The Posthumous Adventures of Harry Whitaker

by Bobbie Darbyshire

  ‘Not a lot. She died when I was five.’

  ‘Forgive me, I’m so sorry. Foot stuck in mouth.’

  ‘No, really it’s fine. I hardly knew her. She took one look when I was born and dumped me on her parents.’

  ‘Because of this?’ His hand hovered over her cheek.

  Her nod outraged him.

  ‘She made a mistake. You’re beautiful.’

  Lily grinned. Her brown eyes sparkled. ‘Why thank you, dear brother, and so are you, by the way.’

  He didn’t want to stop looking, in case she might vanish. They sat side by side on the stairs. ‘So you never knew who your dad was?’

  ‘All my grandparents could get from my mother was that he was a shit.’

  ‘Not a bad summary.’

  ‘She was worse than him, though – at least he paid up. It turned out when she died that she’d been getting child support from him and keeping it for herself.’

  ‘That’s awful. Appalling.’

  ‘We found out because the bank traced my grandparents and the money started coming to us. We never knew who sent it, and when I was twenty-one it stopped.’

  ‘So, how come your mother died?’

  Lily pulled a face. ‘Fell off a hotel balcony on the Costa Brava, blind drunk.’

  ‘When you were five? How traumatic.’

  She shrugged. ‘I was heartbroken, yes, but I didn’t really know her, and my grandparents were lovely – best mum and dad I could have wanted. They kept the worst of it from me until I was older. Enough of me, though. What about us, eh?’ She hugged him again.

  Richard glanced upwards. ‘I was forgetting the house. Do you want a look-see?’

  ‘He showed me already. It’s ever so grand. Like an old-fashioned stage set – one of those where the maid comes on first with a feather duster and answers the phone. But don’t let me stop you – you need to take care of your mother.’

  ‘No.’ He felt reckless. ‘What I need is to be in a pub with my sister, just the two of us. Simon’s doing an excellent job. Give me a minute – I’ll tell them I’ve been called away.’

  He took the stairs two at a time, to find his mother, a radiant medieval queen, sipping champagne, charmed silly by Simon and fawned on by Henry V.

  ‘What a splendid room,’ he said, barely glancing. ‘Hey, Mum, I’ve just had a call from the café. Bit of an emergency – I need to dash back to Worthing. Sorry and all that, but you’ll have to make your own way home.’ He shook Simon’s hand warmly. ‘Thank you ever so much.’

  ‘Indeed, dear Simon,’ his mother’s voice followed him down the stairs, ‘bless you for everything. Tell me, which chair did Harry usually sit in? This one, I’m guessing.’

  Below in the hall, his astonishing sister was waiting. She smiled up at him, perfect in every way – he wouldn’t change anything. He couldn’t remember ever before feeling so happy.

  ‘Kemptown is just back of here,’ he said. ‘I know a nice little pub – The Hand in Hand.’

  The old Beatles’ track played in his mind. The clash of guitars, John’s nasal insistence, Paul’s yodels. I want to hold your hand. He scooped Lily’s hand from her side, swung it back and forth, kissed it. ‘It’s hard to believe that you’re real.’ They would walk to the pub, side by side, brother and sister.

  Someone was turning a key in the door. It swung open, and there was the bad-tempered housekeeper, stubbing a cigarette out with her foot, clutching an enormous battered handbag and an armful of cat-food tins. Her jaw dropped at the sight of Richard. ‘You? How did you get in?’

  For a moment he shrank with the remembered shame of an eleven-year-old, but Lily squeezed his fingers. ‘Mr Foyle invited us,’ she said. ‘He’s upstairs.’

  ‘Humpf.’ The housekeeper shut the door with her hip and dumped the keys in her bag. ‘There’s no end to the liberties everyone’s taking. He should have asked me first.’

  Richard let go of Lily’s hand to glance at his ringing mobile. For goodness sake. Claire needed to take no for an answer. He put the length of the hall between himself and Lily and huddled over the phone. ‘Just stop this, do you hear? There’s nothing to say. I don’t want to talk, now or ever.’

  ‘But listen,’ she said.

  ‘No, you listen—’

  ‘Hear me out for two seconds.’ She pushed on, raising her voice. ‘Because, Richard, I’m pregnant.’

  The air around him hummed as though something had just exploded. He heard himself speak calmly. ‘Okay. Yes. Are you in your flat?... No, I’m in Brighton, but I’m on my way. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’

  He ended the call and stood for a moment, staring at the mobile.

  Raising his head, he saw Lily, and the same calm voice from his mouth said, ‘I’m so sorry, but that was a real emergency. I do have to go.’

  In less than an hour, he was on Claire’s sofa in Worthing, staring at the blank TV screen. She had gone to fetch whisky.

  ‘You shouldn’t be drinking,’ he called dismally after her.

  ‘The whisky’s for you,’ she called back, ‘and for me when you say I have to get rid of it.’

  Her words shocked, then tempted him. She stood in the doorway with a bottle and two glasses. Vulnerable not predatory, gentle not harsh. All the way here he’d been angry, but anger was impossible now. ‘You would do that?’ he managed.

  ‘Do what?’

  It sounded crass to repeat it. ‘Get rid of it?’

  She lowered herself onto the other end of the squashy sofa, one of the three possible places this terrifying baby might have been conceived. She held the bottle and glasses to her chest. They stared at each other. ‘I don’t know,’ she said.

  ‘Harry told my mother to get rid of me.’

  Claire blinked. ‘You never said.’

  ‘He refused to see her. Sent her money and the name of a doctor in Harley Street.’

  ‘Very nice, I’m sure.’ Claire set down the glasses. Unscrewed the bottle. ‘Thank you for coming,’ she whispered.

  ‘I’m not Harry.’

  ‘I know you’re not.’

  ‘And she didn’t get rid of me.’

  Claire smiled. ‘Good decision.’

  Shit, he was giving mixed messages. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean...’

  Her eyes searched his. ‘Didn’t mean?’

  ‘To imply anything about what you should do.’

  Her smile froze. She half-filled a glass and pushed it towards him. She put down the bottle. Then picked it up again and poured one for herself. ‘So. It’s true, then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘About Harry. Not a story?’

  He fingered the glass, lifted it and inhaled the fumes. ‘Sorry. Yes. I only wish it weren’t true.’

  She stayed quiet. The silence grew longer. She huddled at the other end of the sofa, holding her glass in front of her, staring at it as though needing to hear his verdict before deciding to drink.

  He didn’t have a verdict. He couldn’t possibly ask or expect her to do away with a baby. She had to make her own choice, which might be to keep it. And then a child – a person – a man or a woman would arrive in the world wanting a father, like he had always wanted a father.

  He would never escape Worthing now.

  He gulped whisky. ‘How long have you known? Did you know at the funeral?’

  ‘I was worried, but it could have been nothing. I thought I was probably just late. I didn’t want to alarm you, but with... you know, with us breaking up, I thought I’d better take a test, and—’

  ‘How did it happen, though? We’ve been careful, haven’t we?’

  She nodded, leaning towards him. ‘Yes, every time. It’s bad luck. Something slipped, something tore, foreplay, afterplay, who knows. I would never, I promise...’

  She faded out and sat back, putting the untasted whisky on the table.

  He couldn’t meet her eyes any more. He looked down at his shoes on the yellow rug, remembering the good sex they’d had. He didn’
t love Claire, that was the truth of it. He didn’t want to be with her. More than ever in his life before, he wanted to get out of Worthing and never come back. Today’s letter was X, he remembered. Xanadu.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘I need to know, what do you want?’

  ‘I want this not to be happening.’

  ‘But it is,’ she said quietly. ‘Or it isn’t. Your call.’

  He tried to lift his eyes from his shoes, but he couldn’t. In any case, he mustn’t answer her; she had to speak first. ‘No, Claire.’ He made himself say it. ‘It’s for you to decide. What do you want?’

  She picked up her glass again. ‘If I had it... the baby... would we be together?’

  The question hung like a pall in the air. Tomorrow it would be places beginning with Y, and then would come Z, the end of the line.

  ‘I would stay here in Worthing.’ There, he had given it to her, the death of his dreams. ‘I would help you with money. I would be a dad to my son or my daughter. But you and me, Claire,’ he managed to look up, ‘I’m sorry, but no.’

  The colour drained from her face. He wished he could help her, but he couldn’t unsay or qualify.

  ‘Okay.’ She swallowed a mouthful of whisky and shuddered.

  He made himself keep looking at her.

  ‘I’ll need to do a bit of thinking,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And shit. Of all the times for this to happen. I’ve only got three weeks to get out of this flat.’

  ‘I’ll help you to look.’

  ‘No!’ A fierce shake of her head. ‘No, you’re all right. I’ll find somewhere.’

  ‘Of course, and good luck with it. So... let me know what you—’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’ She put down the whisky and got to her feet. ‘That’s what I’ll do, then. I’ll let you know.’

  He drained his glass and stood too. There was nowhere the conversation could go. He took her hand, drew her close to him and put his arms round her, but she remained rigid, face averted, her own arms at her sides. ‘It’s best that you leave now,’ she said.

  He let himself out and walked home through the sunshine, barely able to think, hearing instead the tumble of the waves on the pebbles and the shrieks of small children having fun at the seaside.

  Harry

  Finally! Oh, the joy and relief! My bliss is barely dented by discovering my house full of unwanted guests. Whom do I find in the hall but that ungrateful boy, Richard? Then, after he rushes off for some reason, leaving Mrs Butley and the woman with the strawberry birthmark staring at each other, whom do I then discover upstairs but desiccated Deborah? She is fingering my photographs and disporting herself on my silk upholstery, champagne flute in hand, while Simon coos at her – but these annoyances scarcely matter, because at last I am safe!

  As if this weren’t delight enough, I am no longer tethered or constrained in the slightest. Every object and surface here oozes my emotional investment, and I can flit from one thing to another as a ghost ought to do, caressing the damask wallpaper, the luxuriantly carved picture-frames, the fine collectibles and leather book spines. I can hover over crystal lamps and voluptuous tasselled pillows, and roll in ecstasy across the antique, hand-woven carpets. Home at last!

  The aura I’ve seen around my qualifying hosts is now everywhere; the house throbs and pulses with brilliance. I realise I haven’t felt easy for a single moment of my banishment from this beautiful place. I’ve barely known who I am. The framed photographs, the Hockney portrait downstairs – precious, precious, these images of myself that I have been starved of – each one floods me with so much recognition that I feel almost embodied and have to check in a mirror.

  No eyes meet my own from the glass. There’s no strong, proud jaw or head of white curls, only a reflection of the room with its trio of interlopers, from whose lips my name falls with such pleasing regularity while Mrs Butley grunts and grumbles backstage.

  Undeflated, I glide to the window and marvel briefly at the expanse of azure sea roiling in from the horizon beyond the promenade railings. Then I spin and pirouette towards Henry V, my gorgeous, great, green-eyed feline with his white boots and ridiculous white splash across his haughty pink nose. I land square on his back.

  Did he twitch? Dare I hope? He growls softly and shivers his tail. Can it possibly be that he senses me? Mrs Butley is banging a tin, and I’m riding him piggyback into the kitchen. He runs, purring like a football rattle, to the bowl she slaps down, but he doesn’t tuck in. Instead he’s squirming as if he has fleas. When I glide to the black granite worktop, he calms and begins to gobble his meal. When I land on his nose, he lets out a squeal, leaps six inches into the air, wild-eyed and fluffed out to double his size.

  What a brilliant discovery! Why didn’t I think to tickle the whiskers of a passing mouse in Pearl’s office? It’s been so long since I had any effect on the world.

  ‘What the heck’s up with you, Tommy?’ grumbles Mrs Butley. She takes pride in calling every cat she has dealings with ‘Tommy’. She says there’s no point in remembering their names. ‘The stupid animal’s having a fit or something,’ she calls through to the sitting room.

  By the time Simon puts his head round the door, I’m weaving figures-of-eight through the handles of my giant, stainless-steel, American fridge-freezer, Henry has his nose in his food bowl, and Mrs Butley looks like a fool. I have power, I have power. I am making things happen.

  It’s addictive. With apologies to poor Henry, I tease him and Mrs Butley some more, until she says, ‘Pesky animal. Do you need the vet?’

  Bad idea. I don’t want to risk losing him. So I leave well alone, watching until I’m sure that he’s calm and she’s mollified before I head back to the sitting room, to find that the young woman with the birthmark is no longer here and Simon is in the process of saying goodbye to Deborah too. About time. Shoo. Away with you, woman.

  ‘Feel free to ring me if you’d like to come again.’ He leads the way to the stairs, but Deborah lingers behind, touching breakable things that are best left untouched. No. Put that down. She has hold of the fragile little porcelain bowl from the mantelpiece. She’s smearing fingerprints across its hand-painted surface, and— What? Hold on. Stop thief! Her back is to the door and her fingers move fast. She has it wrapped in a lace handkerchief and slipped into her imitation Regency reticule.

  Simon is back. Did you see that? How dare she? Make her empty her bag out. Call the police.

  The damn fool has missed it. ‘Things may move quickly,’ he’s saying. ‘If you’d like to visit again, I mean. Sotheby’s are coming on Monday to look at the contents. It’ll all be packed up and gone soon. And the house itself – the agent reckons it will sell fast. He expects a bidding war – foreign plutocrats, luxury letting companies, that kind of buyer. It’s ultra high-end, and when you add in the association with Harry – well, there’s bound to be a blue plaque eventually, and—’

  I’ve stopped listening. I’ve plummeted from the space the little bowl has left on the mantelpiece down into the grate. Please not! This can’t be. I’ve been so anxious to find my way home, but for what? My home will most probably be converted to flats. Henry V will be palmed off on a stranger. My beloved possessions will be scattered to the four winds.

  The awful truth hits me. I’ll have to stay in a house that is no longer recognisable or choose just one thing to follow. Already it’s starting, the torture of choice and of loss, because my cherished, exquisite little hand-painted bowl is at this very moment on its way out of the door.

  Saturday

  Richard

  He had abandoned her yesterday, thrusting his business card at her and blurting something about an emergency. He had pushed past the housekeeper, sprinted to the bus stop, fretted through the halting bus-ride to Hove, wrestled his bicycle from the D-lock on his mother’s railing and pedalled furiously towards Worthing and Claire and her baby, almost forgetting that he had a sister, barely giving her a thought.

&n
bsp; But Lily, wonderful Lily, hadn’t forgotten him or taken offence. She’d booked into a bed and breakfast for the night and turned up here in the café this morning, shaking the rain from her red umbrella in the doorway and smiling hello. ‘What a great place you have.’

  He loved her spontaneity. As soon as she’d seen what was going on – a local artist’s exhibition of watercolour vistas of Sussex – she had set about making herself useful: waitressing for Tiffany, charming the soup woman and chatting knowledgeably with the painter about his techniques.

  Richard was impatient to have her to himself, to discover more about her, but he was needed to man the espresso machine, as Tiffany, radiating happiness, passed the orders along. The artist’s friends and the Saturday strangers enticed in from the rain were ordering complicated coffees and chomping their way through a stack of fancy cakes.

  Tiffany’s pink hair was whisked up like candyfloss. Her minidress, white with black polka-dots, scarcely covered the bum of her Union-Jack leggings. Her elation gnawed at his conscience. He should be telling her that he couldn’t sign over the café after all, that he might be staying in Worthing with a child to support. He should be deciding how to tell his mother as well. She was still ringing him every few hours to wheedle and whimper, demanding to know what his plans were. The good news, Mum, is I’m staying in Worthing. The bad news is that Claire, whom you hate and detest, is...

  No, not yet. Claire hadn’t decided yet, and he was exhausted from agonising, so – taking care not to scald himself with espresso steam – it was time to concentrate instead on the mind-boggling fact of having a sister. Wow! Each time he looked at Lily, astonishment thudded into him, making him grin despite his dilemmas. They would soon have a brother as well. The solicitor had promised to let Lily know when Jon Griffiths made contact, and then, Lily said, they must meet up, the three of them, like some kind of family. Richard, Lily and Jon. Completely amazing.

  Something was spoiling his enjoyment of Lily, though. He’d begun to notice how the customers were rubbernecking her when they thought she wasn’t looking. Some stared blatantly, some surreptitiously. He wanted to tell them, for goodness sake, stop. What a nightmare her life must be, never going unnoticed, never able to melt into a crowd. And for what? Celebrities traded their privacy for adulation and cash, but Lily had no compensation.