for Susanne Hillen and Bruno Buckley
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
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ALSO BY JONATHAN BUCKLEY
Copyright
1
My life began to veer badly off-course on a Tuesday morning in May. I had been to my company’s Guildford branch, in North Street, and was on my way back to the car when my phone rang: it was Kirsten, a researcher from a TV production company that was putting together a programme on British designers. She’d contacted me a week earlier, to ask if I’d be able to give them an interview, and now she was ringing to talk about the schedule, and to tell me a little about the presenter: Otis Mizrahi was his name, and he was, Kirsten told me, totally brilliant – a star in the making. Seconds after this conversation had ended, the phone rang again.
This call was from Alan Stirling, the manager of our Tottenham Court Road showroom. He told me that a young man had turned up, asking to see me. Or rather, demanding to see me – this character had been aggressive from the outset. When Alan had explained that I wouldn’t be at the showroom today and didn’t know when I’d next be in, the man had made it clear that he thought he was being given the brush-off, and more or less called Alan a liar. For a second or two it had seemed that things might turn nasty, but Alan had eventually managed to convince him that he really didn’t know the details of his employer’s timetable. ‘When you see him, give him this,’ the man had said, scrawling a number on the back of a catalogue, then he’d left in a hurry, barging a customer out of the way. Alan read out the number and I made a note of it, but no sooner had I written it down than Kirsten was on the phone again, and in the course of the drive back home I had another call from my office at Tottenham Court Road – we had a problem with one of our suppliers. The problem turned out to be a major one. So, within an hour, Alan’s troublesome young man had been shunted into a remote siding of my mind. Consequently, I didn’t get round to calling the number that evening.
The next day I reached Tottenham Court Road at about ten o’clock. Alan had news: yesterday’s visitor had been waiting at the door when he’d arrived, and had been even more unpleasant than previously. Straight away he’d accused Alan of having failed to pass on the message. ‘This is important,’ he’d said, talking over Alan’s reply and giving him a hard stare. He’d written down the number again. ‘This is what you’re gonna do,’ he’d said. ‘You’re gonna ring your boss and I’m gonna come back this afternoon to check you’ve done it. And if you don’t do it, I’ll be a very unhappy bunny.’ Alan had asked if he could tell Mr Pattison what this was about. ‘It’s personal,’ he’d said, with a smile that was worse than his stare.
‘What age was this chap?’ I asked. He was in his mid-twenties, Alan guessed. He described him: a little over six feet tall, short dark hair, muscular, grey eyes, a scar – a burn, he thought – on one forearm. Tattoos as well. The description brought no one to mind.
I rang the number, and the person who answered was disconcertingly polite. ‘Thank you for calling, Mr Pattison,’ he said. There was a trace of East End in the voice, a trace that became more prominent, erratically, in the exchange that followed. He denied having used threatening behaviour with my manager – he’d simply wanted to impress upon him (his words exactly) that this was an extremely important matter. ‘I didn’t care for his attitude, I have to say,’ he said. ‘He wasn’t very accommodating. Off-hand. Like he couldn’t be arsed. Couldn’t be bothered, I mean. But if I put the wind up him, I’m sorry. I just thought he’d binned my number, and I wanted to make sure he understood the situation.’
I wanted to know what this important matter might be.
‘Nothing bad,’ the man replied. ‘Opposite of bad, in fact, so don’t worry yourself on that score.’
I assured him that I was not worrying myself and was rather busy, so would he please get to the point.
‘Oh, right. Sure. OK,’ he said, like a schoolboy called to order. ‘Thing is, this has to be face to face. Not like this. It’s not something I can do over the phone. When you see me, you’ll understand. Believe me. I’m not taking the piss. I mean, this isn’t a wind-up,’ he said.
There was no possibility, I replied, of my scheduling a meeting with someone whose name I didn’t know, for purposes equally unknown.
‘Sam,’ said the man. ‘My name’s Sam and this really is worth your while, believe me. All I need is five minutes, no more than that. Any place, any time. Straight up: five minutes is all, and you’ll thank me for it. Name the place. Give me five minutes, that’s all I’m asking.’ I hesitated. ‘You think I got heavy with your manager and you’re thinking I’ll get heavy with you. Is that it? Is that the problem?’
This wasn’t the problem, I told him, untruthfully.
‘Look,’ he went on, ‘the bloke was nervous. OK. I accept I made him nervous. Wasn’t my intention, but there you go. He’s a little geezer. I’m not. The place was empty. Just the two of us. He felt he was at a disadvantage. So you and me, we’ll meet where there’s a crowd, OK? Kind of insurance policy, if you like. We meet in the shop, go for a coffee and a chat. A quick chat. Whenever you like. What do you say? Not a lot to ask, is it? Come on. Believe me, I’m not having you on. It’ll be worth your while. What do you say?’ he repeated, and then he said ‘Please,’ with so strange an intonation – almost as though we were longstanding friends who had fallen out and he was pleading for a reconciliation – that I found myself saying that I’d think about it.
‘What’s there to think about?’ he said. ‘Name a day, I’ll be there. You’re not going to get any trouble from me, I guarantee. But I do need to see you. So, give me a day. Any day. Any time. But soon.’ I said I’d give him a call in a day or two. This was not acceptable: ‘No,’ he said emphatically. ‘Don’t give me that. Come on. This is important.’
I told him I’d be free the following Thursday, around lunchtime. ‘That’s good for me,’ he replied instantly. ‘What’s lunchtime in your world? One? Let’s say one, at the shop.’
Not wanting him in the showroom, I suggested instead a café on Warren Street.
‘Great. Cool. I’ll be there. But you’re a busy guy. I know that. So if something comes up, give me a bell. OK? You’ve got my number. If you’re held up for some reason, we’ll fix another time. OK?’ I agreed that I would do that. ‘Nice to talk to you. Thanks for this. I appreciate it,’ he said, as if deeply touched by something unusually considerate that I’d done for him.
The following Thursday, at 1 p.m., I walked into the café. It was busy and I couldn’t at first see anyone who was unaccompanied. Then I saw, in the furthest corner of the room, a man sitting at a small table; he was the only solitary person in the room. His head was lowered, presenting a crop of black hair in which three or four scars stood out like ticks of chalk. He was wearing a black sweatshirt that was flecked with paint of various colours, and as I approached he was picking a scab of paint or plaster off the back of a finger. Glancing up, he seemed to recognise me instantly and stood up with such urgency he almost toppled his chair. He offered a hand, smiling as though meeting a celebrity; the hand was as rough as a dry old glove, and his grip would have shattered a mug. ‘Very pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘Really pleased. Thanks for giving up your time.’ And before I could say a word he went on, having sat down: ‘Look, I think, on second t
houghts, this isn’t the best place. Didn’t think we’d have such a crowd. I mean, I can hear every word of what’s going on next door,’ he said, blatantly aiming a dismissive look at the two women seated to his left. ‘Don’t want to feel like we’re being bugged, do we? We don’t want an audience.’
‘An audience wouldn’t bother me,’ I said.
‘I think it could do,’ he answered, with a smile that hinted momentarily at intimidation, then seemed to be promising me a pleasant surprise. ‘But we can stay here if you like,’ he said, raising his hands. A tattoo of red and blue Gothic script appeared, running under the sleeve from the inside of the wrist of his right arm. ‘If you insist. But I really do think it’d be better outside. Let’s take a stroll. Down towards Goodge Street. By the time we get there I’ll be done. Ten minutes, tops,’ he said, standing up. A waitress, hurrying to our table, slowed down and gave me a questioning tilt of the head. ‘It’s all right, babe. We’re leaving,’ he told her loudly, adding a wink, plus another for the two women alongside. He held the door open and swept an arm outward with overdone courtesy.
‘So what’s this all about?’ I began, once we had turned the corner. ‘Let’s start with who you are.’
‘I’m Sam. Sam Williams,’ was the reply. This was answer enough, he clearly believed. He looked me in the eyes, to ascertain that his name had tripped the right circuits.
In my mind, however, very little was happening. Only two connections suggested themselves. ‘As in Clive?’ I asked. ‘You’re related to Clive?’
‘Who?’
‘Clive Williams. Used to work for me.’
‘No. Try again.’ We had come to a pedestrian crossing. Sam Williams turned his face towards me, to offer a clue that surely could not be misread.
‘Simon Williams?’
‘And who might he be?’
‘A neighbour, years ago.’
‘Cold. Very cold,’ he replied, with a frowning smile, surprised at how badly I was doing.
At this point my patience expired. ‘Look, just tell me—’
Irked by this rebuke, he interrupted me with: ‘That’s Williams as in Sarah Williams. I’m her son.’
The meaning of the name took a second or two to arrive. Sarah, absent from my mind for years, was now there; for now, however, she brought no association of guilt. Ignoring the signal to cross, Sam kept his face in front of mine, allowing me to examine his features for a few seconds longer. In the set of the mouth there was, perhaps, a slight similarity to Sarah’s; nothing more.
‘We’d better get moving,’ he said. ‘People will think we’re a pair of queers.’ He stepped out into the road, forcing a taxi to brake; the driver snarled at him, and received from Sam a savage stare and ‘Go fuck yourself.’ At the kerb he touched me on the elbow, lightly, yet impelling me to keep pace; it was as though we had a pressing appointment and were running late. ‘You see the resemblance?’ he asked.
‘Possibly,’ I said.
‘Possibly?’ he cocked his head back, startled. ‘You’re having me on. You must be. It’s totally obvious.’ Putting fingertips to his chin, he presented his profile to me.
‘Maybe,’ I said, observing nothing familiar.
‘OK. OK,’ he muttered, coming to terms with the disappointment of this response. ‘It’s been a long time, I suppose. You haven’t got a clear picture any more. That’s understandable. But believe me, I look like her. I really do.’ He tugged a flattened packet of cigarettes from the back pocket of his jeans, lit one, and went through the motions of offering one to me.
‘So—’ I said, inviting an interruption.
‘Yes?’
‘How is she? What’s she doing nowadays?’
Sam took a long drag and expelled a strong jet of smoke. His lips tightened; his gaze turned penetratingly downward, as if he were considering a question of great difficulty; and then he laughed. ‘Not a lot,’ he said. ‘Not a lot. Nothing at all, in fact. The thing is, she’s dead.’
The impact of this announcement was not especially strong, and there was no element of grief in what I now experienced. The emotion that prevailed, for the first few moments, was something like relief that the purpose of this meeting had now been declared. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ I said.
He nodded but did not look at me. His next drag consumed a quarter of the cigarette.
‘When did she die?’ I asked.
‘Four months ago. Five.’
‘What happened?’
‘Brain haemorrhage.’
Again I expressed sympathy.
‘Getting a meal ready, she was,’ he went on. ‘Opened a cupboard door and – pumpfff!’ He brought a forearm down from the vertical to the horizontal, shaking his head – not so much upset by the manner of her death, it seemed, as amazed at the immediacy of it.
‘I’m very sorry,’ I repeated; the only response from Sam was a shrug. Still we were walking rapidly towards Goodge Street. ‘Thank you for telling me,’ I said, slowing.
Sam halted, turned to face me, and squinted as if he suspected that my remark had carried a subtle meaning. ‘So?’ he said.
I had no idea what he required me to say. ‘Is there any other family, apart from you?’ I asked.
‘Just me,’ he said, maintaining the squint.
Evidently a particular question was expected of me, but I couldn’t think what it might be. ‘Do you live in London?’ I asked, finding nothing better.
‘For the time being.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘South,’ he replied, with a small quick smirk, then his scrutiny relaxed and he exhaled the sigh of a man giving up. ‘Fuck me,’ he whispered. ‘You’re slow, old chap, you know that? Really slow. You’re not getting it, are you?’ He scanned the street to right and left, put a hand to my back, and propelled me twenty paces along the pavement, until we were standing by a van that had silvered windows at the back. He stepped down into the gutter, pulling me with him. ‘Look,’ he ordered, pointing to the images of ourselves in the glass. His reflection regarded me incredulously. ‘Come on, Mr Pattison. For God’s sake. It’s obvious. Look. Look,’ he whined, passing a hand in front of the adjacent faces, back and forth, back and forth. ‘Sarah was my mother. You’re my father. Look.’
All I saw was a grin on the face of Sam, and my own flabby stupefaction. A weakness struck me; I felt the ground lurch. ‘That’s not possible,’ I said.
He was smiling at me with the happiness of accomplishment. ‘Not just possible, Mr Pattison,’ he said. ‘True. Totally true. Your son – here I am.’ He clapped a hand to my shoulder in congratulation, then hooked a hand under my armpit to hoist me out of the gutter.
‘She said nothing,’ I objected. ‘She’d have told me.’
In a gesture of powerless sympathy his arms rose and fell. ‘What can I say? She didn’t like you. She didn’t like me. There you go. We’re in the same boat.’
As I regarded my supposed son, I was seized by the courage of a timid man who instantly decides that he refuses to be mugged. ‘I don’t believe it,’ I stated. ‘It’s impossible.’
‘You’ve already said that,’ he replied. ‘It’s a lot more than possible. It’s a fact.’
‘You’re nothing like me.’
‘I can’t believe you don’t see it. I just can’t.’
‘There’s nothing to see.’
‘Maybe it’s your eyes,’ he suggested. ‘I’m not being funny, but do you normally wear glasses?
‘My eyes are fine. There’s nothing to see.’
He put out a hand to take my arm. ‘Let’s walk,’ he said.
‘Let’s not,’ I said, stepping out of reach.
He withdrew his hand, as if from a small dog that had snapped, but he was smiling. ‘It’s a shock for you. A big shock. I understand,’ he said.
The smile became patronising; there was nothing in it of the emotion that a man would surely feel upon being united with his father after more than a quarter of a century apart. ‘Who ar
e you, really?’ I said. ‘What do you want?’
Sam wrenched his face into an expression of wounded perplexity. ‘What do you mean, what do I want? You’re my father. A few months ago I’d never heard of you. Then I found out who you were, and I thought I should meet you. Natural, isn’t it?’ Taking my bemused nod as assent, he went on: ‘It’s a story. I’ll tell you everything. Anything you want to know, I’ll tell you. But this isn’t the place. Not the place, not the time. I know how you feel. It’s unreal. It’s a bit unreal for me, to be frank, but for you it must be weirder. I understand. I do. You need time to get used to the idea. We both have to take our time. This is just the start. We’ll build on this. We’ll—’
He might have gone on for minutes like this, had I not murmured: ‘It’s simply not possible.’
This made him pause, but only for a few seconds. ‘Proof,’ he resumed. ‘You want proof, don’t you? I can tell that’s what you’re thinking. It is, isn’t it? That’s OK. No offence taken. You won’t believe it until you see it in black and white.’ The tone was that of an adult addressing a child who required a demonstration of the bizarre notion that something made of metal could float on water. ‘It’s fine. I’ll give you proof. When you’re ready, we’ll meet again. Give me a call. Or I’ll give you a call. Let’s have your number.’
‘I’ll give you a call,’ I said.
‘Sure. Sure. Whatever you like. You’ve got my number, yeah?’
‘I have it.’
‘OK. Good. OK.’ He was shifting from foot to foot now, rubbing his hands together. ‘Well, we’ve started. You’re a busy man. I’ll not keep you. A week, say? We’ll get together in a week. Call me,’ he said, shoving a hand into mine. As he sauntered away he had the swagger of a lout strolling away from a man he’d just punched unconscious for insulting him. When he was a hundred yards off, however, he turned and waved to me, and he was more like a boy walking down the garden path, waving goodbye to his parents.
2
Aileen was in the kitchen when I got home; she’d been up in London, to meet a couple of clients and to help her sister choose an outfit for a friend’s silver wedding anniversary party. She was at the sink, preparing a salad, with her back to me. I walked up to her and put my arms around her waist. A scent of chamomile rose from her hair, a perfume so comforting that it made me put a kiss there, lightly. Then it struck me that this kiss was an unusual thing for me to do, and I let go. She didn’t turn round, of which I was glad – I was sure my face would show her that something was amiss. I started to set the table.
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