The Posthumous Adventures of Harry Whitaker

by Bobbie Darbyshire

  She smiled. ‘It’s okay. You’ve been fine.’

  Crowds of shoppers jostled him on the pavement. The sun bounced off the buses. Forget Harry, he thought. Forget Quentin. And stop fretting about foreign travel. There were worse places than the south coast of Sussex to be stuck, and tons of good things in his life, most of all Lily. He switched his phone on, and there they were: three missed calls from her, two of them this morning. He rang her number straightaway now with no plan of what he would say – it would be easy and natural to talk to his sister.

  ‘Hello?’

  Her voice made him smile. He’d got everything out of proportion. ‘Lily, I’m so sorry. My phone’s been off, and—’

  ‘Hang on just a minute,’ she said. ‘I’ll be right with you.’

  And then she was talking past the phone, winding up her conversation with someone. ‘I’ll do the analysis and get back to you.’

  She was in her backwater office, among her government statistics, doing the job she liked because it was anonymous. When Quentin and the will became public, Lily’s life would be invaded by the media too. He’d been selfish, not realising, not thinking about all the cameras that would be thrust into her newsworthy face. He needed to warn her, tell her about the probate registry. She’d understand he had nothing personal against Quentin, it was just—

  ‘Hello again, Richard. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. So sorry I’ve been off radar. It was—’

  ‘Richard, listen a mo. Have you just been with Pearl?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she told you?’

  ‘About the money? Yes, thank you, she paid me—’

  ‘No, Richard. Where are you?’

  ‘Just outside her office. It’s really hot here today. Smelling garlic from somewhere – I’m ravenous. Hearing your voice, wonderful Lily, but—’

  ‘Is anyone with you?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve something to tell you. I’m so disappointed. I thought Pearl might tell you. She rang me this morning and – Richard, I’m sorry, but my test came back negative. My mother, she got it all wrong, or maybe she lied to Harry. He wasn’t my father.’

  Harry

  My! How enormously I’m enjoying my excursions with Henry V. I’ve been out with him three more times since I first chanced it yesterday. I had no idea that he roamed so far. I imagined we would spend the hours skulking under some bush, perhaps making the odd hop into next door’s little courtyard, but the back gardens barely detain him. After a short sniff around, his routine is to scramble up the trellis and over the wall, zigzagging along the tops of numerous fences to the side street, where he loiters a while before deciding which direction to head off in.

  Human company is what he is after, just as I am. He rolls shamelessly in the paths of strangers, getting his ears scratched and his tummy tickled, rewarding compliments with much mewing and purring. Most of his fans are women. There was one in the side street this morning – well into her fifties but prettily, comfortably so, cheeks rosy, eyes bright, decked out in caftan and beads and red-painted toenails – petting and praising him before he set off on his travels. ‘Proud pussums,’ she crooned, ‘pussikins, puss of my heart,’ scooping him up and pressing him, and me with him, to her generous bosom, burying her very kissable face in his fur. ‘You’re the best cat in all Brighton. How I wish you were mine.’

  When finally she abandoned us, he turned inland and padded through half of Kemptown in the glorious July sunshine, sitting on front walls, having occasional stand-offs with rivals, staring through their cat flaps and sneaking in to polish off their leavings.

  Tonight – Wednesday evening, I think, though I’m losing track of the calendar – he has trotted around to our own front doorstep to tuck in his paws and watch the world go by. So here I am, under the night sky, looking out past the parked cars and across the quiet two-way hum of traffic to the green sea-railing, contemplating the glimmering streetlamps that stretch away west towards the blazing wattage of the pier.

  A minicab just dropped off a neighbour, and the driver is closing his boot. Henry untucks his paws and starts miaowing hello, rubbing up against the porch wall. I am growing a touch weary of his love-ins with strangers. This man is no more fascinating than a fish-and-chip wrapper. Time to practise my meditation, I think. I levitate serenely above the pair of them, gazing across at the elegant lampposts, tuning in to the faint sound of the breakers beyond. The sea’s rate of breathing is a good deal slower than Henry’s, a more suitable rhythm for emptying my mind.

  After a while, glancing down, I find I have risen high above Henry, all the way to the ceiling of my fine Regency porch. That’s odd. I try to ignore the oddness, empty my mind again, but it persists and begins to perplex me. I’m wondering have I somehow cut loose from my qualifying object. Is meditation the key to unchaining me? I float towards the road and the sea but am soon pulled up short. Frustrating, but so be it; let’s try the other direction, and – well I never! – before I know it I’m passing effortlessly to the roof of the porch and from there to the wall of the house.

  What a discovery! Why did I never think of it? My love affair with this building embraced the outside as much as the interior. It’s a sublime piece of architecture. From the day I set eyes on it, it had to be mine. Way back then, burning a hole in my bank account were the proceeds of my racy portrayal of Rhett Butler in the hundred-million-dollar remake of Gone with the Wind. I brushed aside all financial advice and blew the lot on this period house, whose never-failing beauty I drank in each time I approached it.

  Amazing. Incredible. I am rushing upwards, most wondrously, past the windows of the sitting room, and my study, and the top-floor bedroom, all the way to the roof, where I spin joyfully under the stars.

  Far below, there’s the clunk of a closing car door. Anxious that Henry will leave without me, I quit the roof and hurry back down to the porch. No panic: he’s alone on the step, yawning and stretching, but before I reach him an idea knocks me sideways.

  Could it be? I barely dare test it, but surely it has to be possible? And yes, yes, it is! I’m diving through the front-door keyhole into the hall, ricocheting ecstatically around the walls, and saluting my glorious portrait. I zoom to the first landing, then back down the banister and out through the keyhole again.

  The full knowledge hits me: I can be outside whenever I want to be, with or without Henry V. It has never crossed my mind to imagine what is now so obvious. I whip back and forth through that keyhole – porch to hall, hall to porch – in a froth of exuberance, because at last I am clear in my mind: the house not the Hockney is the choice I will make. Whatever fine gallery it goes to, the painting will hang indoors and I will be tied to it, whereas the house stands in free air and I am unshackled. The painting may fall out of fashion, end up swathed in bubble wrap in some storeroom, forgotten, whereas this lovely old building is listed. It may suffer neglect, but it won’t be demolished; it will always be sought after. The painting will be viewed by a succession of persons unknown to me who will stay only a few minutes. By contrast, I will get to know the strangers who invade my home, maybe even grow to care for some of them a little. I’ll be able to watch television with them, and there will be mischief in tormenting their pets. They will boast to their friends that the great Harold Whittaker lived here. They will swap memories of my performances, and anecdotes of my life.

  To celebrate the upturn in my fortune, I soar to the roof again, where to my utter delight I find Scotty on a chimney stack, twirling on one pin-striped leg like Eros in Piccadilly Circus. ‘Blow me, this is quite something,’ he says. Happiness increases when shared says his T-shirt.

  Together we gaze out over the magnificent, 360-degree view. At the whole of Brighton spread like a shimmering quilt, the marina and cliffs to the east, the pier and floodlit Royal Pavilion to the west. At the dark bulk of the sea.

  ‘Tons to do, boss on my back, can’t linger,’ Scotty grumbles, beginning to
fade into the night, ‘but I sensed something good was happening with you, so I thought I’d drop by.’

  For once I see him vanish with equanimity. He’ll come again soon enough, I feel sure. Ever glad of his company, I fancy he is starting to take pleasure from mine. But tonight, I don’t need him. Tonight, I shall watch the stars turn above me while the city sleeps beneath me, and look! here behind the chimneys is a nest: a roosting herring gull and two chicks. Can a bird sense me, I wonder. Let’s see if I can put the wind up them.

  Thursday

  Richard

  For the fourth time in ten minutes, Richard hovered at the ticket barrier before melting back into the crowd. A tannoy announcement echoed in the wide space above him. At any second the London train would be here, nosing around the long curve into Brighton. She was on it. Her last text: Due in 18.10. See you soon x

  He’d come by train himself from Worthing, not wanting to turn up red-faced and sweaty from pedalling through this heat. The air was oppressive after another sweltering day. He felt ill at ease in unfamiliar chinos and a new shirt. Get a grip. When was he ever this nervous about meeting a woman?

  She’d been genuinely upset on the phone yesterday. ‘It’s not the money,’ she’d explained. ‘It’s you. I had a brother – two brothers nearly – and there we were, getting to know each other. Now I’m bereft, entirely without relatives again.’

  Bereft? Poor Lily. But why? Standing there dumbstruck on the pavement outside Walker, Macpherson and Allen Solicitors Ltd, his mobile clamped to his ear, it had dawned on Richard that he wasn’t bereft, not at all. On the contrary, the light pouring from the sky was redoubling its brightness. Without pausing to think, he’d said, ‘But nothing’s changed, Lily. You and I won’t lose touch, never ever. Come to Brighton. Let’s have a meal or something.’ And she’d sounded so happy. ‘Richard, how nice. Are you sure? I’d love to.’

  In that moment he’d understood his elation. Nothing had changed – that was true. Claire was having his baby. Quentin was about to drag him and his mother through the celebrity media. He still yearned to set sail for New Zealand or Mars. But Lily was in his life, and Lily wasn’t his sister, so...

  Except now, waiting for her train to come in, he felt stupid. She couldn’t have been plainer. She wanted brothers, saw him still as a brother. Whereas he, ever since he’d put the phone back in his pocket yesterday and strode off along Western Road, grinning at strangers, had been asking himself what he wanted and getting the same answer. He wanted Lily.

  ‘She’ll never guess you’ve been playing away.’

  ‘What?’

  The bloke grinned, motioned at Richard’s hands and walked on.

  He’d forgotten the flowers he was clutching. The gift seemed absurd now, cheesy or worse, a nonsensical impulse-buy at Worthing station. Lily would feel awkward. She would have nowhere to put them. They would clutter up the whole evening. Brothers didn’t give flowers.

  He laid the bouquet on a bench and re-tied his shoe-lace. A quick glance around to check no one was watching and he was back at the barrier empty-handed.

  The train had arrived. Already its doors were sliding open, disgorging passengers, a sea of bobbing faces heading his way. He could feel the adrenalin pumping. It was daft to be so on edge. The whole magic of Lily was how easy he felt around her, and he mustn’t lose that just because he—

  Oh God, here she was. Coming towards him, smiling and waving. Heart-stoppingly gorgeous in a pink sundress.

  Just to be with her had him wanting to punch the air. Did she feel the bounce in his step? They were strolling down from the station towards the sea, close, side by side. He kept bumping against her.

  There’s no rush, he told himself. It was too soon to speak. ‘I think I’m falling for you,’ would be shocking from a brother. At best, blurted out, eager beaver, by a recent ex-brother, it would seem opportunistic and shallow. He lacked the words to convey the certainty he felt. Her elbow nudged against his waist; their strides were in synch. He imagined veering from this easy connection into awkward distances and misspeaks.

  ‘Shall we go to that pub you mentioned, near Harry’s?’ she said. ‘The Hand in Hand, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Good thinking!’ On cue, the Beatles yodelled again in his head, segueing with a cymbal crash from Ringo into She loves you. He grabbed her hand and swung it. ‘That’s exactly where we should go.’

  Yeah, yeah, yeah! His tongue would untie itself in the quirky little pub, or their eyes would do the talking. She would realise how glad she was that they weren’t related, recognise him just as he had recognised her – it wouldn’t need words. Years from now, they would speak of The Hand in Hand, saying, ‘Do you remember that silliness about being brother and sister?’

  Here they were at the clock tower. They turned left, down towards the Old Steine. ‘It’s a bit of a walk,’ he said.

  ‘That’s fine. Got my flats on. I like walking with you.’ She slipped her arm through his. ‘So, what a story, eh? What a fine song and dance.’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  The people coming towards them were staring at Lily, and he had to remind himself why. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her either. He wanted to lift her and spin her around.

  Was her smile slightly awkward, not entirely at ease? But of course, what an idiot, how unfeeling of him, to be grinning gormlessly and leaping along when she’d told him that she was bereft. He straightened his face. ‘Seriously though, how awful to have twenty-five thousand pounds offered, then snatched away.’

  ‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘but the money was only a bonus. Easy come, easy go. Life’s going to be a whole lot cheaper, I’ve realised, with Martin gone. He was forever splashing the cash. I’m lumbered with the building-works loan, but I’ll manage. And poor Harry, think of all those years he paid child support and I wasn’t his child.’

  ‘Poor Harry, rubbish.’ Richard was laughing again, he just couldn’t help it. it was such a miracle that Lily existed.

  She smiled up at him. Her eyes were amazing. ‘It’s losing my brother that pisses me off.’

  ‘Not lost. Not at all,’ he said.

  Her smile broadened, and it was all he could do not to kiss it. Surely now she would realise, but her lovely eyes slid away. They had reached the Old Steine, and she was watching for a gap in the traffic.

  Time enough. Time enough. In the pub would be better. A pint of real ale would help him find the right way to say it, to ask her.

  Not far to go, they made it across and were following St James’s Street into Kemptown. Straight on, arm in arm, five or ten minutes further and they would be there.

  ‘So, how’s your mum?’ Lily said.

  ‘Fine.’ He must quench this ridiculous grin. ‘Suspiciously so. I rang her last night, and she sounded happier than I’ve heard her in ages. Than I ever remember hearing her, actually. Didn’t mention Harry, not once. I’m trying not to count chickens – there’s no trusting her – but maybe, just maybe, she’s finally over him.’

  ‘That’s great.’ Lily gave his arm a squeeze. ‘I’m so glad for her and for you. And the café and Tiffany?’

  ‘Booming and blooming.’ He had no idea if this was so – he still hadn’t been in.

  She met his eyes seriously. ‘And Claire, have you heard from her yet? Has she made up her mind what to do?’

  Shit. Richard blinked, mouth open. He wasn’t free to love Lily, that was the truth of it. Or he was, but she wouldn’t believe that he was, would be shocked that he thought that he was. He should have rehearsed this bit.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t be nosy. It’s none of my business.’

  Her gaze dropped to the pavement, her arm tensed in his. In the blink of an eye, here they were in awkward distance and misspeak.

  Silence. This wouldn’t do, he decided. He must be completely straight with Lily, and somehow things would work themselves out. He stopped walking, turned her towards him and took hold of her hands. ‘She rang me
on Tuesday. She’s going ahead, having the baby.’

  ‘Wow... ah... that’s...’

  She was clearly dismayed. Disappointment, he tried to persuade himself, but then reality kicked in again. Even if she had feelings for him, even if she didn’t feel shocked or incestuous or both, what could he possibly offer her, stuck down here with a child to support, while she had her job and her life up in London? The dismay was just sisterly sympathy.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s a bummer.’

  To be holding her hands felt awkward. He dropped one; she let go of the other. He twisted his head to look back along St James’s Street, in the direction of Worthing and Claire and her baby. ‘Upshot is I won’t be selling up or setting off on my travels.’

  They turned and walked on, side by side, no longer touching. ‘Well I never. A baby,’ she said.

  He laughed uncomfortably. ‘It takes a bit of getting used to.’

  ‘It’ll turn your life upside-down.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Still, a baby...’

  ‘You’re right. Can’t be bad. Possibly wonderful when you get your head round it.’

  She was being polite. Their closeness was slipping away.

  ‘And there was I,’ she said, ‘wondering all the way from the station why you were so happy.’

  He grinned hopelessly. No, you’ve misunderstood me, he wanted to say, but he couldn’t. His happiness had crashed, and it would be tasteless or worse now to explain why.

  Harry

  Last night on the roof was quite something. I stayed until the lights of the city began to go out and dawn broke, pink and pearly, beyond Black Rock, above the eastern horizon. By first light I explored the back of the house and made the excellent discovery that the terrace and garden are also included in my fiefdom. The decision to remain with the house feels more and more right. Even when Henry V has gone, I shall be able to roam in the shrubbery, watching the birds and the insects, meditating on the progress of the shadows across the grass or the patter of rain on the leaves.