The Posthumous Adventures of Harry Whitaker

by Bobbie Darbyshire

  The child sat on the pavement, shaking his head violently at Claire. Richard quickened his step. He’d done his best to veto the name Harry but had been outvoted by Claire and his mother. He shouldn’t have worried. It was weird how the name meant, now, not his father but this delightful little boy, who flung up his arms. ‘Daddy, daddy. Piggy-backy.’

  He swept him up to his shoulders, and they made better progress. He kissed each of the fat little arms wrapped around his head. What would old Harry have made of this family party, he wondered.

  His mind had been half on his father all day. On the drive down, hearing his mother in the passenger seat sing happily along to Classic FM, shooting smiles over his shoulder at Simon and Lily in the back, he’d been marvelling at all the changes since Harry had died. Everything was good in his life now. His dismal Worthing flat was a thing of the past. Instead he was with Lily in Brighton in the nice little house they’d chosen together, from where she commuted to her statistics in London. His debts were paid off, and the café and the bike-tour business were blossoming. India had been fabulous, and the two Eclectic Cafés had several carved elephants to complement Simon’s unsaleable antiques. Richard still sometimes googled elsewhere, but his wanderlust for the moment was sated.

  He squeezed Harry’s legs tight against his ears in a fit of euphoria. Because yes, at last he was who he wanted to be, doing what he wanted to do, free to go where he wanted to go, always glad to come home.

  He wasn’t the only one. Everybody was having better luck and more happiness than three years ago. Who would have guessed that Claire would strike up that unlikely friendship with his mother and turn her around? That Quentin would put his winnings towards buying and converting the Marine Parade house as part of his growing property empire? That his mum, investing his grandparents’ money sensibly at last, would be cosy in the ground-floor flat there, contentedly tending old Harry’s garden, sallying forth to her cookery evening classes and holding dinner parties for her book group? That Henry V would have survived despite losing a leg and be spending his evenings purring on Maisie’s lap just round the corner? That Simon would be rescued from bankruptcy by a couple of rare maps he’d spotted in a car boot sale? It was as if Harry left a blessing on everyone.

  ‘I can’t wait to see all the famous actors,’ said Claire, smiling up at him. ‘Do you think there’ll be TV cameras too?’

  ‘Bound to be,’ Richard said.

  The ground was levelling out. The others had reached the top of the hill and disappeared past the corner, and soon they were turning the corner too, showing their invitations at the security barrier. Beyond the barrier, in a small grove of pink cherry-blossom, stood the new theatre, as elegantly striking as the plans and photographs promised: three gleaming white storeys in Regency style, with the theatre name picked out in black along the lintel of the colonnade and a display of gold-and-pink posters for the all-star inaugural production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  Champagne flutes in hand, a crowd of the great and the good had spilled out through the doors to chatter among the cherry trees in the evening sun. Everywhere Richard looked he saw faces from stage, screen and television. Little yelps of joy escaped Claire: ‘Oh... oh... oh!’

  Against this illustrious backdrop, a well-known arts presenter with her accompanying cameraman was interviewing an old guy in a toupée and a plum-coloured jacket. Richard smiled as he passed them, remembering the awfulness of Harry’s funeral and counting his blessings again.

  Harry

  This is sensational! I shall run out of superlatives. Tearing up and down between the circle bar and the foyer, hitching rides on the waiters’ trays of champagne and canapés, hopping between the sparkling earrings that adorn many a pretty lobe, I’m bellowing jubilantly, for no one to hear, lines from this daft, deft, jolly play that carries me back to my days fresh out of RADA on the repertory circuit. I have watched in rehearsal until I know every line once again inside out.

  Hippolyta, I woo’d thee with my sword,

  And won thy love doing thee injuries;

  But I will wed thee in another key,

  With pomp, with triumph, and with revelling.

  The production is ludicrous, the director more concerned with innovation than authenticity, and the drinking abilities of my frazzled ex-wife Miriam, who is playing Titania, are surpassed only by her talent for missing cues, forgetting her lines and viciously badmouthing me to other members of the cast. But nothing can tarnish my delight in this felicitous day. My beautiful theatre is open, and everyone, but everyone is here: my thespian rivals, all of whom I outshone, and a whole marvellous throng of deliciously unfrazzled, good-natured women whose hands I have kissed and whose beds I have shared.

  Julian, my agent, has come of course – he’s somewhere outside in the crowd. Right here by the stairs, all the way from la-la land, is the jumped-up little director who stopped my heart with his impudent advice on my Lear. And ingratiating himself with the director, who’s this? None other than the slick, arrogant hospital consultant who gave up on the job of starting my heart again, patted his hair in a mirror and swaggered off to tell the world’s media I was gone.

  Ha, the lot of you! I am not gone, not at all. Nor am I shut in an urn, or stuck in a filing cabinet, or tossed on a rubbish heap, or adrift in the world’s oceans. No, here I am, in my very own Whittaker Theatre, gliding among the guests, caressing the women’s décolletage, only wishing I could smell their perfume and finger the silk of their dresses.

  Alongside the staircase, there it is, the object that delivered me to this haven – Hockney’s portrait of my glorious maturity. It dominates the foyer and draws tender glances and murmurs of approval. White-haired but imposing in green, tailored trousers and sapphire-blue shirt, I challenge the viewer, and the gleaming green eyes of Henry V shine out too, the image to the life of the best cat I have known. The years have flown by since I saw his little body driven off in the arms of that rosy-cheeked neighbour. What a relief it was, before I bade farewell to Marine Parade, to hear that he was out of danger. I hope he lives still.

  A ripple of nostalgia has me floating upwards, away from the staircase and the chattering crowd to the splendid chandelier above the whole gathering. There are days when its glitter is a poor substitute for the white horses on Brighton’s turquoise sea. When the time came to leave my beloved home, it took all my strength to go with the Hockney into polystyrene-wrapped darkness in the back of a van, expecting to be shut away from the light for years while this theatre was built, grimly bracing myself for the silence and sensory deprivation. Instead, imagine my joy when the portrait was swiftly unpacked to hang in pride of place at a grand memorial service in Westminster Abbey, solemnly looked on by royalty, heads of state and the living stars of the theatrical and Hollywood firmaments, many with tears in their eyes. From where, even better, we were off to the National Portrait Gallery, to be central attraction among many likenesses of me in an exhibition opened by Hockney himself. For three months, the world and his wife stood in wonder before me and spoke with reverence of my towering genius.

  My good luck never-ending, there was still more delight on its way. Off next went the painting on loan to the Garrick Club, where I had the immense pleasure of seeing actors gather, of hearing them backbite and gossip and gripe, and better even than that, of sharing their excitement at the progress of this wonderful theatre. Because yes, all the while, up ahead, the prospect of finding a new home here glowed ever more brightly. Blissful as I was, eavesdropping at the Garrick, I was impatient to inhabit this monument to my grace as an actor, to all the moments of epiphany I brought forth on the boards and the screen. To witness the portrait hung at last in this foyer, where the first-night audience gathers now on a chequerboard of black and white floor-tiles and drifts up the curved Regency staircase towards the bar and the circle. To be free to unhitch myself from the portrait at last and explore the building that embodies my life’s most profound emotional investment, free to roam its
stage and rehearsal rooms, its boxes and balconies, its delightful exterior, its grove of now-blossoming cherry trees, its views over the rolling green hills, its roof beneath the Dorsetshire stars.

  All my adventures for this! Yes, I’ll settle for this. In so many ways I couldn’t be happier. When, rarely, I begin to be bored, or to hanker a little for Brighton or some other place in the wider world I have known, meditation has calmed me. I am safe here, where there is so much to console and to interest me. I have infinitely more than the universe in its blind wisdom thinks I deserve. I’ve been sending thanks, not complaints, up the line.

  There is my one real sorrow, however. I miss Scotty so much and worry what has become of him. I descend from the chandelier and weave my way again through the crowd, trying to shake off the remorse that grips me whenever I think of him. Twice now, on the anniversary of my death, a rather nervous substitute has shimmered into being beside me. I forget his name, let’s call him Smith, followed by a number as long as your arm. The little chap has the potential to be quite engaging, I think, but he’s too fearful of blotting his copybook to let his guard down. I answer him, with no irony, that I’m fine and contented and grateful. I ask him questions about his own situation that have him blushing and changing the subject. I wish him good luck with making sense of it all. I ask after Scotty.

  I worry very much about Scotty. ‘Please find him,’ I’ve begged Smithy both times that I’ve seen him. ‘Please give him my love. Let me know he’s all right.’ But the lad says it isn’t his business. ‘More than your job’s worth?’ I came back at him last time, neither expecting nor getting an answer. ‘Live dangerously,’ I added as he faded into thin air.

  ‘Hello, Pickles 64123. Are you receiving me?’ Now and then I have beamed this into the ether, but only silence comes back. My dear little friend paid some awful price for my redemption. I hope his punishment was not too dreadful or prolonged, that he is done with it now and back where he’s needed, bestowing his insouciant charm on some other suffering spirit.

  Today though, I refuse to be melancholy, and here, on cue to distract me, is another face I’ve been hoping to see. In through the door comes my excellent friend Simon Foyle, relaxed and smiling, unscarred by the wrongs I once dealt him. I swoop forward to greet him, and, good heavens, can this be Deborah Lawton beside him? No longer the faded ragdoll I saw drowning in junk mail, squabbling over bin bags and stealing my china. Something or someone has stripped the years off her. Her eyes are brightly intelligent, her evening dress understated and chic. At last there’s an echo of the sweet lass I seduced long ago. Now, my Titania; wake you, my sweet queen?

  ‘Just look at the picture, Simon,’ she says. ‘Doesn’t it look wonderful here? I’d forgotten what a lovely picture it is of darling Henry V. And to think – those black and white tiles are now mine.’

  More new arrivals flood in, smiling up at the portrait and around at the crowd, accepting champagne from the waiters. Among them is the woman with the strawberry birthmark, whom I remember seeing in my solicitor’s office and again at my house. I paid no mind to her then – I was far too preoccupied – but now I’m wondering, who can she be? A child of mine, possibly; there were three after all.

  Not least, Richard. I dance to the door again, high on anticipation. For if Deborah is here, surely Richard must be. Could this be him now, with a beard? I zoom in for a close-up, but still I’m unsure. He’s disconcertingly not as I remember him. The woman hurrying to catch him up – I know her – yes, indeed! – it’s the pretty girl who stepped into the path of my son’s bicycle. She stares at the faces around her and says, ‘Omigod, wow. Quentin, look, it’s James Bond!’

  Quentin? I dither, straining to decide if this is Richard or not.

  Then I see him! The son I remember so clearly is coming in through the door. I have pictured him often, remonstrating with his mother, angrily cursing me, pedalling like fury, bellowing at Pearl Allen that I should have taken him to McDonald’s, standing guiltily in my hallway, and then, distressed and half-crazy, stumbling across Marine Parade with Henry V in his arms. Richard, my dear son, hello.

  On his shoulder rides a small, grinning boy, and at his side someone else is grinning, straight at me, for all the world as if he can see me. For a moment I am not ready to believe I am seen, then recognition floods through me.

  ‘Scotty!’ I shout. ‘Oh, Scotty, Scotty! Would that I had eyes to weep with, arms to enfold you.’

  He steps forward, punching the air. ‘I hoped you would be here! I’m so happy to see you.’

  He dances around me, and I in sheer delight around him, drinking in his sweet face, his bare feet, crumpled pinstripes and inevitable T-shirt, whose slogan is: With our thoughts we make the world.

  ‘Nowhere near as glad as I am,’ I say. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘With your son.’ He pats Richard’s cheeks. ‘Attached to him as firmly as you are to this theatre. They hauled me back that night and gave me a massive dressing-down for abusing my powers. I had meddled with fate and caused Richard distress – the poor lad thought he was losing his wits or mortally ill – so to make amends they sent me straight back to him, and I can’t leave his side.’

  ‘His guardian angel?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, though I’ve no power or influence. I’m just an observer, like you.’

  ‘Oh dear. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Not at all. You were making such excellent progress. I’m really glad that I helped you.’

  ‘You saved me from disaster – thank you, thank you – but you’ve lost your freedom.’

  ‘Please, think nothing of it. I wasn’t enjoying myself, as you know. They don’t bother to ask – they assume I feel disgraced – and of course I am very sad that I can’t visit my wife, but between you and me, I’m otherwise more than happy. Your son and his friends are such lovely people – I hope my presence puts a shine on their lives. I dare say I’ll be pardoned eventually, confined to some backroom job until they’re satisfied they can trust me out on my own again. I’ll make sure to drop in on you then. No more special favours though, mind.’

  ‘Absolutely, and why would I need one? Here I am in my very own theatre. And you knew it? You knew I’d be here tonight?’

  ‘I hoped that you would. You weren’t there the next time Richard went to the house, so I guessed you’d gone with the picture.’

  ‘But you, Scotty? Are you really happy with him?’

  ‘Your son is a fine young man.’

  ‘And who’s this on his shoulders?’

  ‘Your grandson.’

  ‘My grandson? Of course.’

  ‘They call him little Harry.’

  I’m speechless. Astonished. Delighted.

  Scotty is starting to explain the relationships here, and the living arrangements, and how Henry V is alive, but I can’t take my eyes off this self-assured child with his flashing eyes and bright curls. My grandson, and they’ve called him Harry.

  The play is over, and the audience are surging through the foyer and away through the doors, swallowed up one by one into the darkness. Scotty and I have talked incessantly throughout the performance, sitting one on each of Richard’s shoulders, telling each other our stories since last we met. Now Richard and his companions must leave, Scotty with them, and who knows when I shall see any of them again.

  I am Lear, who has given his kingdom away, or Bottom, in a dream I shall never awake from, wearing the head of an ass I shall never throw off. The cast, high on their curtain calls, will be popping corks in their dressing rooms, but the party holds little interest for me any more. I am following Scotty, and Richard, and Quentin, and Simon, and Deborah, and Richard’s lovely girl, her face splashed with port wine, and blonde Claire, and Harry, my grandson, as they drift out over the threshold into the night. I am at their side, flying around their heads, straining to understand all their conversations at once, until, ‘No, Scotty, please don’t let this happen.’

  But he’s backing away
from me, following Richard. Waving farewell.

  I am straining on my leash from the last cherry tree as, one by one, they turn the corner and vanish, deaf to my cries. I have barely begun to learn how to love them, and I am not ready to let them go.