Nocturne

by Hurley, Graham

  I’d had similar advice from Mark, the estate agent, but I’d done nothing about it. This time, I told myself, I had no choice. I rummaged around for the file I’d kept from the purchase and phoned my mother’s solicitors down in Petersfield. The one who’d represented me was the senior partner. I’d found a name on the lease and he confirmed that Webb, Clewson were indeed the freeholders. They had a Sherborne address. Sherborne is in Dorset.

  ‘Why down there?’ I asked him.

  ‘God knows. They’re solicitors.’

  ‘And they own this place?’

  ‘Yes, though they may be fronting for someone else.’

  He explained that leased properties were often made over to firms of solicitors by the freeholders. When I asked why he said there were dozens of reasons but sheer convenience was the most common. Shielded by the solicitors, the real owner could be protected from the attentions of anyone from the Inland Revenue to angry lessees.

  Throughout this conversation, the building work was audible in the background. More thumping. Another shudder.

  ‘So the guy upstairs would have needed their permission?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And mine?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘But definitely theirs?’

  ‘Yes,’ he laughed as a particularly loud crash shook the whole house. ‘Why don’t you give them a ring if you’re worried?’

  I was, and I did. The first time I got though, the person I needed to talk to was still out at lunch. Forty minutes later, Mr Clewson was back at his desk. I gave him my name and explained the situation. The moment I mentioned Gilbert, he became slightly defensive.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked at once.

  I repeated my line about the builders. The fact that they were there at all was obviously news to Mr Clewson.

  ‘You don’t know about any of this?’

  ‘As it happens, we don’t.’

  ‘But shouldn’t someone have asked you first?’

  ‘Not necessarily, no.’

  This answer made no sense. My own solicitor had told me exactly the reverse. Wasn’t Gilbert obliged to ask for the landlord’s permission? Wasn’t that the real legal position?

  Mr Clewson wouldn’t give me a straight answer. He still wanted to know what the builders were up to. I did my best to describe progress to date. Half the roof was in pieces in the street arid non-stop Radio One pounded through the floorboards above my head. Over the phone, I could hear Mr Clewson chuckling.

  ‘I’d better give him a ring,’ he said at last. ‘Just to make sure.’

  ‘Make sure what?’

  ‘He knows what he’s doing.’

  I put the phone down and - on cue - the builders reached for their hammers. I listened hard for the sound of Gilbert’s phone ringing but, given the other noises, I was hopelessly optimistic.

  It wasn’t until the evening that I remembered the note I’d found in the hall, the one about Mama from some relation of Gilbert’s who’d signed himself Tom. My phone call to Mr Clewson hadn’t filled me with confidence. Supervising major structural alterations from a hundred miles away seemed less than satisfactory and his willingness to let Gilbert get on with it frankly baffled me. I thought there were procedures here, hoops we lessees had to jump through? How come my eccentric friend upstairs was simply allowed to get on with it?

  Before I made a decision about getting in touch with the mysterious Tom, I went out in the street again. The builders had left at five o’clock, sweeping the shattered tiles into a neat pile against the cemetery wall, and now I stood in the middle of the road, peering up at the roof. The ragged-edged hole had been covered with an old tarpaulin. The tarpaulin was secured with ropes threaded through eyelets at each corner, and every time the wind got underneath, it billowed up like a poorly-set spinnaker. Across the tarpaulin, in faded white letters, it read ‘Property of Leyton Orient Football Club’. Gilbert had already told me that the work should be finished by the end of the week but his indifference to things like rain were making me more than nervous. What would happen if these builders of his didn’t turn up to finish the job? What if they got a better offer from some other lunatic with equally grandiose plans?

  I returned to the flat. I needed help now, an assurance that Gilbert really did know what he was doing. The mobile phone number I’d found on the doormat was still on the mantelpiece. I picked up my own phone and dialled the number. It took ages to answer. At last I heard a voice. It sounded quite old, and not at all sure of itself.

  ‘Hallo?’

  I introduced myself. I explained that I was living in Napier Road and that I was a neighbour of Gilbert Phillips.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Gilbert. Gilbert Phillips.’

  I waited for the name to register. It felt like a fairground game. I had my hand in the bran tub and I hadn’t a clue what I was about to draw out.

  ‘Ah, you mean Gillie?’

  ‘Yes, Gilbert, Gilbert Phillips.’ I tried hard to remember exactly what the note had said. ‘He’s a friend of yours, I think.’

  ‘My brother, actually.’ The voice was stronger now, more sure of itself.

  ‘Your brother?

  ‘Yes, my brother. There are two of us.’

  He inquired what he might do for me. He sounded cultured, refined even, recognisably from the same stock as Gilbert.

  ‘Your brother’s having some alterations done upstairs,’ I said carefully. ‘It’s quite a big job. I just wondered whether you might know anything about it.’

  ‘Good Lord no, why on earth should I?’

  I’d half anticipated this. Next he’d want to know why I was interested. And after that, he’d probably ask why I didn’t go and talk to Gilbert himself. I could, of course, but I wasn’t entirely sure I’d get a coherent response.

  ‘Your brother can be a bit…’ I frowned,’… evasive at times.’

  ‘You mean he’s not all there?’

  I smiled. It was a remarkably apt description of Gilbert, though saying so wouldn’t make this conversation any the less awkward.

  ‘No.’ I tried to make light of what I had to say. ‘It’s just he can be a little vague.’

  ‘Vague?’ I heard him laughing. ‘That’s very kind of you, my dear. Extraordinarily kind.’

  ‘What would be your word for him then?’

  ‘Gilbert? You mean Gilbert?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s barking, dotty, cuckoo, always has been. That’s the authorised version, anyway, though I imagine it depends who you talk to. Some people say there’s absolutely nothing wrong with him. Upstairs, I mean. Me? I think he’s potty. Frightfully nice, terribly nice, but potty.’

  It was my turn to laugh. I hadn’t come across such frankness, such irreverence, yet such affection in quite this combination before. It was, in a very exact sense, the voice of sanity. Tom considered his brother was a lunatic, and yet he obviously loved him.

  I thought of the note on the mat again.

  ‘Do you see him a lot? Gilbert?’

  ‘Good Lord no. I popped round the other day, first time for months. He wasn’t in, of course. Typical.’

  ‘You live in London?’

  ‘Work there. Very occasionally.’

  ‘I see.’ I paused, wondering whether to own up about reading the note he’d left. So far, Tom hadn’t asked how I’d got his number.

  ‘I happened to see your mobile number on the envelope you left,’ I said lightly. ‘I hope you don’t mind me ringing like this.’

  ‘Not in the least, my dear. Now then, these builders. What can I do to help?’

  I explained again about the work Gilbert had commissioned on the roof and about the landlord, Mr Clewson, down in Sherborne. He’d been no use at all.

  ‘Never are. Bloody lawyers, all the sam
e. Take your money, tie you in knots, leave you out for the wolves.’ He paused for breath. ‘Is it urgent? Or is that a silly question?’

  I found myself telling him about the baby. In three months’ time, it would be nice to know that the roof was in one piece. I hoped I wasn’t making a fuss but what I’d seen today had made me nervous.

  ‘I’m sure.’ Tom had gone abruptly quiet and I wondered whether I’d ventured too far. Saddling a stranger with bits of my private life was, at the very least, an imposition. I began to say so, as apologetically as I knew how. There’d be another way around it. I was sorry to have wasted his time.

  ‘Not at all, not at all, I was just having a think, wondering what I might suggest. Why don’t I give Gillie a ring? Find out what the daft bugger’s up to? Wouldn’t do any harm, would it?’

  I broke in. The thought of him telling Gilbert about the baby was a little premature. I’d have to break the news sooner or later, but not just yet.

  ‘Good Lord no, of course not. Though he’s very good with babies, you know, always has been. Babies and animals. Loves ‘em, just loves ‘em. Same wavelength, I shouldn’t wonder. Probably born a rabbit, poor old Gillie. Now listen, just give me your number. I’ll have a chat with him. Ring you back ASAP. How’s that?’

  I thanked him, absurdly grateful, and hung up. I stayed in the front room for the rest of the evening, listening to the slap-slap of the tarpaulin against the roof, but I didn’t hear the phone go upstairs.

  Next morning, even earlier than usual, the builders were back. I awoke to Chris Evans on the radio. The volume was so loud, the trannie must have been directly above my head. I fled to the kitchen, shutting the door and making myself a pot of tea. Expecting a letter from my mother, I tried to edge into the hall but the path to the front door was blocked by a pile of sawn timber. It wasn’t a good sign.

  Back in the kitchen, I made myself a couple of slices of toast. I was loading the second with Marmite when the door opened. I looked up. It was Brendan.

  ‘Your door was open,’ he said at once. ‘I knocked twice but nothing happened.’

  I was still staring at him. I must have left the door on the latch. Shit, shit, shit.

  Brendan was eyeing the teapot. I pulled my dressing gown more tightly around me. I didn’t invite him to sit down.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘A cuppa would be nice.’

  ‘It’s cold, stewed.’

  ‘OK, then,’ he shrugged. ‘No tea.’

  I wanted him to go. Badly. Letting him see me like this was a nightmare, not at all what I had in mind for the eventual settling of our accounts.

  ‘How are you?’ he said.

  ‘Fine. You?’

  He didn’t answer. He was wearing a light tan polo-neck sweater under a leather jacket I hadn’t seen before. I wondered whether he’d got it in Singapore but I didn’t ask.

  ‘I’m back with Sandra,’ he said. ‘I thought I should be the one to tell you.’

  ‘What makes you think I’m interested?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s just that I wanted you to know.’ He ducked his head, as melodramatic as ever. ‘I have to tell you something else, too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s the biggest mistake I ever made.’

  ‘Going back to Sandra?’

  ‘Letting you go.’

  ‘I agree.’

  He looked up again. He desperately wanted me to smile. ‘You agree?’ he said, ‘You mean that?’

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘It was a crazy thing to do, and cruel, too. You hurt me, if that’s what you came round to find out. And it still hurts.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Yet you still did it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, that makes you very foolish, doesn’t it? Throwing something like that away? Something that good?’

  ‘That brilliant.’

  ‘Quite,’ I nodded. ‘And then going back to your wife.’

  Brendan began to talk about Sandra again. He’d been under immense pressure. Things weren’t as simple as they’d looked. When it came to fighting dirty, she was the all-time expert.

  ‘You could have stayed with me,’ I pointed out. ‘We could have talked about it.’

  ‘I had no choice,’ he insisted. ‘None at all.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘You don’t? You want to know why?’

  ‘Not especially.’

  ‘You don’t want me to tell you?’

  I could taste the anger inside me. This man had walked into my life and helped himself to whatever had taken his fancy. Emotionally, sexually, any way you like, his was the worst kind of smash and grab.

  And now here he was, doing it again, uninvited, blatant, and - in some curious way - wronged.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said wearily. ‘And then get out.’

  He hooked a chair towards him with his foot, turning it round, sitting down. When we’d first met he and Sandra had been on the point of agreeing terms for the flotation of Doubleact. I nodded. I could even remember the sums involved.

  ‘Three million,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. And that was just my share.’

  I shrugged. The arithmetic was irrelevant. You can’t put a figure on betrayal.

  Brendan ploughed on. When he’d started to see me, Sandra had put the flotation on hold. When he’d bailed out completely and moved into De Beauvoir Square, she’d cancelled it.

  ‘Cancelled it,’ he repeated, staring at me, wide-eyed.

  ‘Am I supposed to ask why?’

  ‘Because of you. Us.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So what? Ten years work down the khazi? Ten years grafting my arse off? Ten years wanking around with crap quiz shows? So what?’

  I half-smothered a yawn. I felt, quite suddenly, monumentally tired. Giving in to his emotions, to his better self, had cost Brendan £3 million. So what?

  Brendan was explaining about the joint shareholding, himself and Sandra, in Doubleact. I, like everyone else, had always assumed it was a 50/50 partnership. Now, it seemed, that wasn’t the case at all. Sandra had come to the party with money and the organisational skills, Brendan with talent and programme ideas. Sandra being Sandra, the money had won. It was she, not the pair of them, who effectively owned the business.

  I had a sudden vision of Brendan on his knees, his head between my legs.

  ‘I’m sure you have a say,’ I suggested. ‘I’m sure she needs you.’

  ‘Yes, but on what terms?’

  ‘You’re a grown-up, Brendan. Whatever terms you make, you live with. That’s one of the glories of capitalism, isn’t it? Taking control? Keeping it?’

  ‘I never took control. I’ve never had control.’

  ‘Tough shit. You should have thought of that earlier. Besides, I’m still not with you. We were in love, my darling. Love’s different. It’s got nothing to do with any of this.’

  ‘It’s got everything to do with it.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Because that’s the money we were going to use to launch. That was the three million quid we needed.’

  ‘Who? Who needed?’

  ‘You, Jules. You and me.’

  I began to laugh. He looked so earnest, so fervent, he might have been back in his teens again, the passionate adolescent, all promise.

  ‘You’re telling me you expected Sandra to give you £3 million? So we could go off and make films together? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘She’d have to.’ Brendan had the grace to blush. ‘At least that’s what I thought.’

  ‘And it turns out you were wrong?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you went back?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For the money? To get the money?’

  �
��Yes.’

  ‘For who? For me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you really think that’ll fix it? Kiss and make up? You, me, and three million quid?’

  He stared at me, baffled, and I thought of the cheques he’d been sending. Same logic. Same medicine. Money cures all.

  ‘It wouldn’t have worked anyway,’ Brendan muttered. ‘She’s got everything tied up in big, fat knots. Even my brief says it’s hopeless. But that’s why I went back. That’s the truth of it.’

  ‘And you never thought of discussing it with me? Talking it over?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I didn’t want to burden you.’

  ‘Burden me? You think splitting up is better than burdening me?’

  ‘I never wanted to split up.’

  ‘Then we should have talked. Like real people do.’

  ‘Real people?’ He gazed at me, expecting me to go on. When I didn’t, he got to his feet, returning the chair to its little slot beneath the table. ‘I want you back, Jules, before the baby comes. Fuck the money. Fuck the flotation. She can have it all.’

  ‘Even Brad Pitt.’

  ‘Especially Brad Pitt.’

  ‘Whose idea was that? As a matter of interest?’

  ‘Hers.’ He looked rueful. ‘And mine, too. Bottom-line, it’s shaping to be a fantastic deal. Not that I expect you to agree.’

  ‘I don’t. As a matter of fact I don’t even believe you. Brad Pitt doesn’t get out of bed for less than ten squillion quid. Do you have that kind of money?’

  Brendan didn’t answer me. Instead, he reached out a hand to touch my face. Instinctively, I withdrew. I didn’t want to get in any deeper. I wanted him out.

  ‘I love you, Jules. I waited three hours in that fucking restaurant. Me? Three hours?’ He shook his head, scarcely believing it.

  I stood up, signalling that our little chat was at an end. My bump was visible now, though I did my best to hide it under the folds of the dressing gown. When Brendan asked me again whether we couldn’t give it another go, pick up the threads, I shook my head.

  ‘It’s over,’ I told him. ‘It was your decision. You made it. It’s finished. It’s gone.’