Take Nothing With You

by Patrick Gale

  He raised the receiver and rang the only possible person. It was the dead of night, of course, and a forty-minute drive, so it was a good hour or so before they could be with him. Before the pips went, Vernon was marvellously calm and controlled.

  ‘I seem to remember there’s a little sign in there for emergency calls,’ he said. ‘It gives your Ordnance Survey grid reference or something. Just read it all out to me, then we can use our brains and find you.’

  There was a big old barn across the way. Nervous of being far too visible if he stayed in the light of the phone box, Eustace walked in there and groped around in the dark until he found what smelled like clean enough straw, lay down and bedded himself in, curling himself up for warmth. Somehow – an effect of shock perhaps – he fell asleep. He woke with a start, and was instantly afraid as he heard an engine running. Then he heard Suzanne’s distinctive voice, not remotely sotto voce, asking,

  ‘So where the fuck is he? It’s two a.m. and I’m getting nipples like fucking Spangles here.’

  They were all far too young to drive, of course, but he knew from tales of their wild nights out in Bristol that at least one of her tribe of older brothers would be up for a spontaneous mercy dash. When he stumbled out of the barn, Suzanne gave a little scream and ran to envelop him in herself and a very smelly blanket from her big brother’s minibus. It was the middle of the night but both girls had come along as well as Vernon and the cousins. They were all a bit drunk, including the driver who, Eustace remembered, made money since doing time by ferrying holidaymakers to and fro from various campsites and beaches. He also remembered the brother had a record for GBH so was probably proof against a few charismatic Christians wielding a syringe. Vernon was up front with Suzanne, because he had been map-reading with his big black torch. Tyler and Sasha were canoodling on the back seat, so Eustace sat in the middle with Jez.

  ‘All right?’ said Jez and he welcomed him on board with a lazy grin, as though midnight rescue missions were nothing out of the ordinary.

  The brother dropped them at Vernon’s then melted away. It was too late for anyone to go home and risk waking their families so they all piled in. Vernon and Suzanne went to his room – Eustace suddenly realizing they’d been sleeping in there for a while – Tyler and Sasha began a whispered argument about something and took it off with them to the spare room, so Eustace drifted into the kitchen where Jez took a long, expressive piss in the sink with a tap running while Eustace carried on through to the studio at the back. Being nearly all window and as it was long past the hour when the central heating switched off, it was cold but there was a pile of blankets and pillows and an old patchwork quilt on the daybed. He made himself a sort of nest there, tugged off his soaking slippers, socks and jeans, switched off the light and bedded down. He could tell it was going to be a very short night, with no curtains or blinds to stop the light searing through once the sun was up. Even now the sodium wash from a nearby streetlamp lay across everything.

  He had assumed Jez would fall asleep on a sofa in the purple room but he came into the studio as well. Eustace had been facing the wall in an effort to shade his eyes for sleep but heard his heavy tread and half-turned to see him standing there beside the bed, noisily kicking off his boots.

  ‘Hi,’ he whispered.

  ‘Your teeth are chattering,’ Jez said, incapable of whispering. ‘You’re still frozen. Budge up.’

  He slid under the quilt behind Eustace and, without a moment’s hesitation, flung a meaty arm around him and pressed tightly into him, belly to back, thigh to thigh, foot tucked under foot.

  ‘Commandos do this,’ he mumbled sleepily, ‘when one of them’s got exposure. You smell of straw.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Eustace whispered.

  ‘No. It’s nice,’ Jez said and fell heavily asleep against him.

  Just then, Brut, beer and sweat were the best and safest smells in the world.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  In the morning he slept late, after stirring briefly so Jez could extricate himself to dress and leave at some point. When he finally woke in earnest, everyone had gone and he remembered it was a school day. He showered, borrowed some clean clothes of Vernon’s then sat upstairs with Vernon’s father, whom the morning carer had washed, fed, dressed and wheeled to his usual position.

  ‘Hello,’ he told him. ‘Vernon rescued me last night. He was a bit of a hero. He doesn’t need any sorting out, you know, like you once said . . . I hope we didn’t make too much noise when we came in. I’ll not be here long, don’t worry.’

  But of course there was no way of knowing what Vernon’s father thought of his being there. Perhaps he liked the company. Perhaps not. It felt good to sit there for a while in the brilliant sunshine, basking like a heedless cat, but he knew the lunchtime carer would arrive before long and also that there was a risk one or other of his friends might let something slip at school and bring the authorities after him, social workers, policewomen, whoever.

  He imagined his mother had told the school he was in hospital or some plausible lie to explain his absence but now that he had broken out, for all he knew the police had been alerted. She had signed a consent form, Father Tony had showed him her signature, so, however it felt, it was voluntary treatment, not kidnapping and assault.

  He wrote a note to Vernon, explaining he’d borrowed the clothes and thanking him for everything and saying he’d be in touch. Then, after a few minutes’ deep breathing and telling himself he was fine and couldn’t be hurt in broad daylight in crowds of people, he let himself out and headed down to the waterfront and along the prom for home.

  He had planned to hide in the shrubbery opposite and wait if the car were there but it wasn’t so he took the risk that it was she who had taken it and not his father and let adrenalin carry him in at the front door, which he unlocked with the key they kept hidden, and hurried up to his room meeting nobody but mad old ladies who either smiled or just stared. No reliable witnesses there.

  His rucksack was on the foot of the bed. Presumably when she came home from abandoning him at Grace Manor, his mother had left it there. Moving as fast as he could, he changed into his own clothes, swept others and a toothbrush into his rucksack along with whatever textbooks lay to hand and his chequebook. Then he snatched up his music case, slung his cello case over his shoulder and fled out of the house, across the town and on to the waiting Bristol train.

  In his panic and confusion, he realized as he let himself in that he had no idea what day of the week it was. He became aware it was Friday only when he walked into the kitchen, where Carla was finishing lunch, and she said, ‘You’re several hours early.’

  But then she saw his expression and his bulging rucksack. Once he’d finished talking and crying and pulled himself together as best he could, she was forceful in a way he would not have predicted. First she made him eat something while she swiftly rang Louis’ studio to summon him and called her three afternoon pupils to cancel them with profuse apologies and a smoothly fabricated account of a family emergency. Then she crouched by his chair and held his hands and looked deep into his eyes.

  ‘Eustace, forget about your mother for a moment,’ she said. ‘And if you can, forget about the priest and that nurse. Do you trust your father?’

  ‘Yes. He’s . . . Well he’s depressed and taking Valium for it but yes, I trust him. He wants what’s best and he’s not like her.’

  ‘Does he answer the phone?’

  ‘Hardly ever. But you could ask for him. They’d fetch him if you asked for him. You could say you were calling from Dr Linwood. That’s the psychiatrist he’s been seeing. They might call to change an appointment, I suppose.’

  She went to the phone and dialled then suddenly hung up. ‘Your mother might answer, mightn’t she?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘She’d recognize my voice.’

  At that moment Louis arrived, looked down at Eustace with concern, none of his usual smiles, and cast a questioning glance at Carla. H
e was immediately drawn into her plan as she passed the receiver to him.

  ‘When they answer,’ she said, ‘even if it’s a man, say you’re Dr Linwood calling for his father. Then hand it to me when he comes on.’ Swiftly she dialled the number again.

  Someone answered. Louis put on a perfect English accent.

  ‘Oh hello,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry to bother you.’ And he asked to speak to Eustace’s father on a confidential matter. When the woman on the other end queried this, he said, ‘Tell him it’s Dr Linwood’s office calling for him.’

  There was a long pause during which Eustace pictured his mother, for he was sure it was her, walking to rap on his father’s bedroom door because she always enjoyed waking him during the day. Finally Louis raised his eyebrows and handed Carla back the receiver.

  ‘Hello,’ Carla said. ‘This is Carla Gold. Yes. Whatever you’ve been told by your wife, Eustace is now completely safe but if you don’t want to involve the police and social workers and a High Court Judge having him taken into council care, you and I need to have an urgent talk. I suggest you come here. Say you’re going to Dr Linwood’s then drive here. Shall I remind you of the address?’

  When she finally hung up and Louis turned to him and said, ‘Hello Man-Cub,’ he burst out with it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Louis. I’m so sorry,’ he said, and it came out so loudly he could see he was startling them both. ‘I took your Tom of Finland magazine and the Chains book and they made me throw them on a bonfire. I’m sorry.’

  Louis took a while to understand and then said that of course it didn’t matter. He proceeded to get angry in a way Carla said really didn’t help, although Eustace found he didn’t mind at all because Louis was angry on his behalf. ‘Bloody Christians,’ he kept saying.

  Carla suggested Eustace take his bag to the room downstairs. Your room , she called it, which touched him. ‘We just need to talk things through before your father gets here.’

  ‘Of course,’ Eustace told her and left them. He didn’t like to unpack straightaway in case they decided they couldn’t have him to stay after all, but he lay on the bed and was aware that his heart was racing.

  He must have fallen asleep. The next thing he was aware of was the mattress squeaking and tilting as someone sat heavily by his feet. He opened his eyes and saw Louis. He rubbed his eyelids and sat up.

  ‘You’re shattered, Man-Cub! What did those bastards do to you? No. Tell me later.’

  ‘Is Dad here?’

  ‘Yup. He’s having a nice cup of tea. Poor man. He was in a bit of a state when he arrived but he’s better now. He loves you very much, you know.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Come and say hello.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Eustace followed him back upstairs.

  His father and he didn’t hug or anything like that, because they were not hugging people, but his father jumped up from the kitchen table as Eustace came in, which was more animation than he had demonstrated in months.

  ‘I had no idea,’ he said. ‘Truly.’

  ‘I know,’ Eustace told him. ‘I can’t come back, Dad. Don’t make me. I mean . . . Unless . . .’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Carla said. ‘We’ve talked it all through. You can stay here and commute to school on the train, at least until you go back to Ancrum at Easter. By which time things may have—’ She glanced apprehensively at his father. ‘But we need to talk to your mother.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I need to,’ his father said. ‘We owe her that much. She needs to know you’re safe. She’s been worried.’

  Louis let out a huh so explosive he sloshed his tea. He mopped it up with his handkerchief then poured tea for Eustace and slid it towards him along with a mute offer of a rock bun.

  ‘May I?’ his father said, indicating the bright red telephone on one end of the dresser.

  ‘Of course,’ Carla said. ‘Or there’s one on the next landing up if you’d like privacy.’

  ‘Actually,’ his father told them all with a ghost of a smile, ‘I’d rather appreciate the moral support. She can be a bit . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ Carla said. ‘I—’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Of course you— Well.’

  Leaving the table for the telephone, his father met Eustace’s eye briefly and raised his eyebrows as if to say, Here we go.

  He dialled. They all waited. Eustace took a bite of rock bun then wished he hadn’t because he found he was much too tense to swallow it. He took a mouthful of hot, rather stewed tea to wash it down and nearly choked. He became aware his father was talking and must already have been passed over to his mother.

  ‘He’s here,’ his father said. ‘He’s fine. We’re at Carla and . . .’ He turned to Louis. ‘I’m sorry,’ he told him.

  ‘Louis,’ said Louis.

  ‘Carla and Louis’ house.’

  He was briefly interrupted as Eustace’s mother began to say something so forcefully they could all hear her voice. Then, astonishingly, his father cut her short.

  ‘No,’ he said and Eustace’s heart swelled so that he thought he might cry. ‘He’s staying here. What you did was . . . repellent. No. Let me speak. I—’

  Again she started shouting. His father slowly moved the receiver away from his ear so they could all hear her rage turned to tinny impotence and he turned on Eustace a look full of apologetic affection.

  ‘I can’t,’ he began, then seemed overwhelmed by emotion. He took a breath and started afresh. ‘I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am,’ he said. Then he turned his back on them all and raised the receiver again. ‘Have you finished?’ he asked. ‘Good. If you’d like me to involve the police and social workers and his headmaster, I can, but I’m fairly sure what you all did was illegal and it was certainly enough to have him put into the care of strangers. And just now I’d rather he was with people he trusts and loves.’ He let her talk some more. She wasn’t shouting now, apparently. ‘My feelings on the matter are neither here nor there. These are the people he instinctively chose and I reckon, despite having you for a mother, his instincts are pretty good. I’ll give them something for his board and lodging and he can stay here until you do what you have to do . . . It means exactly what it sounds like, woman. Dear God.’

  For a second his usually mild voice turned savage. He checked himself, took an audible breath and let her talk.

  Carla reached out a hand and briefly laid it on Eustace’s where he was fiddling with cake crumbs. Eustace looked up and she smiled kindly at him. As did Louis.

  His father was holding out the receiver, one hand covering the mouthpiece for privacy. ‘I’m sorry, old chap,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be fine but she needs to talk to you. Do you mind?’

  Eustace made himself stand and went around the table to take the receiver from him. He held it to his ear. He could hear her laboured breathing, a sudden fruity sniff as she wiped her nose. She was crying, or had been.

  ‘Hello?’ he said gingerly.

  ‘Oh, Eustace. Oh thank God. I was so worried.’

  ‘You left me.’

  ‘I know, I know and I hated doing it but they helped me and I thought they’d help you in the same . . .’

  Her voice was distorted by tears in a way that set his teeth on edge. He wondered where she was. Had she answered in the hall and found her ugly emotions on display or was she somewhere private? He pictured her on the edge of her bed; a crucifix now hung above the headboard where a pretty watercolour of apple orchards used to be. She would be doing the things she did during difficult conversations, kicking off her shoes so as to grind her toes together, twisting and untwisting the telephone cord around her wrist.

  ‘I’m hanging up now,’ he told her.

  ‘But what about clothes? Do you have enough?’

  ‘I can always drop by after school.’

  ‘I wanted you to be happy.’

  This took him aback. It was such a preposterous thing to say that he could think of no adequate response.

/>   ‘Eustace?’ she said. ‘Hello?’

  His hand shook as he hung up, so the receiver bounced heavily on its tangled flex and smacked against the wall.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  He had thought the return to Ancrum, so longed for and dreamed of in the intervening months, would feel like a simple resumption. It couldn’t do, of course, because most of the participants were of an age where their moods and bodies were in a state of flux. Freya had sprouted breasts and left off her woollen hat to reveal a great shock of Titian hair that stood out from her head like a fiery dandelion clock and now seemed in a state of constant surprise at the arbitrary gift of beauty. Naomi, by contrast, had retreated from the mother-bought Laura Ashley look of the previous summer and was now scowling about the place in army surplus fatigues and a big jersey that flopped off her shoulders and reached half-way down her thighs. Ralph looked much the same only taller and with several shaving cuts. Pierre had piled on weight unexpectedly and peroxided his hair himself in a gesture towards Punk that simply made him look ill. Amidst them all Turlough looked quite unchanged apart from five o’clock shadow, as self-possessed as ever, as though he knew where the money was hidden and wasn’t about to tell.

  They all hugged on Berwick platform just as he remembered the old hands hugging the previous summer.