“It was actually the dentist’s funeral and my favourite grandmother asked me to cleverly avoid telling you. You see, it wasn’t very nice, the thing he died of. She thought any truly elegant establishment would much prefer to stay in ignorance.”
Even Henry gave a smile. Even Rose appeared amused.
“Did you hear that, Mr Cavendish? Isn’t he a cheeky bugger! Honest! I didn’t know he had it in him!”
Inadvertently, she had risked taking over from Roger in front of the firing squad. But possibly the manager had been too appalled to notice.
“Do you realize that not only did you take most of the day off but, on top of that, you actually split an infinitive?”
Roger laughed and, guessing he could now go, descended to the basement. He felt pleased with himself—and not purely on a single count. Honest! I didn’t know he had it in him! Good old Rose! He would remember that tonight, when heading for St Pancras. A form of recognition which maybe most of his life he had subconsciously desired. I didn’t know he had it in him!
Also, of course, it was scarcely ninety minutes ago that he had first seen Jenny Maddox. But he had never met anybody like her and already he could tell it was a turning point. He may not have read Sabatini (although he would! he would!) yet he had more than once read of people who—immediately after meeting their future spouse—had brazenly declared, “That is the person I am going to marry!” Well, he himself could prove as brazen as any of them! Why not? Why not? Jenny Maddox was going to be so completely the person he needed.
10
Since he was so late already Ephraim decided he might as well be hanged for a Doulton figurine as for a phone call from Calcutta. Royal Doulton. Two figurines. One was a wistful-looking Columbine with diamond-patterned skirt and sleeves—yellow, blue, black, green, white and purple—and bodice cut extremely low, both front and back, edged by a broad white frill repeated at the wrists; she stood on a black base, wore black shoes, green stockings and a black tricorn—but beneath the hat her grey hair made her face too old (a little like Billie Burke playing the Good Fairy, Glinda, when really she was past it) despite the peachy smoothness of her neck and upper chest. The other was more chocolate-boxy, ginger-curled, and had a Cupid’s bow that could have roused the jealousy even of Ann Blyth: pink riding habit, and plumes that tumbled to one shoulder from her hat; pale blue underside to the brim of that hat; white Puritan collar, black gloves, black riding crop. Turn her arse-over-tip, you saw she was identified as “Maureen”, whereas the first was merely Harlequinade, without inverted commas, and apart from being less sentimental carried the distinctive mark of its potter and was almost certainly older and more valuable.
Not that Ephraim was considering selling. They were a part of his childhood, good companions at either end of the mantelpiece in his mother’s bedroom (fireplace boarded up), and he could remember at an early age running his finger over each of them (“Darling, you’ll hold it very carefully, won’t you?”) whilst sitting at her curtained dressing table on the matching stool—the same brocade that hung in the bay window—and being especially susceptible to the prettiness of Maureen; holding her very carefully in front of the triple mirror on the glass-topped dressing table…before which mirror, many years later, on occasions when he was alone in the flat, he could recall sometimes standing naked and using the silver-backed hand glass and opened wardrobe door to assist him in his narcissism: of course with an erection: and the mortified anxiety of having once to scrub, with dampened flannel and remorseful vow, at the linoleum-framed beige carpet; could recall the repeated inspections—and the ultimate relief when nothing was noticed, no far-fetched, squash-spilling assertions necessary.
No, nothing would ever induce him to sell either of these figurines; he had so little of his mother’s; just those and one of her dancing medals and her beautiful Persian lamb coat which Jean unfortunately could never wear—“Unless I had a placard on my back: ‘I swear, it belonged to my mother-in-law; what would you have me do?’” But merely pawning them…that surely was allowable. In fact, National Home Loans, Solihull, West Midlands, might well regard it as advisable. At the moment he wasn’t too worried about the bank; didn’t give a sod about Swan International; all he cared about was staving off the bailiffs—and the repossessors. Well, anyway, that’s all he had cared about when he’d first looked in the Yellow Pages, but now there was Oscar to consider—Air India top priority. The directory listed no more than three pawnbrokers: only one in central Nottingham: Carlton Street, which led down into Goosegate.
He didn’t know quite what he had expected…yes, actually he did: some backstreet moneylender’s straight out of a black-and-white late-Forties second feature, with a fleshy, stubble-jowled Semitic dealer (and Ephraim, who had been born Jewish and could still recite the Shema, well at least its first part, as easily as the Lord’s Prayer, was permitted—wasn’t he?—frankly to acknowledge that bit without needing to feel racist); in short, a stereotypical fence, complete with eyeshade and eyeglass and a shirt maybe gaping clammily above the waistband.
But Messrs William Taylor & Co, though established in 1854, had perhaps never been to the movies. They had the three brass balls, it’s true, yet there was nothing else that seemed right. Despite a tacky picture in the window—of a watermill whose wheel was represented by a shoddy and gaudily bright clock—they looked like any other respectable jeweller’s, with welcome symbols on the door from Visa and American Express and Diners Club International; it was all a very long way, thought Ephraim, from ill-lit alleys and running footsteps and Edgar Lustgarten and The Shop at Sly Corner. Inside, there were carpet tiles, cuckoo clocks, closed-circuit television and a fresh-faced young fellow in a neat suit.
“I’d like to talk to you, please,” said Ephraim, “in your pawnbroking capacity.” He began this way because, notwithstanding the brass balls and the Yellow Pages, he still half-wondered if he could be making a mistake. And besides the measure of quaintness in his manner of expression there was even a measure of challenge. He wanted to indicate that he found the situation amusing—and completely free of stigma.
“Yes, sir.” The assistant was encouraging.
Ephraim explained. “…And I believe one of them at least might be worth six or seven hundred. Could I raise a thousand on the two?”
“I’m sorry, sir. We only deal in gold.”
The shop door opened and in came a sinister-looking black, very tall, with beaded shoulder-length hair. Both hands were in the pockets of his trench coat. He pushed the door to with his foot.
“Only in gold? But…” Ephraim glanced about him. “But you seem to sell everything. Cut glass—pictures—rings—pearl necklaces…” It was a fact, however, that he couldn’t see any porcelain. “Lumps of amethyst, masses of wristwatches…” He wished the black would at least turn and look the other way. “A couple of bone china figurines would surely fit in nicely. Besides, I’m not talking about selling them. It’s just their value that’s in question.”
“But you see, sir, we wouldn’t be able to judge their value. We’re not experts in bone china.”
Ephraim felt like a man who’d come for interview and was being turned down for the job. “Perhaps you’d first like to serve this gentleman?” he said, mainly to give himself time to think of reasons why he shouldn’t be turned down.
“That’s all right, man. I’m in no hurry. Just take your time.”
Damn him.
“But if I went and fetched them, later on today, and left them here for a few hours, couldn’t you have them independently assessed, by people who are experts?”
The assistant said: “I’m sorry. But, no, we don’t do that.” He produced a regretful little smile and really did sound as if he were unhappy about it.
“Why not?” Ephraim asked.
“Yes, man, why not?” The fellow wasn’t behind him any longer but alongside.
“I don’t know, sir. It’s our policy.”
“May I speak to your manager?”
<
br /> “The manager’s away this week.” (I trust in thee, O Lord; my times are in thy hand. Psalm 31: 14-15.) “And neither of my colleagues”—he indicated a mirrored door to his right—“could be of much assistance to you. Yet anyhow…” He shrugged. “I think I can guess what the manager would say.”
“Piss off?” suggested the newcomer.
But this time it was Ephraim who ignored him. Ephraim, fighting for his loved ones. Fighting for Oscar. Fighting for Jean.
“Then here—what about this?” He wrenched the bracelet off his wrist. The bracelet was made only of base metal and of stainless steel and he suspected that the watch itself was much the same, although it certainly had the appearance of gold. “Here’s something you’d be qualified to judge.”
And at least it was a Seiko. Quartz. And the time it gave was always accurate even if its date-keeping wasn’t: for the day—and in shining vermilion, what’s more—it still provided SUN.
He had forgotten it had once belonged to Liz.
“Sir, I’m afraid that unless it’s a Rolex or a Patek-Philippe a secondhand watch has scarcely any value. But there’s another pawnbroker, you know, at Beeston. Mrs Barks. She might easily be interested in figurines.”
“There’s also one at Radford, man. Though the two guys I saw there—I don’t know as they’d know a whole lot about any bone china. I don’t know as they’d know a whole lot about any Crown Jewels either come to that, even if they arrived there with a note on them saying Signed by me—personal—with love and thanks—the Queen.”
Ephraim laughed and restored his undervalued watch to its rightful place on his wrist; he had now remembered it had once belonged to Liz. He appreciated their companion’s consistently lighter note. It supplied him with an unexpected lead.
“Well, then, all I’ve got to offer is myself. People always say I’m worth my weight in gold.” (Oh, yeah? Really?)
“A pound an ounce, sir,” declared the assistant. (And there were so many who merely stared at you when you attempted that facetious kind of pleasantry.)
“Up on the scales, man!”
Ephraim, for a moment, felt such gratitude that it was almost love. He could have hugged the pair of them and when he left the shop—though having, instead, only shaken their hands—he was still smiling. (If I can’t be anything else in life I may as well settle for being a character. A star. “Dad, you’re a star,” Abby had used to say, when he’d done something a bit special, like, for instance, taking up the children’s breakfasts in bed and giving them croissants or chocolatines, or peanuts or Maltesers, in an attempt both to surprise them and to vary their diets a little. “Dad, you really are a star!” Oscar had been apt to imitate her, or else gently to tease her, most memorably when he’d broken his arm in the school playground and for weeks Ephraim had sat next to him after supper, writing out the homework he dictated, or copying up the geography and history notes he’d been obliged to borrow.) Now, walking away from the jeweller’s, he thought it was a shame about the cash—but communication was also very necessary. As he turned towards the Lace Market it struck him that his depression seemed to have lifted again; he actually felt good. Yet such was often the way of it. Here one minute—gone the next—dependent on responses.
When he got to the office it was nearly half-past-ten—but still not as late as he’d thought, he was glad he’d kept his watch. Barney was on the telephone. The question of whether or not they were again on speaking terms, therefore, remained to some degree in abeyance, although Barney was observant and certainly hadn’t looked up or given any kind of wave. All the rest greeted him in normal fashion: “Hi, Eff!”, “How you doing, matey?”, “Morning, lad.”
As he settled at his desk he listened to the conversation of his boss.
“I swear to you she’s only known the guy for four months. And she always wanted a big wedding: marquee—orchestra—all the trimmings…No, she really meant it; why would she try to bullshit me?…Well, having lived with her for five-and-a-half years I’d say that, yes, I knew her fairly well…And now to have done it in a registry office! Poor kid! Can’t help feeling sorry for her. Bet she’ll be regretting it by Crimbo—probably before! Still. I suppose there’ll always be some things you have to find out for yourself; no one can teach you. But I never dreamed she’d come to this. Poor deluded kid.”
Barney picked up a second phone that stood beside the first. Apparently it was some woman from the Technical Department, at Head Office. “Sorry, darling. I’m on the other line. Phone me back in two.” Ephraim picked up his own receiver and rang his brother Nathan, who was likewise at his Head Office in London.
Nathan and Angie had been on holiday at the culmination of the mortgage crisis. (Which wasn’t to say that it was over, or anything like over, but Ephraim had felt too dispirited to ring them yesterday. Hi! How was Turkey? Look, I need to borrow several hundred quid.)
“Hello, Nathe. Only me…wanting to find out if you and Angie had a good time.”
But hadn’t he just warned himself about that?
“Then I wish you could have wanted to find out while I was at home and not at work,” replied his brother. For some reason, if he hadn’t been the one to initiate the call, Nathan was seldom at his best on the telephone; not with his family. It didn’t necessarily mean this was a bad moment.
“Oh, you know me!” said Ephraim. “Why run up my own bill when I can run up the company’s?”
“Besides, didn’t you get our postcard?” (Christ Almighty! Letter or card—who else was going to ask him that today?) “Must have told you then that we were having a good time. May even have said: wish you were here! Lying through our teeth, of course.” The gruffness was alleviated by a glimmer of enjoyment at his own wit. “Mind you, I suppose we might have had a giggle. How’s the girl?”
Invariably—on the telephone—the ‘girl’ was Jean. “Do you happen to mean my wife?”
“Yes, that’s the one. Is there any other I should know of?”
“Jean’s fine. She’s fine.” Like flowers are at their cheapest in the run-up to Mother’s Day. “Angie?”
“That one’s my wife. How is she?—well, I don’t know; never bother to ask.” Ephraim thought that in fact he might have picked a reasonably good moment. He imagined Nathan sitting there in his smart lawyer’s office, considerably larger than himself, in height as well as girth, nearly six years older and looking a good deal more, at home a blazer-and-tie-and-flannels man, never a jumper and jeans, at the very least a crisply pressed shirt and silk cravat. Hair always short, brilliantined, well-brushed. Margaret Thatcher’s staunchest supporter (these days, possibly, a hint of self-parody whilst claiming this). The pair of them—Nathan and he—had practically nothing in common other than memories of boarding school in North Wales, the High Street flat, shared apprehensions when taken to meet their father’s future wife, things like that. Nathan had often been good to him: given him extra pocket money when he’d first started earning, treated him to the cinema, come to spend weekends at Cannock and Wolverhampton when Ephraim was doing his National Service in the RAF (only six months: a wangled medical discharge—wangled but real: he’d always had depressions, albeit more typically referred to as sulks). Later memories included the giggling fit they’d caught from one another at the altar—Ephraim’s wedding, although it could have happened just as easily at Nathan’s—with Jean eventually succumbing too; and a whole lot closer to the present-day, merely the previous year indeed, the pleasant weekend they’d spent together at Portmeirion, wifeless, in order to attend the annual reunion of Old Boys (but Matron had only recently managed to trace them—well, to trace Nathan). And hadn’t everyone become so rich, such pillars of society! But still it had been fun, and might have been nearly as much so for himself as for Nathan, except for his discovery that the boy he had regarded for nearly half a century as being his best friend at the time, even, in a way, his best friend ever—the possibility of his presence there and of all that this might lead to having been
the clinching factor in his decision to attend—that this boy had neither the smallest recollection of him nor any of the lovingly remembered escapades which Ephraim had more and more halfheartedly described, adventures shared by just the two of them…until in the end Ephraim had been forced to smile and turn away: “I’ll simply have to strike you, then, off the list of my best friends!” Some list! They had avoided each other for the rest of the evening and Ephraim wondered now if unacceptable disappointment was what he’d been afraid of when he kept postponing his attempts—or, at best, made excited efforts lacking in persistence—to track down this symbol of the perfect friendship. But it was always as well to know where you stood; you couldn’t go through life clinging to sentimental illusion (and he was glad John Leyton now sported a paunch and a florid network of capillaries). And during the course of the dinner he’d had at least one worthwhile memory restored to him: how Nathan had taken him—probably at the request of Miss Kean—into his own bed in the Senior Dormitory on the night their mother had gone back to London, gone back to the Ministry of Food and to her poorly heated room in Mrs Hilling’s house in Abbey Road, following a brief half-term visit (during which they’d been to The Demi-Paradise in Porthmadog; possibly the first film he had ever seen), and he hadn’t been able to stop crying, hadn’t even wanted to be shown the apple she had left him or read the book which she had slipped, last thing, beneath his pillow. Therefore, despite their differences, his and Nathan’s, differences of attitude and character and circumstance, there was still a lot to bind them…well, at least on Ephraim’s side there was; he hoped that Nathan felt the same—but then of course Nathan had always been the giver, him the taker. So how could you be sure?
Still, think about the past. Forget the brusqueness of the present.
“All right, let’s suppose Angie is also fine,” said Ephraim. “In that case, the only one who isn’t quite so good at the moment is Oscar.”
“Why? What’s the matter with him? Pregnant or something?”
Father of the Man Page 10
