Widows & Orphans

by Michael Arditti

  This projection depicting the Moorish pavilion in five of its incarnations – concert hall, palais de dance, variety theatre, roller-skating rink and disco – had been awarded first prize, a decision Duncan suspected had been shaped, at least in part, by its use of technology that neither he nor his fellow judges understood. The runner-up was a small camera obscura, through which could be seen an image of the large camera obscura that had stood on the pier head until replaced by a helter-skelter in the 1920s. Third prize went to a painting of a mob of teenagers storming the pavilion during the infamous 1974 concert by The Who. For the rest, he was struck by two scale models of the pier, one made of Francombe rock with a gingerbread pavilion and kiosks, the other, with what seemed like uncanny prescience, made of matches; a painting of the 1932 disaster in which twin sisters drowned during a display of synchronised diving; and a collage of photographs of the Black and White Minstrels, star attractions at the pavilion throughout the 1960s, interspersed with newspaper cuttings of race riots.

  After running through the order of ceremony with Glynis Kingswood and the Mayor’s PR, he paid a precautionary visit to the lavatory, crossing the tessellated floor to the stately urinals where the library’s Victorian benefactors had been able to pee with pride. He had scarcely unbuttoned his flies when the outer door was flung open and a jovial voice called his name. Twisting so abruptly that he risked exposing himself, he spotted Geoffrey Weedon advancing on him with a smile as gleaming as the tiles. He turned back to the wall as Geoffrey, confident both of his own propriety and Duncan’s discomfort, stepped up next to him and unleashed a loud stream of piss. He stood motionless while Geoffrey seized his advantage and started to chat.

  ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

  ‘We’re sponsoring the project,’ Duncan said, vainly coaxing his penis. ‘And you? Weighing up the opposition?’

  ‘Many a true word … The past is the opposition in this town. The myth of a Francombe Golden Age, which blokes like you – no offence, Duncan – do all you can to promote.’

  ‘And why should we want to do that?’

  ‘Nostalgia? Security? I’m no trick cyclist. A world where the Mercury meant something?’

  ‘Whereas for you, the past is disposable,’ Duncan said, pondering the effect on both bladder and morale of admitting defeat by buttoning his flies. ‘I saw you on the news insisting that you weren’t responsible for the fire.’

  ‘Best to clear the air.’

  ‘Some people might think it a smokescreen.’ Geoffrey guffawed. ‘No pun intended.’

  ‘Why would I burn down the pier? I’ve already got what I want. This just complicates things. Insurance claims. Emergency repairs.’

  ‘So it was fate?’

  ‘I don’t believe in fate, Duncan. Fate is the name that losers give to chance. And on Tuesday night chance took the form of Afghan asylum seekers.’

  ‘Oh, they’re Afghans now, are they? How’s that? Did they have Kabul stamped on their bedding?’

  ‘Is it my fault if my sources are more clued in than the Mercury’s?’

  A young librarian entered the room, stopping short at the sight of the men cheek by jowl beside four empty urinals. ‘Come on up,’ Geoffrey said, as if it were his private preserve. ‘No need to be shy. Just two old friends measuring their dicks – metaphorically.’ The librarian gave him an uneasy smile and made for the furthest urinal, where the steady patter showed that he shared none of Duncan’s reticence.

  ‘You and your lot should be grateful to me,’ Geoffrey said.

  ‘For what precisely?’ Duncan asked.

  ‘The Council survey found that, if they couldn’t come up with a buyer, the only option was to demolish the pier at a cost of four million quid. In other words, a lot more cuts to the day centres, youth clubs and, dare I say it, the libraries that the Mercury is always banging on about.’

  The librarian washed his hands and hurried out without drying them. Geoffrey followed him to the basins, where Duncan was surprised by how meticulously he soaped his hands.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the difference between us,’ Geoffrey said.

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘Why? You’re practically family.’ Duncan shuddered. ‘The distinction may be a little crude – a little binary – but I try to make people happy, whereas you try to improve them.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Take the motto on your masthead: you know, the one that sounds like the Pope.’

  ‘Celeritas et veritas,’ Duncan said, concentrating on the water gushing from the tap.

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘You know what it means.’

  ‘Yes. But we’d both like it so much if you told me.’

  ‘Promptness and truth.’

  ‘Then why not say so? Do you never ask yourself why you’ve chosen a phrase that ninety-nine point nine per cent of readers don’t understand, that makes them think the paper’s not for them?’

  ‘We’ve used it since the very first issue. It’s tradition.’

  ‘Is that your answer to everything? You’re speaking a different language. Literally.’

  ‘It’s only three words.’

  ‘Is it?’ Geoffrey laughed as he tugged the recalcitrant roller towel. ‘One last piece of advice and then I’m off: book an appointment with your doctor.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t help noticing you’re having problems with Percy there. Sure sign of an enlarged prostate. Best get it checked out.’

  Geoffrey’s diagnosis was disproved the moment he walked out. Duncan felt a surge of relief, followed by anger at having allowed his old adversary to gain the upper hand. He returned to the Reference Section, which was busier than he expected, as if the exhibition had become the focus of communal grief at the destruction of the pier. He caught sight of Jamie in a huddle of larger boys, among them his stepbrother, Craig. Flouting the veto on public displays of affection, he walked over and ruffled his hair, causing Craig, whose own hair was spiky, to smirk.

  ‘Good to see you here, boys,’ Duncan said. ‘Do any of you have entries in the competition?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Dad!’ Jamie said, as Craig and his three companions sniggered.

  ‘Is the idea so inconceivable?’ Duncan asked.

  ‘What’s that mean then?’ one of the boys asked, playing dumb.

  ‘It’s like wearing a condom on your brain so that nothing can get through. Isn’t that so, Mr N?’ Craig asked, as usual spurning Duncan’s Christian name.

  ‘I expect that there’s an etymological link, Craig,’ Duncan replied, ‘but there are simpler definitions. If you have so little interest in the artworks, why have you come?’

  ‘Three line whip,’ Craig said. ‘My mum, my dad and my stepdad. All the Weedons have to be here, what with the development plans for the pier.’

  ‘Plus, of course, there’s the totty,’ one of his friends said.

  ‘Totty?’ Duncan asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ Craig said, assuming a donnish air. ‘I expect there’s an etymological link with “tot” meaning “little child”, though I trust that there are no paedo undertones in this common – or street – usage for what, in your day, were known as “chicks” or “floozies”.’

  ‘Thank you, Craig, that was most illuminating.’

  ‘Any time, Mr N.’

  ‘We need to talk, Dad.’ Jamie grabbed his arm.

  ‘Catch you later, Squirt,’ Craig said.

  Duncan winced on behalf of Jamie, who was hypersensitive about his height. ‘Goodbye, Craig,’ he said. ‘See you again.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’ Craig turned back to his friends.

  ‘Why must you always do that, Dad?’ Jamie said, dragging him away. ‘Do you enjoy showing me up?’

  ‘What did I do? He’s your stepbrother. I can’t very well ignore him.’

  ‘Why not? Do you think he wants to talk to you? Do you think anyone wants to talk to you?’

  ‘Now you’re sh
owing yourself up,’ Duncan said, as heads turned in their direction. ‘I’m pleased that you get on so well with Craig, but I’m not sure that he’s a good influence.’

  ‘Like I care!’

  ‘And I’m none too keen on the way he talks to you.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Dad, you just don’t get it! He’s sixteen; he lets me hang out with him. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘No, it’s not. You’re worth more than that. And what’s with all the swearing? Is it part of earning his respect?’

  ‘Why are you always picking on me?’

  ‘Perhaps because you never let me close enough to do anything else?’ Duncan replied. ‘Because you’ll discover as you grow older that self-respect is worth more than any other kind,’ he added quickly, trusting that Jamie had failed to detect the pain in his voice.

  ‘Maybe in the Middle Ages. Not now.’

  ‘Look, there’s your mother!’ Duncan said, seeing Linda talking to an attractive, smartly dressed brunette. As he admired the woman’s cream silk blouse, grey tailored jacket and lemon pleated skirt, Linda’s former complaint that he never noticed anything she was wearing flashed across his mind. Chastened, he attempted to rectify the omission, but she kissed his cheek before he had the chance.

  From the corner of his eye he glimpsed Jamie shuffling his feet, betraying his usual unease at seeing his parents together. It was as if, having braced himself for the bitterness of their divorce, he felt threatened by – even resentful of – their residual affection.

  ‘Duncan, meet Ellen Nugent, Rose’s new speech and language therapist. Ellen, this is Duncan Neville, Jamie’s father.’

  ‘Really? Isn’t Derek his father?’

  ‘Stepfather,’ Linda said quickly. Duncan felt sick.

  ‘Of course, I’m sorry. I thought I heard Jamie call him Dad but it must have been Stepdad.’ Ellen laughed nervously. ‘Honestly, you’d think that in my job I’d pay closer attention to what people say!’

  ‘Have you been a speech therapist long?’ Duncan asked, coming to her rescue.

  ‘I graduated in 1995, but I haven’t practised for years. I wanted to go back part-time when my children started school, but my husband wouldn’t let me.’

  ‘Really?’ Duncan said, surprised by her acquiescence. ‘Is he very old-fashioned?’

  ‘No, just controlling. But the operative word is was. We split up last year and I wanted – I needed – to work. But with all the cuts, SLT jobs are thin on the ground. Martin Casey, one of Matthew’s – my ex’s – old colleagues, runs the Child Development Centre here. He pulled a few strings and after a two-week induction course – which was a wake-up call in itself – and a commitment to regular supervision I took the plunge.’

  ‘I’m guessing you’re not from around here,’ Duncan said, confident that he would have remembered her had they met before.

  ‘No, we moved down in the summer from Radlett, a village – well, more of a commuter town now – in Hertfordshire. The job was the main incentive, of course, but I liked the prospect of living by the sea. It seemed the perfect place to make a fresh start and bring up the kids.’

  ‘How many do you have?’ Duncan asked, ignoring Jamie’s snort.

  ‘Two. Sue’s sixteen and Neil’s thirteen.’

  ‘Really?’ Duncan replied, grateful that Linda’s and Jamie’s presence prevented his blurting out ‘But you don’t look old enough!’ or some similar inanity to which he suddenly felt prone. ‘The same age as you,’ he said, turning to his son.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’d hoped to start work straight away, but my CRB check was delayed.’

  ‘It’s madness,’ Linda said. ‘Heaven knows, children like Rose need protecting –’

  ‘She has me,’ Jamie said.

  ‘Of course she does, darling,’ Linda said, kissing the crown of his head. ‘But there’s far too much red tape. Duncan has campaigned tirelessly against it. What was that case … the bell ringer?’

  ‘Ellen won’t be interested.’

  ‘Why not?’ Linda frowned at him. ‘The one where the boy complained because the man said something that could be taken two ways.’

  ‘“Do you want a tug?”’

  ‘That’s right. “Do you want a tug?” You have a dirty mind, my son,’ Linda said, as Jamie grinned for the first time that evening. ‘I don’t know where you get it from. Not from me and certainly not from your father.’

  Maybe from his stepfather, Duncan thought.

  ‘“Do you want a tug?” He’s a bell ringer, for heaven’s sake! The Mercury went to town on it.’

  ‘True,’ Duncan said, still wondering if the publisher’s disclaimer that the models were over eighteen (a mere fig leaf, given their smooth skin and boyish faces) had justified his decision not to report the police discovery of the bell ringer’s stash of Fresh Meat magazines.

  He was saved from further soul-searching by the Mayor’s PR, who informed him that ‘battle is due to commence’.

  ‘Oh no, Dad,’ Jamie said, ‘do you have to?’

  ‘’Fraid so. The Mercury’s sponsoring this jamboree. As well as an excellent cause, it’s good publicity.’

  ‘But how can you afford it? The paper’s going bust.’

  ‘What? Who told you that?’

  ‘Mum.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Yes, you did. Why can’t any of you ever be honest?’

  ‘I may have said it was having difficulties…’ Linda floundered. ‘But who isn’t these days?’

  ‘Derek and Uncle Geoffrey.’

  ‘That’s not clever, Jamie,’ Linda said, with a spark of genuine anger.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Duncan interjected. ‘I won’t have to cut your pocket money. Your old man’s not quite on his uppers.’ Jamie looked pained. ‘That was a joke.’

  ‘I’m not thick! But jokes are supposed to be funny.’ He gazed around the room. ‘Please, Dad, there are people here who know me. Promise you won’t tell any more.’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence!’ Duncan said, forcing a laugh. ‘Are your kids like this with you?’ he asked Ellen.

  ‘You should have heard my daughter on this skirt.’

  ‘She must be mad. It’s perfect on you … I mean it suits you perfectly.’ Flustered, he looked at Linda, whose studied vacancy spoke volumes.

  He made his way up to the podium, stopping to chat to Ken, who stood with camera and notebook in hand. Duncan, for whom the caption ‘Editor of the Mercury’ appeared in the paper far too often for his own liking, was as reluctant to pose for pictures as Ken, who had grown up with a team of specialist photographers, was to take them. Nevertheless, every time he stood among a group of smiling dignitaries, just as every time he held one of his monthly editor’s surgeries in the market square, Duncan weighed his embarrassment against the raising of the paper’s profile, reminding himself that he was not merely affirming its place at the heart of the community but giving it an identifiable face.

  He took his seat alongside the Mayor in full regalia and Glynis Kingswood, whose trademark black now served as mourning. As he listened to their heartfelt eulogies to the pier, he found his mind drifting back to Ellen’s remark. Had she genuinely misheard Jamie – after all, her attention would have been focused on Rose – or had he called Derek ‘Dad’? And if so, why? Did he long for the security of a conventional family, although the divorces on every side must have shown him that it was an illusion, or did he simply favour Derek? Did the qualities that made him a more attractive husband also make him a more attractive father? Even so, no matter how much Jamie’s preference flattered him, Derek should have corrected it. He too had surrendered his son’s day-to-day upbringing to another man. How would he feel if he heard Craig describing Geoffrey as his father? Or maybe he already had? Maybe he was using Jamie to relieve his own sense of exclusion? What’s in a name? Everything, when that name was Dad.

  A mayoral nudge alerted him that it was his turn to speak. He prided himself on neve
r preparing for such occasions, relying instead on a mixture of inspiration and panic. The latter predominated as he looked out at the sea of expectant faces. ‘Mercury, as I’m sure I’ve no need to remind you, was the messenger of the gods,’ he said. ‘He was also the god of fraud and intrigue, although I trust that his subsidiary attributes did not figure in my great-great-grandfather’s calculations when he named his newspaper in 1869.’ He dared not look at Jamie, as the few strained chuckles bore out his warning. ‘Francombe Pier was built just a few years later in 1883. These two venerable institutions have remained at the heart of our civic life ever since. So it’s fitting that tonight the Mercury should be sponsoring a competition that celebrates the pier’s history.’ Warming to his theme, he fixed his gaze on Geoffrey, who stood at the front of the crowd. ‘And equally fitting that the presentation should take place in this great library, another vestige of Francombe’s golden age.’

  He congratulated all the children who had taken part and summoned the three winners in reverse order to receive their cheques. As Ken snapped him shaking their hands (the runner-up’s dismayingly sticky), he struggled to silence the inner voice that was treacherously totting up how many extra copies might be sold to adoring parents, grandparents, uncles and aunts. No sooner had the first prize-winner moved away than the Mayor stood up to announce a surprise presentation by Geoffrey Weedon, the new owner of the pier. Duncan turned to Glynis, whose puckered brow showed that she too had been caught unawares, fuelling his suspicions of complicity between Weedon’s and the Town Hall. He watched coldly as Geoffrey sauntered up to the podium.

  ‘I promise I’ll be brief. I don’t want to keep you from the booze … that is those of you not under doctor’s orders.’ He raised a glass of orange juice in mock anguish. ‘It makes sense that, as the editor of such a hoary organ – that’s h-o-a-r-y,’ he said in response to a juvenile giggle – ‘Mr Neville should concentrate on the pier’s past. But at Weedon’s we’re looking to its future. There are exciting changes in the air. Watch this space! And the key, like everything else in our entertainment division, is fun. So in a spirit of fun, I’d like to offer all our entrants free one-day passes for themselves and their families to the Excelsior Wheel Park, with additional £100 tokens for each of the three winners to spend at any of our amusement arcades.’