‘Validation. I understand.’
‘Exactly. And then, who knows, she might sign off from the bastard, get on with her life at last...’ He ground to a halt, conscious of jabbering.
‘Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Really?’
‘Of course. Mr Foyle is joint executor, so he knows about the will, about you, and I’ll explain to him that—’
‘Mr Foyle?’
‘Yes, we’ll need his agreement.’
‘Ah, no, bad idea. That’s why I asked if he was living there. After the mess we made of the funeral, he’s bound to say no.’
‘I’ll give it my best shot, I promise.’
‘That’s good of you, but—’
‘No buts.’ She held out her hand again. ‘I’ll let you know what he says and be in touch when the test kit arrives.’
‘Thank you so much. I’ve been rude. You’ve been kind.’
She opened the door for him. Another quick grip of her hand, and he was away, through the outer office and down the stairs to Western Road, registering briefly that someone else was now waiting behind the tired potted palm: a young woman with a purple birthmark across half of her face.
Before unlocking his bike, Richard set his phone back to ringtone. The calls and messages he’d been ignoring weren’t from his mother, it turned out – they were from Claire, for fuck’s sake. He deleted them.
Harry
I don’t believe it! You stupid, stupid boy! This goes beyond comic or tragic. Here I am, stranded on Pearl Allen’s desk once again, all my adventures gone for nothing. The Post Office, Deborah’s desperate doormat, my bicycle tours to and from Worthing – where have they got me? Precisely nowhere, that’s where, like the turn of some freakish merry-go-round. My son – if that’s what he is – cares so little for me that he throws Pearl’s letter down and me with it and flounces off without us. To top that, the brazen little bastard is bent on wheedling his irksome mother into my home, my home, where I long to be.
Then Pearl with her judgements! Talk about salt in the wound. All right, I grant you I wasn’t a ‘pleasant’ man. I was an artist, goddammit – does that count for nothing? I should be respected and revered as an artist.
She has picked the letter up, realised what it is and – No! Jesus help me – she is feeding it into a shredder! The motor shrieks, the letter is sliced into strips, but thankfully I’ve come through unscathed. Now she is dumping the debris and me into her wastepaper bin, which the gum-chewing, bum-scratching cleaning woman will empty this evening into another blasted rubbish sack. I’m plagued by the wretched things, lurking about me like vultures.
Reception buzzes through that Pearl’s next client has arrived, and she’s off out to meet and greet, leaving me dithering between an uncertain, insecure fate with a tangle of waste paper and a certain, secure one with the will in the folder that lies open on the desk. On an impulse I transfer to the will – though is it better to take my chance in a paper-processing plant? I hop back to the wastepaper bin, except— What’s this, I can’t? Why can’t I? Try again.
The ‘can’t’ makes sudden sense. By no stretch of imagination did I ever invest emotion in some solicitor’s letter. It was the bequests I invested in, the parcelling out of my wealth. The scrap of paper that brought Richard news of his share is no longer a qualifying host. I am once again stuck with the will.
I subside on the desk in despair. There’s no earthly use in fretting and striving. Struggle gets me nowhere against the pitiless laws of the universe. Full circle, defeated, I may as well resign myself to my fate.
Pearl is back, showing in the new client, a young woman with a strawberry birthmark across her left cheek and jaw. Normally I would find her intriguing, but I’m past all worldly concerns. Just file me, Pearl, and have done.
‘Take a seat,’ she says. ‘Tea or coffee?’
The client requests coffee, then twists abruptly in her seat, and Pearl jumps up too, because someone has barged in unannounced. Mrs Butley, guns blazing.
‘Girl outside said I should wait, but unlike some who spend their time nattering and filing their nails, I don’t have all day. I have to work for my living. I’ve had this since Tuesday,’ she’s waving what must be the letter Pearl sent her, ‘but I’ve been too busy to come, and now I’ve no time to hang about.’
For all my gloom, her ridiculous fury is lifting my spirits. ‘Disgusting is what it is,’ she bellows. ‘A thousand pounds? Bloody cheek. There must be a law against it, and I want it put right. I worked for that bastard for twenty-six years, put up with his airs and his nonsense, scrubbed his toilet, washed his unmentionables, and what does he leave me – a measly thousand pounds. It won’t do. To think I paid good money for a wreath.’
Marvellous. I feel so much better, basking in schadenfreude as she carries on shouting the odds. Others are enjoying it too. A receptionist hovers in the doorway behind her, miming amused apology at Pearl. The purple-cheeked young woman’s eyes dance with merriment. Pearl tries to slip a calming word in edgeways, but there’s no stopping the ranting. On she goes.
Wait a minute, though. Pay attention. There’s an aura around Mrs Butley. Not the stale-cigarette odour that after twenty-seven years I am thankfully spared, but a sphere of high-definition, exactly as there was around Pearl at the funeral. I know what this means. I have misunderstood the laws of the universe. Pearl’s letter, clutched in this grudging red fist, must somehow still qualify. I’m not pausing to question or to dither between options. I’m flying to the letter like a lost child to its mother.
But I don’t understand. Before I can land on it, the will tugs me back. Something else must be drawing me, some other centre within the luminosity that surrounds my enraged domestic. I launch myself again, homing in blindly, past the clenched fist and letter, down to the elbow hooked through the handle of the hideous bucket-bag, and I’m diving in, staring about me, at cigarettes and lighter, lottery tickets, purse, a used tissue, Polo mints, spectacle case, keys...
Keys! Of course! And oh Mrs Butley, I love you, I love you. Because here on this crowded ring must be the keys to Marine Parade, and all my strivings and hopes have been smiled on, because Mrs Butley, you wonderful, miraculous, fabulous woman, you are going to take me there.
Were these keys at the funeral? Did I transfer to the wrong handbag? Still, never mind, here I am, here I am.
The woman with the birthmark is speaking. Not that I’m interested – I’m too busy cosying up to my keys – but her voice is forceful and clear. ‘Please. I’m in no hurry. I’m happy to let this lady go first.’
Mrs Butley growls above me, sensing an insult.
‘Are you sure?’ Pearl is asking. ‘That’s enormously kind of you. Chloe, please would you look after Mrs Caruthers. Get her a proper coffee from over the road.’
The door is closing on Chloe and Mrs Caruthers. Pearl is soothing Mrs Butley, but I’m barely listening. I’m pogo-bouncing in and out of the bucket. Whee, look at me, look at me. Home safe, all bar the shouting.
‘That effing man. That mean, bloody bugger.’
There’s no calming or satisfying Mrs Butley, but equally nothing she can extract from Pearl Allen beyond the promise in due course of one thousand pounds. Soon enough, she is grumping and huffing her way out through reception, where Mrs Caruthers, and now Simon Foyle alongside her, stare from the sofa.
‘The law is a donkey, Mr Foyle,’ Mrs Butley informs him, ‘and your precious Lord Harry was a pig. All those years I slaved, and for what?’
For me, Mrs Butley, my dear, I answer with relish. For me and a perfectly acceptable wage. So take your thousand pounds and spend it on tasteless nonsense for your philistine of a husband and your dozens of tedious grandchildren, and carry me, carry me, carry me home.
Richard
The call came when he’d pedalled halfway to Worthing under the scorching sun. ‘For God’s sake, Claire,’ he muttered as he skidded to a halt. It was time to tell her in no un
certain terms to get lost. Pulling out his mobile, blinking the sweat from his eyes, he saw an unidentified number on the screen.
‘Your request, Mr Lawton.’ It was Pearl Allen. ‘Mr Foyle popped in, so I’ve had a word, and he’s happy for you and your mother to see the house.’
‘He is?’
‘No problem at all. The only thing is he’d like it to be this afternoon if possible.’
This was brilliant! Richard glanced at his watch. ‘What sort of time?’
‘Would three-thirty work for you? He’ll meet you outside the house.’
‘Mr Foyle will?’
‘His flat is nearby.’
Richard called up an image of Harry’s chief mourner, wreathed in smiles, shepherding him and his mother over the threshold. It didn’t add up. Was Foyle planning some kind of revenge? ‘But look,’ he said warily, ‘he’s angry with us, which I quite understand, but this is pointless unless my mother feels welcome. Could someone else show us round?’
‘Hold a moment,’ said Pearl.
Her voice grew muffled. Foyle must be there – she must be consulting him. Richard stared back towards Brighton as the traffic sped past.
‘Hello again. He’d like a word.’
Foyle’s plummy voice came on the line. ‘I’ll be honoured to show you and your mother the house, Mr Lawton. The fuss at the crematorium doesn’t matter, not in the slightest. I apologise for losing my temper.’
‘But we wrecked it,’ said Richard. ‘I should have prevented it, not told Claire, kept the whole thing to myself.’
There was a pause. Then, ‘How shall I put this?’ Foyle said. ‘One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but I gather... I gather that Harry’s will has rather offended you?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘It offended me too. He didn’t care tuppence for anyone, did he? It’s not the money so much, I wouldn’t want you to think that, but I was under the illusion that he had some respect for me.’ Another pause. ‘Anyhow, it turns out he didn’t.’ Foyle’s voice was tight and clipped.
‘He certainly knew how to put the boot in,’ said Richard.
Foyle cleared his throat. His tone lightened. ‘In my humble opinion, the funeral did our great thespian full justice.’
Richard laughed. ‘You’re right!’ First the solicitor, now the neighbour – it was good not to be alone in disliking Harry.
‘So, the house,’ Foyle said. ‘Rest assured, I will roll out the red carpet and give your ill-used mother the hospitality she fully deserves. Is three-thirty possible? It’s short notice, I know, but I’d be much obliged.’
Richard checked his watch again. He would need to turn round, pedal back – no, first ring his mother. Please let her be in, not out shoplifting. He would break the news on the phone, then go there and take a shower and some deep breaths in her cluttered bathroom while she costumed and titivated herself. Only then could they set out for Marine Parade. ‘Can we make it four o’clock?’
‘Wonderful. That should be fine.’
‘Thank you so much, Mr Foyle.’
‘Not at all, don’t mention it, and please, do call me Simon.’
It was gone ten past four when Richard and his mother got off a bus on Marine Parade and battled to make headway against the hot wind.
‘He’ll have given up and gone home,’ his mother wailed. She’d chosen to come as a pre-Raphaelite Ophelia or possibly an angel. The long white dress, blown hard against her ankles, hobbled her progress. The fringed shawl flapped behind her like wings.
‘No, I can see him,’ said Richard. ‘He’s there on the steps.’
In the pillared porch of Harry’s fine, three-storeyed Regency residence, Foyle, in grey linen jacket and pink cravat, was scanning the seafront in the other direction, so they were nearly upon him when he noticed them. His face exploded in beams. ‘Ah, there you are. Richard and...?’
‘Deborah,’ his mother gushed breathlessly. ‘It’s so kind of you to do this for us. Simply wonderful of you after our spoiling everything.’
Foyle took her hand in both of his. ‘All forgotten, I assure you. It’s a pleasure and privilege to meet you properly at last, Deborah.’ He turned to Richard. ‘The young lady – Claire? – is she not with you today?’
‘No longer with me, full stop.’
‘Simon, you are wonderful.’ His mother clung to Foyle, laughing gaily. ‘Before we go in, there’s something important that I really must say to you.’
Jesus, now what? She was standing way too close to the unfortunate man, fixing him with her dramatically made-up eyes. ‘I know that Harry has been terribly unkind, but he needs us to forgive him.’
Foyle made a sour mouth.
‘Because he’s a great man...’
‘Was,’ Richard corrected.
‘... a genius really, so the normal rules just cannot apply.’
‘Rules like kindness and truth?’ queried Foyle. Richard caught his eye. ‘But let’s not argue, dear lady,’ he said. ‘He meant a great deal to us all.’
‘Exactly,’ said Richard.
‘Anyway, don’t stand on ceremony. Come in. It’s high time you were made welcome here, and there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’ Foyle pushed on the open front door.
The air inside was cool. There was a faint scent of furniture polish. To Richard, it was like revisiting a dream. Here was the interior he had glimpsed past the bad-tempered housekeeper when he was eleven. From a chequerboard of black and white floor-tiles, a curved staircase with wrought-iron balustrade swept up towards the first floor.
Only one thing was new. The portrait of Harry on the wall beside the foot of the stairs, a full-size image of his father as ‘grand old man’: that wasn’t here when he was eleven. Dressed in tapered green trousers and blue open-necked shirt, Harry stood on the same elegant staircase above the same expanse of chequerboard tiling, his hand on the banister rail, his eyes challenging the visitor, so convincing it was tempting to mistake the painting for reality, the real staircase for a painting. At his feet sat a large black-and-white cat with equally arresting green eyes.
‘What a wonderful picture,’ cried Richard’s mother. ‘It’s him to the life!’
‘A Hockney,’ said Foyle. ‘It’s called Harry and Henry V.’
Richard hardly knew where to look. At his father’s mesmeric eyes, at the black-and-white moggie, fat and breathing, that was ambling downstairs to greet them, or at the young woman rising from the Regency chair by the door. Smart jeans and white T-shirt, small rucksack, shy smile. He recognised her from this morning. Once seen, hard to forget. The left side of her face was all fiery birthmark.
‘Richard, I’d like you to meet Lily. The will suggests you may be brother and sister.’
The cat wove back and forth round their ankles, mewing loudly. ‘Sweet thing. He’s hungry,’ said Foyle.
‘You’re mistaken,’ announced Richard’s mother. ‘I have only one child. May I see the house now?’ She stalked past the young woman and started up the stairs.
Richard and Lily stared at each other.
‘Of course,’ Foyle said hurriedly, ‘but what I mean is—’
‘It’s all right, we know what you mean,’ Richard said. He couldn’t stop looking. The twin plaits of brown hair. The candid, surprised, smiling eyes. The right cheek. The left cheek. His sister.
‘You need time to yourselves. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of Deborah.’ Foyle caught up with Richard’s mother, beaming and bowing. Richard began to like him, began to think of him as Simon.
His mother turned, playing the Empress Josephine possibly, and looked haughtily down to the hall. ‘Richard, don’t linger, dear. We’ve waited our whole lives. Come and see your father’s house.’
A disconcertingly Biblical phrase. ‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ he said.
‘Let me show you the sitting room first, dear lady,’ said Simon, cupping her elbow. ‘Harry spent so much of his time there. The view of the Channel today is quite magical.’
‘I need you with me, Richard,’ she called, but the pull of Harry and her new role as his fêted widow was too strong. She let Simon guide her on up the stairs, and their voices grew faint.
‘Richard Lawton,’ said Richard.
‘Lily Caruthers,’ said Lily.
He searched her face for resemblance. ‘I hardly know what to ask first.’
Her eyes shone, brown like his own. His heart thumped in his chest.
‘Me neither,’ she said. ‘It’s happened so fast. Tuesday, I didn’t know who my father was, then suddenly he’s Harold Whittaker of all people, leaving me money just when I could do with it. And now you – it’s crazy. Crazy and amazing and wonderful.’
He nodded like a mad thing, lost for words.
‘And this isn’t the end of it – there are three of us – we’ve another brother, apparently.’
‘You’re kidding me?’ His mind whirled. A sister. A brother. Out there, all the time, and he might never have known.
‘He’s called Jon Griffiths. Jon without an h. Not far from me in South London – Pearl’s waiting to hear from him. But never mind him – today it’s just us.’ She gave a little jump of excitement. ‘Bang, bang, bang. I get the letter on Tuesday, ring Pearl. She sends off for the DNA kit. I meet Simon when I’m giving my sample this morning. He asks, do I know you, and Pearl says about your mum wanting to see the house. So here I am.’
Richard’s tongue was catching up with his thoughts. ‘You only found out about Harry on Tuesday?’
‘Yes, from Pearl’s letter.’
‘I mean, your mum didn’t bang on about him all your life? Wow, I envy you.’
‘Well, thanks.’ She grinned. ‘Not many people say that to me.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean—’
‘I know what you meant. Hey, should we hug or something?’ She came a step closer.
He found he wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. He chose laughter, hugging her, then holding her at arm’s length.
‘I’m thirty. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-seven.’
For twenty-seven years he could have had a sister. This sister. Cruel Harry, what heartless tricks he had played. Richard frowned at the portrait. ‘What does your mother think of all this?’
The Posthumous Adventures of Harry Whitaker Page 13
