I nod again, say nothing.
‘And funny, too.’ H has paused for breath. ‘That man could put a smile on anyone’s face. Even Wesley fucking Kane, and you know how moody he can be.’ He shakes his head. ‘Legend, Dave.’
‘And now?’
‘Gone.’ He’s staring down at me. He seems exhausted. ‘Can you credit that? All the other wasters in this city, and the fucking virus picks Fat Dave? Is that fair? Is that reasonable? Just give me a clue here.’
I hold his gaze, shake my head. I’ve heard most of this story before, but never so angry, and never so vehement. H ran with a bunch of Pompey football hooligans while he was still doing his accountancy exams. They called themselves the 6.57 Crew, exporting chaos and mayhem to rival clubs all over the country, and all of them carry the scars of countless terrace battles to this day.
‘And now?’
‘Now?’ H doesn’t seem to understand. It’s like a foreign word in his mouth. ‘Now?’
‘Is it different? Have times changed?’
‘Times always change. We’re older.’
‘Wiser.’
‘Richer.’
‘Are you sure?’
This is a direct challenge, and H knows it.
‘You’ve been talking to the boy,’ he says stonily.
‘You’re right. I’m his mother.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He’s worried about you. Like I am. Worry enough and you want to know what’s gone wrong. Doesn’t that sound reasonable?’
‘Yeah.’ He nods. ‘Yeah, it does.’ He looks down, slightly shame-faced, and swirls the remains of the Talisker in his glass.
‘Well? You want to share whatever’s gone wrong?’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure? Only it might help.’
He shakes his head, lifts the glass to his lips, swallows the lot. Pride, I think. And maybe fear of letting us get too close.
‘I was ill,’ I say quietly. ‘If you really want to know.’
‘Ill?’
‘These last few days. That’s why I couldn’t come down.’
‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘Because there was no need. Sometimes it pays to keep things to yourself.’ I look up at him. ‘Don’t you find that?’
‘So what was the matter?’ He’s looking at me, stone-faced.
‘Nothing, really, thank God. I’m over it now.’
‘No bloke, then? You’re telling me I was wrong?’
‘Completely.’ I risk a smile. ‘Does that make you feel better?’
He gazes down at me for a long moment, and then cracks a rare grin.
‘Yeah.’ He gestures at the empty glass. ‘I think I’ll have the other half.’
SIX
That evening, I make an effort with a halal chicken Malo has picked up from the Bengali store round the corner. The flat, to my intense satisfaction, now smells of bleach, spiked with the incense sticks Malo has also acquired, and after we’ve eaten together around the wonky Formica-topped table in the kitchen, I suggest a hand or two of Gin Rummy. H brightens at the first word, and we start on one of my bottles of Bombay Sapphire. Our little contretemps this afternoon seems to have cleared the air, and after Malo wins for the second time, H suggests a walk.
‘All of us?’ Malo sounds alarmed.
‘Me and your mum. I owe her a decent conversation.’
This is as close as H ever gets to an apology. A glance through the window confirms a full moon and a cloudless sky and we set out across the Common towards the distant frieze of fairy lights on the seafront. To be honest, I’ve already lost track of what we can and can’t do under lockdown, but H, who’s never had much time for the small print, thinks we’re OK if we’re a couple.
‘Man and wife,’ he says. ‘All you have to do is pretend.’
He sounds almost happy, signs of the old H, and for this I’m very grateful. Even more welcome is his take on the couple of days he’s shared à deux with Malo. Having a second opinion on what I’ve so far imagined to be a series of heavy squalls between brief intervals of sunshine is fascinating.
‘He’s kind, that boy of ours,’ he says. ‘Christ knows where he picked that up. Must be your fault.’
‘You make it sound like some kind of infection.’
‘Yeah? Well …’ He shrugs. ‘You speak as you find in this fucking life. I’ve been a miserable old bastard, I know I have, but he weathered all that grief I’ve been giving him, took it on the chin. Impressive, says me.’
‘You should tell him.’
‘Should I?’ He sounds genuinely surprised. ‘Why?’
‘Why not?’
‘Might give him ideas.’ He stops to take in the silver gleam of moonlight on the sea. ‘Keep the buggers on their toes. That’s what my dad always said.’
‘Even your own son?’
‘Especially my own son.’
‘And that worked for your dad?’
‘Of course it did. I was out of the house as soon as I could walk, our little bit of garden first, then out in the street with my mates, up to all sorts. Gave my mum and dad a bit of peace and quiet, just the way they liked it. Look …’ He points into the semi-darkness. ‘Signs of life.’
We’re on the seafront now, and I can hear the lap-lap of the waves on the foreshore below the seawall. According to H, this is where the deep-water channel dog-legs in from the Solent, and I spot something puttering along in the moonlight.
‘It’s a fishing boat,’ H says. ‘They’ll tie up in the Camber. If we get a move on, we might do a bit of business.’
We hurry towards the dimmed lights of what turns out to be a fun fair, everything shuttered and locked, piles of deckchairs lashed down against the wind, a line of cars on the Cresta Run shrouded in heavy tarpaulins.
‘Ghosts.’ I shiver. ‘Did you ever read Nevil Shute?’
‘Never. There’s a ghost in that khazi of a flat, by the way. I heard it last night. And the night before.’
This is very good news indeed – not about the ghosts but about H. He’s never believed in the netherworld. On the contrary, whenever I’ve mentioned spiritualism or even the signs of the Zodiac, he just laughed. Paying to get your palm read, he once told me, is the mark of the loser.
‘You saw this ghost of yours?’ I ask.
‘Heard it. It was a wheezing noise. I thought it might have been a kettle at first, Malo making himself a brew, but he told me he heard it too.’
‘No sighting?’
‘Shit, no. You want a heart attack on your hands? Just say no, even if it isn’t true.’ He laughs, and we stride on.
The Camber Dock, according to H, is the oldest in Pompey, tucked away behind the curl of shingle the locals call Point. This is Old Portsmouth, and the moment we round the corner and find the fishing boat nosing slowly towards her berth, I realize I’ve been here before.
‘Persephone,’ I murmur. ‘This is where we all went aboard.’
Persephone was an ancient Brixham trawler we’d hired years ago for the November fundraiser to the D-Day beaches. On the way back, in a rising gale, we hit a half-submerged container and, but for Ventnor beach, barely half a mile away, we would have sunk, but that’s another story. Both H and Malo, that night, were nerveless in the face of near-certain disaster, an experience that did much to cement the bond between us.
H remembers, too. ‘That journalist,’ he grunts. ‘Give him credit, he had the bollocks to make the crossing.’
‘His name was Mitch, H. Mitch Culligan.’
‘Yeah. Waste of fucking time, journalists, but like I say he surprised me that night. I was half-minded to chin him, and he knew that, but he didn’t turn a hair.’
We circle the dock. By now, the fishing boat’s tied up and H, unannounced, hops on board. A huge figure steps out of the wheelhouse.
‘Who the fuck are you? Get off my boat.’
‘Bass?’ H has produced a ten-pound note. ‘Cod? Any fucking thing. As long as it’s dead.’
‘Of course they’re dead.’ The two men are face-to-face now, H dwarfed by the skipper’s bulk. ‘I know you, don’t I?’
‘Might do.’
‘HP? “Saucy” in the day? In the cocaine game? Have I got that right?’
‘Might have.’
‘I thought you’d passed on?’
‘Died, you mean?’ A bark of laughter from H. ‘I went to fucking Dorset. On wet days it might be the same thing.’
‘But you’re back now? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Just for a bit, yeah. Dave Munroe ring any bells?’
‘Fat Dave? Bent cop? Fuck me.’ He peels off a rubber glove and nods across the water to a block of new-looking apartments. ‘He used to rent a place over there when they first went up. Bought fish every Friday. Lovely man.’
‘He’s dead. Covid. Last week. Funeral’s Friday if you fancy it, up at the Crem. We might raise a can or two afterwards.’
‘We?’
‘Me and a few mates.’
‘And that’s why you’re back?’
‘Yeah. Flying visit. Bass would be favourite.’
‘Wrong season, mush. I’ll see what I can find.’
We leave minutes later with two sizeable skate in a plastic Co-op bag. To my knowledge, no money has passed hands, something that delights H.
‘He remembers you.’ I kiss him lightly on the cheek. ‘Tell me you’re not pleased.’
‘Yeah, it’s nice.’ He grins at me. ‘Do it again.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘You’ll only get ideas and that’s not what we want.’
‘Who says?’
‘Me. Look over there. What’s that?’
We’re standing on top of the big old tower that overlooks the harbour mouth. Upstream lies the naval dockyard and I can see the looming bulk of what looks like a warship moored alongside.
‘Queen Elizabeth the Second.’ H’s smile is unforced. ‘Our pride and joy.’
‘But what is it?’
‘An aircraft carrier.’
‘New?’
‘Very.’
‘So why do we need one of those?’
‘Fuck knows. I’ll bring you back here in daylight, maybe take a ride on the Gosport ferry, then you can see it for real. It’s a monster, huge, must have cost a fortune.’ There’s fondness in H’s voice, as well as pride, and when I think about it later I realize why. The 6.57 Crew were in the business of exporting serious violence. Ditto this glorious new addition to our Navy.
‘It’s a date,’ I tell him.
‘What is?’
‘The Gosport ferry. Your treat, not mine.’
‘Tomorrow, then?’
‘Tomorrow’s perfect.’
We link arms and feel our way down the stone steps and back to the street below. H is talking about his dad again. He says he set off on his bike every morning and spent his working life as a Writer in the dockyard. H inherited his desk, a wonderful piece of furniture with an ink-stained leather top in the deepest shade of green, and he has it carefully positioned in front of the view in the first-floor sitting room at Flixcombe which he uses as an office.
When I mention the desk, he laughs. ‘Me and a mate lifted it from the dockyard the day Dad retired. We stuck it in the back of a white van and drove it out through the Unicorn Gate before we delivered it home for him. The bosses in the dockyard thought the world of him the whole time he was there, and they never came looking.’ He falls silent for a moment, staring into nowhere.
To the best of my knowledge, both H’s parents are still alive. They live somewhere in the north of the city but since I’ve known him he’s never made the effort to drive down and see them.
‘Maybe a visit?’ I suggest. ‘Just a wave through the front window? Just to check they’re OK?’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow? After the ride on the ferry?’
‘Christ, no.’ He shakes his head and turns away. ‘You have to be joking.’
SEVEN
The ride on the ferry never happens, just one of a number of developments that tightens the virus’s grip on all our lives. The following day I get up late after the disappointment of neither hearing nor seeing the ghost. There’s no sign of H, but Malo is struggling out of his sleeping bag in the front room, peering at his phone. He forgot to bring an airbed and is making do with a line of saggy cushions from the sofa. He hasn’t complained so far but judging by the scowl on his face, it’s been a rough night.
‘Shit.’ He’s still looking at his phone.
‘What’s happened?’
He says nothing, just hands me the mobile. The text is from Clemmie. Mateo is in hospital. Maybe Covid. Nobody knows. Horrible. I’m at Mum’s xxxx.
I look up. Mateo is Clemmie’s father, a Columbian businessman, fabulously rich and seriously charming. Lately, Clemmie has taken to calling him by his Christian name, rather than Papa, which feels like some rite of passage but probably isn’t.
‘He’s older than you think, Mum. And Clem doesn’t scare easily.’ Malo’s already scrolling through his directory, and I beat a tactful retreat the moment he gets through to Clemmie. By the time I’ve done last night’s washing-up, and checked the skate in the fridge, the conversation is over.
Malo has joined me in the kitchen. He wants a coffee.
‘Well?’ I don’t move.
‘Clem says he’s been ill for a couple of days and now he’s in the Royal Free. Her mum’s going crazy. She’s sure he’s going to die.’
‘You must go up there. You have to. Moral support. Never fails.’
‘Really?’ Malo rolls his eyes, far from convinced. ‘She’s a drama queen, Mum, you know she is.’
‘It’s not her you should be worrying about. It’s Clemmie.’
‘But Clem’s the only one who knows how to cope with her. And she says they’re better off alone. I offered, but she doesn’t want me there.’
‘You made that up.’
‘No, I didn’t. She says having me around would be too complicated. One man in their lives is quite enough, she told me. Not that they can get in to see him.’
I nod and put the kettle on. My son, bless him, knows a great deal about the minefield of family dynamics. First Berndt. Then H. Now Mateo and his needy wife. Tread very carefully if you want to survive intact.
‘Maybe a flying visit? Up and back on the train? Just to show willing?’
‘No way.’
‘Why not?’
‘They’re probably carrying the virus, too. You want me bringing all that back with me? No.’ He shakes his head. ‘Skip the coffee. I’m out for a run.’
He returns to his nest in the front room and by the time I’ve had my all-over wash, he’s disappeared. I stand at the window, thinking I might catch a glimpse of him, but the Common is empty apart from two men, socially distanced from everything except their respective dogs.
The news about Mateo is deeply sobering. Fat Dave, I keep telling myself, had it coming. Abuse yourself for years on end, struggle to get by without a wheelchair, and your immune system would be hoisting the white flag within seconds of the virus knocking on your door. No wonder he ended up in ICU, and even then, there was little they could do.
Mateo, though, is different. I’m still clueless about his real age but he had a gym membership he used at least three times a week, he watched what he ate and drank, and he could still take a flight of stairs at a stylish gallop. When I was young, I once had a crush on an actor called Hurd Hatfield, who played Dorian Gray in the 1945 movie adaptation. Eternal youth is a fantasy that has stayed with me ever since, and Mateo – until just now – came very close to the lissome Mr Hatfield. If the virus can steal a man like that, what chance for the rest of us?
This is a question I don’t want to answer, and the moment I turn away from the window is the moment I’m desperate for a distraction, anything to keep me from thinking too hard, and the solution, I realize, is staring me in the face
. In the pungent chaos of the front room – abandoned sleeping bag, clothes strewn everywhere, empty tubes of Pringles, discarded copies of the Portsmouth News, plus a glimpse of the part-completed Battle of Trafalgar – it’s easy to dismiss the neat line of tins I so carefully stored in the corner, undercoat, gloss, emulsion, a line of soldiers reporting for duty. Now, I think. Now is the time to get stuck in. After the bleach, the full make-over.
Really?
I’m staring at the wallpaper. Anaglypta has always reminded me of a medical condition, interior décor disfigured by some hideous skin disease, but age and neglect make it far, far worse. Once it must have been a brownish colour all over, hardly the best start in life, but years of sunshine through the window has bleached whole areas to give it a frankly albino feel. On top of this, it’s beginning to curl at the edges and strips of the discoloured plaster underneath are appearing between the seams. To do a proper job, I need to take the whole lot off and I’m not at all sure I have the energy and the stamina to see it through. Might Malo give me a hand? I doubt it. Might H? Definitely not.
I’m rescued by a call on my mobile. It turns out to be Cynthia. I gave her my number when we paid her a visit and told her to phone any time she needed help. Now, she wants to know whether H is within hearing distance.
‘No,’ I tell her. ‘He’s still in bed.’
She says she’d like a word.
‘With H?’
‘No, my dear. With you. Face-to-face, I’m afraid, and I’d be grateful if H didn’t know. Might that be possible?’
I tell her I can see no reason why not. When?
‘This morning? Whenever you can make it.’ She starts to give me her address, but I tell her I’ve got it stored in my sat-nav.
‘Within the next hour?’ I say. ‘Would that be any good?’
‘Perfect. I’ll rustle up some coffee.’
A little guilty now, I pocket my mobile and knock softly on H’s bedroom door. This is a much smaller room than mine, bare except for the single bed and a bentwood chair, and discarded bits of clothing lap the open suitcase on the floor. There’s a funny smell, too, earthy, far from pleasant.
Intermission Page 6
