During the night Riley moaned like he was being fried on a low heat. His face was hot and wet. And then, a couple of days ago, the letter came. Well, it wasn’t a letter. Riley tore it open and out popped a photograph. The two of them stared at the crimped black and white square on the table. Nancy noticed a booming chest and wide braces, a shirt without a collar.
Riley’s hand slammed onto the smiling face as if it were a wasp.
Nancy jumped. ‘Who’s that?’ she asked, shaken.
‘No one.’ His eyes were trained hard on his fingers as if something might crawl out.
Nancy didn’t press her man. She’d learned not to. She could read the signs. He was like hot water in a pan, close to the boil. That night he screamed. In itself, that was no surprise: Riley had suffered nightmares since the trial. (‘Occupational hazard,’ said Mr Wyecliffe, as if he had them too.) They were always the same: he was running for dear life, chased by something like a dog they’d once seen at the races, and then he was falling… but this time it was slightly different.
‘What is it?’ wailed Nancy She’d been listening to his muttering but the cry had come like a brick through the window. To her astonishment he buried his head into her neck.
‘I’m falling’ — Nancy stroked his wet scalp. It was bony like a rock on the beach. His hand covered hers and they stayed like that, as if they were waiting for an ambulance; and then Riley added the bit that was new, the change in the dream — ‘I’m just falling down an endless stairwell.’
A stairwell? Strange things, are dreams.
From that day on, Riley’s nightmares got worse. To make himself tired, he started walking in the middle of the night along Limehouse Cut, the canal that ran through Bow to the Thames. He’d listen to the foxes in the old warehouses. But that was later. On this night, when he’d calmed down, Riley turned his back on Nancy and she felt her own stomach fail, for he was always moving away and she’d never got used to it. And Nancy said to herself, I’m not stupid. This dream, the photo and the death of that barrister are tied up somehow Mr Lawton hadn’t believed her, but in the end she’d been proved right, and he’d said, ‘You could’ve gone places.’
Come to think of it, that was insulting. The boss had let slip what he thought of Nancy: how she’d wasted her life. All she’d done was work for him and marry Graham Riley.
Nancy had gone to the docks when she’d turned sixteen, along with Rose Clarke and Martina Lynch. They’d been together since primary school. They remained a threesome, well known to everyone who worked on Harold Lawton’s quay; and they were seen every Friday night at the same pub just outside the main gates, the Admiral — a hole, really but it was ever so old, and there was this side room made from a ship’s cabin. A big plastic sign said the owners had been serving ‘seadogs since the days of rigging and sails’. Martina got the nickname Babycham from the landlord because she drank nothing else. True, Nancy was the dumpy one, but it didn’t seem to matter when she was jammed between the other two. She dressed nicely and there were always lads wanting to join their table. Thinking of those days, Nancy remembered a small detail about the weekend that followed the night before: more often than not, no one had asked her out. She could admit that now. What did it matter? It wasn’t through her friends that she’d met her man, anyway.
Riley used to clock in with all the others at eight in the morning. Back then, everyone had a card that was stamped in a big machine. It was the same at lunchtime. The lads all got one hour off, but they had to stamp their cards again if they’d left the premises, to show they were back on time. It was old-fashioned, but Mr Lawton liked the contraption. He wasn’t one for changing with the times. Funny really that his business should have lasted so long on the Isle of Dogs, while everyone else went under. Anyhow, one day Riley lingered in the office until they were alone. He’d been taken on a couple of months earlier, after being made redundant just down the road. So he was new, and different from the rest — not a Friday-night man, not a drinker. Quiet. Kept himself to himself. Didn’t need friends — didn’t want them. His hair was always ruffled and his eyes couldn’t keep still. They were blue-green and confused, as if he’d been shaken up in the bottle. And he’d noticed Nancy He watched her from the driver’s cabin of a crane. She knew because he once pulled the wrong lever, and all the stevedores went off it when he dropped a crate of bananas. So, on this day Nancy sensed him hanging around, edgy and shy She thought he was about to invite her to that big dance coming up in White City, but he wasn’t. Instead he asked her to risk her job.
‘Do my card for me, will you? I’ve got tenants to see.’
Nancy had been impressed. Here was a man with a bit of property. Hardly common among Lawton’s boys. A nest egg, he’d explained. He was getting other people to pay off the mortgage.
‘I just need about half an hour,’ said Riley looking over his shoulder.
Nancy agreed, and he studied her face like he was looking for spots. Then he said, as if he were handing over something precious, ‘I knew I could trust you.
She waited for him to ask her out, but he didn’t. A week or so later he suggested having tea in a hotel. She said yes, thinking he meant some place on Commercial Road, but he took her to Brighton, which was a double shock, because he paid for the train as well — first class, if you please. They were married within six months. Babycham and Rose were the only witnesses. There was no reception, just a free drink at the town hall and a cheeky kiss from the registrar. Her man didn’t like that. And he didn’t like her pals. She still saw them at Lawton’s, but the threesome had been split. So the Friday-night sessions came to an end. Nancy didn’t altogether mind, because, looking back, she’d never really enjoyed herself.
They moved into Riley’s bungalow and set up home. Nancy had always wanted a herb bed but there was no garden, just flagstones. So she started collecting bricks from the towpath by Limehouse Cut —just one at a time, if she happened to see one in the grass. Slowly as married life got underway the pile of bricks grew bigger, but the bed was never built. She was a few short. And that mirrored their life together. There were some missing pieces. Within weeks of that free drink at the town hall, the man who’d taken her to Brighton went into hiding — in his own home.
But, of course, he had to come out again. They were under one roof. During the day he was sharp and brusque, baring his teeth when he felt he was being crossed. His jaw would creep forward, and his eyes would go wide, staring to one side, as if he daren’t look at you for fear of what he might do. During the evening, he’d sneer at the television: at politicians, soaps, the news, bishops. His bottom lip would warp, and his bitten nails would scratch the rests of his armchair, catching on the nylon covers. In disgust he’d put on a Walt Disney video, slamming it into the machine. Them his face would light up. He’d weep with Bambi or shake his fist at the queen in Snow White. All his feelings crackled and popped, like the cereal. But when the film was over, he became pinched, as if it shouldn’t have ended. (Nancy didn’t like the word ‘unstable’, but she got the impression that her man held himself together, a bit like a barrel with those iron bands, and that if one or two of the screws came loose, he’d just explode. So she learned to keep well back. She didn’t tinker with his ways.) At night he wouldn’t touch her. There was a cold part of the bed, right in the middle. It was like that channel in the sea opened up by Charlton Heston, when he was Moses. Both of them were like walls of water, waiting to collapse from the sheer weight of separation. Only it never happened. Not even after that policewoman came to Lawton’s and arrested her man at the foot of his crane. At the time, Nancy watched him being led away waiting for those iron bands to snap; but they didn’t.
‘It all adds up,’ repeated Nancy solemnly ‘I’m no fool.’
Suddenly Arnold froze on his drum. His neck seemed to beat as though his heart was lodged in his throat.
‘You think too much,’ said Riley quietly.
Nancy let out a cry. Right behind her, an arm’s length
away was her man. He was wearing his camouflage parka with the hood up. A high collar almost covered his mouth. He’d picked it up from an old soldier who’d topped himself.
‘You scared me,’ laughed Nancy Her pulse found its stride, and she said calmly ‘Don’t you want some breakfast?’
‘No.’ His voice cracked, and his eyes were famished. ‘I’ve got a clearing.’
‘Where?’
‘Tottenham.’
The back door slammed as if they’d had a row Standing by the window, Nancy watched her man as if he were on another planet. A dense mist had risen off the Thames and dissolved the streets of Poplar. It would swamp the Isle of Dogs from Canary Wharf to Cubitt Town. Street-lights hung like saucers and Riley slowly disintegrated. When he’d vanished, Nancy turned to Arnold. His little legs started moving and the wheel clinked and whirred.
‘How on earth did he get like that?’ she asked sorrowfully.
2
As arranged, Anselm arrived at the Vault near Euston Station at seven in the morning. Scaffolds and hoarding covered tall buildings on either side of the day centre. Sheets of polythene flapped and winches clinked in the breeze. A queue of figures shuffled to a gate, evoking the fortitude of travellers bound for the New World. Anselm passed behind them into a narrow, cobbled lane and found the back-door buzzer beneath a nameplate.
‘How is Uncle Cyril?’ asked Debbie Lynwood, opening the door to her office at the end of a dimly lit corridor.
‘Hot and bothered,’ said Anselm. ‘I threw away a receipt.’
‘Cantankerous beast.’
Anselm had expected genetic determinism (bulk in overalls) but Debbie’s frame was slight. She wore black trousers and a scarlet roll-neck jumper. A selection of enamel badges revealed an interest in classic motorcycles.
‘I can’t promise much,’ she said, hands in her back pockets. ‘Finding someone on the street is almost impossible. But I know a man who might be able to help — someone who knows the ropes.’ She moved across the room towards a door that led onto the Vault itself. In the middle was a round window. On the other side Anselm saw the blue haze of smoke. Dark figures crossed slowly as if wading through water. ‘When I mentioned what I knew of you,’ said Debbie thoughtfully ‘he was eager to meet you. Wait here.’
She opened the door and a low industrious hum spilled into the office. As he waited, Anselm absorbed his surroundings: a wall of box files, posters displaying information, an old school desk, a worn blue carpet… and a short, wiry man holding a staff like a curtain rail with an ornamental knob. He wore a green cagoule, his trousers were tucked into his socks, and he shouldered a backpack. His feet, in polished, split brogues, were splayed outwards. A thin, grizzled beard covered an oblong chin.
‘May I present Mr Francis Hillsden,’ said Debbie.
The traveller made a short bow with his head and shook Anselm’s hand. A pleasure, with respect,’ he said, keeping his eyes averted. They were blue and seemed to be smarting.
Debbie invited Anselm to speak as they pulled up chairs in a triangle. Mr Hillsden perched himself on the edge of his seat, gripping his staff as though it were a pole to a room below.
‘I am looking for a man in his sixties,’ said Anselm. ‘His name is David George Bradshaw I understand he is known as Blind George.’
‘By whom, if I might respectfully ask?’ His accent was soft, a cultured voice from the West Country. ‘I hope my interjection does not trouble you?’
‘Not at all,’ replied Anselm. A sense of déjà vu flashed like a weak light. ‘That’s his name among other homeless people.’
Mr Hillsden gave a brief nod as if he’d made a note of the reply ‘Mr Bradshaw has restricted vision?’
‘No. But he wears welding goggles. I don’t know why’
‘To hide his face?’ The suggestion was directed towards one of the posters on the facing wall.
‘Maybe… I’m told he keeps his own company’ Anselm felt uneasy as if he were hiding the part he’d played in the downfall of a man. ‘Until recently Mr Bradshaw stayed beneath a fire escape at Trespass Place. He was waiting there for a colleague of mine who unfortunately died. When I went to meet him on her behalf he had gone. I have an important message for him — in effect, that I will continue what they were doing in her stead.’
‘In the first place, I offer my condolences.’ Mr Hillsden’s eyelids twitched as if troubled by a particle of grit. ‘But secondly with respect, if this gentleman has withdrawn from the company of men, how might one ask questions as to his whereabouts?’
‘I don’t know’
A fair answer, if I may say so. Where is Trespass Place?’
Anselm explained, adding that while Mr Bradshaw might not be blind, his memory had been shattered; that he held time together with a series of notebooks — a detail that somehow seemed to define the man he was looking for.
‘A wise practice,’ observed Mr Hillsden. He became abruptly stern, glancing round as if he’d heard a voice of contradiction. He banged his staff twice and the severity dissolved. Twitching again, he said, ‘I don’t wish to intrude, but have you met Mr Bradshaw before?’
‘Yes.’
‘Frequently?’
‘Once.’
‘Would he remember you?’
Anselm was stung more by the innocence of the question than its pertinence. His face grew hot: Mr Hillsden was proceeding with him as he had once proceeded with Mr Bradshaw Neither of them had known what they were doing. ‘I hope not,’ said Anselm gravely not daring to look up. He let his eyes rest upon the shining brogues and the socks outside the trousers.
No one spoke after that. Mr Hillsden seemed to be deliberating. Presently he said, ‘My colleagues on the street tend to have what might be called a patch. Most of us do not stray from it. When we do, I’m afraid, it is usually for a serious reason. And when we move, it is not to another part of London, but a different corner of England. That, at least, has been my experience. He stood up, bringing Anselm and Debbie to their feet. ‘I’ll go over to the South Bank, though I fear the venture will be futile. But should I find him, the most I can do is invite him here. Without his express permission, I would not reveal his location.’
‘Of course,’ said Anselm. He had the peculiar sensation of standing before a High Court Master in an application for Wasted Costs. He reached into his habit pocket, aware that his coming gesture was ridiculous but necessary: ‘Please, may I cover your expenses?’
‘Thank you, but no,’ said Mr Hillsden graciously ‘I have adequate means which I am happy to place at your disposal.’ He looked down at his feet. Briskly he raised his head and for a split second his blue, watery eyes latched on to Anselm. ‘I understand you were once at the Bar?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which Inn?’
‘Gray’s.’
Mr Hillsden seemed to breathe in the sound. A ghostly calm changed his face. ‘Fantastic forms, whither are ye fled?’
He frowned as if trying to remember what came next. Anselm knew these words of Lamb, but he too was stuck. Suddenly Mr Hillsden swung to the door with the round window. Without hesitating, he strode into the heavy murmuring and the blue smoke, his stick tapping on the floor.
3
Riley stood at the foot of the stairs in an empty house in Tottenham. It was cold and damp and his heart was beating fast. He stared at the bottom step.
‘Who sent the photograph of Walter?’
His eyes moved to the chipped baluster, following the spindles up to the gloom of an unlit landing. The silence opened a door on those shouting voices, the scuffling of feet and whatever it was that ended up smashed on the floor. As a boy in the boxroom, he used to beg God to make it stop. And funnily enough, He did. Shortly afterwards things would go quiet and he’d say ‘Thank you, thank you,’ his head still under his pillow.
Riley set to work, lifting and dragging. He loaded up the tables and chairs, the mirrors and cupboards, a lamp stand and four candlesticks. His feet stamped out the m
emory of his childhood, but others from last week licked him. It was always like this. His head was full of noise. He played arguments like they were favourite records, changing the words for a bit of variety. It was exhausting, but anger made him feel alive. In a full-blooded row, he’d pass through a kind of barrier and float, hardly breathing; he’d think up things to say and pass them on, as if to someone else. It was a long way from the gratitude of a boy in the boxroom.
He worked feverishly Puffs of dust made him cough and spit. By the late afternoon he’d finished. The building had been stripped. Panting, he stood in the living room. Sweat touched the nape of his neck like a hand: who had posted the photograph of Walter?
He hadn’t looked at the picture since the day it had fallen from the envelope. But he could still see the man he wouldn’t call Dad, the man no one pushed around, the biggest man in the street. Walter had kept dumb-bells under the bed. He’d done press-ups. He’d boxed the air, snorting and whistling —he’d been a southpaw He’d smelled of liniment. Riley saw him only in the evenings because he got up at four o’clock to work at the warehouse. After he was made redundant he had to sell pies from a barrow He was known as the Pieman. And there wasn’t a picture of him left on the planet, except the one that had fallen onto the kitchen table. Riley couldn’t understand it. He’d burnt them all over forty years ago. Sweat crawled down his back. Who could have posted the photograph? There was no one he could think of. They were all dead.
Riley sat against the wall, hands resting on his knees. Rat droppings were scattered like tiny black seeds along the skirting board. The damp and the quiet closed in upon him.
Major Reynolds at the Salvation Army hostel had always worn a neatly pressed uniform. He had a pencil moustache like that of a Battle of Britain pilot and years of cornet playing had left a small indentation on his upper lip. A shiny square face and prominent black eyebrows completed the impression of military distinction. Riley never learned his first name. He was just ‘the Major.
The Gardens of the Dead Page 12
