Kansas in August

by Patrick Gale

  He signed the visitors’ book and they climbed the stairs from the unassuming hall to the ‘party’ above. They were met on the landing by the greeter, Andrea, said to be sister to one of the solicitors next door.

  ‘Dick, darling. Kiss kiss. Oh good, and you’ve brought your friend.’

  Andrea was also said to have been sacked from her post at a Midlands charm school for inducing the more impressionable of her charges to snort ground nutmeg. ‘Coats?’ she asked, waving a hand at Richard’s second-hand Aquascutum and Hilary’s less than spotless British Warm.

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Richard and gestured to Hilary to keep his on. ‘Is Rufus here?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  Andrea homed in on new guests. ‘Tom, darling, and little Susan. Kiss kiss. Coats?’

  ‘Why can’t I take my coat off?’ asked Hilary, who was warming up fast.

  ‘You can, but keep it with you. I didn’t like to put you off, but I saw a bright red Vauxhall Cavalier discreetly parked outside with four rather insensitive looking plain-clothes men inside.’ Richard signed for a brace of double gins and they pushed their way through the crowd to a newly vacant sofa.

  ‘Cheers, darl,’ said Hilary and drank.

  ‘Cheers,’ Rich returned. ‘So how’s the course of true love?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Oh dear. We must do something there.’

  ‘Hands off. It’s my problem.’

  ‘But I care, and he’s a fully-qualified shit.’

  ‘No, he’s not. He’s just, well, he’s just independent.’

  ‘You mean insufferably rude.’

  ‘So are you when you’re allowed to meet him.’

  Richard snorted, then bowed to a familiar face. ‘Is it just me feeling my great age,’ he asked in an undertone, ‘or are there an awful lot of children here tonight?’

  ‘Children. He’s barely seventeen and she could be in my 15B. In fact, I’m fairly certain she is. Oh, God!’

  ‘Depraved, really,’ continued Richard, not listening.

  ‘Why did you ask her if Rufus was here?’

  ‘Curiosity. I’d never thought to before, and Andrea never forgets a name. Cigarette? No, you still don’t; I forgot.’

  ‘What makes you think he comes here?’ asked Hilary, trying not to look around too obviously.

  ‘Where else is there?’ asked Richard, tailing his gaze.

  ‘Charing Cross, I suppose, Leicester Square.’

  ‘Leicester Square?’

  ‘Well, I do sometimes wonder whether I’m not barking up the wrong tree.’

  ‘Women? Oh, come off it. He’s far too hard-hearted; straights are all squidgy in the middle.’

  ‘I think you’re being too categorical. He might be squidgy for all I know. He is in his way.’

  ‘Dance?’

  ‘Oh all right.’

  The Dazzling Leopard played a good selection of ‘Golden Oldies’, which was kind, but ultimately cruel. Nothing is more guaranteed to make night-clubbers feel their age than watching teenagers sit on the sidelines while they have a good time. After their bout of nostalgia, Hilary and Richard were driven to take refuge in the lavatories. The sweat had run into Hilary’s eyes and was stinging, while Richard was on the point of collapse, having refused to shed his Aquascutum. Hilary was bent over a basin, splashing cold water onto his face, when Richard strolled out once more to find them a second round. As Hilary tried to dry himself on a hot-air machine without scorching his hair, his friend ran back in.

  ‘Quick,’ Richard said. ‘Out of the window. Raid!’ He hurried to the window and threw it open.

  ‘Pull the other one, Batman,’ Hilary laughed and opened the door.

  The music was continuing, incongruous, while three policemen from the plain-clothes Vauxhall jostled the revellers to the far side of the room. They were only searching, no doubt, for under-age drinkers; still, Hilary retreated instinctively. As the fourth policeman turned towards him, he slammed the door and clambered out over the sill to the fire escape. Richard was waiting and yanked the window down behind him before they fled to the street. Their sprint to the car proved unnecessary but, as Richard pointed out once they were heading, Verdi-soothed, back to W12, it added to the pungent sense of living dangerously. Hilary was less certain. He had never seen a raid before. They seemed to be frequent enough, but he ventured out so rarely.

  ‘Let’s talk tomorrow,’ Richard said as he pulled off the Westway onto Wood Lane. ‘Do I ring you or nudge you?’

  ‘Rich, you’re sweet.’ Hilary laid a hand on his arm. This always happened after nights out à deux. ‘But I’ve got twenty assessments to write before school.’

  ‘Oh, go on. Live dangerously.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be fun.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You know what I mean. I’d be all cross and you’d want …’

  ‘Yes. I know.’

  ‘But thanks for the outing. Raid’n’all.’

  ‘Shucks, Homer, it was nothin’. I’ll drop you off.’

  ‘No, it’s OK. The snow’s stopped. I’ll walk from here, then you needn’t do a turn. It’s not far.’ Richard made no protest, so Hilary opened his door and stepped out into the snow.

  ‘See you Wednesday,’ Richard called out.

  ‘Why Wednesday?’

  ‘Our class.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Night.’

  He waved as Richard sped away, then thrust his hands deep in his pockets and shuddered. It was about two o’clock and he had to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for Junior Drama Group in six or so hours. He trudged homeward …

  That sound again. Hilary stopped. A chance peace lay over the road, save for an unmistakable crying from the subway. Curious, he walked back and took a few paces into the entrance. There in a corner lay a carrycot, audibly inhabited. The occupant had been crying for some time and the repeated, jerky wail was growing hoarse. He started towards it, then froze. It was obviously a trap. Someone had set it down there, in full view of the pavement, and was waiting out of sight with monkey wrench in hand. Mr Jarvis, the school caretaker, had been beaten up and robbed down there only a few days ago. Hilary turned back along the pavement. As if anyone would leave a baby lying there on such a night! The idea was risible. He was plainly drunk; normally he would never have been so gullible.

  No sooner had he crossed under the flyover, however, than a gin-fed conscience began to nag him. The idea was not so risible. One did read of unwanted children being abandoned. Last month there had been a case of a mother whose daughter was being so badly beaten by her lover that she left her on a Circle Line train in the hope that she would thus find a more loving home.

  Heart in mouth, Hilary crossed Wood Lane and made for the other end of the subway. This way, if there was anyone lying in wait with a monkey wrench, he might make good his retreat before they saw him. He slowed his pace as he entered the tunnel, and moved on tip-toe. Gingerly he peered round the corner, his cheek on the icy grime of the tiles. No one. The carrycot held single sway. Embarrassed at his cowardice, he ran to rescue it. He bent forward and peered in.

  A small, sparsely haired head lay on the pillow and two wretchedly small hands worked spasmodically at the flannel sheeting beneath them. The skin was slightly dusky. Hilary reached out and touched the baby’s scalp. Startled perhaps, the crying ceased. There were two little pants, then it resumed with renewed strength. A youngest child and cousinless, Hilary had never so much as felt new-born skin. He had seen the things being wheeled about, of course, and had seen them having their nappies changed or their mouths charged with sodden rusks in advertisements, but this kind of immediate contact was wholly new and, were he less intoxicated, distinctly frightening. He lifted the carrycot and gave it an experimental swing, but the hoarse yells redoubled, so he set it down again. He felt around the blankets; there was a small white teddy, but not the note that he had expected. Such discoveries were meant to arrive with a monogrammed shawl, or
at least a box of distinguishing trinkets. A note reading, ‘My name is Felix. Love me,’ would at least have marshalled a sense of purpose. He continued to grope and found a full bottle, which tentatively he set down by the baby’s lips. There were footsteps behind him. He glanced up to see an old woman shuffling past with two full carrier bags. Perhaps she would claim it, or at least give vent to some kind of helpful indignation. Hilary prepared to be embarrassed. Instead she stopped, peered over his shoulder into the carry-cot and said,

  ‘Ah! Inny sweet! Inny lovely! What’s he called, then?’

  In Kuala Lumpur he had been given an orphan guinea-pig to rear with milk from a dropper, a fluffed-up mahogany animal he had called Dan.

  ‘Erm … oh yes. He’s called Dan. Daniel, actually, but we just call him Dan.’

  ‘Ah. Dan.’ She tried the name out. ‘Dan. Sweet.’ So saying, she shuffled on down the tunnel.

  Hilary watched her, listening to the slap of her rotten slippers on the wet tiles, then realized that the baby had fallen quiet. He looked down and saw that the obliging creature was sucking greedily on the teat of the bottle.

  ‘Sweet,’ he tried, then, ‘Absurd,’ he said to himself. With the sigh of the whist player who finds he has been dealt an assortment of twos and threes, he lifted the carrycot and headed for the North Pole.

  He let himself in and climbed the stairs to his flat, exhausted. Vacantly, he set down the carrycot on his desk beside the empty whisky bottle and began to open out the sofa into a bed. His eye caught the telephone answering machine – a paternal present that predated the watches – and saw that a single call was recorded. He sat on the bed and pressed the play button. The tape rewound, there was the usual bleep, then:

  ‘Hi, Hil! It’s Rufus. Look, I’m really sorry I didn’t make it over to you this evening … erm … something came up. But look, happy birthday and … erm … you don’t look a day over twenty-two. No, I mean it. Honestly … erm … Look, I’ll ring you, OK? ‘Bye.’

  Resenting the inane grin that crept to his lips, Hilary pulled on his pyjamas, brushed his teeth and turned out the light. He was hovering at the borders of sleep, starting to feel the mattress heave drunkenly beneath him, when the darkness was pierced by a baby’s cry. Too tired to think, too drunk to react on any but a primitive level, he rose and walked over to the desk. He reached beneath the diminutive bedding and pulled out the complaining inmate.

  ‘Here, Dan. Here. Shut up,’ he murmured. ‘Ssh.’ He clambered under the duvet once more with the baby beside him. The cries were replaced almost at once by breathing worthy of a dirty phone caller.

  Tomorrow was another day. He would think about things tomorrow.

  Chapter six

  As Rufus found his way to the darkened hall, the lights came on. Behind him the lift apologized to the ignored commands of the past hours, opening and closing its doors before it glided with an under-oiled sigh towards the upper storeys. Snow was drawn into his face as he swung open the front door. In the chilled flurry the street-lamp seemed less feeble. At the far end of the street the bulb in the telephone kiosk was flickering out a lonely code. Wincing against the cold, he strode towards it. The machine was of an unfamiliar design, presumably one of the few anti-vandal models set up before the communications strike last year.

  He pushed in a coin and dialled, numb fingers fumbling. The answering tone sounded five times.

  ‘Hi. Look, I’m …’ Rufus began, then cursed and fell silent. He stared at a crisp bag waltzing on the draughty floor, then waited twenty seconds. A thin, high buzz sounded in his ear and he spoke again, awkwardly. ‘Hi Hil! It’s Rufus. Look, I’m really sorry I didn’t make it over to you this evening … erm … something came up. But look, happy birthday and … erm … you don’t look a day over twenty-two. No, I mean it. Honestly … erm … Look, I’ll ring you, OK? ‘Bye.’ He replaced the receiver. After a succession of clicks, he scooped six coins from the returned coin slot. ‘Nice to have friends,’ he said.

  Faint lights and lowered voices came from The Bird in Hand. He pushed at the door, but it was locked. The voices dropped altogether. After a pause, a woman’s voice – he could see her on the other side of the frosted glass – asked, ‘That you, officer?’

  ‘No,’ he offered. ‘It’s me. It’s Rufus.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she laughed, ‘only Roof.’ She unbolted the door and pulled it open a foot. ‘Come on in. Fucking brass monkeys out there tonight.’

  There were perhaps twenty-five drinkers arranged across the murky space. He ignored them, walking straight to the bar, and they began to talk again. He ordered a Scotch, paid and sat on a stool near a radiator. The spirit burned pleasantly in his chest. He had eaten nothing since a mobile breakfast. He had banked on the Phillips woman paying for her lesson in cash, but she had said she only had cheques and wouldn’t that do. He had told her to wait and pay him double in cash next week. So no lunch.

  He ran a hand through his hair. The melting snow sent a bitter trickle down his bare neck and he shuddered.

  Sandy, the physiotherapist girl … woman … had startled him. He wasn’t quite sure why she had given him a lift; he didn’t have his thumb out. He had left Mrs Phillips in bed, bathed, dressed and set out for the tube as usual when there, out of the thickening rain, came an attractive woman in a rusty Spitfire who offered him a lift. Stupid of him not to tell her what he did. She probably had some tacky military fantasy woven round him now. It was just that, ‘I’m a piano teacher’ seemed so pathetic and, ‘I occasionally screw my pupils’ even more so. Also he was paranoid about giving details of his work. He had been signing on while working for cash for over a year now. It was said that those who were caught out were always taken in the first few weeks, making beginners’ mistakes, but still he couldn’t relax. In his heart he felt sure that the DHSS would be lenient with him; even with the dole, his income was erratic. After arguments with Hilary, he had spent days on a ration of cold baked beans and cream crackers.

  How could this Sandy trust him so? Possessiveness was common enough, but trust was not something to which he was accustomed. She had even let him walk off with her coat. He stroked the sleeve. A good coat. She trusted him to return. He watched a woman set coins thumping from a fruit machine and was tempted to walk away, just to prove Sandy wrong. Then again, the loss of a good coat was something she could well afford. The flat. The car. She probably paid enough national insurance for two.

  Wonderfully strong arms. Squash-player arms. A mid-twenties body betrayed solely by her neck; he had counted the rings – one per decade. She lacked Hilary’s air of calculated walk-on-me devotion, so her trust must stem from stupidity. She was only a physiotherapist, which was little better than a glorified masseuse. Stupidity or innocence. There were too many surprise lines in her face for either. From the moment she had pressed in the cigarette lighter for him, he had noticed an air of quiet control. Could she be lying too? The thought was intensely arousing. He shifted forward on his stool and swigged the last of his Scotch.

  There was an itching above his wrist. He rubbed it hard, then pushed back his sleeve and found a deep scratch about two inches long. At the deepest end blood was seeping up. The itching was the formation of a scab, which he had just rubbed away. He licked at the blood, then asked to be let out.

  ‘Hello?’ said the poised, low voice in the grille. A spotlight in the wall clicked on in his face and Rufus stared into it.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘It’s Andrew.’

  ‘You took your time.’

  ‘The ‘phone was bust. I had to walk up to the Broadway.’

  ‘Get in the lift and press button four.’

  Chapter seven

  Sumitra Sharma first knew the meaning of blind devotion when hiding in a school lavatory on her eleventh birthday. Tamsin Clark, who was pretty by white standards save for the web of metal clips and staples that held her teeth together, had commented loudly on the fact that she was remarkably short for an eleven-year-old. Her sid
ekick Kerry, who was monstrous plain by comparison, but whose wit was generally sharper, had expanded on this to suggest that Asian mothers pissed on their children’s breakfast cereal in order to stunt their growth and yellow their skins. Sumitra had retorted that men preferred their women delicate and that her race scorned such abominations as breakfast cereal. A savage chase had ensued, which was how she had come to see him receiving a black eye from a cricket ball. She didn’t see the blow, which made the emotional revelation all the sweeter.

  She had darted through the various skirmishes and ballgames, leaving Tamsin and Kerry swearing and jeering as they were variously struck and kicked in their flagging pursuit. With a glance behind her, she fled into the boys’ lavatories. She ran panting down the line of wash-basins, past the baby urinals, through a scrum of magazine-ogling youths who sent up a cheer, and into the safety of a full-size cubicle whose door she slammed and bolted. She stood on the seat to keep her feet out of arms’s reach, and waited, listening. No footsteps came after her and she heard the boys shambling noisily away. Carefully she changed the position of her sandals on her filthy perch and forced the arrow slit of a window open.

  She had meant to scan the crowd for her pursuers but found herself looking him full in the face. He was finishing a conversation with someone at the common room window above her.

  ‘Yes. That’s fine, Pat,’ he had said with a dazzling smile. ‘OK. ‘Bye.’

  Then he had turned away and been smitten by the hurtling ball. The ball was coming from exactly opposite her window, so that one moment she was staring at his bright, hopeful face and the next she saw him fall like a dropped rag soldier.

  This was how Sumitra Sharma came to love him. In her way.

  Chapter eight

  Hilary opened his eyes. One leg and one arm dangled over the edge of the bed into a bitterly cold draught. It was one minute to eight. As on even the most reluctant mornings, he had woken seconds before the alarm, which entailed a tense little wait for the official summons to rise. There was a damp patch under his cheek where he had been dribbling. The light under the curtain had the crude brilliance peculiar to snow scenes. He pulled his straying limbs back under the duvet and shut his eyes once more. After perhaps thirty seconds the German alarm clock let out a finely honed whine, which he stopped with a well-practised tap of a finger. Moments later a Japanese timer socket – courtesy Dad, Christmas 1985 – activated a cassette-player. Then, as the nuns wondered how to solve a problem like Maria, they were joined by an indignant bellow somewhere behind Hilary’s head. A baby.