The conjured presence of Noreen made him admit the truth of himself, as it always did. She was the one who had found him out. She had provided a home for Benny’s secret softness, a place where he could take off his muscles and let his shameful gentleness emerge. He might fool the citizenry with his deliberate swagger and the haircut that made his hair look like moss on a cannonball, but Noreen hadn’t believed him. It was as if she had known him when he went first to the orphanage at the age of ten, very thin and with a bird-like capacity for panic.
Always frightened of feeling before, he had found himself after her death with a great load of affection like stolen goods and nowhere to fence it. He had started again to stash it in his muscles and hope that nobody would notice. Glancing drunkenly around the room, he saw it looking like a gymnasium. He had a bullworker leaning in a corner, a chest expander fixed to the door and assorted weights in the cupboard. It was as if he had been trying to intimidate his grief.
But to his sense of her he admitted the truth again. He couldn’t quite believe in himself as a hard man. He had watched nearly every Clint Eastwood film several times, like taking a course in callousness, but somehow the treatment hadn’t quite taken. No doubt he would go on trying, since out there he didn’t know what else to do. Sitting in this room, however, he owned up to himself. He had been terrified on the platform. He had been glad when Tank Anderson settled the matter with Matt O’Neill, because Benny wasn’t sure that he fancied his chances against Matt.
‘A man’s a man for a’ that,’ he said to his seventh can of export with his finger in the ring-pull.
The explosion of escaping gas was like faint applause. Benny loved Robert Burns, not just the poetry, which he could quote at great and sometimes pub-emptying length, but the man, the hard life, the democratic stance of him, the sense he gave of effortlessly incarnating Scottishness, the fact that he, like Benny, was an Ayrshireman. Scottishness was very important to Benny. He wasn’t sure what it was but, whatever it was, it bit like lockjaw and the fever of it was in his blood. When he read Burns, he looked in a national mirror that told him who he was and forbade him to be diminished by what other people had. He was enough in himself. The greatest expression of his Scottishness that he could think of at the moment was to travel. It was what his heart told him to do.
‘The hert’s aye the pairt aye
That maks us right or wrang.’
He would travel. He might even emigrate. Wasn’t that what Scots did? He remembered a story he had heard. Somebody in the pub had been talking about a book he was reading. It was about a man sailing round the world himself. That was something to do, except that Benny didn’t know a gib-sail from a tablecloth. But the man had written a book about his trip. One place he stopped in South America, he met some natives and they told him about a primitive tribe up-country who had red hair. The man had visited them and, sure enough, they had dark skins and reddish hair. The man thought they were descendants of Scotsmen who had settled there. Panama, Benny thought it was. The idea of it made him shake his head in wonderment.
‘Christ, we’re everywhere,’ Benny said, raising his beer-can in a toast to the empty room. ‘We are the people. Open an alligator’s gub in the Congo an’ a Scotsman’ll nod oot at ye. We’re everywhere. Australia, Canada, America, South America, Asia.’ He paused, running out of places. ‘Russia. There was always Scotsmen in Russia. An’ all over Europe. For centuries. India. A lotta Scottish graves in India.’ He started to sing. ‘There was a soldier, a Scottish soldier. We are the people. Scotsmen can go anywhere. An’ why no’ me? Why not Benny Mullen? Ye can go anywhere. Ye could even go –’ His mind eddied with the drink and he waited to find what exotic flotsam it would throw up. ‘To Babylon.’ The word shimmered in his head. ‘Babylon.’ He laughed and drained his can. ‘Correct. Ye could even go to Babylon. How many miles wid that be?’
His laughter was a celebration of how simple life was. His eighth can gave him his vision complete. He would go to Babylon, not necessarily to stay there. He would see it first and then decide. But it was a beginning. He would need an atlas.
He referred the project to his memory of Noreen, like praying at a shrine before a journey. He felt her approval given. As if an oracle had spoken, he remembered another of her parting warnings, given from her hospital bed when her body hardly made a bump on the coverlet and families were murmuring all around them in the ward and her eyes had rekindled for a moment into their old liveliness:
‘You’ve a life to live, Benny Mullen. Live it! Ye’re therty-five. Don’t let me catch you skulkin’ in coarners. Ah married a man, not a mouse.’
That had been three years ago and what had he done to justify her faith? He would do it now, for the two of them. He stood up suddenly.
‘By Christ, ye’re right, Noreen. You are right, ma bonny lass. An’ say Ah’ve said it.’
He toasted himself with his can. It was empty. Wondering vaguely if there would still be a can left over in the fridge from his last carry-out, he made to move through there and slipped on an empty beercan. The can he was holding slithered across the floor. He landed on his hands and knees. He gave long thought to the problem of rising and slowly subsided on the carpet. He felt it was his first step on the way to Babylon. Trying to find a comfortable position for his right leg, he kicked another empty can. Just before he slept, doubts began to buzz like flies around his dying enthusiasm. How could he go? Where would the money come from? Would he feel the same in the morning? He hoped that Noreen would forgive him for the mess.
15
Callers
8.30 a.m. The phone rang in the sunlit room. At the third ring there was a click and a recorded message came on. In spite of the mechanical distortion, the woman’s voice was warm. It had a quality of vulnerability, suggestive of beginning to surface out of sleep. It was a voice that had given some men from time to time a delicate and pleasurable spasm, as if they were having a gentle orgasm through the ear. Behind it, a record was playing somewhere. It was only just impossible to make out the tune.
The voice said: ‘Hullo. This is Fran Ritchie. I’m sorry I’m not in. But I’m hithering and thithering quite a lot these days. The fact that I could say that proves I’m not drunk. Whoever you are, your message is welcome. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Please wait for the horrible bleep.’
As the bleep came, a man’s voice said, ‘Shit.’ The word was barely decipherable. The voice became irritably clear against a background noise of traffic. ‘Fran. Mike. I need to see you. I know Polly’s been phoning you. Before you went to Southend. She told me last night. Didn’t sleep a wink. Jesus, some time I’ve had. Look. I had to tell her. The guilt was breaking my balls. You’ve got your other involvement, anyway. Don’t deny it. I’m sorry she’s taking some of it out on you. That wasn’t my idea. But, believe me, you’ve got the best of it. You only have to listen to her on the phone. And you can always put the phone down. Me. I’m permanently plugged into her. And it’s not just words either. Know what happened last night? She beat me up. One stage, she was pulling me up and down the floor by my hair. Christ. My scalp feels as if it’s been tenderised. Another session like that and it’ll be a Woolworth’s wig for me. I don’t fancy going home tonight.’ The voice stopped talking. There were sounds that weren’t clear. One could have been tapping on glass. ‘You’ve got to help me here, Fran. We can synchronise our stories. Minimise the whole thing. Polly says you refuse to tell her anything. Good girl so far. But we have to meet and sort something out. Phone me at the office. Soon as you can. Right? Fran, this thing could destroy my children. You know how I feel about them. You’ve always understood that. One last favour. That’s all I’m asking. Don’t let me down. Otherwise, I’m going to have to start up a refuge for battered husbands. If we –’ There were rapid pips on the line. ‘Shit. No more money. Phone me.’
8.45 a.m. The woman’s voice that followed the bleep was querulous, as if the empty room were letting her down.
‘Oh n
o. Fran, it’s Mum. Why didn’t you phone? Especially after the day I had. Your father was utterly impossible. Those latest pills aren’t helping at all. I might as well give him smarties. I don’t know how long I can cope with this. You know what he wants to do now? He wants to convert the attic. Can you imagine it? After all this time? He wants to convert the attic. All the years I asked him to do it. Now he decides. Now that he’s developed five thumbs on each hand. Now he’s going to convert the attic. The attic. He might as well want to explore Antarctica. I just about had to chain myself to the pull-down ladder to stop him. This can’t go on. You know how much just letting him hear your voice can help. Phone as soon as you get back. And when you finally come up, remember the tin of walnut oil.’
10.32 a.m. ‘Hullo, Lucy’s godmother. We trust you’re remembering Sunday. Don’t you dare be in Africa. Phone for final details. Love.’
11.47 a.m. ‘I don’t know how welcome this message will be, Fran. It’s Donald Evans, your friendly neighbourhood bank manager. I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings. But your £4,000 overdraft facility has become a five-and-a-half thousand pound monster. You’ll have to come in. Talk we must. You simply can’t go on like this. This is London, Fran. Not Disneyland. It’s not monopoly money we’re issuing. Phone me. Don’t hide from it in your usual fey and charming way. Phone. Liked your last piece in the paper. The one about women in prison. Phone me.’
11.53 a.m. The woman’s voice was not being allowed to go where it wanted, like a dog on a very tight leash. ‘I’ve been trying to give you time to get out of bed. I imagine that usually takes a while for you. You never know who’s going to be in there with you. Cow. You call yourself a journalist, I believe. I call you a whore. Don’t worry. I’ll be calling again. And again. See you in court.’
1.21 p.m. ‘Fran. Mike. I’m sorry about the message this morning. Forgive a man whose hair’s falling out. But don’t hide, lovely. How long does it take to get back from Southend? Remember, no matter what happens, I’ll always love you in my way. It may be a pretty crippled way but there we are. If you get back this afternoon, please phone me. I’ll be in the office.’
3.59 p.m. The woman’s voice spoke against one of Bach’s violin concertos. It sounded like one of the strings. ‘Fran. Susie here. Just to say thanks yet again. And give you a progress report. I’m fine. Annabel’s fine. She loves the cottage. So do I. After the last few months, I’d forgotten there were places like this. The big bad wolf can’t get to us here. He doesn’t know where we are. I can hear my nerves begin to quieten down already. Listen. Annabel’s beginning to talk. At least here, with just the two of us, her first words won’t be swear words. It’s all thanks to you. I’ve just canonised you. Saint Frances of Kentish Town. Trust me, Fran. I’ll be paying back every penny. Must go. Annabel’s eating some flowers. Catch you between your fascinating assignments. Love you.’
Five times, at 4.20 p.m., at 5.01 p.m., at 5.05 p.m., at 6.46 p.m., at 7.58 p.m., the telephone rang but each time the receiver was replaced at the other end before the recorded message had been completed.
8.50 p.m. ‘Fran. I’m still waiting. And so is your father. If you get back before midnight, please phone us.’
9.05 p.m. ‘The man you love to hate, Fran. What’s going on? You met the man of your dreams in Southend? You must have small dreams. Interesting developments in connection with the Peterborough piece. I think you should do it. Phone me soonest. But not during the hours of darkness. Janice has rediscovered her nerves.’
9.32 p.m. ‘Mike here. Mike. Remember me? Where are you? Why aren’t you phoning? I’ve had about enough of this. I know who’s behind it. Alan Martin. Right? The East End sophisticate. Your bit of rough trade. Thinks he’s a hard man, does he? Tell him I know people could break his knee-caps just by looking at him. Tell him that. You phone me. I’m at–’ A lot of voices invaded the phone. Someone was singing ‘On the banks of the Wabash far away’. He came back on and very precisely stated a number. ‘You phone me. D’you hear? Bloody well phone me.’
10.03 p.m. ‘Cow. Slut. Whore. Cocksucker. Marriage-breaker. ‘Bye.’
10.22 p.m. ‘Hullo. Alan Martin here. This message is for Mike Thomas. Are you listening, bastard? Yes. I know your tricks. Fran’s just told me. No. Don’t try to stop me, love. He’s got it coming. I know you’ve still got a key, Thomas. And I know you like listening to Fran’s answering machine. Well, shove this up your ear-hole, shit-face. Fran’s with me. And that’s where she’s staying. She’s had enough of being nursemaid to a neurotic. She won’t be coming back to the flat except to move her things. And I’ll be with her. If you show face, you’ll be wearing your bollocks for a cravat. End of message.’
10.44 p.m. ‘Don’t believe it. After I’ve done. Hope you’re pleased with yourself. Children. You don’t care about children. Godmother? Huh. Not over. Not yet. But thanks. Oh, thank you very much.’
The connection was sustained for sixty-four seconds in silence except for a muffled sound before the receiver was replaced.
11.13 p.m. ‘Hullo, you. This is Eddie Kendrick. I feel I shouldn’t have to say my name. But my parents taught me politeness. I think maybe they overdid it. Anyway, I can’t quite trust you yet to know my voice. I couldn’t take it if I was talking to you for five minutes and you couldn’t work out who it was. So this is me. Eddie Kendrick. How are ye, love? Me, I’m walking on the moon. You know what I did today? I wrote the best pieces I’ve ever written. I know I have. All right. I’m quietly as drunk as a monkey. But it’s the truth. It’ll be in the paper tomorrow. You’re the main person I want to read it. You remember the game of darts we had in ‘The Popinjay’? I was at my boring worst that night. If they had a charge ‘drunk in charge of a mouth’, I would’ve got twenty years. Your tolerance was amazing. That’s when it started for me. You treated me like a human being when I was an arsehole. I never forget it. Remember the big man who wanted to dance on my head. Had a point. You went right between us. I thought you were like Joan of Arc. Never forgot it. That’s when it started for me. What I’m saying is. I don’t exactly know. I’ve always liked your work. It’s like an extension of your smile. Some smile. A motel sign in the desert. Okay. I better get the head out of overdrive. I want to celebrate. That’s all. Just celebrate. That’s what I’m asking. All those times since. In the pub. Talking about bye-lines and shit. I’ve just been thinking you. What I want to do. Is see you tomorrow night. I’ve taken a liberty here. I’ve booked a table for two at ‘L’ Escargot’. And let’s see. We’ll just see. The table’s for half-past eight. And we meet in ‘The Popinjay’ at seven o’clock. Where it began. I’m a romantic’s what I am. Violins in attendance. Okay? I’ll phone you again tomorrow. Just come and we’ll see. Be there, you. Sleep nice.’
The glow from the streetlamp outside made a path of light across the room, along which lay, like signposts on a journey, a magazine open at photographs of some exotic place, a lighter and a discarded pill bottle, which was empty.
16
End game
‘Ah’m just thinkin’, Jeanie,’ Gus McPhater said, laying open on his knee his paperback copy of The Essential Schopenhauer. He had been leafing back and forwards through the section ‘On Human Nature’.
‘Oh yes,’ Jeanie said. ‘The doctor warned ye about that.’
Gus laughed loudly, seeming to suggest that being married to a witty woman was a joy forever. But Jeanie didn’t respond. She was watching another of her old films on television, what she called ‘a good romantic, old-fashioned picture, before they started showin’ their knickers every two minutes’. This one was The Greatest Show on Earth.
It wasn’t concentration on the film that had made her fail to respond. Just as Gus could read Schopenhauer while Betty Hutton was dancing on a trampoline and singing a song at the same time (amazing breath control, Gus thought over the edge of his book), so Jeanie could engage in quite elaborate conversation while watching a film. Once, Gus remembered, during The Enchanted Cottage she had a
rgued scathingly for half-an-hour about the pointlessness of his tendency to read books that ‘normal’ people didn’t understand. Gus had found her contempt rendered powerless against him because she had been simultaneously enthralled by a picture the main point of which was that a man who had been hideously disfigured in the war underwent instant plastic surgery when he crossed the threshold of an old cottage. While she watched her films, he read and they both talked during these activities, as if they had left their minds quietly knitting on their own.
It was for a different reason that Jeanie didn’t react to the generosity of Gus’s laughter. He had applied the water but the flower didn’t open. She had learned to suspect Gus most when his approach was most casual. ‘There’s something, Jeanie,’ he would say, or ‘D’ye know what?’ or ‘Ah’m just thinkin’,’ and Jeanie’s senses would quicken as if she had just spotted someone loitering with intent. Watching Charlton Heston (wasn’t he a fine-looking big man?), she was waiting. Gus glanced back at Schopenhauer: ‘Money, which represents all the good things of this world, and is these good things in the abstract . . .’
‘Naw, but,’ Gus said. ‘Ah was just thinkin’. How long is it since you saw your Sadie?’
Under the appearance of following the action on the screen, Jeanie scouted the question carefully. She could see no ambush. Her sister Sadie lived in Toronto. That seemed a long way round to go to lay a trap.
‘Must be five year,’ Jeanie said.
‘It must be. That’s right. It’s five year past since she came over wi’ Big Tam.’
‘He had put on an awful weight,’ Jeanie said.
‘Well, we’re none of us gettin’ any younger.’
Walking Wounded Page 11
