He shrugged his shoulders. “No. I just didn’t have any matches. We’re not allowed to bring them into school. It’s a rule.”
The headmaster suddenly looked up from his desk mournfully, and he uttered his first words since they had come into the room: “Why? Why did you do this thing?” Mr. Costello looked startled by the interruption.
“It was an accident,” his father said from the back of the room.
“Yes,” Mr. Costello said contemptuously, “that’s what he said to me, too. That was his story.”
“Maurice — tell them!” his mother wailed from behind him.
“Are you shielding the people who put you up to this?” Mr. Costello said. “Because, I assure you, we will find them. Even if we have to get the police involved.”
“Let the boy speak,” the head said. “Was it an accident?”
“There are no accidents,” Maurice said.
“If you think that mumbo jumbo’s going to get you off the hook…” Mr. Costello exploded.
The head put his hand up to stop him. “You leave us no option,” he said.
His mother had her hand over her mouth, trying to stifle her weeping. His father put an arm round her. It was almost touching how the weak were protected in the middle classes. They were not so generous to the proletariat.
There was a difficult moment when it was all finished. Nobody knew what to say and, on their feet by this time, they all stood around awkwardly. Finally, as if he could think of nothing else to do, the head cleared his throat and walked round shaking everyone’s hand. As he was going through the door, trailed by his apparatchik Mr. Costello, Maurice said in a surprisingly clear voice, “Please don’t punish Mayall by stopping him singing, sir. He will do credit to the school. He has the voice of an angel.”
Mr. Costello turned round, his face a nasty scowl. “I don’t think you’re in any position to…” But before he could go further, the head put a restraining arm out. He seemed unexpectedly moved and Maurice thought he could detect a glistening in the man’s eyes. “I wish you the very best of luck,” he said in a low voice.
“Thank you, sir.”
“May God be with you.”
Although that was unlikely, Maurice was touched nonetheless. The head was the old regime, corrupt but benign, now being replaced by the new breed of gauleiters—a word he had got from one of the war comics that boys passed around at school—like Mr. Costello who would send people to death camps for preferring jam to marmalade.
His parents seemed worn out by it all. In the car on the way home, his mother sat slumped in the front seat. Whenever his father glanced in the rearview mirror he caught Maurice’s eye in the backseat and finally Maurice moved to the side of the car to avoid his look.
Once home, he went straight up to his room and closed the door. He lay on his bed. In a while he was asleep. When he awoke, it was dark and the room was stiflingly hot. The alarm clock by his bed said 1:30 a.m. The house was silent. He opened his door and on the floor outside was a tray with a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread, cold now. It was like being in jail, only the soup was not fish heads and watery broth, but one of his mother’s hearty vegetable soups, thick with leek and parsnip and potato pulled up from the garden.
On the tray was a folded-up piece of paper with his name written on it. Maurice opened it. It was written in his father’s handwriting on lined paper.
Dear Maurice,
You will go and stay with your uncle Jack on the farm and work there for the summer until we decide what is to be done with you. You will take the train tomorrow. Please pack some hard-wearing clothes. You have disappointed your mother and I beyond measure although you will always be our son.
Your Father
If he lay down on his bed and wept, it was not out of regret or disappointment or shame, but because it was not easy shedding your skin like a snake. He was something different now, but there was a small part of him which could still see the boy who had once sung “Blow the Wind Southerly.”
Breakfast the next morning was awkward, his parents bustling around, trying to pretend this was a normal day. They weren’t bad people: he knew he was too hard on them. It wasn’t their fault they couldn’t see beyond all the things that had been drummed into them by their parents and all the people who went before, beliefs contained within beliefs like those Russian dolls which you unscrewed to find smaller but identical ones inside. The one with his face on it was not identical: it was carved from some other wood, hard and unyielding and dark, like teak. No wonder they were sending him away.
Yet deformed and ugly though he must have seemed to them, some parenting instinct sat alongside their blinkered perspective and complacent beliefs. While they ate toast and margarine with a little smear of jam that his mother had made from last year’s rose hips, he was presented with what must have been the last of the bacon ration — two fatty strips — and a rather undercooked fried egg. In other circumstances it might have been regarded as an unexpected treat, but he was obviously not meant to construe it as a reward of any kind or a lessening of his parents’ anger. It was just the last meal before the noose was placed around his neck and the trapdoor sprung.
He wished he had been hungrier, but he was obviously not one of those condemned men who were able to eat a hearty breakfast. In fact, as he chewed each mouthful he found it was an effort of will to keep the food down and as he broke the egg yolk and it spilled across the plate like a ruptured dam, he jumped up from the table, ran into the bathroom in the front hall, put his head in the lavatory and vomited.
When he returned, his parents were sitting in silence. “Are you all right, Maurice?” his mother said, the first words that had been spoken that morning. He nodded, and they all stared at the half-finished food for a moment before his mother got up and put it by the sink. He could see his father eyeing it wistfully. It had already become a metaphor on a plate — the latest rejection of all they had tried to give him over the years. Anyway, bourgeois thrift being what it was, there was no likelihood of its going to waste. The remains of the bacon would probably reappear chopped into little pieces in one of his mother’s potato bakes, but as Maurice waited alone on the front steps with his suitcase, he heard his mother angrily exclaim from inside, “Trevor!” When his father came out he was looking sheepish, licking the grease from around his mouth and wiping his fingers on his trousers. Once, they might have exchanged a conspiratorial glance in response to his mother’s rigidity but too much damage had been done for that now, and they walked silently to the car.
His mother stood stiffly on the doorstep, and as the car turned out of the drive she raised her arm in a spastic flutter of a wave, like a wounded bird. At the station it was awkward, too. His father was obviously weighing up whether to wait for the train or just to leave Maurice there.
His father tapped his watch. “Ten minutes.”
Maurice nodded his head. “Right.”
“Well…”
Maurice put him out of his misery. “Don’t wait, Dad.”
His father glanced at his watch again as if he hoped time might have sped on since he had looked thirty seconds before. Maurice put his hand out to his father. It was time he took control.
“Goodbye, Dad,” Maurice said; then he turned and walked away. Just as he was going into the ticket office, he thought he heard his father call his name, but he kept on walking.
He would never see his father or mother again, but even if he had known it at that moment he would not have turned back. When he had bought his ticket, he went out onto the platform and walked along to the end where he could see the car park. He thought his father might have waited in the car, but he had gone. He was on his own now.
Although the train was quite crowded, he managed to find an empty carriage. He put his case on the luggage rack and settled down by the window. The door opened and a middle-aged woman came in. She sat down opposite him and gave him a friendly smile.
“Are you traveling far?” she said.
&
nbsp; He thought for a moment. “I hope so,” he said, and the train started to grind into movement and Maurice began the long journey that would take him to Isaac Herzl.
Joseph
AT THE SHOW that night Kevin was sitting a few rows in front of them with some of the investors. “Why have they got better seats than us?” Shirley said to nobody in particular.
Sometimes there can be a sense of anticipation, a buzz of excited conversation as people take their seats: a discernible feeling that they are in for something special. Joseph did not feel it tonight.
The first act was very shaky. The sound kept cutting out. There was a problem with the radio mikes. But when it moved to the daughter’s bed-sit, and the mother came on, Michelle got a big hand. Then the revolve jammed. Toni’s parents and about twenty family members were down the row cheering whenever she opened her mouth. They were behaving as if they were still in the audience of the talent show she had won. They were probably planning to phone in and vote, Joseph thought.
The “Taste of Honey” number at the end of Act One was still the best thing in the show, so at least the curtain came down on a bit of clapping, but at the end the reception was frostier. A few people got to their feet, but not enough people.
Joseph had been disciplined for the last few days, but now he went to the lavatory, locked himself in a cubicle and allowed himself a medium-sized line. Before he could snort it, he could hear people come in and the sound of someone urinating. He was good at reading the runes by listening to people’s comments. Rarely — however good the show is — are they raving about it. It takes a while for a show to become a whole in people’s minds, often not until they have read the reviews so they know what to think. What they tend to discuss are moments: this song, or that scene or which characters they liked. Joseph often thought that the best sign was a passionate argument because the really good shows tend to polarize opinion. This was the worst scenario of all: they weren’t discussing the show at all.
“Tenerife any day. Honestly.”
“Diane says Marbella. She thinks it’s smarter.”
“Well you can’t do better than that posh hotel, what’s it called?”
“Yeah, but isn’t everybody on their bus pass there? I want to see someone by the pool whose tits aren’t scraping the ground.”
“Get full-board. Food’s fabulous. Paella, anything you want. Lobster. Five courses at dinner.”
“With my cholesterol?”
“There’s a gym.”
“It’s meant to be a fucking holiday, mate, not boot camp.”
After they left, Joseph looked at his line on the loo seat. It was going to be a long night. He chopped out another one. He did not want to keep nipping out during dinner: the loos in pizza places were only one step up from the ones in Chinese restaurants. I have some standards, he thought.
Kevin had booked a table in a side room. When Joseph got there everybody was standing around chatting in an ominously low-key way. Kevin wasn’t there yet. They gave a little clap when Joseph came in. There was a lot of kissing and the masculine bear hugs that everyone seemed to go in for now.
Someone was laughing about Michelle catching her dress on a chair in Act Two and its falling over as she moved away from it. There was a general consensus that the mother’s lover was going to need a better wig. None of this was an uncommon experience during previews — everyone dwelling on the little, but repairable, things that have gone wrong to avoid talking about the wholesale disaster onstage. The only question was how long this meniscus of goodwill was going to last. Not long, judging by the expression on Shirley’s face as she and Alan arrived.
A small, synthetic cheer was given up when Kevin came in. He positioned himself at the head of the table and there was an awkward moment while everyone else was working out where to sit. The other end of the table to Kevin filled up first.
“What we all need is a stiff drink,” Kevin said jovially and clicked his fingers for the waiter. He made a show of looking through the wine list and then said in a low voice, “House wine will be fine. And some water.” Then he added aggressively, “Tap.”
When their glasses were filled, Kevin got to his feet. “That’s what I call a team effort, guys!” he said expansively. “There’s a production meeting at nine tomorrow so we don’t need to go into detail now. All I want to say is” — he put his hand on his heart and tapped it — “this feels very good. I don’t think there’s anything standing between us and London!”
A valiant little cheer went round the table. Then, in the silence that followed, a voice said quietly, “The money?”
Kevin looked round the table as if he didn’t know who had spoken.
“Excuse me?” he said.
“The money,” Shirley said again. “The money’s in place for us to transfer the show to London, I presume. You don’t want to raise everyone’s hopes, Kevin.”
“Of course, we need great reviews here, but this whole business is built on hope, Shirley, as you know. And sound financial underpinning, of course. I have no worries about the money,” he said witheringly. “Not after tonight.”
“That’s great,” Shirley said. “So all the money’s there. All in place. Good.”
“I don’t think this is the time or the…”
“Why not? Everybody’s here.”
“As you know, there has been a significant overspend. Unavoidable. And yes, we are in an overcall situation. But I have no worries.”
“After tonight’s performance?” she said incredulously.
There was a long silence.
“I don’t think I need remind you, Shirley, that you have no official function on this show.” He let out a strange yelp. “Alan — will you please control your wife?”
Joseph’s head was buzzing. He wanted to be somewhere far away. There was a big plate-glass window opposite his side of the table and he tried to concentrate on the blackness outside. He thought he might have to go to the loo again. He forced himself to zone out of Shirley’s and Kevin’s rising voices but the noise clamored back into his head.
Something odd happened then. As if a pebble had been thrown into a dark lake: the blackness of the window opposite Joseph began to dissolve and, as if coming up from underwater, Gav’s face loomed slowly into view. In a second he was gone. It could have been a dream, but Joseph stood up. Kevin had moved away from his seat and was standing over Shirley. “Do you know what I’ve gone through to get the show this far,” he was shouting. “Do you? Do you?”
As Joseph slipped out of the room he ran into a phalanx of waiters heading in, each balancing three or four pizzas on their arms. He eased himself round them and went into the main part of the restaurant. The few people eating there had their heads turned listening to Kevin shouting, but he was out in the street in a second.
It was cold and rainy. Through the window he could see Kevin waving his arms around. Shirley had got to her feet and was facing him, her hands on her hips. He did not care about inside. Inside was another country.
He looked around. The street was deserted. A few yards away there was an alley that went down the side of the restaurant. He stood at the top of it for a moment. “Gav!” he shouted. “Are you there?”
After a few seconds there was a movement like an animal stirring by the restaurant’s wheelie bins. He walked towards it. Gav was leaning against the wall behind the bins with a cigarette in his hand. He didn’t look at Joseph.
“Gav,” he said, “what are you doing here?”
Gav took a puff of his cigarette. He still didn’t look up.
“Go back to your friends,” Gav said.
“They’re not my friends. Not many of them anyway.” Joseph put his hand out and touched his arm. “You’re soaked. How did you get here?”
“Hitched. Some cunt in a BMW.”
“You should have called.”
Gav did not answer
“Are you hungry?”
“I don’t want to go in there with those dickheads.”
“We don’t have to do that.”
“You got any gear?”
Since being with Gav Joseph’s vocabulary had grown by leaps and bounds. “Yes, I’ve got some gear.”
“I thought you wanted me to see your play,” Gav said aggressively.
“It’s over for tonight, thank God. You can see it tomorrow.”
“I can’t stay.”
“What? You’re going to hitch back tonight?”
“Got to get back to my job.”
“I didn’t think you had a job. Aren’t you doing a business course?”
“It’s part-time.”
“I’ll get you a train ticket tomorrow. Come back to the hotel. We can get something from room service.”
“The gear?”
“I don’t think the gear is on the room service menu.” Gav did not smile. Irony was not his strong suit. Joseph tapped his pocket. “It’s here.”
“I’m tired. I need something to get me going.” Gav’s face was very close to Joseph’s. He could smell him. He was sweaty and unshaven. He reeked of cigarettes. He looked like a sulky little boy.
Why was Gav like this? He could be nice when he wanted to be, when he wasn’t filled with self-loathing. Everybody has to cope with that, Joseph thought. Nobody made Gav go to the club where they had found each other any more than they made him go. There is such a thing as free will, even if you’re a Christian Fundamentalist.
The hotel was only a few minutes away. As they walked through the lobby, someone called Joseph’s name. He looked round. Michelle was gesturing at him from the bar. His heart sank.
Gav said, “Is that…?”
“Yes. Come and meet her.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t worry, she’s not very frightening.” Gav reluctantly followed behind him, pulling his hood down and tidying his hair.
Michelle jumped up and hugged Joseph. She had changed out of her curtain call dress into a pink tracksuit.
“Sorry I didn’t come to dinner. I’m really knackered, love,” she said in her throaty voice.
The Songs Page 9