Eureka

by Anthony Quinn

  GEORGE

  Well, it was just a thought.

  MAUD enters, and sits down next to GEORGE, who helps her to a glass of wine.

  CHAS

  How is she?

  MAUD

  She’s being brave. Talking with the undertakers at the moment. The funeral’s set for Friday. Apparently he insisted that he wanted it to be private.

  CHAS

  They’ll be sorry back in London. They would have given him Westminster Abbey.

  GEORGE

  Which he would have hated. (To MAUD.) So he’s to be buried here as well?

  MAUD

  I believe there’s a plot reserved for him in the local cemetery.

  GEORGE

  Some corner of a foreign field … He always loved this place.

  MAUD

  Chas, Jane asked to see you in her room, if you have a moment.

  CHAS

  (rising)

  Of course. Excuse me.

  INT. CORRIDOR – AFTERNOON.

  CHAS wears a brooding expression as he goes in search of JANE. Something has upset him.

  CHAS

  (muttering to himself)

  ‘He always loved this place.’ Huh. Like you knew anything about him …

  INT. JANE’S BEDROOM – AFTERNOON.

  JANE, her eyes bruised from crying, is sitting on a sofa making notes. She looks up as CHAS knocks and enters.

  CHAS

  (on eggshells)

  Hey there. How are you doing?

  JANE

  Oh, you know. Whenever I stop to think about him I just … I find it easier to keep busy. I’m just putting together an order of service for the funeral. Hugh left instructions. Do you know this poem?

  She hands CHAS a typewritten sheet, which he takes.

  CHAS

  Robert Frost. Yes, I know it.

  JANE

  I thought you might. I wonder, would you read it at the service?

  CHAS

  Of course. I’d be honoured.

  He looks over, waiting for her to say more. But JANE only smiles at him. CHAS clears his throat.

  I was wondering – you remember we had that conversation about Hugh’s estate?

  JANE

  Oh. You mean the appointment of his literary executor. As a matter of fact he left a note. He asked for George to take care of it.

  CHAS

  Oh. I see.

  JANE

  I’m sorry, Charles, I know you hoped he might … I think his mind was already made up.

  CHAS

  Of course. Absolutely. (He holds up the typed poem.) Thank you for this. If there’s anything else I can do for you …

  JANE beams at him gratefully.

  INT. CORRIDOR – AFTERNOON.

  CHAS has just exited JANE’s room. He stands at her closed door, lost in thought. He nods to himself before walking away.

  INT. ITALIAN CHURCH – DAY.

  The funeral is under way. A smattering of pious old women in black huddle in the rear pews. VEREKER’s coffin stands before the altar, where a priest is talking. We do not hear his words above the music, which continues as the camera pans around the small congregation. This is the private service as the late author requested.

  CUT TO: CHAS at the lectern, reciting the Frost poem ‘Provide, Provide’. The sound of his voice comes in as he reads the last stanzas:

  CHAS

  Some have relied on what they knew,

  Others on being simply true …

  He continues to the end then leaves the lectern, bows to the priest, and takes his seat back in the pew.

  EXT. CEMETERY – DAY.

  The coffin is lowered into the earth, the priest intoning the prayers. CHAS and GEORGE stand either side of JANE.

  EXT. CEMETERY – DAY.

  The burial over, the few mourners disperse. JANE is seen in the background talking with the priest. CHAS and GEORGE wander towards the camera.

  GEORGE

  (with a backward glance)

  I’ve a feeling the padre was not a close student of Hugh’s novels.

  CHAS

  I wonder if he’d heard of him at all.

  GEORGE

  Well, it was what the old man asked for. Dying in exile, though – you fancy that?

  CHAS

  I don’t fancy dying at all.

  GEORGE

  (laughing)

  Provide, provide …

  CHAS

  (stopping)

  What you said the other day, about me coming with you to Rome. Does the offer still hold?

  GEORGE

  Of course. But what about that ‘catastrophe’ of deadlines you mentioned?

  CHAS

  They can wait. And Jane’s got Maud here now. I think it’s time to move on.

  GEORGE

  Right. Shall we say tomorrow morning?

  CHAS nods, and they walk on.

  17

  The street lamps were gauzy orange against the gloom as Billie got out of the cab in Fortess Road. The summer was winding to an end. Trees cast long wary shadows across the pavement. On the cracked path to her mother’s house plums lay where they had fallen, wizened, or nibbled by wasps. As she dragged her suitcase through the door she heard voices droning from the back room, and entered to find her mother and a couple of her lodgers watching a news report on TV: troops dropping down from a helicopter, troops stalking through jungle fauna.

  Nell jumped up. ‘Darling!’ She flung her arms around her. ‘Kevin, switch that off, will you?’

  Kevin impassively obliged, nodded to Billie and left the room with his mate.

  ‘How was Positano?’ Nell asked, halfway to the kitchen. ‘Tea?’

  ‘Portofino. I’d love some’

  When she returned, a steaming mug in each hand, she gave Billie a more appraising look. ‘Lovely colour you’ve got. Nice place?’

  ‘Mm. Pretty. One evening a few of us hired a little boat, took us round the next cove where they had a seafood place, sort of on stilts in the water. They pulled fish out of the sea and grilled them right in front of us.’

  ‘Ooh! Beats working for a livin’, doesn’t it?’

  Billie smiled. ‘We did have to do some work. Everybody got on. There was a new feller there, too, on the production side –’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Nell’s tone was knowing.

  ‘No, it wasn’t like that. But he was nice. Friendly, y’know.’

  Nell stared at her for a moment. ‘Well, I don’t want to spoil your mood, but I should tell you: I’ve seen Jeff.’

  ‘When? Where?’

  ‘Here! He came to the house. One night last week.’

  ‘You let him in?’

  ‘Not on your life. We talked on the step. Well, “talked” is putting it politely.’

  Billie felt something, heavy as a slab, press down on her chest. ‘What did he want?’

  Nell gave a sigh of disgust. ‘You can imagine. How sorry he was. How he’d never have hurt you. Said he just wanted to talk, looking over my shoulder to see if you were here. Ha. I said to him, “You’re not comin’ within a mile of her.”’

  Billie had let her head droop into her hands. ‘Oh God.’

  ‘I told you, you should have called the police. That would stop him showing up here.’

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to see him sooner or later. I have to collect my stuff.’

  ‘You’re going nowhere near him, my girl. Someone else can pick up your stuff. This is not a man you should be around: he’s not right in the head.’

  ‘How did you get rid of him?’

  ‘Oh, he went soon enough, after he’d had a go at me. He said, “You never liked me, didja?” I said, “No I bloody didn’t, and who can blame me, and if I see you round here again I’m gonna call the police.”’

  Billie took one of her mother’s cigarettes and lit it. Jeff … well, she couldn’t hide from him forever. It might be best to get it over with and meet him – somewhere in public, not the flat – see if they co
uld sort things out in a civil way. They could be adult about it. Oh, but what if Jeff made a scene – broke down crying and started to beg? She wouldn’t put it past him. Worse, she knew there was something in her that would pity him – she was susceptible to weakness, just like Nell used to be. Maybe it was a fault in the blood.

  Billie bent down to her suitcase, clicked it open and took out a little package, which she put on the table.

  ‘Here. A little something.’

  Nell stared at it. ‘For me?’

  ‘All the way from Portofino. It’s nothing much, just a thank-you for putting me up here.’

  ‘“Putting you up”? This is your home, silly.’

  ‘Anyway, I’m going to start looking for a place.’

  But Nell was too absorbed in unwrapping the parcel to listen. From the folds of tissue paper she lifted a navy sweater and held it up, open-mouthed. She’s just a child, thought Billie, half smiling.

  ‘Ooh, feel how soft that is,’ Nell squealed, eyes as bright as a bird’s. ‘Like cashmere or something.’

  ‘It is cashmere. I thought with autumn coming on … it’ll replace that other one with holes in the elbows.’

  ‘I use that one for painting in,’ her mother said, already clambering into it and stroking the soft fabric. ‘This one’ll be for posh.’

  Nat swung the Rolls into Ennismore Gardens and parked in the shade of its baronial west side. Next to him sat Vere, eyes shielded by dark glasses, his breathing stertorous. He was twisting his signet ring thoughtfully. They had just had lunch with Vere’s agent to finalise the contract.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Nat.

  Vere nodded. ‘But would you mind – I can’t face anything more today. Let’s make a start Friday, shall we?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The old man had taken off his glasses and lifted his gaze to the oracle of the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Keep hearing that damned song everywhere. You know, the Beatles.’

  ‘Erm …’

  Vere hummed a few bars of ‘When I’m Sixty-Four’.

  ‘Ah.’

  He turned to Nat. ‘I take it rather personally. I’m sixty-three.’

  Nat suppressed a little jolt of dread, and said quickly, ‘Then I promise to serenade you with it on your next birthday.’

  Vere looked straight ahead, and gave a tired laugh. Nat got out and walked round to open the passenger door, helping him onto the pavement.

  ‘Don’t forget this,’ he said, handing him his walking stick.

  ‘By the way, that ending you wrote, in the screenplay,’ said Vere. ‘Very good. Didn’t see that one coming at all.’

  Nat wanted to know which part he meant, but his friend had already given him a wave and turned up the steps of his building. As he drove back to Piccadilly he felt his eyes begin to smart as he thought of Vere: his next birthday was March. Nat had made his promise with conviction, but he felt in his bones there would be no occasion by then to sing anything for him.

  He had parked on the Row and was walking towards Albany’s back gate when a voice hailed him from across the street. ‘Wotcha!’ He wheeled round to see a young man whose face he took a moment to recognise. Leaning sportily against the bonnet of an open-topped silver MG was Joey Meres. He wore no jacket, offering a view of toned musculature beneath his white shirt. His tie was loosened against his collar. Quite a handsome brute, thought Nat.

  ‘Ah, my favourite pugilist,’ he said, crossing the road to shake hands. ‘Waiting for someone?’

  Joey’s smile was on full-beam. ‘Yeah. You, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Me?’ said Nat, trying to keep his own smile in place. ‘Well, always happy to receive visitors. Shall we?’ He gestured towards Albany.

  Joey made a regretful pout. ‘Nice of yer, but I’m here on business. Harry wants to see you.’

  ‘Harry? About what?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, to tell the truth. Summink to do with work – maybe he’s gonna ask you to write another picture.’

  I doubt that very much, thought Nat.

  ‘So I’m taking you to his place,’ he said, opening the door of the MG, ‘if you can spare the time.’

  His invitation was friendly enough, yet Nat thought he detected something off in his manner; for once the charm felt stilted, not the natural emanation of his personality. Well, he could refuse this summons, but he didn’t want to seem scared. Best to ‘front up’ and get it over with.

  ‘Hop in,’ said Joey, behind the wheel. He gave his neck a little twist, the boxer’s shrug. Nat walked round the other side and got in. The car pulled out and turned left down Vigo Street. It was coming on for five thirty in the afternoon; the shops on Regent Street were just closing up. The traffic around them stuttered along the wide thoroughfare. Stuck momentarily behind a bus, Joey took out a packet of Piccadilly and offered one to Nat. He patted his pockets in search of matches.

  ‘There’s a lighter in the glove compartment,’ said Joey. Nat, leaning forward, undid the catch. The first thing he saw there was not a lighter, but a camera. He took it out, gave a little laugh.

  ‘Ah, the Nikon F. You copied me!’

  He looked round, in time to see Joey’s frozen expression. Not immediately catching on, Nat returned his attention to the camera. His first thought was that Joey had bought his model second-hand: he could see faint scratches on the bodywork. He turned it over in his hands, thinking. It was a replica of the one he had lost in Portofino, unless … He glanced again at Joey, who was now talking in the chummy, blustering kind of way people did when they were trying to cover a mistake.

  ‘It’s a great camera. Look after it,’ Nat said, feeling for a light note.

  ‘Yeah,’ Joey said, his grin fixed, and then Nat knew: the camera was not a replica, it was his own, lifted that night not by some local pilferer but by Joey Meres. Of course. Which meant that Joey had seen the photos of Gina and himself frolicking in the bedroom. And who else would have had an eyeful by now? Harry wants to see you. You’d have to be a fool to diddle with the boss’s mistress.

  Joey had just gunned the car across Oxford Circus. He hung a left into Marylebone; Pulver’s place was five minutes away, on Seymour Place. Nat had to think quickly. Replacing the camera in the glove compartment he felt around for the lighter; he found it, a brass Zippo. At the next set of traffic lights Nat flicked it open and held the flame to Joey’s cigarette. As the engine dawdled, by stealthy degrees he lowered his hand to the inside door catch. Almost in one movement he pushed it open and sprang out, just missing a car that had come up on his blind side. From the corner of his eye he saw Joey throw away his cigarette and get out.

  ‘Nat! For God’s sake!’ But Nat wasn’t looking back – he was sprinting across the street, dodging oncoming cars that blared their horns furiously at him. He heard Joey shout, ‘You can run, mate …’

  Heart pumping furiously, Nat hit the pavement and ran in the opposite direction to which Joey had been driving – the time it took him to turn the car round would give Nat a head start. This was new. He never ran, let alone for his life. He glanced once over his shoulder to check if he was being pursued and saw nothing, but he didn’t stop. Crossing back over Regent Street he looked around for a cab; there were none for hire, so he kept going. Soon, sweat was pouring off him, and he slowed to a jog to catch his breath. He had to get out of sight – Harry would soon have his crew on the case, tracking him like hounds. Those photographs, though – of all the bad luck. Who could he turn to? His first instinct was Reiner’s suite at the Connaught, but of course they’d know about that. Vere? No, not in his present state. Obviously Gina was out of the question. He didn’t want to think about what Harry was going to do to her.

  He had turned up Great Titchfield Street, walking now, racking his agitated brain. He might have to get out of the country for a while, take cover in some undiscoverable hole and wait it out. But where? His life was in London. He couldn’t live in exile, for Christ’s sake. He had a sudden image o
f himself shuffling along a lonely esplanade, like poor old Oscar at Berneval-sur-Mer. He stared distractedly into shop windows, as if inspiration might lie there. He was about to cross over when he caught the flash of a car’s silver bodywork: Joey, in his MG, was bowling right past him, so close he could see the scar on his jaw. He had his eyes on the road, thank God. Nat dodged into the embrasure of a tailor’s shop, waiting, trying to calm his hammering heart. He peeked out, watching the MG shrink into the distance.

  He needed to get to a telephone. Doubling back he found a small hotel round the next corner, and went over to the public phone booth, checking his pockets for change. He called Freya’s home number first, without reply. Then he called her at the Chronicle, where someone told him that she was not at her desk. Who else? Freya’s postcode reminded him that it was also Billie’s, N1, a realm as vast and mysterious to him as the Amazon.

  There was no listing of a Cantrip in N1. And was she there anyway? He seemed to recall Billie telling him that she’d recently moved back to her mother’s – some problem with Reg, or whatever his name was. So what about the mother’s place? He checked down the list and found it: Cantrip, N. 58 Fortess Road, NW5. He dialled and waited. On the fourth ring a woman’s voice answered.

  ‘Billie? Thank God! It’s Nat. Look, I’m in an awful jam – really awful – and I wondered if you could help me.’

  ‘Oh, Nat, of course. But how?’

  ‘I’ll explain when I see you. I need a place to stay. Somewhere I won’t be – can’t be found.’

  Billie paused, thinking. ‘You can stay here, if you like.’ Not with the mother, thought Nat. That would be mortifying, for everyone. Billie seemed to understand his hesitation, because she then said, ‘I’ve got a place.’ She gave him an address, which he wrote down on the phone book with a shaking hand. He listened to her directions, there was a bus that would take him there, and rang off. He wondered what she’d made of this call out of the blue; he had sounded, to his own ears, slightly hysterical.

  Nat had never seen the back end of King’s Cross before, except in a film: The Ladykillers. Alec Guinness and his scary tombstone teeth, the maddening old biddy, the smudged light of Ealing’s London. The reality of the place was stranger, seedier. The dossers and meths drinkers who shambled about were of a piece with the tumbledown streets, row upon row of thwarted-looking terraces and melancholy pubs. The prostitutes patrolling the area at least seemed motivated by a sense of purpose. It was only half an hour’s walk to Albany, but it might as well have been the other side of the world.