‘And lose a possible client?’
‘It’s important,’ Nick said.
‘Everyone thinks their renovations are important. And everyone wants it done now. You’re Australian, are you? Been living in London long? How you can handle this climate is beyond me. I’d prefer sunshine twelve months a year.’
‘Have you ever been there?’
‘Not yet. One day. When Concorde’s flying again and I win the lottery and can get there in five hours instead of – what is it, thirty-five hours?’
‘Not quite,’ Nick said. He had to ask now, while the phone was quiet. ‘I don’t live here. I’m visiting. My wife’s from London. Her name is Angela Richardson.’
Will just looked at him.
‘Angela Richardson,’ Nick repeated.
‘Right,’ Will said. ‘So she’s showing you around, is she? Great. And so who wants the work done, her family?’
‘She’s an old friend of yours. From years ago.’
‘Of mine? Your wife is an old friend of mine? Where is she?’
‘Still in Australia.’
‘She asked you to drop in and say hello? She’s got a better memory than me.’
‘You used to go out together. About thirty-five years ago.’
‘We did? Angela, did you say?’ He frowned. ‘Dark curly hair? Great eyes?’
‘That’s her.’
‘God, I haven’t thought about her in years. How is she?’
‘Good,’ Nick said. ‘We’ve been married thirty-three years. Four kids.’
‘Good for you. In Australia? In sunny Sydney?’
‘You don’t know where she is? You haven’t been in touch with her?’
‘In touch with her? Why would I? Listen, Rick —’
‘Nick.’
‘Sorry, Nick. Look, I don’t know what —’ The phone rang. ‘Excuse me.’ He answered. ‘That’s right. Attic conversions, bathroom extensions. Yes. Sure, I can. Tomorrow. Today? Sure. See you then. Yes, I know the street. I’m a local myself.’ He hung up. ‘Sorry, Nick. I’m caught up here today, as you can see. What can I do for you?’
‘I want to talk to you about Angela.’
‘It was a long time ago. I can’t see —’
‘She’s had an accident. Her memory’s been affected. I happened to be here in London. She’s mentioned you a couple of times. I was hoping you’d tell me what you remembered about her. It might help spark more memories for her.’
‘She has amnesia or something? Sorry to hear that. Look, now’s not the time. Are you staying nearby? We could meet later. Talk over a pint or something.’
They agreed on a time. Eight p.m. Nick suggested the Irish pub on Upper Street.
‘Fine,’ Will said. ‘I’m not barred from there yet. Joking. See you then.’
He’d picked up the phone to make a call before Nick had even left the room.
Outside, Nick checked the time. It was too late to phone home. He passed an internet cafe, went in and sent a quick email instead. It’s the right Will. Meeting again later tonight. Dad x
Once again, he followed Genevieve’s instructions. He took the Tube from Angel Station up the road. Got off at London Bridge. Took the train to Forest Hill.
It was nearly two-thirty as he came out of the station. He stood on the footpath and looked around. Why hadn’t he made this trip with Angela before? In all their years of marriage, she’d only ever been back here twice, when her parents died. It had been chaos while she was gone. Joan had nearly moved in full-time, to help out.
Had he ever asked Angela about her childhood here? He must have, in the beginning. He was sure he had. But then so much had happened so quickly for them. Meeting in that pub in Sydney, getting engaged, not just a first-year-of-marriage baby but twins. He knew she was from South London, from a council estate, but had he ever even seen photos of her house?
He followed Genevieve’s directions. Walked along the main road, turned left at a small grassed area, walked up a hill and there he was. On the street Angela had grown up in. There was a row of terraced houses, all identical in design, two windows downstairs, two windows upstairs. Each with a patch of front garden. That was it. She’d grown up in the end house, according to Genevieve. It had a geranium in a pot at the door, but beyond that, it looked like the others. A little shabbier, if anything.
He did as Genevieve had asked and took some photos, feeling self-conscious. Get one of you in front of it too, she’d asked. There was no one to take it. He wasn’t going to do one of those selfie things the kids laughed about. The other photos would have to be the proof he’d been here.
Just as he was about to leave, a middle-aged woman came up the hill, carrying shopping bags.
‘Excuse me,’ he said.
She looked suspicious. He explained why he was there, that this was his wife’s childhood home. Maybe she even knew her?
‘Richardson? No, must have been before I moved in. No one of that name here now.’
She reluctantly agreed to take a photo. Just as reluctantly, Nick stood in front of the house and smiled. It was only when he looked at it at the bottom of the hill that he realised her thumb had been over the viewfinder.
It was raining again, heavily, as he crossed the road to the Horniman Museum. No wonder this had been a big part of Angela’s childhood. It was a grand mansion with a huge clock tower, in the middle of what looked like ordinary suburban houses. It was already starting to get dark, but he could see cultivated gardens around it, open spaces, and far off, a view of the London skyline. He came inside out of the rain. What was here that Genevieve had wanted him to see? Stuffed birds? A walrus?
At the reception desk, he asked for directions.
The woman pointed. ‘Just down there. You can’t miss it,’ she said.
She was right. It was the first thing he saw as he walked into the large display room. A huge walrus, perched on a fake iceberg. It was the size of a baby elephant. It was also strangely smooth. He walked over to the security man sitting nearby. ‘That walrus? What’s funny about it?’
‘Everything, if you ask me.’ The man explained the background, that it had been stuffed in the last century by a taxidermist who’d never seen a real one and so filled up every inch of the skin. ‘But he’s the star of our show now,’ he said. ‘People travel for miles to have a photo taken with him.’
Nick held out his camera. ‘Would you mind?’
The guard took several. Nick checked. No thumbs. ‘Thanks.’
He did a quick circuit of the rest of the large room. It was crammed with cases of stuffed birds, skeletons, animals, reptiles. He was glad to be outside again ten minutes later.
Ig woke up before dawn. He lay there and looked out the window. The birds were noisier than ever. They always were after lots of rain. His dad had explained it. The ground got churned up, insects and worms rose closer to the surface. It was a feeding frenzy for the birds. Ig had liked the words ‘feeding frenzy’.
Angela should see it too. It would be good for her photos and for their Plan. Genevieve had bought everything he had asked. Pots of paint: green, red, blue. ‘What are you up to now?’ she’d said the night before as she handed them over. ‘I was expecting your list to say ten bottles of Coke and eight bags of chips, not half the contents of a paint shop.’
‘It’s a surprise,’ he told her.
‘You and Robbie?’ she said.
‘Not exactly,’ he said.
He and Angela were doing a mural. A mural of a bird aviary on the side of the woolshed. It was a big blank wall at the moment. He was going to paint it white first, and then with Angela’s help he was going to draw all the birds around the station. He’d been practising his drawings and he had them just about right now. And Angela said if he made a mistake, it didn’t matter, that birds came in all shapes and sizes and if he really wasn’t happy with any of his drawings, then they could just paint it white again and start a new one.
He knocked on the door of Angela’s room. There wa
s no answer. He knocked again and called her name. Still nothing. He opened the door and stepped in. ‘Angela?’
She was asleep. There was paper all over the floor. He stepped closer. They were his mum’s letters. The Christmas letters. The ones they had all read through for their Boxing Day play that didn’t happen.
She opened her eyes, sat up and reached for her glasses. ‘Ig? Is everything all right?’
‘Yes,’ Ig said. ‘The birds are really good after the rain. I thought you might want to see them.’
She sat up straighter and looked around at all the paper.
‘Do you want me to pick them up?’ he said.
‘Thanks, Ig. They must have slipped off the bed after I read them last night.’
He gathered them, all out of order, but he didn’t think it mattered. He put the folder back on the end of her bed.
‘I’ll wait on the verandah,’ he said.
He was about to step outside when she spoke again. ‘Ig? Can I ask you something?’
He nodded.
‘Could you shut the door first?’
He did.
‘I’m sorry if this sounds a bit strange,’ she said.
He waited.
‘Ig, am I your mother?’
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
‘I don’t believe it!’ Genevieve’s voice carried around the whole house. She was in the office, at the computer. ‘Ig? Ig, are you there?’
‘What is it?’ Lindy called back from the kitchen.
Genevieve appeared in the doorway. ‘It was a joke. A silly joke, and I’ve had two thousand hits already. It’s madness! A few photos of cats. What’s the world coming to? I need to do more, immediately. Where’s Ig?’
Victoria looked up from her breakfast. She shrugged.
‘Lindy?’
Lindy was at the other end of the table, sewing. Celia was opposite her, also sewing.
‘Nothing from Dad?’ Victoria asked.
‘Nothing,’ Genevieve said. ‘Not since that last email. Infuriating in its brevity.’ She calculated the time. It was eight a.m. in South Australia. Still the previous night in London. ‘They’re obviously getting on like a house on fire.’ She heard voices outside and peered out the window. ‘Speaking of best friends, here they come, Master and Mrs Thick as Thieves.’
‘We’re doing something at the back of the woolshed and none of you can look until it’s finished, okay?’ Ig said as they came in. He’d begged for and been given another day off school.
‘Does it involve weapons? Chemicals? Warcraft of any type? Wait, let me guess, it involves paint,’ Genevieve said.
‘I’m sworn to secrecy,’ Angela said.
‘Can I please have the computer?’ Lindy asked, putting down her cushion. ‘I think my email must be down. I haven’t heard anything from Richard for three days now.’
‘You can have five minutes,’ Genevieve said. ‘Then I need it for more of my groundbreaking work linking cats with celebrities. Ig, wait till you see. We’ve gone viral.’
‘I need ten minutes,’ Lindy said. ‘That computer belongs to all of us, not just you. And I can’t believe you’re calling putting cat photos on a website your work.’
‘You’re right, Lindy, thank you. It’s more of a life passion than work.’
In London, Nick now had a long list of words he could use to describe Will to Genevieve.
A bore. A pain. The most tedious, self-absorbed man it had ever been his misfortune to meet.
He’d been in his company for two hours now. They’d met at the bar in the Irish pub as arranged, found a table, ordered meals and drinks. Guinness for Will. Coke for Nick. ‘On the wagon?’ Will said. ‘I’ll have a pint later,’ Nick answered. As they sat down, Nick waited for him to start asking questions about Angela. Nothing.
Once Will had confirmed this was Nick’s first trip to London, he hadn’t drawn breath. Nick heard all about Will’s family history in Islington, going back four generations. How his grandparents had bought a three-storey house when it was almost a slum area. He detailed all the landmarks in the area, including the Angel Clock Tower and the Islington Town Hall. He told Nick about the old Roman roads. The antique traders who had once lived and worked in Camden Passage. ‘All overpriced vintage hat shops and middle-class gift shops there now, if you ask me.’
Nick eventually interrupted him, trying to bring it back to personal matters, back to Angela. ‘Did you ever get married yourself?’
‘Twice. Worst two mistakes I ever made.’
Because he hadn’t married Angela? Was that what he meant? ‘How long did you and Angela go out?’
Will looked uncertain. ‘How old were we? Nineteen? Twenty? I can’t really remember how long. A few months, maybe?’
‘Angela remembers it being a couple of years.’
‘She’s got a better memory than me, then. It was the seventies, remember. If we did go out that long, we weren’t exactly exclusive.’ He made quote signs with his fingers as he said the word exclusive. ‘I went travelling too. Spent six months in India. Went for the architecture, stayed for the drugs.’ He laughed, too loudly.
Nick said nothing. Not that Will seemed to care.
‘I met my first wife there. A free spirit like me, I thought. Let me tell you, by the time she’d finished dragging me through the divorce courts, the last thing I’d call her was free.’
Nick had a feeling he’d used that line before. ‘Any kids?’
‘Two boys with her. Both in their thirties now. Living with their girlfriends. No grandkids yet. They don’t have much to do with me. She turned them against me, after I had an affair with my secretary. Biggest mistake I ever made.’
‘Your current secretary?’
‘I wish. Lazy as sin, this one, but a looker. No, a different woman. Good thing I moved to the office above the laundry, because she took me to the cleaners too.’ Another too-loud laugh. There had been a stepson from that marriage too, he said. He didn’t see much of him either. He and that former wife weren’t on speaking terms. ‘The kids always take the mother’s side, don’t they?’
‘All sons? You don’t have any daughters?’ Nick asked.
‘No. Shame. They might have looked after me in my old age.’ He gave that laugh again.
Nick couldn’t picture Angela with this man for five minutes, let alone two years. ‘So, do you have any photos of Angela?’
‘I wouldn’t have a clue. Place is a bit of a mess. Bachelor living and all that. But I’m only two streets away, if you want me to take a look. I have some good whisky too. You must be sick of that Coke by now.’ Nick had stuck to it. Meanwhile, Will had drunk three pints of Guinness.
It was less than five minutes’ walk to his house. They passed more terraced houses, much bigger than the ones on Angela’s childhood street. Steps led up to front doors, all with fanlights. The houses were three storeys high. The curtains were drawn back in one. Nick was able to see into the front room. A dinner party was in progress, eight or so people sitting around a long table, a chandelier overhead. BMWs and Saabs were parked in the street outside.
‘Here we are,’ Will said. ‘Home sweet home.’
Nick tried to ignore the cold wind as Will stood out the front and pointed out architectural features. ‘The windows get smaller as they go higher. Those rooms were for the servants and no one cared whether they had enough light. Now this street is full of New Labour people. Sold us all up the river, if you ask me. I don’t have time for politics any more. They’re all as bad as each other.’
Nick expected Will to go up the stairs to the grand front door. Instead, he opened a gate in the iron railing and headed down to the basement.
‘Sorry, you’ll have to slum it down here. I had to sell the rest of the house to pay the second lot of alimony. Good thing my parents are dead. They don’t know this is all that’s left of the family jewels.’
Will’s basement flat made his office seem tidy. It looked like there’d been a break-in. Papers, books and CDs were
strewn everywhere. There was a musty smell. A dead plant in the corner. It looked like a teenager’s haunt.
‘Take a seat,’ Will said.
It was hard to find one. Nick moved a pile of newspapers and sat on the sofa, by the dead plant. Will went into the kitchen down a narrow hall. Nick could see it was as cramped and dirty as the living room. He heard the clink of glasses.
‘Scotch or Irish?’ Will called.
A question, at last. The first one Will had asked him in hours. ‘Irish. From Donegal and Mayo. My ancestors left in —’
That laugh again. ‘Not you. What whisky? Scotch or Irish? Prefer the Scotch myself.’
‘Scotch is fine,’ Nick said.
Will came in with two glasses filled to halfway and the bottle tucked under his arm.
‘So, a photo of Angela?’ Nick asked.
‘Somewhere. Probably. It’s all coming back to me now. She used to like to go to that museum out near her house for picnics. The dead zoo place.’ Another laugh.
‘I was there today. The Horniman Museum.’
‘That’s right. Place gave me the creeps.’
‘But you might have a photo of her there?’
‘Maybe. I met her through my cousin, I think. There’s probably a group one of us somewhere.’ He went across to the bookcase and shifted a pile of football magazines. He picked one up. ‘I’m an Arsenal man, through and through. Their ground’s just up the road. Shame it’s not the weekend. I’d take you to a match. Hell of a team. I was at a match last . . .’
As Will kept talking, Nick realised there was little possibility of a photo of Angela here. Or of Will being able to find it if there was. Genevieve had asked him to get a photo of Will too. Sorry, Genevieve, but no, he decided. He tipped the whisky into the already dead plant and stood up.
‘I need to go. Any message for Angela?’
‘You’re leaving already? Tell her hello. Hope her life turned out better than mine.’
Back on Errigal, Genevieve hadn’t had a chance to ring her father. A new drama had blown up. Lindy had been in tears now for nearly half an hour. They’d started when she was in the office.
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