‘I’m not. I came to find you.’
‘Did you? - nngg.’ Don seemed pleased. ‘I’m not very good company. Not today.’
Hal said nothing. He sat on the doorstep and stretched out his legs. Don didn’t have to be good company. He could just be himself.
‘Have you been painting?’ Hal asked.
Don shook his head and drew at his cigarette. ‘No, not really. Couldn’t get going. It’s like that sometimes. You’ve got to have bad days to get the good ones. But that doesn’t make the bad days any better. I’m a painter, so if I can’t paint, what am I? Complete waste of space, that’s what. Completely sick of myself.’ He stretched out his arms and legs, made them rigid, tilted his head back. ‘I’d better shut up shop. It’s late. She’ll be - kuh - wondering where I am. Where you are, too.’ He began to get stiffly to his feet.
‘Wait!’ said Hal. ‘I want to ask you something.’
‘Go on then.’ Don settled again, and looked at him expectantly.
Hal looked down at the decking, where fine grains of sand had blown against the doorstep. He pinched some together, let them trickle from his fingers. ‘It’s about my dad.’
Don gave no response, bending to stub out his cigarette underneath his plimsoll.
‘My dad,’ Hal said, more emphatically. ‘I’ve seen him. He’s here in Ryton.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘You know, don’t you?’ Hal looked at him, waiting for a reaction. ‘Aunt Jude told you. I heard her. She saw him, didn’t she? Met him. Only she didn’t tell me. No one tells me anything. It’s not fair.’
‘No,’ said Don. He reached into his canvas bag for another cigarette and a matchbox, and lit up. Hal took this as encouragement; Don wasn’t going to end the conversation and hurry away. He caught the sulphur tang of the match, and a waft of cigarette-smoke.
‘So,’ he appealed, ‘what should I do? I know it’s him - Wesley Prince. That’s why my mum calls me Prince Hal, isn’t it? And then there’s the marbles—’ He felt in his pocket.
‘What marbles?’
‘Here’s one.’ Hal held it out, his favourite, the one with the smoky-blue swirl. ‘He gave Mum a bag of them, and she gave them to me - and today, just today, there he was, Wesley, my dad, looking at glass stuff in this workshop place, and marbles. It proves it, doesn’t it?’
Don only looked puzzled. Hal tried again.
‘Aunt Jude - when she told you about Wesley, told you she’d met him - she said he was my father, didn’t she? She must have told you that!’
Don nodded slowly. ‘Yes. Yes, she did. But—’
‘Only - I don’t think he knows. He’s seen me twice now, but he doesn’t recognise me. What should I do? It’s no good asking her - she won’t help. All she says is wait and ask Mum. But Mum won’t tell me anything either. I don’t need to know, that’s what she always says when I ask. Don’t need to know! It’s doing my head in!’
‘Well, you’re asking the wrong person.’ Don gazed out at the sea. ‘How can I help? Who am I to tell you what to do? I’ve - kuh! - messed up my own life, made a right pig’s ear of it, let alone sort out anyone else’s. Ask Jude. Ask your mum. Ask anyone, only not me. Ask this Wesley. Ask him. He ought to know.’
Hal clutched this to him. There was a silence. What Don had said seemed to require a response, so he made himself ask, ‘Messed up how? I mean, you’re famous. You’re on Google.’
Don gave a snorting laugh and a twitch that jolted the cigarette right out of his hand. Hal scrabbled to pick it up and hand it back.
‘Famous!’ Don scoffed. ‘That doesn’t mean anything. It’s just fashion. In one minute, out the next. The world doesn’t know what’s good and what’s rubbish, only what’s shoved in its face. Trouble is, I was sucked in by it. The praise, the attention, the publicity. I was that stupid. Couldn’t see how worthless it all was.’
‘Sucked in how?’
Don puffed out smoke. ‘Started to think they must be right. I must be doing something really good. And it was - kuh! - a short step from there to thinking everything I did had to be amazing. I must be a genius.’
‘But - that wouldn’t mess up your whole life, would it?’ Hal said. ‘I mean, lots of people think they’re cool - footballers, singers, film stars.’
‘No, but when I say messed up, I mean I messed up,’ Don insisted. ‘Chuck - k - chucked it all away. D’you know when I was happiest?’
‘No,’ Hal said. Of course he didn’t.
Don looked at him. ‘When I was struggling. When I didn’t know if I was any good or not, but I was trying my damnedest. Before I was successful, whatever successful means.’ He paused. ‘I was married, then. Had a little boy. Jake. I was happy. We all were. We lived in a flat in Fulham, with an attic for me to paint in. But then I got famous.’ He sneered the word. ‘And I couldn’t handle it. I was forever being invited to parties and art shows; I won prizes; I was in the papers. I thought all my birthdays had come at once. I lapped it up - the drink, the girls, the money - more of everything than I could possibly want. I didn’t see, not till it was - kkk! - too late, that I was throwing away my marriage. She left me, and took Jake with her.’
‘She?’ echoed Hal. ‘You’re not talking about Aunt Jude?’
Of course not; there was no Jake that he’d heard of. But the question sent Don into a fit of croaking laughter that almost tipped him off his chair. ‘No! No. Not Jude. She’d have sorted me out, no problem. No, she came along much later. Picked me up, dusted me down, set me on my feet again. Made me think my life was worth living after all. But I’d lost Jake, lost my boy, and Cindy - that’s my wife. Was my wife. Too late to get them back.’
‘But can’t you see him if you want to? Don’t you have rights?’
‘He’s a grown man now, Hal. Forty next birthday. Kids of his own. So it’s up to him whether he sees me or not - lets me see them - and he chooses not. Cindy married again, and Jake’s closer to his step-dad. He sees me out of duty, couple of times a year, and sends me news of the grandkids. But I could have had a proper family if I hadn’t been so damned stupid. If I could go back, Hal, I’d do things differently, believe me. Trouble is, you never can. See, I told you I’m no use to anyone. Waste of space.’
Hal wanted to say You’re not, but couldn’t get the words out.
Don seemed to take his silence as confirmation. ‘Well. So. There we are. You don’t want to listen to me blathering on.’ He seemed suddenly embarrassed at having said so much. He got stiffly to his feet and lifted the wicker chair inside the hut, then tidied the brushes and pencils on the table. ‘But it’s a crying shame to see these rifts in families - these arguments that go on and on till it’s too late.’
‘Like with my grandad,’ Hal said.
‘Yes. It’s not your doing, but put it right if you can.’ Don hesitated. ‘And - find your Wesley, tell him who you are.’
‘Is that what you think?’
‘Yes! Do a bit of mending.’ Don came out and locked the door. ‘Come on. Let’s get back while we can still see one foot in front of the other. We’ll be in trouble, this rate.’
Don was right about that: Aunt Jude was annoyed with both of them.
‘Hal, it’s thoughtless of you, going off like that! I phoned Graham and he said you’d set off home an hour ago. And why didn’t you have your mobile turned on? As for you—’ She rounded on Don. ‘Keeping him out so late without telling me - I despair of you sometimes! What a pair - bad as each other, you are!’
But her crossness was soon over. She made hot chocolate, and Welsh rarebit for Don, who hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. She asked Hal about the sailing, and told them she’d made some progress with the sale of Marborough’s, so had spent the time usefully.
When Hal went upstairs to bed, and thought of everything that had happened since morning, it seemed enough to fill several days. Now he felt buoyed up by his decision.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’d find Wesley and tell him.
Before turni
ng off his bedside light, he reached for his bag of marbles. He put the two moons back in, and thought of letting himself choose, for such an important day, instead of picking at random as he usually did.
But which would be best? Which would bring more luck? The tiger-eye? The orange one that he used to think would taste of fizzy orange if he put it in his mouth? The black one flecked with silver?
No - he needed a bigger than usual amount of luck. He’d take the whole bag.
16
PROOF
Hal was awake early, full of purpose. Today. The Day.
He drew his curtains and looked out at the garden. The sky was grey and tousled, unsettled. But still it was The Day. The Day that would be the start of everything being different.
His main worry now was that Aunt Jude would have plans for him. When he went downstairs she was already up, dressed in her red sweater and black jeans. She never seemed to drift around the house in a dressing-gown, with the newspaper and a mug of tea, the way Mum often did on a Sunday. Busy and active from the moment she got up, that was Aunt Jude. She was adjusting the time on the dining-room clock.
‘Have you remembered to put your watch back an hour?’ she called to Hal. ‘It’s only half-past seven, not half-past eight.’
A day with an extra hour in it! It seemed a good omen.
Hal turned back the hands on his watch. Aunt Jude came into the kitchen and started fiddling with the cooker clock. ‘I’ll get breakfast as soon as I’ve done this,’ she told him. ‘I was thinking about our Sea Life trip. You could ask Luke if he wants to come. Would you like that?’
Dismay clutched at Hal’s throat. ‘Today?’
‘Tomorrow, I thought. I need to do some garden-tidying while the weather’s reasonable. I want it to look good for when your grandad comes home. Feel like helping?’
‘Uh. I need to go out first.’
Aunt Jude looked at him.
‘I want to get a present for Mum,’ he improvised. Well, maybe he would.
‘Oh, that’s a nice idea. But why not wait till tomorrow and get something at Sea Life? They’re bound to have a gift shop there.’
‘No,’ Hal insisted. ‘I saw something yesterday. At a glass-blowing place.’
She nodded. ‘I know where you mean. Well, take your coat - it’s turned colder today. And be back by one o’clock. One o’clock, OK? And leave your mobile on. I thought I’d do proper Sunday lunch.’
Hal left as soon as he’d finished breakfast. The free hours beckoned, full of promise. He jogged down Laurel Drive, slowing when he saw Don coming the other way, in his yellow raincoat and a saggy green hat.
‘You’re late!’ Hal greeted him.
‘You’re early! Where are you rushing off to?’
Hal didn’t want to say it. ‘You know.’
Don touched his arm, then twitched away. ‘Hal, I’ve been thinking. Maybe it’s not such a good idea. Maybe you should wait.’
‘Wait? But you said—’
‘I know I did. But I shouldn’t have. It’s going to be a big shock, isn’t it, for this Wesley? Maybe you should talk to your mum first.’
‘But I have talked to her.’ Hal heard his voice, impatient and whining like a little kid’s. ‘I’ve asked and asked. She won’t tell me a single thing.’
‘Still. You could wait just a bit longer.’
Disappointed beyond words, Hal said nothing. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t swallow. He’d thought Don was on his side.
Don looked at him quizzically, and added, ‘Huh? Nnng.’
‘Huh? Nnng,’ Hal went back, exaggerating Don’s twitch.
He shouldn’t have. But he’d done it, and seen Don’s hurt expression. It made Hal feel good. And it made him feel bad.
‘See you later,’ he called, and was already past and running.
He wasn’t changing his mind. Not now.
The leisure centre: he’d try there first. It was barely eight o’clock, but most sports centres opened early.
Slung over one shoulder was his rucksack, with little in it but the bag of marbles. He heard their faint chink and grate as he ran. At first he’d put them in his hoodie pocket, but the whole bagful was too bulky; then he thought he’d just carry them, but felt too conspicuous - people might notice. They were too secret to carry openly for anyone to see.
He ran and jogged all the way, but as he neared the entrance his feet slowed. He saw parked cars, and the foyer doors standing open. His heart was pounding; his hands felt clammy. Desperately he hoped Wesley would be at work; it would be easier to speak to him here than if he were at home with his family. Did Wesley work weekends? He’d been off yesterday, but maybe he did Sundays. Someone had to.
There was no Wesley at the desk - just a bored-looking ginger-haired woman, leaning sideways and picking at a fingernail.
Hal’s eyes went swimmy. It took a few moments for them to focus on the plaque on the wall behind, DUTY MANAGER: WESLEY PRINCE.
Gathering the frayed threads of his determination, Hal went up to the counter.
‘Is Wesley Prince around?’ he asked, in the most casual voice he could produce.
The woman barely glanced at him, then brought out a printed list from under the desk. ‘Yeah, he’s around somewhere. There was a problem at the pool. Try over there.’
‘Which way’s that?’
With just a hint of a smirk, she pointed to a sign to his right: SWIMMING POOL. PLAY POOL.
Following the arrows, Hal found himself entering a changing area: rows of lockers, cubicles; through an arch, a glimpse of turquoise-blue, and the flailing arms of length-swimmers. He smelled chlorine and shampoo. A dad ushered two small boys towards the play-pool steps, and an infant waddled in front of Hal, plump hands clutching at an inflatable ring round its waist.
Hal went through the arch, ignoring a sign that said NO OUTDOOR CLOTHES OR FOOTWEAR BEYOND THIS POINT. A pool-guard’s high chair stood at the deep end, with a teenage boy perched on top, and next to it stood Wesley. Both wore track pants and polo shirts in leisure centre colours. Wesley was saying something to the boy; both of them were watching the pool. The water reflected the ceiling lights in a blue shimmer; clean and tame, it looked, now that Hal was used to the sea.
Hal walked over the wet tiles between the play-pool and the main one. It felt weird being fully dressed in a place where swim-trunks and costumes were the norm.
‘Whoa there!’ Wesley came towards him, holding up a hand, barring him. ‘You can’t come in here dressed like that! Didn’t you see the sign? Back to the changing rooms, please.’ His eyes held Hal’s for a moment in puzzlement. Surely, surely he recognised him?
‘I’ve got to talk to you,’ Hal told him, in a hoarse whisper that tried to exclude the other boy.
Wesley’s eyebrows rose. ‘To me? Fine, only not here. If you go back to reception I’ll be right with you.’
‘No,’ Hal said urgently. ‘Not at reception. It’s private. Personal.’
A brief glance, a search me look, flicked between Wesley and the pool-guard. Then Wesley gave a slight shrug, and walked beside Hal along the length of the pool, past the showers and lockers and cubicles, and out to the corridor.
There Wesley stopped. ‘How can I help you?’ He smiled and nodded at someone hurrying by; he wasn’t giving Hal his whole attention. Not yet.
Knowing that he knew more than Wesley, that he held the surprise and therefore the power, made Hal feel bold.
‘I’m your son,’ he said clearly.
Wesley did a double-take, a real double-take: his eyes seemed to waver, then refocus on Hal’s face.
‘Wh—’ He stopped, swallowed. ‘What?’
‘Your son,’ Hal repeated, looking at him closely.
‘How - how d’you work that out?’
Hal felt dizzy; the walls and ceilings of the corridor reeled around him. That was as good as yes, wasn’t it?
Wesley was staring at him. ‘Who are you? You were here the other day, weren’t you? And yesterday
at the Crafts Centre?’
‘I’m Hal.’
‘Hal . . . ?’ Wesley prompted.
‘Hal Marborough.’
That was the word that cut through Wesley’s blankness, made his eyes widen and his mouth open. How perfect his teeth were, how white and strong.
‘Marborough! So your mother’s—’
‘Tina Marborough.’
‘Tina! You’re Tina’s boy! And she told you—’ Wesley lowered his voice, his face incredulous ‘—she told you I’m your father?’
There. He’d said it. So it was true, beyond doubt.
‘No, she didn’t say. I worked it out.’
Wesley held up a flat hand, just as he’d done at the poolside: Stop. No more. ‘We can’t talk about this here. Come with me.’
Hal’s step was light as he followed Wesley back towards the foyer. I’m your father. Wesley had said it. Said it! OK, he didn’t look delighted, nor thrilled - but that could come later, when he’d got used to the idea. Told his wife.
Wesley led the way into a small office with a desk, coffee-table and low chairs. He gestured to Hal to sit, and took the other chair, leaving the door open. Then he sat forward, elbows on knees, and looked intently at Hal.
He seemed to think carefully for a few moments. Then:
‘I’m not your father. I don’t know what gave you that idea, but I’m definitely not.’ He spoke not unkindly, but firmly.
‘But you just said you were!’ Hal burst out.
‘I didn’t! I asked why you thought I was. Tina didn’t say so, did she? Surely not. It’s years and years since I’ve seen her - the last I knew, she was at university. How old are you, Hal?’
‘Thirteen. Fourteen in January.’
Wesley sat back. ‘So you were born in - uh, ninety-five? Yes?’
Hal nodded.
‘Well - I haven’t seen Tina since - um, let me think - ninety-three. October ninety-three. So you see, it’s impossible. Your father must be someone she met later - at university, perhaps.’
Dates and numbers whirled in Hal’s brain. ‘It’s not impossible! Look, I’ve got proof - these—’
The Sandfather Page 12
