The Posthumous Adventures of Harry Whitaker

by Bobbie Darbyshire

  The thought for today emblazoned in gold across Scotty’s T-shirt is It is better to travel well than to arrive. ‘Well I never, this is progress,’ he says. ‘Good for you.’

  I’m overjoyed. I fly forward to greet him. Perch on Richard’s shoulder to beam at him. If I had arms I would hug him. ‘Oh, Scotty, hello!’

  ‘And hello to you,’ he says. ‘I thought I’d pop by, see how you’re getting on. I’m so happy today – I’ve just been to visit my wife – and here you are, too, with someone you care about. I’m so glad you bumped into him. Did he come to the funeral?’

  It surpasses wonderful to be seen and spoken to, even by an ill-informed, useless sprite. ‘The laws of the universe are no better than random,’ I tell him. ‘Don’t try convincing me there’s any justice in them, poetic or otherwise. I’m not attached to this young man. He may be my son, but that has yet to be proved. I’m attached to a letter he’s carrying. I could just as easily have gone up the crematorium chimney or into a filing system, and who knows where I’m going next. Recycling or landfill are strong possibilities.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Scotty says. ‘I am sorry to hear that, but I never said death was fair. At least it’s a challenge. Keeps you awake and on your toes, if you’ll pardon the bodily metaphors.’ He leans to the left as we veer around a parked lorry, his arms outstretched either side of him like a child miming the flight of an aeroplane. His insouciance no longer annoys me, I am so pleased to see him.

  ‘Although, to be honest,’ he volunteers, straightening up, ‘between you and me, I wish I could say the same for my own situation. Awake and on my toes, I mean.’ His glance flits nervously to the sky. ‘I shouldn’t be sharing this, I could get into trouble, but between you and me,’ he repeats in a low voice, ‘I’m a bit disenchanted with my promotion. It’s wonderful to be able to visit my wife, of course, but when it comes to the actual job, there’s no scope for initiative at my level, and most of the time I’m just bored.’

  ‘Bored?’ I erupt. ‘Don’t talk to me about boredom. You wouldn’t believe the stultifying hours and days I’ve endured. At least you can flit about, perch on handlebars, hitch rides in hearses.’

  Our forward motion has paused. A foot on the ground, Richard waits at a pedestrian crossing. Calmer now, he pats his back pocket, checking the letter is there.

  ‘When they let me,’ grumbles Scotty, ‘but then, when I am out in the world, what’s the point? I’m getting better at explaining the rules to new spirits, you’ll be glad to know, and there’s some satisfaction in that, but it’s not as if I can change anything.’

  ‘No discretion?’

  ‘Not that I can discern.’

  ‘Or hotline to someone who has?’

  ‘You must be joking. My supervisor’s a real jobsworth, oiling her way up the ladder.’

  ‘Well I never. Just more of the same then.’

  One of life’s – and death’s – pleasures, I’m realising, is having someone to bitch with. Scotty’s enjoying it too, grinning even as he complains. His disgruntlement heartens me: even an angel’s world is imperfect. His pinstripes are less crisp than they were: a bit frayed around the pockets, no discernible crease.

  ‘She’s all by the book,’ he says. ‘Hasn’t a clue what things are actually like out here.’

  We’re off again, cruising along into Worthing, where the buildings to our left give way to more stretches of grass, lines of beach huts and the wide, blue horizon. Richard straightens up and pedals hands-free for a while, the wind blowing his brown curls about. Possibly my son, possibly not – it hardly matters. ‘I should have left more to Simon,’ I tell Scotty.

  ‘Simon?’

  ‘Yes. Gay man with a crush on me. I left him an insultingly small sum of money. He took it ever so badly. I saw his face when he read the will.’

  ‘Ah, yes, wills,’ Scotty says. ‘The people who make them,’ he observes sanctimoniously, ‘think they’re about money, but the people who read them know they’re about love.’

  ‘I didn’t love Simon, but—’

  ‘Clearly,’ he says.

  ‘But does my remorse count for nothing? Why can’t I attach to him now that I do care about him? It’s unreasonable that the laws of the universe disallow posthumous emotional investment.’

  ‘Hey,’ Scotty grins, ‘you’re learning the lingo! Although...’

  ‘Although what?’ I say eagerly.

  ‘I don’t mean to doubt you,’ he says, ‘but it’s in my job description to check. Are you sure you’re remorseful?’

  ‘Horribly so.’

  ‘And emotionally invested in this man?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I say fervently.

  ‘Nuh-uh.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry, but I think you’re kidding yourself. What I’m sensing is merely embarrassment. You’re afraid he’s revised his opinion of you.’

  ‘Precisely, because he’s the only person who’s shown any sorrow or affection.’

  ‘And you’ll miss that, of course, but what affection do you have for him?’

  Checkmate. Scotty has rumbled me. I still have no proper fondness for Simon. The thought of trundling through the world attached to the poor fool is scarcely uplifting. Into his bathroom for example, it doesn’t bear thinking about. The problem is that the alternatives are abominably worse.

  ‘I’d better go,’ Scotty says. ‘I’ve a couple more visits to make. Thanks for the update – I’ll feed it into the system. Chin up. You never know.’

  ‘I don’t have a chin,’ I say petulantly as he fades out, rippling his fingers at me in a wave of farewell. ‘Or a pecker,’ I add to thin air.

  Richard is still pedalling along. Mine or not mine, a fat lot of difference it can make to me now. A cloud has come over the sun, which has sunk low in the sky. Ahead of us Worthing Pier stands in dreary silhouette against a choppy grey sea. The thought of all I so recently took for granted and no longer have sweeps through me in a great wave of loss.

  What? Hey, be careful! Richard has slammed on the brakes, sending me flying forward past his ear then ricocheting back to his shoulder. An attractive young woman stands in the road, mouth open, staring for all the world as if she’s seen a ghost. ‘Hello!’ I say, forgetting it’s not me that she sees.

  ‘For God’s sake, Claire,’ says Richard. ‘You came out of nowhere.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think. But you’re here, and—’

  ‘I could have killed you, you idiot.’

  I’ve seen her somewhere before. She’s pretty, she’s flustered, she appears to be emotionally invested in this angry young man.

  ‘Richard—’

  ‘No, Claire. Really no. No hard feelings. Anyway, I’m going away soon.’

  Her eyes widen. Lovely blue eyes. ‘Away? Where to?’

  ‘To Wales,’ he says.

  ‘Wales?’

  He laughs. ‘Or somewhere like that. I have to sort out the café and my mother— No, not my mother, she’s sorted, and something else just cropped up – but then, forget it, I’m out of here.’

  ‘For a holiday?’

  ‘For good.’

  ‘To Wales? You can’t—’

  ‘Or West Bromwich,’ he says.

  ‘Don’t make fun of me, Richard. I need you to be serious. Listen, I’m really sorry about the funeral—’

  Of course, that’s where I’ve seen her. That was her, in the cloche hat, at the back, with Deborah and son.

  ‘I was totally out of order,’ she’s saying. ‘I completely get why you’re pissed off with me, but Richard—’

  ‘No, Claire.’ He has his foot on the pedal. Passersby are turning to look.

  ‘I need to talk to you. Alone, not in public like this. Come home with me, just for five minutes.’

  He unpeels her fingers from the handlebar. ‘I don’t have five minutes. I’ve calls to make, planning to do, a mountain of things.’

  ‘Tomorrow then?’

  ‘Claire, it’s over.’

  He t
hrows his weight on the pedal. He swerves around her, gains speed.

  ‘Richard. Please.’

  He’s away.

  I stare back at the young woman who stands in the road looking after him, and I’m seeing all the women I swerved around and away from. Then I’m looking at his face as he pedals and curses, and I’m realising that yes, just maybe, he bears some resemblance to me.

  Friday

  Richard

  ‘Okay, I have to admit he is a bit full of himself,’ said one of the receptionists, ‘but he’s got one of those faces you just can’t stop watching, don’t you find? At least I can’t. If he’s on the screen, I’m glued.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said the other. ‘I hate him, though, cos if he chatted me up, I know I’d be like ooh, yes please, when I ought to say, “Get lost, Quentin.”’

  ‘Get you! Like he would even ask you.’

  ‘I’m just saying.’

  ‘He’s bound to win it though, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah, probably. The others are all a bit blah.’

  They had phoned Richard’s name through and asked him to wait. Ms Allen would be with him in a minute. He sat on a low sofa, behind a tired indoor palm, half an ear on their gossip about Tomorrow’s Tycoon, half a mind on his mother.

  Her latest delusion was that Harry’s money changed everything: her son would no longer be abandoning her. Instead, newly solvent, he would want to make a success of the café at last, moving it to a better location. Hove, for example. There were lovely premises to let just round the corner from her. She’d been ringing him nonstop, last night and this morning, pressing him to invest in his future, refusing to take no for an answer. He imagined her dressed for the part as a small-business adviser, with shoulder pads and bossy spectacles.

  ‘It’s your chance to establish yourself, Richard,’ she’d told him at six thirty this morning. ‘This twenty-five thousand is what they call “seed-corn capital”.’

  He had hung up on her and stopped answering her calls. His phone was vibrating now, but he didn’t even glance at it. His escape plan was intact – the windfall just made it more possible. He’d use Harry’s money to settle the debts that Tiffany’s valuation didn’t take care of. He could relax about his finances, devote a year to exploring the world – Xanthi, Xiaoshan, Xique Xique – before deciding where to settle and how to earn some kind of living.

  He was still smouldering, though, itching to march into this solicitor’s office and tell her where she could shove her DNA test. He pulled the letter from its envelope and re-read its cold words. Twenty-five grand was less than peanuts to Harry, a stingy payout of conscience money, hurtful, humiliating. Kinder to have left nothing at all. Where were the millions from Hollywood going – to the Harold Whittaker Adulation Society?

  Thirsty after miles of frenzied pedalling with the morning sun in his eyes, he took gulps from his bottle of water and tried hard to be calm. Pride was a fool’s game, and no amount of railing at a solicitor would do a blind bit of good. He’d be an idiot to turn down the money; he was damn well going to have it; it was his quick ticket out of here.

  Also, there was something this Brighton lawyer might be able to do for him. A complete long shot, probably out of the question, but worth a try nonetheless. A parting gift to his mother, and one in the eye for Harry if he pulled it off.

  But yikes – what was this? He ducked behind the withered fronds of the palm. The black woman from the funeral was striding through reception, heading straight for him, her hand outstretched. ‘Mr Lawton?’

  Of course, it made sense. This witness to the crematorium fiasco wasn’t some woman-friend, as his mother had supposed, but his father’s solicitor, Pearl Allen LLB. He lurched to his feet, fumbling the handshake, dropping the letter and bending to retrieve it. His prepared words deserted him, and he found himself babbling. ‘I only found this at my mother’s last night, too late to call you. I’ve come straight here this morning. I ought to have rung first, but...’

  He had no excuses. Of course he ought to have rung first. He was uncomfortably aware how sweaty he was from cycling. His face must be scarlet.

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ she said. ‘I’ve a space before an appointment. It’s good of you to drop by. Please, this way.’ She was leading him towards an open office door.

  Courteous, inscrutable. She’d heard him lie through his teeth, denying Harry to that reporter, and now he was claiming Harry’s money. What on earth must she think?

  They were through the door. She was closing it.

  ‘You’re not going to believe this,’ he gabbled, ‘but whatever I said at the funeral, I really am Harry’s son.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘I have to admit, I’m intrigued, but that’s the point of the test. Please have a seat.’

  He glanced round the businesslike, white-painted office. The window looked out on a wall. He hovered between the door and the chair she was offering.

  ‘Tea? Coffee?’ she said.

  There was no way she would do him the favour he wanted to ask. ‘No thanks. Can we just get it over with?’

  She blinked at him, perplexed. ‘The test, you mean? I’m sorry, we can’t do that today. I needed to know that you’d like to proceed, before sending off for a test kit. When it arrives I’ll be in touch about giving the sample.’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘A few days. Please relax, Mr Lawton. Please sit down.’

  The chair faced her desk. He perched on the edge of it, fidgeting with the letter she’d sent him. ‘So, what does this test involve?’

  ‘A swab inside your cheek, that’s all. Saliva and cells. You’ll need to bring photo ID – a passport or driving licence. All very straightforward. Witnessed by me, completely confidential, into an envelope and back to the company for analysis.’

  ‘And then what? I’m sorry, I must seem impatient, but how long is this going to take?’ He flattened her letter on the desk, pointing. ‘You say two months, but the thing is I’m about to leave England.’

  ‘Probate will be a while. It’s a complex estate, so more than two months, I’m afraid.’

  ‘More? Are you serious?’ He half rose from the chair. ‘Forget it. I’m not waiting that long.’

  She leaned across the desk, offering a reassuring smile. ‘Once you’ve given the sample, we won’t need you in person. Assuming the result is positive, if you give me your details we can do a bank transfer.’

  ‘Okay. Fine. Good.’ He was back on his feet, heading for the door.

  She rose too. ‘So you’re happy to go ahead with the test?’

  ‘Happy?’ His rage erupted. ‘Are you serious?’

  She frowned. ‘But I thought...’

  He was being unreasonable. She was just doing her job. He should agree with her that, yes, he was ‘happy’ and get out of here. His phone was vibrating again. His voice, too, was shaking, embarrassing him, but he needed to say this.

  ‘My father could have met me anytime in thirty years, Ms Allen. He could have judged for himself or got his lousy test done when I was a kid. He could have taken me to the zoo and McDonald’s like absent dads are supposed to do. He could have got to know me. So no, I’m not the slightest bit happy, and I hate jumping through hoops to get his miserable money, but I need it, so sod him, for twenty-five thousand pounds I’ll take his insulting test.’

  He drew breath. His phone stopped vibrating. Had he been shouting? He felt foolish. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘None of this is your fault.’

  She came round to his side of the desk. ‘There’s no need to apologise. I understand how you must be feeling.’ She held his gaze. ‘It’s unprofessional of me to say this, please keep it to yourself, but off the record, my personal opinion for what it’s worth...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well... this isn’t a pleasant will. He wasn’t a pleasant man.’

  ‘Thank you. It means a lot to hear someone say that.’

  She held out her hand, and he took it. ‘I’ll be in touch,
’ she said, ‘as soon as the DNA kit arrives. What’s the best way to contact you?’

  As she wrote down his number, he remembered the other thing. It might be worth a shot after all. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘there is something else.’

  ‘Yes?’

  How to begin. ‘It’s my mother... No, look, it’s probably impossible, so before I go into all that, may I just check, is Harry’s house empty right now?’

  She looked puzzled.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m not about to burgle it or demand to move in. I just wondered if maybe he shared it with Mr Foyle?’

  ‘No, it’s empty.’

  ‘So, as I started to say... my mother... if she could somehow be shown inside, just a visit, it would mean so much to her. It sounds daft, but...’ He stalled. It was daft. ‘The thing is, she obsesses. After thirty years, it’s not Harry she misses, it’s more the acknowledgement she thinks is her due. The funeral might have helped, she was going to be welcomed across his threshold at last, but you saw what happened...’

  The solicitor smiled.

  ‘...and she’s been fretting about it, bewailing that she was denied yet again, blaming me. Look, it’s a huge ask, but it would mean the world to her to be inside his house. Pointless, but symbolic. It might help her let go.’ He took a breath. ‘To let go of me, not just Harry. I need her to let go of me.’

  He shouldn’t be saying this to a stranger. His face was still hot from cycling, but he felt it grow hotter. He pulled himself together. ‘Really. Forget it. Say no. I’ll quite understand.’

  Ms Allen said nothing. Still smiling. Could it be possible?

  ‘Not for long,’ he said. ‘Half an hour would be great – just to be let in and shown round with a smile. By an estate agent possibly? It wouldn’t matter who, as long as they listened to her and treated her seriously.’ He was trying to laugh, to make light of it. ‘It’s a cheek, I know, but if whoever it was could treat her like... well, like a VIP. That’s what she needs. She wouldn’t harm anything – I would make sure of that. Just to be invited in, shown around, kowtowed to – it would give her—’