by David Nobbs
‘She’s picked all the flowers to make the house look lovely for you,’ he said. ‘Not a word, eh? Business as usual. Savvy?’
He bent down to kiss Cousin Hilda, and to Henry’s and Diana’s astonishment, she accepted the kiss with good grace, albeit blushing slightly.
Auntie Doris came rushing out in a wave of scent.
‘Hilda!’ she said, and hugged her.
‘Well I never,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘Well I never.’
‘Exactly,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘Jolly good.’
‘Terrific,’ said Henry.
And so, on a tide of meaninglessness, they entered the cottage. There were flowers everywhere, in vases, jars, bowls, glasses, mugs, even eggcups. On window sills and occasional tables and bedside tables they stood in their profusion.
Henry and Diana stared at them in amazement, and Cousin Hilda sniffed.
Oh no, thought Henry.
Cousin Hilda sniffed again.
Don’t be rude, please. She meant it for the best.
Cousin Hilda sniffed a third time.
‘What a lovely scent,’ she said.
Henry and Diana and Uncle Teddy tried to hide their astonishment, and Auntie Doris beamed.
‘You’ve got the house really lovely for us, Auntie Doris,’ said Diana.
‘Thank you, Diana,’ said Auntie Doris, and they were pleased that she hadn’t said ‘Hilary’, but then she said, ‘Don’t just stand there, Geoffrey. Get them a drink.’
Cousin Hilda sniffed at the appearance of every gin and tonic and there was an awkward moment when Uncle Teddy said, ‘What’s all this sniffing, Hilda? Is it hay fever? Are the flowers upsetting you?’
‘You know it isn’t that, Teddy Braithwaite,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘It’s the drink. I can’t change at my time of life.’
‘Nor can we,’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘I don’t think I expect you to any more,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘But I can’t pretend to like it. Shall we make a pact, Teddy? I don’t comment on your drinking and you don’t comment on my sniffing.’
‘Fair enough, Hilda,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘Spot on.’
They lunched on ham salads, which Auntie Doris carried in as if she’d prepared them, although they all knew that Uncle Teddy had.
As the afternoon rolled somnolently by, to the tune of bees and combine harvesters, they played Scrabble in the flowerless garden. Cousin Hilda had never played before, but Uncle Teddy insisted that she played instead of him.
‘I’ll umpire,’ he said.
Cousin Hilda began, and after much delay she produced the word Tart.
Henry held his breath.
‘What kind of tart?’ said Auntie Doris.
‘Tha what?’ said Cousin Hilda.
‘It’s nice to know what you have in mind when you choose a word,’ said Auntie Doris.
‘A Bakewell tart,’ said Cousin Hilda.
‘Very good,’ said Auntie Doris.
Henry produced Trained, Diana made Bottom, at which Cousin Hilda sniffed, and after much thought Auntie Doris plonked down Cow.
‘What sort of cow?’ said Cousin Hilda.
‘Black and white Friesian,’ said Auntie Doris.
Cousin Hilda’s second word was Bed, and Auntie Doris said, ‘Who’s in the bed, Hilda?’ and Henry held his breath, and Cousin Hilda said, ‘I am. And I’m on my own, Doris,’ and Auntie Doris said, ‘Very wise.’
Henry made Grain, Diana Amber, and Auntie Doris, after much thought, Quurm.
‘What’s Quurm?’ asked Cousin Hilda.
‘A fruit,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘It’s a cross between a quince and a plum.’
‘Perhaps my tart were a quurm tart,’ said Cousin Hilda drily.
‘Could have been, Hilda,’ said Uncle Teddy uneasily. ‘Could have been. Q on a triple-letter score. You’ve got thirty-six, Doris. Well done.’
Cousin Hilda struggled to make her third word, settling eventually on Rat.
‘I’m sorry I’m so dull,’ she said.
‘Not at all,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘A bit on the short side, but not half bad. Double word score too. You score six.’
Henry used the T of rat to produce Truffle. Diana used the L of truffle to make Lean and Auntie Doris used the N of Lean to form Zenoxiac.
‘Very good,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘That’s very good. X on a double letter score is 16, so your word total is 34, Z on a treble word score, 34 times 3 is 102, C also on a treble word score, 102 times 3 is 306, 50 bonus for using all your letters, 356.’
‘Oh my,’ said Auntie Doris. ‘What luck!’
‘What’s Zenoxiac mean?’ asked Cousin Hilda.
‘Containing foreign bodies,’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘How would you use it?’ persisted Cousin Hilda.
‘Well if a loaf of bread was found to contain a dead mouse, I’d say, “Goodness me. This loaf’s very zenoxiac,”’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘How awful!’ said Auntie Doris. ‘Send it back.’
‘No, no,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘This is a hypothetical loaf and a hypothetical dead mouse.’
‘Well mice frighten me,’ said Auntie Doris. ‘I wish you wouldn’t invent hypothetical ones. Can’t you invent something nice, like a hypothetical squirrel?’
‘It wouldn’t suit my example, dear,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘You wouldn’t find a dead squirrel in a loaf of bread.’
‘Or a dead mouse,’ said Auntie Doris, ‘so stop being silly, Geoffrey.’
‘Quite right,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘Your go, Hilda.’
Cousin Hilda made the word Run.
‘Well done, Hilda,’ said Uncle Teddy. ‘You score three.’
The game proceeded smoothly, if slowly, the afternoon drowsed, and Uncle Teddy announced the score. ‘Well, Doris has won,’ he said, ‘with 677. Henry’s a very good second, 166. Diana nudging him strongly, 161, and Hilda bringing up the rear, but not bad for a first time, 42.’
They had a pot of tea, and by the time they’d finished that, the sun had gone down over the yard-arm. They drank, and Cousin Hilda sniffed, and they didn’t make any comment on her sniffing, and she didn’t make any comment on their drinking, and they had chicken supreme, which Auntie Doris served but Uncle Teddy had bought and heated up, and at the end of the meal, when Auntie Doris went to put some more flowers in Cousin Hilda’s bedroom, Uncle Teddy said, ‘I don’t want to pull the wool over your eyes, Hilda. You’ve been a sport today. There’s no such word as Zenoxiac.’
‘Well, Teddy,’ said Cousin Hilda, ‘tha’s done a lot of things I can’t forgive …’
‘Admitted!’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘Tha’s told disgraceful untruths and made dreadful deceptions.’
‘No defence submitted!’ said Uncle Teddy.
‘So one little white lie isn’t going to make much difference on the Day of Judgement,’ said Cousin Hilda.
When Auntie Doris returned, Uncle Teddy said, ‘Shall we have another game, seeing we’re all one big happy family?’
‘Now that’s a right good game, that is,’ said Cousin Hilda. ‘Let’s play Happy Families.
Henry and Diana’s attempt to play Happy Families wasn’t helped by the disappearance of Benedict. Camilla phoned from St Pancras in floods of tears.
‘I went to buy a paper. When I came back he’d gone,’ she said. ‘That was an hour ago, and there’s a suitcase missing. I just don’t know what to do.’
‘Have you rung your father?’ asked Henry.
‘Well, no. He’s just said goodbye, and I think he’s going out somewhere, and I knew you were expecting us, so I rang you, and my money’s running out. Oh Henry, I’m so scared!’
‘You just sit there, Camilla, with the luggage. I’ll phone somebody to fetch you, and I’ll drive down. Don’t move till somebody comes that you know. OK?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good girl.’
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s not your …’
But her money had run out.
Henry
got no reply from Tosser’s, but Mr Hargreaves was at home and said he’d cancel everything and go straight to St Pancras and rescue Camilla.
Henry phoned the police, gave a description of Benedict, left Diana at home in case he contacted her there, and set off on another nightmare drive. All the way down the M1 he rebuked himself. He’d done nothing. He’d hoped the Benedict problem would go away. Now it hadn’t, but Benedict had. If only … if only … he arrived at Hampstead with an aching head full of ‘if only’s.
Camilla looked so much younger than her fifteen years, and so much less like a horse than she had ever looked, and to Henry’s amazement she rushed up and dissolved into a flood of tears in his arms.
‘We’ve tried Nigel, but no luck,’ said Mrs Hargreaves, who looked worried but exquisite.
‘It doesn’t really matter now,’ said Camilla. ‘I’m with you. I want to go home, Henry.’
Henry found it disturbing that he could feel such gratification and joy in the midst of such worry. He phoned the police, who’d found nothing, and then, so keen was Camilla to get home, he set off after a quick bite of pâté and toast.
At half past eight on a tired late summer’s evening Henry was on the M1 again. Camilla slept some of the way, and talked a bit about Mauritius, and said that looking back on it Benedict had been very quiet and serene but rather triumphant, as if he had something planned, so with that in mind and the suitcase gone she was sure that whatever had happened was of his own doing and that he’d be safe.
‘Thank you,’ said Henry. ‘You’re a wonderful girl.’
Camilla burst into tears, so he knew that she was pleased.
The following day, after a night of deeply disturbed sleep, Henry answered the telephone with no premonition.
It was Jack, ringing from Heathrow.
‘Kate’s disappeared, Dad,’ he said, still almost phlegmatic. ‘Vanished. Bit of a bugger, isn’t it?’
The police issued photographs of both children, but they weren’t given wide publicity, and nothing resulted.
Camilla and Jack, thrust into a situation not of their making, were amazingly good with Henry and Diana and with each other. Camilla didn’t go riding, her heart just wasn’t in it, and Jack abandoned, without any apparent regret, a trip to the Lakes with the Blairs. Between them, they even did the shopping and cooked simple meals, and they seemed to grow up almost by the hour. Cousin Hilda said, ‘I’m just glad Mrs Wedderburn has been spared the worry,’ and Henry and Diana lived through long nights where time made cruel sport with them. They told themselves that Benedict was seventeen and Kate sixteen. That was quite adult these days. But they knew in their hearts that on their own they were two children who knew nothing of the world and its many dangers.
On the fourth afternoon of their shared ordeal, Kate phoned.
‘It’s Kate, Henry,’ screamed Diana.
‘We’re all right,’ said Kate, and rang off.
They both went weak at the knees then, and began to cry with deep, deep relief, but it wasn’t long before their relief became anxiety again. Where were they? What were they doing? Had Benedict known that Kate was phoning? How was Benedict behaving? What sort of boy was he, deep down behind the anger in his eyes? Would Kate get pregnant? And … oh, oh, oh but it was possible … would Benedict get violent? And … oh oh oh … oh oh oh oh oh … was it all their fault?
Kate phoned again on the eighth day and said, ‘I’m coming home. I’m at Dartmouth police station.’
Longer and longer were Henry’s rescue drives across England.
Kate looked at him, white-faced, and wild-eyed and shrivelled, like a cornered cat. He hugged her and said nothing, except, ‘Where’s Benedict?’
‘I don’t know,’ she gasped between tears. ‘I ran away.’
‘They slept in an old hut up around the moor,’ said the paternal, old-fashioned police officer. ‘We’ve got search parties out. He’ll be found.’
Sometimes Kate slept, and sometimes she cried, on the long, long journey home.
‘Did he hurt you?’ Henry asked very gently.
‘No, no,’ said Kate. ‘He never hit me.’ Then she burst into great sobs.
Henry pulled up at the roadside and held her tight and kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelt dirty.
‘He told me he loved me,’ she wailed. ‘He didn’t love me. He did it all to hurt you.’
Benedict didn’t run away when the police found him. He turned and walked towards them, proudly. There were no charges. Kate had gone of her own free will, and he had used her, but not abused her, except that using is abusing.
He phoned Henry the next day, cool as a … as anything but a cucumber. Henry couldn’t think of cucumbers as cool, now that there were suspicions about radiation lurking deep in the underground storage caverns of his mind.
‘I’d like to come up tomorrow to collect my things,’ said Benedict. ‘I don’t think I should stay in the same house as Kate any more. It’d be too awkward.’
So the next day Kate went to the Blairs. She was full of remorse and hurt and grief and anger, but the very enormity of Benedict’s betrayal at such a tender age contained the seeds of her cure. It made home seem a very desirable place. It made simple childish pleasures like boiled eggs with toast soldiers very reassuring. It made her, briefly, into a girl again.
Jack also went out for the day. If he stayed he’d have been tempted to thump Benedict, and although he was two years younger he had such strength that he might have succeeded. It would be a disaster whether he won or not, so Henry gave him the money to go to the Scarborough Cricket Festival with his friend, Slim Micklewhite.
Benedict walked up the garden path, outwardly as cool as a lettuce.
Diana opened the door and faced her son. Henry stood just behind her, ready to give moral support if needed.
‘Hi there,’ said Benedict. ‘I’ve come for my things. Those mattresses next door are disgusting.’
He refused their offers of tea, coffee and food, and he wouldn’t meet their eyes.
‘You should at least eat something,’ said Henry.
‘Not hungry.’
‘What do you plan to do?’
‘Go to Dad’s. Frankly, I can’t bear this grotty little town or your grotty little husband any more, Mum.’
Camilla stood in the kitchen doorway, a glass of milk in her hand, gawping in horror.
‘That’s an absolutely ridiculous thing to say, and you know it,’ said Diana. ‘Henry has done so much for you.’
‘Has he fuck!’ said Benedict.
‘Ben!’ implored Camilla.
‘Stay out of this, Camilla. This is grown-up stuff,’ said Ben.
Camilla went very red and tears welled into her eyes. She tossed her long hair angrily and stormed back into the kitchen.
Benedict moved towards the stairs. Henry was blocking his way.
‘Are you going to hit me?’ asked Benedict.
‘I wouldn’t hit a child,’ said Henry.
‘A child!’ said Benedict. ‘That’s a good one.’
He pushed Henry out of the way and stalked up the stairs.
A moment or two later, Camilla followed him. She soon came downstairs in tears, and wailed, ‘He told me to get out from under his feet. He said I’m a distinct pain. Brothers!’
She subsided into Diana’s arms. Henry put his arm on hers. She kissed Diana and then Henry, and the three of them were still standing in the hall, arm in arm, when Benedict came downstairs with a suitcase and a hold-all.
‘Oh my God!’ he said. ‘All happy together. A typical English family. Ugh!’ His face twisted into fury. ‘Don’t you realise that he hates us, Camilla? Mum can’t see it because she’s so besotted. Surely you can?’
‘I don’t hate you,’ said Henry in a voice which he hoped was cool, but which he knew had a crack in it, ‘but I’ll never forgive you for what you’ve done to Kate.’
Benedict put his cases down and moved towards Henry threateningly.
&nbs
p; ‘Benedict!’ cried Diana.
‘That’s right. Hit me. That’ll solve everything,’ said Henry.
Benedict stopped about three inches in front of Henry, and looked down at him. Henry had never wished for those few extra inches more.
‘I’m not going to hit you,’ said Benedict, suddenly loftily cool again. ‘I don’t hit wankers.’
‘Oh good,’ said Henry. ‘At least we know you won’t be punching yourself in the face, then.’
‘Very witty,’ said Benedict. ‘Why don’t you go and do another comic turn at Dalton? They’re just about your level.’
He picked up his cases and moved towards the door.
‘I’ll be back for the rest of my stuff,’ he said.
‘Aren’t you going to kiss me goodbye?’ said Diana.
Benedict hesitated, looked as if he wanted to, then said, ‘Not just now, Mummy. When you’ve left Henry, big kiss then.’
He opened the door with dignity, tried to walk through it with dignity, got his feet caught round his hold-all, stumbled out onto the path, and slammed the door furiously behind him. The china tinkled in the display cabinet in the hall, and then there was silence.
About twenty stunned unhappy minutes later Diana said, ‘I hate to say this about my own son, but do you think we’re wise to trust him? Should we check with Nigel that he really is going there?’
‘Oh my God, of course we should,’ said Henry. ‘We’re panicking. We’re not thinking.’
Diana rang her ex-husband’s number. Henry sat on the settee, holding her hand and listening. Camilla watched them earnestly from an armchair, and Henry noticed how her new maturity had changed her face. She was almost beautiful, and might become so.
‘The Pilkington-Brick residence,’ trilled Felicity, and Diana made a face.
‘Hello, Felicity,’ she said. ‘Is Nigel by any chance in residence in his residence?’
‘I’ll fetch him,’ said Felicity coldly.
Camilla gave her mother a brief, fond grin.
‘Hello.’
‘Nigel, it’s Diana. Are you expecting Benedict?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Oh my God.’
‘What’s happened, Diana?’
‘He’s been here to collect his things. He says he’s coming to live with you.’