Rory's Boys

by Alan Clark

  ‘It’s one minute to twelve,’ said Elspeth. ‘You’ll miss your slot if he’s not here soon.’

  A chirpy middle-aged woman popped out of the room where the ceremonies took place. I explained that my partner was a doctor and on his way from an emergency. She flashed a dazzling smile, tinged with the steely glint of officialdom. The absolute latest we could begin would be twelve-fifteen, after which the proceedings would have to be aborted. I called Faisal’s mobile but got the voicemail. Why hadn’t he phoned or texted? Just then swing doors flew open. It wasn’t Faisal, but an Oriental guy I recognized from the London Eye. Soo-Yi leapt up and greeted him. He looked uncomfortable. I asked where Faisal was. He said he wasn’t exactly sure, then handed me an envelope and skedaddled.

  ‘Golly,’ chortled the woman. ‘Maybe you’ve been left at the altar, so to speak. That’d be a first here, I believe.’

  I opened the envelope. Many a true word spoken in jest, as Elspeth often said. She looked at my face and said it again now.

  As I fled the room, an old crone with orange hair and a scruffy terrier grabbed my hand and squeezed it.

  ‘Don’t take on now, luv,’ she said, ‘you’re a nice-looking boy and there’s plenty more fish in the sea.’

  Outside, I shoved Soo-Yi in a taxi, hoping I’d never lay eyes on her again, then called The Groucho and cancelled the table for lunch. Elspeth had vanished to the loo. When she reappeared, I don’t think she knew what to say. Neither did I. The words inside the envelope hadn’t totally transmitted themselves from the paper to my mind; they were floating in some limbo; understood but not yet absorbed. I hailed another cab. Elspeth and I sat in silence till we reached at Mornington Crescent, then I asked if she wanted to see the letter.

  It was insultingly short. Faisal declared he’d been awake all night and had decided it would be a big mistake. Like trying to put Elastoplast on a severed artery, he said. There had been too much bad stuff going on and he just couldn’t think straight. He might be going away for a while. He would come and get his stuff from Mount Royal shortly, if that would be convenient. He’d wanted to tell me this morning, but couldn’t. He’d had no idea what words to use. The emergency call from his hospital had been a lie. He was really really sorry. He still loved me in his way.

  ‘Well dearie me, I’d not have marked him down as a cowardy custard,’ said Elspeth stuffing her reading glasses back in her bag. ‘He should have done it to your face. Funny how we think we have the measure of folk.’

  ‘I’ve always imagined you had the measure of everyone Miss Wishart,’ I said. ‘Always so certain of things. Life in black and white.’

  ‘Oh aye, that’ll be right,’ she replied.

  She stared out the window as we crawled past the lurid shabbiness of Camden Market with the grungy music shops and revolving racks of cheap leather jackets. A million miles from the world she’d always known. Then she turned and looked me hard in the face.

  ‘Rory Blaine, when I came that evening to Mount Royal, not having seen you for so long, I was disappointed by the man I found.’

  ‘Oh thanks Miss Wishart,’ I said. ‘Hit me when I’m down.’

  ‘Och, the old charm was still intact,’ she said. ‘And despite the passing of time, you looked much the same. The same voice, the same walk, all that. But somehow you, the you I carried in my mind, wasn’t there. Like you’d gone off somewhere and hired an actor to impersonate you. And he’d not quite caught you. Just a caricature. Shallow. No substance to it.’

  I looked sulkily out the window on my side. A drunk was swigging sherry with one hand and pissing on the road with the other. What she was saying upset me as much as anything in Faisal’s letter. It had been the reason I’d not wanted her to come to Mount Royal.

  ‘But over the last while, I’ve begun to see you peeping out at me again,’ she continued. ‘Just occasionally mind; a long way still to go. I’d imagined it was all down to the wee Paki. So I’m sorry that it’s not worked out. I really am.’

  ‘Maybe I’d begun to feel a bit less alone,’ I said.

  And it was true. For a time at least Faisal had given me that, even if I’d not been certain he was the right provider. That night on the bateau mouche in Paris, he’d said he felt our souls might travel in tandem. I’d found that a bit over the top at the time, but I suppose it was what we’d been trying for. And now the chance of it was gone. The chance of the joy, as Vic always put it.

  ‘Well there’s no reason you shouldn’t find someone else one day,’ she said.

  ‘Actually, there’s already someone else, Miss Wishart,’ I said, feeling that she deserved some good news.

  ‘I kenned that,’ she said, slapping her knee, her mouth tightening into a smug wee line. ‘I’ve watched you together.’

  ‘You guessed then? I reckoned you might. She means everything to me.’

  ‘She? You’ve lost me, Rory Blaine.’

  I told her about Dolores.

  ‘But Morag Proudie said …’

  ‘Yes well it’s possible to do it without being it, Miss Wishart,’ I replied.

  Once over her surprise Elspeth, like Faisal and Vic, seemed happy for me. Dolores was a spunky lass, she said; though far from the sort of girl Elspeth had been trained to be. Rarely back home till the small hours though. Elspeth had had a wee chat with her about safer-sex techniques but had been pleased to discover Dolores was highly condom-literate. Elspeth’s criteria of respectability seemed to have broadened of late.

  ‘Dearie me, a bairn of your own,’ she said finally. ‘You’re blessed. Whatever the circumstances. I hope you know that.’

  ‘I know it, Miss Wishart,’ I replied.

  We didn’t speak again till Hampstead High Street. Then Elspeth expressed one of her regular longings for a ‘wee pokey-hat’. I paid off the cab and got the ice-cream. As we passed the newspaper kiosk by the tube, a young Rasta called out from behind the counter.

  ‘Hey babes, how’s you today?’

  ‘It’s how are you, Floyd,’ Elspeth replied. ‘You’ll never get on in life with bad grammar.’

  ‘Okay, babes, whatever,’ said the Rasta. ‘Don’t forget your Scooter World will be in tomorrow.’

  The Rasta clocked me and grinned, displaying a wraparound set of Daz-white teeth that would’ve had Mr Lim moaning with pleasure.

  ‘What a woman, ain’t she?’ he said. ‘She your mum then?’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ I replied.

  We licked our way up the brae, as Elspeth called Heath Street, past the trendy design shops, the art galleries, the well-heeled pubescent girls sexualized into tarts from a flasher’s fantasy. Was it just my fancy that she was looking younger? Was it another that the fuzz above her upper lip had mysteriously vanished?

  ‘You take Scooter World these days?’

  ‘Aye, it’s a good read,’ she said. ‘Big Frankie’s been teaching me to ride his machine.’

  ‘You’re kidding. What on earth for?’

  ‘Somebody started to teach me long ago,’ she said. ‘My American friend Charlie? The one who was killed, remember? Well we never got round to it before they sent him home. Suddenly I saw a second chance and I decided to take it. It’s a new principle I’m adhering to these days.’

  ‘Are you glad you came to us Miss Wishart?’ I asked. I’d never bothered to ask before. ‘Not homesick for your islands and lochs?’

  ‘I have come to the conclusion, not without an ache in my heart, that being Scottish isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,’ she replied. ‘I feel I may have overvalued the importance of heather, good shortbread and, as you phrased it in the taxi, seeing the world in black and white.’

  ‘Wow Miss Wishart,’ I said. ‘They’ll be gutted at The People’s Friend.’

  ‘I no longer read that publication,’ she replied. ‘Dolores suggested I try Marie Claire and it’s certainly opened my eyes. Do you remember, that night by the river, when Mr d’Orsay said I’d not done enough dancing in my life? Well there’s a class start
ing at the community centre next week. For the over-sixty-fives. Something called salsa. I’ve put my name down.’

  She pulled out a hanky and dabbed ice-cream from the corners of my mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry I disappointed you when we met again Miss Wishart,’ I said.

  ‘Och well, perhaps we should both see ourselves as works in progress, Rory Blaine,’ she replied. ‘And is that not exciting? Marie Claire says we can achieve anything we want if we want it enough, though usually they’re talking about a clitoral orgasm.’

  I blushed and was rewarded with one of Elspeth Wishart’s indisputable laughs. It was quite a dirty laugh too. Well well.

  ‘A bairn of your own Rory Blaine,’ she said again. ‘You are blessed.’

  As we approached the gates of Mount Royal, a pair of cherubs was clinging to the pillars. Close-up, they turned into Jacob and Jasper Trevelyan, precariously balanced on stepladders, trying to dismantle a necklace of bunting.

  ‘Oh dear,’ sighed Elspeth. ‘They’d organized a surprise lunch. I was meant to whisk you both back here instead of going to that restaurant. I called Big Frankie from the Town Hall and told him what had happened. I’d asked for all this to be cleared by now.’

  Wee Jacob waved from his wobbly perch. He tried for a sympathetic smile. From the opposite pillar his twin yelled down.

  ‘Fuck ’em and chuck ’em, Rory. That’s always been my policy.’

  ‘Oh Jasper, really,’ said Jacob.

  A new architectural feature had been added to the North Front. Red, heart-shaped helium balloons; thirty or more, tied all along the balustrade that fringed the leads. I could see Vic and Big Frankie up there, one cutting the strings, the other collecting them in a bunch. When they noticed me they ducked down behind the parapet. But there must have been a sudden gust because the captured balloons now broke away, slowly rose up past the cupola and floated free into the hazy blue sky.

  ‘He’s no oil painting but you could do a lot worse,’ said Elspeth.

  She gave me one of her sharp-jawed, meaningful looks. I remembered her confusion in the taxi when I’d said there was already someone to fill the gap left by Faisal. I’d been referring to Dolores, but she’d thought I’d meant somebody else.

  ‘A lot worse,’ she repeated, gazing up to the roof.

  Christ, me and Big Frankie? Surely she was barking up the wrong palm-tree there? After Vic’s betrayal of his devotion, Frankie had returned to his booming self with surprising speed. Recently, he and Gentleman Jim had started batting practice behind the Coach House and his latest T-shirt said Sticky Wicket. So my money had been on Jim not me.

  ‘I’d have to buy a wider bed Miss Wishart.’

  ‘Whatever his faults, he’s a good soul and that’s all that matters.’

  Elspeth and I stood watching as the red hearts disappeared over the house and lost themselves out above the Heath. But one, perhaps deflated by the outcome of the day, drifted downwards and crash-landed near my feet. On it had been printed, in intertwining capitals, the letters ‘F & R.’

  *

  Hugo Boss would not have been a happy bunny. I’d just slept for three hours, fully dressed in one of his most expensive little numbers. Elspeth had suggested a wee lie-down and she’d been right. I’d switched off the mobile and crashed straight out on top of the bed. When I’d switched it on again, there had been five calls from Faisal. I decided he could wait.

  The internal phone rang. It was Elspeth. She wondered if I wanted her to come over; she could bring her knitting. I said I was fine. The phone rang again. Big Frankie wondered if he could bring me something to eat; I’d probably not feel like cooking for one. I said not to bother, I was fine. The doorbell rang. It was Marcus Leigh. The chaps all wondered if I’d like to join them for a spot of croquet? I said no thanks, I was fine. He touched my arm shyly, his eyes lowered. He said he understood how I must be feeling; the sudden loss. If I changed my mind later, they’d be in the Saloon after dinner and would be so glad to see me for a nightcap. There was a note on the doormat: ‘Lucky escape. Dolores X.’

  I made some coffee and sat by the picture window. It was nearly six by now. If I craned my neck, I could just see them playing croquet; flannels, blazers, white trilbys, the occasional sweater draped across the shoulders and knotted at the front. There were cries of ‘Damn fine stroke’, ‘Hard cheese, old chap’, and ‘For god’s sake Beaumont, it’s not golf.’ There were now eight calls and three texts from Faisal, asking me to ring him. Okay then, so how much did I mind about this? Ms Prada will want to know exactly. Hurt, humiliated, angry, relieved, down-on-my-knees thankful. They’re all in there baby; you sort it out, you’ve got the diplomas. The mobile went again. I didn’t answer. Maybe I would sometime, but not now. I did one of Ms Prada’s deep breathing exercises then went and got the guitar, but I only played a few chords; Marie’s Wedding just wouldn’t happen tonight. I must have sat there for an hour or more then I scavenged in the kitchen; I’d had nothing since breakfast except the ice-cream with Elspeth. In among Faisal’s muesli bars and organic porridge, I found a jumbo bag of kettle chips and demolished the lot.

  The croquet players had drifted away towards their rooms. Baths would be running, the evening news on TV, smarter clothes laid out for dinner. In the kitchens Big Frankie would be yelling at his slaves; the Chamber-Laddies laying the long walnut table. The house would be buzzing but from my chair all I could hear was the distant splash of the Great Fountain and the soft purr of Alma as she dozed against my ankles. The sun was still shining in a streaky-bacon sky, but the shadows were lengthening across the croquet lawn. Summer was quietly passing its peak and beginning the cruise downhill towards September. I was just thinking about taking a shower and going back to bed with a DVD when the bloody doorbell rang again. It was Vic. He said I looked like shit and a walk round the gardens would do me good. I said I was fine, but he was insistent. I warned him not to expect much conversation.

  He was moving fairly well again, the black eye almost gone. Over the past few days, his melancholy had seemed to fade a bit too but tonight I sensed it again. Or perhaps, like Marcus, he was just trying to empathize with my sad loss. We slowly circled the Great Fountain and sat down outside the Orangery. We didn’t speak, just watched the evening; we’d known each other long enough now for silence to be comfortable. I remembered that night when Vic had told Faisal to stuff The Lazarus Programme, to just let him sit in the Italian Garden and contemplate the bees buzzing in the honeysuckle. I understood what he’d meant now. I could have sat here for ages, forever even, but suddenly Vic got up.

  ‘Toots, I know you’ve had a tough day, but there’s something we have to do.’

  I groaned a protest but he’d suddenly become tense, agitated even, so I trudged after him between the ornamental cherry trees, past the fat yews towards the edge of Mount Royal’s grounds till we reached the wall of the long-abandoned garden called the Wilderness. I realized he was heading straight for the crumbling doorway that led inside. I told him I didn’t want to go in there; it was dangerous, a jungle, and besides it was nearly dusk. Vic said he really wanted to show me something. I protested again but he became even more fractious. We’d been handling him with kid gloves for the last few weeks, so I obeyed.

  Dolores had got quite shiny-eyed when she’d come across the Wilderness with the wee ruined folly, the long thin finger of man-made water, the ornamental bridge that crossed over it. An amazing project she’d said; one for the horticultural magazines, an award-winner maybe. She was itching to get hold of it. But I’d told her no, to leave it locked, to forget it. We’d argued. She’d wanted reasons. I’d refused to give them. She’d sulked for days. I’d not been in there for more than thirty years.

  But now I was wading through the thigh-high grass. Buddleias had grown as big as bungalows and blowsy rhodedendrons, squashed together like people in a lift, pushed skywards desperate for air and light. Vic was leading the way, walking faster than I’d imagined possible. The going got
tougher by the yard; gangs of psychotic brambles clawed at Hugo Boss. It was ridiculous; I could really do without this tonight. And of course the tableau had started to flash in my mind; the one I’d spent a lifetime trying to erase. We skirted the finger of choked-up water, where a rowdy colony of underclass toads were having some sort of do among the reeds. I yelled out that I wasn’t going any further but he shouted back that I must come. The usual drawl had corkscrewed into a rasp.

  Then, on the far side of the decrepit bridge, I saw it. Half-buried in foliage, its classical lines blurred and softened, it seemed almost harmless now but still I shivered. As we got closer, a flurry of birds panicked from the ivy, fleeing up and away through the tangled branches. I hung back, heart pounding, wishing I could do the same. But Vic had battled ahead and vanished inside. I shouted after him to come out, that it was a death-trap. Then the gloom in the little chamber was dispelled by a pinprick of light.

  ‘Rory, come inside,’ he called.

  ‘I don’t want to, Victor. Let’s go back now.’

  ‘No, you must come. I know why you don’t want to, but you must come.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean by that?’

  I crept towards the open doorway at an angle, as if something might leap out at me. Something did. The smell of the place, just as I remembered it; a pot-pourri of rotting vegetation and mouldering marble, even more intense now with three more decades of dereliction.