He kept only the most recent statements from the utility companies and placed the backlog on the growing pile of paper next to him: old receipts, details of car repairs, out-of-date television licences and MOT certificates. He was about to do the same with the bank statements (seven years’ worth) when he noticed something odd. There was a monthly standing order for £200 that didn’t appear to relate to anything he’d found in the file. It was simply marked GD.
Greg looked again through the few documents that remained in the ‘G’ and ‘D’ sections, but found only an insurance policy – already accounted for by one of the standing orders – and the name and address of his father’s gardener. He didn’t know why, but the thought crossed his mind that maybe it had something to do with the woman who’d been at the funeral, the woman who’d slipped in and quietly slipped out without introducing herself.
It was difficult to believe that his father had been the victim of blackmail. And what blackmailer would turn up to a funeral service to pay their respects? But if it wasn’t blackmail, then what was it? Some sort of responsibility? But what responsibility demanded a payment of £200 every month?
There was only one that Greg could think of.
Child support!
Hospital
Billy returned from London just after nine o’clock that evening. He looked exhausted and immediately slumped into a chair.
‘You look like you could use a drink,’ Greg said.
‘I could use two,’ Billy said. His voice was weak and he spoke almost in a whisper.
Greg opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses.
‘How did you get on with Dr Haffenden?’ he asked, handing Billy the glass with the larger measure.
‘It was all a bit traumatic,’ Billy confessed. ‘It was okay when I was touching his feet, but when he touched mine I… I panicked. I completely lost it, Greg. I started screaming and kicking out and we had to stop. He gave me a couple of sedatives and we tried again half an hour later, but even with the drugs we never managed to get past my shoes. Dr Haffenden told me he’d half expected my reaction, but said that he was surprised by how hard I kicked and suggested that next time I wore slippers.’
‘Do you want me to touch your feet?’ Greg asked, hoping the answer would be no.
‘Please, but not tonight. Let’s try tomorrow. I think I need some time to recover.’
Greg readily agreed and started to tell Billy about the men who’d arrived that day to put in the new wall-ties, fix the crack in the back wall and replace the windowsill. He then told him about his visit to the park.
‘You’re telling me that we might have a half-brother or half-sister?’ Billy asked incredulously. ‘I can’t believe that, Greg. It’s… it’s just not possible. Dad wasn’t like that. There’s got to be another reason.’
‘Well, I’d like to know what it is then, because I can’t think of one.’
‘No, Greg, you’re wrong. You’re jumping the gun. There has to be another explanation. Wait until we get the letter of administration and then go to the bank and find out what the standing order’s all about. I bet you anything you’ve got the wrong end of the stick.’
‘I hope I have, Billy, but think about it. This family’s full of secrets. I didn’t know you had a foot thing until last week, and I certainly didn’t know Uncle Frank was planning to rob a bank. Why should Dad be any different? Why wouldn’t he have a secret?’
Billy was about to answer when his mobile rang.
‘Hi, Jean… Dear God… not Betty… I will… I’ll be right over… ’
‘You’re supposed to be at the office,’ Greg whispered.
‘… in about five hours… no, there’s no need to wait up… I’ll phone them tomorrow… they’ll understand… I love you too, Jean.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Greg asked.
‘It’s Betty. She’s been rushed to hospital and they’re going to operate tomorrow – triple bypass!’
‘I didn’t know she had anything wrong with her heart,’ Greg said.
‘She’s suffered from angina for years,’ Billy explained. ‘She takes pills for it and we thought it was under control. But when Jean got back from the Lake District yesterday, Betty was in bed complaining of chest pains. Thank goodness for private health insurance. If Betty was reliant on the NHS, she’d be dead.’
Billy looked at his watch. ‘I’d better not have anything more to drink, Greg. I’ll have to leave here at 2.30am. Do you have an alarm clock?’
The operation was a success. Betty ended up having a quadruple bypass, the surgeon throwing in the fourth for free. It was now Tuesday and she was feeling well enough to receive visitors.
Greg picked up Uncle Frank just after lunch.
‘I’m surprised you want to visit her, Uncle Frank. I thought you didn’t like her.’
‘I don’t,’ Uncle Frank said, ‘but I’m taking your advice and being nice to people. I’m starting with Betty and I’ve bought her a present.’
‘That’s very thoughtful of you. What did you buy her?’
‘It’s a surprise. I’m pretty sure she’ll like it though.’
Greg noticed a strange smile cross his uncle’s face, but presumed it was the Bell’s palsy playing up, as it sometimes did.
He parked the car in the wooded grounds of the hospital and walked with Uncle Frank to the reception. ‘We’re here to visit Betty Halliwell,’ Greg said. ‘Can you tell us what room she’s in?’
‘By heck, lad,’ Uncle Frank said, as they walked through the lobby to the lift. ‘This place is like a bloody hotel! I wouldn’t mind being ill more often if they brought me to a place like this. It’s like being on holiday.’
They took the lift and climbed out at the second floor and turned left as directed. They saw Katy tap-dancing in the corridor, practising a new routine.
‘Hi, Uncle Greg. Hi, Uncle Frank,’ Katy shouted. ‘Granny’s in this room here and she’s a lot better now. She’s watching television with Mummy and Daddy.’
‘By heck, television!’ Uncle Frank said.
They entered the room and found Betty propped up on pillows and Jean and Billy sitting in armchairs. It wasn’t as if Greg and Uncle Frank were her most favourite people, but Betty did her best to smile.
‘You’re not dead then, Betty,’ Uncle Frank said.
‘Fortunately not, Frank, but do you mind if we talk after the programme’s finished? I haven’t seen this episode.’
‘What are we watching?’
‘Diagnosis Murder,’ Betty replied. ‘It’s got Dick Van Dyke in it – and seemingly most of his family. That one there’s his son and the younger man is his grandson.’
Uncle Frank sat down and perched at the end of the bed.
‘I can’t see with you sitting there, Frank,’ Betty said. ‘You’re blocking my view.’
‘Where am I supposed to sit then? Tell you what, Betty: budge up a bit and I’ll climb into bed with you. I’ve been gardening all morning and I could do with a lie down.’
‘Sit here, Uncle Frank,’ Billy intervened. ‘I need to talk to Greg anyway.’
Billy and Greg stepped outside the room and Uncle Frank sat down in Billy’s chair. ‘Can you turn it up a bit, Betty? I can’t hear what they’re saying.’
‘We’re in a hospital, Uncle Frank,’ Jean said. ‘You’ll have to turn up your hearing aid.’
He fiddled with the volume control and the hearing aid gave a sharp whistle. Betty glanced at Jean and then looked up to Heaven, just as Dr Mark Sloan – the Dick Van Dyke character – looked down on the body of a man and pronounced him dead.
‘It’s a bit rubbish this, isn’t it?’ Uncle Frank said after a time. ‘Why would a grown man want to live with his father?’
‘You tell me, Frank,’ Betty said. ‘You lived with your father for long enough.’
‘I
had no choice in the matter, Betty. He wouldn’t let me leave!’
The door opened at that moment and a nurse ushered Katy into the room. ‘I’m afraid Katy’s tap-dancing is disturbing some of the patients, Mrs Halliwell,’ she said. ‘She can dance in here but not in the corridor.’
‘Come and lie down next to me, Katy,’ Betty said.
‘How come she can lie down with you and I can’t?’ Uncle Frank asked. ‘That’s nepotism, that is – just like the casting of this stupid programme!’
Eventually, the crime drama ended and Betty turned off the television.
‘I’ve brought you a present, Betty,’ Uncle Frank said. ‘It’s in this shoe box with a ribbon tied round it.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Frank. Shall I open it now?’
‘No, wait till I’ve gone. It’ll give you something to do when everyone’s left. Did I tell you my television’s working again? I was right, you know, the government had turned it off, but Billy’s fixed it and I can get sixty channels now. I could only get five before. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff that’s on, Betty. I’ve been watching this one programme called The Orange Women of America. It’s about these women who blow up their knockers with bicycle pumps and go out drinking together. They act nice as pie to each other when they’re together, but when they get home they slag each other off like fishwives. I’m not saying it’s as good as Judge Judy – she’s a woman after my own heart she is, tells it like it is – but I can’t seem to stop watching it.’
‘What on earth are you talking about, Frank?’
‘He’s talking about The Real Housewives of Orange County, Granny,’ Katy said. ‘It’s good. Who’s your favourite housewife, Uncle Frank?’
‘The one with the big lips that looks like a fish,’ Uncle Frank said.
‘What are you doing letting Katy watch programmes like this, Jean? It doesn’t sound suitable for a girl of seven.’
‘It’s on in the afternoon, Mummy – well before the watershed. Uncle Frank’s making it sound a lot worse than it is.’
There was a knock on the door and The Reverend Tinkler popped his head into the room. ‘And how’s my favourite parishioner today?’ he asked.
‘There’s nothing wrong with me, Bill,’ Uncle Frank replied.
‘I forgot to mention,’ Greg said. ‘The grant of administration came through this morning. I’ll go to the bank in the morning and ask about the standing order. Do you want to come with me?’
‘I can’t,’ Billy said. ‘I’m supposed to be going to Scotland next week and I promised Jean I’d spend this week with her.’
‘Why are you going to Scotland?’
‘I’m not. But it’s the week I normally go there and Jean would get suspicious if I didn’t. I’ll stay at the house with you, if it’s okay.’
‘I was planning to take Uncle Frank to the coast on Monday and stay overnight. Why don’t you come with us?’
Billy thought for a moment. ‘I could do that. It would make a nice change. Which part of the coast are you going to?’
‘The east coast, but I haven’t decided just where yet.’
‘Why don’t we go to The Gap?’ Billy suggested. ‘We had some good holidays there with Mum and Dad when we were kids. It’s one of the memories I focus on when I’m having my foot therapy. You remember it, don’t you? We used to stay in a bungalow halfway down the cliff and walk to a farm for milk every morning. There were poppies everywhere.’
‘I remember it,’ Greg said. ‘But there aren’t any hotels there, are there? I promised Uncle Frank we’d stay in a nice hotel overnight.’
‘There are plenty of resorts up the coast. We could drive to one of them after we’ve been to The Gap and stay in a hotel there.’
It was decided.
‘When are you going back, by the way?’ Billy asked.
‘Two days later. I booked a flight yesterday.’
‘That’s a pity. Katy will miss you.’
‘How about you? Will you miss me?’ Greg smiled.
‘Of course I will. That goes without saying. It also goes without saying that Jean won’t. I hope you can live with that.’
Greg laughed. ‘I guess I’ll have to.’
‘Have to what?’ Uncle Frank demanded.
‘Nothing important. Where are you off to?’
‘I’m going for a coffee with Bill. We’re going to talk about the Bible.’
For a man of the cloth, The Reverend Tinkler couldn’t have looked less enthusiastic about the prospect.
‘Come on, Bill. We haven’t got all day.’
He then took The Reverend Tinkler’s sleeve and pulled him towards the lift.
‘Poor old sod,’ Greg said.
‘Uncle Frank?’ Billy asked.
‘No, The Reverend Tinkler,’ Greg replied. ‘The man doesn’t stand a chance.’
The man who didn’t stand a chance bought two coffees at the servery and took them to the table where Uncle Frank was sitting. He sat down and nervously asked what it was he wanted to talk to him about.
‘Jesus, Bill. I want to talk about Jesus. You see the way I see it, Jesus wasn’t as special as everyone makes Him out to be. I know He healed people, but lots of people in those days did the same thing. The disciples did it, and it says in the Bible that Jesus appointed another seventy people to go around curing people. How come we never hear about them in church?’
‘I don’t think we’re trying to hide anything, Frank. And you have to bear in mind that it was Jesus who gave these people their power to heal. Israel was a big country, you know, too big for one man to travel its length and breadth and minister to all its people.’
‘But what gets me, Bill, is the miracles. When I was growing up I was led to believe that only Jesus performed miracles, but that’s wrong, isn’t it? Miracles weren’t new. Both Elijah and Elisha raised people from the dead, and Elisha’s down as curing leprosy and blindness as well. He even made iron float. So what makes Jesus so special is my question?’
The Reverend Tinkler sipped his cup of coffee wishing it was a glass of whisky – preferably a single malt with two ice cubes. Why, he wondered, had Betty suggested he talk to Frank in the cafeteria?
‘Jesus is special, Frank, because He’s the Son of God. He’s the only Son of God there’s been and He’s the only Son of God there ever will be. Elijah and Elisha were men of God. God worked miracles through them while Jesus did them off His own bat. There’s a major difference.’
‘So tell me this then. Why didn’t Jesus like pigeons?’
The Reverend Tinkler was completely taken aback by the question and the coffee in his mouth spluttered back into the cup. ‘I didn’t know that he didn’t,’ he said, wiping his mouth on a paper napkin.
‘You have read the Bible, haven’t you, Bill?’
‘Of course I have, Frank, but I don’t remember anything about Jesus not liking pigeons.’
‘It’s part of the Palm Sunday story, Bill – only one of Jesus’ biggest days! He walks into the Holy Temple and once He’s finished overturning the tables of the money changers He turns on the pigeon sellers and tips over their seats. Why did He do that? What beef did He have with pigeons?’
‘Oh, I see what you mean, Frank. Jesus didn’t do that because He didn’t like pigeons. He did it because He didn’t like the idea of people selling pigeons in the temple. He believed the House of God was a place for prayer and not commerce.’
Uncle Frank saw Greg and Billy coming into the cafeteria. ‘Greg and Billy are here for me now, Bill, so I’ll have to be going. What I’d like you to consider before our next meeting though, is what a girl of fourteen was doing marrying a man closer to ninety. You’d get locked up for something like that these days.’
‘Who in particular do you have in mind, Frank?’ The Reverend Tinkler asked, determined there would be no nex
t meeting.
‘Jesus’ mother and father, of course: Mary and Joseph!’
Uncle Frank got up from the table and walked with Greg and Billy to the car. The Reverend Tinkler remained sitting in stunned silence, gently rubbing his cheek. He wondered what his ex-wife Joan was doing at this moment, wondered if she too was wondering what he was doing at this moment.
‘You’re not still trying to recruit The Reverend Tinkler into your gang, are you?’ Greg asked.
‘No, I’m just messing with him,’ Uncle Frank laughed. ‘He didn’t answer my question though, did he?’
‘You never gave him a chance. You just stood up and punched him in the face.’
‘That was an accident, Greg. I meant to punch him on the arm. You know, one of those punches buddies give each other.’
They reached the car and Greg opened the door for his uncle. ‘What did Betty think of your gift?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. I told her to open it after I’d gone.’
‘So, what was it?’
‘Two pounds of tripe,’ Uncle Frank said, bursting into laughter.
Billy was horrified. ‘What in Heaven’s name have you done, Uncle Frank? Betty’s just had a quadruple bypass. The shock could kill her!’
‘I doubt we’ll be that lucky,’ Uncle Frank said.
Billy wasn’t so sure and went running back into the hospital.
‘So what happened to being nice?’ Greg sighed.
‘To tell you the truth, lad, I don’t think it rightly suits me.’
9
Lyles
Greg and his father continued to meet in the evenings. Conscious that his days were now numbered, Lyle was determined to spend as much time with his younger son as possible. He would appear at eight o’clock and stay for about three hours – the maximum his batteries allowed – and at eleven, start to flicker and then disappear. For much of the time they would sit in companionable silence or listen to his father’s recordings of Gilbert & Sullivan operas. Neither was discomfited by the fact they were running out of things to say to each other. It was sufficient simply to be together.
The Last of the Bowmans Page 22
