by George

by Wesley Stace

  Perhaps I was asleep. Perhaps I woke as Hartley walked in. He opened the curtain to check on the last of the bedraggled, dripping into the showers. Without turning round, he spoke my name.

  “We should thank you, I suppose: we won. That substandard pitch rather favoured our long-ball game.” There’ll always be an Upside. “Your library system survives to this day. Now you want to be groundsman?”

  “Sorry.”

  He sat down, dismissing my apology with a shake of the head. “I shan’t be interviewing you. Given the overwhelmingly negative evidence before us, I’d say you’re not cut out to be a groundsman.”

  “Nor was Donald.”

  “Perhaps not, perhaps not. But he was a particularly good groundsman. We had high hopes originally, of course. A director of theatre, we thought, or, failing all else” — he smiled — “a teacher . . .” Hartley ran his finger along the stems in his pipe rack. He dismissed the thought. “And we do what we can. There are better ways to be close to him, George. You’re not a groundsman. You’re a Fisher.”

  I’m a Hartley, I thought. It was as if I had spoken aloud.

  “I’m sorry, George. It was your mother’s decision. We agreed because we thought that it would be good for you, that it was a way he could help you — an education your family couldn’t afford — and good for him, that it was his chance. But he was in no fit state to be a father. You mustn’t hold that against him.”

  “I don’t.” I thought of walkie-talkies, teas, afternoons together on the games fields. “He was a good father.”

  Hartley got up awkwardly from behind his desk. Looming over me, he sat down on the arm of the chair. There was a knock on the door, to which Hartley gave a firm “No!” Then, with his previous tone of voice: “He wanted to be.”

  “He was.” So much suddenly seemed comical about the situation: this unapproachable hulk of a man so close I could taste the perfumed tobacco on his jacket as we spoke about the strange sham of my schooldays; the person on the other side of the door, perhaps a visiting dignitary, refused entrance to the inner sanctum.

  “He had little opportunity, and I’m sure he would be very proud,” said Hartley. “Though not of your groundsmanship. And now . . .” He paused, weighing up the relative merits of the alternative. “. . . though it may be the booby prize . . . you have us.” Indicating that I should stay where I was, he went to the door for a muttered conference that lasted only a few seconds. When he returned, he did not offer the same intimacy, sitting behind his desk and tamping down the tobacco in his meerschaum. I rolled a cigarette, and we admired our mutual smoke as it fingered its way around the chandelier.

  “Did your mother tell you?”

  “No,” I said. “She wouldn’t tell me. I had to find out for myself.”

  “May I give you some advice, George?” Smoking, he was a more satisfied man. “Your mother did what she thought best. And there were certainly times — the years Donald was not . . . with us — when it was the best thing. And just as she was to tell you, things got very much worse for him; having you here was too much, and the only thing was to get the help he needed elsewhere. But he’d been through it all before, countless times, and he couldn’t bring himself to go through it again. Don’t hold that against him. Or her.”

  “She should have told the truth.”

  “The truth is not always the best thing.”

  “Vincit Veritas?”

  He smiled, considering the school motto. “In this very Eden, we offer certainties, for there will be no more. You’re not a schoolboy, George. The truth can be selfish. Life, as you know, is complicated. One day you will have the opportunity to tell the truth, and, for whatever reason — because you think it best, because you don’t want to hurt someone, because you do want to hurt someone, because you want to get reelected — you will lie. And then you will understand.” I put my cigarette out in the ashtray on his desk. “And that is the pep talk that I never had the chance to give you before. I’m afraid there is the small matter of tea as we commiserate with the vanquished semifinalists, but if you’d like to wait here . . .”

  “May I make a phone call?”

  “Treat the place as your own, but don’t scare my wife, don’t frighten any more infirm schoolchildren, and don’t smoke my tobacco.”

  “Do call you Grandfather?”

  “Don’t push your luck, Fisher.”

  “Two things: I’d like this photo album and George.”

  “George?”

  “My dummy.”

  “Ah. The photo album? A loan, no problem. The dummy? There we do have a problem. I’m afraid George was shanghaied by Smith-Price on behalf of the junior third, who are currently honing their skills on him under the careful supervision of absolutely no one at all. . . . I thought it might help the little fellow with any residual trauma from last night, but I will get him back. Be here when I return.”

  “Yes.”

  “Apologies, apologies,” I heard him call into the world beyond as the door closed behind him.

  I picked up the phone and dialled Crystal Clear.

  “Six four three five?”

  “Brenda?”

  “Who’s that, please?”

  “George.”

  “George? George? Oh, thank God.”

  “What?”

  “Your family’s been in touch; they’re worried sick. They haven’t seen you in two days. They rang here and they were going to call the police. I had to say you’d stayed at my place. I thought you were going straight back. . . .” There was dead air. “Nice to hear your voice, by the way. Literally.”

  “I need a driving lesson.”

  It was dark when she arrived. When I introduced her to Hartley, she described herself as a work colleague.

  “Don’t be a stranger,” said Hartley, offering me his hand. “After all, you’re not. Far from it.”

  “I won’t. Thank you.”

  I pointed to the pavilion as Brenda and I drove away. “That’s where I first saw my father. And where I last spoke to him.”

  “Tell me,” she said, squeezing my knee.

  “I’ll show you some pictures when we’re back in London.”

  It was the middle of the night. Staying awake was no longer an option.

  “Say my name,” she said.

  “Brenda.”

  “I like to hear you speak every now and then so I know you haven’t relapsed.” She was sitting on my back, rubbing my shoulders.

  “Brenda,” I murmured. “Brenda. Brenda.”

  “Not a very pretty name, but it sounds nice when you say it. It means fiery hill, according to Dad. . . .” She carried on this little monologue quite happily, not caring if I was listening. “Oh, I forgot, there was a letter at work for you. I’ve got it here somewhere. From Italy, I think.”

  Beyond my grasp on the floor, there was a bottle of red wine. The label swam in and out of focus, something Italian. It had sent me a letter. It tasted like the glue on the back of a stamp.

  As I turned the key to our front door late the next afternoon, the house itself seemed to take a deep breath. Supposing the silence to mean nobody was home, I flicked on the hall light and went into the kitchen. All the energies of the house were concentrated here.

  At first, they didn’t notice me. Reg leaned against the fridge with his hands behind him. Queenie sat with Frankie at the kitchen table. Frankie’s eyes were bloodshot, a handkerchief clutched in her right hand, knuckles white. Normally, I’d have rushed up and wrapped my arms around her, found out what was wrong. But I didn’t. The many possible causes held me back: the first that came to mind, selfishly, was my disappearance.

  “Georgie,” said Queenie with a puff of her cheeks, letting me know that I had interrupted a crisis.

  It was nothing to do with me at all. I had come home, armed with the photo album, ready to talk. I had not considered that there would be an issue of timing.

  “Cup of tea for the prodigal?” asked Reg, anxious for a little respit
e.

  I drew up a chair, feeling somewhat irrelevant.

  “Frankie’s had a bit of an upset,” said Queenie.

  “What’s up, Frankie?” I asked her. She lifted her chin on hearing my voice — it was the first time they’d heard me ask a question in some while — but, as she was about to speak, she bowed her head once more, overcome with tears. I reached out and she clutched at my hand. “What is it?” I asked again.

  “She’s had a bit of an upset,” Queenie repeated, as though this were all that needed to be said.

  “Tea,” said Reg, as he placed a mug in front of me. He caught my eye and, when no one else could see, mouthed Ricky, making the slit throat sign across his neck with his index finger.

  “Is it Ricky?” I asked her.

  “They’ve had a big argument,” said Queenie.

  “I didn’t want to be in it,” gulped Frankie, speaking in staccato bursts. “Not when I saw the script.”

  “Did you lose the part in that film?”

  “She resigned her part,” said Queenie, her spokeswoman. “It was unsuitable.” Thank goodness for small mercies.

  “What was wrong?”

  The synchronization of their stares told me it was something unmentionable, something beyond consideration. Reg rolled his eyes.

  “And I . . . said . . . I wouldn’t . . . ,” said Frankie, but she was sniffing too much to speak. Queenie came to her assistance.

  “And they had a big row about it. . . .”

  “And we broke up.” I held one hand and Queenie the other. “And I’ve got nothing now. No agent. No work. I’m too old for the parts I love. I’m starting again. And I don’t know what to do.” With this, she dissolved once more.

  Reg smiled mirthlessly and moved random pans fractional distances around the sideboard as quietly as he could.

  “Frankie, you’ve got everything,” I said. She looked pitiful, eyelids puffy, mascara smeared; but her decision had been brave. “You’re not starting again.”

  “I’m not?” She was slowly focusing through the blur. Of course she wasn’t, the three of us agreed. “You were right about the movie,” she added, somewhat recovered.

  “What was the problem?”

  Frankie shook her hands in disgust like little claws, making the face that accompanies a gulp of sour milk. “I can’t.”

  “No, she really can’t,” confirmed Queenie.

  “Did you have to . . . ?” I didn’t finish the sentence, not knowing how to ask.

  “Yes, she did,” said Queenie, “and we’ll leave it at that.”

  I warmed my hands on the mug of tea, though I wasn’t cold. “You’re not starting again, Frankie. There’s no disgrace. You’re ditching a bad agent on a point of principle.” I avoided Queenie’s glance that told me it wasn’t time for I told you so.

  Frankie smiled and rubbed my hand. “You should be my agent, Georgie.” Sadly, she wasn’t joking. “And I’ve got my family, haven’t I?”

  We agreed she had. And I had mine, though news of it had to wait. I thought of Dr. Hill, of Brenda, of Sylvia. I felt the happiest I could remember: cheering Frankie up, helping her forwards. Besides, I had other news, substitute news, for which the timing was perfect.

  There was nothing to say in the minutes that followed, but Frankie showed no sign of letting go her grip. A Morse of tuts and sighs let us know she was recovered. Reg boiled a kettle as he emptied the pot: the possibility of another cup of tea provided a suitable distraction.

  “Shall I be mother?” asked Queenie. Four brown mugs sat expectantly in front of her. It was a moment to honour ritual: the swirling of the not-quite-boiling water round the pot, the spooning of the loose tea (four and one more for the unexpected guest), the slow pouring of the water when it reached a galloping boil. No one spoke while the tea brewed — four minutes, she always left it — and this interval she filled with the pouring of milk into the mugs and the delivery of a plateful of biscuits. She placed the strainer over the first mug and poured. She always had been mother. We’d skipped generations. Evie had been Frankie’s, and Queenie had been mine.

  We spoke of Sylvia. I told them of my visit, though I said nothing she wouldn’t have wanted. In her own time, I told them. In her own time. “. . . And since we’re all sitting comfortably, I have an announcement of my own.”

  “Not more revelations,” said Reg, clutching his heart with a mock groan. “Oh, my God! I can’t stand the strain. Can’t we get the food on?”

  I fetched George, returning seconds later to the aftermath of a hastily whispered conference. Eyes were brighter; smiles had returned.

  “It’s lovely to hear you again, Georgie,” said Frankie, delivering their conclusion. “Here’s to Dr. What’s Her Name.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Reg, toasting me with his mug. “As it were.”

  “I didn’t want to talk until I knew what to say.”

  “And you do, darling?” asked Queenie.

  “Yes, I do.”

  Candles gave dinner a celebratory feel. I set George up on a chair, explaining that it might be the last meal he would attend for some time.

  “Brenda gave me this. It arrived at work.” I tossed the envelope onto the table, where it lay conspicuous in its anonymity.

  “Inland Revenue, is it?” asked Reg.

  “I’ll read it. It’s from Signore Ettore Ansalone.”

  “Who’s ’e when ’e’s at ’ome?” asked Frankie, the Artful Dodger.

  “He’s an illusionist, and the long and the short of it is that he wants to buy George. He saw us at the television studio.”

  “Your mate Tower!” exclaimed Reg. “Mr. Eight of Clubs!”

  “That’s the one. He’s made an extremely generous offer.”

  “To buy George,” Frankie said in confirmation.

  “Well, we’ve sold him once already,” said Queenie, “to that Armed Forces Museum. They think they’ve got him.”

  “The point is,” I said, “does anyone have any objection?”

  “Good price?” asked Reg innocently.

  “It’s up to you, Georgie,” said Queenie. “The books were meant for you, and I’m sure George was too. It’s up to him, right, Frankie?”

  “Yes. George is yours,” agreed Frankie.

  “And I have no need for him anymore.”

  “Is it a fair price?” insisted Reg.

  “Listen: ‘Dear Mr. Fisher, Following serious consideration, and consultation with my family, we have decided that we would like to buy your ventriloquist manikin. As you know, I am a serious and passionate collector of the ephemera of ventriloquism; to me is not imaginable a more perfect example of a manikin, type Romando 1930, and so I am disposed to make you a very considerate offer for the dummy and its effects.’ ”

  “Considerate? Does he mean considerable?” said Reg, licking his lips.

  “Effects?” queried Queenie.

  “Clothes?” I said. “Scripts? Box? Fleas? He just wants to make sure he’s getting the lot, I suppose.”

  “Medal too?” asked Queenie.

  “He doesn’t ask for it, but a family really only needs one George Cross, so I’d consider it. And then he makes the offer, blah blah blah, before he continues: ‘Please excuse my recent behaviour backstage. I have now left for my home in Italy, where pressing family reasons will keep me for the coming months. Distinct greetings and all best wishes, Ettore Ansalone.’ And he gives his address.”

  Each of them tried to envision the amount.

  “Well?” Reg had tired of speculation.

  “It’s a lot of money,” I said.

  Reg rubbed his hands together. “What number does it start with?”

  “Five.”

  “Five hundred,” said Reg, nodding approval around the table. “Probably about right.”

  I pointed up.

  “Five hundred and fifty?”

  “It’s like an auction,” said Queenie. I indicated higher.

  “Five ninety-nine?” That was the hig
hest Reg could reasonably conceive. Any higher was:

  “Five thousand?” asked Frankie.

  “Five. Thousand. Pounds,” I confirmed.

  “For a lump of wood?” spluttered Reg. “No disrespect, course, but five . . .” Reg could get no further, and whistled in exhalation. A reverential hush hovered around us, broken only by Reg, who said in his most reasonable voice, as though the sum in question were fifty pence, “Take the money.”

  “There must be some mistake,” said Queenie, reappraising George as he basked in a new, glorious light.

  “No mistake.” I put the letter down on the table and underscored the figure with my thumbnail.

  “It’s lira!” said Reg in exasperation. “He must mean bloody lira!”

  “No.” I shook my head. “Pounds. Five thousand lira is forty quid or something.”

  “Yes, that doesn’t seem quite fair,” said Queenie, removing the cellophane from a packet of After Eights.

  “Well,” said Reg. “If he’s offering silly money . . . don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  “I’m not going to,” I said. “George was stuck up in that attic doing us no good at all.”

  “Package him up and send him . . . ,” said Queenie.

  “Post bloody haste!” said her husband.

  “I’m going to do better than that,” I said. “Since it’s such a very reasonable offer, I’m going to hand-deliver the goods. I’m going to take George back to Italy, scene of his greatest glory.”

  “Can you afford that?” asked Queenie, before chuckling. “I suppose you can. What if it’s a joke?”

  “It isn’t. And if it is, then we’re going to get a holiday out of it.”

  “We?” asked Queenie.

  “I’m going to take Frankie. We’re going to relax by a swimming pool far away and draw up a plan for her next career move.”

  “You’re taking me to Italy?” asked Frankie. “Wouldn’t you rather take your . . . er . . . Brenda?”

  “I want to take you.”

  She smiled her most dazzling smile. “I knew having you was going to pay off.”