‘Come on, we both know...’
Tom hovered above her. ‘No, no, you’ve got it wrong. I admit there was a while back then when perhaps... but not now. I don’t fancy you, I don’t need you.’
She looked hurt; this wasn’t part of the plan. ‘Tom...’
‘You finished with Adrian because of me, didn’t you? That was a mistake, because he still wants you but... I don’t. You do understand, I don’t, and I don’t want to see you again.’
Her face crumpled. She threw her cigarette on the wooden floor. ‘You don’t mean that.’
Tom tried to keep his voice steady. ‘Believe it.’ He turned to leave; his eyes fixed on the exit.
Rachel stood up abruptly and with the final chords of ‘Whiter Shade of Pale’ fading away, yelled his name across the pub. ‘Tom! Tom! TOM.’
He paused at the door and looked back. Tears were streaming down her face, her make-up running, the smoke still whirling in the sunbeams, the stunned silence gripping the puzzled audience. She looked so pathetic, so crumpled that for a moment he felt pity for her. He was tempted to say he was sorry, but decided against it; that would have been too spineless.
Chapter 15: The Drunk
20th October 1917.
This day was the last day of my war. Today I killed a few German soldiers close to, effectively lost my leg and earned my medal. It is not a day I cherish but the date is indelibly carved onto my mind as clearly as the date of my birth. I think of it often, either consciously or subconsciously. I have no control over it.
A party of about 30 men took part in a raid. The objective was to collect German prisoners to aid our intelligence before the coming battle at Cambrai. Not that we knew anything about the imminent assault, of which I certainly would have been a part of, if it had not been for a stray German bullet that caught me in the back of the knee.
The raid was exciting and terrifying by turn. My mind went a complete blank hence my memory of it is vague. Fuelled by some instinctive bloodlust, I had never been so keen and willing to kill – or be killed. All but one of the men I killed are faceless.
The Germans were there for the killing, I forget how many lost their lives at my hands. But there was one I remember all too well – a boy I bayoneted to death. His face comes back to haunt me frequently and at the most unexpected of times or places. As he lay dying, he pulled out a photograph of his family. But I had no time to feel either pity or mercy. I bayoneted him one more time – to make sure. I was on my way back when the bullet brought me down. Unable to move, I expected to die. But under the cover of night, Jack and our Sergeant Wilkins came to my aid and hauled me in. Jack saved my life under almost impossible circumstances. When later the tables were reversed, I was unable to return the favour.
A few months later, I received my DCM for taking a trench that was probably retaken within hours, for playing my part in providing invaluable intelligence, and for denying a few more German mothers from seeing their sons again.
Such is war.
Tom closed the diary with a sigh and picked up the medals lying at his side on the bed. ‘Such is war,’ he said to himself. It was Wednesday, mid-morning, the whole day stretched before him and he was at a loss as to what to do. He was feeling bored, on edge and inadequate. Bored – because he couldn’t put his mind to anything; on edge – in case Mr Lewis phoned to haul him into work to face the music; and inadequate – for having been such a useless father to Charlotte. St Omer seemed like the only bright spot on his bleak horizon but even the thought of that now made him cringe. He’d bulldozed Maria and was now regretting putting her on the spot. Shaking it from his mind, he decided he had to do something. He put Charlotte’s earrings in his pocket, trotted downstairs, politely declined his mother’s offer of lunch, and went out. He decided to go and have lunch in a pub. He walked to his parents’ local, not that they had ever stepped into it, and ordered a ploughman’s and half a lager. It was the sort of pub that provided newspapers for their customers, so after finishing his lunch, which frankly wasn’t particularly nice, he ordered another half and settled down with a copy of The Mirror. He read it from cover to cover while refreshing his glass three maybe four times. He then finished off with the supplement and another half – or two. He looked at his watch – he had been in the pub for two hours and had consumed so many halves, he’d lost count, and he still had enough time to catch a train down to Holloway and meet Charlotte from school. But first, another half. Twenty minutes later, Tom emerged from the pub into the heat of the day, feeling decidedly woozy.
Tom was outside the school gates a good ten minutes before home time. He sat down on the pavement near the main entrance and waited. He hadn’t met Charlotte from school since primary school. He imagined that she might be embarrassed in front of her friends, but inside she’d be delighted at his unexpected appearance. He’d take her out to a café where they could have a talk. He needed to talk to her and clear the air. He needed to apologise for his childish behaviour on his visit home, to commiserate over Angus and to remind her that, whatever happened, he was and would always be her father. He remembered that on Friday it was Charlotte’s First World War performance. He wondered whether she was still bent on doing a poetry recital. Tom felt a twinge of nervousness on her behalf and thought back to his own recent performance in front of an audience. He thought back to their trip to the Imperial War Museum. It had been the last thing he’d done before everything started to go wrong.
In the distance, the school bell sounded. It was three-thirty. Tom stood up clumsily; he felt nauseous and his stomach was churning. Taking his place next to the school gates, he hoped no one would notice. The first set of children, mostly the little ones, suddenly appeared in a mad dash to escape school. After the initial rush came the deluge – what seemed like hundreds upon hundreds of schoolchildren of varying sizes and races. A sea of black blazers engulfed him. He would never spot Charlotte among this lot, especially in his current state of dizziness. He kept his eyes peeled for her blonde hair, but his fuzzy mind couldn’t keep up with the waves of shrieking, chattering, excitable children. Who’d be a teacher, he thought. Some of the big boys were taller than him and all but a few seemed to possess an arrogance that he found slightly threatening. He saw a spotty, overweight youth who had unbuttoned his white school shirt to reveal underneath a black tee shirt with the words “Swivel on it” emblazoned in red lettering. Charming, thought Tom.
Tom heaved and for a horrendous moment, thought he was going to be sick. The crowd of schoolchildren was beginning to thin out and Tom assumed he had missed her. He waited for a few minutes more until barely a handful of children remained. Tom gave up and realised he had probably hung around at the school too long to try and catch her up on her way home. He was just turning to leave when he saw her. She was walking alongside a gangly red-headed boy and, much to Tom’s irritation, Mark Moyes. He stepped into the playground. The three of them were deep in conversation but they were too far away for Tom to hear what they were saying.
Moyes saw him first. ‘Charlotte, your father’s here.’
Charlotte looked up and shot her father a filthy look. ‘Dad? What are you doin’ here?’
‘Nice to see you too, sweetheart. I wasn’t doing anything, so I thought I’d come and meet my lov-er-ly daughter from school.’ Tom realised he hadn’t said a word to anyone since leaving the pub and his speech sounded slurred. He looked at the red-headed boy. ‘Who’s this then?’
‘Adam.’
‘Hello,’ said Adam politely.
‘He’s in my class,’ added Charlotte.
‘Well, Adam, nice to meet you, to meet you...’ Oh stop it, you fool, thought Tom. He was beginning to act like a drunk.
‘Dad, are you OK?’
‘Couldn’t be better, my love.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Couldn’t be better.’ He reached inside his pocket. ‘Look, I’ve bought you a little present, not much really.’ She took the little box and flipped open the lid. Tom watched her, hoping for a sp
ark of enthusiasm but was disappointed by her blank expression. ‘They’re in the shape of a snake, you see?’
Moyes looked at him accusingly. ‘You’re drunk.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are; you’re drunk.’
‘Oh-no-I’m-not,’ said Tom, adopting a pantomime voice.
Adam looked embarrassed. Tom decided it was best if he took Charlotte away before he made more of a fool of himself. ‘C’mon, sweetheart, I’ll take you out for a Coke and a big sticky bun. Hmm? You’d like that.’
‘No, not much.’ Charlotte glanced up at Moyes as if seeking his help. He was only too glad to intervene.
‘You’re not taking her anywhere,’ he said firmly, stepping forward to place himself between father and daughter.
Tom couldn’t believe his ears. ‘You what?’ he said threateningly.
‘You’re drunk and I’m not prepared to entrust Charlotte’s safety into your hands. I think you should leave.’
A mixture of rage and humiliation sobered Tom in an instant – how dare he speak to him like that. ‘OK, I may be a bit drunk; can you blame me? But she’s still my daughter and I’m not leaving without her.’
‘Dad, please, you’re showing me up.’
Adam mumbled to her, ‘I won’t say anything.’
Tom cast his eyes around the playground. Beyond a few teachers and an odd group of schoolchildren, the place was almost empty. ‘C’mon, Charlotte,’ he said, sidestepping Moyes and offering her his hand. But Charlotte stepped back a pace and shook her head.
Moyes stepped forward again. ‘I think Charlotte has made her feelings quite clear. Now, I really think you ought to leave.’
‘No,’ said Tom impetuously. He was aware that their argument was beginning to attract attention.
‘In that case,’ said Moyes, ‘I shall escort Charlotte home myself.’ He turned to her, ‘You ready, Charlotte?’ She nodded. The teacher started to walk forward, but Tom moved to block him, his face only inches away from Moyes’s, eyeball to eyeball. In the corner of his eye, he saw another teacher, at least he assumed he was a teacher, coming over.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ seethed Tom. ‘You took my wife; you’re not taking my daughter too, you bastard.’
‘I’m only escorting her home, you fool.’
From the near distance, Tom heard the approaching teacher call out. ‘Are you OK, Mr Moyes; do you need any assistance?’
Keeping his eyes fixed on Moyes, Tom took a half step back, clenching his fist.
Moyes shouted back to his colleague, ‘Yes, I’m fine thanks, Mr Searight here is just going–’
Tom hit him. Weeks of resentment surged out of him; he hit him with as much force as he could muster, catching Moyes on the cheek. Charlotte screamed, Adam put his hand to his mouth; Moyes staggered back clutching his cheek. Tom grasped his own hand, surprised by the surge of pain inflicted by Moyes’s cheekbone.
The second teacher ran towards Tom, his arm outstretched. ‘Oi, what do you think you’re doing!’ he shouted. Moyes fell onto one knee, still holding his cheek. Tom sidestepped the teacher and hovered above Moyes with his fist clenched again, waiting for Moyes to get up so he could hit him a second time. Some instinctive code of honour, gleaned from a childhood diet of Hollywood films, told him not to hit Moyes while the man was still down. The teacher pushed him to one side. Tom caught his balance and glared at the teacher who stepped back for fear of also being hit by this demented parent.
‘Stop it!’ screamed Charlotte. ‘Stop it, just leave me alone, Dad.’
The sound of Charlotte’s desperate voice immediately diffused Tom’s aggression. He turned and looked at his daughter. The second teacher went over to Moyes and helped him back to his feet. Adam simply looked awkward, wanting to walk away but unwilling to desert Charlotte. Charlotte began crying. ‘Dad, I know what happened between Mum and Mr Moyes. I wish I didn’t know and I wish it hadn’t happened. But it did happen and you’re just making everything worse. I don’t need a dad who disappears and then comes back drunk and hits people. I just want...’ Her voice trailed off.
‘Go on, Charlotte, what do you want?’
‘I just want you and Mum to get back together. I want Angus back. I want to go back to how we were.’
Moyes was listening. Tom looked at him. He wanted to say “see what you’ve done”, but circumstances told him this wasn’t the time to score petty points at Moyes’s expense.
Charlotte turned to Adam and wiped her sleeve against her nose. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
Adam looked nervously from Tom to Moyes, as if needing both their consent before he could escort Charlotte out of the school. Both men nodded. With her schoolbag trailing behind her, Charlotte turned to her father, ‘See you sometime, Dad.’
‘Are you still doing your thing on Friday?’
‘My thing?’ She nodded and with Adam beside her, she walked out of the school gates. Tom and the two teachers watched her go. As she exited the school, Tom glanced at Moyes who had a small trickle of blood running down from the small cut in his cheek. He deserved more, thought Tom.
‘Do you want me to call the police, Mr Moyes?’ Mark shook his head. ‘If you’re sure. We’ll need to report it to the head in the morning.’
Without a word, Tom left. He began to feel nauseous again. He belched. At least, he thought, he hadn’t been sick.
*
Charlotte and Adam walked in silence; both too embarrassed to know what to say. Frankly, Charlotte was relieved. She needed to be with someone, but she had no desire to talk. Adam’s silent companionship was ideal. Although she had known Adam since they both started at the school, she’d never had anything to do with him, at least not until his father had run over her dog. She had spoken more to him in the last couple of days than in the previous three years. And she liked him; he was nice. A bit square and a bit quiet, but nice. Presently, they came to Adam’s house; he lived nearer to the school than Charlotte. They hovered around Adam’s front gate for a while, not sure how to say goodbye. Eventually, Adam asked Charlotte in, but she declined. She wasn’t ready yet to meet the man who had run over Angus.
Charlotte walked on alone. She could tell that Adam had been relieved she hadn’t accepted his invitation. She was beginning to really resent her father. First, he disappears, although she could understand that now, but not to call her? That was too much; it was as if he was denying her existence. And when he does show up, he’s an embarrassment, fighting over a spade or violently drunk. This wasn’t the father she loved. She ambled along Valentine Road, past the library, the left side of the street bathed in dazzling sunlight. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to go home. Mum had said she was staying on late at school because of some staff meeting, but equally she needed to do something, just to take her mind off things. She fancied going to the park, but she couldn’t face it – not without Angus. She thought of all the times she used Angus as an excuse to meet Gavin. She smiled at the thought of Angus sniffing around while she and Gavin had a quiet smoke. Gavin – that was it! If ever she needed a smoke, it was now. Yes, what a good idea, she thought, she’d go and see Gavin.
With a new-found purpose in her stride, Charlotte turned back on herself and made her way to Gavin’s house. She’d never been inside before but she knew where it was. Chances were, she thought, he’d be out; he’d probably found himself a new chick to impress with his illegal substances, but it was worth a try. Ten minutes later, Charlotte was standing outside his house. She rang the bell. There was no answer, but she tried again. Presently, she heard footsteps scurrying down the stairs. The door swung open. Standing there, barefoot, was Gavin himself wearing his “Swivel on it” tee shirt. ‘Bugger me, she’s back!’
‘Hello, Gavin,’ she said meekly.
‘Watchya.’
‘I was jus’ passing and, erm, jus’ thought I’d see if you were around.’
‘Sure. Come up, if ya like.’
Charlotte stepped into the hallwa
y and followed Gavin to the foot of the stairs. She looked around. She was struck by how squalid everything was. The wallpaper in the hall and up the stairs hung off in huge strips, the carpet was filthy and threadbare. A full but untied bin-liner was propped up against the wall; its sordid contents spilling out.
Gavin charged upstairs. ‘What’s up?’ he shouted from the top.
‘Your mum not at home?’
‘Nah, she’s at work. Won’t be back for ages; I’m on me tod. You coming up or what?’
Charlotte climbed the stairs and followed Gavin to his room. As he opened the door, huge whaffs of sweet-smelling smoke came billowing out. ‘Bloody hell, Gav, you’ve been at it.’
He laughed. ‘Yeah, got loads at the moment. Want some?’
‘You sure?’
‘Course.’
She stepped gingerly over the clutter of discarded clothes, glossy football magazines, scattered CDs, crushed cans, crisp packets and bits of rubbish. Posters of semi-naked women and football stars adorned the walls. Gavin plonked himself down in a large, red beanbag in the corner of his room and finished off a joint he’d been smoking. Charlotte looked around – there was nowhere to sit, so she perched herself at the end of his bed, trying to disguise her look of distaste. Next to her was a table covered with more magazines, an old computer and bits of paper and on which sat a small CD player. While she took in her surroundings, Gavin rolled a joint, quickly followed by a second. He passed one to Charlotte.
‘What, all of it?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, get it down ya.’
Charlotte gazed at the daunting size of it; she hadn’t smoked weed for a while and knew it would go straight to her head. Gavin lit his joint and then handed her his pornographic lighter and an unopened can of cider. She opened the can, placed it carefully between her knees and lit hers. She took a few gentle puffs, sipping from the drink between each draw.
The Red Oak (The Searight Saga Book 3) Page 18