Tyme's End

by B. R. Collins

  After a while I open my eyes. I’m still standing on the pavement, on my own.

  I get my phone out of my pocket and turn it on, just in case. There are three voicemail messages, a text from Sam (WHERE R U? M AND D NOT HAPPY!) and another one from Mum (PLEASE CALL HOME, WE WANT TO KNOW YOU’RE OK). Oh, bugger. I grit my teeth and dial our landline number, but I can’t bring myself to press the call button. Anyway, it’s only ten past six. They’ll be asleep.

  I walk along the High Street, holding my mobile in my hand so that if Oliver does call I’ll be able to answer right away. He said he’d text me from the train. I thought he was joking, but maybe he wasn’t. I hope he wasn’t. I really hope –

  The phone beeps. It makes me jump. I almost drop it in the gutter.

  A text message. It has to be Oliver. I hear myself make a noise like a sob, but I’m laughing, not crying. I take a deep breath and try to steady myself, because it might only say AM SAFELY ON TRAIN or HAVE BOOKED FLIGHT SUCCESSFULLY. I feel shaky, like I’m getting exam results.

  I’M SORRY. GO STRAIGHT HOME.

  I read it again.

  It still says, I’M SORRY. GO STRAIGHT HOME.

  What the hell –? I don’t get it. I want to call him back, but he’s withheld his number. Why would he withhold the number? I know he said it was his mate’s phone, but . . . Maybe he didn’t mean to. Or maybe it isn’t Oliver at all; maybe it’s someone from school winding me up, or just a wrong number.

  I’M SORRY. GO STRAIGHT HOME.

  All of a sudden I feel strange, as if the hangover and sleepless night have finally caught up with me. The sun’s too bright, and my mouth is dry, and there’s a bitter, itchy smell in the air that makes me want to cough. I put my phone back in my pocket. I’M SORRY. Oliver’s regretting everything – having kissed me, having stayed out all night . . . I feel a sharp edge in my throat, like dust. I look into the sun until my eyes start to water. It’s starting to cloud over; there’s a thin haze in the air, spreading out over the sky. Further down the High Street, to the left, behind the trees, someone’s having a bonfire. The column of smoke is grey in the sunlight, billowing upwards. He’s sorry. He’s sorry he kissed me. He probably wishes he’d never met me. It’s the worst thing he could have said. I blink the tears out of my eyes and turn round to go home.

  But something niggles at me, making me twist and look over my shoulder at the smoke. I stare at it, shading my eyes, because there’s something –

  I start to run.

  A moment ago I was weightless, skimming the surface of the pavement like someone had turned gravity off; but now it’s like I’m running on sand. GO STRAIGHT HOME. He couldn’t have. He couldn’t have –

  I can smell the fire from here. I keep running, my head bent, concentrating on keeping my feet going, and when I look up again the smoke has thickened and darkened. I’M SORRY.

  I get to the gates of Tyme’s End and stop, breathing so hard my lungs hurt. Through the gates I can see the smoke pouring upwards in a high grey cloud, so wide and blurred I can’t believe I thought it was a bonfire. The stink of it is unmistakable. Beyond the trees there are flickers of gold, glints of copper and red, so that if it wasn’t for the smoke and the noise you’d almost think it was the sunrise reflected in the windows. The building rumbles. I lean forward through the bars, trying to get a better view, but the trees are in the way. Oh my God.

  Tyme’s End is on fire. Tyme’s End, that Oliver said he’d give to me.

  I reach for my phone. I’ve never made a 999 call before, and my hands are shaking. The first time I try I press the 8 instead of the 9. I have to stop and take a deep breath.

  I look down at my hand, clenched and pale round my phone. Something stops me trying again.

  He set it alight on purpose. He planned it. He already knew, yesterday, when he bought the petrol, when he said it was for the lawnmower . . . This morning, when he said he was going for a last cigarette, to say goodbye to the place . . . I can see him in my mind’s eye, getting the petrol out from behind the secret door, splashing it carefully over the furniture, flicking his cigarette lighter open, the silver glinting in the light of the sunrise – and him standing in the doorway, dropping the lighter, watching a line of flame slide over the floor. And then he’d have run, ducking swiftly out of the side door, hurrying to catch me up, trying not to look back.

  This is what he’s sorry for. Nothing else.

  Goodbye, beloved.

  I can taste woodsmoke. I lean my forehead against the bars of the gate and start to laugh.

  .

  I hear the siren coming down the road but I don’t turn to look. The smoke haemorrhages into the sky, spreading out and over me like a ceiling. I’m clutching the bars of the gate with my hands, like a prisoner looking out of a window, but I’m still laughing. I can’t help it. Even when I hear the fire engine right behind me, the siren blaring through my head, I can’t stop. It’s only when I hear it brake that I realise I have to leave, before someone decides I’m drunk and makes me call my parents. I take one last look at Tyme’s End, and then I turn and run past the fire engine.

  Oh, God. When I get home I’m going to get bollocked for staying out all night. There’ll probably be a fight. And this time I won’t be able to run away to Tyme’s End, because it’s on fire.

  And I remember, with a funny kind of jolt, that my papers – my special box – are in there too. Oliver must have left them there on purpose. He kept my photos for me, and burnt the rest. It’s gone, my I-don’t-belong-here box, my you’re-not-my-real-parents box. It’s turning to ash at this very moment, along with Tyme’s End.

  What was it he said? Don’t let anything haunt you.

  I can still hear Tyme’s End burning. As I make my way home I tilt my chin up and look at the sky. There are tears running down my face and dripping on to my T-shirt, but I’m smiling.

  .

  .

  1996

  .

  .

  I

  .

  .

  The last time I saw my dad, I was thirteen.

  .

  We were supposed to have a week together – actually, just under a week, because he’d got the cheapest ticket he could – and it was Wednesday. He’d taken me out, the same as he had the day before and the day before that. It was raining, and we were in the special exhibition at the Imperial War Museum, and I wanted to go home.

  I stood in front of a perspex-covered picture, letting my eyes blur until it was just a mess of black and white, with my reflection behind it looking back at me. Dad was somewhere over the other side of the room. He’d moaned about the weather while we were waiting for the bus, but ever since we got to the museum he’d hovered at my shoulder silently, not meeting my eyes when I looked at him. Now he wasn’t even doing that. I glanced over, and he was staring blankly at a display case. He’d been the one to suggest the special exhibition, but he looked like he was hating every moment. I felt my throat tighten. Three more days and then he’d go back to Sydney, and he hadn’t even said he was glad to see me.

  He sauntered over. ‘Enjoying yourself, mate?’

  I looked round, then back at the poster, willing my voice to stay steady. ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘You know who he was, right?’

  I didn’t know what he was talking about. Then I followed his gaze to the photo and the plaque next to it. H. J. Martin was seconded to the Arab Intelligence Bureau. I said, ‘Yeah, wasn’t he that guy who got seconded to the Arab Intelligence Bureau in Cairo in 1914, where he swiftly made both enemies and staunch allies?’

  Granddad would have laughed, but my dad just said, ‘Yeah. That’s the one,’ without even letting on that he realised I was reading it off the wall.

  ‘Including Morgan Astley, of course,’ I said, in my best sm
army-private-schoolboy voice, ‘who later wrote the introduction to The Owl of the Desert.’ I pointed at the photo and added, ‘Second from left.’ But he still didn’t get it.

  He glanced at me. ‘You’re a bit of an expert, aren’t you?’ There was a gleam of something like malice in his eyes. ‘Bet your grandfather loves that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your grandfather. I bet he thinks it’s great, you knowing all about H. J. Martin. Reminds him of me, maybe.’

  ‘I –’ I stared at him. It was weird, the way he said your grandfather, not my father. And there was a triumphant, aggressive sort of note in his voice, like he’d won a fight. I said, ‘I don’t know anything about him, really, I was only – it’s on the plaque.’

  A second’s silence. Then he laughed, but it was like I’d let him down. ‘Oh. Right. Clever.’

  I put my hands in my pockets and dug the toe of my trainer into the floor. ‘Why wouldn’t Granddad want me to know?’ I said. ‘I mean, he’s a historian. He really likes it when I know things.’

  ‘No reason,’ he said. ‘Got a bit of a thing about H. J. Martin, that’s all. He – Martin was a hero of mine when I was your age, and your grandfather . . .’

  It didn’t sound like he’d finished his sentence, but he didn’t say anything else. I looked up at him, feeling lost. Who cared about H. J. Martin? I just wanted Dad to care about me. I heard his voice again – reminds him of me, maybe – and wished I’d pretended I did know about Martin.

  ‘Old hypocrite,’ Dad said, suddenly. There was a hard, venomous edge to his voice that made me feel cold and lost, as if he’d forgotten who I was. ‘Get’s so uptight about a bit of hero worship, and all the time he’s living off the inheritance, living off the same bloody money that –’ He cut himself off, staring at a picture on the far wall. ‘And Tyme’s End is sitting there, just –’

  I had no idea what he was talking about. I wanted to reach for his hand – or touch his arm, just to remind him I was there – but I didn’t. I waited.

  And after a long moment, Dad seemed to relax. He looked down at me, and his expression was smoother, more neutral. But there was still a strange emphasis in his voice, as if he was giving me the clue to a puzzle. ‘He knew him, you know,’ he said. ‘Your grandfather knew Martin. He’s probably in some of the pictures.’

  ‘He knew loads of people,’ I said. ‘People are always coming round to interview him. Granddad knew Churchill.’

  I’d got it wrong. Whatever Dad wanted, I hadn’t done it. His expression changed, hardening. ‘Jesus. He’s got you thinking the sun shines out of his arse, hasn’t he?’

  ‘No – I only meant –’

  ‘Forget it.’ He turned away. ‘Just don’t kid yourself he’s perfect, OK?’

  I opened my mouth but my nose was prickling and I didn’t trust my voice. I thought, I know Granddad’s not perfect. If he was perfect, you’d never have had to go away. You’d never have left me behind. But I couldn’t say it.

  I moved sideways, pushing blindly through a knot of people, until I was looking at another photograph, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.

  After a while he came and stood next to me. ‘You finished?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I wished, too late, that I’d said no.

  ‘Fine. Me too. Let’s go.’ He put his hand on my shoulder and steered me through the last room, walking quickly so I didn’t even have time to glance at the display cases. His fingers dug into the tendons over my collarbone.

  ‘If Granddad –’ I said. ‘Would he mind you bringing me here? I mean, what you said, about it reminding him of you – do you want me, you know, not to mention it? I don’t mind. I don’t have to tell him. I can say we went to the Natural History Museum if you want. We went there with school, so I can lie –’

  He stopped walking suddenly, so I lurched into him. It was almost like he’d put his arm round me. I felt my face going red.

  There was a pause. I heard a little sticky sort of sound as Dad opened his mouth. He said, ‘No. No, Olly, you don’t have to lie for my sake.’

  ‘I don’t mind – I mean, I can keep a secret –’

  ‘No.’ He smiled at me. ‘Your granddad won’t be angry with you. And you’re my son. Why shouldn’t I take you wherever you want to go?’

  My cheeks blazed again. You’re my son. It was the first nice thing he’d said to me.

  ‘Come on, Olly,’ he said, and went down the steps ahead of me, clicking his fingers behind his back to make me follow. ‘You’ve been a good lad today. Didn’t complain about the rain or anything. I want to buy you a present.’

  ‘But –’ But you can’t even afford the Tube, I wanted to say. I don’t want a present. I’m fine. All I want is for you to come and live in London. But he was already striding round the corner, into the gift shop. He glanced round, then made a beeline for the table in front of him. There were piles of books, all with a black-and-white photo on the front, the same photo that I’d been staring at before. I stood and watched as he picked one up, turned it over to check the price, and then took it to the till.

  I said, ‘Um . . . I’d rather have –’ and stopped, because it didn’t matter. He was buying me a present. I didn’t care what it was. Even if it was a big adult book about someone I’d never heard of before today.

  The woman at the till gave Dad his change and put the book into a plastic bag. He smiled over his shoulder and held it out to me with one hand, putting his wallet away with the other. I smiled back and took it from him, tilting the bag so I could see the front cover. H. J. Martin: A Biography. It was huge. It looked serious and thoughtful, the kind of book Granddad wrote. The face in the picture was already familiar, like someone I’d known when I was too small to remember. But I couldn’t imagine ever actually reading it. I said, ‘Great. Thanks.’

  ‘You could sound a bit grateful.’

  ‘I am. Honestly. Thanks. I’ll try to – it looks good.’

  ‘It ought to impress your granddad anyway,’ Dad said. He had a gleam of enjoyment in his eyes, and I told myself it was because he liked giving me something. ‘I’d’ve loved it, at your age.’

  I squeezed my tongue against my teeth and swung the plastic bag from my fingers. In that case I’ll read it, I thought. It was funny though, because Dad didn’t seem like someone who liked books at all. He didn’t even have a proper job. And Granddad talked to him like he was stupid.

  ‘I’d better take you home.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. I swung the bag hard against my leg, so that the corner of the book bashed into my knee. That was it for today, then. And then there was tomorrow, and Friday and Saturday, and then he was flying back to Sydney.

  He didn’t say anything, even while we were waiting for the bus. I watched the rain spatter against the sides of the bus shelter and tried not to feel miserable. He’d bought me a book. That was good, wasn’t it? He liked me enough to buy me a book. And when we got on the bus he gave me the seat next to the window and leant over me to rub the condensation off the glass. I sat very still and breathed carefully, hoping he’d put his arm round me. But he didn’t.

  .

  The front door was double-locked, which meant that Granddad wasn’t in. My dad was already going back down the steps, his hand raised in a kind of wave. I ran halfway down to catch up with him and managed to stop myself before I grabbed his arm. ‘Do you want to – Granddad’s not here. Do you want to come in? I’ll make you a cup of tea or something. Please?’

  He turned round and looked at me, grimacing. ‘I’d better not, Olly. See you tomorrow, OK?’

  ‘But he’s not here,’ I said. ‘Are you hungry? We’ve got crisps and things. Rosina went shopping yesterday.’

  ‘Thanks, son, but I’d better scarper. Really.’

  ‘Please. Just for a bit. If Granddad comes back I’ll say I invi
ted you.’

  ‘Well . . .’ He tugged at his nose, staring at me like I was a maths question he was trying to solve. ‘Not for long, OK? Just a quick cuppa. Then I’d better go.’

  ‘Yeah, ’course,’ I said, trying to sound cool. ‘That’s fine.’

  It was funny though. Making tea and getting the biscuit tin out and trying to find the crisps, and all the time thinking, I’m making tea for my dad, I’m getting biscuits out for my dad. I felt all warm and floppy. He did like me. He wouldn’t be here unless he liked me. I dug around in the cupboard looking for the sea salt and balsamic vinegar crisps that Rosina bought and took it all up to the drawing room on a tray. He grinned when he saw me. ‘Bloody hell, Olly, you’ve got enough food to float a battleship.’

  ‘I’m hungry.’ But I wasn’t. I watched him pour the tea – he took three sugars – and it was like the drawing room was glowing.

  He glanced up and saw me looking at him. For a moment I thought he was going to say something like, I’m not a bloody circus, mate, but then he blinked and gave me a sort of uncertain smile. He picked up his tea, holding the cup in both hands like it was a mug, and tilted his head towards the bag on the sofa. ‘You left your book downstairs. I brought it up for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I picked it up and slid the book out. It still didn’t look like the sort of thing I’d ever read, but . . . ‘Thank you.’ I put it down on the arm of my chair.

  I heard the front door squeak and bang and click, the way it always did. My dad heard it too; he stopped before the teacup got to his mouth and said, ‘Is that –?’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s probably Rosina.’ But it wasn’t Rosina’s day. My heart was banging. It was Granddad. He’d popped out for cigarettes or matches or something and now he was back and he’d know I was in because of the front door not being double-locked and he might come to say hello and then he’d see –