haven’t inherited it.’
Mo shrugged and Frank stood looking around at the piles of paper and mounds of boxes – he pushed at the edge of a suitcase with his toe.
Mo waited and after a while said, ‘Are we going to do something, Dad?’
‘Yes. Right, exactly. Chop-chop. Now – Mom’s suggested a job for you. You see the rail of clothes at the end? They’re all old dresses of Gran’s. Special dresses for occasions and dinners and things. Mom thinks we should be able to sell them on the internet – they’re vintage, apparently, like wine. Do you want to go and put them in bags?’
Mo clambered in the direction of the rail and Frank turned to the nearest pile covered by a dust sheet. He pulled the sheet back to reveal a stack of papers and ledgers. He took the top few and saw that it was paperwork taken from his father’s office at home. Sitting down on the floor he started to leaf through them. The first thing he came across were drawings of Rhombus House. Some of the early prototypes were markedly different from the final structure. Frank looked at the different approaches pursued. Many of the drawings had scribbled notes in his father’s handwriting around their edges. There were so many different images tracing the project from initial conception through to final design that it seemed strange to Frank that they should stop there. He imagined the sketches carrying on through time beyond the completion of the building. The faceless figures would develop faces and coats and carrier bags containing their lunches, their silhouettes changing with the passing fashions. One sketch would show the skateboarders who would come and make new use of the access ramp outside office hours. Later drawings would show the neglect of the exterior followed by the inappropriate facelift. A later one still would show the office workers moving out, Manila folders and houseplants in boxes. Then a series of images of the empty building, buses passing in front, the leaves on the trees coming and going. Then the JCB, like a dinosaur, taking the first of many bites out of the building, reducing it to rubble and dust and finally to its present state, a vacant plot of land.
He looked at the piles and piles of drawings and notebooks documenting all his father’s projects. He thought that there in the dusty attic all the stories stopped at just the right place, finishing at the optimistic start.
Mo called from the other end of the roof space. ‘Dad, did Gran really wear these dresses?’
Frank squinted down towards the rack. ‘Yes, she really did. We’ve got photos of her in some of them.’
‘But, Dad, they’re like the kind of clothes people wear in space.’
‘Well, it was the sixties – it was all a bit futuristic.’
‘But Gran isn’t futuristic.’ She paused. ‘She’s totally pastistic.’
‘Well, that’s j
ust getting old, Mo. When you’re young, life’s all in the future; when you’re old, it’s all in the past.’
‘My life is present, Dad.’
‘Yeah, I know. That’s the best way.’
‘Dad? Can I keep this dress?’ Mo held up a short, silver A-line dress.
‘I thought we were supposed to be getting rid of stuff. Anyway, isn’t it a bit too big for you?’
‘When I wear it, I will be a bad robot.’
Frank shrugged. ‘In that case, you’d better keep it.’
He turned back to the piles around him and wondered if the library might be interested in his father’s archive. Maybe the library was full of plans for buildings that no longer stood, just waiting for the day when someone came and reassembled the city as it had once been. Dead buildings risen from their graves.
Mo had finished sorting the clothes and now wandered into the far corner of the attic. Frank heard her exclaim and turned to see her standing in a cloud made by the pulling of a dust sheet. She managed to say. ‘Dad! Look at this!’ before sneezing.
Frank started to walk over to where she stood.
‘It’s one of your old toys.’
Frank frowned. ‘I don’t think so – they’re all long gone.’
He reached her and saw what she was looking at. ‘Oh … that.’
‘Did you used to have little toy figures to put on the streets and in the buildings?’
He smiled. ‘I did, actually, but I wasn’t supposed to.’
‘Why not?’
‘It wasn’t mine, Mo. It’s not a toy.’
Mo looked at it again. ‘But it’s a town.’
‘I know, but it’s not a play town. It’s an architectural model. It was my dad’s.’
‘Didn’t he let you play with it?’
Frank laughed. ‘No. You didn’t play with his stuff, Mo. You didn’t touch it. Well, I did, but only when he was out and Mom was off somewhere else.’
Mo walked around the model slowly. ‘So this was a model for a real town?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is the town still there?’
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