by Nick Corbett
Joe forces a smile at her. He looks down at the runny-nosed, brown-eyed boy. He feels overwhelmed by hopelessness.
Why are these kids living in a place that’s abandoned?
It’s devoid of community; it’s worse than the camp in Beirut.
Why have I abandoned my own grandfather?
Joe feels a lump in his throat and his eyes begin to water. He tries to pull himself together.
“So, how come you’re still living here?” he asks the younger woman.
“We’re moving today.”
“Oh, where are you going to?”
“The council’s got us a proper ‘ouse. It ain’t far away. The kids’ll be able to go to the same school. That’s important, if y’knaw what I mean?”
Joe nods. The young woman continues. “I feel a bit bad leaving old Ted. D’ya reckon he’ll be alright? Can’t yer fix him up somewhere else?”
Joe remains silent for a moment, lost in thought, and then he remembers something relevant.
“Oh, there’s a removal lorry driving around the estate, is it looking for you?”
“Eh? Oh, yeah.”
The rain begins to fall from the black sky. The Rottweiler runs back indoors.
“Ah, it’s pissing it down. C’mon yaw kids. In! Now! I’ll go and find that lorry.”
The children remain oblivious to their mother’s demands. They stand gazing up at Joe.
“See ya mate,” says the little boy, eventually. He runs inside with his sister. Joe grabs his bags, walks off, downcast, along the estate road, towards his grandad’s home.
Joe lifts his heavy head. He can see one bit of garden is still cared for. There is a cherry tree in the middle of it. The one planted by his grandparents in 1969. At the sight of the pink blossom, a half smile brushes across Joe’s face. Then a gust of wind brings cold rain smashing against his cheeks. There is a distant rumble of thunder. He hurries on, shivering in the wind and the rain. He walks around to the back of Grandad’s block. In the courtyard, it’s the same scene of desolation. Only two out of a dozen front doors aren’t boarded up. The rain is pouring down hard. Joe goes through the gate. His wet knuckles hurt as he pounds against the front door. The voice from within sounds frail and confused.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s Joe, Grandad, it’s Joe!”
“Oh, ah, hang on Joe, hang on son!”
Several locks are turned and a chain is released. The front door appears to be set within a heavy steel frame; it opens slowly. Joe can’t move, fixed to the spot. Grandad stumbles out, into the wet, grey, fading light. His stature is diminished, body weakened. He grabs hold of Joe’s shoulders. Grandad’s bright green eyes look into Joe’s blue eyes, drinking him in. Joe searches the contours of Grandad’s face. He has lost too much weight, cheekbones are pronounced, but those eyes are reassuring. They speak of a gentle intelligence, even a glimmer of greatness. Joe can see his father’s face in those eyes. A life that might have been but never was. Joe’s eyes fill with tears. He tries to smile but the ends of his mouth are trembling. His emotions overtake him, a river bursting its banks. He collapses to his knees, clings to his grandad’s legs. The old man’s countenance crumbles. He holds onto Joe’s shoulders with both hands. That is how they remain, oblivious to the drenching rain.
They are both soaked through.
“Come on Joe, come on son, come inside now. It’s so good to see you.”
Grandad and Joe come in from the rain, wiping away tears from their eyes. They stand in the hallway.
“I’m so sorry it’s been so long, Grandad. I had no idea the estate was like this, what’s happened?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that now, it’s just so good to see you. Come on, I want to show you what your Auntie Rosie’s done.”
Joe is standing upon new white Mediterranean floor tiles, which he hasn’t noticed. They enter the living room.
“Blimey, Grandad! This is amazing!”
“It’s not too glitzy is it? Now your Auntie Rosie’s an interior designer, she wanted somewhere to practise on.”
Rosie is living in Spain, but she spent two weeks with Grandad at Christmas. That’s when she refurbished the place.
“Rosie so wanted to see you, Joe. She’s still waiting for you to visit her in Madrid.
She’s got a lovely place there. Does it look like a boudoir with all these cushions?”
Joe pulls a face. “Nah, it’s wonderful. Hey, I like that fireplace.”
“Real gas flame! I’ll put it on, so you can warm yourself.”
“Thanks.”
Grandad squats down to get the fire on. He turns to Joe.
“When I can find a space between all those cushions, I lie on the sofa and watch the flames. It’s better than a telly!”
“Where is the telly?”
“I got rid of it, complete rubbish!”
“Don’t blame you.”
Joe helps Grandad up, and then he stands beside the fire with his hands on his hips.
His expression is stern.
“What Auntie Rosie’s done is great, but what’s happened to the estate?”
Grandad’s face drops. He takes a deep breath and steadies himself, resting a hand on the back of the settee.
“Shocking isn’t it? But look, do you want to get changed, get out of those wet things? I’ll put the kettle on. Where’s all of your stuff?”
“I’m storing a few boxes at Luke’s.”
“Oh, right. His dad’s in the paper all the time now, since he owns the football club. Good they got promoted. How’s young Luke getting on?”
“Fine, he sends you his regards. He gave me a lift up. I’ve got something amazing to tell you; we had tea with…”
“With who?”
“First, Grandad, I want to talk about the estate; then I’ll tell you who we visited on the way up.”
Joe sits down beside Grandad on the large colourful sofa, richly decorated in an Aztec pattern. Cushions surround them, fire roars in front of them.
Grandad sighs. “Do you remember the little market garden that stood here, before the estate was finished?”
“Not really,” Joe replies.
“Well, there was a broad avenue of trees, leading to where an old manor house once stood, next to a lake.”
“I don’t remember any of that.”
“The manor house was knocked down and the lake was drained, before you were born. A few of the old trees remain.”
Joe is pensive; he wants to talk about the estate as it is now, not as it used to be, but he doesn’t want to rush Grandad.
“Who owned the market garden?” he asks.
“Oh, it was a smashing old couple, they doted on you when you were little. They used to let you play in their orchard. Don’t you remember them?”
“Not really.”
“They were good people. Nan and I used to love watching you playing out there, happy days.”
“But Grandad, looking at the estate now, it looks as if you’ve been through a war. What on earth’s been going on? Why have you got a steel doorframe for goodness sake? Why didn’t you tell me about any of this?”
“Well, you’ve been so busy, and rightly so, doing your work in London. What could you have done anyway? What could anyone have done?”
Joe looks down at his feet. “Have drugs been an issue here?”
Grandad nods slowly. “Yeah, drugs have been a major cause of the problems. It’s the addicts that do the burglaries.” He thinks for a moment, before continuing. “It’s housing management, or lack of it, that opened the door to the drug problems in the first place.” Grandad looks forlorn. “I’ve tried to be the caretaker, even after I lost the job, that’s what Nan would have wanted. We promised each other, from the beginning, that we’d do our bit to look after this place. As you can see, I’ve failed.” He is visibly upset.
Joe leans across, puts his hand upon Grandad’s arm.
“You haven’t failed. I was just speaking to some kids o
ut there, whose bike you’ve fixed. You’ve always looked after the kids around here.”
“Thanks. So you’ve met the owners of the Rottweiler, have you?”
“Yeah, that dog frightened the life out of me.”
“They’ve got a lot of problems, that family. The Rottweiler’s known to be dangerous.”
Joe takes a sharp intake of breath. “So, Grandad, when did the estate take a turn for the worse?”
“When the heroin addicts moved in, about eighteen months ago. They will steal anything, that’s why I’ve got the steel doorframe. The buggers didn’t get in ‘ere. They had a go at your car though, Joe. They had the stereo out of it. My mate Bob, from the Guards, was visiting; he scared them off before they did too much damage. It’s still working pretty well by the way, your car.”
Joe doesn’t want Grandad to get distracted. “Go on, what’s it been like, living here?”
“The drug addicts were the icing on the cake, really. Things began to go seriously wrong several years ago, when the council made me retire. That’s when they started moving in the problem people. The antisocial behaviour began then. Do you remember, Joe?”
“Yeah, I do. The games stopped and the fighting began.”
“That’s right. You kids used to have good games before then. Do you remember the cricket matches on the green? You were quite good in bat.”
“I wasn’t good in bat, Grandad.”
“You weren’t bad, you could have been good. You just needed to practise more. Well, really you needed coaching.”
Joe is lost in thought for a moment. He stares into the flames.
“Why is the empty tower block still standing after all these years?”
Grandad’s face reddens. “Someone at the council signed a bloody contract with the mobile phone companies to let them put their equipment on the roof. They’ve given them a twenty-year lease, even though another council department signed a demolition order for it!” Grandad sighs. “What can you do, Joe?”
Joe shakes his head. “So the council’s been making money from the mobile phone companies at the expense of everyone who has to live next to that monstrosity.”
Joe takes a deep breath. “Are any of the addicts still around?” he asks.
“They’ve all gone.” Grandad breathes out heavily, demonstrating his relief. “All the antics have stopped, now.”
“What kind of antics? Go on, Grandad, please tell me, what did they do?”
“The usual things, I guess. Mattresses and shopping trolleys were thrown about the place. I used to take them off to the tip, in the car. We had the fire brigade around most days. One day, some of them had a bonfire. They smashed up all the fencing. Jason Cookson was one of them. Do you remember him from school?”
“Yeah, I do, he was always rough.”
“His mum could never cope, but he was a smashing little boy. Breaks your heart to see what can happen.” For a moment Grandad looks lost. Then he picks up his story again. “It wasn’t right, the council never replaced those burnt down fences. The people in the private houses at the back had to pay for them.” Grandad shakes his head. “The druggies would scream at each other, and some of them had kids. I hated it when they screamed at their kids.”
“Didn’t the police do anything?”
“They don’t respond to simple criminal acts around here anymore, son, or they turn up a day late. They did some drugs raids though. We had the helicopters and everything. Those raids were pretty frightening - and I’m an old soldier!”
Grandad pauses, trying to make sense of all he’s lived through.
“I’m not sure why the druggies suddenly left, it’s strange. There was this lad, Simeon, unusual name. He’s a trainee priest, I think. A proper bloke though; not how you’d expect them to be. He came over, spoke to the druggies. I had a nice chat with him, too. Anyway, they’ve all gone. It’s quiet again.”
“Most of the place is boarded up.”
“We’ll be alright here. I wonder what the future’s got in store for us. There’s talk of redevelopment. Some fat cat’s buying everything up. I called the council to find out what’s going on. I couldn’t get any sense out of them.”
Joe is deep in thought, staring into the fire again.
“What about all the wasted lives?”
Grandad grabs a cushion. He is also staring into the fire.
“Yeah, what about the wasted lives? Like little Jason Cookson?”
“Why don’t you move, Grandad? I don’t believe Nan would want you to stay here now. You’re not the caretaker anymore. You’re not getting any younger. I hope you don’t mind me saying that?”
“This is our home, it’s where my memories are. Having you live here with me was a real blessing. It was a difficult time, when your parents died, and then Nan too. You made this a home again, you and Rosie, and that daft old cat. Good old Scruff, he lived to be twenty-three. He was a good cat.”
Joe and his grandad have never really talked openly about their past before.
“I hear what you’re saying, Grandad, but I don’t know; there must be more than this for you.”
Grandad smiles. “Well, I do have a recurring dream.”
“What of?”
“Well, of a little cottage, where I just have the earth beneath me and the sky above me, and my own little garden. Complete peace!”
Grandad looks dreamily across the room towards a photograph on the wall. It shows his daughter, Rosie, standing in the garden of her Spanish villa. Then Grandad suddenly remembers something.
“Oh, there is one problem of antisocial behaviour that remains.” “What’s that?” Joe looks worried.
“Old Beryl from next door, she’s gone very deaf. She wakes up in the middle of the night, listens to those bloody story tapes for hours, very loudly! The old girl’s going into a nursing home, soon.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I’m used to it. I’ve been living in a basement for the last few years, people above and all around me.”
Grandad gets up from the sofa, with some difficulty. He pats Joe on the back.
“Get some dry clothes on. Your old bedroom is all ready for you.”
Grandad looks at Joe quizzically.
“Have you grown? You look taller.”
“No, I don’t think so. You don’t grow when you’re thirty, do you?”
“It’s probably me, I’ve shrunk. Your feet will dangle over the end of that little bed. I got you some new bed linen.”
“Thanks.”
Grandad remembers something.
“So, who did you have tea with?”
“Ah, you’re not going to believe this?”
“Go on, try me.”
“We had tea with the Prime Minister, at Chequers.”
Grandad looks at Joe with utter disbelief. “You’re joking, right?”
“No Grandad, it’s for real.”
Grandad leans forward, looks into Joe’s eyes as if checking for any signs of insanity, but Joe looks perfectly normal.
“Well, I definitely want to hear about that,” says Grandad straightening up. “You’re going to be staying with me aren’t you, Joe?”
“Yeah, if that’s alright with you, at least until I find somewhere to rent.”
Grandad’s face lights up; he wants Joe to stay for as long as he likes.
“It’ll be great to have you around, putting a bit of life back into the old place. Now, tell me about the Prime Minister.
10 Return to Arden
It is the following Monday, at nine o’clock in the morning. Joe leaps out of his little bed. He scrambles through his clothes and the bags left scattered across his bedroom floor. He’s searching for his mobile phone, which is ringing.
“Gotcha!” He presses the answer button.
A woman speaks down the line.
“Good morning sir, I have a call for you from David Rogers’s office. Will you take the call?”
The only David Rogers that Joe knows is Luke’s father. Why would he be ca
lling? Various possibilities flash through his mind.
“Yeah, I’ll take the call.”
Now a very posh woman speaks. “Good morning. Is that you Joe?”
“Yes, speaking.”
“It’s Janet Steers here. I’m David Rogers’s secretary. David would like to invite you to lunch tomorrow, if you’re available, at one o’clock.”
Joe is silent for a moment.
Janet continues. “I apologise it’s such short notice, do you need to check your diary?”
“I’ve got my diary in front of me,” Joe lies. “Yes, I can do lunch tomorrow.”
“Ah, wonderful, David has suggested lunch at the Boat House restaurant, next to the pool, not far from Lullingdon. He said you’d know where it is; is that right?”
There’s a longer silence. Joe’s thoughts drift back to the boathouse, the pool and the night when he and his friends took the rowing boat to the island.
“Are you still there, Joe?”
“Yeah.”
“Would you rather I book somewhere else, in town perhaps?”
“No, I’m sure the Boat House will be fine, it’s just that I remember it being, well, an old shed really.”
Janet laughs down the phone. “I guess you haven’t been there for a while, have you?”
“Not for about ten years, actually.”
“I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. It’s quite smart now.”
Joe thanks her for the call, hangs up. He’s dumbfounded. Why would a busy man like David Rogers want to invite him to lunch? Surely he wouldn’t just want to welcome him back, would he? There must be something else. Joe wonders if it might have something to do with Elias. He’s intrigued. He’s also keen to see the pool again, after all these years.
Joe pulls back his thick bedroom curtains. He’s greeted by bright sunshine, but also the view of the grotesque, derelict tower block. He looks further, eyes rest upon the Gothic gatehouse, and then the woodlands behind it. He would explore those woods if it weren’t for the spiked railings around them. He lets his weight fall down upon his little bed. He relishes the thought of a free day. Grandad is clambering down the narrow staircase, slowly, a lot of huffing and puffing.