Finding Davey

by Jonathan Gash

  One alternative was to buy a computer system matching Bray’s for her own home, which would be ridiculous. Lying awake, she told herself there would then be three – Bray, herself, and Kylee. The irate girl, despite her Halstead venue, was still demonically active interrupting Lottie’s e-mail system. Heaven knows who was paying for Kylee’s computer time. She surfed with complete abandon. Twice she had lifted e-mails Lottie had not yet handled, making contemptuous comments to Lottie on Bray’s screen and insolently mailing “Get on with it, Grannie.” Lottie had smiled for Bray’s benefit, but seethed.

  About four o’clock in the morning she decided she had done the right thing. Then she overslept, arriving late at Gilson Mather’s. A terrible headache finished the day. Bray was staying to teach Loggo and Suzanne to make miniature block planes. She travelled home alone wondering what on earth she thought she was up to at her age.

  Clint did well in some grade tests, not in others. His art was so uncertain his scores had to be averaged, unlike other kids. Math was fair, English comprehension good.

  “Clint is so wayward,” Donna Curme told Mom. “He seems content. He’s coping.”

  “But his grades.” Mom wished Pop hadn’t had to go back east. He should have been here for this.

  “Education isn’t numbers,” Donna said firmly. She had this out a dozen times every Parents’ Evening. “Clint’s a great reader, and his team – you know Leeta and Carlson – are up front in several.”

  “You ought to concentrate on his weak subjects.”

  Donna sighed inwardly at Mom’s accusation. “There’s a balance, and he’s picking up.”

  “You marked his science down.”

  “In technical bits he just goes miles away. I suppose it’s his accident.”

  “Accident?” Mom cried in alarm, then caught herself. “I thought you meant he’d had some fall.”

  Donna felt emboldened enough to let curiosity show. “Was it very bad?”

  “Yes,” Mom said abruptly, and closed the interview. She wondered if it was time to suggest that Madam Nosey Bitch Curme’s contract should be terminated.

  Clint was waiting by the classroom door with Leeta and Carlson and their parents. When Mom left Donna Curme there was talk about the foreign languages beginning the following month. Spanish was a possibility, but Mom knew Pop favoured Russian. They walked down to their cars. Mom now had her own car.

  “Mom,” Clint asked, laughing at Carlson’s antics on the sidewalk. “My accident. Was the first doctor old, with colours on his coat?”

  “Why do you ask, honey?” Mom swung the automobile out of the driveway.

  “I think he was.” Clint turned to see Carlson, who was pretending to kick a soccer ball. “Carlson’s good at soccer. Leeta plays too.”

  “So are you, honey!” Mom said quickly.

  “I’m not. I can’t slide like Carlson. He’s great.”

  They settled into the journey, got held up at the Hubberson interchange but were home in ten minutes. Clint liked watching the stores go by.

  “The old doctor played soccer with me. I said I was no good. He laughed.”

  “He did?”

  “He said I was…great. He said he’d never been any good.”

  Mom panicked but controlled her anxiety as they went in. She felt she ought to call Doctor and see if it was anything. Doctor hadn’t mentioned football.

  “That was real kind,” she said, staying firm. “It was when you were getting better. I remember him now.”

  Clint asked, “What was his name?”

  “Doctor Kildare,” she said desperately. “Wasn’t he great?”

  Clint dashed to get cookies and orange Manuela always fixed. Mom called after him, be careful racing everywhere like that, then she went to make her calls.

  Splendid, Clint thought in the kitchen. The old man in the coloured coat thing said You are splendid when he wasn’t. And he wasn’t called Doctor Kildare. He wasn’t Doctor at all and Mom said he was.

  Manuela ruffled Clint’s hair.

  “Dreaming again? Always never here, you! Help me make pancakes. Special for Mom, special for Pop, and none for you!”

  It was Manuela’s joke. Clint liked Manuela.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  The dilemma was impossible to solve. Bray felt alone, which was strange. He and Lottie had begun sleeping together. Actually not sleeping, but making love on his couch during the late evening, after which Lottie would start the yawning drive to home. No great distance, but as traffic worsened and roads began their winter floods she became fractious. Bray found he was testy. Gilson Mather’s part-time college students had poor results, and resits meant rescheduling for two simultaneous courses. His work suffered. He had to stay late, and several times Lottie found herself going home alone instead of with Bray.

  They came close to falling out. Lottie’s resolve wilted. Her doggedness, caught from Bray, weakened. She rehearsed a scenario in which, after making love before his livingroom fire, she gently told Bray to find somebody else more in tune with his single-minded obsession.

  The anniversary of the loss of Davey once had seemed so far off. Now, it grew imperceptibly on the horizon. Bray was a thinking man. Sooner or later he would make a decision. Why not sooner, with a little prompting from the lady he – surely by now – loved?

  Frankly, it was time they settled down together in a shared life. Time was cruel when old age supervened. Happiness wasn’t the creation of shrines, rituals without purpose. Joy was to live in peace. There would be memories, some joyous, some pure heartbreak. But she too had had her share of sorrow and sillinesses.

  The difference with Bray was that nothing must get in the way of finding his little grandson. Poor Geoffrey’s world had crashed. Shirley had disintegrated. For Bray, though, all life was measured against his sombre recruitment. Whatever happened, one question dominated Bray: Does this person, thing, help me or not?

  Some of his scheme was successful. KV books were in every bookshop she passed nowadays, thanks to her and that odious brat Kylee. The weird figures were on television, in magazines, and Lottie was sick of the damned things. Comedians mimicked their whispy shrieks and came on wearing strange hats. Even fashion houses made witty statements using skimpy models in purple leaves.

  She and Bray were in trouble. She decided, another month then have it out. Time was passing for her as for everybody. She hadn’t lost sympathy, certainly not, but there was a limit. She’d given herself unstintingly. Was she heartless to ask him to be realistic? Women were practical, men weren’t. She would make Bray face the issue. It would hurt both of them, and God knows Bray would wilt.

  A thought sickened her: Bray wouldn’t accept an ultimatum. If she laid it on the line – so many Americanisms, the influence of gruff Jim Stazio’s laconic chats – Bray would simply sit silent, hear her out, then let her go with one of his regretful nods.

  And that would be that.

  Yet what other options did she have? It was a new kind of fear, different from those she’d previously experienced.

  To his surprise Bray saw George Corkhill in Mr Winsarls’s office during midmorning break. Lottie wasn’t in today, a particular disappointment. He’d felt something fading lately. Normality surely wasn’t too much to expect. He entered, said his greetings.

  “We’re looking so pleased with ourselves, Mr Charleston,” Mr Winsarls greeted him, “because our volumes are out!”

  “A good job, Bray,” the printer said modestly, unable to keep pride from his voice.

  “They look admirable. You’ve done brilliantly, George.”

  Several copies of the two-volume history of Gilson Mather lay on the owner’s desk. Size, colour, paper, they could not have been more impressive. Bray almost blurted out that they looked really professional. He carefully turned the pages, nodding with approval at particular items. The plates, photographs, his diagrams, every feature was pleasing. He spent too long checking down the list of contributors and owners.

&n
bsp; “Lottie will be thrilled, Bray.”

  “Has she seen them?”

  “We sent a boxed set yesterday.”

  Mr Winsarls said, “I’m planning a celebration. No more postponements, Bray! Requests are coming in!”

  “It’s splendid, Mr Winsarls. Who’d have imagined?”

  Mr Winsarls coughed into his hand, and judged the moment. “The point is, Bray, somebody’s got to come.”

  “Come?”

  “With me, to the USA. We spoke of it? I’d better go. Several antique firms want to participate in lectures. It’s free publicity, in a world market. I’ve got a valuations man. I’m wondering about a historian for background.”

  Mr Winsarls linked his fingers with a glance George’s way.

  “The question, Bray, is whether you feel you’re ready to come. The alternative,” he went swiftly on, “is we take two craftsmen, with a couple from other old London firms.”

  “Would they come, Mr Winsarls?” the printer asked, wanting to support Bray.

  “Like a shot. We’d hire them.”

  “Is that ideal?” George, still in there batting for Bray.

  “Not really. Our firm’s principal craftsman is straight in the tradition.” Mr Winsarls spun his captain’s chair and spoke directly. “You’d be the living representative of three centuries, Bray.”

  “The rubber chicken circuit!” George tried to lighten the atmosphere.

  Mr Winsarls said seriously, “Twenty-three invitations – antique fairs, auction houses, college courses, museums, galleries. Nobody could have foreseen it, Bray.”

  The second volume was in Bray’s hands. He felt its inordinate weight. It was a beautiful summary of the firm’s achievements. Several sections had been ponderously dictated by himself, his experience of the most beautiful material on earth.

  “When?”

  “The sooner the better, I’d say, depending.”

  Bray thought. The children in the USA had term breaks. He had the dates painstakingly noted. Jim Stazio had provided the information.

  His forlorn hope seemed suddenly too slender. Here it was, come at last with its terrible allure. Almost certain failure, yet, deep in that cavernous pit, a lone glimmer of hope. He’d laboured to reach this moment. He looked up.

  “I agree, Mr Winsarls. It’s time. I’ll go.”

  “Three months?”

  “A travelling circus!” George said, smiling.

  Mr Winsarls enthused, “You could do it on your own, Mr Charleston.”

  Politely, Bray told Mr Winsarls that he was looking forward to it, thanked George for the work he’d done, and went back to work holding the railing.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  “We can never take a real holiday.”

  “Isn’t this a break?”

  Lottie’s exasperation was showing. They strolled along the Maldon estuary. It was a pretty scene. Children crowded the play pools despite the chill. The narrow lookout spire of Maldon’s ancient church was painted a garish mustard, the greensward expansive. Small yachts competed for leeway in the narrow river. Buster was good, never more than yards away.

  “Will we be walking here ten years from now?”

  “I hope so.”

  She understood, for Davey was his grandson, not hers. Which didn’t lessen the problem; it was just as horrifying. But, she argued with herself, time had gone on. They slept together, and now she sometimes stayed over. Maybe a woman wanted a sense of completeness, whereas a man didn’t? Women used different words: commitment, meaningful. Men sank into their minds and kept more within, so maddening. They didn’t share the same dependence on words.

  What she did know for certain was that she couldn’t go on. Raise the subject, all she got was “I hope so.” Time moved, she thought tartly, for her also.

  “We never have gone away, have we?”

  “I can’t,” Bray said simply.

  She appraised him as a dog chased a stick thrown by two children. Bray smiled, calling Buster not to join in.

  “It’s the phone, the e-mail, the messages. I’m going over the next TV episodes. They’ll have the competition in. Kylee might ring any second.”

  “Kylee’s getting more abusive.” Lottie searched for ammunition. “She curses everybody. She’s getting worse.”

  Kylee was now a young tyro, working full time in Mr Maddy’s and doing well. Lottie had had occasion to contact her there, and was startled to be told that Kylee couldn’t come to the phone. She had last visited Bray a fortnight before. Bray had taken the day off, and they had stayed in the shed most of the day. Lottie felt barred, almost as she was now by Bray’s resolve.

  “It’s her way. She’s getting excited about…” The finish, he meant.

  “Couldn’t we get on without her now?”

  He was astonished. “I can’t see how.”

  They sat on the oak benching overlooking the barges. Buster wandered the nearby ditch, occasionally pausing to make sure Bray was still there. Lottie thought how well Bray looked. He wore a long-sleeved Fair Isle pullover she had astounded herself by knitting. His frame had thinned.

  “The system’s set up. The television stations will not need to screen the competition entrants in the USA, because her ladyship Kylee says so.” She bit her tongue, quickly amended, “Kylee goes in fits and starts.”

  “She’s never less than a day out of synch, Lottie.”

  “It’s her attitude.” The last time Kylee had spoken to Lottie the girl’s scathing comments had quite worn her down. She had rung off in temper.

  “It has to be endured,” he said quietly. “The benefit, you see.”

  “She benefits, Bray!” Lottie snapped. “You pay her.”

  “I have a fortune,” he replied simply.

  He’d established a company and made Geoffrey the beneficiary. Old Mr Haythorn in the bank was having a time of it keeping abreast of the income. It was success, but meant nothing if it didn’t find Davey.

  “You’ll be touring America, Bray.”

  “That’s why I need you, Lottie.” The thought was unbearable, but he forced himself. “What if messages came tonight and we ignored it? It might be our only chance.”

  “Can I ask, Bray?”

  She felt resigned, here on the pretty strand with the sailing vessels gliding by, the families at picnics, children splashing in the pools. It seemed to mock her futility.

  “I’ll be devil’s advocate.” She turned to him. “You know how I feel. It’s only love speaking.” Appalled at her temerity, she came right out. “Do you really believe there’s any chance, Bray? After all this time?”

  He stood, hands in his pockets. Buster came up, tongue lolling, ready to go on.

  “I believe, Lottie.” He cast about for a twig, threw it with a show of effort. Buster stayed, looking at Bray, recognising a sham.

  “When I first learned of it, the horror,” he said so quietly Lottie had to lean to hear, “I stood in the garden at night. It was the stars. Me and Davey used to watch them. I realised everybody would give up eventually. Geoffrey, Shirley, the American police. Despair would win.”

  “I’m sorry —”

  “No, let me.” He was some time resuming. “I considered how it would be, to take my own life. Strange how rational it can suddenly seem. Then I thought of Davey.” He fondled Buster’s head against his knee. “And all of an instant it was clear as day. Davey, if he was able to remember back to me, to his shed with his carvings, all our games, Davey would know that I would come looking for him. Maybe I’d get it wrong, and search hopeless places. And maybe I’d die, or come up against impossible obstacles. But one thing Davey does believe, is that his Grampa is coming, following, trying to find him.”

  Bray pointed along the thronged foreshore as if it was a feature she hadn’t seen until that moment.

  “It’s all there is for me. The fullness today, tomorrow, of the future.”

  “And if your competition doesn’t find anything?”

  “Then I’
ll do it again. Make a regular competition, year after year. And anything else I can come up with.”

  Lottie couldn’t keep scorn out. “One crazy scheme after another?”

  “I’ll grab at any straw.”

  “And fail time and again?” she heard herself say, thinking even as she spoke, God, no, don’t. Her charity had vanished. She felt despicable. “You ought to be making a fail-safe plan.”

  He froze, Buster wondering why the day had gone wrong.

  Lottie thought, I hate that bloody dog, hate it for the totality of its unconditional love. Buster’s utter reverence was something she simply couldn’t match. They deserved each other, Buster and Bray together. For good. The ultimate Derby and Joan, bonded together in a lunatic quest. She could stay with them, fine, keep her emotional distance. But become involved, you too were doomed, cankered and inert.

  She’d had a friend once who had loved a priest well into her sixtieth year. The friend lived forlornly from day to ailing day, her life frittered.

  Well, that’s not me, Lottie told herself with anger. Become a life-long vestal, tending the flame at some man’s shrine? She’d reached the end of her tether. Suddenly she was impatient to be gone from Maldon’s foreshore. Tonight, maybe get her best skirt suit on, the powder blue, call up friends and claim, whatever their priorities, this evening was hers. That new raucous club down the coast. She’d had enough, thank you. Life was too short.

  “I’m so sorry,” Bray was saying, toeing the grass while Buster looked. “In other circumstances, I’d be more…”

  “That’s it, though, isn’t it, Bray?” she said, sadness over her bitterness. “The circumstances. You’re never free. I’ve felt myself changing, becoming a sort of mini-you.”

  He smiled, for once an open slow winning smile that a stranger could easily have mistaken for humour.

  “It has been beautiful, Lottie,” he said simply. “Without you I’d have gone under. Kylee too. And George. You’ve all been superb, friends I never even hoped I’d be lucky enough to have. I don’t deserve you. I’ll keep going whatever comes. Your knowledge, Kylee’s lovely soul, George’s understanding. You’re all in me now.”