The Gardens of the Dead
Page 27
3
Perhaps Nick’s father had dropped a hint along these lines: ‘He hasn’t come to terms with the passing of his mother. He could do with a treat … something to take him out of himself.’ Or maybe it was simple generosity of spirit. Either way the tubby executive at British Telecom — last seen sipping sherry at the funeral — had offered Nick a treat closed to the general public for donkeys’ years: a view from the top of the BT Tower. The executive was called Reginald Smyth.
‘One hundred and eighty-nine metres high,’ he said, reverently, on the thirty-fourth floor. ‘Sways twenty centimetres in a high wind.’
Reginald was a plump and ponderous man with active eyes, and a commiserating manner. He’d lost all his hair save for white curls above each ear. Standing with joined hands, he ushered in fact after fact as if they might soothe the bruised and broken. ‘As you can see, there are no walls, just windows and, of course, the floor rotates, obtaining a full circuit in twenty-two minutes…’
Nick missed the details about tonnage, nylon tyres and speed. He was already gazing at the sprawling majesty of London. Sitting down, he picked out St John’s Wood, hazy under the threat of snow and, with an alarming shudder, the floor began to move.
From this suburban pinnacle Nick looked upon recent events as if he were detached from their happening and significance. It was calming; it was a treat. He listened and watched while the world seemed to go round. Reginald, being a man with a sense of moment, kept a respectful distance.
‘We had a long-drawn-out argument,’ Charles had admitted, clinking more ice into more scotch. After the visit to Doctor Okoye, Elizabeth wanted to tell Nick about Riley and his place in her life.
‘I didn’t know about the heart condition,’ said Charles, handing Nick a glass. ‘Your mother only said that maybe it was time to retire, that the cut and thrust was all getting a bit much for her valves.’
Husband and wife toyed with selling up and fixing the tap in Saint Martin’s Haven. Led by Elizabeth, they talked of all the things they agreed about, until Charles realised she was trying to seduce him. Snapping a thumb and finger, he said, ‘No.’ He was against any disclosure of the past, not because he was ashamed, but because he was frightened: for Nick.
‘There was no need for you to know’ — he hunched his shoulders and squinted — ‘You’d be shocked. You’d been protected. And what did it matter? She’d moved on, wonderfully.’
That notion of protection irritated Nick. It was demeaning. It was a kind of pity that insinuated measurement: it cut love down to size — for Nick, not knowing all, had therefore not loved all. He’d loved only partially His father failed to realise that Nick’s heart was greater than his needs or expectations; that the woman of his dreams was Sonia, the prostitute in Crime and Punishment. But he hadn’t said that out loud.
The revolving deck groaned suddenly on its rails, sending a stab of fear through Nick. He threw his eyes to work, spying the Inns of Court, and further on, the Isle of Dogs, where towers were being raised from the mist at Canary Wharf. Nick’s attention shuddered to the east, to things known but out of sight, to Hornchurch Marshes and the Four Lodges. He thought of the cold wind, the small shaved head, the lingering torchlight; and he heard again the unnerving pity in that voice.
Nick’s parents had never fully resolved the disagreement, though Charles won the first round on points. While Elizabeth urged Nick to find a practice in Primrose Hill, Charles pushed for paid indolence in Australia. (He wanted his son out of the way while Elizabeth went after Riley. If it came to nothing, then Nick would be left unscathed. Should an arrest become imminent, then, perhaps, the matter could be re-examined.)
The word ‘unscathed’ also irritated Nick, because it was the twin of ‘protection’.
The second round began when Elizabeth turned to letter writing, those lures of affection and melancholy while Charles (guessing the stratagem) countered with more temptations of distance and wonder. This last had been a subtle ploy for Charles was drawing on what bound father and son together: the dream of escapades and foreign peril.
‘In the end, she was several moves ahead,’ said Charles affectionately spilling whisky as he poured from the decanter. He was weary, his sleeves rolled up and a tartan tie askew A shirt-tail hung out like a waiter’s cloth. ‘I knew nothing of the key or Father Anselm’s role as her unwitting understudy’ He paused as if ashamed by the complaint in his own voice, the hint of resentment. ‘For your sake, I’d hoped that this business would pass you by; as still it might.’
‘For your sake,’ repeated Nick quietly As still it might?’
‘Let’s get back to normal,’ said Charles, with a sudden note of beseeching. ‘Let’s … let’s go to Skomer.’
Nick laughed, not so much at what Charles had said, as his appearance: the red face, the clothing in disarray and the precariously sinking glass. Charles took the laughter for assent and joined in heartily.
London kept turning and Nick kept watching, high above all that had happened, glad that it was over, perhaps grateful — if he were honest — that he had a protective father. When the twenty-two minutes had elapsed the floor stopped, and Nick was facing St John’s Wood.
‘The lift moves at six metres per second,’ said Mr Smyth, more relaxed, hands in his suit pockets. Nick guessed that he was the sort of executive who liked to don the hard hat and chat with the lads about the tricks of cable installation.
As the narrow compartment plunged down to ground level, Nick ignored some more statistics, marvelling rather at his father’s determination, his refusal to compromise with his wife, the captain of matters practical. This time Charles had taken the lead and called the shots, forcing his mother’s hand. It was the sort of bull-headed drive the bank had wanted and never got.
‘Who’s Mrs Dixon?’ Nick had ventured, before going to bed. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’ Charles had rolled down his sleeves, pulled his tie up and dabbed at the spillage with his shirt-tail. Nick watched him carefully … and he just couldn’t be sure: was this the truth or another species of protection?
The lift doors opened and Nick showered thanks on Mr Smyth. It was, he replied, the least he could do, adding, as if he hadn’t been heard the first time:
‘I must say your mother was a quite remarkable woman.’
4
‘You’re a hard man, Riley’ said Prosser. He puffed on his cigar and nudged the peak of his cloth cap.
A fair one.
‘Twenty-five grand it is, then.’
The figure wasn’t quite accurate, but it was in keeping with the outward show of honesty. Prosser would pay that handsome figure into the Riley bank account first thing next morning. An extra five thousand was due now, in cash — an exchange that would trouble neither the conveyance deed nor the records of the Inland Revenue.
Prosser had a worn leather pouch of Spanish origin. Having tugged it from the inside of his heavy overcoat, he opened it slowly lowering his hands to show how much he’d brought. Then he counted out the bills, licking his fingers, making it painfully clear that he was handing over far less than he’d expected — that he was a harder man than Riley.
‘Wyecliffe will do the paperwork,’ said Riley and he tossed high a bunch of keys.
Catching them, Prosser replied nobly ‘The traditions of your business will continue.’
‘I doubt it.’
Prosser was jubilant. He sucked air through his teeth, breathing in a mix of furniture wax and butane.
‘When you’re ready’ he said, ‘I’ll lock up. I bid you good day ma’am.’ The last affectation came with a bow for Nancy after which he swaggered outside to linger on the pavement. He winked to an imaginary audience, and licked the butt of his cigar.
Cars smashed over the hump in the road. It was nearing the end of the day so everyone was impatient, even Riley As he checked the limp motes against a light bulb, he became scatty —he was looking at the pictures and not the watermarks — because every action was a mo
vement away Every breath was one less among these standing ruins. He was going to walk with Nancy on Brighton Pier. Something rustled at his elbow.
Nancy was holding out a plastic bag as though it were Riley’s turn for the lucky dip. It was empty and she looked severe.
‘Let me carry the money’ she said, pronouncing each word distinctly ‘It’s my shop, remember.’
Riley didn’t have the guts to refuse — Nancy had been acting funny. Not that she’d said or done anything. It was just a sense that she’d already gone from Poplar and left him behind. He wanted to catch her up. Without a word he wrapped the motes in an elastic band and dropped them into the bag.
‘You can trust me, you know,’ said Nancy under her breath.
She was being funny again, though Riley couldn’t put his finger on how. But she made him think of trust: it had held them together, even in the breaking.
Nancy lifted up her skirt and stuffed the money beneath her tights, across her stomach. Then she went into the back room and came back with a grey canvas rucksack. Riley had found it in the cellar of a mountaineer.
‘I want to pick up some bricks by the canal,’ said Nancy adding proudly ‘for my herb bed.’
Riley was aghast. ‘You want to go along the Cut with five grand in your tights?’
‘No one will look.’
‘Nancy have you ever heard of muggers … villains?’
‘It’s never happened before.’
Prosser called out, ‘Oi! I’m freezing out here.’
‘I want to finish the bed,’ said Nancy flatly.
‘All right, fine,’ sighed Riley giving up. He’d follow Nancy to hell, never mind Limehouse Cut.
They walked side by side, Riley shouldering the rucksack. The sky was reddish brown like a bruised fruit. Beneath it, in the near distance, a bonfire kicked sparks into the air. Smoke billowed and a smell of rubber drifted along the towpath beside the Cut. The hush was a trick. Somewhere ahead was a den of foxes. When it grew dark, they’d scream and it was like a feast of murder. Nancy broke step. She’d seen a brick. Examining its edges, she said, ‘It all begins with Quilling Road.’
‘What does?’
‘Our trouble.’
Riley closed his eyes and stumbled slightly He didn’t want to hear of that place. An old voice came out of him, and he listened, ‘How was I to know?’
He hated the weakness and the whining and the cowardice. But they were weapons, and he’d learned how to use them like an automaton.
‘Of course not,’ said Nancy sympathetically She stepped behind Riley to struggle with the toggles on the rucksack. She dropped the brick inside, and left the flap open.
They walked on, coming closer to the fire. Riley wondered, Could it really be that easy? Was the future an open field? He felt a shudder of excitement. With Prosser’s money he’d buy some new shoes. He’d chuck away that camouflage jacket.
Nancy bent down, complaining about her old knees. With more groaning about her limbs, she picked up two bricks, and said, ‘It was terrible when that boy drowned and the police tried to pin it on you.
The comment was like a smack in the teeth. Nancy had never referred to that before. Like Quilling Road, it was another crater in the dark. They walked around them. But now she spoke as if she were in the laundrette with Babycham.
Smarting, Riley said, ‘Cartwright has never let me go.’ He whistled quietly because he’d strayed to the edges of truth, close enough to fall in.
‘I kno-o-ow,’ sang Nancy sharing his indignation, and he could just see her, nudging Babycham’s ribs.
Nancy put the bricks in the rucksack and Riley shrugged the shoulder straps into a more comfortable position. After that drowning, he’d expected the Major to turn up at Poplar — to target him with that old, quiet urging. But he never came. Their last meeting had been at the Old Bailey when he’d said, ‘They can lock you up, but they can’t stop you taking that first step.’ The Major had been brittle and despairing. Where was he now? What would he tell him to say to Nancy?
It was dim now, and the edges of the canal had blended into its banks. The sky had lost its colour and joined the slate on the straggling warehouses. Nancy’s puzzled voice was muffled while she rummaged near a hedge of barbed wire.
‘So that’s why they hauled you in again?’
‘What do you think?’ Riley made it sound like a ‘Yes’. He didn’t know what else to say. They hadn’t spoken of the arrest since the day he’d been released without charge. She’d been off-colour afterwards, and he hadn’t been able to read her. Suddenly she was tugging at the rucksack.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Nancy as though she were anxious for his health.
‘Fine, absolutely fine.’
Carefully she laid three bricks on top of the others.
‘Steady on,’ he rasped. ‘I’m not …’ — Stallone, Mad Max, Bruce: the hamsters’ names ran into one another like a furry pileup but a name popped out, like it was shoved — ‘… Mr Universe.’
Riley leaned forward and increased his speed, as if to get away from that reminder of Arnold. At the fire, a gang of youths brandished flaming branches. They danced and whooped and stared. A car tyre lay smouldering near the bank. It was almost dark mow. The path narrowed and Nancy dropped back, leaving Riley to move on ahead. He looked aside into the dull, smooth water. And then he thought, as if tripped. Why do I keep remembering what the Major said? Why can’t I just forget an old soldier’s hopes, his insane confidence?
‘I wonder what happened to Arnold,’ asked Nancy faintly.
‘God knows.’
There was a long, withering pause. Then Riley heard Nancy’s feet in the grass, as if she were swishing a scythe. His thoughts became bitter, remonstrating: the journey from Paddington to this point by the Cut owed a great deal to John Bradshaw — for that death had marked his soul — but who took the laurel? The Major? No, that honour went to a hamster. Even in conversion, if that is what it was, I’m a contemptible specimen.
‘That’s the lot,’ she said with resignation. One after the other she placed four bricks into the remaining space.
‘Bloody hell, Nancy’ he gasped, ‘what are you trying to do?’ He fastened the clips across his chest, linking the arm straps. After a few steps, he glimpsed the hunched figure of a man by a wall … someone who was watching him. Riley swung around, wanting Nancy’s help. ‘I’m sorry, there’s too many’ he whispered, genuinely sorry, ‘I can’t carry this lot.’
‘Neither can I.’
‘What?’
Riley couldn’t see her face. She walked slowly towards him.
He knew what was going to happen. Nancy pushed him with a finger and he fell backwards. As he left the towpath, he wondered why it was that he felt relief.
5
At school, Anselm had met a Jesuit teacher who considered familiarity with the life and work of John Bunyan to be a valuable adjunct to the onset of adolescence. First, that exemplar, in his youth, had been haunted by demonic dreams; second, he’d suffered a strange sickness that had made him blaspheme atrociously and want to renounce the benefits of redemption. To counter these inclinations, so often manifest in the young, the amused Jesuit would read choice excerpts from Pilgrim’s Progress, the allegory of a burdened man, fleeing a burning city.
This warm memory touched Anselm because he was sitting on a bench near the author’s tomb in Bunhill Fields. At his side sat Mrs Dixon in a long overcoat of russet tweed. She wore sturdy shoes and thick socks. A paisley scarf had been tied around her head with a knot under the chin. She’d brought Anselm to this garden of peace without a word. Thousands of tombs stood crowded among the planes, oaks and limes. The light came to them through the rafters of these winter trees.
‘I had already decided to speak to you about my son,’ said Mrs Dixon finally.
Anselm presumed he would now learn why she hadn’t mentioned George’s name at their first meeting. A jitter of excitement made him impatient. Leave it to Anselm.
For a second or so, Anselm didn’t understand what had been said. His mind lay with George Bradshaw, not Graham Riley When he clicked, it was as though he’d stepped out of a musty matinee into the chilling daylight. ‘Your son?’ he asked foolishly.
Mrs Dixon nodded. Her face became blank, as if all her emotions had been drained into ajar for safe-keeping. Decisively she said, ‘But that was not the lie.’ Mrs Irene Dixon spoke softly and resolutely ‘I wish I’d stayed in Lancashire, but I went south, to start over. All that I knew had changed, because Graham’s father died in the pit, under thirty tons of coal and rock.’
Mother and child came to London, encouraged by an aunt —a seamstress — who had a house with rooms to spare, and a business with more work than she could handle. These were hard times because Mrs Dixon was a widow at barely twenty. But then she met Walter, a big, handsome man with responsibility and a house of his own in Dagenham. He was the manager of a warehouse in Bow; he hired and fired. He ruled the roost. After courting for a year, they were married, and by the end of the second year, there was a child on the way.
This is the beginning, thought Anselm. From this moment onwards, it is all an unfolding. He understood everything, but with such speed that his insight into what would happen became foreshortened, and he lost the detail. He was left with the first simple realisation that Walter Steadman was Elizabeth’s father; that Riley was her half-brother.