‘What’s going on?’ said Claire, standing on tiptoe.
Simon Foyle was arguing with the man in jeans. The housekeeper was chipping in too.
‘Haven’t had a chance,’ said the black woman into her mobile. ‘I expect it matches our copy... No... look, I’ll skip the reception. Be with you in half an hour, tops.’
Now that would be good, Richard thought. To skip the reception. To build on this sense of release and forgiveness instead of picking over Harry’s bones at some awkward do. ‘Hey, Mum,’ he said hopefully, ‘how about we go straight on home? Light those candles? Watch Hamlet?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Claire. ‘We wouldn’t miss champagne at Harry’s for the world, would we, Debbie?’
His mother frowned as though puzzled by the sound of Claire’s voice. She squeezed past Richard and Claire into the aisle.
‘Debbie?’ said Claire, flashing her bleached teeth.
His mother straightened her back and took a breath from her diaphragm. ‘We’re going to Harry’s,’ she proclaimed.
People turned to stare.
‘That house should have been my home. And yours too, Richard.’ Her voice drew an echo from the chapel walls. ‘We’re going in through that door at last, and they’re going to treat me like a lady.’
Claire put an arm round her shoulder. ‘Like family, Debbie, because that’s what you are.’
She threw off the embrace.
‘Mum, please. Claire’s trying to be friendly.’
He grinned at Claire to show solidarity, but then someone said, ‘It’s a reporter.’ All eyes swung back to the doorway, and Claire’s hand shot to her mouth.
‘What?’ said his mother. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Clear off. You’re not welcome.’ Foyle looked beside himself, red in the face.
The man in jeans wasn’t listening. He was dodging now through the knot of people towards them, squeezing past the cello case into the chapel. He glanced at the flowers and the closed curtains, then turned back, scanning faces. ‘I’m hoping to have a word with Deborah Lawton?’
What on earth? Richard stepped in front of his mother, but too late, she must have nodded or something, because the man had spotted her. ‘That’s you, is it, love?’ he said, producing an oily smile. He was recording all this on his mobile.
His mother stepped forward.
‘No.’ Richard pushed between them, making a grab for the mobile and knocking it flying. The reporter flailed backwards, trying to catch it, lost his footing and landed hard.
‘Ouch! Watch it, mate.’
‘Sorry, but she has nothing to say to you.’
‘Don’t interfere, Richard. I can say what I like.’
‘Quite right, love. Freedom of speech.’
Claire, looking flustered, had run forward, pulled the man to his feet, and was attempting to tug him towards the door. ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ she said.
Did she know him? Richard couldn’t make sense of this.
‘No, you shouldn’t,’ said Foyle, seizing the man’s other arm. ‘You’re not wanted here.’
Richard lowered his voice to plead with his mother. ‘Don’t talk. He’ll destroy you. No comment, okay?’
‘You’re the son, I’m guessing.’ The reporter had shaken off Foyle and Claire and was back. ‘No hard feelings – although if my phone’s broken...’
The old man in the toupée retrieved it from the floor and held it out to him. ‘Take it and go,’ he growled, ‘because I’ll be suing your editor, chum, if you write a word about this private occasion.’ His face was a near match for his jacket.
‘Keep your hair on,’ said the reporter. ‘I’m not here for Lord Harry, I’m here for his lady.’ He bowed low to Richard’s mother, who fluttered and beamed. ‘Because Harry let you down, isn’t that right?’
‘Back off,’ said Richard. ‘Leave her alone.’
‘Thirty years ago? Left you high and dry like Miss Havisham?’
‘Miss Havisham?’ said Richard. The penny dropped. Claire had tipped this man off.
Claire shook her head helplessly, but there wasn’t time to explode at her, because—
‘Miss Havisham?’ said his mother.
‘I mean no offence, love. It’s understandable how you would feel. A man like Harry.’
She was opening her mouth to spill all. Richard’s life, decked out in her melodrama, would be spread across the tabloids. The press would camp on their doorsteps, peer in through their windows, pursue them down the street. ‘Don’t, Mum, please.’
‘But, Richard...’
The answer came to him, the one thing that would deter her. ‘It was Claire,’ he whispered. ‘Claire who tipped this man off to come here and make an idiot of you.’
‘No,’ Claire yelped.
His mother’s face clouded. Her mouth shut and then opened.
‘Please, no comment,’ he begged her.
Her expression cleared and focused. She drew herself to full height. Turning her back on the reporter, she faced her audience across the footlights, filling her lungs again as Claire shrank behind the cellist.
‘This was her doing, Mr Foyle. This woman’s the culprit.’
They had to leave. No more talk. ‘Come along, Mum. Enough said. Let’s go now.’
There was no stopping her. ‘And this one’s no better than she should be.’ Her finger swung to the black woman, who held up bemused, innocent palms.
Claire came out from hiding to put an arm around her. ‘You’re confused, Debbie love. You need to calm down.’
‘Don’t you dare speak to me.’ His mother’s shriek threatened their eardrums.
‘Yikes,’ said the reporter. ‘You said she was batty, but—’
‘Claire!’ Richard bit back his fury. He grabbed her arm and his mother’s. ‘Come on. We’re leaving.’
‘I never said that,’ Claire pleaded.
Foyle had Claire by the other wrist, pulling her to a standstill. ‘Who are you exactly?’
‘I’m... I’m Richard’s girlfriend.’
‘And let me get this clear. You invited the press?’
‘No, honestly, I didn’t. I was chatting to one of the old people I work with, that’s all. I was telling him how exciting, the funeral of such an amazing man, and then before I could stop him he’d phoned his grandson, who turned out to be this reporter, and—’
‘How dare you?’
‘I told him not to come.’
‘I’m so sorry. She knew it was private,’ said Richard.
A throat cleared, and the crowd turned to look. An undertaker stood in the doorway, bowing slightly. ‘Excuse me, Mr Foyle, sir, but they’re needing the chapel. Do the mourners wish to view the floral tributes?’
Richard saw Foyle’s eyes fill once more with tears. He was flapping his hands at the crowd, speaking in a hoarse voice. ‘Please... everyone... make your way to the house. Let’s rescue some dignity for Harry with a glass of champagne.’
As the chapel emptied, he swung back to Richard. ‘Not you, though, or your mother or girlfriend. Invitation withdrawn.’
‘No, please, Mr Foyle,’ wailed his mother. ‘You can’t do that to me.’
‘Be quiet,’ the housekeeper snarled in her face. ‘I remember you. You’ve been after his money for years.’
No one wanted to view the floral tributes. Most climbed into their cars and accelerated away down the cemetery drive. The cello went in the back of a Volkswagen estate. Only the reporter remained, and the black woman, wriggling out of her jacket, hanging it in a red hatchback.
His mother was distraught, Claire was making imploring faces at him, but there was no time to speak to them because the reporter’s mobile was back in his face. ‘It’s true though, you are Harold Whittaker’s son?’
‘No comment’ would sound like an admission. ‘Absolutely not,’ he said. ‘That’s a lie and a fantasy.’ He looked hard at the women.
‘How come Claire said you were?’
‘
She made a mistake.’
‘Yes, that’s it, I must have done.’
‘A mistake, are you kidding?’
‘You can think what you like, but he isn’t my father.’
‘Oh yeah? Why are you here, then?’
‘Curious, that’s all. No more comment.’
It didn’t hold water, but he wasn’t going to elaborate. He locked eyes with the reporter and made his gaze steely. He was no son of Harold Whittaker. It felt good to assert it. A father who wasn’t worth having was easy to disown.
The reporter gave up on him. ‘But you, love?’ Moved close to his weeping mother. ‘You’ve a tale to tell, isn’t that right? Old Harry seduced you, eh, got you pregnant, then ran out on you – that’s how it was, wasn’t it?’
Her lip trembled; her breath came in sobs. She was opening her mouth to answer, and Richard was powerless to stop her.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No. That’s a wicked untruth.’
‘Which part?
‘All of it.’ Her voice took on volume and certainty. ‘I never even met Mr Whittaker.’ She spoke clearly into the mobile. ‘Not once in my life.’
Richard could have kissed her. His eyes misted with gratitude.
‘So you made up the story?’
‘Other people made it up. Like she made it up.’ She jabbed her finger at Claire. ‘My son looks a bit like him, that’s all. Always has done, from a boy. Just a coincidence, but people joke about it, and now it’s got out of hand.’
A car door slammed. The black woman was driving away.
Richard did his best to sign off. ‘Your time’s wasted here. Really. It’s been a misunderstanding – a muddle, that’s all. There’s nothing to know.’
Doubt dawned at last in the reporter’s eyes. ‘Effing wild-goose chase.’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Richard.
The man glared at Claire. ‘Get your facts straight next time. Okay?’
Finally he was going. He kick-started the motorbike that was parked by the porch and took off in a cloud of exhaust.
His mother was erupting at Claire now. ‘Look what your meddling has—’
‘Yes,’ Richard jumped in, ‘but listen – there’s something important I need to say.’
Claire mustn’t hear his mother recant. He was no son of Harry: that was the story now, and he was damn well sticking to it.
‘I didn’t mean it to happen,’ Claire said. ‘Old Mr Molyneux got so excited. He said, “My grandson’s a reporter,” and—’
‘Stop,’ Richard told her. ‘I don’t want to hear it.’ He put his face close to hers. ‘Because, Claire, listen. Whatever you may think you know about me, think again. You heard what Mum said, and she’s telling the truth – isn’t that right, Mum?’
She nodded emphatically.
‘I shouldn’t have told you that story. It’s a joke that I play, looking the way I do. So, I’m sorry, but if you spread the rumour and I get to hear about it, I’ll be hopping mad, is that clear? I want you to tell Mr Molyneux and anyone else you’ve been blabbing to that you got it wrong.’
It wasn’t enough. He needed to break with her.
‘And actually, there’s no easy way to say this, but it’s over – we’re done, Claire.’
‘Ah no, babes, please.’
‘It wasn’t really working, and now this.’
She carried on protesting, but he found it was true: he was glad to step free of her.
Cars were beginning to arrive for the next funeral. He turned his back on Claire and hurried his mother away down the drive. The more distance he put between the two of them the better.
‘Are you cross with me, Richard?’
‘No, Mum, you were bloody wonderful. Truly.’
She hung on tight to his arm, half-running to keep up. ‘I can’t bear it. We were going to Harry’s house and now Mr Foyle hates us.’
‘Yes. I’m so sorry.’
‘How could you have trusted that woman?’
‘I don’t know. Big mistake.’
‘She dyes her hair, for a start,’ she panted beside him. ‘And those teeth aren’t her own.’
Friday
Lily
The man with a van – Call me all hours, no job too small, daft, humdrum or crazy – had seen it all; nothing fazed him. Moonlight flits, stolen goods, passion and violence. Last week, with his bespectacled lady customer quivering with alarm in the passenger seat and her few sticks of furniture thrown in the back, the van was pursued to the traffic lights by a stark-naked man shouting, ‘Come back, Georgina. I love you.’
This job was tame by comparison. He and the bloke were out on the pavement, filling the van with the bloke’s stuff, which the woman was ferrying in armloads out through the front door. She was throwing him out, and he wasn’t ready to go, but tough titty. He’d been nabbed doing the dirty, and that kind of lost him his rights. The man with a van had developed a point of view on these matters: he respected the disrespected birds who called time.
The bloke was still wearing his office suit – she must have sprung this surprise on him when he got home. She came to the gate with a cardboard box full of socks. ‘I don’t care if I never see another red sock in my life.’ The man with a van was warming to her in spite of her livid left cheek. It was hard not to stare – it took some getting used to.
The bloke grunted morosely, offering the man with a van a look that said, ‘Women, eh?’
‘Do you need any help, love?’ The man with a van followed her to the porch and peered into the hall. Posh place. Nice pictures. Nice tits on the woman too under that dust-smeared shirt. Dark hair sneaking free of the plait, curling damp on her neck from the humid July heat. Pity about the birthmark.
She swung on a heel to look at him. ‘Not right now I don’t, but next week I may well do. Anything he doesn’t collect by Monday, I’ll want taking to the tip.’
‘Great. Here’s my card.’
She read the slogan, then looked up with a smile in her eyes. ‘Do you mean what it says here – no job too crazy?’
‘Sure thing, love. I’ll do anything, me, provided it don’t get me arrested.’
‘Right... okay... Look, on second thoughts, come in and help me carry some stuff. No, not you, Martin,’ she snapped at the bloke. ‘You’re staying right where you are.’
She shut the door on Martin and led the man with a van through to the kitchen. Smart new worktops and units. Flowers on the table. Floor-to-ceiling window onto designer back-garden. She glanced back down the hall and lowered her voice. ‘This very much comes under “crazy”.’ Her smile was a bit wicked. ‘I’ve a proposition for you. I’ll make it worth your while. What’s he paying you?’
‘Fifty quid.’
‘How about I double that? Another fifty.’
‘For next week’s run to the tip?’
‘Better than that. For putting on an act for him now, making him think we’re getting off with each other.’
Forget the face, she was sexy, with her smell of fresh sweat. ‘Tell me more,’ said the man with a van.
Back out with the next load, and blimey, hey up, the craziness was starting. She was coming on fast to him, moving in close, smiling up at him coyly, bumping him with her hip.
Well, why not, and getting paid for it into the bargain. He slid an arm round her waist, dropped his hand to her bum, then instinctively jumped away as Martin straightened up from arranging a blanket over his music centre.
‘Oi,’ said Martin.
‘Oi what?’ she snapped back.
Martin swore under his breath, then said crisply, ‘Okay, Lily, I get it. You’re just winding me up.’
‘Why would I bother? You’re so gone, I can hardly see you.’ She turned her back on him and shot a wink at the man with a van. ‘You’re a cheeky sod, aren’t you? I like your eyes, though. Wait there. One more lot to go.’
While she was inside, the two men stood awkwardly waiting. Martin offered a packet of fags. Their heads bent over the lighter
. ‘Thanks,’ said the man with a van.
‘Take no notice,’ Martin confided between savage drags of low tar. ‘She’s in a paddy, that’s all, using you to get back at me.’
‘Yeah, mate. You could be right.’
They blew smoke and stared down the line of privet hedges to where the traffic whizzed by.
She staggered out with a pile of coats and scarves and dumped them on the front path. Martin nearly fell flat trying to catch them, and she laughed.
‘You vindictive bitch.’
‘That’s your lot for today. I’ll have the books and music sorted tomorrow. Pick it all up by Monday night or it’s gone.’
As Martin straightened up with his armful of coats, Lily grabbed the hand of the man with a van, and this time he didn’t jump away.
‘Oi,’ said Martin again, but she ignored him.
‘Are you married?’ she said.
‘Not yet,’ said the man with a van.
‘Girlfriend?’
‘Not as such, no,’ he lied.
‘Okay. So do you fancy coming back here when you’ve taken this pillock wherever he’s going? Share a bottle of wine?’
‘You’re making an idiot of yourself,’ said Martin.
‘Takes one to know one,’ said Lily. ‘So, what do you say?’
‘Well, I’m not sure...’
He was having doubts about this crazy job on the side. The bloke might not cough up the money he owed, might even get violent. But a glance into Martin’s cowardly eyes had him smiling again. ‘Yeah, why not, if you’re offering.’
‘You were joking, right?’ said Martin, as the van turned the corner.
‘About what, mate?’
‘About what do you think, mate?’ Martin said, in a voice you could have cut yourself on. ‘You were joking about going back there?’
‘No comment,’ said the man with a van.
‘You bastard,’ said Martin.
He muttered and snorted a bit, then kept quiet the rest of the way.
The address was a crap street in some no-man’s-land suburb. The landlady stood, arms folded, frowning – ‘This had better be all of it’ – as the two of them carried stuff up three flights to a pokey room under the eaves.
The Posthumous Adventures of Harry Whitaker Page 8
