Finding Davey

by Jonathan Gash

  Bray felt helpless. “What can I do, Geoff? If Davey wants a carving done am I to say no?”

  “Yes!” Shirley and Geoff had said together.

  Davey must not be distracted. Play was all very well, but school meant ambition. The other was only minor value.

  “You’re too indulgent, Dad,” Geoff decided.

  “We must set a limit, Bray,” Shirley insisted. Then Davey reached six, when learning was assessed against a curriculum. But by then Davey had his own tool kit and could even carve. Nobody was prouder than Bray.

  And the game began. KV had its own coins, the K, and the smaller V. One huge coin belonged only to Davey. Bray didn’t say the words, for they were Davey’s own.

  The game, though, was real. Davey and Bray played it indoors while Geoff watched the financial news. It was always KV against Prussia. It was the only game on earth where two opposing players were on the same side against a mythical but determined opponent, and was played with a single balloon.

  Bray and Davey defeated Prussia every night. Always a near thing, especially when Davey tried to score double or the fire suffered a faint back draught and the balloon strayed. Always the same victorious score, twenty-nineteen.

  Counting the wooden figures on their narrow ledges in the painted landscape, Bray’s vision blurred. He blotted his eyes with a sleeve, and reached the correct total of 119. Another seven carvings stood on the window ledge, ready to take their places when finished.

  He studied every one. Acrylic paints were safe, no toxicity, needing only water and easily painted over should Davey change his mind. The only problem had been the tramway signalman – Davey changed it back to blue stripes on yellow the following day.

  Thirty wooden figures had names.

  Bray heard Geoff approach, and quickly closed the panel. He was extinguishing the lantern when Geoff opened the door. Buster rose and wagged.

  “Dad?” Geoff switched on the electric light and stepped inside. “Don’t you think you spend enough time in this old place?”

  Geoff had been crying. Some psychiatrist had doubtless been at him.

  “Maybe you’re right, son,” Bray said.

  “The doctors think maybe Shirley’s going schizoid, Dad. Things can tip people over.”

  They walked towards Geoff’s house, the retriever scouting ahead.

  “You never used to lock it up, Dad. Why now?”

  “Not sure, son. Maybe a weird compensation.” It was all Bray could think of to say. They said goodnight, as if they had miles to travel.

  That night Bray sat up until three making sketches of the KV landscape. He checked his detailed drawings of the wooden figures, added notes as forgotten features came back.

  Draw five a night, with luck he’d have them all done in twenty-four days, say four weeks give or take. Then he could colour them, making sure each shade and hue was correct. He had to get on; urgency drove him. Unless Geoff lodged at the hospital with Shirley and left Bray free? He’d be quicker then. He’d get more paints and use better quality paper.

  What, two months to transfer all Davey’s figures to paper? He decided to include the seven half-completed carvings. More difficult, but the harder the task the better. Aching muscles told an athlete he was training to the limit.

  No word from Kylee.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The wharf was crowded. The greensward was now a picnic area beside the estuary. A new funfair was thronged with children. Distantly, the church’s ancient spire was now an extraordinary yellow. Paddling pools made him wince. He tried not to hear their squeals and excited shouts as he parked.

  He bought a newspaper, discarded three or four sections into a waste bin, and sat in the café with a complicated sandwich and tea. Two families, three boatmen, and a uniformed attendant from the parish car park were having a meal among impatient children, their parents trying to make them eat. Bray read an article about computer hackers.

  Two young Americans had seemingly hacked into the USA Pentagon computers. They had also, the report stated grimly, offended Harvard. The damage was costly. A defending lawyer claimed it was all in fun, paradoxically conferring benefit on the American military by exposing weaknesses, no hard feelings. What was hacking?

  Bray thought of Kylee. Pornography chains were well publicised these days, computers a route for beasts who preyed on the young. Further than this Bray couldn’t force himself to think. It might prove a blank, even after a life-long search. But what other option was there?

  “Mr Charleston?”

  The man seemed so unlikely. Ganglingly tall, there could never be another printer like him, with a shock of untidy hair, crumpled jacket and baggy trousers. Bray stumbled to his feet and they shook hands.

  “Mr Corkhill? Would you have something?”

  “I’ll get it.”

  Corkhill bought three cheese rolls and tea into which he spooned sugar. Bray watched the man down the scaldingly hot tea and engulf a thick roll. In normal times he would have felt admiration for the performance.

  “I’m sorry to bring you out on a Sunday.”

  There too he had difficulty. How easy it must be, to be female. Women would be instantly into that overlapping chat of womankind. Men spoke in alternates, you speak and I listen, then here I come, and thus we speak turn and turn about, the only way a ponderous serial exchange.

  “No harm done. I’ve had to take my daughter and her, erm, family to my sister’s.” The thin man smiled. “Glad to meet you. Never thought I’d have the honour. I’m only sad it’s under these circumstances.”

  Honour? Bray waited as Corkhill swiftly finished his food. They talked of designs remembered in the woodcraft magazines. The printer shyly confessed that he was working on a toy carousel, with metal moving parts. Carving the roundabout’s horses was difficult. A wooden hippopotamus had proved strangely easy. He asked about maple variants.

  “Give Rock Maple a try, but not the British variety. You’ll get it from Spitalfields.”

  The printer gave a wry laugh. “Mr Charleston, you’re speaking to one who’s all thumbs!”

  “Choosing your wood is half the battle. American Rock Maple – they call it Sugar Maple over there, Acer saccharum. It’s got a fawn tinge and is stiff, so your carving tool won’t wander. It works lovely, the grain close, compact.”

  They were silent a moment, each with a difficulty. “I’ll show you the result. You won’t laugh?”

  “Promise.” Bray’s moment had arrived. “I’d do it for you, in payment.”

  Corkhill watched children enter, choose a table noisily and bargain with the mother for the wrong foods. She overruled them with spirit.

  “Payment?”

  “I need a printer.”

  “I do most styles, jobs, typefaces. Come and see.”

  “I want something to have been printed, Mr Corkhill.” Bray let a moment go by. “I want proof that a booklet, quite small, was published months since.”

  “And it wasn’t?”

  “Correct.” A balloon had floated from an infant’s hand and risen to the ceiling. Bray returned it to the staring child.

  “How many copies?” Corkhill seemed to be holding out his hand for a handshake. Bray pondered, then realised he was being asked for the book.

  “Every book has an ISBN, isn’t that so?”

  The printer was obviously wondering what he’d got himself into. “The International Standard Book Number.”

  “And a publication date?” Bray added helplessly, “Before the story begins?”

  “Yes. Who has your volume?”

  “Nobody.” Bray cleared a space on the Formica table, dishes to one side, condiments to the other, as if about to demonstrate. “I need one copy urgently. I need an invoice from an established printer who supplied, in the fictitious past, a number of copies. How many,” Bray quickly anticipated Corkhill, “I haven’t a clue.”

  “Invoices,” the printer said doubtfully. “I can print you your book anytime. My cousin Teddy’s
boy’s recently joined me. He’s a designer…” He petered out, drummed his fingers. “Your book’s no problem.”

  “But invoices are?”

  “Correct. We’d get in serious trouble defrauding Customs and Excise. They’re Value-Added-Tax.”

  “They come to Gilson Mather.” Bray was leaning forward now, fingers linked, intent.

  “There’s no way round them, Mr Charleston.”

  “If I pay you as the customer, could you then?”

  “Yes. But the full job is just as easy. One copy would cost the earth. Ten thousand copies cost virtually the same as nine thousand and the cost per copy becomes negligible.”

  “Then I’ll set up as a printer.” Bray drew out a handwritten page. “Supposing I’m a printer. Ten months back, suppose I pretend I rented the use of your workshop, say three evenings a week, weekends, I don’t know. Here’s my supposition in writing. If I pay you, then could you give me an invoice?”

  “Ye-e-es. I don’t see why not.”

  “How much would it be?”

  “Will you really want my printshop, Mr Charleston?”

  Bray looked at the other with astonishment. “Good heavens, no! I haven’t the faintest idea how to print anything.”

  Corkhill passed a hand across his brow.

  “Then why do you…?” He paused, gauging Bray. “Simply to prove this booklet was printed?”

  “That’s right.” Bray wasn’t sure he’d won the point. “It would convey the belief,” he said gently, “which is all I have. I want to make it a possible.”

  “Am I to know the purpose, Mr Charleston?”

  “The less you know the better. Every tax will be paid.”

  “Then why do you need an actual book?”

  Bray couldn’t blame the man. Authorities would come down hard if he transgressed.

  “To prove there was an actual printing.”

  When there wasn’t anything of the kind. Bray saw the conclusion reach Corkhill’s eyes.

  “And my invoices would prove what, exactly?”

  “That in the past I rented your place and printed a book.”

  Corkhill nodded. He’d got it. Bray essayed a smile. It didn’t work, but showed willing. “I’ll quite understand if you say no.”

  The printer frowned. Bray’s heart sank. “Would it help your, er, plan?”

  “It is essential.”

  “Okay, Mr Charleston,” Corkhill said unexpectedly with false gravity. “But if you mix my Bembo and Sans Serif fonts the deal’s off. Agreed?”

  Bray didn’t know what those were. It seemed some quip. He said fine.

  “Now,” Corkhill said, businesslike. “Shall we walk, and work out details?”

  “That would be…” Not fine or nice. He concluded, “Yes.”

  They strolled to the wharf where fishing boats were readying for sea. They stood watching first one then another cast off.

  “As soon as you give me an idea of your size, colour, format, Mr Charleston, I’ll get the rent invoices off to you.”

  Bray’s success unnerved him. He felt scared. “Send them as soon as you like, please.”

  “It’s not a fake of a book written by someone else?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Sorry.” Corkhill smiled. “Since you’re now a master printer, you’d better drop in. At least learn where to find the light switches!”

  “I suppose so.” Bray could see he might fall down on details. “I’m very grateful. I’ll see you don’t lose by it, Mr Corkhill.”

  “Call me George,” the printer said. “Seeing we’re partners in – what’s the word, Mr Charleston?”

  “Crime,” Bray said. Easiest word so far.

  Chapter Sixteen

  He woke about three and went downstairs. Television had cricket from Sri Lanka against the South Africans on the only channel he felt safe with. It avoided news. Buster gave him a bleary look and resumed snoring. The retriever now slept in Bray’s small hallway in his flock pit.

  Kylee’s cell phone number had not replied, the several times he’d rung. Nothing.

  His Internet paperback was uncommonly difficult. The previous evening, while Geoff shuttled between hospital and home, Bray had plodded through its pages of advice. Some aspects proved alarming. One such was IRC, the Internet Relay Chat, which seemed to be the equivalent of radio talk shows. Anybody with a computer seemed able to join in, though what on earth had Finland been thinking of, starting such a thing in 1988? Very worrying, for the “chat” was live.

  His nerve began to fail, as the living room curtains showed the pallor of coming day. Live chat on a computer? When you don’t even know anyone? He read on. Type your opinion, and your words appeared that instant on computers all round the world.

  This logging business had him flummoxed.

  He hadn’t understood Kylee’s testy explanation. How did you know that you had sent your message? Could the computer say, Hey, hang on, you’ve sent it to the wrong country, so rub out and start again. Kylee hadn’t shown him that, in her one angry lesson that day.

  There were other frighteners: computers could hand over control of your own computer to strangers. He felt sickened. Like your private belongings ransacked by a burglar. Sick.

  Tiring, he found himself thinking of Kylee. Very improper, the young these days. He almost smiled. How often did older generations think that? He must watch himself. The poor girl had her own difficulties. It wasn’t her fault, dyslexic, partly autistic. Nor was it her poor father’s. Divorced, a problem child, trying to hold on. The thoughts hurt.

  Distantly, he heard Geoff’s toilet flush. Morning had broken. Bray switched off the television to start the day. Important steps had to be taken. Work at Gilson Mather had to be fitted in somehow.

  The morning flew. Bray watched the clock.

  “Some days are like this, Suzanne,” he warned the new assistant cabinet maker. “No problems, then pandemonium.”

  “The pillars in your drawings look too thin in the middle.”

  Suzanne – to Bray a lady joiner still seemed a novelty – was nearing thirty. Buxom and energetic, she started new jobs with briskness, then lost heart. Bray corrected the angle of her mahogany. She should have been inducted more gradually. As it was, complete with glittering diploma, she had serious gaps in her knowledge. Bonny, with blind spots.

  She was taking over a bureau bookcase from Old Steve, the seniormost craftsman, now hospitalised for something undiagnosed but prolonged. “The entasis is all too often exaggerated.”

  Suzanne had made drawings of two matching pillars. The entasis, that slight but planned convexity of columns, was meant to correct the apparent thinning that the human eye was tricked into discovering in cylindrical forms. Ancient Greeks, of course.

  “Mine looks right,” she argued. “We can talk it through at lunchtime.”

  “Have to go and see somebody.”

  “News?” she asked.

  He said firmly, “I’ve asked to down the bureau bookcase from a double dome for simplicity. Mr Winsarls says no, but he agrees the candle slides would be superfluous.”

  “I can do it,” she said, instantly heated.

  “I’m sure,” Bray said kindly. “But time is against us.”

  “Would it matter if it was a fortnight late? Your idea of candle slides was lovely.”

  He looked at her at such length that she reddened. His mind unclouded.

  “Yes, it would matter. I want it out on time.”

  “Who’s it for?” she asked truculently. “Somebody special?”

  “Yes. A customer.”

  Leaving the firm exactly at twelve-thirty, Bray felt he had been unnecessarily brusque. She was only coming to terms with workshop practice. But time was all anyone had.

  Fifteen minutes of quick walking and he reached the medical unit. On the way he drew out enough money to pay in cash. He wanted no traceable records.

  The reception nurse got him to fill in forms documenting past ailments. He
gave an accommodation address in City Road as his residence. He had fixed it up the previous Thursday.

  For almost an hour he was listened to, tapped, had radiographs, scans. His blood pressure was monitored. Embarrassments came and went. Doggedly he submitted to two different doctors. He breathed in, out, lay supine then prone. He had alarming tubes pressed into orifices he’d assumed that even doctors didn’t bother with. He gave specimens of this and that. He struggled to read midget lettering. He had gusts of air blown on his open eyes. He gagged on tongue depressors, was finally released with urbane smiles of dismissal.

  He felt worn out. He needed to be sure he was likely to survive long enough. How long is that? he demanded of himself, hurrying back. Well, was it two years? Longer than that, then he might have to start thinking of a substitute. Who would that be? No. His one chance of finding Davey rested on himself alone.

  The afternoon went well, in joinery terms. Suzanne worked stoically, becoming pleased as the bureau bookcase measured up. Bray’s idea was to give younger crafters a notion of scale against dimensions, as pieces of the carcass took their separate forms. He taught Suzanne the history of mahogany. She didn’t believe him, about Dr Gibbons wanting a candle box made from oddly tough wood brought by his nautical brother from the New World as mere ballast in the 1720s. Her disbelief was arrogant, but she was young.

  Failure of the young was anger’s ally. He would pike on. He continued to explain as they worked, telling her tales of the great joiner Wollaston, how the genius had actually had to fashion entirely new tools to work the strangely exotic new wood and make the candle box, thus changing all furniture in England, and thereby everywhere, for ever.

  She replied tersely that she would bring in her notes from college. She meant she’d correct his wrong ideas.

  Five-thirty the same day, Bray entered the investment company offices, carrying details of his assets, some pension plan he didn’t understand, his savings certificates. He had a list of his shares.

  The manager was a Mr Condrad, a dapper portly gent who looked as if he ought still to be in school. Bray would have placed him in some junior college, soon about to shave. The office wall was adorned with certificates.