by Susan Sallis
Another long silence at the end of which Ned said, ‘Thank you, Conrad. And thank you for staying with him – riding it out in some way.’
‘He can’t do much about me. Dragged me out of the sea ten years ago. Stuck with me, wasn’t he?’
Ned asked no more questions. He said simply, ‘Lucky man.’ Conrad smiled again. In a curious way he looked beautiful.
The beach house was stuck between two dunes; Ned wondered fleetingly what would happen if there was some kind of sandstorm. It looked like a very large version of the chalets that sprouted from the towans across the Hayle estuary at home. It was surrounded by a wide wooden veranda, and the central house was rectangular with windows on the two sides he could see as they drove close to some steps and parked the car. A squat chimney emerged from the apex.
Conrad was following Ned’s gaze. ‘We can burn wood. But Victor has found a seaweed that burns very slowly – ideal for keeping the stove going overnight. But it smokes badly so we have to save it until it’s dark.’ He got out of the car and reached for Ned’s backpack. ‘He’ll be watching you from inside the house. He’ll want me to take the bag but he’ll approve if you take it from me.’
Ned did as he was bid and suddenly laughed. ‘Sorry, Conrad. It reminds me of someone back home who is always trying to make an impression – it never comes off. Is all this worth it?’
Conrad shot him a fierce look. ‘Let’s just get you face to face. This could be good for him.’
The sand was firm up to the veranda steps; Ned was able to shoulder his bag and look across at the sea and take some comfort from its obvious familiarity. It seemed likely this was the closest he was going to get to Victor Gould. He began to wonder whether he was acting like Rory bloody Trewyn and making an enormous drama out of a situation that should be tackled quite differently. Grief could not be assuaged by trying to put the past to rights. Grief had to be accepted; had to be endured. Wasn’t that how his mother would deal with it?
The weather was still, the sea calm, a few waves creaming in; he longed for a swim. After the early February chill of New York, California was too warm.
‘Watch the step,’ Conrad said. ‘I raked out the wrack yesterday and the first step is steeper than it looks.’
Ned switched his gaze and saw that the cabin was built on short stilts. Beneath it a canoe and two surfboards were stored. He followed Conrad, hoisting himself on to the first of the steps by grabbing the handrail with his free hand. His father could be behind one of those windows, watching him, assessing his potential, ready to make one of the disappearances Conrad clearly dreaded. Then, beneath the shadowed veranda, a screen door was pushed open and a figure stood there, holding back the door, peering across to where Conrad was standing. A voice – a voice that struck some chord for Ned – said, ‘Didn’t you bring him? Wasn’t he there?’
Conrad stood to one side, revealing Ned, half obscured by the pack on his shoulder.
Conrad said, ‘He was there, boss. He’s here now.’
Ned hoisted himself on to the sandy boards of the veranda and stood still. The man did not move; he still held the open screen door as if needing support. The silence, the stillness, were not easy, and Ned was just summoning the courage to say something and wondering what to call his father and whether he might even turn and run – though could an eighty-three-year-old actually run? – when Victor spoke.
‘So you’re Edward. My son and not my son. I’m your father and not your father. You’d better call me Victor.’ He left the door; came forward holding out his hand.
Ned took it. They shook once, then dropped hands.
‘Actually, I’m called Ned. But Edward is fine.’
‘Ned! Of course! Your mother suggested Ned. I wanted Teddy, after an uncle I never knew but learned to idolize anyway! And she said she rather liked Ned, so you became Ned.’
Conrad appeared from the open doorway with a stick and Victor took it and leaned on it. ‘Thanks, Conrad. Shall we go in? Strange how tiring it can be sitting in a car. I expect you need a drink and some food. Lead the way, Conrad. Let’s show Ned the layout. Bedroom first – dump your stuff – then bathroom probably. And back here for a picnic. You used to like picnicking, Ned.’
Ned swallowed. He hadn’t been prepared for the charm, for the total welcome. God, was he going to do what he had been doing at home and start to cry? He swallowed again, hard, then said, ‘Yes. Victor. Thank you.’
Victor made his way further up the veranda; Ned saw a table, dishes covered with old-fashioned umbrellas of fly netting, a tall jug. Then he followed Conrad through the door and into the comparative dusk of what seemed like a very ordinary living room: armchairs, a big, squashy-looking sofa, books everywhere, on shelves but also in piles on the floor.
Conrad was chortling. ‘He’s made that meal and laid it up … he was so damned nervous I didn’t think he’d be here even! This is going to work, Ned!’
‘Might he go? Now?’ Ned did not want him to go. Not now.
‘Can’t be a hundred per cent. Don’t think so.’
They were in a very dark square hallway. Conrad flicked lights on, opened a door, indicated a bed. ‘Drop your stuff, man. Bathroom’s next door. I’m going to sort out the food.’ He saw Ned’s hesitation and said, ‘He ain’t gonna leave home today. He’s … he’s … dammit, he’s happy!’ The low-energy lights picked out Conrad’s melon-grin and Ned grinned back. This wasn’t how he’d imagined anything – anything at all. It was good.
It was a strange and delicious meal. There was a plate of thin – oh, so thin – bread and butter and a jar of apricot jam next to a plate of ham – thick cut – and hard-boiled eggs. The eggs were still in their shells and Victor was peeling one when Ned arrived on the veranda again.
‘Wasn’t at all sure you’d turn up, old man,’ he explained.
Ned smiled and sat down gingerly on an ancient folding chair. It was amazingly comfortable; he adjusted a cushion into the small of his back and looked out to sea. It wasn’t really like home but the sand and sea were common denominators and the way the dunes ran down to the flat beach could be a large version of Hayle Towans. But not really. It was the space; the enormity of it. And this was the Pacific and not the Atlantic.
Victor replaced the denuded egg. ‘There’s a farm, six, seven miles inland. Fruit farm, of course, but they keep hens. Conrad makes bread now and then. Otherwise it’s a monthly forage at the local supermarket and a heavy reliance on our deep freeze.’ He glanced at Ned. ‘Guess it’s different where you live.’
‘It is.’ Ned wondered how far he should go with the reminiscences and decided to jump in at the deep end. ‘There are supermarkets everywhere, but car access in the old town is difficult. And Mum believed in shopping locally anyway. So we pop out and get things when we need them. We’ve got a fridge-freezer but we couldn’t stock up far ahead. The shops are all within easy walking distance.’ He hesitated looking at the table. ‘Mum used to like making her own jam. We used to pick blackberries in the autumn.’ He stopped.
Victor pushed the jam pot towards him. ‘I remembered. The other night, in bed, I remembered she had jam on everything. Apricot was the best I could do.’ He paused and when Ned still did not speak he said, ‘The bread and butter – cut very thin – is from my own childhood. My mother kept up her standards even when she – they – were scraping the barrel. Thin bread and butter was economical as well as keeping up standards!’ He laughed and Ned tried to join him.
Conrad appeared with a bowl of tomatoes in one hand and a cucumber under his arm. ‘Victor doesn’t care for prepared salads but I can cut this stuff up in mayonnaise.’
Ned shook his head. ‘Fresh tomatoes. I can eat them like strawberries. Love them.’
Victor nodded happily. ‘She brought you up well. I knew she would.’
Ned looked up, appalled, and saw that Victor had no idea of how his casual words sounded: totally condescending and dismissive. He dropped his eyes quickly and held on to the rough wo
oden arms of his chair as if he might fall off at any moment. He wanted to react violently; wanted to hit his own father, tip the table up. But more than that, he wanted to lift his head to the roof of the veranda and cry for his mother. He closed his eyes against the tears. Conrad was saying something about pouring the tea. Ned shut it all out and visualized his thoughts in written words across his own knees … she was valued. So much. Adored by Mark Briscoe and her three children, respected by everyone who knew her. Loved. Loved. Loved.
Victor’s voice came through at last, ‘Ned, do you take sugar?’
He shook his head.
‘Are you all right, old man?’
So this selfish old man hadn’t realized; he really had not realized. He was worse than bloody Uncle Rory. It was up to Ned to finish the visit here and now or to go on with it. He stayed where he was; he couldn’t throw in the towel yet.
He said quietly, ‘She was so wonderful. Sorry. I can’t get used to them … not being here any more.’ He was conscious of Conrad pushing a cup and saucer across the rough grain of the table. He said, ‘They were always there.’
Victor helped himself to sugar. Conrad said, ‘Boss, you don’t take sugar.’ But Victor picked up his cup, sat back in his chair, and stared up at the dusty roof of the veranda. There was a long silence. Conrad took a large slice of the ham and an egg. ‘Hungry,’ he said through his first mouthful. ‘Been out all day.’
Victor lowered his gaze. ‘So you have. And so have you, Ned. Eat something.’ He sipped his tea and made a face. ‘Conrad, this is disgusting.’
Conrad nodded, Victor laughed and drank the tea. It gave Ned time to drink his own tea and swallow some of the agony of grief. He took a slice of the thin bread and butter, folded it over and bit into it. Somehow it clogged up his nose. The other two continued to wrangle in an amiable sort of way while he found a tissue by which time his plate had been filled with ham, eggs and tomatoes. He began to eat dutifully, tiny forkfuls and then larger ones. Conrad poured more tea and he drank. They were talking now about someone called Frank who had gone off for a walk before Ned’s arrival and not returned.
Victor said, ‘He’ll be fine. You know what he’s like. Now and then he needs time to himself.’
‘But he knew we wanted him here today of all days.’
‘Oh, come on, old man! How could he possibly know that? Less of the drama!’
Conrad visibly simmered and Victor turned to Ned. ‘As you doubtless know, Ned, I am not a religious man. But I think – I am certain, in fact – that if they were always there for you in life, then they are still there. Can’t go into it, but … maybe some time I can explain a bit more.’
It had been at least fifteen minutes since Ned’s protest and he had to realign his thoughts and conclude that the arguments – about the sugared tea and the man called Frank – had been to give him recovery time.
All he could manage by way of a response was, ‘Yes.’
It seemed enough. Victor asked him how the McKinnons were. And then if Central Park was still there.
Ned nodded, unsmiling. ‘The McKinnon apartment overlooks it, so I can safely say, yes.’
Victor nodded too and returned to his meal. Conrad got up and carried plates away, returning with ice cream.
‘Try it with some of the apricot jelly,’ he advised. ‘I’ll make coffee – give me half an hour. Then you should go to bed.’ He stared at Victor. ‘Ned’s gonna be on his knees at this rate.’
He rounded the corner of the veranda to where the kitchen must be. They heard him bellow, ‘Frank! Time for bed!’
Victor said, ‘He hates it when Frank goes off like this. Frank keeps an eye on me. Doesn’t let me walk in my sleep.’ Was that what Victor called his escapes into the mass of dunes? And Frank was some kind of bodyguard?
Victor stretched out in his chair, obviously easing cramped muscles.
‘Frank is a German shepherd. Black, ugly-looking dog. But his eyes … they tell a story. I’ve done a couple of paintings of him. Haven’t got the eyes. Not yet.’ He turned and smiled. ‘I’ve looked out two paintings of your mother, old man. You might like one of them.’
Ned said, ‘I didn’t know … I was six … I never saw her sitting for you.’
‘I did them later. Afterwards. I couldn’t see her properly when we were together. She just reminded me of Davie all the time.’ He shook his head, his voice wry and very tired. ‘I knew Davie was dependent on me and probably didn’t realize that I was more dependent on her – that she was my life. Tried to join her … all that sort of thing … Kate rescued me. I hope she understood, Ned.’
He looked, waiting for an answer. Ned had no idea what he was talking about. He stared through the sudden twilight and saw that the old man was leaning towards him, almost falling out of his chair, waiting for an answer as if his life depended on it. Ned gazed back, helpless.
And then, thankfully, there was a scrabble at the base of the wooden steps and the unmistakable sound of a dog’s claws coming towards them along the veranda. Victor, forgetting his plea, twisted round and said, ‘Thank goodness you’re home! You’ve worried Conrad to death!’
Frank approached them in a crouched position as if about to leap. His tail waved and lashed frantically and took all his hind quarters with it. He put his chin on Victor’s knee and looked at him.
Victor said, ‘Oh, those eyes … all right, old chap. I’m still here. And this is the man I was telling you about. This is Ned. Say hello.’
The dog turned his eyes without moving his head and registered the figure in the other chair. His tail slowed, he no longer crouched, but he went to Ned and put his chin lightly on one of his hands and then sat down and surveyed the table. ‘Give him the rest of the ham on your plate, Ned,’ Victor said. ‘You’ll have a friend for life.’
Ned did so. The dog accepted the offering and then favoured Ned with a long, deep look. He had golden eyes; they appeared to understand just about everything.
Victor said, ‘You go off now. Conrad will feed him properly, brush some of that sand out of his coat. Frank might station himself on the veranda outside your door. Don’t mind him.’
‘I don’t mind him one bit.’
Ned stood up; he was exhausted. He thought he should say something but could think of nothing. He managed a brief goodnight and then walked into the central hallway, still lit but dimly. He went briefly into the bathroom and then straight to his room.
He woke as usual in the small hours and knew with sinking heart he would sleep no more. He dragged the top blanket around his shoulders and opened his door to the veranda. The night sky was full of stars. Underneath them lay Frank, very still but wide-eyed. Ned went to him and kneeled down. He put his head on the dog’s powerful shoulder, felt the rough tongue by his ear lobe, began to cry.
Frank did not move. Now and then his tongue would tell Ned that he was still there, still understanding. At last, drained completely, Ned lay still. The dog’s tongue was still. They slept on the hard, sandy floor, Ned’s blanket over both of them.
When they woke it was getting light. Ned was cold and sore, and stumbled back to his bed but could not sleep again. He thought of Gussie and Jannie. The only ones who understood.
Except Frank, of course.
Fifteen
VICTOR DID NOT appear the next day.
‘Too much excitement yesterday,’ Conrad said, as if Victor were a child.
‘Excitement?’
‘Tension, I guess. Stress. But he doesn’t like those kinda words.’ Conrad looked up from a toaster. ‘He’s been building up to this meeting with you for a long time.’
‘Yes. So have I.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-eight.’
‘He’s eighty-three. And he’s still grieving.’ Conrad looked down at the toaster and said, ‘Some things you don’t get over, man.’
He opened a lid and Ned realized the chrome machine was not a toaster but some sort of grill. Conrad removed two pla
tes, each containing bacon and hash browns. Ned was suddenly hungry.
They ate in the kitchen. It was not the shining laboratory most American kitchens seemed to be. There was a range and a gas cooker and a deep sink, all united by a long bar holding other ‘toasters’. Conrad pulled out two stools and produced cutlery from a drawer. ‘OK?’ he asked. Ned nodded enthusiastically. Victor’s absence was a relief, in a way. They both ate ravenously. The dog appeared, black and ferocious-looking, very polite. He sat between them and waited. Conrad left two rashers of bacon so Ned did the same. They disappeared with one swish of Frank’s tongue. Conrad said apologetically, ‘We only feed him from our plates at breakfast.’
Ned looked into the dog’s amazing eyes and nodded.
‘Victor told him to watch you through the night – did you see him on the veranda?’ Conrad asked.
Ned nodded again, remembering the comfort the dog had given him.
‘He’s generally outside Victor’s room. Sometimes inside too.’
‘Did you get him as a guard dog?’ Ned put out a hand and Frank came and touched it with his velvet nose, then loped through the door into the hall.
‘He’ll stay with Victor now.’ Conrad sighed sharply. ‘We didn’t get him. We think he was running away from something, someone. Came out of the sea one morning, caked in sand, bones showing. Victor brought him back to life.’ He poured black coffee and pushed it across to Ned. ‘Victor makes a habit of pulling things out of the sea. Beachcombing. He’s got bottles and bits of boats … keeps it all in his shed. Where he paints. I don’t go in there.’
‘He is still working?’
‘Not so much. But last October, after Mack McKinnon came over, he started on something. Don’t know what it is but it’s still in progress.’
Ned frowned uneasily. ‘Mack McKinnon is chairman of the Trustees. The Spirit of America. He would like to have some of Victor’s work.’
