Finding Davey

by Jonathan Gash

  Imbalance.

  Life, Bray realised when Mr Winsarls spoke about America, could take over. It moved time in patches. Some periods it simply ignored, so that whole days sped by unremarked, then slowed so you wondered why time was frozen.

  Mr Winsarls began the oddly convoluted conversation.

  “Would you be willing to visit North America, Mr Charleston? Represent the firm?”

  “I’m not ready, Mr Winsarls,” Bray replied, getting over the astonishment. Shock settled into surprise. It was exactly that episode with Rewa-rewa wood, Knightia excelsa, all over again.

  He’d been seven years into his articles, when he’d had to work with some of that lustrous New Zealand wood, scarlet-russet, of inordinate weight. A craftsman told him the piece was spare. He’d not checked further, used it for a simple batten and so earned the derision of the firm’s three master joiners. Hadn’t he bothered to look it up when he felt its turgidity and innate strength as he’d cut? For the precious antipodean Honeysuckle wood resisted fires, and was of giddy value. He’d known he was encountering something unique, but had ignored the signs in his excitement.

  He’d never made the same mistake since.

  Now the sense returned. He’d been here before. He almost smiled at the image of New Zealand’s lovely Honeysuckle wood and its exquisitely mottled silver grain. He’d learned once from that catastrophe. He must learn from it again, this time in connection with something else far more vital.

  “I rather thought the opportunity,” Mr Winsarls replied, clearly disappointed, “ahm, of a means of, ahm, perhaps…?”

  The English trick, the cause of so much humour among Caribbean folk – of lifting the chin with a concealed sigh to show exasperation – was Mr Winsarls’s habit.

  “Perhaps in a while, Mr Winsarls.”

  “Of course, Mr Charleston! We must send somebody. There’s only James.”

  “Is it to do with the history booklet?”

  “Sort of. It’s rather grown.”

  “Grown, Mr Winsarls?” Though Bray knew.

  “To do a tour, several centres. Talks. At least three American societies.”

  James Coldren was older than Bray, somewhat arthritic, and now mostly supervised the younger workers. He had joined the firm after service in the Royal Engineers. Highly skilled and with natural aptitude, he lacked Bray’s flair. He could not, Bray heard Mr Winsarls say, “put it over with the Yanks.”

  “But you could, Mr Charleston.”

  “I need a little more time, sir.”

  The honorific tended to signal the end of formal conversations.

  “How long, exactly?”

  Bray hadn’t thought it out, but now knew with a terrible certainty that it was a precise duration or none at all.

  “Can I say within fifteen months?” Mr Winsarls winced. “I know, Mr Winsarls. It’s when I shall be ready.”

  “Ready?” the owner picked up sharply.

  He quickly made calculations on his desk blotter. Bray himself had made that desk, using Xylocarpus wood for its figure. Let botanists argue about Carapa names. The beautifully fine rays showed a curious ripple that had made him late home to Emma the day he’d first cut and seen the precious wood’s gleam. Ignore the dull russet, one edge showing sombre gum streaking to perfection. He thought it blindingly gorgeous. Wood was sanity, in a world gone mad.

  “No later?”

  “Definitely not,” Bray promised with grave conviction. “The reason is, I rather understated the case. Gilson Mather’s work might need quite a book.”

  “I don’t want to press you, Mr Charleston.”

  Bray managed a smile. He was the one making haste, no one else.

  “I shan’t complain, sir.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Bray’s position suddenly soared.

  The firm had grown, owing to demand for restored and lookalike antique furniture. The year before, Mr Winsarls had briefly taken on a promotional unit of pushy youngsters from Moorgate (“We’re P ’n’ E,” they kept saying, “Publicity and Evaluation.”) to explain the unprecedented increase in orders. They couldn’t explain a thing. The surge was put down to fashion, but where did fashions originate, and why?

  Now there was another headache: the commemoration book Bray suggested.

  Documentation of Gilson Mather’s products to be was excavated by the quiet Tracy. Loggo was in awe when lists were put up on a new wall-board. Even the timber delivery blokes congregated to read. Old Harry Diggins, Cockney yard boss, had a high old time bragging exotic tales of Middle Eastern potentates who’d wanted Sheraton, Hepplewhite, Ince, Mayhew, all the great designs. Many reminiscences were true.

  “Mr Charleston did that one,” Harry Diggins would say, pointing. “Get Tracy to find the drawings. Mr Charleston sent the designer’s sketches back. Christ, the fuss about that!”

  Particular woods were remembered, problems with routers, tools spoken of as if they were gifted men of the past. Bray found himself beginning to smile at elevenses. Dick Whitehouse, master joiner in his sixties, matched memory to photos. Loggo and the two sawyers Mick and Pete were full of questions. Mr Winsarls had to restrict tea breaks, too much talk in the busiest season.

  No longer did people ask Bray how “things were going at home.” Bray was still the same quiet man who sat on the end bench at break times slowly going over the historic files occasionally marking with his HB pencil. It became quite a topic, which of the Wellington chests, what exploits of craftsmanship, Mr Charleston would select. Billie Edgeworth, fervid Manchester United supporter, wanting more of a say. The others laughed, said Billie wanted the place filled with arty girls from the Metropolitan College down the Barbican. He waxed indignant. A festive air developed.

  And the list grew. Letters shot round the world, to wherever famed pieces of furniture were traced. Familiar antiques came to light. Correspondents sought provenance trails. Memories were scoured and exotic woods recalled. Loggo started a different display board, soon becoming a nuisance by spreading along two walls, showing famed pieces. His misspellings became a butt of workshop humour.

  Tracy now had a young lad called Danny Purchase, who arrived with a potent new computer system, to develop Mr Charleston’s proposal. Within a week Danny was a feature of the place. Overseas replies increased exponentially. In no time at all he had indexes, records, addresses, locations, whole maps for the master joiners to goggle at. One marvel was that Danny could somehow turn drawings full circle on the screen, quite as if it stood there in real life. To the owner’s exasperation, it became yet another tea-break amusement.

  Even Bray went to see. He conversed with Danny Purchase in initials like HTML, and knew without being told what a gopher was.

  “That old geezer picks things up fast, dunn he?” Danny said to Tracy. “Is he —?”

  Tracy said quickly, “He doesn’t talk about it.”

  In the following weeks the proposed pamphlet became a booklet, then a book, and soon an unwieldy illustrated volume. Bray suggested changing the modem link to save Gilson Mather telephone money.

  “Something I heard blokes talking on the train,” he apologised. Danny suspected the old man was a smart arse, until he suddenly made several unbelievably clumsy mistakes that Danny instantly rectified with noisy explanations. Mr Charleston smiled, computer technology really beyond him.

  “I can’t see what’s wrong with pen and ink and the ordinary post,” he said wistfully. It gave Danny a laugh, and Danny felt secure again.

  Lottie Vinson arrived unexpectedly at Bray’s home one Friday. He was in his shed after supper and heard the relay doorbell. Buster barked, eager to mock-attack intruders, and together they went to answer.

  “The contract’s in, Bray!” she exclaimed, delighted. She stood on the doorstep, looking half the age he remembered. “I couldn’t wait to tell you. Your phone’s always on hold.”

  He stared, embarrassed. She hesitated. “Is this a bad time?” She held an enormous envelope.


  “No. I was just pottering. Do come in.”

  “Are you sure? I could easily —”

  “No, no.” He led the way into the living room. “Only, I’ve rather gone ahead.” He shrugged as she seated herself. “I heard nothing from you or Miss Lindsay, so I’ve done it myself. A rather scatty job…”

  “With another publisher?”

  “Certainly not! Just me.”

  “Done what, exactly, Bray?”

  “The reprint’s on sale, Lottie.” Frantically he checked past falsehoods. “Sharlene insisted.”

  “On sale?”

  “I’ve got this bookseller, by post. I’ve got a computer.”

  “But didn’t we agree, Bray?”

  “I’m sorry if I jumped the gun. That’s why I wrote to you.” She shook her head in puzzlement. “Care of Miss Lindsay.”

  Lottie’s voice became sleet. “Saying…?”

  “That I’d go ahead, if I didn’t hear soon.” Her silence unnerved him. He put in, “Would you like to see?”

  “Perhaps I better had.”

  He took her out into the garden and diffidently admitted her to the computer shed. She stared around. He passed her his two printed books. She sank onto his stool, tilting them for better inspection.

  “You really have ‘got on’, Bray,” she said at last. “They’re pretty.”

  “Mr Corkhill’s work.”

  “Another thousand of the second volume, I take it?”

  “Well, more than that.” Bray felt foolish, flustered, losing track. “I had to ask for three thousand this time, and two thousand more of the first book.” He sighed. “You’ve no idea, Lottie. It’s all such trouble. I find it makes one a bit peevish, new orders coming in. See this?”

  He showed her messages on the screen.

  “It’s not hard once you’ve done it a few times. Make a page – that’s a screenful – about the writer. See? Sharlene, her life? I did that. It’s called About The Authoress. Then a separate screenful about each book.”

  “What are all those names?”

  “Guest book signatures.” He felt stupid. “Takes an inordinate amount of time. I’ve just learned how to update. I’m doing one computer page per book, see?”

  “And the sales?”

  He sighed. “They’re the trouble. Booksellers get frantic. They don’t know it’s only me.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Mr Corkhill left a message yesterday about another printing, but what can I do? The payments are slow. I’m close to breaking even.” He looked at her anxiously. “That’s quite good, isn’t it?”

  He found her watching, and babbled nervously on.

  “There’s a programme that generates HTML, a godsend…” He petered out. “I don’t really have the time to keep nipping round to Aldersgate.” He almost started on straight-editor systems as her eyes glazed.

  “Sorry, Lottie. You see, I thought you’d given me up.”

  “Sharlene insisted,” she finished for him, and rose. “I’d better go in tomorrow and see what they say.”

  “Do please tell them I’m sorry.”

  She gave a curt laugh. It came like a snap. “Not as much as I, Bray.”

  They remained standing in silence.

  A night bird made noises in the garden. Something screeched. He saw the light come on, saw Geoffrey pass a window, go rummaging in the fridge. Bray had made curry and rice from Sainsbury’s packets, and left Geoff his by the microwave. Enough, with bread and butter.

  She sighed. “That’s it, then, Bray. Is Sharlene pleased?”

  “She wants everything done yesterday.”

  He led the way back to the house. Bray quickly introduced Lottie to Geoff, “My friend from London. My son, Mrs Vinson. Shirley’s poorly for the moment, back very soon.”

  He managed to make sure that the courtesies didn’t go on. Afterwards he felt he’d rather bullied her to the front door, but there was Geoff’s meal to see to, the book orders to check and the laundry to do. He was dismayed, guessing he’d seen the last of Lottie Vinson. Geoff asked about her disinterestedly. He heard Geoff out about Shirley, then left to cope with the demanding screen. He was so tired. It had been really pleasant having a woman about. Perhaps she’d thought him boastful?

  He was shocked to find a series of messages asking when the third book was due. He had given a weak promise a fortnight before saying it was “almost ready”, and now some enthusiast in Portland in Oregon – where was Oregon? – wanted dates. Transatlantic e-mail readers wanted a website for a fan club. Was this yet more Kylee?

  That night he had a terrible headache. It was all becoming too much. At work the hurried draft of the firm’s early history loomed. The following Monday he’d said he would check through it, a huge labour he could hardly face. He was behind in his actual cabinet work. He wondered if he was up to any of this, but was determined to press on, keep going. Hunters did that.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Lottie’s visit disturbed him.

  Some days he couldn’t quite focus, once almost snapped when Kylee burst out at somebody in Louisiana “moaning about these fucking books”. He kept control and asked her not to let her invective appear in her computer response.

  She glared up at him.

  “Why d’you talk like that? You’re not like that inside.” Sullenly she returned to the screen. “It’s that old fucker, the bitch.”

  “Who?”

  “That Lottie cow. You’re too fucking old for thinking shagnasty.”

  He asked Kylee how she knew about Mrs Vinson.

  “She’s come on here, coupla three times.”

  “On the computer?” Bray was startled.

  “Two-faced old cunt should keep her ugly hooter out of it. She’s nothing to do with us.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Wanted to come here.” Kylee glared accusingly. “Like party time. I told her to fuck off. I’m going to prog a key Fuck Off.”

  He couldn’t afford more headaches after coming so far. Progress couldn’t be an illusion.

  “Please, Kylee. Reply with politeness, or…”

  “Or what?” she demanded in fury.

  “What’s up?” Porky grunted at the shed door. It was dark. His cigarettes were more scented than ever. He swayed, coordination almost gone.

  “Keep out of it, you!” Kylee was shouting now. “Well?”

  Wearily Bray sat, his vision flickering, jagged multicoloured scags invading whatever he looked at. This never used to happen.

  “Please don’t go, Kylee.” She got up and shoved Porky into the garden. The lad fell down, contentedly smoking on. “I don’t know the direction. I’ve just got to keep on. You’re my only help.”

  She didn’t return to her stool, stood glaring. Supine Porky chanted some football song into the night air.

  “Who’s the old bag then?”

  “She belongs to London publishers. The books, well, they didn’t decide quick enough. So I got Corkhill’s.” It was almost true.

  “We could’ve wet them.”

  “Wet?” This was already too much on a bad evening. Bray had Part One of the Gilson Mather draft history indoors, a zillion scraps, sheets, clippings in folders, now swollen to the size of a theology treatise. He hadn’t been able to carry more than one section.

  “Bribe,” Kylee translated. “Give them money to do it for us.”

  Us. Bray noted the plural with relief.

  “They would do it here, Kylee, see how sales went. I couldn’t – can’t – wait a month, let alone two years. And it’s got to be America, nowhere else.”

  She swung her knees. Buster stirred, hopeful the movement might signal a walk.

  “Does the old bitch know? Is she your friend? You shagging her?”

  “Of course not.” No to all three, he thought, for rectitude’s sake.

  “We need a website virtual. Want me to knock one up?”

  “Yes, please,” he said. What was it? And why virtual? He felt wor
n at an end, but tears weren’t a man’s prerogative.

  “Through that Yank bookseller, or not?”

  He had no idea. “I think so, don’t you?”

  She emitted one of her cackles, old style, all disbelieving hilarity, the promise of coming confusion already in there, and swung back to the console. She reactivated the screen’s voice, listening.

  “We’ve only two items, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Three,” he said wearily. “I’m on the third book.”

  “This bookseller doesn’t advertise for us.”

  “I haven’t asked her.”

  “Sod off, while I do it.” She seemed kinder, fully restored. “You’re a pillock. Nobody sez yes. Proves you’re a cret. I reckon the bookshop’s cutting us. I’ll slice past her a few times, see how bright she is, the rotten cunt!”

  “You won’t do anything that might prejudice her cooperation?”

  “For fuck’s sake, get out of my fucking hair.”

  She was already licking her lips, fidgeting, muttering abuse. He said he’d be across in the old shed. Buster stared after him, emerged to look at Porky, then surprisingly returned to Kylee.

  As he left he heard the girl mutter, “I’ll prejudice her thieving cooperation. Who the fuck calls herself LuAnna-Louise?”

  He wrote and drew until midnight. He returned to the computer shed, its lights still burning, to find Kylee and Porky gone. A printout was stuck to the dead screen.

  Bray

  that fancy bitch in st paul don nart in advts so iv sd shed better

  or we pull the rug at wk nd n shes nt webbing like us iv told

  her update us in her stok list or thats fuckin it Kylee ps pay us

  thursday iv dad with that probashen bstrd wed

  His money was holding out, but now this.

  Illiterate blurb from his only ally. And she in trouble with the probationary court, her divorcing parents, God knows what else. He knew she’d started some fire at a correctional institution, her ruptured family in litigation over it.

  He looked round, wanting to simply rest but not daring to. A shed. A computer he still hadn’t got the hang of. And drawing pictures from a lost grandchild’s fancies in scrapbooks beginning to fade.