by Isla Dewar
So the lone figure, plodding head down, drenched dog at his side, was a surprise. He looked resigned, walking towards Portobello as if he’d be walking for ever, as if it would be raining for the rest of his life, and the dog didn’t look happy either.
Martha drove past, slowed down. She studied the man in her rear-view mirror, stopped and got out of the car. ‘Charlie?’
He paused, squinted through the downpour and then ran towards her, waving, ‘Oh, thank God. Wonderful.’ He didn’t wait for an invitation; he pulled back the passenger seat and shoved Murphy into the back, then got in himself, sitting at the front beside Martha.
The dog shook himself violently, splattering Martha and Charlie.
Charlie said, ‘Sorry. He does that. All dogs do. Can’t help it.’
Martha reached into the glove box for a tissue and wiped her face. ‘No excuse.’
She handed the tissue to Charlie. He dabbed his face and handed it back. ‘Don’t think that will do the job.’
She agreed. Water was dripping down the back of his neck and running down his face. His hair was plastered to his head. His raincoat sodden. Really, she wanted to tell him and Murphy to get out of the car. They’d soak the seats. And, if she thought about it, what difference would it make to them being out in this downpour? They couldn’t get any wetter. But she pulled away from the kerb. ‘I’ll take you home. What were you doing out in this weather?’
‘Getting wet. Wasn’t raining when I started out. It just suddenly came on.’
‘You must have noticed it getting darker. You must have seen clouds gathering.’
‘I’m not one for looking up. I’m a pavement plodder. I watch my feet.’
‘Sometimes looking up can be your salvation. Where were you going?’
‘Home.’
‘Well, where have you been?’
‘Walking. Took Murphy for a walk and kept on walking and walking. And thinking.’
‘My mother thinks that’s not very good for you.’
‘Your mother is right.’
‘I know. Annoying, isn’t it?’ They reached Portobello. ‘I don’t know where you live.’
‘Bath Street.’
‘Bath Street! That’s yards from the office and you cycle. You’d be quicker walking.’
‘I like cycling. You don’t have to look at the people you pass. It’s slow and gentle and solitary.’
She turned into Bath Street and stopped outside the building he pointed to.
‘You want to come in for a drink? I could do with some whisky.’
‘I don’t drink whisky.’
‘You should. This is a whisky moment.’
She followed him into the building, into a large open hallway. She noticed a small table with a pot plant and an upended top hat. He led her past the wide staircase to a room on the ground floor.
He took off his shoes and raincoat, and padded ahead of her into an adjoining room – the living room. ‘Could you dry the dog? His towel’s hanging on the back of the kitchen door. I need to get out of these wet clothes.’
Alone, Martha looked round. It was a good room. She liked it. One wall was taken up with bookshelves, the others painted pale grey, dark green curtains, a leather sofa, an old armchair. A bit masculine, perhaps, but comfortable; could do with a few pot plants, she thought.
‘Kitchen?’ She pointed to a door leading off from the room, noting that the dog seemed happy with the suggestion.
It was long and narrow. And immaculate. A row of potted fresh herbs on the windowsill, a selection of olive oils on the shelf, gleaming copper pots hanging beside the cooker, a pile of cookbooks next to the breadbin; gleaming surfaces – not a crumb in sight. Martha said, ‘Goodness. This puts my mother to shame.’
She took the towel from the hook on the back of the door, dried the dog and wiped the puddles of murky water that had gathered at his feet. Putting the mud-stained towel back on its hook, she looked round the spotless kitchen once more, then sighed to Murphy, ‘I think we lower the tone here. Perhaps it is a whisky moment.’
Back in the living room Charlie was pouring drinks. He wore pale trousers and a blue sweater, no shoes or socks. Martha thought this was how film stars dressed when lounging at the pool drinking martinis. Except Charlie didn’t look like a film star. He wasn’t cool. He slouched. He frowned. He stared in dismay at his bare feet. ‘No clean socks.’
‘I thought you’d have your sock situation well organised.’
‘I do. I have tomorrow’s socks lined up. But if I put them on now they won’t be fresh in the morning.’
Martha said, ‘Ah. Life can be tricky.’
She sipped her whisky. Felt it burn the back of her throat. But it was a welcome heat.
‘Where had you been?’ asked Charlie.
‘Just driving. Had an argument with my mother. She saw my husband at Jelly’s the other night and only just told me about it.’
‘So you weren’t just driving, you’d been to Jelly’s to look for him.’
‘Yes. Didn’t see him. I saw Brendan Stokes.’
Charlie raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? What was he doing?’
‘Wearing a suit. Looking pleased with himself.’
‘Sounds about right. Did you follow him?’
‘I thought I did. He got into a taxi and I followed it up to Morningside. But when it stopped a woman in a red coat got out. I followed the wrong taxi. Sorry.’
‘Happens. Taxis all look the same.’
‘Why were you walking in all that weather? Why didn’t you get on a bus or something?’ Martha wanted to know.
‘A bit of discomfort helps with the guilt.’
‘What have you got to be guilty about?’
Someone in the depths of the house went into the bathroom. Martha said, ‘Who’s that?’
‘Art probably.’
‘Who’s Art?’
‘Lives upstairs.’
The shower started.
‘Art probably? It might be someone else?’
‘Dave or Brenda. But they don’t usually shower this late.’
‘You said they weren’t lodgers or relatives. Who are they?’
‘Just people.’
‘So,’ Martha went on, ‘what have you got to be guilty about?’
‘Us. What we do.’
‘We find people.’
A small woman in her sixties wearing a lavender-coloured dressing gown came into the room, waved, and went into the kitchen. Minutes later she reappeared. ‘Needed an onion, darling. Soup for tomorrow.’ She paused, considered Martha. ‘You’ll be Martha.’
‘Yes.’
‘Thought so.’ She nodded to Charlie, ‘Drinkin’ with Martha.’
He raised his glass.
The woman pattered back up the hall.
‘Lives upstairs?’ said Martha.
‘Brenda. She needed an onion.’
‘I gathered that. Like I said, we find people.’
‘Yeah, but look what we’ve done so far. Found out that Brendan Stokes is also Bill Simpson and made arses of ourselves following him. Then we tell Bernice that her bloke is seeing other women and make her miserable. Now, tonight, you follow some poor innocent woman home. Not only are we not very kindly, we’re crap.’
‘I wouldn’t say that. I think we’re doing fine. Then again, I’ve never looked for a missing person before.’
The front door slammed shut. A male voice called, ‘You want me to lock up?’
Charlie shouted, ‘No.’
‘Your home is open to everyone,’ said Martha.
‘It’s friendly. I like it. It helps me cope with being a crap finder of people and a purveyor of doom.’
Murphy jumped on the sofa beside him, put his head in Charlie’s lap and sighed. He stroked the dog’s head.
‘You shouldn’t be so gloomy. It isn’t good for you.’
He reached over, touched her cheek with the back of his hand. ‘You have a good face. I like it. Bit hard round the eyes, though. You�
��ve been wounded. You no longer trust people.’
Martha ran her fingers over the cheek Charlie had stroked. ‘Perhaps.’
‘It’s been a while since your cheek has been touched. Thought it needed a little appreciative gesture.’
‘My cheek thanks you for that. Maybe you should stroke more cheeks. You could put cheek stroker on your nameplate. Missing Persons Bureau and Cheeks Stroked. You could start with Bernice Stokes. There’s a face in need of comfort.’
Charlie said, ‘It’s odd. Brendan was so easy to find. One visit to a pub, one look at the electoral register and there he was.’
‘He probably didn’t think anyone was looking for him. And then, when he realised there was, he started showing off. Men do that.’
‘So do women.’ He refilled their glasses. Chinked his against hers. ‘Drinkin’ with Martha. It’s pleasant. In here out of the rain, getting warm, sipping whisky. Soon we’ll be sharing our secrets. It’s what you do when you’re drinking.’
‘I don’t have any secrets.’
‘Sure you do. I’ll tell you one of mine. I’m beginning to hate rummaging through unhappy lives. I should have been a train driver.’
‘I thought you wanted to be a cowboy or a jazz trumpeter.’
‘I did. And a train driver, too. I used to go and watch trains going by. I’d dream about the people on them and where they might be going. I’d wonder if they were running away.’
‘Is that what you wanted to do – run away?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why? It would have made your mum and dad very unhappy.’
‘Didn’t have either of those. I just got bigger by myself. It was a surprise to me. There, I’ve told you one of my secrets. I’ve shown you mine. Show me yours.’
‘I told you, I don’t have any secrets.’
‘You’re a bad liar. I’ll tell you one of your secrets. Well, a theory, based on my scant knowledge of the rock’n’roll lifestyle. You were naughty when you were on the road with your band. You had affairs. Just a couple of flings. The sort of thing you thought very rock’n’roll. But Jamie found out about them and he wasn’t a happy bunny.’
Martha didn’t answer.
‘I’m only guessing,’ said Charlie.
Martha reached over to the bottle, topped up their glasses. ‘Guess away. I’m not owning up to anything.’ She chinked his glass. ‘Drinkin’ with Charlie.’
A voice, Brenda’s Martha supposed. ‘Art, you could take off your shoes when you come in. You got weather all over the floor.’
Another voice, a man. ‘It’s only rain. We’ve both seen a lot of that in our time.’
Martha said, ‘Charlie, who are these people?’
‘Leftovers,’ he said.
‘Leftover people?’
Charlie nodded. ‘Yes.’
18
Leftover People
There were two groups of residents in Charlie’s house, the staging post people and the leftover people. The staging post people stayed for a week or so while they sorted themselves out. They’d meet with family and friends to discuss their disappearance and negotiate their return. The lost and the left behind would gather round the big table in Charlie’s house and battle out their grievances. There would be shouting and tears and long silences, sometimes begrudging, sometimes sorrowful. Charlie never attended these meetings. They were chaired, or rather umpired, by Art and Brenda. They were leftover people.
‘There are three of them,’ Charlie told Martha. ‘Art, Dave and Brenda. I found them and they didn’t want to be found. I didn’t know what to do with them.’
‘So they came here to your home and stayed.’
‘Yes.’
‘You let complete strangers stay in your home?’
‘By the time I realised they were going to stay they were no longer strangers.’
Art’s wife had asked Charlie to find him. He’d been missing for three weeks. No, she hadn’t been to the police. She was sure he was out there watching her.
Even before he found him, Charlie liked Art. People smiled when looking at Art’s photograph. ‘Nah,’ they’d say. ‘Never seen him before.’ Charlie could tell they were lying. Art was popular. Art had obviously asked everyone he knew to deny the relationship. Charlie decided on a New Town bar that was likely to be Art’s favourite. It was snug, friendly and temptingly boozy. He stood across the road waiting for Art to turn up. On the third evening Charlie got lucky. Art shambled down the road, spotted him leaning on the wall, decided against running away and waved.
‘Charlie Gavin, we meet at last.’
‘So, you know who I am?’
‘Oh, yes. I’ve been watching you watching me. I knew you’d catch up soon enough.’
They drank beer for most of the evening, but ended with a glass of single malt apiece. Charlie paid.
‘It was bloody love did it,’ Art said. ‘I didn’t just love that woman I married, I idolised her. Couldn’t believe someone like that would as much as look at me. I bought her the house she wanted and then a bigger version of that house. A car and a better car, carpets, curtains, a huge fridge, landscaped garden, holidays, shoes, anything, anything. If she looked at something, I’d get it for her. I needed her. Every love song ever written – that’s what I felt for her. I worked seventeen, eighteen hours a day to get money to buy her stuff. I hardly saw her, now I think about it. One day I was walking along the street and I saw this old man coming towards me. He was walking slowly. He was needing a haircut. There was a soup stain on his tie and his suit was shiny with wear. I stopped. Christ, it was me reflected in a shop window. I’m forty-two. I looked about seventy.’ He looked shocked at his own admission. ‘So I gave her everything. I sold every single thing I had – clothes, watch, books, car. I sold my share in the legal firm where I worked and I put it in her bank account. When I had nothing, I was free.’ He drained his glass. ‘Don’t idolise anyone, Charlie. It’s exhausting.’
After hearing that Art would spend the night at the railway station, Charlie had taken him home. ‘He’s still here,’ he told Martha. ‘He keeps me right on legal matters and travels to London, Manchester or wherever for me when I don’t want to go, which is most of the time.’
‘Does he work? How does he pay for things?’
‘He gives advice down the pub for drinks. He guided our local builder through a messy divorce and we got paid in new floors upstairs. It’s fine.’
‘What about Art’s wife?’
‘She’s lovely. Sweet. She paid my bill after a year. She found someone new who didn’t idolise her. Ordinary love was what she wanted. She said being idolised was exhausting.’
‘What about Dave? How did he end up here?’
‘He needed to lay low for a while.’
When it came to the matter of finding Dave, Charlie had always been thankful he hadn’t accepted his client’s offer of an upfront payment. He hadn’t liked or trusted him. ‘Just not the sort of chap you’d like to live next door to,’ he’d said to Mrs Florey. The client, a builder called Frank Jeffrey, told Charlie to find Dave and say where he was. Dave was a financial whizz kid who’d stolen thousands of pounds of Frank’s money. Charlie had doubts about taking on the case. But business was slow and money tight. Dave was elusive. He’d given up his flat, left his girlfriend and obviously told his mother not to talk to anyone. ‘You leave my boy alone,’ she told Charlie.
A Tuesday night, August, the air was soft and warm. Charlie had been drinking in a West End bar and decided to walk home to clear his head. It would take about an hour. He’d left the noise and bustle of Princes Street behind and was heading along London Road when he became aware of footsteps behind him. They fell into a rhythm with his. For a while they walked one behind the other. Charlie considered running, but he’d had a few pints and didn’t trust his legs. ‘Are you following me?’ he shouted.
The voice behind said, ‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Frank asked you to look for me. So I starte
d to follow you to make sure you couldn’t find me.’
Christ, thought Charlie. I’ve been tramping all over the place looking for him and all I had to do was turn round. ‘Are you Dave?’
‘Yes.’
They walked on, one behind the other.
‘Grand night,’ said Charlie.
‘It is indeed,’ said Dave.
Charlie stopped walking. Dave caught up with him and they continued on down the road discussing many things – jazz, recent films, favourite sausages, cars, and the terrible things Frank Jeffrey would do to Dave if he got hold of him.
‘Why did you do it?’ said Charlie.
‘I took his money and sent it to the people he’d cheated. You know, shoddy repair jobs, dubious plumbing, leaky roofs, that sort of thing.’
‘Excellent,’ said Charlie. When they reached home he invited Dave in. The offer was accepted. Dave came in and stayed.
‘Well,’ said Charlie, ‘it wasn’t safe for him out on the streets. Though Frank Jeffrey died of a heart attack a year after Dave moved in. I guess he likes it here.’
‘But what about money. Do you feed them all? And bills and all that?’
‘The top hat. I found it in a junk shop and took a shine to it. No idea what to do with it when I got home. So I put it on the table by the front door. If anybody has a bit of money they put it in the hat. Then again often someone takes some out. Dave puts in most cash. He bets. When he wins he puts in quite a bit. When he loses, they manage.’
‘Does Brenda chip in?’
‘Hell, no. Brenda has no money. But I love her. She made me a hero.’
Brenda’s daughter had come to him. Her mother was missing and had to be found right away. ‘She’s old, sick, has red hair and likes to sing. And yes, I have informed the police. But they have crimes to solve and traffic to control and so forth. You drop all your other work and look for Brenda.’
Charlie agreed to this. It was an easy decision; he had no other work to drop at the time. It was difficult, though. There wasn’t a trail. Brenda had only ever left the house to shop at her local butcher’s and to pick up her pension at the post office. She had few friends. The only thing anyone knew about her was she was small and liked to sing. She had apparently left the house after an argument and hadn’t been seen again. She’d no money and had been wearing a floral apron. Where the hell was she?