Widows & Orphans

by Michael Arditti

  ‘I was weighing up the options.’

  ‘I’m at my wits’ end. Neil was livid that I’d been to the school. He punched me in the stomach (don’t look so horrified! I was only winded). He said I’d made things ten times worse and maybe he’s right. If you’d seen him when he came home this evening, all battered and bruised.’

  ‘You mustn’t blame yourself. You did what any mother would.’

  ‘Would any other mother have brought him here, cutting him off from the life he knew, all for the sake of her stupid pride? He wasn’t the one accused of complicity in his father’s crimes.’

  ‘Would you like me to have a word with him? I can’t promise it’ll do any good but he might find it easier to confide in someone outside the family – and a man.’

  He was surprised by how avidly she seized on his offer. So with no chance to prepare what to say, he headed upstairs, identifying Neil’s door by the brass rubbing of a medieval knight who, on closer inspection, turned out to be crossing his legs as if waiting for a privy.

  Receiving no answer to his knock, he edged open the door to find Neil lying flat on the bed, his face buried in the pillow. He felt a stab of sympathy on recalling his own adolescence, when the gulf between his sense of self and his place in the world had been greater than at any time before or since.

  ‘Do you mind if I switch on the light?’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘Sure, if that’s what you really want. But I’m here now. Won’t you spare me five minutes?’ Taking the silence as a yes, he turned on the light and was immediately struck by the neatness of the room. Other than the sour smell and the posters of racing drivers on the walls, there was nothing to indicate that it belonged to a teenage boy. Either Ellen was stricter about mess than both Linda and himself or else Neil was tidier than Jamie. Hesitating between the chair and the bed, he opted for the latter, perching so close to the edge that he risked slipping to the floor.

  ‘What do you want?’ Neil asked, sitting up abruptly.

  ‘Just to talk.’

  ‘Did my mum send you?’

  ‘She asked me, but I came of my own accord.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To see if there was anything I could do to help.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I was worried about you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you don’t seem very happy.’

  ‘What do you know about how I feel?’

  ‘I’d know more if you told me,’ Duncan said calmly. ‘I imagine it must have been hard, moving down here, leaving your friends.’

  ‘I didn’t have any friends.’

  ‘Not at your old school?’

  ‘Who’d want to be friends with me?’

  ‘Lots of people.’ Duncan resolved to make another appeal to Jamie. ‘And in time,’ he said, carefully avoiding genders, ‘there’ll be special friends, people who won’t just like you, they’ll love you.’

  ‘Oh yeah? They go for ugly, do they?’

  ‘Who says you’re ugly?’ Duncan asked, resting his hand lightly on Neil’s shoulder. ‘I certainly don’t.’

  ‘And inside? What do you know what I’m like inside? I’m sick, just like my dad.’

  ‘This isn’t about your dad; it’s about you. You’re your father’s son, not his shadow. I know what’s behind all this and I promise you you’re wrong. Being gay isn’t sick.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘It’s quite natural,’ Duncan said, feeling Neil tense beneath his touch. ‘Gay or straight, I’m here for you.’

  ‘Fuck off!’ Neil jumped up and grabbed his pillow, pummelling Duncan in an assault that only confirmed his impotence. ‘Barbara was right; you’re a pervert. Go on, fuck off!’

  ‘Of course. I don’t want to impose –’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  ‘Can’t we talk about this?’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  Ruffled, Duncan returned downstairs where Ellen was waiting in the hall. ‘I heard shouts,’ she said.

  ‘It was all going so well when he suddenly turned on me. I don’t understand. Did your mother tell him I was some kind of pervert?’

  ‘Oh no! Oh, I’m so sorry.’ Ellen cupped her hand over her mouth as if she were the one who had maligned him. ‘Come in here.’ She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the sitting room. ‘My bloody mother! My bloody, bloody, bloody mother! Trust me, Duncan, this is about me not you. I’d no idea that Neil had overheard but then he’s always snooping around. He thinks it’s the only way to find out what’s going on.’

  ‘Overheard what?’ Duncan asked anxiously.

  ‘With her usual faith in my judgement, she warned me to be on my guard against you because men – paedophiles – sought out vulnerable women with kids –’

  ‘She thinks I’m a paedophile?’

  ‘She’s never met you; she knows nothing about you. It’s me she’s getting at: punishing me for marrying Matthew. In other words, how can any man – any decent man – be attracted to someone like me who had no idea that her husband was a swindler?’

  ‘What utter crap! In any case she can’t talk. What about her Roman boyfriend who came on to you?’

  ‘Polish. It’s just his name that was Roman.’

  ‘Either way.’

  ‘I agree, and when I put it to her she accused me of being vindictive and told me to see a healer.’

  ‘The bitch! I know she’s your mother, but still … She can say what she likes about me but she has no right – none at all – to denigrate you. What’s her number? I’ll ring and set her straight.’

  ‘There’s no point.’

  ‘I can be very persuasive.’

  ‘No, I mean her phone will be off. She’s on a week’s retreat in Carcassonne to find her inner goddess.’

  ‘On current form, it’ll be Kali.’

  With a laugh that turned swiftly into a wail, she slid into his arms. He nuzzled her hair and stroked her back until her tears subsided. ‘I don’t know about you,’ she said, a sob lingering in her voice like damp in the air, ‘but I could murder another brandy.’

  ‘Good idea. I can always leave the car here and ring for a cab.’

  ‘If you want. But after tonight what do we have to lose? I’d like you to stay.’

  She poured the drinks and they sat holding hands on the sofa, transfixed by the flickering of the artificial fire. Duncan felt a deep sense of tranquillity, which was shattered by the opening of the front door.

  ‘Just one moment, young lady!’ Ellen jumped up and hurried into the hall to confront Sue. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘Out!’ From the sound of her voice, she was already halfway up the stairs.

  ‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’

  ‘Do you get a kick out of ruining my life?’

  ‘You’re managing that well enough on your own. Just look at you! You’re a beautiful girl. Why make yourself so grungy?’

  ‘Oh yes, like I’m going to take fashion tips from you!’ Duncan, a reluctant eavesdropper, moved to the sitting-room door in a show of support for Ellen. ‘No! It’s so not fair! You’re allowed to be with your boyfriend, but I can’t be with mine.’

  ‘You know perfectly well that it isn’t the same.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m not going to argue. For the next two weeks you’re grounded. If you want to see Craig, you’ll have to ask him here.’

  ‘Oh sure! Like he’s going to come to this dump!’

  ‘He didn’t seem to mind this morning,’ Duncan interjected.

  ‘What?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘When I dropped off your watch. They were here during a study period.’

  ‘What study period? You don’t have one on a Monday.’

  ‘Yes we do,’ Sue said defiantly.

  ‘And why come all the way back? It’s a twenty-minute walk. Oh no, Sue! Please tell me you weren’t sleeping with him.’

  ‘You’re sick, Mum, do you know that? That’s
all you ever think about: sex!’

  ‘I think they might have been smoking pot,’ Duncan said hesitantly.

  ‘What?’ Ellen asked.

  ‘Thanks a bunch, creep!’ Sue said.

  ‘I can’t say for sure.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you. You had enough on your plate with Neil.’

  ‘I have two children, Duncan. It’s my job to worry about them.’

  ‘I know, but under the circumstances…’

  ‘No one keeps anything about my children from me. No one. I think you should go. I have things to discuss with Sue.’

  ‘But you said –’

  ‘I need to talk to her in private.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Taking a gulp of brandy, he placed the glass on the hall table. He moved to kiss Ellen but thought better of it. ‘Shall I call you tomorrow?’

  ‘Please do that.’

  Opening the door, Duncan turned back to face Sue and realised that it was the first time he had seen her smile.

  Six

  ‘Notes from the Pulpit’

  by the Reverend Henry Grainger

  Thursday, 28 November 2013

  ‘And God said, Let there be light.’ And with light came colour. And with colour came art. And through art mankind reaches closer to God.

  Over the past few months we at St Edward’s have watched with mounting excitement as a vision of paradise has filled the church hall. Ever since I came to the parish six years ago I have dreamt of refurbishing the hall but, as regular readers of this column will know, we have struggled to fund the essential repairs to the church itself without turning our attention to the outbuildings.

  But God moves in a mysterious way. In July, nineteen-year-old Jordan Maplin was convicted of spraying graffiti on three seafront shelters. He was given a six-month suspended prison sentence, a 150-hour Community Order and required to pay £500 towards the cost of the damage.

  Jordan claimed that he was protesting against the drabness of the shelters (which have been criticised in many quarters, including this newspaper). This is not the place to argue the merits of street art in general or Jordan’s work in particular, but it is worth noting that, in his character witness statement, Jordan’s former art master described him as a highly gifted pupil who, in happier circumstances, would have won a scholarship to art school.

  Meanwhile, the Probation Service had approved my request to make the renovation of the church hall a Community Payback project. By a stroke of providence, Joel Lincoln, one of our churchwardens, had been in court for Jordan’s trial. Recognising Jordan among the team, he proposed that we ask him to paint a mural.

  Despite an initial reluctance to be singled out, Jordan accepted that this was the perfect opportunity to demonstrate his talents. His probation officer granted permission for him to work alone under the supervision of Joel, who gave me a private assurance that if the painting were a disaster he would cover it over himself.

  Fortunately, no such redress was necessary. Jordan’s insistence on working in secret provoked some misgivings within the parish, but when the mural – a highly charged depiction of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden – was revealed, the doubting Thomases were confounded.

  The mural is to be unveiled by the Bishop of Lewes at 3 p.m. on Thursday, 5 December. Everyone is welcome to attend, and there will be further opportunities to view it over the coming months when our popular weekend teas are served in the hall.

  ‘As every man hath received the gift, even so minister the same one to another, as good stewards of the manifold grace of God.’ 1 Peter 4:10

  In Duncan’s view, everything one needed to know about Trevor Vale was summed up in his formula for the perfect woman: ‘somebody half my age plus seven’. Having first assumed that it was a joke, he was appalled when Trevor’s quest for a Russian mail order bride no older than twenty-five (and therefore more like a quarter of his age plus ten) had shown him to be deadly serious. Trevor was the sole survivor of a once vibrant advertising team, which had been decimated by the decline in the paper’s fortunes. Over the past decade, the twin forces of the Internet and the Recession had reversed the paper’s traditional 48 per cent editorial to 52 per cent advertising balance. Property adverts, previously as popular with curious neighbours as with serious buyers, had moved on to designated websites. Motoring and recruitment, the other mainstays of the classified pages, had been all but wiped out and, for the first time in living memory, the annual ‘In Memoriam’ supplement had been dropped. Long gone were the days when Trevor could wine, dine and otherwise entertain prominent retailers, his huge expense claims justified by the full-page display ads he secured. Now he was reduced to making cold calls, offering cut-price rates and promising regular advertisers positive feature coverage.

  The need to toady to his clients made him all the more combative with his colleagues, and Duncan had come to dread the Monday morning meetings when, invoking the spectre of bankruptcy, Trevor sought to win his approval for his more reckless schemes. The latest was that they should link the news and advertising on the website by, for example, selling sidebar space to life insurers after a fatal car crash or sailing accident. Duncan, who was as keen as anyone to exploit their web presence but not at the expense of common decency, dismissed the idea out of hand, whereupon Trevor accused him of turning his back on the twenty-first century, a theme to which he returned when Duncan yet again refused to accept adverts for massage parlours, among the few local businesses to have weathered the slump.

  ‘Shall we call a brothel a brothel? I may be the last person in Francombe to think of this as a family paper,’ Duncan said, trying to ignore the razor burn on Trevor’s neck, ‘but I hope I’m not alone in seeing it as an honourable one. How could we run, say, Rowena’s story about the Estonian and Ukrainian women lured here with the promise of hotel jobs and forced to work as prostitutes, and at the same time take money from their pimps?’

  ‘Not everything’s so black and white. I’ve spoken to the police; they’re all for it so long as there’s no mention of anyone’s age or race. They see it as a way to keep tabs on operations they don’t know about.’

  ‘Let them do their own dirty work! My father – not to mention my grandfather – would turn in his grave.’

  ‘Which means they’re not in the market for buying papers. If even half the rumours about Weedon’s plans for the pier turn out to be true, you’re going to have to change your tune or lose the biggest new source of advertising revenue in town.’

  ‘It’s a small price to pay for preserving our principles.’

  ‘Let’s hope your principles pay for my pension,’ Trevor said, unable to contain his anger. ‘Meanwhile, if you want to hold on to what advertising we have, I suggest you start coming up with some good news stories for a change. “Hoodie helps widow find cat”. “Study shows sea air cures cancer” – whatever. No business wants to be associated with an endless deluge of doom and gloom.’

  Stung by Trevor’s charge, Duncan waited impatiently for him to leave before picking up the flat page to assess the balance of stories in the next issue. While much of the paper remained to be set, including the first three pages, which, barring an attack on the Town Hall, would be devoted to the presentation of the pier development plans, there was enough material for him to make a fair appraisal. Opening his notepad, he drew two columns headed Negative and Positive. In the first, he put the children taken into care after a rat infestation on the Edmund Hillary estate; the landlord of the Cod and Lobster found guilty of branding his wife; the £500,000 cocaine haul at the Salter and St Anselm yacht club; and the baby left alone on a tower block roof while her mother went out drinking. In the second, he put the entrants for the Pet Idol competition; the four generations of the Heathcote family who were running a charity marathon for Save the Rhino; the South-East lightweight bodybuilding champion whose name had inspired one of Stewart’s happier puns (‘Everything’s hunky dory for hunky Dorian�
��); and, most heartening of all, the leukaemia patient at the Princess Royal who, having received a perfect bone marrow match from a man who turned out to be her brother, had been reunited with the mother who gave her up for adoption at birth.

  While the general tenor of the paper was more cheerful than Trevor had claimed, Duncan agreed that even without the commercial imperative they should take every opportunity for optimism in such troubled times. To that end, he headed into the reporters’ room and spoke to Stewart.

  ‘This nib about the close call from the car crash: can you add a hundred words and put it above the fold?’

  ‘No probs. There’s space on page eight. We’ll need a photo.’

  ‘I’ll handle that. I’m off for a sneak preview of Henry’s mural. I can go via Hawksey Road.’

  ‘What was it?’ Rowena asked. ‘Another joyrider?’

  ‘No,’ Stewart said. ‘A woman drove her Polo into a lamp post. Only the bumper was scratched.’

  ‘You’re kidding me!’ Brian said. ‘Is that it? Forget “Small Earthquake in Chile. Not many dead”. Try “Car Collides with Lamp Post. Neither damaged”.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it,’ Duncan replied. ‘Maybe in the august pages of The Times the earthquake wouldn’t have rated a mention, but our remit is different. Strange as it sounds, there are times when we have to think small. “Car collides with lamp post” is part of the fabric of local life. A rich tapestry if we’re lucky; a frayed patchwork if we’re not. Either way, it’s our job to record it.’

  He left the office and drove to Hawksey Road where, unable to spot even the slightest scratch at bumper level, he chose a lamp post at random and, in a wide-angled shot that Bert Ponsonby would have commended, framed it against a street sign, a privet hedge and a passing toddler on a tricycle. He returned to Rocinante and made the short trip to St Edward’s vicarage. Built to house a mid-Victorian family with its Sextus, Septimus and even Octavius, the three floors and warren of corridors was too large for the previous incumbent with his four young children, let alone for the unmarried Henry. Anywhere else in the country it would have been divided into flats or sold to a private care consortium and Henry dispatched to live among the Sunday morning car washers on a modern estate, but property values in Salter were so low that, its sea view and rambling garden notwithstanding, it remained in the hands of the Church.