Anna tries to ignore him. Normally, she would enjoy the banter, and even make fun of the situation and her place in it: noble and selfless daughter going to look after mad old widow in the middle of nowhere. They could have had some fun with that. But Anna can’t begin to fathom her place in this situation, let alone mock it. Her final trip to the car is with two armfuls of clothes swept off the rail in the bedroom. She dumps them in the boot, on top of the boxes, the books, the computer, and the map, which Brendan retrieves for her, causing a subsidence of clutter in the back. They stand in the yard and scan the houses opposite. No one else is on the street. Anna runs her hand along the ridge of the open car door, feeling the stickiness of the rubber sill under her fingers.
What did you tell Marie? she asks, searching for a last way out, Did she give you time off, just like that?
Brendan grins.
I told her that I’ve got to look after my elderly mother for a while. Well, it’s nearly true!
And she’ll keep your room for you?
Brendan waggles his head to mean maybe, maybe not. He sighs.
Of course she will. No one understands her like I do. We have a bond.
So that’s it, says Anna.
That’s it.
No excuses.
Nope.
I feel sick, she says.
It’ll be the thought of driving all that way, says Brendan, fanning her with the road atlas, You just take it easy.
And you look after my squirrels, she says, feeling tearful and ridiculous.
It’s for a few weeks, Anna, he says, They won’t even know you’ve gone. I promise I’ll give them breakfast before they have their shower.
Anna ignores this renewed attempt at levity.
Have you packed some CDs? he asks.
A few, she says, scowling, I think they’re in the boot.
He hands her a plain paper bag with a CD inside.
Well, here’s a new one. Something to get you through the wilderness, he says.
I don’t know if I can do this, she says.
Brendan comes close and holds her, squeezing her tight. He doesn’t say she can.
I’m travelling in some vehicle, sings Anna, and, jabbing the pause button before the next line of the song, pulls into the car park. Situated on a stretch of asphalt, propped up against a ramshackle garage, is a low, rendered building advertising itself as an All-Day Eatery. It’s the first stopping place Anna has seen since she got lost coming off the A14.
And I’ll be sitting in some bloody café any minute now, Brendan. Thanks for nothing, she says, so loudly that two lorry drivers standing in front of their trucks stop their conversation and stare at her.
Joni Mitchell, she says, striding across the forecourt.
I’m Tony Mitchell, says the shorter of the men, which earns him a shove from his friend. They don’t speak again until Anna is under cover of the awning, peering at the sign on the door. It says Open 24/7, but when she tries the handle, it’s locked.
They’re closed, says the man who called himself Tony, Shut for good now the by-pass is open. But you can get stuff in the garage.
Food, says the tall man.
Is that what it is, says Tony, I did wonder.
Anna looks about for signs of life. Through the plate window, a teenage girl is reading a newspaper.
Thanks. I just wanted some directions.
To?
To Great Yarmouth.
The men point in different directions. Tony is all for sending Anna onwards, cross-country, to take in the scenery. The tall man thinks she ought to retrace her steps and use the new by-pass to get on the A143,
Because that’s what it’s for, he says.
The bleep of a phone ends the debate. Both men pat their pockets and inspect their phones.
Yours, they say, in unison.
Anna pulls out her handset and flicks the button. It’s a single-word message from Brendan: W-W-Walter, it reads.
Walter, she says, at a loss as to what it means. Moving back to her car, she turns and waves at the two men.
Thanks for your help.
Walter, calls Tony hopefully, I’ve got a mate called Walter!
TEN
At Victoria station, Lewis boards the coach. When the driver asks him where he’s going, he stares at her, his mind blank.
All the way, he says, To the end.
Toilet’s out of order, she says, So we’ll be making an extra stop after Stanton.
It’s all the same to him. Lewis takes a seat at the back, sprawling along the row. The out-of-order toilet is located down some steps a few seats ahead of him: whether it’s the sickly smell of chemicals, or his presence—staring people down as they approach—the area around him remains unoccupied. He doesn’t have to look any particular way to put people off; Lewis knows how to appear unfriendly. When the bus pulls out of the terminus, he throws his jacket over his head and crosses his arms over his chest. To anyone else he’s a worker on the night-shift, getting his head down for a few hours. In the sweet leather darkness, Lewis pays another visit to Manny.
He’d spent his time in Cardiff at the old man’s house. Despite the bad way they’d parted after going to find his mother, Lewis had run out of ideas. He realized he had a number of choices: he could stay, and make at least one more effort to see his mother, he could go back to London; or he could go anywhere in the world. Anywhere in the world turned out to be Manny’s back door. He didn’t seem at all surprised to find Lewis standing there for the second time that day, with a clutch of beers in his hand.
Peace offering, said Lewis, holding the four-pack out to Manny, From the prodigal.
Not my bloody prodigal, thank God, so you can forget the fatted calf, Manny said, It’s fish and chips. And you’re buying.
The worst, reasoned Lewis, would be having to sleep in Carl’s old bedroom. He tried to put it from his mind, but Manny wanted the preliminaries over before they went to the takeaway and ‘settled down’ for the night. He took Lewis upstairs, nodding at one closed door,
That’s mine and Sylvie’s,
and another, which had a china plate on it with what looked like a faded insignia. Lewis peered at it, trying to read the words. Sonia Eloise Finn was written in tiny, elaborate lettering.
Sonia’s room, said Manny, She invented the middle name. Always a bit above herself, that one.
He pushed open the door of Carl’s bedroom. It was dark enough, but from the sliver of light that bled round the edge of the curtains, Lewis could make out a divan in the corner with a red duvet, posters on the walls, the wallpaper lurid despite the gloom.
You’ll find it’s not been altered, Manny said, I don’t believe in decorating for the sake of it, and there’s nothing wrong with this.
He passed a hand over the wall,
Bloody expensive, too.
There’s plenty wrong, Manny, said Lewis, eyeing the repeated pattern of the Liverpool FC crest that covered the entire top half of the wall. Beneath a white dado-rail, the paper had been painted scarlet. It was stained here and there with fingermarks and smudges.
He always was a stinking little glory hunter. Suppose he’s a Man U supporter now?
When you’ve quite finished taking the mick, said Manny, You’ll find clean sheets and that on the chair, look. Duvet’s not been used in yonks, so give it a bit of a shake-out.
Manny moved into the room, turning the pillows over and banging them together. Lewis remained on the threshold.
If it’s all the same, Man, I’ll sleep downstairs.
Not on the settee, you won’t. Sylvie’d be rocking in her grave. And the lad’s not stayed in donkey’s years, so you won’t catch nothing. It’s either this, or you’re in with me, said Manny, And no offence, youth, but you’re not my type.
They went to get fish and chips from the takeaway in the next street, Manny walking past the neighbouring houses with a pronounced limp that Lewis hadn’t noticed during the day.
What’s happened to you? he
asked, looking down on Manny’s beret and the thin straggles of hair poking out on either side.
Nothing, said Manny, Just act casual.
When they got to the end of the road, Manny resumed his normal walking style.
I’m suing Snobson, he said, You’ll recall the Snobsons? Them with the picket fence and the airs and graces?
Lewis remembered them; he remembered their son, Sam, most of all.
Well, that boy’s gone right off his nut now. Gone to live with the gyppos over the rec. So April just gone, old Snobson, he buys himself a dog from them. For protection.
Manny grabbed Lewis’s arm, leaned to one side, and pulled up his trouser leg. He pointed to a faded, semi-circular scar on his calf.
Not just any old dog, now. A—hang on, what d’you call it?—a Bedlington lurcher. Well, excuse me if I don’t curtsey. Nearly had me for his lunch. But Snobson reckons I was trespassing.
Lewis coughed back a laugh.
And were you?
Nope. I was just disposing of some rubbish they’d dumped in the garden—and looking up into Lewis’s eyes, gave the answer—An old fireplace, if you must know.
From their garden, said Lewis.
Manny paused outside the takeaway and studied the menu in the window. Lewis remembered it as the Fish Plaice, but that was years ago. Now it was the Hong Kong Chinese, with laminated pictures of various food items tacked on the glass.
I was doing them a favour. Being neighbourly. It looked like it was put out for the rubbish, and what am I? Mystic Meg? In my book it’s called finders keepers.
They’re worth a lot, those fireplaces, said Lewis, Especially cast iron. Especially with the original tiles.
Manny turned and stared, as if Lewis were a stranger who’d accosted him on the street.
What would you know about it?
Two men edged around them and went inside. Three young boys followed on their heels.
I used to work in reclamation, said Lewis, Y’know, ripping stuff out of schools, hospitals. Are we going to get some food, Manny, or just stay here and look at the pictures?
You? In reclamation? That is a laugh.
Only I might just starve to death standing here listening to you going on.
That dog took a chunk out of me, said Manny, pointing to his shin, It’s got to be a crime. You can have chinky from here if you’d rather, he said, pushing the door open, Or a curry.
The phone was ringing when Manny let them back into the house.
You get that, son, he said, And I’ll bring these through.
Leaning back in the doorway, he shouted down the hall,
If it’s insurance I’ve got it, double glazing don’t want it!
Lewis turned, the receiver on his chest,
It’s definitely some sort of scam, Manny. This twat calls himself your son.
Manny dropped the parcel of chips on the table and ran down the hall.
I can see that leg’s really giving you jip, said Lewis, handing over the phone.
They ate their supper from the paper, then passed the time smoking, drinking beer, and when that was gone, Manny’s whisky. After what had happened in the morning, Manny was careful not to mention Lewis’s mother, so they talked about nothing in particular, avoiding the past and skirting the present. Lewis knew Manny wouldn’t mention Carl first; he’d have to bring it up.
What did he want, then? asked Lewis, nodding towards the phone in the hall, Trying to sell you knock-off?
Says he’s got some business down the bay. He wanted to know who you were, said Manny, staring crookedly at Lewis.
Lewis stared evenly back.
What did you tell him?
I told him the truth. He was very complimentary about you, n’all, as it happens. Said he might pop in, for old times’ sake.
At this news, both men fell silent. Manny turned the television on, and they watched the end of a period drama about a stern mill owner who falls in love with a penniless employee. Manny pulled a face and made tutting sounds.
My Sylvie loved this sort of tripe, he said, Anything with a bonnet and a bustle, she was glued.
You miss her, said Lewis.
Aye, I do. But I don’t miss that, Manny replied, leaning over to turn the sound down. He produced a pack of sticky playing cards from a drawer, and they played brag into the early hours, using matches for money, until Lewis declared himself bankrupt.
That’s a hundred quid you owes me, by my reckoning, said Manny, giving the cards a final flourish, Unless you wants double or quits?
Lewis drained the last of the whisky in his mug,
Go on then. My choice of weapon.
Reaching into the pocket of his jeans, he took out a ten-pence piece.
And I thought you were skint, Manny deadpanned.
Your shout, said Lewis, balancing the coin on the edge of his thumb.
Tails, no, hang on, heads. No. Tails.
Sure? Lewis raised his eyebrows and flipped the coin. It twirled through the air, catching the brass edging of the coffee table with a bright chime and rolling to rest between Manny’s feet. They both bent over to look at it.
Quits it is, laughed Lewis.
Manny’s voice was creased with dismay.
It took a dint on the way down, he cried, Surely that’s a re-throw?
Don’t be a bad loser, Manny. After all, what did you always say to us? It’s not the losing, boys, it’s the taking part.
Manny hooked his mug in his finger and grumbled his way to the kitchen.
You know where the bathroom is! he shouted, in a tone he imagined was stern, And the bed. I’ll see you in the morning.
Lewis wasn’t ready to face Carl’s room again. He reached over to the remote control and turned up the volume on the television. Manny put his head round the door.
I’ve marked that whisky, he said, then, seeing the expression on Lewis’s face, he put his hand on his shoulder.
Just help yourself, son. I’ll give you a knock in the morning.
Lewis stared up at him.
You got some work on?
Said I’d meet Carl at the Old Airport, said Manny, Nothing to trouble yourself about. You can come too, if you fancies a trip.
I’ll sleep on it, called Lewis, hearing Manny’s footsteps on the stairs. To himself he said,
But not up there, in that cunt’s pit.
The rain sits in bright drops on the window of the bus: finding his own eyes staring at him shocks Lewis back into reality. The driver has pulled into a lay-by banked by a clot of dense bushes. She calls out, Diss, anyone for Diss? Against the blackened leaves, Lewis looks at his reflection again, sees himself doubled and slightly out of register, his eyes glittering and untrue.
Thought you were going to the end, she says, as Lewis steps off the coach.
ELEVEN
When Anna can no longer bear the sound of the buffeting wind, she switches on the radio. The traffic news cuts in immediately, giving out information on local tailbacks, diversions, and accidents. The announcer warns of gusting rain and gales spreading from the east. Searching for a station, she hits another button at random, and Joni Mitchell resumes her singing. Anna lets the scenery sweep away on either side of her. The sky directly ahead is thunderous black, but in her rear-view mirror, a clear twilight blue. She doesn’t recall the last few miles she’s travelled, or dusk falling. A lorry bearing down from the opposite direction flashes its beams at her, and Anna puts her headlights on. Round a winding incline, aware of the glare and dip of another set of lights coming towards her, Anna almost doesn’t see the figure cutting its way through the landscape. He’s too near, walking the cats’ eyes at the edge of the road, so she has to pull out into the middle of the carriageway to avoid hitting him.
Tosser! she shouts.
In her rear-view mirror, she glances back: he’s carrying a kitbag over his shoulder and holding out his thumb.
Never in a million years, she says.
TWELVE
The las
t thing Anna wants, with a headache and a bad night’s sleep to haunt her, is breakfast with Vernon and his waistcoat. She tiptoes down the stairs and pauses at the dining-room door, listening hard for signs of life: cornflake munching, heavy breathing, anything to warn her of his presence.
Coast is clear, says a voice behind her, which makes her jump. Marta comes through from the kitchen, carrying a tray loaded with coffee and toast and boiled eggs.
Hi, says Anna, Am I the last?
Actually, you’re the first and the last. Mrs Calder and Mr Savoy don’t normally take breakfast down here. They have it in their rooms, Marta says, with a delighted, whispered emphasis, as if this fact is a great secret.
Who are the eggs for? asks Anna, following Marta into the dining-room.
For you, if you like. Certainly for me.
Marta collects some cutlery from a box near the door and sits down at a window table. Anna pulls up a chair opposite. She watches as Marta shells an egg, dips it into a pile of salt on her side-plate, and bites the top off. Marta has a fresh look, with clear, pale skin and her hair pulled back off her face. Her eyes in the morning light are mineral blue, framed by prominent laugh-lines. Anna sees that her hair isn’t blonde, as she first thought, it’s the colour of blanched almonds. Her mother was right about her age; Marta has the vigour of a younger woman, but close up, she could be fifty. Anna decides she likes her, but the sight of the egg disappearing so quickly makes her feel nauseous. Outside, on the road, the trees are bending under the onshore breeze.
I think I had too much of that brandy last night, says Anna, waving away the offer of toast, I’ll stick to wine in future.
They are great brandy drinkers, laughs Marta, Every night, chink chink! Down the hatch!
And the odd spritzer for elevenses, continues Anna, like a mantra, A little something in their afternoon tea . . .
Yes, and then it’s cocktail hour. They’re very—Marta searches for the word—Sociable.
I’m not sure that’s the way I’d put it, says Anna, and seeing Marta’s quizzical look, changes the subject. She doesn’t want to discuss her mother’s habits at this hour, and Marta is a stranger still.
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