Nocturne

by Hurley, Graham

  The baby and I were back in Napier Road by ten o’clock next morning. I carried Billie around the front room, showing her the bits and pieces that Tom had sent her from Mothercare. Three weeks in Petersfield had given me plenty of time to think. Tom’s gesture had been wonderfully generous but the time had now come for him to take some kind of responsibility for his brother. If he didn’t then I’d bloody well find someone who would. Gilbert, this time, had gone too far.

  To my surprise, though, when I finally ventured into the kitchen, it looked immaculate, completely untouched by last month’s disaster. Not only had the mess disappeared but someone had put the cupboards back up. I opened them one by one. New plates, new cups, even a new litre bottle of extra virgin olive oil. I transferred Billie to my other arm and opened the little card waiting for me on the table. It had come from Gaynor. She’d been talking to Gilbert again. He’d insisted on paying for the work, and for all the replacement crockery, and all the other bits and pieces that had come to grief. He’d left the choice of dinner plates to her, and Gaynor hoped I approved. I heard myself laughing and I looked up to check the ceiling. Sure enough, the stain had gone.

  I bent to the note again. At the end, Gaynor wished Billie and me a Happy New Year. I knew the number to phone if there was any more hassle but she truly hoped it was sorted. She’d signed off with two kisses, one for me and one for Billie. Lovely thought.

  Later that day, we ran into Gilbert in the hall. He made a great fuss of the baby and when he asked to hold it I saw no reason why not. Billie was our new start, I kept telling myself, our slate wiped clean. Nikki, who knew about everything that had happened, thought I was barmy staying anywhere near him but I had a thousand reasons for wanting to hang onto Napier Road. It was quiet. It was a perfect size. And, most important of all, it was ours. Maybe all the stuff through the ceiling really had been an accident. Maybe it was time to forgive and forget.

  All three of us stayed in the hall, chatting, for nearly half an hour. Gilbert and Billie seemed to have taken a shine to each other. They made exactly the same kinds of noises, halfway between a kiss and a gurgle, and watching Gilbert cradling Billie I was reminded of what his brother had told me. Good with babies and animals, he’d said. Hopeless with the rest of the world.

  I tried to phone Tom that night. I dialled the number three separate times but got the same recorded message. The mobile phone I was calling was switched off. First time ever.

  Failing Tom, I decided to go to the Social Services about Gilbert. My knowledge of what they actually did was pretty sketchy but I knew it included something called the At Risk register and I thought it was a reasonable bet that I might qualify. We were a single-parent family, for God’s sake. And human beings don’t come more vulnerable than a month-old baby girl.

  The local Social Services department was a bleak suite of offices just up the road from the police station. The waiting room reminded me of the thousand and one documentaries I must have seen about inner-city deprivation. Men lolled against the walls. Most of the women looked utterly defeated. Their kids were either silent and tight-lipped, or raging around, totally out of control.

  I waited for more than an hour and a half. Finally, I found myself explaining my problem to a young social worker. He had a neat pony tail, John Lennon glasses, and a grey collarless shirt. He listened politely to everything I told him about Gilbert but not even the stuff dripping through the kitchen ceiling counted for very much after my earlier admission about the keys.

  ‘You actually lent them to him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he made himself at home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Knowing you didn’t mind?’

  ‘Of course not. Not then.’

  I recognised the nod and the weary smile from my encounters with the police and when I inquired what he might be able to do, I think I knew what was coming next.

  He gestured towards the door. The waiting room outside was full to bursting.

  ‘You’ve had a shock,’ he said. ‘But no one’s dead. No one’s even hurt. That’s rare, believe me.’

  I nodded, feeling guilty for wasting his time. When I apologised, he glanced down and shrugged. His list of appointments was on the desk in front of him. They went on until 7.15, name after name, each one a little pocket of someone else’s grief. At length, he helped me towards the door. To be honest, he said, there was nothing they could do. Technically, Gilbert might be mad but it would take two independent psychiatrists to certify him. As long as he stayed at home, tucked up with his telescope, he was one less case to worry about.

  He opened the door. Two kids were on the floor, fighting over the remains of a can of Coke.

  ‘Maybe you were the crazy one,’ he said gently, ‘to lend him the key.’

  I went back to Napier Road, feeling faintly disloyal. I was determined to give Gilbert a fighting chance and the more we saw of him, the more complete was the transformation that Billie’s arrival seemed to have wrought.

  By far the best of Tom’s presents was a carrycot that doubled as a pram. For a brief spell in the middle of January the weather was glorious - unbroken sunshine from eight until four - and the three of us began to make regular expeditions to the local park. Gilbert and I took turns to push the pram and Billie gazed up at us both, swaddled in her quilted papoose, her bright little eyes just visible beneath the woolly cap my mother had run up over Christmas. Gilbert had a special way of tickling her face and Billie responded like the musical instrument she undoubtedly was. Gilbert had the knack of playing tunes on her, almost literally, and she loved it.

  Afternoons when we didn’t visit the little cafe in the park for hot doughnuts or sticky buns, we’d have tea at home instead. I’d hang our coats over the back of the kitchen door and toast crumpets for Gilbert and myself. Not once did we mention what had happened before Christmas and I was absolutely convinced that I had Billie to thank for this heartening transformation. Watching the gummy, toothless smile that spread across her face the moment she laid eyes on Gilbert, I found myself believing that everything, finally, had come right. Maybe Billie and I should go into mental health, I thought. Maybe the pair of us had stumbled on a treatment that had nothing to do with drugs.

  It was during one of these little picnics that Brendan appeared again. Gilbert was the one to answer the front door. By the time Brendan got to the kitchen, I could hear Gilbert’s footsteps retreating upstairs.

  Brendan was dressed for the city. I hadn’t seen him since the night he’d turned up paralytic and the suit and the subtly patterned tie did him more than justice. I introduced Billie. It should have been one of those deeply profound moments but somehow it wasn’t.

  ‘Girl or boy?’

  I thought Brendan was making a joke. Evidently he wasn’t. He’d been away again, Japan this time.

  ‘Girl,’ I said, removing a smudge of Marmite from Billie’s cheek. ‘So what do you think?’

  He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even want to hold her. He just looked round, as if he was drawing up some kind of list.

  ‘I’m thinking about moving on one of those properties,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d keep you up to date.’

  ‘Oh? Which one?’

  ‘The Barnsbury place.’

  I remembered the one with the steps and the red front door. ‘Isn’t it a bit big?’ I said. ‘For one?’

  Brendan had crossed the kitchen. The window over the sink looked out on the back garden.

  ‘Mind if I take a look?’

  He was at the back door now. I shrugged, pointing out the key on the hook by the gas stove. He was out in the garden for quite a long time, looking up at the back of the house, and I stood at the sink, watching him. When he returned, he locked the door and put the key back on the hook.

  ‘Chilly,’ he said, buttoning his coat again and disappearing up the hall. Seconds later, he
’d gone, but it took Gilbert more than an hour to venture back for the rest of his crumpet.

  Billie and I took the train down to Dorset several weeks later. It was another glorious day and the pair of us sat beside the window watching the bare, shadowed fields roll by. At Salisbury, we were joined by an elderly lady with a beautiful red setter and by the time the train stopped at Sherborne, she and Billie were firm friends. As we struggled in the aisle, she pressed a pound coin into Billie’s tiny hand.

  ‘That’s for good luck,’ she whispered.

  The meeting at the solicitor’s office was at noon. I’d phoned the previous week and explained that I wanted to talk to him about the house. He didn’t seem the least bit surprised and it occurred to me that he might have been in contact with Tom.

  Mr Clewson turned out to be an amiable, rather tweedy man in his middle fifties. His office smelled of the brand of pipe tobacco my grandfather used to smoke and everything about the way he’d decorated it spoke of treasured possessions and a life well spent. He seemed to me to be one of those rare human beings who are truly happy. He radiated contentment.

  He gave me coffee and offered to organise some warm milk for Billie. It was a kind thought but I’d fed her on the train and I knew she’d last out until we found somewhere for lunch. Clewson had a little mobile on his desk, one of those clever executive toys that react to sunshine and go round and round, and Billie couldn’t take her eyes off it. I’d brought her because I thought it might concentrate Clewson’s mind. She was, to me, the very best evidence that he ought to take my story seriously.

  I told him everything about Gilbert. I went right back to the early days when I’d just moved in and I took him round all the bends in the road between then and now. I explained about how kind he’d been, and how helpful, and how I’d been trusting enough to lend him the key to the flat. I told him about the liberties he’d taken - sleeping in my bed - and about everything that had followed from that April weekend. I admitted at once that I was no expert but the longer I spent sharing a house with Gilbert, the more convinced I became that he’d been through some kind of trauma. He was certainly damaged. Of that, I was absolutely sure.

  Clewson had produced a pipe. He began to fill it with tobacco from a lovely old leather pouch.

  ‘Do you view him as a threat?’

  It was a question I knew he had to ask. I tried to explain about how erratic Gilbert could be, how his behaviour could veer wildly from total coherence and genuine kindness to the craziest excesses. The latest, of course, was the stuff through the floorboards.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Urine.’ I nodded at Billie, asleep on my lap. ‘Wee-wee.’

  I described the events that had probably triggered my labour. The cupboards falling down. The kitchen floor awash with olive oil and shattered china.

  Clewson was looking thoughtfully at Billie.

  ‘What do you think made him do it?’ he asked at last.

  I’d spent a great deal of time over Christmas tackling exactly this question and I answered it as truthfully as I could. I told him a little about Brendan, about my own circumstances. Gilbert, I suspected, had been jealous. Every time Brendan had made an appearance, he assumed the worst.

  ‘The worst?’

  ‘That we were together again.’

  ‘And did he ever talk to you about it?’

  ‘Never. I don’t think he’s like that. I don’t think he can. It’s beyond him.’

  ‘So he expresses himself in a different way? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. There are some things he just can’t handle.’ I frowned, trying to put this conviction of mine into words. ‘Life just gets too much for him.’

  ‘You’re sounding sympathetic.’

  ‘I am,’ I nodded. ‘He’s a nice man. With Billie, he’s wonderful. I don’t want to see him hurt, nothing like that. I just want to be sure that we’ll both be…’ I smiled rather bleakly, ‘… safe.’

  Clewson tamped the tobacco and lit a match. What I really wanted was some clue to his firm’s relationship with Gilbert. I’d got enough from Tom to be reasonably certain that he wasn’t just another tenant. On the contrary, his family seemed to own our little house.

  I put this to Clewson. There wasn’t much point in leaving it unsaid. He looked at me through a cloud of blue smoke.

  ‘It’s the case that I represent the family,’ he nodded. ‘That’s certainly true.’

  ‘Gilbert’s family?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you’d know about his problems already?’

  ‘I know,’ he frowned, ‘that he has his upsets. But some of what you’ve told me is, to say the least, a surprise.’

  ‘He’s not done this kind of thing before?’ I was thinking of his previous neighbour, Kevin Witcher.

  Clewson shook his head.

  ‘Certainly not. As far as I’m aware, he’s always coped. I’ve absolutely no evidence to the contrary.’

  ‘But you do believe me, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you think something should be done about it?’

  He didn’t answer. Billie was stirring. Her little arms went out and Clewson smiled, watching her.

  ‘Of course,’ he said at last. ‘Of course it should.’

  He took us for lunch at a pub across the road. We sat in an alcove at the back, waiting for a waitress to arrive with the menu. I was determined to find out more about the family. Where they lived seemed a good place to start.

  ‘Tom says the family come from round here,’ I ventured.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tom.’ I paused. ‘Gilbert’s brother.’

  Clewson was looking at Billie again. Eventually he reached out, tickling her under the chin.

  ‘I think it’s wise to clarify our interests in all this,’ he said at last. ‘The firm represents the family. You’ll understand that.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘That imposes certain duties. One of them is a duty of confidentiality. They are our clients. You wouldn’t expect us to break that confidentiality.’

  ‘No, absolutely not, all I’m asking—’

  Clewson held up both hands, a gesture that produced a gurgle of applause from Billie.

  ‘I know what you’re asking,’ he said. ‘You’re asking me to help you. And you have every right to do that. Indeed you have a duty to do that.’ His eyes were still on the baby. ‘Have you thought of moving?’

  ‘I’ve tried that already.’

  ‘And?’

  I told him about my adventures with Mark. Gilbert had done his level best to wreck the sale and he’d been a hundred per cent successful. Now, though, Billie and I were nicely settled in Napier Road. Just as long as Gilbert behaved himself.

  ‘You’re saying he didn’t want you to leave?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why would he want to do that?’

  This, of course, was the heart of it. The waitress had arrived with the menu. I took Clewson’s advice and ordered steak and kidney pie. The waitress disappeared again. Clewson returned to Gilbert. Was I implying some kind of obsession?

  ‘I think he’s in love with me,’ I said simply. ‘Not that he’s ever said it.’

  ‘In love? You mean… ?’ His elegant gesture encompassed the baby. I shook my head.

  ‘Nothing physical. Nothing like that. I just think he has a thing about me. It’s not threatening. It’s more protective than anything else. As far as he’s concerned, I think I’m almost family.’ I nodded, pleased with the phrase. ‘It’s almost as though he’s responsible for us. You can see it when he’s with Billie. He dotes on her. He’s like a favourite uncle.’

  ‘And Brendan?’

  ‘Brendan’s a threat. Brendan’s the one who wants to take us away.’


  And does he? Is Gilbert right?’

  I looked down at Billie for a moment, thinking about all the literature from the estate agents.

  ‘Yes,’ I muttered. T think he does.’

  The meal, when it arrived, was a bit of a disaster. Billie got fractious and in the end I had to retreat to the loo to feed her. When I got back, Clewson was sitting in front of his empty plate, his raincoat folded on his lap.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘And I suspect there’s a way round all this. It needs me to talk to the family, of course, and I can’t possibly pre-judge what they may come up with, but I’d hope to have a proposal for you within, say, a couple of days.’

  ‘A proposal?’ I was lost. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, and this of course is extremely provisional, that there may be options we can pursue.’

  ‘What kind of options?’

  ‘I can’t say. Not until I’ve had a word.’

  ‘But what about Gilbert? What would happen to him?’

  ‘Gilbert?’ Clewson stood up, putting on his coat. ‘Gilbert, I’m afraid, would be out of my hands.’

  He offered to drive us back to the station but I said we were planning to look around town. We said goodbye on the pavement outside the pub and, when he asked for it, I gave him my phone number. When he’d gone, we walked down the street until we found the post office. They had a local phone directory but when I looked under Phillips, trying to find an address, there were so many entries it was pointless trying to pinpoint anyone in particular.

  There was a phone outside the post office and I tried Tom’s mobile number. If he really lived nearby perhaps, at long last, we could meet. He might be a good deal more frank than his solicitor.

  ‘Long time, no hear,’ he said. ‘I’ve been away a bit. Hors de combat. How’s the baby? He? She?’

  ‘She. And she’s brilliant. Wonderful. The best thing ever.’