‘That’s as may be, Mr Marchbanks. But things move on. I’ve moved on now and need a new car, I think.’
Lennie moved round to the front of the car. ‘Bonnet’s open, I see,’ he said. ‘You been fiddling around with the engine, Mr Moongrove?’
Terence looked shifty. ‘The battery wasn’t working properly. I decided to charge it.’
Lennie peered into the engine compartment. ‘Oh yes?’ He reached in and touched something, and then wiped his hand on his overalls. ‘Battery looks as if it’s been a little bit stressed, Mr Moongrove. Your charger all right? Can I take a look at it?’
Terence cleared his throat. ‘I didn’t exactly use a charger,’ he said. ‘Perhaps . . .’
Lennie stared at him. ‘You didn’t use a charger? You . . .’ He glanced around the garage and saw the cable lying coiled on the floor where Berthea had placed it. ‘You connected it directly to the mains, Mr Moongrove? Is that right?’
‘Possibly,’ said Terence.
Lennie’s mouth opened as if he was about to say something; then it closed again.
‘So I wondered whether you would like to buy the car off me,’ Terence went on. ‘What do you think it’s worth?’
Lennie had now regained his composure. ‘What’s it worth? Well, that’s a difficult question, Mr Moongrove. There are people who like these old cars and do them up. We might find somebody like that. But, you see, if you connected the battery to the mains, then the whole electric system will have been live, I suppose, and these wires . . . you know? Well, maybe you don’t know. But a car’s wires are like its nerves, you see, and if your nerves get a big jolt like that, then . . .’
Terence frowned impatiently. Mr Marchbanks had a tendency to become rather too technical, he felt. ‘Well, perhaps you could tow it away, Mr Marchbanks. And then we can talk about a new one. Get what you can for the Morris. A hundred pounds, maybe. I really don’t mind very much.’
Lennie nodded. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘And what sort of car would you like in its place, Mr Moongrove?’
‘I thought something greyish-green,’ said Terence. ‘The same colour as this.’
Lennie stared at him. ‘A greyish-green car, you say?’
Terence confirmed this. ‘And not very big, please. I don’t want a large car. Two seats would be quite sufficient, I think.’
Lennie inclined his head. He was thinking. ‘A two-seater? That sounds rather . . . How should I put it, Mr Moongrove? A bit sporty, perhaps?’
Terence laughed. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t mind something sporty, Mr Marchbanks. I’m not exactly Toad of Toad Hall, you know. But a nice little sports car would be fine.’ He paused. ‘What would the AA think?’
Lennie answered quickly. ‘I think they’d be very happy to hear that you’d bought a new car.’
Terence patted the bodywork of the Morris. ‘This has been a very fine car, Mr Marchbanks. It represents British engineering at its finest, don’t you think?’
Lennie also gave the Morris a pat. ‘Some may say that. Of course things have come on a bit since then, but they were grand little cars - no doubt about that.’
Terence looked thoughtful. ‘Have you seen the car that Alfie Bismarck’s son drives? You know, the son who runs their racehorses? Have you seen his car?’
‘Monty Bismarck’s car? You talking about Monty Bismarck?’
‘Yes. I must say that I thought it was rather nice. Nice and small.’ Terence paused. ‘Do you think you could get me one of those, Mr Marchbanks?’
Lennie moved away from the Morris and stared into Terence’s eyes. ‘That’s a Porsche, Mr Moongrove. Alfie Bismarck’s son drives a Porsche.’
‘Is that what it’s called? Well, I thought it was very nice. I like small cars, you see.’
‘Nice?’ echoed Lennie. ‘Oh, it’s nice all right, Mr Moongrove. A Porsche is a very nice car altogether. But it’s very fast, you know.’
‘I wouldn’t have to drive it fast though, would I?’
Lennie made a face. ‘No, you wouldn’t have to. But you’d have to be very careful, you know. If you put your foot down hard, you’d take off.’
‘But I’d never put my foot down hard,’ said Terence. ‘You know me. I don’t drive very fast.’
‘That’s true.’
‘So can you get me one, Mr Marchbanks? It doesn’t matter if it’s a little bit expensive - I’ve got plenty of money, you know.’
‘I’m not sure I’d recommend it, Mr Moongrove. Perhaps you should talk to your sister about it?’
It was the wrong tactic, and Terence pursed his lips in determination. ‘No,’ he snapped. ‘I shall not talk to my sister about it. Cars are things for men, Mr Marchbanks. We men can make up our own minds about these things without bossy women coming and poking their long noses into our cars. My car is not a matter for my sister at all.’
Lennie shrugged. He was very reluctant to acquire a Porsche for Terence, but could he stop him? And if he did not do this for him, then somebody else - some unscrupulous person - would sell him some dreadful Porsche that had been driven to death and would just prove a headache for everybody: for him, for Terence and for the AA.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you a Porsche, Mr Moongrove. But only if you promise to drive it very, very carefully.’
‘Thank you,’ said Terence. ‘And you must promise not to tell my sister until the new car is safely in the garage. She can be very bossy, you know.’
Lennie nodded. He knew.
62. Eddie Shows His True Colours
Marcia came round to the wine shop shortly after two on Monday afternoon. It was a good time to call, as the midday rush, when people took advantage of their lunch-break to do a bit of shopping, was over. If Marcia was in the area - as she often was - she would call and share a cup of tea and an apple with William in the back office. In the days of Paul - before his sudden defection to Oddbins - he would be left in charge while William chatted to Marcia. Now, of course, it was Jenny who took over, even though it was her first day in the shop and everything was very new to her.
‘She’s doing remarkably well,’ said William, gesturing in the direction of the till, where his new assistant was attending to a smiling customer. ‘Her first day, but it’s very much a case of being to the manner born. A natural.’
Marcia looked through the open door of the office and took a thoughtful bite of her apple. She had been prepared to dislike Jenny on the grounds - and they were perfectly adequate ones, she thought - that she was a younger woman and she was now working in close proximity to William. But the welcome she had received from Jenny when she had come into the shop had been a warm one and clearly quite genuine, and that had taken the edge off her hostility. Then there was the matter of her own rather stronger position. For Marcia had that morning moved at least some of her possessions into Corduroy Mansions and was officially living in William’s flat. From such heights of advantage, the threat posed by other women, even young and attractive women like Jenny, was perhaps not so acute. She could afford to be generous.
Looking back on it, she marvelled at the smoothness with which the whole move had been accomplished. William had shown little resistance, a passivity that she attributed to his utter weariness of Eddie’s perverse refusal to move out. When, on Sunday morning, she had telephoned William and been told that Eddie had not come home the previous night, she had decided to take decisive action.
‘Right. We go ahead.’
William had hesitated. ‘I’m not sure that—’
But Marcia had pressed on. ‘I’ll come round,’ she said. ‘I’ll finish what we started yesterday. I’ll clear his room and dump his clothes in the hall.’
William had been privately appalled. He had never imagined that it would come to this, that he would effectively throw his own son out of the flat, but what were the alternatives? Every attempt at discussion, every offer of help with the purchase of a flat, every hint or offer of pastures green - elsewhere - had been ignored. Had Eddie been more
considerate, had he made the slightest effort to recognise that his father also lived in the flat, it might have been different. But he had not, and William had reached the reluctant conclusion that Eddie wanted him out. And once he had come to that realisation, then the only thing to do was to assert himself by acting first. Had we been cavemen, he thought, it would have been a battle with old animal jawbones or whatever it was that cavemen used to settle family disputes. And the outcome, in those days, would have been clear: he would have been lying on the floor of the cave while his son took over as the dominant male.
Eddie had returned late on Sunday afternoon.
At first there had been an ominous silence. Sitting in the living room, a newspaper on his lap, William had glanced nervously at Marcia. ‘He’s back,’ he whispered.
Marcia raised a finger to her lips. ‘Wait.’
The silence ended. ‘What’s my stuff doing in the hall?’
Marcia indicated that there should be no reply.
‘I said: what’s my stuff doing in the hall? Are you deaf, Dad?’
A few moments later, Eddie burst into the living room. The presence of Marcia took him by surprise and he stood quite still for a moment while he took in the scene. In the corner of the room, Freddie de la Hay, who had been dozing on his rug, raised his head to sniff at the air.
‘Your dad and I have decided to live together,’ Marcia said calmly. ‘So you’ll have to move out, I’m afraid.’
Eddie stared at her in blunt incomprehension. ‘I live here,’ he said. ‘This is my place.’
‘No, it isn’t, Eddie,’ said Marcia, throwing William a discouraging glance. She would handle this. ‘You see, it’s normal for kids to move out . . . eventually. Your dad has tried and tried to help you to move on but you’ve never done anything about it. Now he’s decided that enough is enough.’ She paused. ‘And if you look on the top of the pile of clothes in the hall there’s a piece of paper with an address. That’s a landlady who’s agreed to give you a room for two weeks while you find somewhere yourself. Your dad has paid for that.’
Eddie, who had been glaring at Marcia, now turned to his father. ‘Dad . . . ?’
‘I really did try, Eddie,’ said William. ‘Remember the flat I found for you - the one that I offered the deposit for? And the housing association place . . . And . . .’ He had tried; it was true. He had tried on numerous occasions, taking Eddie to letting agents, dictating advertisements for him - advertisements that attracted offers his son had no intention of replying to - in short, doing everything that a parent could possibly do to help his son get started by himself. And it had all been to no avail, which had made him wonder whether this was his sentence in life: to be saddled indefinitely with a dependent, layabout son. Did he really have to accept that? Was that a concomitant of parenthood, an inescapable moral burden of the act of reproduction?
He looked at Eddie hopelessly, but Eddie had turned to Marcia and was pointing a finger at her. ‘—,’ he said. ‘—,—,—!’
‘It’s no good using that language, Eddie,’ said William.
Marcia smiled. ‘I’ve heard all that before, Eddie.’
‘—,’ screamed Eddie. ‘—!’
It was at this point that Freddie de la Hay, disturbed by the human conflict he was witnessing, rose from his rug and lifted his snout in the air. ‘—,’ he howled. ‘—!’
‘Look,’ said William reproachfully, ‘you’ve upset Freddie de la Hay.’
Eddie turned and stared at the dog. Then, walking swiftly across the room, he kicked him.
63. My Door is Always Open
Now, sitting in the office on Monday afternoon, Marcia and William could look back, if they wished, on that moment of truth and reflect on the efficacy of direct, unambiguous action. And it had been effective: Eddie had stormed out, taking, significantly, his sponge bag and his well-used duffel bag. The note with the address of the landlady had been torn up and thrown on the floor, but, curiously, it had been replaced with another note, this time in Eddie’s hand, saying: ‘Thanks a lot, Dad! After all those years, this is what I get! Anyway, when you eventually succeed in chucking that woman out of your life - and I feel really sorry for you, Dad - then get in touch with me at Stevie’s place. I’ve written the address below. My door is always open, Dad. You know that. Blood is thicker than water, Dad!’
For William, the whole situation had become so painful that he preferred not to think about it. But at least the strategy had worked: Eddie had moved out and the lines of communication between them still appeared to be open. He would contact his son in a week or two. He would continue to pay the money that he transferred into Eddie’s account each month. That would cover his rent and give him a bit left over. He had to do that; he could not cut him off altogether.
But now, in the office with Marcia, William found himself reflecting on the fact that the Eddie problem was by no means fully resolved. Even if Eddie settled in Stevie’s flat, even if he found a reasonable job and stopped being a drain on the family finances, even if Eddie were to meet some respectable girl . . . Yes, respectable, thought William, and why should I be ashamed to use the word? What was wrong with being respectable? How had it become virtually a term of abuse, employed, if at all, with a snigger? It was time for respectable people to strike back, he felt. After years of being ridiculed and mocked, they would strike back and say . . . What would they say? We told you so? We told you that things would get like this and did you listen? You did not. You did not . . . He took a deep breath and returned to his original line of thought. Even if Eddie met a respectable girl and settled down with her, there was still the issue of his past and of the parcel that William and Marcia had found in his wardrobe.
‘What are we going to do?’ he asked Marcia as she passed him another cup of tea.
‘About?’
‘About the picture we found in Eddie’s wardrobe.’ He stared gloomily into his teacup. It was not easy to acknowledge that one’s son was an art thief.
Marcia shrugged. ‘Do we have to do anything?’
William watched her sip her tea. She was an attractive woman - in a slightly blowsy sort of way - and he enjoyed her company. But he was not entirely sure about her, and the answer she had just given caused him some concern. He wanted a soulmate - not just a flatmate - and he wondered how close he could be to somebody who thought that the presence of a stolen painting under one’s roof was not a matter for immediate anxiety. Did women think about moral issues in a different way? Were they simply more pragmatic?
‘I don’t think we can just leave it,’ said William. ‘It must belong to somebody. There must be an owner somewhere who’s missing it.’
Marcia thought about this. After a while she put down her cup and looked at William. ‘So the painting’s stolen - it’s not our fault. Eddie’s stolen it or is looking after it for somebody who stole it. But we didn’t do any of that.’
William shook his head. ‘No, Marcia, you’re wrong. If you hold on to something that’s been stolen, you’re in trouble. It amounts to being in possession of stolen property. You can be prosecuted.’
Marcia seemed unconcerned. ‘I still say that it’s nothing to do with us. Return it to Eddie. Get rid of it. What else can we do?’ She paused. ‘Unless we go to the police. You could always do that, I suppose.’
It was not what William wanted to hear. He had, of course, considered the possibility, and in normal circumstances he would not have hesitated to hand in stolen property. But this was different. This was property that had been stolen by his own flesh and blood.
‘I can’t do that,’ he said, his voice taking on a stressed, almost agonised tone. ‘I can’t turn in my own son.’
Marcia understood. ‘Of course you can’t.’
William rose to his feet and began to pace about the room. ‘And yet . . . and yet there must be cases where you have to report a member of your family. What if you know that somebody in the family is a serial killer, for example? You don’t keep quiet about
that, do you?’
‘It can’t be very easy,’ said Marcia. ‘But Eddie’s not a murderer, is he? Eddie’s just a . . . well, Eddie’s just a bit of a naughty boy. That’s all.’
William did not seem to have heard her. He had stopped in front of the small window at the back of the office and was looking out of it. ‘Of course, I could get the painting back to its owner,’ he muttered.
He turned round and smiled at Marcia. ‘That’s the solution, Marcia. We return the painting. Discreetly. We set things right that way. Then I’m spared the duty of handing my own son over to the police.’
William waited while Marcia considered this. She looked doubtful. ‘Maybe.’
‘Just maybe? Don’t you think it’s the obvious thing to do?’
Marcia looked at her watch. She had an appointment with one of her suppliers and she needed to get going. ‘The problem is,’ she said, ‘that we don’t know the first thing about it. Whose is it? Where did Eddie get it?’
‘We ask,’ said William.
Marcia looked at William dubiously. ‘Ask Eddie?’
That was not necessary, William explained. ‘Something I read came back to me,’ he said. ‘I think I know where to go.’
Marcia looked at her watch again. Her seafood man, whom she was due to meet, always insisted on punctuality - which was a good thing, she thought, in a man who dealt in perishables. ‘Where?’ she asked. ‘Where do we go?’
William waved a hand in the air, indicating the ether, the world of www.
64. Requin Trouvé
At the same time as William and Marcia were agonising, or William, at least, was agonising, over what to do about their awkward discovery in Eddie’s wardrobe - their damnosa hereditas, as Roman lawyers might put it - Caroline and James, feeling the need for a late lunch, were peering into the window of a small bistro behind the British Museum. It was on a street of book and antique shops; to one side was a dusty dealership in antiquarian maps, and to the other a shop that specialised in Greek and Roman antiquities.
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