Dory ignored Charles’s hand, jinked deftly around him, pushed roughly past Elen, kicked his way through the piles of books and papers, strode purposefully down the hallway, turned left and disappeared from sight.
‘I’m sorry,’ Elen said, gazing after him, mortified. ‘I’m afraid he’s…he’s…’ she struggled to locate the requisite word…‘he’s…well, he’s German,’ she finished off, flatly.
‘Oh…Yes. Of course.’ Charles nodded and carefully closed the door, double-checking that it was properly latched this time.
Elen half-turned and noticed – to her horror – a large patch of mud on the wall where Dory had shoved past her. Charles also noticed.
His brows rose slightly.
‘If you could get me a J-cloth,’ she began, ‘maybe dampen it a little…’
‘Don’t worry,’ he smiled, bending down to try and straighten up the files (several of which now bore large, muddy prints on them).
‘But if I can wipe it down quickly…’
‘I’ll wait until it’s dry,’ he said firmly, ‘and just brush it off.’
She knelt down to assist him, chastened.
‘I’m actually meant to be redecorating,’ he added, ‘throwing some stuff out, hanging some shelves…’
His hand touched hers as they reached for the same scrap.
‘Will Fleet be okay?’ he asked, quickly removing his hand. ‘Waiting alone in the car?’
‘He has the dog with him,’ she answered, ‘the spaniel. Michelle. But I shouldn’t be too long…’
‘You’re right,’ he straightened up (with a slight grimace), ‘I can sort this out later.’
Elen also stood. She patted down her skirt. She shoved her hair behind her ear.
‘I’ve put a small box together…’ Charles Bartlett politely indicated the way (this act rendered all the more stark in its chivalry by the boorish behaviour of the mud-drenched Dory). Elen walked ahead of him, picking her way, carefully, down the corridor.
The box in question (and it wasn’t especially small) stood open on a battered, walnut-veneered desk in a corner of the tiny living-room. She glanced around her: more books (literally thousands of them), two lovely, brown, antique leather smoking chairs (nestled in the lap of one – like a cat – a small, black, somewhat incongruous-seeming laptop), an ancient record player perched on top of an old Bird’s Custard Powder crate (a messy worm-cast of LPs writhing along behind it), but no evidence of Dory to speak of. Although – she frowned – there was a door…Partially ajar, in the opposite wall, with what looked like – but was it? – a small, muddy smear above the handle.
Charles Bartlett came over to stand beside her.
‘Of all the books I’ve ever recommended,’ he told her, reaching inside the box, ‘I’ve always found that parents find this one by Sally Yahnke Walker especially useful…’
He held it out to her. It was called Stand Up For Your Gifted Child: A Survival Guide for Parents of Gifted Kids.
‘It’s published by Prufrock Press,’ he continued, pointing to the spine, ‘they tend to specialise in this area, so it’s definitely worth heading to their website every once in a while to see what new stuff they have on offer…’
Elen took the book and quickly flicked through it.
‘Giftedness can be a mixed blessing,’ he continued, ‘because if a child is bright but their talents aren’t properly nurtured – if they aren’t challenged or stretched – then those early gifts can so easily go to waste. Clever kids tend to get bored easily – as you’ll probably have noticed – and because children are – by their very nature – fundamentally conformist, instead of drawing attention to their predicament and demanding something better they’ll prefer to just coast, or – worse still – they’ll become disruptive. I’ve a theory that some of the baddest apples in society are those gifted kids who’ve somehow slipped under the radar, intelligent kids who’ve ended up redirecting their positive energies – through simple frustration – into negative acts.’
‘Is it American?’ Elen asked, closing the book and turning it over. He nodded. ‘They’re leagues ahead of us in this particular field, and much more accepting – as a culture – of excellence than we are. While we’ve always had a strong tradition of tolerance in this country, we tend to confuse excellence with superiority. We think intelligence is elitist, is snobbish, even. Bright kids make us uneasy. Although…’ he pulled a handful of printed sheets from the box, ‘it’s not all bad news. We’ve made some good progress over recent years. There’s the National Association for Gifted Children – which I mentioned earlier, and the World Class Tests…Have you heard of them, perhaps?’
Elen shook her head.
‘Well I’ve enclosed a few of their dummy papers here…’ he passed her the sheets. ‘You’ll find everything you could possibly need to know about their organisation on www.worldclassarena.org…’
He pointed to the internet address at the top of a page. ‘It costs a certain amount to sign up to the programme, but it’s definitely a good investment. By submitting Fleet for the tests within his age range you’ll really be able to challenge him – put him on his mettle – see how he holds up against the national average…’
Elen looked horrified.
He chuckled, sympathetically. ‘Don’t look so worried. There’s no obligation. It’s just one of a whole host of possible courses of action…’
He returned the book and the papers to the box. ‘It’s often just nice to have a few different options…’
‘I’m afraid it might take me a little while to get my head around this whole thing,’ she murmured. As she spoke, a loud noise – something akin to a snore or a snort – emerged from the adjacent room. Charles Bartlett turned, surprised.
‘What’s this?’ Elen quickly shoved her hand into the box and removed a second book.
‘Uh…’ he turned back. ‘Oh…Yes…’ He looked vaguely embarrassed. ‘I just thought you might…’
‘Isn’t that your name?’ she pointed. The book – entitled The Lily of Darfur and subtitled: The Liquid Life of Eva Bartlett – was written by a Dr Charles Bartlett.
‘You’re a doctor?’
She glanced up at him.
‘Gracious, no,’ he snorted, ‘not a proper doctor – a useful doctor.
Just a doctor of modern languages.’
‘And this book is about your daughter?’
He nodded.
Elen inspected the beautifully reproduced black and white cover photograph of a young woman sitting squarely – confidently – astride a huge, bald-kneed, baleful-eyed camel. She was a strong, lean, fierce-looking creature, scowling down (somewhat exasperatedly) at the photographer, dressed entirely in white robes (her dark hair obscured by an Arabic-style headscarf). She was holding the camel’s reins in one hand and what looked like a map of some kind – or an architect’s plan, perhaps – in the other, with an old rifle supported casually across her lap.
‘The Lily of Darfur?’
He nodded. ‘That’s what they called her. About five months after she disappeared we received a large, brown envelope containing over 400 letters, most of them written in unschooled Arabic. Many from children. And that one, special phrase – that poetic tribute – was used in virtually all of them…’
Elen turned the book over and inspected the photo on the back. This second image was of Eva (aged about seven), standing on a beach in her swimwear, her dark hair curling around her pinched, little face, scowling (once again), her arms folded, defiantly, across her chest and a small plastic spade propped under one elbow. Behind her, the sea was slowly devouring a huge, ornate sandcastle, a magnificent structure which reminded Elen (in spirit, at least) of some of the early works of that wonderfully eccentric and devout Spanish architect –
‘Gaudí,’ Charles murmured (as if reading her thoughts). ‘For about six months all she’d do was talk about Gaudí, think about Gaudí, emulate Gaudí’s work…’
‘Did you always know Eva was sp
ecial?’ she wondered.
‘Every parent thinks their own kid is special,’ he shrugged, ‘but yes, I suppose we did. Eva had an old soul. From her first days on earth she had this…’ he shook his head, ‘this strangely exhausted quality about her. And this unquenchable thirst. This hunger. It could be quite terrifying just being around her. She was such a creature of extremes. So vulnerable – lost – haunted even, yet so joyful, so inquisitive, so eager…’
As he spoke Elen’s eye ran down the assorted eulogies on the back cover: Winner of the Prairie Rose Standard, Joint Winner of the International Origins Award, Shortlisted for the Mary Trask Prize for Non-fiction, and then, ‘Rich, dark, funny, heartbreaking; a book which grapples with the fundamental issues of how it feels – and what it means – to be human.’ Sunday Times.
‘Essential reading for both parents and non-parents. A truly modern parable.’ Daily Express.
‘Not hectoring, not preachy, but funny, cruel, horribly unrelenting and real. Superb.’ Time Out.
‘Unputdownable. Savage but redemptive. Tender but dispassionate.
An unalloyed tear-jerker.’ Marie Claire.
‘A book which really makes you hate yourself for having poked fun at the “clever kid” in class. Heart-breaking.’ Sunday Mirror.
‘[The Lily of Darfur] should be sent out, free, to every college, every nursery and every school in this country. It’s required reading.’ Marie Knoakes, Health Issues, Radio 4.
‘This book not only changed my mind, it transformed my world.’ John Myers MBE.
Then, at the very bottom, a highlighted strip which read: Soon to be made into a Motion Picture.
‘What amazing reviews,’ Elen exclaimed.
‘Publisher’s guff,’ he shrugged, ‘I’m convinced they make half of that stuff up…’
‘Do they?’ she looked shocked.
He took the book from her and placed it firmly back into the box.
‘But is there a film?’ she persisted.
He nodded. ‘It came out late last year.’
‘Was it any good?’
‘Good?’ he frowned, plainly conflicted. ‘Uh…Let’s just say the jury’s still out on that…’
‘Really?’
She continued to stare up at him, expectantly.
‘It was called The Very Special Child,’ he finally elucidated. ‘I was played by John Cusack. My wife was the girl who played Phoebe in Friends. I met her at the premiere, in fact…’ he laughed, wryly. ‘She was extremely charming…’
‘And who played Eva?’
‘A young actress called Maya Coales. Have you heard of her?’
Elen shook her head.
‘No. Nor had I. But she was tremendous. She’d been a regular in kids’ tv drama for years, apparently, but this was her first major role. She was passionate about the part. Incredibly conscientious. She actually came to live with us for a few weeks before she began filming…’
‘That must have been strange,’ Elen murmured.
‘Not only strange but extremely challenging…’
‘How, exactly?’
‘Well…’ he gave his answer a few, brief moments’ consideration ‘…because I suppose I’d taken a kind of refuge in the book – almost without realising it – in the act of writing it, crafting it, honing it. It was like this perfect, totally self-contained little bubble…’ he frowned, ‘but then suddenly this young woman turns up, and she’s asking so many questions. Questions I hadn’t been able to ask before, questions I hadn’t wanted to ask. Questions I’d avoided to some extent…’
He cleared his throat and grimaced.
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ Elen murmured.
‘I’m not…’ he scowled, confused, ‘or if I am, then it’s because I need to be. It’s important not to forget, not to…I don’t know…’ he scratched at his ear and mused for a moment. ‘The awful truth is that in some sick and twisted way writing the book has allowed me to become the inadvertent beneficiary of Eva’s tragedy – all the literary plaudits, the glamorous film premieres, the financial rewards…They don’t sit comfortably with me, and nor should they. Because no matter how you look at it, we made mistakes with Eva – I mean as parents – serious mistakes. Eva was a special case. We needed to…’ he shook his head. ‘There were things we could’ve done. Things we should’ve done…’
‘But Eva’s gone,’ Elen said softly. ‘Isn’t that punishment enough?’
He smiled at her, vaguely. ‘Writing the book was one thing,’ he confided, ‘but to sit there – in the cinema – and suddenly see everything flashing past in this awful, brash technicolour. To see Eva’s life so…I don’t know…reduced. To see everything drawn in such stark, simple strokes…’ he shook his head. ‘Her life was the opposite of that. It was chaotic and fragile and contradictory…just…well, a mess, really…’ he shrugged. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all of this it’s that life – real life – can’t ever be drawn that neatly and cleanly. Eva’s life was a jumble of bad lines, smudges, half-erased ideas…’
‘A mess of sweat and blood and snot…’
‘Exactly.’ He nodded, emphatically. ‘One of the worst things about the film was how they dealt with her death. Eva was kidnapped by the SLA – the Sudan Liberation Army, but in the film they confused them with another anti-government militia called the JAEM – who have strong Islamic connections. They implied that the troubles in the Sudan were based on an Arab/African conflict, although the truth couldn’t actually be more different…It’s an economic, a political – an environmental – catastrophe, not a cultural one. And that was something which Eva herself felt very strongly about…’
‘When my father drowned,’ Elen suddenly interrupted him, ‘I did everything I could to lay blame – to seek retribution. It was exhausting and horrible and – I don’t know…counter-productive, even, but it kept him alive. It made him breathe again. And at the time I really needed that. It’s what got me through…’ she shrugged. ‘I suppose what I’m trying to say – in my own clumsy, roundabout way – is that Eva gave her life for what she believed in. Hers was such an enormous sacrifice. And perhaps you just need to keep reminding yourself of that fact. Step back and really allow her choices to mean something, respect them, allow Eva and what she was to transcend all this other stuff – all the pointless regrets and the misunderstandings. Because if you can’t…’ she shrugged, helplessly, ‘then you’re diluting what’s true about her…’
She frowned. ‘If you feel confused or depressed about things, just try and focus in on the pure idea of Eva, on the gestures she made, the defiance she showed, on the moment, the fire…Remember that everything else is just a distraction. An aside. A footnote…’
He stared at her as she spoke, frowning slightly. He focussed in on her eyes, at first, then his gaze moved to her mouth.
‘That’s beautiful,’ he murmured softly, once she’d finished.
She turned and glanced around the room, embarrassed.
‘Have you lived here long?’ she wondered.
‘Uh…’ It took him a moment to snap out of his reverie. ‘Yes. No. I mean I don’t really live here. It was a holiday home when the kids were young, and now it’s my retreat. My study. It’s where I come to work, mainly…’
‘It’s lovely. Very…’ she smiled, ‘cosy.’
‘An awful mess, you mean?’ he said, teasingly.
‘No. Very cosy. Very snug…’ she grinned.
Silence
‘I suppose I should be thinking about getting back…’
She reached out and grabbed a hold of the box.
‘She didn’t die,’ he said, suddenly.
‘Pardon?’
‘I couldn’t…’ he frowned ‘…this is ridiculous.’ He put a hand to his forehead. He seemed intensely confused.
‘Eva didn’t die,’ he repeated. ‘It wasn’t…I mean I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. I just can’t keep on…’ he almost burst out laughing. ‘It’s just�
��It’s become…The truth is that she faked her own death.’
‘What?’
Elen’s grip tightened on the box.
‘She fell in love with a Sudanese warlord. Not even a warlord, actually – a least there’d be a kind of glory to that – just some local small-time thug. She converted to Islam. She simply wanted to disappear, she said. So they concocted this scheme. She wanted to be dead to us. Her family. Her past. Her former dreams. So she killed herself. She killed the Eva she was. But she isn’t dead. She’s alive. I went to the Sudan. I found her there…’
‘But what about the book?’ Elen asked, appalled. ‘And the film?’
‘The book had already been published. The film was in postproduction. I went on a kind of pilgrimage because of some of the things that young actress – Maya – had brought up…And then, when I found out – I mean how ironic, when you think about it…this story was so much more extraordinary, so much more harsh and cruel than anything those movie people could’ve conceived of…And when I found out…well, I just couldn’t bear…’
He covered his face with his hands.
‘Good God,’ Elen said, staring at him, in horror.
‘Yes.’
They remained silent for a while.
‘I was a failure,’ he said. ‘As a father, as a teacher…even as a chronicler of my own daughter’s demise. And my punishment is to be internationally celebrated for the very thing I was a failure at.’
‘What about your wife?’
He shook his head. ‘I didn’t tell her. I haven’t told her.’
Elen looked astonished.
‘I just couldn’t bear to. I tried to but she wouldn’t…she couldn’t…’
‘How long since…?’
‘Three months.’
‘And what will you…?’
‘I don’t know. I just don’t know. ‘
‘But when you met her again, didn’t she…?’
‘Nothing. No emotion. She was wearing the veil. She spoke to me in Arabic, through an interpreter. She never even made eye contact.’
Darkmans Page 48
