The Shell House

by Linda Newbery

  ‘Nineteen fourteen—so he’s eighteen, just a year older than me. He’s got three years to live.’

  Edmund Pearson gazed out of the portrait. He stood behind his seated parents with a hand resting on each wicker chair-back. He was lightly-built, and wore an open blazer, no tie, and cricket trousers. His hair, which looked as if it would be light brown, fell across his forehead; he had strongly-marked eyebrows and a steady gaze. His mouth could have been smiling, but not quite; he seemed about to speak to the photographer.

  Wonder if I’d like him, Greg thought, if I met him?

  ‘A real Mona Lisa smile,’ Faith said. ‘Find me if you can.’

  ‘Summer nineteen fourteen. They must have known by then that war was likely.’

  Faith’s father Mike came up to them, all smiles. ‘How are you two getting on with the scrub-bashing down there? Got you hard at work, has she, Greg? I’ll come down later and see for myself. Good to see you again. No better news about Dean, I’m afraid—awful business. Thank God you were here with your friend, though I should disapprove, strictly speaking, as you were trespassing, all of you. But come and have a look at this! We’re all very excited—’

  On one of the tables the local newspaper was spread out: two of the women were bending over it, exclaiming to each other. Ushered towards it by Faith’s father, Greg read JOE’S CENTURY, and the sub-heading LOCAL PENSIONER CELEBRATES 100TH BIRTHDAY. There was a photograph of a withered old man, beaming gappily by a huge birthday cake. Greg immediately recognized the cake as one of his mother’s; he’d seen her icing the words One Hundred Not Out, and packing it in its ribboned box ready for delivery to the old people’s home on the edge of the common. Nothing exceptional about that had struck him at the time, but Mike Tarrant urged him and Faith to read the article, and one of the women said to the other, ‘How astonishing!’ as they moved away.

  Greg read:

  It was a hundred candles and a telegram from the Queen for Mr Joseph Baillie, oldest resident of Oak Grove Retirement Home, last Saturday. Sprightly Joe enjoyed a birthday bash with fellow residents of the Epping home, where the Foresters Brass Band played golden oldies while Joe blew out the candles on his cake.

  ‘Joe’s a bit of a golden oldie himself,’ quipped Hazel Thorne, matron of Oak Grove. ‘He’s always in good spirits and he thoroughly enjoyed his party. It’s amazing to think that he’s lived in this area all his life. What changes he must have seen!’

  Joe Baillie was born at Graveney Hall, near Epping, where his father was employed as head gardener. Joe, whose two elder brothers were killed in the First World War, also worked in the Hall gardens until the fire which destroyed the mansion in 1917. Later, Joe worked as station gardener for London Underground on the Epping—Ongar line (now closed), a job which he held throughout the 1939—45 war and until his retirement. For most of his working life he lived at Toot Hill, near Epping, until the death of his parents. He never married and has no living relatives.

  ‘Joe’s marvellous for his age,’ said fellow resident Mrs Elspeth White, who is due to celebrate her own hundredth birthday in June next year. ‘I hope he’ll still be around to help me blow out the candles when my turn comes.’

  ‘Amazing, isn’t it?’ said Faith’s dad. ‘I’m going to visit him—see if he’s fit enough to come for Open Day. He could be our guest of honour; we might even get him to say something. If his memory’s good, he can give us all sorts of information about the gardens and the household. Old people often do have the most marvellous memories, especially of things that happened years ago. I’ll make a tape recording and transcribe it for our records—I bet we’ll get something to put in the next guidebook. This is such a fantastic find. And to think he’s been there all these years, a couple of miles down the road, and we might never have known!’

  ‘Mike, do you know where those boards are, for the entrance signs?’ someone interrupted.

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ll come and show you—you’ll need the key, and be careful of the stepladder.’

  Greg and Faith looked at each other.

  ‘He was here—he must have known Edmund!’ Faith exclaimed. ‘Oh, why didn’t we think of that—there still being someone alive who was here at the time!’

  ‘Because you don’t really expect people to live to a hundred and stay in the same area all their lives,’ Greg pointed out.

  ‘We’ve got to go and see him! He might know what happened!’

  ‘Your dad’s going, and if he gets his way the old codger’ll be here next week.’

  ‘No, on our own! We’ve got to ask him about Edmund. We can’t ask him that in the middle of Open Day. We need to get him to ourselves. Tomorrow, after school? I’ll ring first and make sure it’s all right.’

  Greg couldn’t match her urgency. ‘What are you hoping—that he stood by the lake and watched Edmund drown himself?’

  ‘He must be able to tell us something,’ Faith insisted. ‘Give us some clue.’

  ‘Well, OK.’

  Greg glanced back at Edmund in the photograph, framed, frozen and caught. Edmund in 1914, who did not know the dates of the Somme or Passchendaele, who had never seen a tank or heard of mustard gas, who had no idea what over the top would come to mean.

  Instead of cycling straight home, Greg took the longer route to Jordan’s house. He had no idea what he was going to say, and was almost relieved when Jordan’s dad, Stuart, told him Jordan wasn’t at home. But Jordan had been out all day, no-one knew where, and his father was anxious, Greg saw.

  ‘Come in for a few minutes, anyway.’

  Not really wanting to, Greg followed him indoors. Michelle was sprawled in an armchair, reading. She looked up, surprised and pleased, but her father led the way through to a book-lined study that adjoined the main room, evidently wanting to talk to Greg in private. He sat on a swivel chair and gestured Greg towards a small sofa.

  ‘Any more news of that boy, from the hospital?’

  Greg shook his head. ‘No change, as far as I know. Michael Tarrant went in this morning.’

  ‘You don’t know where Jordan might be, I take it?’

  ‘No,’ Greg said. A wrench of regret grabbed him somewhere in the middle. ‘I saw him on his bike, earlyish, about ten, but only for a minute. That was near my house.’

  ‘Not since then?’ Stuart McAuliffe was watching him closely. ‘He went out about then—hasn’t come back or phoned since, and his mobile’s switched off. Where was he heading?’

  ‘Didn’t say. Back here, I thought.’

  Jordan’s father compressed his lips and gazed out of the window. ‘He seems very upset about something. I’m worried, Greg, to tell you the truth. It’s not like him to go off without telling us.’

  Greg swallowed. ‘Last night, you know, when you rang, he’d gone up to Graveney Hall. But he’s not there now, ’cos I’ve just come from there. And there are lots of people about. He’d want to be on his own, I expect—’

  ‘You’ve had a disagreement, I take it?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Tell me it’s none of my business, if you like. But maybe I can guess.’

  Greg looked down at his hands. There wasn’t much point pretending; Jordan’s dad already knew most of it. ‘It’s like—we’re mates, and that’s it as far as I’m concerned.’ He picked at the edge of his thumbnail. ‘I mean, I’m not—you know—gay or anything. Definitely not! And there was nothing to make him think so. Only he must have thought—he got it all wrong—’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Then this morning, I told him I was with a girl last night,’ Greg said, to the nearest bookshelf. He didn’t know how to explain that Jordan was simultaneously the last person he wanted to hurt, and the one he wanted to hurt most. And what he’d just said—it sounded like bragging. Perhaps it was. He wasn’t even sure that his face wasn’t wearing a horrible smirk of self-congratulation.

  ‘I see,’ Stuart said; ‘yes, he’d take that badly. But then, if that’s how things are, he needs to know.’


  Greg looked up cautiously. He almost added: I told him to sort himself out. He felt prickly with the shame and unfairness of that too-easy taunt.

  Jordan’s dad sighed. ‘I’m sure it’s not the last time he’ll have to face this, but it’s the first time, and that makes it hard. It’s not going to be easy for him—he doesn’t take things lightly. Not that it’s particularly easy to be straight either, but being gay, at his age, still at school—I’m just grateful he had the courage to tell me. I’d hate to see him upset and have no idea why.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to . . .’ Greg stumbled, hearing how pathetic he sounded.

  Jordan’s father looked at him. ‘No, I’m sure you didn’t. Difficult all round, I can see that.’

  ‘I can’t seem to help it. I open my mouth and upset people. My other friend, Faith—you know, Michael Tarrant’s daughter—she’s not the one I was with last night but she’s my friend, and she used to believe in God till I started arguing with her and asking questions to prove she’d got it all wrong, so that’s my fault too . . .’

  He blathered on, wondering what had impelled him to start on this. Didn’t Jordan’s dad have enough to worry about, without being Greg’s agony uncle? But he listened attentively until Greg had finished, then appeared to give careful thought before saying: ‘It sounds to me as if you’re blaming yourself too much. This girl—Faith, did you say?—is bound to come up against problems and doubts sooner or later, and if you hadn’t made her question what she believes, someone or something else would have done. I’m a Jewish agnostic myself, and Ann—my wife—is a lapsed Catholic. We’re a family of lapsers, so I’m not the best person to talk to about matters of belief. But it may not be as drastic as you think. Faith may get her faith back, if that’s what she wants. Maybe you’ve raised doubts she already had. She’ll have to sort them out for herself.’

  The study door opened and Michelle came in. ‘Mum says does Greg want to stay and eat with us, and wait for Jordan?’

  Greg looked at Stuart; a glance confirmed that it would be better if he was not here when Jordan came home. ‘No. Thanks, but I’ve got to go.’

  He cycled around aimlessly for a while. It was dark and getting cold; eventually, driven by hunger, he went home. His mother met him at the front door. ‘Jordan’s dad just phoned again. He says to tell you Jordan’s come home.’ She looked at him suspiciously. ‘Mind if I ask what’s going on?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ Greg said. ‘Bit of a misunderstanding, that’s all.’

  Oak Grove

  Greg’s photograph (colour), close-up, enlarged: Faith’s cross on its chain. The crucifix is of plain design; its cross-piece catches the light. The links of the chain necklace loop out of the frame. The piece of jewellery is photographed against a fabric background of matt green (Greg’s pencil case).

  From: JMcA@zoom.com

  Date: 7 October 2002 06.25

  To: greghobbs@mercury.com

  Subject: Re: sorry

  Never express yourself more clearly than you think. Nils Bohr.

  That was all. Greg stared at the screen, scrolled down to see if there were any more, stared at it again. Typical bloody Jordan—clever, indirect, baffling. But it didn’t sound friendly, whichever way he looked at it. He turned off the computer without replying.

  The weather had turned wet and gusty. Arriving early in the sixth-form common room, Greg found Jordan in his usual place in the corner, reading a Guardian which Greg could see was last Friday’s copy.

  ‘Hi,’ Greg said, trying to pretend nothing had changed.

  ‘Hi.’ Jordan looked up briefly and went back to his reading.

  ‘Got your e-mail,’ Greg said. ‘Nils Bohr?’

  Jordan lowered the paper for a second. ‘Physicist.’

  ‘I know that, but what was he on about?’

  ‘Theoretical physics.’ This time Jordan didn’t even look out from behind the Guardian.

  ‘Where d’you get to yesterday?’ Greg tried.

  ‘Out.’

  Still Greg hung around, counting out coins for the coffee machine. ‘Want a drink?’ he asked.

  Jordan inclined his head towards the steaming cup on the table which made the question redundant. Greg got his own coffee and sat down two chairs away, remembering that he was supposed to have gone to the pool this morning for training; had Jordan expected that? He sat in silence, undecided; Jordan read on, taking no further notice of him.

  People began to trickle in, Monday-morning subdued, moaning about the wet weather and undone homework and looming deadlines. Ben Cousins dumped his bag and came over. ‘Hey, you two—where were you Friday?’

  ‘Friday?’ Greg echoed. The day of Dean’s accident, the evening he and Jordan had talked by the Pan statue—he wasn’t sure he wasn’t going pink in the face.

  ‘Cricket! I had you two down to play. We were two short—’

  ‘Sorry,’ Jordan said. ‘Forgot all about it.’

  Ben’s glance swivelled to Greg. ‘You as well?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, mate. Went right out of my head.’

  ‘We lost, in case you’re interested. I’ll find someone else next time, as it’s too much trouble to show up.’ Ben gave them a withering glare. Greg looked at Jordan, hoping to find that Ben’s scorn had reunited them as friends, but Jordan had turned away and was fastening his rucksack.

  First lesson was English with Mr O’Donnell. Jordan, arriving first, went to sit in the spare seat by Maddy, which left Greg with Bonnie. ‘In favour, am I? Wossup?’ she hissed, interested. ‘You two had a row or something?’

  Greg shook his head, aware that Bonnie’s stage-whisper was loud enough to carry to everyone in the room. She was the second person today to use the phrase you two; now that it was no longer applicable, he wondered if people said it all the time, and how it was meant. God, did everyone know? But what was there to know? Did everyone assume, then? Maddy didn’t, obviously; her cheeks were glowing with pleasure because of Jordan’s choice of seat. She was heading for disappointment, Greg thought with malicious amusement.

  ‘You know this thing teachers have about mixing up boys and girls?’ he answered Bonnie. ‘To stop boys from under-achieving? Thought I’d give myself the benefit of your scintillating insights into world literature.’

  Bonnie goggled at him. ‘Scintillating? It’d take a couple of pints on a Saturday night for me to do that. First thing Monday, you can forget it.’

  Mr O’Donnell came in, observed the new seating arrangements without comment, and started the lesson.

  ‘A diversion to start with,’ he told them, handing out sheets. The class was used to what had become known as his free-range slot, roaming from Pliny to Sylvia Plath to Primo Levi. Refusing to be hemmed in by the syllabus, he often read them something just because he liked it, or to make an interesting point, or to encourage them to read widely. ‘We looked at the extract from The Return of the Native a couple of weeks ago, and some of you know Thomas Hardy as a novelist—yes, Maddy, Jude the Obscure’s been filmed, as well as some of the others. But Hardy was also a very prolific poet. This one—The Oxen — is one of my favourites.’ He cleared his throat and read:

  ‘Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.

  “Now they are all on their knees,”

  An elder said as we sat in a flock

  By the embers at hearthside ease.

  We pictured the meek mild creatures where

  They dwelt in their strawy pen,

  Nor did it occur to one of us there

  To doubt they were kneeling then.

  So fair a fancy few would weave

  In these years! Yet, I feel,

  If someone said, on Christmas Eve,

  “Come; see the oxen kneel

  In the lonely barton in yonder coomb

  Our childhood used to know,”

  I should go with him into the gloom,

  Hoping it might be so.’

  Mr O’Donnell paused at the end, looking at the students over the top o
f his glasses. ‘You know, I’ve read that poem countless times, but reading it again just now the ending sends a tingle down my spine.’

  Next to Greg, Bonnie gave a little snort of derision, which she swiftly converted to a hiccup when Mr O’Donnell looked at her. ‘Bonnie? What do you think? Any tingles for you?’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘OK, who does?’ Mr O’Donnell scanned the class for offers. ‘Jordan?’

  ‘Well, it says at the bottom Nineteen Fifteen. That gives a context to the line In these years . . . the First World War. Hardy seems from this to be an agnostic who’d like to believe in God if he could—’

  ‘An atheist, you mean,’ Bonnie interrupted.

  ‘I mean an agnostic,’ Jordan said, not looking at her. ‘An atheist is someone who definitely doesn’t believe in God. An agnostic thinks God’s existence can’t be proved but can’t be disproved either. Thomas Hardy—or at least the person in the poem, not necessarily Hardy himself—can’t believe. I don’t think it was just because of the war, but because of Darwinism and advances in science—that could be implied. He thinks the idea of the oxen kneeling on Christmas Eve is like an old-fashioned fairy-tale, but all the same if he could see them do it for himself . . . he’s hoping, not just going along to see . . .’

  Greg listened in some astonishment, as did Mr O’Donnell, while Jordan, who rarely volunteered to speak in class, explained the poem so well and fully that even Bonnie got the gist.

  ‘Thank you, Jordan. That’s very good,’ Mr O’Donnell said when he had finished. ‘It’s a subject that preoccupied Hardy—what kind of God could God be, if he exists at all, since he seems indifferent to human suffering? On Wednesday I’ll bring you The Convergence of the Twain , Hardy’s take on the sinking of the Titanic . . . And now we’d better get back to our war poets, though the poem we’ve just read is certainly relevant, as Jordan says.’