Girls

by Bill James

  One of the drawbacks with Manse was he could get thrilled and start mouthing, on the phone and in a group. He’d forget about caution. He believed in optimism. He spoke optimism. Ralph understood and even sympathized to some extent: if such an uneducated cunt managed to get to where he was, and to what he had, he would naturally feel born to triumph. Optimism could be great. It could also be stupid. For instance, he would take these women such as Lowri or Patricia or Carmel into his rectory and then kick them out with some piffling gift after a spell, never thinking one might turn rough at this coolness and start selling tales about his private commercial matters to the newspapers. They were bound to see where his money came from and, with proper art hanging in his place, not prints, they’d guess he brought in bucketfuls. Ralph liked quite a lot about the Press, and the local daily often printed letters from him as Ralph Ember and Ralph W. Ember on crucial environmental topics, the need to stop pollution, and the slide in social and education standards. But the Press could also be damaging. Nixon. People still talked of how those Washington journos wrecked a President of the United States.

  ‘You was right, Ralph. I got to admit it.’

  ‘In which regard, Manse?’

  ‘When you said no need to get involved because they’ll look after the self-extermination for us, and so we’re soon back to the old happy peace and trade harmony. Plus there’ll be them armed response wagons up there, Volvos, meaning that what the gangs don’t do to theirselves the police will do for them. They got some lovely marksmen. It’s training, including night vision, although not needed this time. There’s this boy, Callinicos.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Vic. Armed response. He can hit anything, running, jumping, standing still at 300 metres. Only a sergeant so far but he’ll do bullet clusters like inspired. I heard this about him : “Holes are where the heart is.” Get it, Ralph? It’s like a well-known old saying my mother used to tell us, “Home is where the heart is,” but they change it to “Holes are where the heart is,” owing to the gunnery of Callinicos and where he’s aiming, the heart. That’s what they’re taught. No wounding or winging, kill.’

  The thing about Manse was he could really enjoy tales of this jolly park carnage at Morton Cross because he did not have skill at long-term strategy and visualizing of a situation, and he had no children in a school near there. Manse’s son and daughter did get private education, naturally, but at the other end of the city. Ralph had considered that school for Venetia and Fay. But, despite the fact that there’d never been even one stabbing or rape there, this school offered nothing on the Classics, not even English language versions of such tales as Atalanta and the Golden Apples, so he’d been forced to tell the head it would regrettably not do, though no hard feelings. Ralph considered that in a very unsettled world scene, such as Iraq, Bin Laden and shag-around MPs, the Classics provided quite a comfort and a glimpse of enduring quality.

  Manse’s phone message had come at just before 2 p.m. on the battle of Chilton Park day. Ember was due to pick his daughters up at 3.45 when classes ended, but he decided he would go earlier. Hostilities could spill to anywhere. All right, that ace, Vic Callinicos, mentioned by Shale, might be able to put bullets only where he wanted them, but others would bang off, lacking finesse, and anyone might catch one of the strays. Kids generally waited outside the school as the queue of parents’ cars edged forward picking up, and this might leave the last few very open.

  Although Ember had the Beretta in a floor safe under bedroom boards at his country house, Low Pastures – plus a couple of other pistols, also locked up, in his private office at the Monty – he decided not to go armed. The tone would be so wrong, for God’s sake. He often considered tone as far as guns were concerned. Schools and firearms should be kept very separate, unless, of course, matters became really uneducational. Another point: police were sure to be swarming and he might get stopped, even given the once-over. A beautiful weapon, the Beretta, but he’d hate one to get fished from his pocket by some officer in front of Venetia and Fay. That would not suit the usual image of a father with children at private school – that is, getting the best possible done for them. Ralph valued this image of himself as parent. He longed for the girls to esteem him. Possibly they already had some notion of a roughish side to Ember’s career, but he did not want this given a big, unmistakable display in their presence, plus the arrest that would go with it for carrying a gun.

  Previously, when Iles more or less – well, more – when Iles more or less ran the patch, nobody would have had the gall to stop and search Ralph Ember. But Iles’s control of the scene had slipped, and might slip more. The new, easier laws on substance dealing weakened him, because his wise and constructive protection in the trade context wasn’t so vital any longer. Plus, so much stuff came from Afghanistan now the Talibans didn’t rule – opium production up seventeen per cent there for H. All sorts here could have a go trading and didn’t need Iles’s help. He would fight to get his sway back, naturally, and Manse and Ember would try to give him aid, but there had to be some uncertainties. Also, a new Chief had taken over from Mr Mark Lane, and Iles was forced to kowtow to some extent, could not ignore and/or browbeat his boss. In some ways it might be seen as progress if Iles became normal and close to human, but that brought harmful effects to trade and profits. And, in any case, Ralph felt a sort of regret: Iles was not made to be normal, or even near. This would be part of the general national decline Ember grieved over.

  Although he had taken a route that touched only the rim of Morton Cross and the Park region, he saw plenty of police vehicles full of officers in bullet-proof gear making for the trouble, or for the aftermath. Some streets were closed to normal traffic. He reached the school at about 3.25 and took first place at the waiting spot. That pleased him, obviously, but he did wonder whether there’d be questions about why he arrived so early. No other parent would have received an as-it-happens battle briefing from Manse Shale. Ah, well, this was a minor worry. The important aim must be to get Venetia and Fay safely to Low Pastures.

  On the way back, Venetia said: ‘So you made it to the head of the queue today, dad. The buzz says some popgun bother not far off. That why?’

  ‘What buzz?’ Ember replied.

  ‘Around the school,’ Venetia said.

  ‘Morton Cross and the Park,’ Fay said.

  ‘These new foreign guys on the block giving heat?’ Venetia said.

  Ember hated the way kids seemed to know everything faster than himself. And he hated the way they talked. You’d think if they were studying Atalanta and the Golden Apples and Zeus, even in English, they’d have a nicer way of expression. This place, Corton, was fucking thick costs in duplicate three terms a year. He’d like to see some polish. ‘Heat’ – slang.

  Very late in the evening of the day following that park warfare, Ralph received another call from Shale. Ralph was at the Monty now, making sure things went all right there. He spoke to Manse from his office. A disturbance like Morton Cross could unsettle the city in general for anything up to ninety-six hours, and he needed to keep an eye. Tranquillity had to be worked for, nursed. It did not just come. He thought of the Monty as like a thermometer. If some part of the city turned feverish, the Monty would register it at once. In a way, Ember felt proud of this. Didn’t it show lovely, sensitive linkage with the community, or at least part of? But hazards came, too. Some Monty members could be nervy about any kind of increased police activity, especially people out on bail conditions, or well into setting up something that might have been grassed, or both. Shale said: ‘You seen Harpur on TV about it, did you?’ He put on an unrough, serious voice, imitating: ‘ “Unacceptable violence”, “affront to the majority of peaceable householders in the area” – that kind of fucking nothing, Ralph. Iles low profiling, of course. I laughed right through the Harpur bleat. He should switch to vicardom when he retires.’

  ‘Manse, I don’t want to leave the bar area unattended too long because –’

  �
�Why I’m ringing, Ralph, is he was up there again today. This got some meaning. This got what’s known as “overtones”. You heard of them at all? Yes, overtones – meaning . . . well . . . meaning meaning. This needs discussion.’

  ‘Who was up there?’

  ‘Harpur.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Morton Cross. The Park.’

  ‘Well, that would be routine, wouldn’t it, Manse? A fresh look at the scene in calm conditions. Clue-seeking.’

  ‘Yeah, but listen, Ralph, he’s with his kids. Not with Ilesy or other cops. His kids! He got two girls, right – like yourself?’

  ‘His daughters with him?’ Real amazement hit Ember.

  ‘Showing them the details. There’s still a lot of his people around, measuring up, looking for spents, doing photographs – the usual plod detective carry-on, but he’s with his kids. They hang about the flowers.’

  ‘The flowers?’

  ‘A big conversation, Ralph, specially with the older girl.’

  ‘You mean, he seemed to talk to them about flowers growing in the park?’ Ember said. He thought he spotted a reason for the visit. ‘Oh, I see why, Manse. It’s to show his children Nature goes on despite the turmoil. This is what’s known as “an eternal verity” and people can take solace from it.’ During the general subjects foundation year for his mature degree at university – in suspension at present because of these special business difficulties – during that year, Ember had studied a poem where the very famous Irishman, William Butler Yeats, moans about getting old, although fifty-nine swans he’s watched arriving at a certain time every autumn for nineteen years in some park over there stay always young and strut about, no trouble, in the water.

  It’s shit, of course, because the swans he’s looking at now are different ones from the flock he first saw nineteen years ago, but the tradition of going to this park at this time for a strut about in the water has been passed down from swan generation to generation. However, poets don’t have to be logical, only egomaniac, and he wants to say Nature is timeless, full of renewal – though, somehow, not the bit of Nature that W.B. Yeats is. Such an idea could be what Harpur was trying to get over in his flower lecture to the girls, and Ralph gave Shale a quick account of the poem. This might not be up Manse’s street exactly, but it seemed right to show him the wider aspect. ‘Harpur’s children have heard of the violence and are upset, maybe. He’s trying to soothe. It’s good parenthood, Manse.’ Ember sometimes felt a link with Harpur – both with a pair of schoolgirl daughters, and keen to lead them into a happy life. He would bet Harpur was as determined as himself to show his daughters a good, fatherly image. Of course, Harpur had to do it by himself since his wife went like that. On the other hand, Ember’s wife, Margaret, definitely gave him some help with the children. ‘These flowers growing imperturbably, fearlessly, in the park despite all the bullets were intended as reassurance to his kids, Manse.’

  ‘Fucking bunches,’ Shale replied.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The flowers – they’re not growing. They’re not for ever, not even like the blarney poet’s fifty-nine swans. They been cut, Ralph. These was RIP carnations. They say, “Rest in peace now you been downed in war.” You know the palaver. Cards with messages on. That sort of flowers. They’re where Harpur stopped and inspected a corpse on the day. My source knew him now because he been on TV as mentioned previous. The cards might give the police some names to follow up, unless they’re just signed “Sugar” or “Thongy”. That will be a thing about identity cards when the Government gets them going. Women could call theirselves Thongy but what’s known as a data bank would come up with the truth. We’ll all be in it. What used to be called “Blunkett coverage” until he went, on account of Spectator sex, meaning not voyeuring but banging a bird from the Spectator magazine. Yes, a real name could be discovered, as long as police could find Thongy and ask her for her identity card. Obviously, Ralph, Thongy’s not a pet name a woman should use when elderly and getting cumbersome, so this would reduce the possibles.’

  ‘Harpur talked to his daughters about the deaths? Is that what you’re saying, Manse?’

  ‘The young one started galloping down the path like armed and shouting “Police.” It’s panto, Ralph. And the other kid – Hazel? – the one they say Iles gets inappropriate about – she’s weeping, and Harpur’s stroking the top of her head, those fucking hands like horse hooves. That’s my source said that – like horse hooves, Harpur’s hands. He can do phrases, my source.’

  ‘He’s a plus, Manse.’

  ‘He got a property up there, by the Park. I don’t hear of no swans in this Park. But all this activity, it’s under his bedroom window. Maybe he was guessing a bit about the nose and top jaw getting shot away, but he can see quite good from there. He’s in what’s often termed the media, which you’ve heard of, I’m sure, Ralph, working from home a lot with a modem. They got no end of modems in media. Being in media is how he can do phrasing and report the conflict, and how he got a property in Chilton Park, which is quite an area. Was.’

  I’m surprised you know people like that, Manse. But Ember did not actually say this. It would sound insulting, as if Shale could have no contacts accomplished enough, literate enough, to do all right in the media. Mind, it was more or less impossible to understand how Manse could have friends accomplished enough, literate enough, to do all right in the media, but some of those women he let into the rectory during his mating seasons might have all sorts of connections and would introduce him. It was also more or less impossible to understand why any unbraindead woman would introduce him around, but they might. After all, if you thought of Manse in an ex-rectory, with possible genuine art, apparently not thieved, and his children doing pay-for education also – if you thought of him like that, which is how he wanted to be thought of, he did possess a sort of social status.

  What sort? Ember had often wondered about this. Manse’s children were called Laurent and Matilda, which showed he aimed at prominence. Quite a time ago his wife went off to live in Wales with a surveyor or broker. Women could be like that these days. They felt entitled. She didn’t care about the rectory or the paintings or the social status. She just left. So, Manse, also, was a bit like Harpur, as they both had to bring up children alone. Manse and the kids stayed on their own in that big house, except when one of the stand-by women came in for a fondness stint. Manse had told Ralph very strongly that, to keep things wholesome and not upset Laurent and Matilda, he would never have more than one girl at a time cohabiting. Although there was no order from the court, Shale gave his wife access to the children. He could turn generous quite often, as a matter of fact, although he’d been slow shelling to Tirana’s tart.

  ‘Don’t ask me what they do with the bodies, Ralphy.’

  ‘Which?’

  ‘Tirana. People like that. There could of been some local firms fighting as well up at the Park, but mainly this is people from Albania way.’

  ‘Yes, Albania.’

  ‘Some of them countries, they make a fuss about the body. In a religious style. You know the kind of fuss they kick up in places like that, all wailing and chucking theirselves about to prove they do classier mourning than anyone else. It’s a competition. They want the body back for a proper funeral. This Albania will be getting coffins every day or two from Morton Cross. Their mothers and fathers over there, they’ll think Morton Cross is like that massacre place in the First War.’

  ‘Passchendaele.’

  ‘These was quite nice streets. And the Park. It makes me feel ashamed, Ralph.’

  ‘Well, yes, it’s bad.’

  ‘If there was water in that park with fifty-nine swans on it the swans might get to look really worried and haggard because of all the shooting, not young at all. Fifty-nine is a big spread of swans, Ralph, and long necks. One or two might easily get hit by loose bullets.’

  ‘I see this kind of thing as symptom of –’

  ‘But in another way it’s good,’ S
hale replied. ‘It’s just clearing them fucking Albanians and maybe some others out of the way, Adrian Cologne, to name one. Don’t tell me we’re going to let them Alb lot into the EU as well as the fucking Turks, Ralph.’

  If Harpur had made a big thing with his children of the memorial bouquets, not the park’s own flowers, Ember realized he should change his interpretation of the visit. This must be some kind of warning to them, mustn’t it? The flowers they talked about meant wipe-out, not everlastingness. Of course, Manse had seen that, too. All right, he could not put words together but he had moments when he grew aware of things. You didn’t get an ex-rectory and art from a different century without these. ‘Them kids of Harpur – they connected, Ralph?’ he said.

  ‘With what?’

  ‘It’s all right to put his paw on the girl’s head to make her feel better, but then you got to ask what’s he taking them up there at all for and showing them horror scenes. This kid is upset, scared. Is that good what you call it – parenthood? Unless something behind. This is why I said “overtones”.’

  ‘What kind of overtones, Manse?’

  ‘This could give a kid nightmares. All right, one of them is enjoying it, chasing about like Dirty Harry, but she’s younger, she don’t see the total scenario. You heard of that at all, Ralph – “scenario”? Meaning the general picture.’

  ‘What is the total scenario, Manse?’

  ‘Why I’m ringing. This is to try and sort things. There are what’s called “insights”, Ralph. You could have some insights. I could have others. Then, when we put them together, we got a real portrait of things.’

  ‘I don’t know if we should talk about this kind of topic on the phone, Manse. And, in any case, I need to get down to the bar and –’

  ‘When I say connected, Ralph – this older girl. You know what they can be like at that age. What is she, fourteen, fifteen? They’re like full women a lot of them. Oh, they’re well into the world. Think of your own daughter, Ralph, if you don’t mind me saying. Venetia? Lovely name. Lovely kid, I’m sure. But didn’t you have to send her to a sort of convent school in France to quell some of her ways before they got too much grip? I wouldn’t want to speak out of turn, Ralph. I see it as more the men’s fault than your daughter’s.’