‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘Frogs.’ They were everywhere: on the tables, on the window ledges, in the toilets, hundreds of them, wherever you looked. Around the school other doors opened and shut, as classes prepared to evacuate. Clearly the new wildlife reserve behind the caretaker’s house was suffering from an amphibious population explosion which natural predators had been unable to staunch. That was what happened when you tried to kick-start your own ecosystem. In the end he’d rung the fire bell and got everyone out on the playground while the pest control people had gone in. What a day!
The rain had stopped by the time he picked up his overcoat and said goodbye to the caretaker, but when he opened the car door there was an inch of water swilling around under the pedals. As he reversed out of his space he could hear more water slopping back and forth somewhere in the undercarriage. Another job for the weekend. If only he’d walked to school instead of driven today, Jane, not he, would have discovered it and had to deal with it. He slowed down as he passed the church, his conscience pricking him as he recalled the previous Sunday’s sermon. The curate had spoken movingly on the subject of Doubt: ‘On the journey of Faith, Doubt may well be a regular fellow-traveller. Rather like a garrulous companion who attaches himself to you uninvited, he may interrupt your concentration, and distract you from enjoying the scenery. You wish he’d go away and leave you in peace. But if you keep strictly to the path you intended, without stopping or changing direction, even though you may no longer have any heart for the journey, and find it tedious, one day you will look around and notice he’s given up and is no longer by your side.’
Guy had stopped to talk to the curate after the service. ‘I’m having just the experience you describe,’ he said.
‘And yet here you are coming to church,’ said the curate. ‘Which is exactly the right thing to do.’
Perhaps Jane had been right when she’d said, ‘Just keep practising.’
‘You can ask God for help, you know,’ the curate went on. ‘Even if you feel He isn’t there. It’s often at times like these that He reveals Himself most unexpectedly.’ So Guy had slipped back into the church and prayed: Please, Father, give me a sign.
He had promised himself he would observe a daily act of prayer, and now, here he was, only five days into the regime and already taking a day off. He was too busy imagining himself indoors, enjoying a quiet lie-down with a hot toddy and a couple of those knockout painkillers Jane took for her periods. But as he pulled into the drive and switched off the engine he heard a noise from inside the house that was both familiar and strange: the whimpering of a young baby. He was momentarily transported back to those first few months after Harriet’s birth, when the sound of his key in the latch each evening seemed to trigger a full six hours of inconsolable screaming. None of the strategies recommended by the childcare manuals had provided any relief. He had an enduring image of Jane, standing in the bay window of their old house, jigging Harriet up and down in her arms, both their faces red and bloated with crying.
The noise had stopped by the time Guy opened the front door. ‘Hello,’ he called, then stopped, as a small boy emerged from the downstairs loo, pulling up a pair of pink lacy pants. He looked at Guy in alarm and scuttled into the dining room, closing the door behind him. Guy took off his coat and slung it on the banisters – an annoying habit that Jane was trying to break – and dumped his briefcase in the hall before putting his head round the sitting room door. On the couch a woman he’d never seen before was breastfeeding a fat, bald baby. They both had their eyes closed as if fast asleep. Guy retreated, experiencing a sudden loss of confidence that he was in the right house, but, no, the furniture was his, and there was even a picture of him on the wall with that goofy expression on his face. He made his way upstairs, stepping over pieces of broken biscuit and crayon stumps as he went. A small witch, whom he recognized as Harriet, came panting past him on the landing. ‘Who’s that downstairs? Where’s Mummy?’ he asked.
‘I’m a naughty witch and I’m going to turn you into a frog,’ she replied, giving him a gap-toothed leer, then thundered back downstairs, grinding biscuit into the carpet at every step.
Guy shook his head. He’d had quite enough of frogs for one day. He went into the bathroom in search of some tablets; the pressure behind his eyes was intolerable. In the sink a pair of boy’s jeans lay leaking navy dye into the surrounding water. As usual a couple of naked dolls were floating belly-up in the bidet. There didn’t seem to be a glass to hand, so Guy choked back the dry tablets which sat like pebbles halfway down his gullet. He wondered whether he ought to go back downstairs and introduce himself – and inquire after his wife – instead of skulking around like a burglar in his own house, but he didn’t feel the least bit inclined to be sociable. Perhaps he would just lie down on the bed and fall asleep, and when he woke up his headache and the houseful of strangers would be gone.
In the bedroom Guy drew the curtains and pulled off his tie. He saw with some irritation that the contents of the laundry basket in the corner had been strewn over the carpet; most uncharacteristic of Jane. He kicked the clothes into a heap and started to change out of his suit. He had just taken off his trousers and was draping them neatly over a hanger when he noticed that the lid of the Ali Baba basket was moving – rising up, in fact – and a second later a boy’s forehead and eyes appeared over the rim.
‘Shhh!’ hissed the boy. ‘I’m hiding.’ And then his eyes widened with the shock of recognizing the half-undressed figure of his headmaster and he dropped back into the basket with the lid on top of him.
Slightly dazed, Guy reeled out on to the landing and scrambled into the loft, pulling up the ladder behind him.
When Jane came back with the milk the car was in the driveway, but Erica claimed not to have seen or heard Guy. ‘We have been dozing over this feed,’ she admitted, when Will came crashing in, saying, ‘There’s a man upstairs with not much clothes on.’ And before either of them could reply, Gregory had appeared in the doorway with a look of panic and confusion on his face, adding, ‘Yes. And it’s Mr Bromelow in his pants.’ The laughter that greeted this remark only seemed to deepen his bewilderment.
‘You could have warned me,’ Guy complained later, when the visitors had departed and the house was restored to order. ‘I suppose that story will be all over the playground on Monday.’
‘I didn’t know you’d be coming back early,’ Jane replied. She was still laughing over it hours later. ‘Didn’t it occur to you to say hello to Erica when you first came in?’
‘It was the end of a long day,’ said Guy. ‘Who is she, anyway?’
‘My friend,’ said Jane, with a hint of defensiveness. ‘She’s my friend.’
‘How can she be? I’ve never even heard of her.’
‘You don’t listen, that’s why. I’ve known her months. Well, two months.’ Now, with hindsight, Jane considered their friendship to date from that very first encounter in the park. Looking back she was able to invest it with tremendous significance. The near catastrophe of a lost child; the providential theft of a newspaper: she could see them for what they were now – the first links in a chain binding her and Erica together, a chain growing longer and stronger every day.
19
A little less than a month after his meeting with Hugo, Guy was woken in the early hours by the telephone. He twitched awake, heart hammering, and then lay there hoping that someone else would get it, or that it would stop ringing: there was no heating in the flat and Guy hadn’t the slightest intention of leaving his warm bed. But whoever it was was prepared to hang on, and after a minute or so, Guy caved in and stumbled downstairs, shivering and worried, now, that, having committed himself to being awake and cold, he would be too late, and the caller would hang up, unrebuked.
‘Yes?’ he said into the receiver, without bothering to conceal his irritation.
‘Am I speaking to Mr Guy Bromelow?’ said a brisk, unfamiliar voice.
‘Yes,’ said Guy, moderati
ng his tone a little.
The caller introduced himself as a police officer. ‘Do you know someone called Hugo Blanchard Etchells?’
‘Ye-e-es,’ said Guy, uneasily, wondering what this admission would lead to.
‘Only we’ve got him down here at St Thomas’s Hospital, Casualty. He’s been in an accident, and we’d like someone to take him home. We’re not going to be charging him,’ he added, which made Guy’s heart sink.
‘Is he all right?’ he asked. ‘What happened?’
‘He’s not injured, just a bit scratched. He was going the wrong way through the Kingsway tunnel in a shopping trolley when he was struck by a moped.’ The police officer related this without a snigger. ‘We suspect he’s under the influence of drugs.’
‘Oh,’ said Guy, nonplussed. ‘Look, I hardly know him. How did you get my number?’
‘It was written on a beer mat in his pocket. He said to call you.’
‘All right, I’ll be along as soon as I can.’ And before he could stop himself he even said ‘Thanks’. As he hung up he caught sight of himself in the glass of the front door, naked and goose-pimpled. Thank you for waking me in the middle of the night so I can trek halfway across London to bail Hugo out of some mess of his own making, he thought crossly, pulling on yesterday’s clothes and pocketing the pile of change and crumpled notes on the bedside cabinet. He’d had no intention of seeing Hugo again. He had sent him a cheque to repay that night in the pub and had been quietly relieved when there was no follow-up. The matter of the desert trip had apparently been forgotten, or, as Guy suspected, had collapsed early in the planning process.
When Guy arrived at Casualty and inquired at the desk, he was directed to one of the curtained cubicles. Hugo was sitting on the examination bed, legs dangling, a peaceful, vacant expression on his face. He was wearing a hospital gown and his socks. A policeman was slumped in the only chair, passing an empty styrofoam cup from hand to hand. He sprang up as Guy entered.
‘Oh, good. You’re here at last.’
Guy bridled at that, and was about to expound on the difficulties of crossing London in the early hours, but the policeman cut him off, saying, ‘You can take him home now.’ He turned to Hugo. ‘Don’t do it again, mate. It could be a bus next time.’
‘Buses aren’t allowed through the underpass,’ Hugo pointed out, and then went into convulsions of silent laughter.
‘Look, you’re lucky we’re not charging you,’ the policeman snapped, riled by Hugo’s ingratitude and general insubordination. ‘What’s he on?’ he demanded, addressing Guy in the same tone.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Guy, aggrieved at the way he was being treated as some sort of accomplice.
‘Possession of drugs is an offence, you know.’
Behind his back Hugo held up his hands and turned them over, then flapped his hospital gown to indicate that he was clean. ‘He’s lucky we’re not charging him,’ the policeman said again, before ducking between the curtains. Guy could hear him telling someone, a nurse, presumably, that he was leaving. ‘The next of kin’s arrived,’ he said.
I am not his next of kin! Guy wanted to shout. He is nothing to do with me!
Still laughing, Hugo slid down off the bed and reached for his clothes. As he slipped off his gown Guy saw that the whole of one side from shoulder to hip was grazed and sticky with ointment.
‘What about the other bloke, on the moped?’ Guy asked, catching up with the policeman outside. ‘Is he okay?’
‘Well, he’s discharged himself. The bike’s damaged though. That’ll be an interesting one for the insurance company.’ Over his shoulder Guy could see Hugo silhouetted against the curtain, hopping about trying to put his trousers on. ‘I’m off then.’
‘Righto. Thanks.’ He’d done it again, before he could stop himself. Really, he cursed, was there no limit to his grovelling? It was Hugo’s fault. The sheer tactlessness of the bloke made you swing to the other extreme.
Hugo, entirely unabashed by his brush with death and the forces of law and order, presently joined Guy in the waiting room, buttoning a torn shirt one-handed. He plucked at the fabric on his injured side. ‘It’s sticking to me,’ he complained. ‘You’d think they’d have given me a dressing or something.’
‘Perhaps you only get the basic one-star service if the wound is self-inflicted,’ said Guy.
‘No chance of a ride home in an ambulance, then?’ asked Hugo. He looked at Guy with puzzled, bloodshot eyes for a moment, then said, ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’
‘I’ve been asking myself the same question,’ said Guy frostily. The fact that he had selflessly turned out on this errand of mercy appeared to have gone unacknowledged by all. ‘The police called and asked me to pick you up. Apparently you had my number in your pocket.’
‘That’s right,’ said Hugo, pleased to have remembered something relevant. ‘I told them you were my next of kin so that they’d ring you if I died. Otherwise you’d have been wondering why you never heard from me.’
‘That was very thoughtful of you,’ said Guy, his sarcasm quite wasted on Hugo, who beamed at him. Guy steered him towards the exit. ‘Are you going to tell me what happened, then?’
Hugo’s brow furrowed. He spoke with great concentration, counting off each stage of the story on his fingers. ‘We were in someone’s flat smoking skunkweed. Quite strong stuff, actually. In fact I’m a little bit stoned. Can you tell? Er . . . oh, yes, we decided to go for a walk. Someone found a shopping trolley in Southampton Row. I got in it – don’t know why. Childish really. They pushed me down the middle of the road right into the tunnel under the Aldwych. In the wrong direction. Those trolleys can go quite fast downhill. Er . . . I could see this bike headlamp coming towards me so I sort of jumped out, and the trolley kept going and hit the bike. Someone called an ambulance. The others just legged it as soon as they heard the sirens. Bastards.’
‘So apart from that graze are you injured?’
‘I don’t think so. They did some X-rays.’
They had reached Waterloo station by now. Hugo kept widening his eyes and blinking at the lights. Occasionally he would catch hold of Guy’s elbow and squeeze it tightly. ‘It’s never affected me like this before,’ he kept saying. And then, ‘Have I just said that?’
Guy looked at his watch. It was five past three. ‘There’ll be no tubes. Do you feel up to getting the bus?’
Hugo looked mutinous. ‘No. Perhaps I’ll just hang around here till morning. I’ll find somewhere to lie down. It might have worn off by then.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Guy. Hugo was the sort of person who could get into a punch-up in the British Library, or Harrods food hall – there was no way he’d survive a night among the dossers and winos at Waterloo. ‘I’ve got enough for a taxi. Come on,’ he said, trying to quell a sudden upsurge of that odd combination of exasperation and pity which Hugo always managed to provoke.
Hugo plodded meekly a few paces behind Guy all the way to the taxi rank where a row of cabs stood empty, their drivers a few feet away in a group, chatting and smoking. One of them, seeing Guy and Hugo hovering, gave them a nod and flicked his unextinguished cigarette into the gutter before climbing back into his cab. Guy couldn’t remember Hugo’s address, and neither, to begin with, could Hugo: he could only think of his previous place in North Row. Just as Guy was about to surrender and offer Hugo a bed in his own flat for what remained of the night, Hugo’s memory returned, and the taxi sped off across the bridge into the deserted heart of London. Hugo seemed to fall into a stupor on the journey, and Guy was able to close his eyes himself, and calculate how much sleep he might be able to snatch before morning. He wasn’t even tired now; that was the trouble. But he would be later, in class. And he was being observed today.
‘Oy, we’re here.’ Hugo was rapping on the glass partition. Guy opened his eyes with a start as the driver braked hard. He followed Hugo out and passed next week’s beer money through the taxi window. He would have to walk h
ome: that meant three hours’ sleep, maximum. Hugo’s building was in darkness. He produced a key from his back pocket, but it didn’t fit the lock. He looked at it, mystified.
‘Are you sure this is the right house?’ Guy asked urgently, as Hugo jabbed the bell and pounded on the door with his fist.
‘Yes. Right house, wrong key.’ He opened the letter-box with a flat hand and yelled ‘Wakey wakey!’ through the slot. A light at the top of the house came on and a moment later there was the sound of unhurried feet on the stairs.
I’ll see him safely indoors, thought Guy, and that’s it. Goodbye. If he rings, I’m out. If he writes, I’ve moved.
The door opened and Nina stood there, in a man’s white T-shirt, her long hair rumpled from sleep. She had a grumpy expression on her face, which gave way to surprise as she saw Guy standing in the shadows. Hugo patted her on the shoulder as he passed. ‘Put the kettle on. I’m parched,’ he said.
A Dry Spell Page 18