Not Funny Not Clever

by Jo Verity

  Where did Alex say they would be playing this week? A folk festival in Northumbria? Then on to Scotland for some kind of a tour? Transit vans and tents; tie-dyed T-shirts and dream catchers. Alex sitting on the grass, tuning his fiddle, Vashti Fry at his side, plaiting beads into his hair and singing. They’d had minor successes at a few off-off-off-Glastonbury events and Alex had been keen to tell her that some sort of ‘talent scout’ had recently contacted him. He seemed convinced that they were going to make it – whatever that amounted to in the world of folk music.

  Alex was twenty-five now and it was high time he got over all this ‘finding himself’ nonsense. His ‘gap year’ had extended to eighteen months and the university had only held his place because silver-tongued Laurence had charmed them. After all that, he’d dropped out after his second year – ‘deferring’ he’d called it, but that implied resumption and there was no sign of that happening especially now he’d become obsessed with this weird woman. (Why would a woman in her mid-thirties bother with someone ten years her junior who was neither rich nor particularly good-looking? ‘Perhaps he’s good in bed,’ Laurence had suggested – rather coarsely, she thought.) Her hope was that Vashti would tire of him and that, after a suitable period of misery, he would pull himself together and move on to someone more … conventional. It seemed harsh for a mother to wish such a thing for her son but, in the long run, it would be best for everyone.

  When she opened her eyes, the sun had moved around and her chair was no longer in the shade. Her tongue seemed too big inside her mouth and, if she wrinkled her nose, it felt stiff, a sure sign that it had caught the sun. She glanced at her watch. Gone five. She must have slept for the best part of an hour. A cup of tea, that’s what she needed, then she would finish packing.

  Whilst the kettle boiled, she went in search of more promising reading matter and was debating whether it was time to re-read Pride and Prejudice when the door bell rang. As she walked down the hall, she could make out the wavering forms of two people through the dimpled pane at the top of the door. Placing her right foot squarely behind the door (a tip picked up from the Neighbourhood Watch Newsletter), she opened it a few inches and peered out. A youngish man and a teenage boy stood in the porch. Neither looked particularly threatening.

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  The man smiled. ‘Hi. You must be Elizabeth. I’m Toby.’

  ‘Toby?’

  ‘Toby Broadbent?’ He hesitated. ‘Alex did phone, didn’t he?’

  She glanced behind her to the hall table where an illuminated ‘1’ was blinking on the telephone cradle. Patting her pocket, she remembered that her mobile was on the worktop, out of battery and waiting to be charged.

  ‘If he did, I missed it. He’s alright, is he?’

  ‘He was fine when I spoke to him at lunchtime. He was somewhere near Newcastle, heading north.’ He grimaced. ‘Actually this is a bit awkward. Maybe you should …’ He nodded towards the winking light.

  She opened the door and beckoned them into the hall, noticing for the first time the bulging rucksack at the boy’s feet.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a rush.’ Toby nodded towards the phone again, his restlessness making her apprehensive.

  ‘Of course,’ she said as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a stranger to arrive on her doorstep and tell her to listen to her messages.

  She pressed ‘play’ and her son’s voice, pinched and echoey, came from the miniature speaker.

  ‘Hi, Mum. It’s a lovely day so I guess you must be in the garden. Ummm. There’s been a bit of a hitch. Jordan’s supposed to be staying with his mate, Charlie, this week. But they’ve got to go to Spain. Family crisis. Damn. My battery’s nearly out. I’ll leave it to him to fill in the details. Anyway, I know that Dad’s away and you’re on your own so I told Toby, Charlie’s dad, it would be okay to drop him off with you. He won’t be any trouble. That’s it really. Keep a tally of anything we owe you. Thanks Ma, you’re a star.’

  Elizabeth turned around and looked closely at the boy.

  He stared back at her, his face expressionless. Thin wires snaked up from the neck of his black T-shirt towards his ears which were concealed by a multicoloured, woolly hat with earflaps and dangling ties. Dirty-blond hair protruded from the lower edges of the hat and, from somewhere beneath the whole lot, came a faint but urgent beat.

  ‘Jordan? I’m sorry, I didn’t recognise you. It must be the hat,’ she said, feeling the need to explain why she had failed to recognise Vashti Fry’s son.

  Toby fingered his watch. ‘Look, I’m really sorry to spring this on you. Alex was sure that you’d be okay to have Jordan until they get back. We’d take him with us but … it wouldn’t be much fun for him.’ He frowned. ‘I assumed Alex had cleared it with you.’

  ‘Never assume anything where Alex is concerned,’ she said, trying not to look flustered.

  A mobile phone chirped from one of Toby’s pockets. ‘Excuse me a sec,’ he said.

  Not wanting to eavesdrop, Elizabeth turned her attention to Jordan, asking him if he’d like a cold drink.

  He tugged the earpiece out of his right ear, dangling the sponge blob from its slender wire, leaving the other one in place. ‘What?’

  She pointed to the kitchen door. ‘Go on through and I’ll get you a drink.’

  He heaved his rucksack onto one shoulder and, leaning forward to counterbalance the weight, plodded down the hall, his grubby trainers squeaking on the polished tiles. She followed him, trying not to notice how the clips on his bag scraped the white wall.

  She gestured to a chair. ‘Juice? Water?’

  He shrugged.

  She poured a tumbler of orange juice and set it on the table in front of him, watching as he gulped it straight down, recalling how her sons, at that age, had been incapable of ingesting anything slowly or quietly.

  When Alex had told her that he and Vashti were off on tour, she hadn’t given a thought to Vashti’s son. Why should she? She hardly knew the boy. The few times that she and Laurence had ventured to Stoke Newington to visit Alex and his partner, Jordan had been out or she’d glimpsed his back as he loped off to his room. Alex had brought him to the house once, when he’d needed help carrying a chest of drawers that they’d given him, but it hadn’t seemed necessary to get to know the boy. Jordan Fry was nothing to do with her. Just because Alex had taken up with an older woman who happened to have a teenage son didn’t make her some kind of surrogate grandmother. Heaven forbid. She was only forty-nine. One day – in perhaps seven or eight years’ time – she might be thrilled if Alex or Ben made her a grandmother. But grandmother of a brand new baby, not a pre-owned teenager.

  Toby popped his head around the door. ‘That was my wife. She’s in a bit if a state. I’d best be getting back if that’s okay with you.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I hope everything … good luck with … safe journey…’ She had no idea what they were talking about but she hoped that covered it.

  ‘Thanks.’ He raised a hand towards Jordan. ‘Charlie’ll keep in touch. And we’ll see you when we get back, mate. Okay?’

  Jordan gave a curt nod. ‘Yeah.’

  2

  SATURDAY: 5.50PM

  As she watched Toby Broadbent drive away, Elizabeth had a few seconds to consider what had just taken place. It appeared that, whilst she was preparing for her holiday in Wales, her son had volunteered her as ‘carer’ of a teenager whom she scarcely knew. How had Alex put it? I told Toby to drop him off with you. She wanted to shake her son, to yell, ‘What if they’d turned up and I’d already set off for Cardiff? Apart from anything else, it wasn’t fair to Toby Broadbent, was it?’ But she knew exactly what he would reply – ‘But you hadn’t gone, had you, Ma?’ And what was the boy’s mother thinking? For all Vashti knew Jordan was wandering the streets of London, prey to … God only knew what.

  Jordan Fry was where she’d left him, earphones in place again beneath the hat, rucksack on the floor next t
o him. His one hand was clasping the straps of the rucksack as if ready, at any second, to be up and off.

  Sitting down opposite him at the table, she smiled brightly and touched her ears, indicating that he should remove both earpieces. ‘Well. This is a … surprise.’

  ‘They tried everyone else,’ he mumbled, ‘but they’re all busy.’

  Everyone else? They must indeed have been desperate to opt for her – unless Alex had been trying to impress Vashti with his Mr Fixit skills.

  ‘It’s not particularly convenient for me,’ she said. ‘Believe it or not, I have plans for the coming week.’

  ‘So phone Alex.’

  ‘And tell him what?’

  ‘Tell him the truth. You don’t want me here.’

  ‘I only said that it was a surprise. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Then tell him I don’t want to be here.’

  She tried again. ‘What we want isn’t always possible. Sometimes things happen, events take over.’ She thought for a second. ‘What has happened, exactly? I know it’s something to do with Charlie’s grandfather but I didn’t like to ask.’

  Jordan was looking down at his hands, industriously winding the earphone cable around his thumb. ‘He … died. This morning. They got a phone call from the police. That’s why they’ve got to go to Spain.’

  ‘Oh, dear. How sad,’ she said, unable to feel the slightest sorrow for Charlie’s grandfather, who, although dead, was still capable of wrecking her plans. ‘Was he very old?’

  ‘No.’ The boy raised his head and, for the first time, made eye contact. ‘He was shot.’

  This announcement was all the more shocking for its matter-of-fact delivery. She felt rotten that, a few seconds earlier, she had been cursing a murdered man. ‘Shot? That’s dreadful,’ she said, trying to remember if she had said anything inappropriate to Toby.

  It seemed insensitive to demand the ins and outs of the crime, so after a few respectful seconds she asked, ‘Are you hungry? I was thinking of having supper at about seven. But I could make you a sandwich now if you like.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Why don’t I make you a cheese sandwich?’ she said.

  As she buttered the bread and grated the cheddar cheese, she ran through her options. Charlie’s family had been overtaken by appalling tragedy and it was out of the question to bother them with the trivialities of her life. Spoiled holiday plans couldn’t compete with murder. She must get hold of Alex and tell him that it was impossible for her to have the boy. That’s it. Dump the problem squarely back on him. If they really had ‘tried everyone else’, Vashti would have to come back. Jordan was her son, after all.

  The thermometer in the kitchen was up in the high seventies but Jordan seemed determined to keep his hat on.

  ‘Aren’t you hot?’ she said. ‘Why don’t you take your hat off?’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘Take it off, Jordan,’ she instructed, sensing that it was vital, right from the start, to establish her authority.

  He sighed and pulled off the grubby hat (knitted, probably, by some poor peasant who lived halfway up the Andes and who had no idea that such an item was de rigeur for the skateboarders who kept her awake on summer nights, kerdunk-kerdunk-kerdunking along bumpy pavements).

  His hair was clamped against his skull, damp with perspiration, making his head look small and his face narrow and girlish. Rising off him came the musky scent of teenage boy. In that instant she was back in her sons’ stuffy bedrooms, strewn with T-shirts and underpants, the curtains permanently closed. In the end, unable to stomach the thought of her own clothes coming into contact with the fusty socks and dubious jeans, she’d provided the boys with a separate laundry basket. Not that she’d succeeded in getting them to use it.

  ‘I need to make a couple of phone calls,’ she said.

  The slightest of smiles played across his lips. ‘Am I a problem?’

  Yes. He was a problem. She didn’t want him there, messing up her arrangements, infusing her house with his fusty smell.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Jordan. As I said, I was planning to go away for a few days. It was a spur-of-the-moment idea. I only decided to go yesterday. Alex knew nothing about it.’ (Why was she excusing herself – and her son – to this boy?) ‘I just need to speak to the people I was going to visit.’

  He pulled a set of keys from one of the many pockets in his baggy jeans and rattled them threateningly. ‘You can go. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got the keys to the flat. I’ll manage fine.’

  There was no question that he meant and believed what he said.

  It might be better if Jordan didn’t hear what she had to say to Alex and she hurried upstairs to Laurence’s study. But her son’s mobile was off or out of range because voicemail cut in immediately. She tried a second time, with the same result. This time she left a message. ‘Alex, it’s Mum. Phone me as soon as you get this. It’s important. Jordan’s here – not that you two seem at all concerned for the boy’s well-being.’ It sounded pompous and petty but they must be made to understand how she felt.

  Next she phoned Diane and explained what had happened in the few hours since they’d spoken. ‘So it looks like I shan’t be coming after all. Unless Alex sorts something out. I could strangle him.’

  ‘Poor Lizzie. It is rather inconsiderate of him. But it’s not his fault that Granddad took a bullet and, to be fair, he did think you were going to be at home on your own this week.’

  ‘Fair? What’s fair about it? Are you suggesting he’s doing me a favour? “My poor mother’s all alone. The old dear could do with a bit of company. I know – I’ll send Jordan”.’ The sight of her clothes, rolled and ready to pack, aggravated her frustration. ‘What does he think I’m going to do with a teenager for a week?’

  ‘Get stoned? Take a few tabs?’

  ‘It’s not funny,’ Elizabeth moaned.

  ‘Sorry. Maybe you’re being pessimistic. Maybe what’s-her-name—’

  ‘Vashti. The name says it all.’

  ‘Maybe Vashti’s got friends or family – she must have a mother or a sister – who’d have him.’

  ‘In that case, why dump him on me? D’you know what really gets me? If I’d set out this afternoon, instead of napping in the garden, I’d be in Cardiff by now, sipping a glass of wine. And Charlie’s wretched father would be the one worrying what to do with Jordan bloody Fry.’

  ‘As well as a worrying about a dead father-in-law? You don’t really mean that. Look, why don’t you ring me later, after you’ve spoken to Alex?’

  ‘That’s another thing. His phone’s off – surprise, surprise.’

  ‘Landline?’

  ‘I’ve no idea where they’re staying. Or where they’re playing.’

  ‘Maybe Jordan knows.’

  ‘Jordan doesn’t know whether he wants water or juice. I can’t imagine he’d know something useful like where his mother is.’

  When she returned to the kitchen Jordan Fry, his hat and his rucksack had disappeared. All that remained to prove that he’d been there was a dirty glass and a sandwich crust.

  The door to the garden was open. Despite the sapping heat, Maggie’s two younger children were bouncing on their trampoline.

  ‘Have you … seen a … big boy … in my garden?’ Elizabeth synchronised her question with the appearance of their flushed faces above the garden wall.

  They shook their dark heads and carried on bouncing.

  Hurrying back through the house and out of the front door, she stood on the pavement, raising her hand to shield her eyes from the low sun, scanning up and down the street. There was no sign of him. In fact there was no one to be seen – not a mum pushing a buggy, or an old lady tottering along with a mangy dog in tow, or a bloke washing the family car – not a single soul who might have noticed a boy with a rucksack.

  Shit. Where would he go? Where could he go? She closed her eyes taking several deep breaths of tepid air. Think. Keys jingled in her memory. He would go hom
e.

  Assuming that he knew where he was – the only time he’d come here he’d been brought by car so it was possible he didn’t – and assuming that he would use public transport, it would take him at least forty-five minutes to get home. She looked at the kitchen clock. Twenty past six. She would leave it until seven then start phoning Alex’s flat.

  Feeling less panicky now that she was pretty sure where he was heading, she looked for a way to pass the next forty minutes. Her plan, formulated in the unruffled hours of that Saturday afternoon, had been to have supper (a mushroom omelette and salad to use up the odds and ends in the fridge) then finish packing, take a relaxing bath and be in bed by ten.

  She had no appetite but it would be sensible to eat something while she had the chance. First she made a simple vinaigrette dressing, something that was out of the question if Laurence was around, hovering at her shoulder, suggesting that she add a pinch of chilli or a dash of Tabasco. Eggs next, beaten lightly with a dash of milk then seasoned. She was slicing mushrooms, failing to deter grim-faced policemen and wailing sirens from invading her thoughts, when she heard a clatter.

  She put down the knife and listened. There it was again, faint but distinct, coming from the sitting room.

  Jordan was sitting on the floor, leaning against the sofa, well out of sight of anyone passing the open door. He’d sneaked in here knowing full well that she was looking for him, playing out the next skirmish in their War of the Hat. The contents of his rucksack – mainly items of black clothing and chocolate bar wrappers – formed a sea around his outstretched legs. He was riffling through a stack of DVDs, inspecting each one for several seconds before passing on to the next.

  He looked up. ‘This isn’t the lot. I’ve got loads more at home.’

  ‘Films?’ she asked, determined not to give him the satisfaction of having rattled her.

  ‘Games.’ He looked around hopefully. ‘Have you got a PS3?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid we haven’t.’

  ‘Grim.’