‘The necessary fictions.’
‘Exactly. See you next week. Let’s drive slowly, stopping at many hostelries.’
David feels cheered by this conversation.
Lucy arrives. She is happy, even overcome.
‘You have a beard. You look amazing. Like a prophet. Brown as a nut, too. Baked.’
‘Lucy, Lucy. It’s wonderful to see you. I’m sorry I was away so long. I missed you terribly.’
She hugs him fervently and he strokes her hair.
‘Oh Dad, I thought you were never coming back. Welcome home.’
‘How are you, my angel? How’ve you been?’
‘I’m so happy, Dad. You’re home, that’s the best thing, and also Nick and I are going to get married.’
‘That’s wonderful. When did that happen?’
‘We only decided last night.’
‘I can’t wait to meet him. He sounds terrific, by text.’
‘He is terrific by text, and even better in the flesh.’
He wonders if Lucy isn’t a little desperate to create the family life he hasn’t provided since Nancy died. At the same time some archaic instinct tells him that he’s relieved to have disposed of his daughter.
‘And how’s Ed? And Rosalie and Geneva and all that?’
‘They love it. I told you I had been to see them. All very organised and clean and lovely. Rosalie’s an associate of the ballet.’
‘Does Ed like his new job? I spoke to him, but I didn’t really ask him.’
‘You never quite know with Ed. But he seems to. He’s taken up husky racing. He’s also got a very French haircut. How were Uncle Guy’s wives and children?’
‘We’ve sorted things out. There was some argument about whether or not they should go and retrieve the body. I said I thought that would be difficult. I told Frans what had happened and that Guy said he wanted to be buried out there. The question of a death certificate didn’t really come up, because Guy had virtually no possessions at all, so there’s no need for a will. When I had to find my way back, I discovered that we had crossed borders two or three times. Lucy, sweetie, thanks for stocking up and for the flowers. It was very thoughtful. I’ll make some tea. I brought back some rooibos – do you want to try it? I love it now, but I have to say it takes some getting used to.’
He feels a slight awkwardness.
‘Dad, did you think of Mum when you were there?’
‘I did. A lot.’
He can’t explain to her just yet that under the Kalahari stars you see things differently. You don’t, as Guy imagined, find the core of things, but you understand that many of your assumptions have no absolute truth. If the Bushmen believed that trance dancing put them in touch with the spirits, that was fine by him: it was as valid an explanation as anything he believed. In truth he is not sure exactly what he believes: I have beliefs but I don’t believe in them. The strange thing was, although Guy talked about them all the time, they never met any Bushmen, apart from one silent family gathered in a few makeshift huts outside a small town of stunning inconsequence.
He makes the tea, something he did every morning on the campfire, even after Guy died. Lucy seems to have become more grown-up in six months: the student look has gone, and she is more poised. He thinks it may just be the effect of seeing her after six months: seeing her anew. Perhaps he had always thought of her as a little girl. In a way, he wishes she still were; parents cannot forget the days when their children regarded them with uncritical admiration and love.
‘Do you like the tea?’
‘As you said, it may take a little getting used to. What exactly did you do after Uncle Guy was killed?’
‘Nothing, exactly. I travelled around in my hire car.’
‘For four months?’
‘When Guy died, I went to Cape Town to see the relatives, and then I took off. I just sort of followed my instincts.’
They talk for an hour or more. They arrange to meet for dinner with Nick.
‘And now I have to go to Grimaldi, Dad. I’m head of my department now.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me? Congratulations.’
‘It’s not such a big deal. But I do handle the press and some clients. Being your daughter has helped. Everyone still asks me about you.’
‘Do you say nice things?’
‘Usually. Bye, Dad, see you at about eight. Can you handle it?’
‘I hope so. I like wiener sausages and ketchup and a spot of kudu.’
‘I’ll see what they can do. There’s loads of stuff in the cupboards and all the sheets are clean and fresh.’
‘Thanks, my darling, I saw. You are an angel. Oh, Lucy, one thing: beard, on or off?’
‘Leave it; it looks great. And not too grey.’
When she’s gone, he rings Ed. Ed’s at Geneva airport, about to board for New York.
‘Ed, sorry to catch you like this: just one thing I didn’t ask you. Is Lucy going to be OK with this Nick?’
‘He’s wonderful. They’ve been over to see us. You’ll come soon, I hope? Skiing has started.’
‘What’s happened with Josh?’
‘Josh? He decided he would be better off in Australia.’
‘I just wanted the background before I meet Nick. I feel a little guilty about being away.’
‘As long as you discovered the meaning of life. That’s the main thing. There’s my plane. Got to go, Pops.’
David can hear the final call in three languages.
21
Ed Cross seems to have lost every skirmish with his wife, Rosalie, since she became pregnant. For example, he hadn’t wanted this elaborate church ceremony. His father, David Cross, said don’t think of it as suggesting that you believe in God, just accept it as part of the social ritual, the grease that makes the wheels go round.
‘Are you talking about the wheels of marriage?’
‘The wheels of marriage, and the other sort.’
Lucy Cross, Ed’s sister, is a godmother and very much at the centre of things. She is soon to be married to Nick Grimczek, who is watching keenly, his face at a questing angle. She holds the silver baptismal shell with which generations – at least two – of Rosalie’s family, the Brownjohns, have been doused. It’s a family tradition. The child, Darcey Nancy Cross (‘Darcey’ was another battle lost), is strangely quiet as the priest, a positive, rather fat woman with an upbeat, demotic manner – she announced that she prefers to be called the Reverend Jacqui – takes the baptismal shell from Lucy and scoops a little water from the font. On her arm she has a deep and surprisingly fluffy white towel, the sort of towel you find in luxury hotels. She is equipped to dry the baby’s almost bald head. There are signs, a russet filigree, that the baby’s head is the seedbed for a magnificent growth of hair, like her mother’s.
David thinks that Ed, under his floppy French haircut, looks a little moist, as though he has been caught up in the baptismal theme himself. David’s role in all this is mute support. Grandfathers take a backward step as the business of life – day-to-day, essential life, including the upbringing of children – finds its natural rhythms. At this point women are promoted to the front rank. Ed is only now discovering that a marriage is a shifting alliance. Certainly while his mother was alive, she was the final authority on all family matters, the keeper of the family lore.
The baptismal service is quite short and to the point; as the vicar cradles little Darcey in one arm and says, ‘I baptise thee in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost,’ and, as the water trickles on to her forehead, David feels the tide of the numinous running at a deep level, like a rumble in a sea cave. It is not a belief in God that affects him so deeply, but the never-ending and restless human desire to make some meaning out of life. And death. ‘We receive this Child into the Congregation of Christ’s flock, and do sign her with the sign of the Cross, in token that hereafter she shall not be ashamed to confess the faith of Christ crucified, and manfully to fight under his banner against s
in, the world, and the devil, and to continue Christ’s faithful soldier and servant unto her life’s end. Amen.’
David looks at Rosalie, so elegant in a long floral summer dress, which just about snags on her slim hips, and he knows that this will always be one of the great moments of her life, to be cherished for ever. Nancy was the same: the albums of photographs of Ed’s and Lucy’s christenings were sacred objects. Today, if she were still alive, Nancy would have known not only how to behave, but how to feel. For himself and, he thinks, for Ed, a conscious effort, a kind of sieving, is required to find the point of these social rituals. Nancy would have seen her first grandchild as a tribute, the natural reward for having carried Ed and Lucy, her contribution to keeping the show on the road. To greasing the wheels.
The vicar is giving an address about the gift of children and the need to give them a Christian upbringing. She talks of the sacred ties that bind parents and children and here, at least, David is with her. His feelings for Ed and Lucy are so acute, so bound up with his own essence, that he has no language to articulate them. He guesses that these feelings – these deep, irrational longings, fears, hopes – are really the source of all the religious stuff. These inchoate yearnings are heightened by the dread of death and, out of this potent mix, religion was born. David thinks that his own death is a small matter, but the idea of Ed or Lucy, when they were children, dying in an accident – drowning, for example – or as the result of sudden illness, tormented him in the small hours most acutely when he was in a flea-ridden guest house in the unfriendly mountains of Afghanistan or caught in the cross-fire in Soweto or utterly drained on a transport plane back from some hell-hole. Even now that they are grown-up he can’t bear to contemplate such a thing. When Nancy died he wasn’t immediately devastated, as he would have been if one of the children had died. But, from the moment the Reverend Jacqui poured a few drops of water on her head, he was gripped with a deep love for this baby and also for Nancy, her grandmother, even if the baby possesses none of her genes. Maybe this is the real presence, transcending the merely rational, that Guy was looking for.
The Reverend Jacqui speaks loudly and theatrically: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.
‘And Nancy,’ he whispers. ‘In the name of Nancy.’
22
Since he lost his licence for the third time, Adam has travelled in cars with a hint of condescension; he behaves as if David as a driver has a rather pointless hobby, like those rail enthusiasts who play trains at the weekend. He refuses to look at the map or to take any interest in the route: he gave up that sort of thing long ago. On the way to Simon’s bookshop, the Owl and the Pussycat Books, they stop only once for a drink. Adam has a Scotch and a beer chaser. David sips a mineral water, but without any suggestion of reproach. Adam is his own man and he loves him for that.
When they finally arrive in the village, Adam is asleep, slumped deep into the passenger seat. His face is older in repose, his mouth slightly open. Older people often sleep with their mouths open and their noses pointing skywards. For some reason, Adam is dressed in green corduroys and a green Barbour. On his head is a baseball cap, with what looks like a black-and-red weaver bird on it. It is in fact the headgear of the away uniform of the Baltimore Orioles.
David wakes him gently.
‘That didn’t take long,’ he says. ‘Well driven. You should take it up professionally.’
His face is a little flushed, but otherwise he looks fine. Simon comes out to greet them and shows them into the shop.
‘Simon, this is so beautiful. The Owl and the Pussycat. I’ve come as the pea-green boat. And look at all these books. Who would have thought it?’
The bookshop has a large fireplace and a log fire is burning gently. It looks more like Simon’s private library than a bookshop. There are three comfortable old leather chairs around the fireplace – now shunted together – and in the body of the shop, at least a hundred wooden chairs lined up. In a storeroom, Simon has laid out some drinks and snacks for the Noodle Club. There are only five of them, Brian, David, Adam, Simon and Philip Entwhistle, who lives in France and drove over via the tunnel. He has a daughter who lives near by in Alfriston.
‘Before we start the real business of the day, I think we should drink a toast to absent friends, and of course I am particularly thinking of Julian. Raise your glasses to absent friends, to Julian,’ says Brian.
‘To absent friends, to Julian,’ they say, raising their glasses.
‘Absent’ is a curious description of Julian, David thinks. He’s not coming back.
Simon says that the paying guests will be here in less than half an hour. He is nervous and keeps dashing out to see if the two volunteers are able to handle the parking, the crowd, the quails’ eggs, the raffle – to be presented by David – the microphone on the lectern, where Adam will speak, and the extra chairs required; as many as six people have phoned in late saying they want to come. Adam asks if anyone has a copy of his book, as he has forgotten to bring one, although there is a copy of a P.G. Wodehouse in his Barbour. Simon rushes off to the shelves. When he comes back he asks if David will sign copies of his Afghanistan book, and whether he will make some closing remarks. Adam drinks two large glasses of red wine.
‘Fabulous wine, Simon. Made mostly with grapes?’
‘No, I just mix the water and the powder in a plastic bucket.’
‘Hello, Philip,’ David says. ‘How’ve you been?’
‘Not great. My daughter’s husband has left her. Why do I care so much? She’s thirty-two, but it’s killing me.’
‘I know the feeling. Mine’s twenty-six and just about to get married. I’m terrified.’
In fact Nick is astonishingly charming and self-possessed, and also he seems very straightforward, which is the quality you most want for your daughter. What you don’t want is someone like me.
‘If you were a novelist, Philip,’ says Adam, ‘you would recycle this: you would see it as material.’
‘Unfortunately I’m a retired investment banker, like Brian, so I see it as an utter fucking disaster.’
‘Strictly speaking, I’m not retired. I am still chairman of four investment funds,’ says Brian.
‘How are they doing?’
‘All going down the pan, sadly.’
David feels himself being drawn back into the life he vacated. With these battered friends he has a shared intimacy. He may be imagining it: people of our generation have never been too good at expressing real emotion. Together again, they see their true selves, which are invisible to others, emerging. It’s comforting. Brian decides to help Simon, who is flustered because of the increased numbers; he goes out to assess the situation. After a few minutes he comes back into the storeroom, which now has a warm conviviality, and says that everything is under control and the place is filling up nicely. Quails’ eggs and wine are being dispensed enthusiastically by the lady volunteers. Adam pours himself another large glass of red wine. He’s talking to one of the lady volunteers. She is laughing.
‘Will he be all right?’ Simon asks anxiously.
‘He’ll be fine. Don’t worry.’
Soon they are led out into the bookshop to take their seats. Simon follows: he goes to the podium.
‘Welcome, everybody, to this very special occasion. As you know, every entry ticket has a number on it and at the end of the reading my old friend David Cross, who needs no introduction, even though he is sporting a beard, will draw one number from a hat that corresponds to a seat number, and the lucky winner will receive a book token for fifty pounds. David will also say a few words at the very end in conclusion. I thank you for coming. And now it is my very great pleasure to welcome tonight’s speaker, author of the classic, The Wise Women of Wandsworth, and many other fine books, prize-winning scriptwriter, broadcaster and all-round national treasure, Adam Edwards.’
Adam, still wearing his green Barbour and Orioles baseball cap, in his hand a freshly filled glass of r
ed wine, walks up to the podium. His cheeks have those familiar highlights.
‘Friends,’ he says, ‘friends, I sometimes feel that those of us who love books, and I mean real books with long words, are a dwindling band. We’re like the Bushmen of the Kalahari Desert that David was telling me about on the way here, marginalised, even despised, as though we have a secret vice or carry a contagion. My friends, I am here this evening to tell you that a country without a respect for its own literature is a country going to hell in a fucking handcart. We, the readers, are now like monks in the dark ages, keeping alive our culture. We are living in a new dark age, an age of mass ignorance; we are squeezed in the embrace of triviality and infantilism. I, for example, spend my days turning dumb ideas into dumber scripts that become even dumber mini-series. The BBC, where David and I first started our working lives all those years ago, has turned into a sink of touchy-feely mediocrity...’
On and on he goes. David glances at Simon, who looks pale. But the audience loves it. Adam breaks off to sing a folk ballad to illustrate some point, and then he reads a short extract from The Wise Women, and finally he recites from memory a large chunk of The Waste Land. After forty minutes, he closes saying, ‘We readers have a sacred duty, to keep alive our literary tradition, to save our language from the barbarians, to read until our eyeballs burst. God bless you.’
A hundred English men and women rise to him, some a little unsteadily because of age and drink.
Now David moves to the lectern.
‘I am here only to mop up. I thought Adam’s talk was absolutely inspirational and I know you would want to thank him with me. Adam and I will be signing books, if you want them signed. The big event of the evening, the raffle, comes soon, but please bear with me. I have been in the Kalahari Desert, as Adam said, for the last six months. I was with my brother, who died there. I believe he wanted to die there. Before I draw the raffle, I hope you will indulge me, I would like to recite a few lines of his favourite poem, ‘The Windhover’, by Gerard Manley Hopkins, in his memory.
To Heaven by Water Page 26
