‘When are you on?’ my father asked, a mite too loudly.
She mouthed Shshh at him, nodding at the stage. He mimed the zipping of his lips.
The host lifted the head of his mandolin, poised. ‘It’s “Make Me a Pallet on Your Floor”,’ he said, ‘as you’ve never heard it butchered before.’
My father leaned back with his arms crossed to appraise the sound, pint rested in the hinge of his elbow. His flushed complexion settled to its normal pallor. ‘Make it soft, make it low, so your woman don’t know,’ the host sang, ‘make me a pallet on your floor . . .’ I was surprised to see Fran Hardesty so pacified by such a sweet and simple tune.
We’d driven north, the land rising into dales ahead of us, rows of terraced houses cleaving to the undulations of the land like studs pressed to a belt, grey smoke ascending from the power station chimneys. Leaving Sprotbrough, he’d insisted on ejecting my audio book and replacing it with a tape of his own. ‘I need to think,’ he’d said, his bloodied knuckles dancing on the steering column. ‘A bit of Treasure, that’s what we want.’ My father didn’t claim to have an eclectic taste in music, but he had a refined ear. He’d become a devotee of Cocteau Twins at some point in his twenties, and tried routinely to impress their qualities on others: to me, their music was no different to roadwork noises. There’d been nothing to do except submit to it—those strange, reverberating drums and synths, the clanging bells, staccato breathing, brash guitars, a woman singing with the voice of a girl chorister, mumbling nonsense words that might as well have been Aoxin. I’d comforted myself with the thought that at least we were getting closer to Leeds with every passing mile, though our deviation from the plan gave me a hollow feeling.
QC’s instructions were to wait for him at the White Oak pub in Rothwell—my father couldn’t pin him down to an exact time of arrival. ‘He’s a busy man, you know,’ he said, ‘and he’s doing me a favour coming out here. We’ll have to be patient.’ The pub was still shut when we got there, and so we sat in the empty car park eating the salmon sandwiches from my mother’s coolbox. Watching my father devour his share, I soon lost my appetite.
We’d parked in the cool of the pub’s shadow, eyeing the road and the cabbage fields beyond. Cars beat steadily across our sightline and Francis Hardesty regarded each vehicle that passed as though studying the comportment of racehorses in a paddock. The dashboard clock edged towards one thirty. ‘He drives a Beamer, a three series, I think. Can’t remember if it’s black or silver now. Actually, it might even be blue. I’ve only been in it the once.’ He drew the Lilt out from the gap beside my seat and offered it again. ‘Last chance,’ he said, and cracked the ring pull.
Every minute that crept by felt like a step away from him. We should have been in Leeds already.
‘See, this is the thing about QC: he goes round acting like he’s straight off a hard-knock estate, when I know for a fact that he went to a posh school like your mother wants to send you to. And, okay, he claims he was expelled and all that, but still. His parents are barristers. That’s why we call him QC. Barnaby’s his real name, but you didn’t hear that from me.’ My father was chuckling at the thought. If he liked QC at all, it wasn’t evident from the sneering tone in which he spoke about him. ‘Not sure how he got into carpentry work, but I’ll bet you he had plenty of help from mummy and daddy along the way, if you know what I mean. Brand new tools and his own little workshop, just to help him get started. Apprenticeship at the Old Vic. Connections at the Beeb. No problem.’
I didn’t know how to respond to this. But if I had the opportunity to answer him again, I’d tell him his philosophy was backwards: why should parents with the means to help their child ever withhold it? Wasn’t that just selfishness?
And still the cars went by.
‘I’ve been wanting to ask you,’ he said, ‘about your grandpa—how’s he doing lately? He bearing up or what?’
My grandfather had chain-smoked his way to the age of sixty-four and developed cancer in his lung. The last time I had visited his house—a six-bedroom mansion in Bradenham with a rolling lawn the gardeners had to cut with a ride-on mower—he’d been unable to raise himself from the banquette in the conservatory to kiss my mother hello. We hadn’t even sat at the piano, as we always did, so he could play me tunes from the book he called ‘Chopin for Dummies’. He had an oxygen tank and a translucent tube hooked to his nostrils. When I explained this, my father said: ‘Oh, that doesn’t sound too good . . . Who’s he got running the show while he’s laid up, then—your mum?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, she must be doing all she can to wriggle out of it.’ He lifted his brow at me. ‘No one’s going to make her give a toss about the catering business. The old man needs to sell that company while he’s still got his wits about him.’ He belched quietly into his fist. ‘Excuse me.’ A chain of traffic hauled itself beyond our view. ‘What’s this school like, anyway? The one they’re so keen on you going to.’
‘I was only there for a few hours,’ I said.
‘D’you want to go there, or what?’
My experience of Berkhamsted School was limited to a brisk walk along the path between the chapel and the cricket pavilion, down a long corridor where the names of ex-Head Boys were painted gold on tall oak panels, into a teaching room that looked down onto a copse of evergreens, to a desk where I had written the two-hour entrance examination. I had spoken to nobody except a wiry teacher in a gown who’d told me I could leave as soon as I was finished. There was one troubling aspect of it I couldn’t forget: the sense I had, ambling away, that I was a much less exceptional person than I’d been led to believe.
‘I don’t know—mum wants me to,’ I replied. ‘They only put me on the reserve list anyway. My maths mark was bad.’
‘Seventy-six per cent is what I heard. If that’s bad, I don’t know what’s good.’
‘It’s bad at Berkhamsted.’
‘Well, there are plenty more important things in life than school, believe me.’
‘Like what?’
He began to pick the gungy bread out of his teeth. ‘Like doing what you’re good at. Finding a way to do what you’re good at without all the other garbage getting in the way.’
‘What garbage?’
‘All the stuff you can’t escape when you get older—bills and rent and debts. The ties that bind.’
‘Oh.’
‘You’ve got to know what you’re good at when you’re young and go for it—don’t waste your time worrying about how you’ll cope, just cope. That’s what I’ve learned.’
‘How do you know when you’re good at something?’ I didn’t think I had any particular gifts. I was skilled at playing Top Trumps, but I didn’t see it as a valuable asset, long-term.
‘That’s the tricky part,’ he said. ‘If I’d started doing this ten, fifteen years earlier, I’d have been a lot better off.’
‘Building sets and stuff, you mean?’
‘Yeah. I never knew that I was good at it, that’s the problem—people told me that I was, but I thought they were just saying it because that’s what mates do. You don’t really know until you’re in it, and suddenly it all comes naturally, and the time just goes phoof when you’re doing it. I wish I’d worked it out sooner, that’s all.’
‘But then you’d never have met mum,’ I said.
‘True.’
‘And you’d never have had me.’
‘No . . . I suppose not.’
His eyes were glassy now, gone to the distance.
We sat in the quiet for a while more, projecting the arrival of QC onto every movement in our sightline. My father took his cigarillo tin out of his shirt pocket and flicked it open: empty, as it was the last time he’d checked, an hour ago. He tucked it away again. An old Beetle slowed, indicated left, and pulled into the car park, piquing our interest for as long as it took to make a U-turn right in front of us and rejoin the road, disappearing in the opposite direction. ‘Oh for go
d’s sake, mate, where the hell are you?’ My father threw his head back, juddering the seat rest. ‘It’s almost two.’
‘How come we even need QC?’ I asked.
‘Because he’s the man in the know, that’s why. He can make things happen.’
‘Yeah, but don’t you know things, too? You both work on the show.’
‘It’s not as simple as that, son.’
‘Why not?’
‘Nothing ever is. There’s always someone’s arse you’ve got to kiss to keep the peace. QC’s ten years younger than me so he’s much better at all that. I can’t play the game that way. It’s meant to be one big collaboration in TV, but there’s still a hierarchy—you know that word? A ranking system.’
‘Like the army,’ I said.
‘Yeah, almost.’ He wobbled the sun visor in exasperation. ‘See, QC and me—we’re just privates taking orders from the generals. Sometimes the orders you get handed aren’t ever going to work in practice, and it’s obvious, but you’ve got to go along with them to please the generals. Everyone’s so afraid of upsetting everyone else that the job takes six times as long as it should. There’s a lot of that, in TV, I’ve found out. Pleasing the generals. And the lieutenants and the sergeants, and anyone else who looks down their nose at you, which is more or less everyone.’ He upturned the Lilt can over his mouth till it was empty. ‘Watch this,’ he said, cradling the base of it in his right hand; then, in a flurry, he pitched it at the open glovebox. It rebounded into the footwell and splattered my shoes. ‘Bad shot—did I spray you?’
‘A bit. It’s fine, though.’ I wiped them on the carpet.
‘Anyway, I’m not afraid of telling the generals how it is sometimes. Never have been. It puts noses out of joint occasionally, but they all know I do good work and they respect me for it. Downside is, the other privates start thinking you’ve gone over their heads when you do that. They get the idea that you’re not one of them, and then you start to get problems. Squabbling and resentment. You get left out of certain conversations. Which is why I need QC. He’s an ally. He gets it. D’you see what I’m telling you?’
‘Yeah, I think so.’ But there was nothing he had said that made our situation any more transparent. Extracting the truth from my father was like trying to wring the taste of dinner from a dishrag.
It was past two o’clock when a man in a white vest and Bermuda shorts emerged from the pub’s entrance. He went inside again and then returned with a blackboard sign on a stand, displaying a list of beers on tap. ‘Reckon they’ve got a pool table?’ my father said.
‘I don’t know how to play.’
‘Rubbish—I taught you that time in Amersham.’
‘That was snooker.’
‘Same difference. Pool’s just snooker for idiots.’ He pulled the handle, nudged the door open with his knee. ‘Come on, there’s no point sitting here all day. Whenever QC decides to show up, he’ll find us.’
‘Is there a phone in there to call Mum, d’you think?’
‘I can ask.’ (Later, he’d deliver the bad news: ‘There is a phone but it’s behind the bar. And the landlord says it’s staff use only. I tried to reason with him, but he wouldn’t have it. Tight old git.’)
Inside, the White Oak was dim and decorous. There was no pool table, just a lot of equine paraphernalia, a wall-mounted jukebox, and a fruit machine. I needed the toilet but couldn’t bear to go alone, and didn’t want to ask my father to accompany me, as though I were an infant. He left me at a table by the entrance while he went to order at the bar. Staring out at the car park, I tried to overlap the image of a silver BMW arriving ceremoniously on the tarmac, QC stepping out to save the day like Joe Durango, the brash youth from my favourite boy’s adventure novel, short and denim-clad, hair greased to a shine. But no one came. We were the only patrons in the pub for quite some time. All I could hear was my father chatting to the landlord and the subdued carnival refrain of the fruit machine.
The longer we waited for QC, the less likely it seemed that he was coming for us—I know my father sensed it too, but he carried on his show of positivity. ‘You bring those Top Trumps with you?’ he said. We played a round together, his enthusiasm for the game unprecedented and suspicious. After I took his last card—a Hawker Siddeley Trident—he threw his hands up in surrender. ‘Okay, that’s it, I can’t stand any more punishment! You’re too good!’ But this was just his way of tempting me into a few more rounds, diverting me from the delay. As we went on boasting the statistics from our cards, the pub slowly filled up around us, the minutes amassed, the bright day washed to grey, and thoughts of The Artifex and all my father’s promises somehow escaped me.
When I couldn’t ignore my bladder any longer, he took me to the gents’ and we stood at adjacent urinals; he, whistling the theme from Grandstand and pissing noisily; me, eking out a weedy stream, trying not to stare at the detritus in the drain, the pubic hair and viscid yellow stains. He’d already rinsed and dried his hands by the time I was done, and was ogling his reflection in the mirror. ‘Look at that,’ he said, pointing out a rash of paint-specks on the surface. Leaning close, he scraped the dried spots of emulsion with his thumbnail till they came away. ‘How can you leave a job like that? It’s criminal.’ He held the door for me, ruffled my head as I went out.
There was no trace of QC or his car outside, so we went to check the deeper reaches of the pub, nudging aside old men in muddy wellingtons with tabloid newspapers spread across the bar, and a sunburned farmer who was leaning on the counter at an angle just sufficient to obstruct the aisle; I stepped over his enormous hobnail boots. On our way past, my father asked the landlord: ‘Any sign of that fella I told you about?’
‘Nah, pal, sorry,’ came the reply. ‘Heard there was a bad collision on the six-three-nine, though. Perhaps your mate’s got caught in the congestion.’
‘You could be right, there,’ my father said. ‘Cheers.’ And we carried on into the next section, walled with dark wood. There was a fireplace without flames. A giant set of bellows. An old mantel clock that needed winding. I didn’t know the time and was afraid to ask.
‘Do you think he’s really coming, Dad?’ I said.
My father halted. ‘What?’
‘QC.’
‘I know who you meant.’ He was peering downwards, but not at me—at the vacant space between us. ‘What’s put that daft idea in your head? Of course he’s coming! You heard them out there, didn’t you? There’s been a crash on the road from Leeds. He’ll be stuck in a tailback or something like that. He’s a mate, he’ll be here.’ And he crossed his arms. ‘I’m a bit surprised at you, son. I thought you had more trust in people.’
There was no problem he couldn’t angle back on you, present as your own failing. Ask if it might rain, he’d query your suspicion of the clouds. Ask for a lift, he’d question your legs, the validity of your bus-pass, your reasons for leaving the house.
‘QC isn’t perfect,’ he went on, ‘but he’s the sort who puts himself out. You’re going to see that for yourself when he shows up. And, by the way—just in future—don’t do that, okay? Don’t be like your mother. Don’t go questioning the people who are trying to help you. I’m doing my best for us here, okay? Give me some credit.’
I yielded.
‘Sit there,’ he said, gesturing towards the corner table.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To find something to smoke. Maybe there’s a machine or something.’ He nodded at the window. ‘Keep lookout.’ And he went off to scout for Wintermans.
In the relative quiet, I gazed at the mantel clock and thought about my mother. She would’ve been at work by then, with her wristwatch laid out on her desktop and the number of the Leeds Metropole scribbled on a slip of paper, ready to dial if the hour hand reached six and she was still to hear from us. She would’ve been contemplating the prospect of speaking to the hotel manager and being told: ‘No, madam, it seems they’re yet to check in.’ Worse, the truth: ‘Sorry, madam
, that booking was cancelled several days ago—did you want to make a new reservation with us?’
I was alone and deflated, and every time I heard the clunk of a car door outside, my heart rabbited. Still there was no BMW in the car park.
‘. . . so he pulls up another screen on his computer and types it in . . .’
The room dulled at the edges of my vision. Two young women were carrying half pints of beer to the table opposite.
‘. . . and he’s eyeballing me the whole time, like, you’re taking the piss, you, aren’t you, love? Surprise, surprise, there’s nothing available. So he turns his screen right round for me to look. Ha ha! As if I thought there would be. And he goes to me, There aren’t any vacancies for backing singers. You might need to lower your expectations a bit. Cleaning work, call centre jobs, things that don’t require any experience. It was so embarrassing. Total waste of time.’
‘You’ll never get a job if you’re that picky,’ the blonder of them said.
‘Good!’ said the other. ‘I don’t bloody want one, do I? That’s the whole point. Weren’t you listening?’ Her dye-job was seven shades subtler than her friend’s. She was hippyishly pretty: a fine-boned face, two meals away from scraggy; pale skin; a waifish set of eyebrows. There was a braid in her fringe, a neat little ropeline across her forehead.
‘So, you’re just gonna sign on for the rest of your life, are you? Good plan.’
‘No, I told you,’ the braided woman said. ‘Gary’s lending me enough to make a demo, then we’ll see what happens. I’ve got it all worked out.’
Her friend coughed out a laugh. ‘Shit. You’re really pinning all your hopes on the music, eh? I don’t think that’s actually a plan.’
After so long in the car, the tune of someone else’s conversation was a welcome sound.
‘What’s your plan, Vee? At least I’ve got some ambition.’
A Station on the Path to Somewhere Better Page 8
