The Kissing Gate

by Susan Sallis

  He remembered his prickly reaction to a proposed visit last time they were here. He smiled too. ‘Sorry about that. Anyway, I think the arrival of his unwanted son might have a very adverse reaction to anything commercial.’

  Mack put a hand on his shoulder to indicate that his emotional moment was over. ‘Just think like your sister, Ned. She wants to console her mother for the loss of Mark, perhaps tidy up things for herself. Your father has lost his ex-wife – perhaps he needs consolation too. And if you can tidy things up for yourself at the same time … there’s a definite point to this visit. We wish you well.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve given up hope of including any more of the Gould pieces in the Trust’s collection. We’re looking for new painters and sculptors.’

  Ned picked up the conversational ball. ‘I wish some of Gussie’s work was transferable to canvas.’

  ‘We include site-specific work, you know, Ned. We’ve got photographic stuff from all over the world. Are you any good with a camera?’

  ‘It’s part of my work, of course.’ Ned spoke slowly, already wondering whether it would be possible to record some of the things Gussie did with earth, water, stones …

  Marion laughed. ‘Look, lunch is late already and Emily has been making some miniature Cornish pasties. Please have one, Ned.’

  Michael passed a plate and they all tried the tiny pasties, which were delicious but not at all like the Cornish variety. Ned munched and thought how wrong he had been about the McKinnons. They were not the hard-nosed business-people he had imagined. He went into the guest room for a long afternoon’s sleep and emerged feeling better than he had since Gussie left for France.

  Before he left for his plane the next day he tried again to phone Gussie. He got through all right, but the line was bad and their shouted exchange simply confirmed that Gussie was doing fine and he had arrived in New York safely. On the other hand, Jannie phoned him and sounded as if she were just next door.

  ‘I’m almost there, Ned!’ She sounded tired and ecstatic at the same time. ‘I need a couple more case examples. I hate thinking of any of them as “cases” but that’s a bloody dissertation for you. Not that mine is anything like a dissertation, and my cases are completely anecdotal anyway.’

  She listened to his news and he could almost see her nodding. ‘You sound good. Better. You needed to do this, didn’t you? I didn’t actually realize … Ned, would you mind terribly if I spent some of the Easter vac at my school? Well, you know, not exactly mine. Hartley. Where I did that practice.’

  As if he could forget Hartley and its assembled cast. Robert. That was the name of Jannie’s chap, Robert … Hanniford. He felt absurdly pleased to have remembered the name.

  Jannie was still talking. ‘Well, I could pick up some more anecdotes, of course, but mainly it’s because four of the kids can’t go home for the hols and they’re staying at school, and of course they need help. I won’t use up the whole holiday but—’

  ‘Jannie, shut up a minute. Of course we won’t mind. It’s important. And if you can make it home for a few days before the summer term, just to tell us what is happening with you—’

  ‘Ned, I absolutely love you to bits. I’ll be sending good vibes all the time you’re in Pasadena or wherever it is. And I want you to tell your dad about Gus and me and how much we love you. OK?’

  ‘Oh, Jan. It’s more than OK. Now, I want you to take care of yourself—’

  ‘Naturellement – oh, no, that’s for Gussie. Sure thing, kiddo. You too. Got to go, Ned. Good luck!’

  He held the receiver after she had gone, staring at it. Her sheer ebullience was still emanating from it. When he replaced it – gently – he wondered aloud whether she was the one who would hold them together. Her disintegration had been instant and she had lost her temper with them because they had not understood her need to proclaim their loss and share it with the whole world. Now she was getting herself together – had been doing so since their arrival in the States last October – and it seemed he was the one who was disintegrating. He wasn’t sure about Gussie. She was, after all, the strong one. But there was this business about Andrew Bellamy. And somehow Rory might upset her particular apple cart too. As for himself, what the hell was he doing here? What did he hope to achieve, for Pete’s sake! He was still staring at the phone. It occurred to him suddenly that this was the way Mark and Kate had sent their last message. He swallowed fiercely, his whole being consumed with the desire to see them again. He pictured his mother’s face; her voice telling him to ‘calm down’… to ‘do something constructive’ … to ‘get on with life’. And he whispered furiously, ‘What can I do except wait for Gussie to get back and try to reconstruct what you two managed to do so effortlessly?’

  There was a sound from the door and he looked up to see Michael waiting for him. His face showed that he had heard Ned’s angry question.

  Ned said, ‘Sorry, Michael. Sometimes … you know …’

  Michael nodded, cleared his throat, said, ‘Comes over you now and then. All those people …’ He cleared his throat again and in a stronger voice he said, ‘None of my business, of course, but there is something you could do. Might help you. Or not. I don’t know. You could try to talk Victor Gould into letting the Trust exhibit some of his stuff.’

  Ned stared at him. He said slowly, ‘Did Mack ask you to have a word?’

  Michael grinned. ‘He’d kill me – worse still, he might fire me – if he knew what I just said. But it was what Mark and Kate would have done.’ He shook his head. ‘Take no notice of me. I didn’t know them like you knew them.’ He began to close the door. ‘Mack’s taken Marion for her therapy. He didn’t want to make too much of saying goodbye, hoping you will stay again on your way home. I’ll take your bags down to the car and wait there. Can you say something to Emily? She would like that. She thought a lot of Kate.’

  He was gone. Ned stood up stiffly and went to one of the windows to stare across the treetops to where the carousel must be. He was frowning prodigiously as he tried to work things out. His mother had warned him against commercialism yet had accepted that first offer years ago from Mitch, who had been chairman of the Trust then; indeed, he remembered her ‘negotiating’ very successfully, not for money perhaps but certainly regarding the site. And Mack was a good man; as good as Mitch.

  He walked through the enormous apartment to the kitchen and hugged Emily to him. Her hands were floury; she held them wide, laughing up at him.

  ‘I wish you well, honey. Your ma would want you to be happy. Remember that.’

  ‘I will. And I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise!’

  ‘You know what you’re doing?’ She stood there, hands now held over her mixing bowl. ‘Mack showed you the village, right on the edge of the ocean, the house a way up from it. Just get a taxi and—’

  Ned laughed. He suddenly felt in charge of himself.

  ‘I know what I’m doing. Just this once I actually know what I’m doing!’

  He pecked her cheek and made for the lobby.

  Fourteen

  IT DID NOT work out as planned. Nothing did any more; looking back over the past six months he saw life as a series of shocks. This time he had imagined it would be he who would deliver the next shock. Plain old Ned Briscoe, who never did anything exciting, would turn up practically unannounced and say to the ancient man in the wheelchair, ‘I did write. Several times. No replies.’ Slight pause, then the knock-out: ‘I’m your son.’

  He had to smile at his own absurdity, but somehow it had helped him to get on the plane and make a real effort to invent another scenario, much more targeted and hard-nosed. This one was more difficult because he was so far off being either targeted or hard-nosed. In fact, what the hell was he doing, sitting on a plane bound for Los Angeles, intending to meet a stranger who had accidentally become his father?

  He almost struggled out of his seat but the woman next to him suddenly said, ‘Please d
on’t worry if I grab you when we take off. I think I’m old enough to be your grandmother so you won’t get the wrong idea.’

  He glanced at her, surprised. This was America and she was American. And she – and her daughter – would have had to be about fourteen to make her his grandmother. Then he met her eyes and saw sheer terror there.

  He put his arm on the rest between them and turned it, opening his hand as he did so. ‘Grab it when you need it,’ he said, and smiled.

  She put her hand on his immediately; her grip was like iron. ‘Thank you. You’re English too. You’re supposed to be scared of flying.’

  ‘Am I? Oh, you mean the English in general.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I didn’t know that. Actually, I’m scared of a lot of things. Strangely, flying is not one of them. But I know about being scared.’

  The stewardess came round to tell them to fasten their seat belts. The engines appeared to be racing. The woman’s grip tightened.

  Ned said quickly, ‘I don’t like those rides where they take you up very high. We’ve got one in London called the Eye. Apparently there are wonderful views from the top. I couldn’t do that.’

  The woman was breathing quickly and audibly. He said quietly, ‘We’re airborne now. Does that make it better?’

  She said on an outward breath, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ Ned moved his hand slightly and she released it.

  ‘I’m real sorry. Did I hurt you?’

  He grinned. ‘Not seriously. But what happens if you sit next to a frail elderly lady?’

  ‘I don’t know. I sat by a man going to New York and I’m sitting next to you going home!’

  ‘Your first flight! So you know very well you’ll be all right from now on.’ He spoke with more assurance than he felt and she looked doubtful. He said, ‘You’ve done it twice successfully.’

  ‘It’s worse when we land.’

  He had encountered this stubborn pessimism from a young Jannie. He said, ‘You need a mantra. Let’s see … “If you give me your hand, we’ll float down to land.” Will that do?’

  ‘Oh, gee. You make it sound like this flying tank is some kind of thistledown!’ But she was laughing anyway. He sensed that now he would get her life story; but at least it meant he couldn’t think about Victor Gould or why he was here in the first place.

  The amazing thing was, as they came in to land, she said thoughtfully, ‘Seems a good thing to do. Before he dies. I mean, if he was born in 1918 he must be pretty old. And it might not mean much to you but I guess you’ll always regret it if you don’t make the effort.’ There was a silence, surprised, on his side, as he wondered what he had said to put her so thoroughly into the picture. Then she said, ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! We’ve landed and I didn’t grab your hand!’ He hoped very much that he had deliberately told his story to divert her terror. He laughed and so did she. ‘Did you make all that stuff up? About famous painters and all?’

  Ned shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Can’t remember what I said now!’

  She leaned over and pecked his cheek. ‘Well, I think you’re just the sweetest man I’ve ever – ever – sat by in a plane!’

  He had to wait for his luggage and she had just a shoulder bag, so they parted, and when he went down the moving walkway to the concourse he was still smiling. He found a sheltering pillar and paused to feel through his pockets for his father’s address. Then he stopped. That first scenario of his was tempting, but ridiculous. Supposing the old man had a heart attack? The second – hard-nosed, etc., – probably would evoke the heart attack. He would go to a hotel, have a meal, make a phone call. Behave like Ned Briscoe.

  Then a voice below him said, ‘Hey. You must be Edward Gould. I can see the likeness.’

  Ned looked down. The man wasn’t all that short; he wasn’t exactly overweight either. He was stocky. He was very stocky. Bald too. Eyebrows showed up too much, nose might have been broken at some point.

  ‘Conrad Porter. Ex-wrestler. Victor’s home help.’ He held out a hand like a ham and Ned shook it. It seemed to be his day for hands. ‘Professionally I was Con the Terrible. But Victor has always called me Conrad, and I kinda like it. I tried to call him Vic a coupla times, but it didn’t work.’

  ‘Well … I’m pleased to meet you, Conrad.’ Ned’s varied scenarios weren’t working either. He said, ‘Is, er, Victor not well? I mean … is he expecting me?’

  ‘Sure. There was a message on the phone just yesterday with your arrival time. I’ll take that.’ He swung Ned’s backpack on to one shoulder, which effectively put him out of Ned’s vision. ‘I got your room ready after your letter, anyway.’

  They were suddenly striding very fast along an automated walkway. Ned was out of his depth again. He concentrated on his legs, which seemed insubstantial next to this Conrad chap’s short and very workmanlike stumps. He registered that they were covered only to the knee; Conrad was wearing shorts. Ned swallowed a laugh. He must remember all these moments to share with Jannie and Gussie.

  They emerged into brilliant sunshine. The heat was intense. Conrad swung the backpack to his other shoulder and Ned could see his face. Ned was reminded of the oven glove that hung next to the range in the basement kitchen of Zion Cottage, big and battered, protective.

  ‘It’s good of you to meet me like this,’ he said. ‘I can manage New York fairly well. But this – this is the New World, all right.’

  Now they were in a car park. It was lined with palm trees. Palm trees in a car park? Conrad lifted his heavy brows towards their waving tops. ‘They shade the cars. Save on the aircon.’ He went unerringly to a grey Ford, almost invisible among the enormous limousines surrounding it. He flicked a remote and the car clicked a greeting. Ned went to the left-hand seat forgetting it was the driver’s side. Conrad said, ‘You can drive if you like, Edward.’ He held out a key.

  Ned laughed. ‘Sorry. Never driven on the right. Forgetting where I was for a moment.’

  Conrad grinned back and waited till Ned was seated in the passenger side before getting behind the wheel. ‘Victor never drives. Something to do with getting on a horse. Seems like in England you get on a horse from the right-hand side, so you have to drive on the left. Right?’

  Ned laughed again and put on a ghastly accent. ‘I guess so.’ He was pleased when Conrad gave that melon-like grin again. He realized that he liked him. ‘And by the way, Conrad, everyone calls me Ned.’ He dimly recalled something Kate had said back in their other life. ‘Your father had an uncle – died before he was born – called Edward. He was always known as Teddy. And you have the same name but will be Ned.’ Sitting there, toes searching for a non-existent brake as they surged into traffic outside the airport, Ned wondered whether he might be able to ask Victor about the unknown Teddy.

  Conrad eased the Ford into the fast lane – which Ned had to remind himself was the slow lane here – and said, ‘OK. Ned it is.’

  The drive took almost four hours. Mack had said it was a long trip but somehow the fact that he recommended a taxi had made Ned think it was no longer than an hour. They came off the carriageway as the last of the city disappeared into hills.

  Conrad said briefly, ‘Pacific Highway. Going down through the hills now, then cut across the headland. Oldfield Village is in the corner. One of the first fields to be mined. We’re about a hundred miles along the bay.’

  Ned said, ‘I thought the house was in Oldfield Village.’

  ‘It’s the postal address, and there’s nothing else in between or much beyond, so we’re Oldfield Village.’ Conrad flashed the grin sideways. ‘Dennis brought Victor out here – he had this cabin on the beach. But then Dennis met this Irish girl and they got married and went to Ireland, and Victor stayed on. He was probably happier on his own.’ He grinned again. ‘He didn’t have to work hard at being a recluse. He was a natural.’

  ‘And you applied for the job of – of – house manager?’

  ‘Not really. It sort of happened. He’ll tell you. But he’s serious about be
ing alone. He never makes a phone call; let’s me phone for groceries and once for a doctor. Otherwise, whatever happens, happens.’ He wasn’t grinning any more. ‘If you hadn’t turned up, he wouldn’t have done a damned thing about it. He works all the time – goes into himself when people do find him. He was invited to the last meeting of the Trust. Didn’t go, of course, else he’d be dead now. But Harry McKinnon came to see him just last fall. After coupla hours – got some lunch for him took him round the studio – Victor excused himself and left the house. Didn’t come back for two days. I thought he was dead. Found him in the hills – neat little camp he’d set up. Took no notice when I yelled at him. Came home as meek as a lamb.’ He frowned. ‘I’ve got to tell you this. You’ve got to know … certain things.’

  There was silence. They were going through an orange grove. At the edge of the road appeared a stall, a woman was sitting in a low chair by several baskets of oranges. She had her feet on one of them and was reading a book. Ned continued to digest Conrad’s basic information and wondered what he was getting himself into.

  ‘He’s over eighty.’ He watched Conrad’s face as he negotiated the stall carefully and followed the road as it wound between the trees. The smell was overpowering. ‘Is it dementia?’

  ‘You crazy? He’s the sanest man on the planet, for God’s sake!’ The face was angry and the words slowed right down. ‘He – does – not – want – to see – people.’ He puffed exasperation. ‘Listen, if he doesn’t want to see you when you get there, then he won’t tell you to get lost, he’ll just disappear.’

  ‘But … for two days? He’s eighty-two!’

  ‘Eighty-three actually. Birthday last November.’ He lifted a hand from the steering wheel. ‘That’s how it is, Ned. That’s why we’ve got this car – Mister Anonymous, he calls it – that’s why we live in a cabin on a beach without a proper address.’ He turned his mouth down. ‘You have to know. He said, “Tell him nothing”, but you have to know.’