The Sweet Second Life of Darrell Kincaid

by Catherine Robertson

  He gave a short shrug. ‘I needed an apprentice. I had more work than I could handle. Good contract labour is hard to find. Especially when you don’t speak Polish.’

  He unfolded his arms and stepped away from the van. ‘Speaking of work–’ he said, and with a quick, slightly wary look of enquiry, added, ‘meet you here at five?’

  ‘Five is good,’ I nodded, and headed inside.

  Even better, I thought, as I hung the satin dress carefully in my wardrobe, I won’t have to worry about what to wear.

  I watched Anselo navigate his way around the tables to the bar. He’d exchanged his Stranglers t-shirt for a brand-new-looking polo shirt. Pale blue. Lacoste. I wasn’t sure it suited him. Maybe his girlfriend bought it for him. She sounded like the Lacoste type.

  We were at the pub down the road. It was on the verge of closing down, the stakeholder brewery having withdrawn its interest. The owner was keeping it alive as long as he could, perhaps in the hope that a new financial partner would arrive out of the blue. A shame, because it was a nice pub. Cosy, friendly and with comfortable couches that I’d made a beeline for, feeling they’d be more forgiving on my still aching rear.

  Anselo came back with, to my surprise, two glasses of wine. Well, I wasn’t surprised about the one he put in front of me, as it was exactly what I’d asked for. I was surprised at his. The fact he had one, that is.

  ‘Not a beer man?’

  ‘Depends.’

  I took a sip of my wine. My only request had been that it be white, dryish and not too nasty. My usual experience of pub wine didn’t make me too hopeful about the latter. But I was wrong.

  ‘That’s really good!’

  ‘Should be. Your country does sauvignon blanc better than anyone.’

  I gaped at him, until I became aware I was doing so and stopped. ‘Don’t tell me you’re a wine buff?’

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I won’t.’

  He swirled his glass of red under his nose, and then drank a little. ‘Could be worse.’

  ‘I can tell the difference between red and white,’ I told him.

  He nodded slowly. ‘Good start.’

  ‘I also make a mean margarita.’

  ‘All margaritas are mean if you make them right. Underhanded, too.’

  ‘You speak from experience?’

  ‘If I could remember, I’d tell you.’

  I smiled, and for a nanosecond was treated to one of his sparkling grins in return. Then his natural state of discomfort took over, and he turned his head to the window. He had a fine profile, I observed. It would be even better if he didn’t look so discontented all the time.

  I sat back in the couch and sipped my wine. I didn’t really mind if he wasn’t keen on talking. My mind was still in panic mode about the coming weekend. I wondered what on earth Marcus and Claude’s mother was like. There were two possibilities, I’d decided. She’d either be brisk and horsey and order me repeatedly to speak up. Or she’d be languidly arranged on a couch, clutching a champagne flute and a Pekingese.

  My brain connected to my ears in time to hear Anselo say ‘–family.’

  Fortunately, I knew I hadn’t missed much. His sentences were never more than a few words long.

  ‘Sorry?’ I made a face. ‘Again.’

  ‘A secret life,’ he said. ‘It becomes what you’d most protect if the government said you can protect one thing, all else is ours.’

  This time, I didn’t even try to shut my mouth.

  ‘Stephen Dunn,’ he said. ‘American poet. And no, I’m not a poetry buff. I just read it somewhere and remembered it.’

  ‘I can see why …’ I shook myself. ‘What were you asking me? About family?’

  ‘How many others? In yours?’

  ‘Oh …’ I made a glum face. ‘Just me, Mum and Dad, and my half-brother, Simon. He’s heaps older,’ I added. ‘He’s a scientist. Studies waves.’

  ‘As in – waving goodbye?’

  ‘As in tidal.’

  Anselo frowned. ‘How do you hold a wave still long enough to study it?’

  ‘You can ask him. He’s coming to stay soon.’

  ‘That’ll be cosy. We might have to occupy the house in shifts.’

  ‘Are you from a big family?’ I ventured.

  He gave me a look. ‘We’re Roma. There’s no such thing as a small family. I’ve got two older brothers, two younger sisters, and four hundred and fifty million cousins.’

  I laughed. ‘Don’t you like being a Gypsy?’

  ‘Not really.’ Then he shook his head, as if irritated with himself. ‘No, I do. I like it that I’m something. I like the stories.’

  ‘I have to confess I’ve always associated Gypsies with brightly painted caravans, and songs that go “Ah de do, ah dee dady”.’ I decided not to mention the hedgehogs.

  Anselo pursed his mouth. ‘Yeah, well, most people associate us with grotty bunches of heather and poaching. And marrying thirteen-year-old girls.’

  ‘From what I’ve seen of your family,’ I said, ‘that doesn’t strike me as all that accurate.’

  He avoided my eye. ‘We bettered ourselves. Some of us better than others.’

  ‘How?’ I could see he was uncomfortable with the subject, but too bad. I loved other people’s stories.

  He sighed. But to his credit he didn’t refuse to answer. ‘In the sixties, before I was born, the persecution got pretty bad. My grandfather – who’s Tyso’s granddad, too – decided enough was enough. He and his brothers all had a real gift with horses, and Granddad persuaded them – well, ordered them, really – to stay in one place, get proper houses, and get jobs in stables that paid good money. So thanks to horse training, our family got a leg up financially and socially. Excuse the pun.’

  ‘Your grandfather sounds like a force to be reckoned with.’

  ‘My family is full of men to be reckoned with.’

  ‘Your dad?’

  He hesitated. ‘My dad died when I was twelve.’

  My heart clutched. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’

  He made a non-committal face, as if it weren’t a big deal. ‘Tyso’s dad looked out for us. And, later on, Patrick …’

  A certain ambiguity in his tone made me curious. ‘Don’t you like Patrick?’

  ‘Who couldn’t like Patrick?’ His voice was even enough, but I could practically see the sarcasm.

  ‘I think Patrick’s amazing. He’s open, funny, generous–’ It was the truth, but I said it more to provoke Anselo. His attitude was puzzling and slightly irritating.

  ‘Yeah, well, he ought to be!’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Are you suggesting he doesn’t deserve his money?’

  Anselo focused on the last of his wine. ‘Forget it,’ he said shortly. ‘You’re right. Patrick deserves everything he has. Including his trophy wife.’

  ‘Oh, come on! Clare’s no trophy wife!’ I was really angry now. ‘What is your problem?’

  He didn’t answer. His face was tense with anger and more than a hint of shame. But suddenly, his shoulders slumped and he blew out a long breath.

  ‘My problem …’ he said to his shoes, ‘is me.’ He lifted his head. ‘And I have no idea what to do about it.’

  ‘But–’ I was honestly quite perplexed. ‘What’s wrong with you? You’re really good looking, you’re your own boss, you’ve got a gorgeous girlfriend–’

  He scowled. ‘How do you know that?’ Then he rolled his eyes. ‘Tyso. Jesus. The kid is his own media channel.’

  He hung his head again, but when he lifted it to face me this time, it was with a small grin.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. What could be wrong?’

  My anger had gone. Now I felt sorry for him. I knew exactly what it was like to be reluctant to look too closely.

  ‘Perhaps you need to be a bit easier on yourself?’ I suggested. And for just a fraction of a second, his mouth went quite square, as if he were going to cry.

  Abruptly, he stood. ‘I have to go.
’

  Surprised, I checked my watch. ‘But it’s not–’

  I stopped. Let the poor man beat a dignified retreat, Darrell.

  ‘OK,’ I smiled. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  He hesitated. ‘Do you want me to walk you home?’

  ‘No, no.’ I shook my head. ‘I’ll stay and finish my glass.’ I patted the couch. ‘I quite like it here.’

  He nodded. When he was at the door, he turned back to me. I held up my hand to wave goodbye. He hesitated again, and for a moment, I thought he was going to change his mind and come back. But then he gave me a quick, curt wave in return, and the door swung shut behind him.

  I decided to cut through the small park that would take me to the end of my street. It probably wasn’t the smartest idea; although it had barely gone dark, there was still a high chance of bumping into what my mother would refer to as ‘undesirables’.

  As it was, I saw no one until I reached the gate at the end. A figure I recognised immediately was crossing the road from the estate. Big Man. Where was he going? If it were time for a can shop at Tesco, he was heading in quite the wrong direction.

  I hid behind the gate pillar and peered out from between the bars of the iron fence. Good Lord! He’d stopped outside my house! I saw him peer through my front window, as if trying to work out if I were home or not. I hadn’t left a single light on – must get more security-minded – so it was pretty clear the house was empty.

  He moved back to the door and, to my astonishment, lifted the flap on my letterbox and slotted in what looked like an envelope. My heart sank. I could just imagine the contents of the letter inside. Oh well. No one could say I hadn’t tried.

  Big Man glanced up and down the street, turned on his heel and strode back across to the estate. After he’d disappeared from view, I waited a few more minutes, just to make sure he hadn’t bent down to tie a shoelace or something. Opening my front door, I found the envelope on the mat, glowing a noxious yellow with reflected streetlight. For a second, I considered binning it – why be needlessly depressed? With a brief muttered curse, I snatched it up and ripped it open.

  There was money in it. And I knew, without counting, that it would be exactly enough to cover the coffees I had delivered to him. I sighed. Yet more proof that Big Man was the most ornery, most cussedly proud individual on the face of the planet.

  I was about to screw up the envelope, when I thought I’d better double-check there was no note. And lo, there was indeed a slip of paper inside. It was an old till receipt from the newsagent. Big Man had bought two packets of cigarettes and a paper. Did he feel I needed to know that? Oh. Right. I turned it over.

  The note said: Bring some fucking sugar next time.

  My first reaction was one of hot, unreserved shame. I was prying into this man’s private life and he had no idea. The nice, equally unsuspecting woman at the register office had promised to go through the records to see if a child had been born to Michael James Hogan and his wife, Elizabeth Marie. The woman thought she’d probably have a result by mid next week.

  However – and this was important – Big Man did have no idea. And there was no reason that should change. My guilty heart started to pound less. The reality was that Big Man had actually begun to trust me. He’d opened up his life the merest crack – that was true. Still, it was a start.

  Tomorrow, I would bring some fucking sugar.

  ‘Look at this.’

  I shoved the note under Claude’s nose.

  He began to read. ‘Ranjit’s Magazines and More–’

  ‘Oh! No–’ I turned it over.

  ‘Is that a special type?’ he asked. ‘Like muscovado?’

  ‘Fool,’ I grinned. ‘Good news, though, don’t you think?’

  ‘A small but significant breakthrough …’

  Claude’s voice tailed off, as his line of sight shifted towards the door. Miss Flaky had arrived and was at the counter. She was wearing her maroon cardigan over a long skirt of multi-coloured crocheted squares, as if it had once been the kind of blanket your sight-impaired grandmother insisted on making out of leftover wool. And she was studiously ignoring us.

  Curious, I watched Claude watching Miss Flaky. His expression seemed to be equal parts resignation and resolve, like that of a man who knows the final showdown with his mortal enemy can no longer be avoided. High noon at the Italian café.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Claude was on his feet and moving purposefully towards the counter. He approached Miss Flaky and – my God, was the man insane? – touched her lightly on her arm! I saw her whole body tense as she averted herself to shut Claude out. But he bent his head and murmured a few words in her ear. I could see Mario’s cheerful, beaming face behind the counter, a complete contrast to Claude’s resolute profile and Miss Flaky’s rigid back. What on earth was he saying to her? And why?

  Claude lifted his head and saw me staring. He murmured one last word to Miss Flaky and left her standing at the counter. His face, as he walked back to our table, gave nothing away. By the time he sat back down, I was hopping with curiosity.

  ‘What did you say?’ I hissed.

  ‘Say?’ Claude was all wide-eyed innocence.

  ‘Stop winding me up, curse you!’

  Claude smiled. ‘I said what needed to be said.’

  I was seriously considering giving him a dead arm, when I heard a throat clear. Fortunately, the sound of Claude leaping to his feet obscured my gasp of dismay.

  ‘Please–’ Claude gestured to the chair he’d pulled out for her.

  Miss Flaky sat and placed her tray of tea things in front of her. I became aware that my face was contorting as if I’d smelled something bad. I did my best to smooth it out.

  ‘Darrell,’ said Claude, ‘this is Ruth.’

  ‘Harper,’ she added, with reluctance. ‘Ruth Harper.’

  ‘Darrell Kincaid,’ I said.

  ‘Darrell is a writer,’ said Claude.

  ‘Really?’ Miss Flaky invested the word with bored disdain.

  ‘I write romance novels,’ I said in a way that could also be translated as ‘fuck you’.

  ‘I never read fiction,’ said Miss Flaky dismissively, which I thought was a bit rich, considering the books she did read.

  ‘Ruth is studying at the London Homeopathic Centre. Or so I gather–’ Claude added hastily, as Miss Flaky skewered him with a look.

  ‘How’d you know?’ she demanded.

  ‘I confess I deduced it from a glimpse at some papers you were perusing one morning.’

  Miss Flaky regarded him. ‘Do you always talk like you have a Victorian bureaucrat’s speech notes shoved up your ass?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Claude without hesitating. ‘Will that be a problem?’

  To my amazement, Miss Flaky burst out laughing.

  ‘I can’t get to grips with this English class shit,’ she said. ‘Are you top of the tree, or just putting it on?’

  ‘Am I, in other words, nothing but a jumped-up English fuck?’ said Claude. ‘Or the real thing?’

  ‘You forgot spineless,’ she told him.

  ‘So I did.’ Claude nodded. ‘I can’t imagine how that slipped my mind, when it was the most accurate of your assertions.’

  Miss Flaky grinned. ‘So? Are you the real thing or what?’

  ‘My father was a duke, until he chose no longer to be. The title has not been reclaimed. Therefore, I am – and am not – “the real thing”.’

  ‘No shit. What kind of duke doesn’t want to stick it out?’

  ‘One who aspires to the House of Commons.’

  Miss Flaky eyed him over her steaming cup of pungent tea. ‘And did he get there?’

  ‘He did not.’

  ‘Ouch.’ Miss Flaky paused to sip her tea. ‘Why didn’t he grab back the title? Seems like kind of a waste of a good wicket.’

  Claude replied evenly, ‘At the end, I suppose it seemed the least of his losses.’

  For a long moment, they stared at each
other. So long that I began to feel quite a lot like a third wheel.

  So I stood up. ‘Got to go,’ I said. ‘Coffee run.’

  Miss Flaky gave me such a dark look, I wondered if she thought it was a euphemism for clubbing baby seals.

  But then she said, ‘You can tell Mr Michael Hogan that I’m going to clean that shit-hole apartment of his if it fucking kills me.’

  I almost fell over. ‘How did– When–’

  ‘I did some checking of my own,’ she replied. ‘If even that asshole doctor followed up, I figured I ought to do something. I know you bring him coffee. He told me.’

  ‘He told you?’ I echoed. I have to confess I was seriously put out by this. Why would Big Man talk to Miss Flaky when all he’d told me was to sod off?

  ‘I–’ Miss Flaky screwed up her mouth. ‘Yeah, well, let’s use the word visit, why not? I visited him.’

  My sense of being hard done by increased. ‘And he let you in just like that?’

  ‘Hell no! I knocked until my knuckles were black and blue, and there was no answer. I knew he was in there, though: I could hear the damn TV. So I yelled and yelled until he finally opened the damn door. And then I just shouldered my way on in. Jesus fuck. Only a man could live like that.’

  ‘I can’t imagine he was too happy with you?’ I ventured.

  Miss Flaky smiled grimly. ‘Yeah, he was pretty pissed all right. One stage, I thought he was going to pick me up and toss me out bodily, but then I threatened to kick him in the balls and he backed right off.’

  I gave a gasp of shocked laughter. I’d have to remember that even Big Man caved in when his nuts were threatened. It could come in handy.

  ‘You’re going over there now?’ Miss Flaky’s speculative look made me uneasy.

  Hastily, I said, ‘Yes, but I’m sure he told you I only leave the coffee outside his door. I don’t go in.’

  Claude, who had been witnessing our exchange in much the same way as a spectator at Wimbledon would, finally spoke. ‘What exactly is – er – wrong with Mr Hogan’s abode?’

  ‘You don’t wanna know.’ Miss Flaky shook her head. ‘The shock could kill you.’

  His mouth went all sulky. But he didn’t press it. Instead, he turned to me. ‘Does our arrangement for tomorrow still stand? I will come to collect you at ten?’