Nocturne

by Hurley, Graham

  I didn’t want to go through all this again. Talking about Brendan’s so-called rights simply wasn’t on the agenda. I found myself making coffee in the kitchen. For one.

  ‘Sugar?’ I called.

  ‘No thanks.’

  I took the coffee into him. I was still wearing my anorak. Unzipped, I looked like some cartoon character. Big Julie. For the first time, a smile ghosted across Brendan’s face.

  ‘Come here.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I said come here.’

  I stared at him. This, too, was new. No please. No thank you. No gentle change of gear. Just the curtest of commands. My flat. My space. My bloody rights.

  ‘Come here,’ he said for the third time.

  I was nearly at the front door when he caught me by the hand. I was far too heavy for him to spin round but that had clearly been his intention and it was my wrist that suffered. I began to rub it. Brendan’s face had reddened, pure emotion.

  ‘Don’t do that again,’ I hissed. ‘Ever.’

  ‘You’re carrying my baby.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  Our faces were very close. I had an enormous urge to make some kind of gesture, underlining my resolve, but there was another part of me that sensed we were very close to physical-violence. This is how it happens, I thought. This is how women get hurt.

  The blood had left Brendan’s face as abruptly as it had come. He was chalk-white, shock or anger, I didn’t know which.

  ‘I’m back for a while,’ he said softly. ‘And believe me, we have a lot of talking to do.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Napier Road. That flat of yours.’ He touched me lightly on the cheek. ‘I’m going to have you out of there. No matter what.’

  I think I was still trembling when Gilbert knocked on my door, several hours later. I was sitting in the front room. Most of the stuff from Mothercare was still boxed. I’d stopped even thinking about who might have sent it.

  I invited Gilbert in. He gave me a folded sheet of plain white paper.

  ‘Someone from United Parcels knocked and gave me this,’ he said.

  ‘I think it must be for you.’

  I took the paper and unfolded it. I’d never seen the handwriting before. The message had to do with the person who’d paid for the baby things. He’d phoned in with the order. His name was Tom Phillips. He hoped I’d find houseroom for the stuff.

  I looked up. Gilbert had obviously read the note. Tom Phillips was his brother. I didn’t know what to say. Sheer exhaustion made me stick to the facts. Veritas vincit omnia.

  ‘I came across your brother recently,’ I said lightly. ‘We’ve become friends, sort of.’

  Gilbert, typically, seemed unsurprised.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes, we talk on the phone sometimes. He’s a lovely man, isn’t he?’

  Gilbert was still looking at the pile of packages on the carpet. It had been obvious for a while that I was pregnant but I still wondered whether he’d put two and two together.

  ‘Your brother,’ I prompted. ‘A very nice man.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And generous, too. Extremely generous.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Gilbert stood there, his long, bony hands hanging limply down. I wondered briefly how the star-gazing was going then I remembered the rain. He was bored. This, God help us, was the opportunity for a little chat.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ I said, ‘where exactly does he live?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Live. Tom. Your brother.’

  Gilbert had at last finished with the Mothercare boxes.

  ‘Dorset. That’s where they both live.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tom and Mama.’

  I looked up at him. Sherborne was in Dorset. And Sherborne was where I’d found Peter Clewson, our landlord.

  ‘Whereabouts in Dorset?’

  Gilbert cocked an eyebrow as if he hadn’t quite heard the question. I asked him again.

  ‘Hasn’t Tom told you?’ he queried. ‘No. But then I haven’t really asked.’

  ‘Well he must, he absolutely must. He’s the one who lives there, after all.’

  I heard a tiny quiver in his voice and I looked up again in time to see one bony finger intercept a falling tear. Tears, as far as Gilbert was concerned, were a giveaway. What nerve had I touched now? And where might it lead next? I thought of the nice, sane, predictable conversations I’d had with Gilbert’s brother. Quite suddenly, I wanted to go to bed.

  ‘I’ll ask Tom about the address,’ I said gently. ‘I don’t suppose he’ll mind, will he?’

  I struggled to my feet, accepting Gilbert’s hand, and then showed him to the door. After he’d gone, I picked up the note he’d brought in, knowing I really ought to phone Tom. Quite why our conversations had produced such a generous present, I didn’t know, but it would have been churlish not to say thank you.

  Tom answered on the second ring. He’s probably been waiting all evening, I thought, visualising the spaniel at his feet.

  ‘Filthy night,’ he boomed at once. ‘Filthy, filthy night.’

  ‘It’s Julie,’ I said.

  I thanked him for the presents and said what a surprise it had been. He dismissed my protests about going over the top.

  ‘Absolute pleasure old thing, the very least we could do.’

  ‘We?’-

  ‘The family. After all the fuss with Gillie.’

  I paused. Had I been that frank about my little run-ins with Gilbert? I rather thought not.

  ‘He’s a bit vague about family stuff,’ I said casually. ‘He doesn’t even seem quite sure where you live.’

  ‘Live? Mama and I, you mean? God, I’m not surprised.’

  Gilbert, it seemed, had been on his own for most of his life. Every family has its skeleton and theirs was Gillie. He didn’t go into detail but there’d obviously been a bust up of some kind and the one to suffer was now my neighbour.

  ‘Does he ever get down to see you?’ I asked.

  ‘Never.’

  ‘You never invite him?’

  ‘God, no. The odd meal, maybe, when I’m in town with time to kill, but Gillie down here? Frightening the animals? My dear, the very thought…’

  I remembered Gilbert leaving, a couple of minutes earlier. Some- thing I’d said had upset him. Something to do with the family.

  ‘Do you think he misses it?’ I asked.

  ‘Misses what?’

  ‘Home? Dorset? Wherever it is you live?’

  ‘To be frank, my dear, I haven’t the foggiest. My poor old brother has a number of endearing qualities but confiding in the likes of me isn’t one of them. You probably know him better than I do. Why not ask him? Make friends? I’m sure he’d welcome you with open arms.’

  He barked with laughter, obviously amused by the prospect, and I felt a deep rush of sympathy for Gilbert. Tonight, for some reason, Tom Phillips was fed up with Gillie. The thought of his brother, even at a hundred miles’ distance, was getting on his nerves.

  ‘Actually, it’s not such a bad idea,’ he was saying. ‘Gillie’s damn protective, once he makes his mind up. Loyal, too. You could do a lot worse.’

  ‘Worse?’

  ‘Yes. Try him out. Best pals. Why don’t you?’

  For the second time in a couple of hours, I was losing my bearings. Was he serious? My telephone friend? This stranger who’d just bought me several hundred quid’s worth of baby gear?

  ‘He’s a very nice man,’ I said carefully.

  ‘Damn right.’

  ‘And I can’t say thank you enough for the presents. We’re both very lucky.’

  ‘Both?’ He was onto the word like a shot. ‘Yes,’ I nodded, ‘Me and the baby.’

  Brendan started laying
siege to me within days. He was coldly polite, even formal, unrecognisable from the man I’d fallen in love with. He’d phone from the office in order, he said, to make an appointment. He’d fix a time and tell me he’d be round and, whatever I said to the contrary, he’d turn up in the Mercedes and sit in the car until I relented and opened the door to him. On the first couple of occasions we talked on the doorstep, or on the pavement beyond the gate, but the third time he came round it was pouring with rain, and my front room was infinitely preferable to the intimacy of his car.

  It was on this occasion that he produced the document from his lawyer. It was a deed of some kind, a draft legal agreement, and our joint signatures would give him agreed access to the baby. Talking like this about a child who hadn’t even been born was the oddest experience but I told myself that negotiation was a huge advance on slapping each other around, and in any case it seemed totally in keeping with Brendan’s new persona. There was obviously no more room in his life for something as unbusinesslike as emotion. Whatever I produced on 17th December would be strictly a question of legal entitlement. In return for access to the baby, I’d receive regular monthly payments way in excess of anything imposed by the Child Support Agency. Beyond that, by signature of the deed, I’d formally waive any other claims I might want to pursue against him. It was cold-blooded but, like I say, it was preferable to confrontation.

  Brendan stayed, that morning, for more than an hour. I’d got all the baby gear out of the boxes by now but his only real interest was in the donor. Who’d sent this stuff? Who’d paid for it? When I told him about Tom, Gilbert’s brother, mention of my neighbour triggered another carefully-tempered lecture. Staying in the flat was completely unacceptable. He knew what a trial living beneath Gilbert had been and there was no way he was entrusting any child of his to the mercies of the loony upstairs. I resented this description and told him so. Since I’d parted company with Doubleact, Gilbert had been nothing but helpful. We were back where we’d started, the very best of neighbours, and in my little head, having someone as kind and as helpful as Gilbert around was a huge bonus. Besides, moving flats at this late stage was unthinkable. I was knackered enough as it was. Why on earth would I want to put everything at risk for no good reason?

  ‘Risk?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I pointed out the physical consequences of moving my goods and chattels halfway across London. After my ante-natal classes, I was word perfect on the perils of overdoing things.

  ‘We’re fine here,’ I told him. ‘We’re staying put.’

  ‘You’re not. You can’t.’

  ‘Of course we can. It’s got nothing to do with you. It’s my decision.’

  ‘Our baby.’

  ‘Sure, but my decision. You have to accept it. You haven’t got a choice.’

  It was the latter phrase that really got to Brendan. I’d never said it quite this way before but I could tell from the expression on his face that he hated being told he didn’t pull the strings any more. In retrospect, I understand this all too well. Control was Brendan’s speciality. At Doubleact, and with me, he’d always decided exactly the way things would be. Now, that control was a thing of the past and I think he was beginning to realise that no amount of fancy legal drafting could ever bring it back. Doubleact had gone. I’d gone. And the baby, when he arrived, would emphatically be under my care.

  Brendan left towards midday. At the door, buttoning his new Burberry against the rain, he gestured up towards Gilbert’s flat.

  ‘One of you has to go,’ he said: ‘Maybe it should be him.’

  In a way, it was a declaration of war, though I was blind to the fact at the time. Late November was busy for me. I was laying in supplies, squirrelling away nappies and wipes and even a shop-bought Christmas pudding in case the baby and I had to spend the festive season alone. Providing everything went well, my mother was insisting we go down to Petersfield for at least a week with her - Christmas Eve through to the New Year - but my faith in other people’s arrangements was at an all-time low and I was becoming increasingly attracted to the notion of the baby and me against the world. It was like a call to arms. Life hadn’t been easy. The baby, by some strange ante-natal whispers, would know exactly what the score was. One way or another, we’d battle on through.

  I spotted the water in the kitchen in early December. My nine months were nearly up and the last thing I needed was a problem around the house. The water seemed to be coming through the ceiling and seeping down the back wall where the previous owner, the luckless Mr Witcher, had fixed his cupboards. The plaster above and below the cupboards was wet to the touch and when I looked up I could see a dark stain where the ceiling met the wall.

  My first thought was that Gilbert’s plumbing must have sprung a leak. I hadn’t heard or seen Gilbert for days and when I struggled upstairs and knocked at his door, I couldn’t get any reply. Back in the kitchen, I took a towel to the walls and mopped up the moisture. I’d keep an eye on it, I told myself. And if it kept on happening, I’d contact the water board.

  Brendan came round again that night. He was as cold and cautious as ever and because I found that easy to cope with, I didn’t altogether mind him coming in. He’d bought himself a new attaché case, a big, boxy thing in black leather, and he produced a thick wad of details from half a dozen estate agents. Some of the properties were flats, others were whole houses, and when - out of interest - I asked who’d be footing the bill, he said it wouldn’t be a problem. After all the traumas at Doubleact, Sandra had evidently found an interested buyer. Prospects for her estranged husband weren’t as bleak as he’d once imagined.

  Brendan had obviously been through the properties already because he’d ranked them in order of priority. His favourite was an attractive terrace house in a Barnsbury square. A flight of steps led to an imposing front door. The door looked newly-painted - a deep red - and the house had tall sash windows, and tiny little dormers at the top. On the back of the details was the price. I laughed.

  ‘£290,000? Who’s got that kind of money?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘For both of you.’

  ‘You’re not serious.’

  ‘I’m perfectly serious.’

  I studied the details again, looking for the catch. Brendan helped me out.

  ‘I’ll live in the basement,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of room.’

  We laboured once again up the foothills of the old, old argument. Sharing a house together, no matter how platonic the arrangement, was putting back the clock. That wasn’t going to happen. Not now. Not ever. I’d made up my mind. For the immediate future, while I and the baby sorted each other out, we’d be staying here. If we really had to move, it would be on my terms and at my bidding.

  Brendan gathered the stuff from the estate agents and left it in a pile by my chair.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll put some more details through the door.’

  He did. Most of the following day I was out with Nikki. We had lunch at an Italian place in South Kensington and afterwards we walked in Hyde Park. The weather was glorious - cold, sunny, sharp - and she dropped me back in Napier Road an hour or so before dark. Pushing at the front door, I could scarcely get it open. Inside, you couldn’t move for yet more bits and pieces from various estate agents. This was a gesture I recognised from the old Brendan: excessive, out of proportion, totally over the top.

  I was still leafing through this latest batch of details when I drifted through to the kitchen to make some tea. Opening one of the cupboards, I remembered the problem with the water. The walls were wet again, glistening in the light. Water had pooled on the working surfaces beneath the cupboards, and when I looked up at the ceiling I was certain that the stain was spreading. There was also a smell, slightly sour, that I took to be damp. It wasn’t a serious leak, nothing actually dripping, but I knew I had to get something done
before it got much worse.

  Gilbert, once again, was out. Coming back downstairs, it occurred to me that he might be down in Dorset, visiting his brother. Tom had told me that Gilbert was the last person he’d invite but I wondered whether our little conversations hadn’t mended some of the family’s fences. I decided to phone him and find out.

  Tom, once again, was in a bleak mood. No, Gilbert wasn’t there. Yes, to be honest he was terribly busy just now.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said at once. ‘I shouldn’t have phoned.’

  ‘Not at all, my dear.’ He paused, more conciliatory. ‘You’ve caught me at a bad time. Mama’s ill again. I don’t know whether I mentioned it.’

  He hadn’t, but I remembered the note he’d left for Gilbert, the one he’d posted in through the door. ‘Mama’s back home in one piece,’ it had read.

  I inquired after Mama’s health. She had a heart condition, Tom said, and when she got upset things could get tricky.

  ‘She’s upset now?’

  ‘Very.’

  I wondered why but didn’t ask. Tom was talking about the possibility of a bypass operation. Problem was, you could never tell when the old ticker might pack in. They’d had a couple of scares already. And Christmas wouldn’t help.

  ‘How about you?’ he said. ‘Must be nearly due.’

  ‘Eight days,’ I told him.

  ‘A week. Good Lord, is it really that close? Seems no time at all since you were flying around, thin as a rake.’ I stared at the phone. To my knowledge, we’d never met. What on earth was he talking about? ‘Figure of speech,’ he chuckled, reading my thoughts. ‘Time just gallops by, especially when you’re my age.’

  I told him about my problems in the kitchen. Did he happen to know where Gilbert might have gone?

  ‘Haven’t a clue, old thing. Is it bothering you? This water?’

  ‘Not really, but I ought to get something done.’

  ‘What about that job he had done on the roof? Wouldn’t be anything to do with that, would it?’