My dad half-rose to his feet; then he sat down again. ‘It’s your grandfather, isn’t it?’
‘I dunno. But, look, it’s not your fault you’re here, I made you –’
‘You didn’t make me do anything, mate.’ He squared his shoulders, like Granddad was already there in front of him, threatening to call the police. ‘Who does he think he is, anyway? How am I supposed to get to know you properly if I can’t even come into the house? It’s ridiculous.’
‘How could you possibly get to know him properly in a week? An equally ridiculous suggestion, I’d say.’
Granddad. He was there in the doorway, peeling the plastic film off a packet of cigarettes.
I said, ‘Granddad, he was only having a cup of tea, and I asked him, because you weren’t in, and we were hungry, and –’
‘Thank you, Olly.’ He held up a hand to stop me. ‘Please, sit down, both of you.’ He came into the room and put a hand on the teapot, checking how hot it was. ‘May I?’ He didn’t wait for me to answer, just poured some tea into the cup I’d brought up for myself. He was casual and deliberate at the same time, like he was doing it on purpose. He stirred it and tapped the spoon on the edge of the saucer. ‘Philip, I thought I made my preferences on this point perfectly clear. You’re not welcome in this house.’
My dad’s face did something strange. He said, ‘Look, I’m only here because – come on, Father –’
Granddad turned to me. ‘Olly, did you pour your father’s tea? There appear to be tea leaves floating in it.’ There was an edge to his voice; someone was in big trouble. I just didn’t know if it was me.
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘Well, perhaps you should –’
He stopped, because he’d caught sight of the book on the arm of my chair. It was almost a double take; it would have been funny except for the look on his face. Like – I didn’t know what it was like. Like meeting your worst enemy in heaven. Like seeing a ghost.
‘Whose is that?’ He raised his hand and pointed with the spoon. It should have been funny. But it wasn’t, somehow.
‘Mine,’ I said, scared to speak but more scared of not answering him. ‘Dad gave it to me.’
He lowered the spoon, very, very slowly. ‘Did he,’ he said, but it wasn’t a question. ‘Give it to me, please, Oliver.’
I picked it up and held it out for him to take. He reached out –
But I didn’t let him take it. I snatched it away, just as his fingers touched it, before his grip could tighten. I jumped back, my heart pounding, and ducked out of his way, but I couldn’t hold on to the book. It dropped on to the floor. Granddad’s cup of tea fell and smashed next to it, splattering tea all over the cover.
For a moment we stared at each other. His face looked bleak, foreign. I didn’t recognise it.
My dad said, ‘It’s none of your business. He’s my son.’
Granddad’s gaze faltered and he glanced down at the wreckage on the floor, but when he looked back his face was his own again. ‘Go to your room, Olly. I need to speak to your father alone.’
I looked down at the book, and then at him. ‘But –’
‘Go to your room.’
I went. Granddad stood in the doorway of the drawing room, watched me go up the stairs to my room, and shut the door with a sharp, decisive click. I stood on the landing, counted to twenty, and then crept back down to sit on the lowest step, my arms wrapped round my knees. I felt sick and cold. My stomach was sinking slowly, like a battleship.
At first their voices weren’t loud enough for me to hear what they were saying. I leant forward, watching the shadow under the door. Then I heard my dad say, ‘For God’s sake, it’s just a book!’
The shadow moved suddenly, as if Granddad had walked towards him, away from the door. He replied quietly, precisely, so all I could hear was the rumble of his voice and the consonants.
Dad said, loudly, ‘I thought Olly would like it, that’s all! Jesus, you are so arrogant. This is about me and my son. Why the hell would it be about you?’
I felt a little flash of warmth because of the way he’d said my son, but it died immediately, leaving me colder than ever. My face felt funny, like the skin was sticking to my skull.
Granddad said something else, indistinctly, in that low, dispassionate tone.
‘Well, what if I do? You’ve got him wrapped round your little finger – he bloody worships you! Do you have any idea how hard this is for me? I’ve come all this way, and all I find is that he’s a spoilt little brat who thinks you’re the bee’s knees because you buy him everything he wants –’
And then the noise of something breaking. My dad must have broken something, because Granddad wouldn’t – I’d never seen him break anything, even by accident. I could feel the tears building up again in my throat, inexorably, like when you put your thumb over a dripping tap.
I heard Granddad’s voice again, still quiet, but suddenly so clear it was as if he knew I was there and wanted me to hear. ‘Don’t you dare call Oliver a spoilt brat!’
Then, unbelievably, there were two voices shouting at once, blurring, wiping each other out so I couldn’t hear the words. I’d never heard Granddad shout, not in thirteen years. His voice rose above Dad’s, making my teeth vibrate.
‘You know nothing whatsoever about him! You reckless, selfish, predatory idiot – you come over here and think you can play at being his father. You appal me. It’s contemptible. Who do you think you are? Have you even noticed how upset he is? Or did you imagine that it was perfectly normal for him to be constantly on the edge of tears? He was fine before you got here. It would have been better if you’d never come. Have you any conception at all of the damage you’ve done? If you had any decency you’d leave him alone –’
And it went on. On and on and on, a tight, furious, wounded voice I’d never heard Granddad use before, telling my father I’d be better off without him. I wanted to go down and shout at him to shut up. I wanted to say, I don’t care if he does damage me, I’d still rather he was here, I’d still rather . . . He’s my dad.
‘And I cannot express my – Philip, you bought him that book because you knew how I’d react. You let the boy think you wanted to buy him a gift, when you were simply using him to get at me. You haven’t changed, have you? It’s despicable. I suppose you still think that somehow I am responsible for what you –’
‘Don’t lecture me, you pompous bastard! As if you knew anything about being a decent father – as if you cared what I did, as if you’d ever –’
‘All right. I don’t propose to discuss the past. I am only, and absolutely, concerned with Oliver. And I will not let you do this to him.’
‘Oh, yeah, of course, you want to turn him against me –’
‘I hardly think I need to bother. Oliver is quite intelligent enough to understand the situation.’
Silence.
Then my father’s voice again, only this time it was low and sibilant, spitting the consonants, and for the first time he sounded like Granddad. It made my back feel shivery, like I had a temperature.
He said, ‘All right. You want to keep on punishing me. You want to keep me away from my son. You win.’
I opened my mouth. There was a tiny noise, barely audible, as my vocal cords opened and closed. No. He’d go away and never come back, and he was my dad . . .
The drawing-room door opened and Dad was standing there, his face blotched and red over the cheekbones. He stared at me, and his mouth moved, but he didn’t say anything. I looked at him, scared that he could see how I felt, but glad too, because if he could see how I felt he might not leave.
He met my eyes. And I think – even now, I think he could see how I felt.
Then he shoved his hands into his pockets, walked straight past me and down the stairs. I heard the front do
or bang.
There was a pause, and footsteps. Then Granddad was leaning in the doorway, lighting a cigarette. I was looking at the carpet, but I could see his shoes, and hear the clink of his lighter. A second later I smelt the smoke. I was used to it, but it still made me want to gag.
He said, ‘Olly . . .’
There was silence; just the sound of him smoking.
‘Oliver. How much of that did you hear?’
‘Quite a lot.’
‘I’m sorry.’
I clenched my jaw, pushing my tongue against my lower teeth. I couldn’t help listening for a knock at the door, because Dad had to come back any second now. He couldn’t have left without even saying goodbye. Any second now . . .
‘Olly, I’m afraid your father has – I’d be very surprised if he comes back.’
I said, ‘He’s taking me to the Tower of London tomorrow.’
‘No,’ Granddad said, ‘I’m rather afraid he isn’t.’ A pause. ‘Would you still like to go? Shall I take you?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Very well.’ He looked around for an ashtray. His eyes seemed to flicker, as if he was somewhere he didn’t recognise. ‘I’m truly very sorry, Olly. I know how hard it’s been for you. I promise you that I didn’t want your father to leave like this.’
‘I’m fine.’
I wasn’t looking at him, but I could still feel his gaze on my face. I knew he didn’t believe me, but he didn’t say so.
There was a pause. He sighed and lowered himself slowly down until he was sitting next to me on the stairs. His right hand rested on his leg, the smoke streaming up between his fingers. The skin over his veins was crumpled and shiny, like paper. His other hand was still holding his lighter, turning it over and over so that the silver caught the light.
‘Olly, the book he bought you . . .’
It wasn’t like Granddad not to finish a sentence. I couldn’t help glancing at him. He was watching the drawing-room door as if it was . . . I recognised the expression on his face, but I wasn’t sure why.
‘That book – I’m going to keep it for you until . . . I don’t think you’ll enjoy it. It’s somewhat too . . .’
I waited. Granddad didn’t turn his head. I realised, with a strange, distant shock, that his face looked the way mine had when I looked at Dad. As if he could see someone standing in front of him, someone older than he was.
‘Granddad,’ I said, ‘please let me have it. It’s only a book. Please give it back. Please.’
‘I’ll find you something you’ll enjoy more.’
‘No – Granddad, I want that book. Dad bought it for me. Please –’
He stood up, making a brief painful noise as he braced himself against the wall. Tiny flecks of ash drifted down on to the carpet. I got to my feet too, holding on to the banister because I wanted to touch something solid. I said again, ‘Granddad –’
‘No.’ He didn’t look at me. ‘I’m your grandfather, Olly, and I know better. You’ll have to trust me on this.’
‘Well, I don’t,’ I shouted, and heard my voice crack. ‘You made him go away – you won’t let him in the house – you stole my book –’
‘Oliver –’
‘I hate you! Why couldn’t you just let him –’ I was choking. I could feel the tears running down my cheeks. I forced the words out, although I could hardly speak through the sobs. ‘I don’t trust you! You don’t care about me – you just want him to go away. And he’s your son! Why couldn’t you just be nice to him?’
‘What happened between your father and me is over. Do you understand, Olly? I am not going to discuss it with you. I’m sorry about what happened tod—’
‘No, you’re not! This is what you wanted, all the time! For him to go and never come back and –’ I wanted to keep talking – wanted it desperately, because it was working, I could see Granddad struggling to control his anger – but I ran out of breath and leant over, crying too hard to make the right shapes with my mouth.
‘Olly . . .’
He put his hand on my back. I spun round and lashed out at him, not caring how hard. My hand knocked his arm away. He drew his breath in and there was a thunk as his lighter dropped against the skirting board.
I looked straight into his eyes and said, ‘I hate you.’
He didn’t answer. For a moment I thought he was going to hit me.
I waited, glaring at him, until he turned away and bent, wincing, to pick up his lighter. Then I ran up the stairs to my room and lay face down on my bed.
.
.
II
.
.
I knew Dad was going to come back. I knew it. He’d come back and apologise for letting Granddad wind him up. He’d tell me I should go and live with him in Australia. Or he might even decide not to go back to Sydney at all.
The next day I got dressed and put my coat and shoes on, so I’d be ready to go when Dad came to pick me up. At eleven o’clock Granddad came up to see me. He brought me tea and toast on a tray like I was ill, and three or four books that he said he thought I might like. He put them down carefully on my desk, and sat on the edge of my bed. He asked me if I was all right, and if I wanted Rosina to buy anything special at the supermarket, and what did I want for dinner, and was I sure I didn’t want to go to the Tower of London, because he could take the day off and he knew I’d enjoy it. I didn’t answer. I didn’t even look at him.
In the end he went away again. He was meant to be working but when I crept past his study on my way to the loo I couldn’t hear any typing. I imagined him staring at the engraving of Napoleon on his wall and feeling the way I did, and I thought, He deserves it. He made Dad leave me here. It’s all his fault.
On the day after that I made Granddad phone up and tell the coach I wasn’t coming to football practice that evening because I was ill. I didn’t dare to leave the house in case Dad came round and I missed him.
On the third day I still thought Dad might turn up.
Dad’s flight was Sunday afternoon.
The day after that I had to go back to school.
.
I didn’t tell anyone about what had happened, not even Adeel, my best mate. But I couldn’t get it out of my head. When I got home from school that Monday I went straight upstairs and stood outside Granddad’s study. He was typing, but the door was ajar, which meant I could go in and talk to him if I wanted to. I shifted from foot to foot, imagining what I’d say. You made Dad go away. Or, I want my book back. It’s mine, you’ve got no right . . . Please . . . I don’t understand why . . . I took a deep breath, shuffling back and forth, making the floorboards creak.
The typing stopped. Granddad said, ‘Olly? Is there something I can help you with?’
Weren’t old people meant to go deaf? I swallowed. ‘Um, yes please.’ I peered round the door. ‘I wanted to ask you – to talk to you about – um . . .’
Granddad leant back in his chair and smiled at me. The air in the room was grey and rippling with smoke. He pushed his typewriter to one side and reached for his cigarettes. He was still looking at me but his hand went straight to the right place. ‘The Roman legions again, is it?’
‘No, it’s –’ I stopped. ‘About – Dad.’
‘Ah.’ He took a cigarette out of the packet and fumbled with his lighter. It took four goes before he got a flame, and he flipped the lighter shut and clenched his fist over it, staring at his knuckles.
‘I – Granddad, please can I have the book he gave me? He’s never given me anything before, not even for birthdays or Christmas, and –’ I swallowed.
‘No. I said no, and I meant no.’
‘But –’
‘Oliver.’ He looked at me for what seemed like ages. Then he sighed and got up, put a hand on
my shoulder and pulled me gently into the room. ‘Sit.’
I sat down in his chair. The seat was warm. I bent my head and frowned at the typewriter as if this was my study and Granddad was disturbing me.
‘Olly, old chap. Listen to me. I –’ He leant against the bookshelves, flicking the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray at my elbow. ‘I’m not going to give you that book. Not until you’re much older. Possibly never.’ I started to say something and he raised his voice a little, so that his words cut through mine. ‘You have every right to be angry. I myself, in your situation, would be furious. But you must understand that I have only your best interests at heart.’
‘You told me I should read more. You said –’
‘Yes. And you should. How are you getting on with those books I found for you?’
‘I want the one Dad gave me.’ I twisted to look at him, wishing that I could trust myself not to cry. ‘Granddad, why won’t you –’
‘Because –’ He tilted his head back against the shelves, blowing smoke at the ceiling. ‘Your father . . . I suppose you’ve gathered by now that he was – we were something of a disappointment to each other. He made us both – Marian, your grandmother, and me – very unhappy. He got in with a bad crowd, and . . . We weren’t on good terms for some time before he married your mother, and then . . . Marian died, and when – he had to go away, and your mother needed my help . . .’
I sat very still.
‘I don’t want to speak ill of your father, Olly. I know you – you were very excited to see him, and that does you credit. But I’ve lived almost sixty-seven years longer than you, and I want you to trust that I do know what’s best for y—’
‘How can a book be bad for me? He’s gone, Granddad! He’s not coming back! Why won’t you –?’
‘What?’ His voice was sharp all of a sudden, as if he was talking to someone else, not me.
‘You shouted at him until he left!’
‘Oh.’ He breathed out in a tight, uneven way; it was like a laugh, but it wasn’t one. ‘Very well. The book.’
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