‘Get a few people up from where?’ I ask him.
‘Pompey.’ he says. ‘Where else?’
‘And what should I call you?’
‘H.’ He blows me a kiss. ‘Like everyone else who ever fucking mattered.’
And so H he becomes. In a way I’m sorry because I liked ‘Saucy’. It chimed exactly with the personable chancer I met down in Antibes, and the more Mitch told me about the mad days of his youth, the more the name seemed to fit. Now, though, his circumstances call for a different persona. Not because he’s rich. Not because his eye for a deal has won him this glorious house and countless acres of prime real estate. But because new friends and a bigger address book call for something a little more dignified. The Hayden Prentice that Mitch suspects of keeping interesting political company will never turn his back on the mayhem that was his past. But I’m beginning to understand that H – clipped, intimate, gently assertive – is a whole lot closer to the essence of the man than ‘Saucy’.
H, I think. Close to perfect.
We agree to stay for a couple of days. H spends a great deal of time on the phone in the small upstairs room he uses as an office. He invites me up there on a couple of occasions for a chat about Malo, and how things have been for both of us, and I’m surprised by how bare the room is. The only items worth a second glance are the view, which is sensational, and the desk. The desk is far from antique but I fall in love with it at first sight. It’s huge and purposeful, deep drawers on either side, and a spread of dark green leather on the top. I run my fingers over the leather, tracing a path around the big PC screen.
H is delighted by my interest. He tells me he lifted it from Pompey dockyard back in the day when no one was looking. It belonged in the big quayside building where the Naval Writers worked. He fancied it because his dad had been in the Navy and was looking for something half decent for the new house on Portsdown Hill. With a mate he’d man-handled it down three flights of stairs and smuggled it out of the dockyard in the back of a plasterer’s van. His dad had used it to keep track of his paperwork and once he’d passed on, H had reclaimed it.
‘So when did he die? Your dad?’
‘Years back. Asbestosis. These days they give the family a whack of money in a case like that, but back then you’d bury the poor bugger and try and make the best of it. It was my mum I felt sorry for. She was lost without him.’
‘And she’s still alive?’
‘No. She turned her face to the wall. Once he’d gone that was it. Finito. End of. Sad as you like. Here …’
He stabs at the keyboard, opening an icon on his screensaver, and moments later I’m looking at a black and white photo of a couple in what I take to be their early sixties. These are faces from a different era – work-seamed, shy, peering uncertainly at the camera. H’s dad looks taller than his son but his mum is tiny, a little pudding of a woman.
‘Their names?’
‘Arthur and Gwen. Nicest people you’d ever meet. Never deserved a son like me. I gave them nothing but grief. At least in the early days.’
I smile, returning to the photo. Arthur has his bony arm around his wife, at once proud and protective. It isn’t hard to imagine their bewilderment when their young scrapper of a boy began to come home with serious money.
‘What about you?’ he asks. ‘Your folks?’
I tell him about my mum. When he realizes she was French, and that I spent part of my youth in Brittany, he seems pleased.
‘I never knew that,’ he says. ‘When we were on the boat I had you down as a toff, private education, posh school, university, whatever. That’s where I figured you learned French, that fancy accent of yours.’
‘And now you know different?’
‘Too right. You lived there. That’s allowed. You fucking are half-French. That turns you into a human being.’
‘So you fucked me because you thought I was posh? You’re telling me this was class war?’
‘I fucked you because you were pretty. Not pretty, beautiful. Then I started watching some of those movies of yours and I twigged you were fucking bright as well, really talented. Thick old me, eh?’
I half expect a hand on my arm, or maybe somewhere else, but to my relief he’s only interested in conversation. He wants to know about Malo, about the lives we’ve made for ourselves over the last decade and a half, about what kind of boy he really is.
‘Troubled,’ I say at once. ‘But these days that comes with the turf. Every mother says the same thing. Which means it’s probably our fault.’
‘Troubled how?’
I tell him about the lives that Berndt and I used to lead – busy, pre-occupied, neglectful.
‘We both made a point of trying to involve him in the showbizzy bits, take him on location, show him around the set, introduce him to people he could boast about later. We thought that was enough. In fact we thought he was lucky, spoiled even, because that was way more than any other kid ever got. What he really wanted was a new skateboard and mum and dad somewhere close, somewhere he could rely on, somewhere he could call home. We never sussed that.’
‘Because?’
‘Because we were stupid. Because we were selfish. And because we never paid him the right kind of attention. Had we listened hard enough all the clues were there but somehow we never had the time.’
‘Made the time.’
‘Exactly. Does that make you feel guilty? Of course it does. But then it didn’t seem to matter.’
‘And this Berndt?’
‘He was the same. He does a wonderful guilt trip but that’s because he’s a much better actor than I am.’
‘He’s gone now? Fucked off?’
‘Yes.’
I tell him briefly about the depths we hit once the marriage had collapsed. I don’t mention Berndt’s recent visit.
‘You hate him?’
‘I used to feel sorry for him. Now I’m indifferent. Indifference hurts someone like Berndt more than anything else so maybe he’s getting what he deserves. This is a man who needs to be noticed.’
‘And the boy?’
‘Berndt stole him from under my nose. Made promises he never kept. Malo’s brighter than me. It didn’t take him long to see through all that bullshit. Kids can be unforgiving. After Malo bailed out, Berndt was history. That hurts him too. He only thinks in the present tense.’
‘Nice.’
‘Nice what?
‘Nice phrase. You really do hate him, don’t you?’
We hold each other’s gaze for a long moment. Then I nod.
‘I do,’ I say. ‘You’re right. Which is why this paternity thing really matters. I don’t know whether you know it but Malo has been like a kid at Christmas. Life hasn’t done him too many favours recently but suddenly he’s looking at the present of his dreams.’
‘You mean me?’
‘I do.’
‘Shit.’ He spares Mum and Dad a glance on the screen. ‘No pressure, then.’
‘You’re disappointed?’
‘Not at all. How could I be?’
‘You’re worried? Intimidated?’
‘Intimidated? Fuck, no. Never.’
‘You think he might be a bit of a burden? A bit surplus to requirements?’
‘No. If you want the truth it’s not him I worry about, it’s me.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Try. I have no kids of my own. I’m clueless. I don’t know where to start.’
‘You could start by talking to him, by getting to know him. Don’t tell me you’re shy.’
‘Of course I’m not shy. I can talk to anyone. Just ask Jessie, Andy. Ask any of the geezers we’re gonna get up from Pompey. Ask the guy who’s coming to dinner next week. He’s like you. You’ll see his name in the paper. No, it’s not shyness. It’s something else.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like what happens if I get it wrong? You say he’s troubled. You say he’s damaged already. What if I can’t put that right?’
I wonder whether this is the moment to tell Malo’s new dad about his son’s dalliance with Spice, but decide to adopt a slightly harder tone.
‘You make him sound shop-soiled,’ I say. ‘He’s not. Underneath, he’s just a kid. He’s confused. He wants a middle to his life.’
‘You mean us.’
‘I mean you. I’m his mother. I’m also recovering from a brain tumour. That, believe it or not, is a bit of a wake-up call. He has my full attention. It might be a bit late but he knows I’m there for him.’
‘But you’ll help me, yeah?’ He sounds almost plaintive. ‘You’ll be around when I fuck up? You’ll be around when I’m getting it all wrong and he thinks I’m just another cunt? You’ll do that? For me?’
‘For us.’
‘Promise?’
‘Of course. As long as you make an effort.’
He nods, thoughtful. Then he looks at the screen again. He looks, if anything, a bit lost. I put my arms round him, kiss his temple, hold him close. What I want is a commitment. Not to me but to Malo.
‘It’s just parenthood,’ I murmur. ‘Piece of piss.’
‘You really think so?’
‘I do.’
‘OK.’ He offers me a rueful grin. ‘I’ll give it a go.’
FIFTEEN
He’s as good as his word. So far, we’ve spent three days at Flixcombe Manor. On the morning of the fourth, as I’m packing my bag to return to London, I get a call from my agent. Rosa tells me the BBC have had to rejig the rehearsal and recording schedule for Going Solo because the male lead has gone down with whooping cough. I won’t be required for at least a week, probably a lot longer. This is very good news indeed because H and his new son are beginning to bond and it gives me a great deal of pleasure to be on hand to watch it happen.
It begins, fittingly enough, with one of H’s trail bikes. H doesn’t want Malo to end up in hospital like his dad and so he tasks Andy, Jessie’s partner, to teach Malo how to ride the thing properly. Andy, it turns out, is a genius when it comes to dealing with kids Malo’s age. He has the looks – tall, stylish, fabulously unshaven – and his patience is seemingly limitless. He has the kind of dry wit, often cruel, that kids adore and he knows how to offer praise when it will make a difference. He’s also a natural on two wheels, gunning the mud-caked machine around the estate course while the three of us – Malo and his mum and dad – look on.
Towards the end of the first lap, where H came to grief, Andy brakes late, slides the machine into a perfect turn, and then accelerates hard for the climb out. The bike snakes left and right before the rear tyre bites and then he’s gone. Malo is open mouthed. Me too. While H, remembering the price of getting it wrong, just shakes his head.
After this display, it’s Malo’s turn in the saddle. Andy has taken him to the flattest part of the estate where he can fall off to his heart’s content. Watching him clamber on to the machine and listen to Andy carefully running through each of the controls, I wonder how much of him is thinking about Clemenza back in town. She, he’s told me, is an artist on two wheels and now he’s about to find out how tough it can be.
The briefing over, Malo puts on his borrowed helmet and lets Andy make the final adjustments. Then, more carefully than I ever expected, he revs up and heads for the figure-of-eight course that H has already coned out. For the rest of the morning, with a pit-stop to refuel, he slowly masters both the bike and the trickier corners. At noon, H calls a halt. Jessie has done lunch. Over egg and chips around the kitchen table, H and Andy take it in turns to analyse where Malo might be having problems. Both of them are careful to let him have his say when he doesn’t understand something or even disagrees and by the time we’re back outside Malo seems to have found a real confidence. They’re treating him like a grown-up, like an adult, and he loves it. For the first time I wonder why Berndt never tried something similar.
That night we all watch The Dam Busters in the little cinema H has had installed. This turns out to be H’s all-time favourite movie. To my shame I’ve never seen it before but I’ve had dealings with one or two of the actors, now in their dotage, and a story of mine about the tail gunner in one of the bombers that doesn’t make it reduces H to fits of laughter. As the second dam begins to crack and the music on the soundtrack swells he takes my hand in the half-darkness. Malo is aware of this and when I let it happen I catch a tiny nod of approval. Malo wants us all to be friends and just now I know he’s right. Aside from anything else, my poor boy deserves a little affection in his life.
The following evening, we have company at dinner. H has already mentioned a special guest and I’ve been tempted to ask for more details. Visitors like this, of course, are exactly what Mitch needs for his precious book – a taste of the milieu H is trying to make his own – but already I’m starting to understand something that Mitch, in one of his Guardian articles, called Stockholm Syndrome. This has nothing to do with either Berndt or Malo but refers to that strange about-turn that often happens to kidnap victims. You get taken at gun point. You get banged up by your captors. You have no doubts that they’re thoroughly wicked. But somehow you start to see it their way.
This, I know on my nerve ends, is beginning to happen to me. I’m not a prisoner in this house. I’m not here against my will. But H has been on the receiving end of a thoroughly bad press and somehow, in my heart, I’m not altogether sure he deserves it. He’s also the father of my only son and that matters more than anything.
Our guest for dinner turns out to be a UKIP politician. His name is Spencer Willoughby. As H has anticipated, I dimly recognize his face from some newspaper or other, or maybe the telly. He’s tall, quite articulate in a shouty, superficial kind of way, nearly good-looking, and drinks far too much of H’s burgundy for his own good.
Jessie serves fillet steak with veggies from the garden. We know by now, thanks to Willoughby, that H has been more than generous with his contributions over the past few years. A cheque for a hefty sum ahead of the 2015 election. Another to help fund the push to win the Brexit vote. This draws nothing more than a curt nod from H. The relationship between the two of them has been obvious from the start, with H emphatically in control, and when Willoughby starts naming specific sums of money H does nothing to shut him up.
This collusion on H’s part is, I suspect, for our benefit. He wants to show me, and perhaps Malo as well, that he bankrolls some of their efforts, that he puts his money where his mouth is, and that he’s therefore become something of a player in a high-stakes political game. Willoughby’s mission this evening is clearly to leave with another cheque. UKIP are about to name a new leader and they want to claw back territory and profile they lost in the last election. Nothing, it seems, comes cheap in the world of politics.
By the time we get to H’s contribution to the meal, a workmanlike baked Alaska, Willoughby is drunk. This doesn’t please H at all. He didn’t invite this loudmouth to dinner to make a fool of himself and when Willoughby leans across the table to suggest that half a million from his host might make all the difference under the new leadership, H starts to lose it.
‘So what the fuck will you do with all this dosh? Supposing it ever happens?’
Willoughby is having trouble keeping anything in focus. I think he knows H has a short fuse but he adores the sound of his own voice.
‘Home truths,’ he roars.
‘What the fuck does that mean?’
‘Blacks. Browns.’ He leans forward over the table. ‘Even the fucking French.’
‘What about them?’
‘We have to be honest. We have to listen to the people. We have to chuck these leeches out. There’s serious votes in immigration. That’s how this whole thing started.’
This is a big, big mistake. H isn’t racist and – given my presence at the table – he definitely likes the French.
‘You need to get a grip, my friend,’ H growls. ‘Since when did the frogs do us any harm?’
‘That’s not the point. They’ve go
t their own country. They’re different to us. That’s what got us over the line last year. That’s what won us the referendum. We need to build on that. British jobs. For British workers. British laws. British courts. Taking back control means what it says. We need to look after our own. When did you last sit on a bus and hear a conversation in proper English?’
I doubt whether Spencer Willoughby has been on a bus in years but that’s not the point. He’s thinks he’s addressing some meeting or other and he’s not going to stop. He’s also after H’s half million quid.
‘You want to know what we’re really about? How we’re going to pull it out again? This is just you and me, Hayden. Inside track stuff. Strictly embargoed. Comprende?’
H gestures for him to go on. He obviously thinks that money on this scale should buy him the odd party secret which seems, to me, entirely reasonable.
Willoughby reaches for what’s left of the burgundy and refills his glass. The Tories, he tells us, are in deep shit. Theresa May, surrounded by headbangers, is a hostage in Downing Street. A lost vote in parliament, more treachery from the likes of Boris Johnson, no movement in the Brussels negotiations, and we could suddenly be facing another election. When that happens, Labour will be after loads of constituencies in the north. That’s where the election will be won or lost. These are people who voted for Brexit. People who’ve had enough. The last thing they should be doing is putting a fucking cross against the Labour candidate.
‘So you take them on again? Is that what you’re telling me?’
‘Not at all. We’re having quiet conversations with all sorts of people, top Tories all over the country. We have lots in common. When it comes to Brexit we’re there to keep them honest, to hold their fucking feet to the fire, to make sure they deliver. There are places up there where we’d still poll well, have lots of support. The Tories could use those votes because the punters have got nowhere else to go. Labour want to stay in the EU. They won’t admit it but that’s the truth. So when the election happens, if the deal is right, there are places we’ll simply stand aside.’
Curtain Call Page 14