Three's a Crowd

by Simon Booker

  I tapped the screen and there they were: those three little words – the ones I’d been aching to hear.

  I love you.

  What did I tell you? The man’s a scrote-bag!

  TOM

  I hadn’t managed to get to bed – too busy working on They F**k You Up – so catching Harriet’s first show was more of a late night than an early start.

  I was used to hearing Dad on-air. As a kid, that’s mostly how I remember him: a disembodied voice on the radio. He wasn’t home much and never came to school plays or sports days. I never understood why. His shows lasted two or three hours, the time-slot varying according to whichever radio station he was working for, so how did he spend the rest of his time?

  One night – I must have been twelve or thirteen – I hit on an answer that explained everything. He and Mum were always arguing (it never got physical but both were yellers and door-slammers) and the reason seemed obvious. If Dad wasn’t at home and he wasn’t on the radio, where was he? Answer: with other women. Once the idea took root, it quickly became the truth.

  I didn’t confront him – not till years later – but the realization made sense of so many things: the constant rows… Mum’s epic sulks… the treading-on-eggshells atmosphere at home. Above all, his absence from my life.

  As the 6 a.m. news ended, I pushed the keyboard away, flopped onto my sofa with a mug of coffee and stroked Nelson’s ears while listening to the familiar jingle kicking off Dad’s new venture.

  ‘The Richard Young SHOW!’

  ‘Good morning, London,’ intoned my father. ‘Welcome to a brand new breakfast show with me, Richard Young…’

  ‘… and me, Harriet Brown. We’ve got all your favourite music, plus everything you need to start the day: news, travel, horoscopes and weather…’

  ‘… and we’ll be doing our best to help out with advice on your personal and emotional problems so thanks for your emails…’

  ‘… but let’s start as we mean to go on – with the best music in town: and it’s a classic from Ol’ Blue Eyes…’

  A Sinatra song began to play. ‘The Lady is a Tramp’, one of Dad’s desert island discs. No doubt about it – it was a smooth start. Assured, relaxed, polished. Dad and Harriet sounded as if they’d been working together forever. And her luscious voice was made for radio.

  I wish I could say I was happy for her and in many ways I was: this was a well-deserved break. But the truth was, I was jealous. I visualized the two of them sitting in the studio, headphones slung around their necks, sipping coffee and planning the next segment of the show while Sinatra crooned in the background. I could feel envy spreading through my system like caustic soda. No wonder Nelson jumped off my lap and disappeared through the cat flap.

  I’d wished Harriet good luck by text and sent her a card c/o Silk FM. Dad would almost certainly have bought her flowers – a big bunch from a posh florist’s. Perhaps they’d go for a celebratory breakfast after the show. Another image sprang to mind: him toasting Harriet with Buck’s Fizz at The Wolseley (where else?).

  Meanwhile, here was I – in stained trackies, surrounded by pizza boxes, dirty plates and empty Stella cans. I hadn’t shaved for a week and judging by the reek from my clothes a shower was overdue.

  On the bright side, my song-writing marathon was paying off. I’d discarded dozens of ideas, polished the four completed songs, drafted lyrics for five more and sketched out basic melodies for the final two. The libretto was taking shape, too, with the story arc starting to make sense and the characters developing clearly defined voices and speech patterns.

  Jacking in the day-job had been reckless (giving no notice meant leaving Double Glazing Monthly without a reference) but sometimes you have to leap before you look. Or so I kept telling myself. From time to time – often as I was waking from a feverish sleep – I forced myself to get real and ask myself awkward questions: was I truly being bold or simply in the grip of a starry-eyed fantasy that would end in tears? And unemployment. And poverty.

  Like someone unable to resist probing a painful loose tooth, I forced myself to listen to the first half hour of Harriet’s Silk FM debut. I was on the verge of switching off when I became transfixed by an ad-lib exchange on the subject of yoga. She was trying to explain to my father the difference between two poses.

  ‘Sarvangasana is when you’re lying on your back with your arms supporting your back and your legs in the air. Vriksasana is when you stand on one leg with your arms raised above your head and your palms together.’

  ‘And you do this for fun?’ asked Dad.

  ‘Yes, twice a week.’

  ‘How much do they pay you?’

  ‘Very funny,’ said Harriet. ‘It’s not expensive. You should try it.’

  ‘Maybe next lifetime.’

  ‘What’s wrong with today? Or are you scared I’ll put you to shame?’

  ‘Is that a challenge?’ said Dad. I could imagine his raised eyebrow.

  ‘If you’d like it to be.’

  ‘Challenge accepted.’

  ‘This afternoon?’ said Harriet.

  ‘Perfect. We’ll record what happens and report back tomorrow.’

  I had the impression this was a genuine off-the-cuff suggestion – one of those spontaneous ‘magic moments’ Dad’s always talking about, the kind of flexibility he says makes working in radio more fun than TV.

  I made the decision there and then. I knew where Harriet practised yoga – the studio opposite the park in Stoke Newington. I googled its schedule and found the most likely class. If I got some sleep now I could be back in action by the time it started – 3 p.m.

  * * *

  No sooner had my head hit the pillow than the doorbell rang. I checked my watch. Just past six-thirty; too early for the postman. I pulled the duvet over my head. The bell rang again. I climbed out of bed and padded to the intercom.

  ‘Yes?’

  The voice was male.

  ‘Is this Tom?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘George.’

  ‘George who?’

  A sigh.

  ‘Your grandfather.’

  Suddenly, I was wide awake. I buzzed him inside, remembering Dad’s text.

  He’s back. Don’t give him any money.

  I listened to him slowly climbing the stairs. As he turned onto the first-floor landing and came into view, I tried to remember the last time I’d seen him. Twenty years ago? More?

  There were no photos of George Albert Brocklebank at the flat in Belsize Park. His name was never mentioned. It was as if he’d been airbrushed from the family history – the man who never was.

  But here he was – ‘Gorgeous George’ – living up to his nickname and climbing the final steps with a grace and agility that belied his age. Carrying a well-worn Aquascutum raincoat, he wore a bottle green corduroy suit, highly polished black brogues and a yellow silk pocket square, a look his generation would probably call ‘natty’. His salt and pepper hair was in need of a trim. In a concession to age, his spectacles (actual rose-tinted glasses) dangled from a chain around his neck. His hands were liver-spotted, his nails immaculately groomed.

  ‘I know it’s horribly early,’ he said, ‘but at my age a proper night’s sleep is a distant memory. Besides, your lights were on two minutes ago.’

  He shook my hand – a knuckle-crunching grip.

  ‘How did you know where I live?’

  He tapped the side of his nose.

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to wonder.’

  He walked past me, crossing the threshold of my flat, which suddenly felt too small to accommodate the two of us. He peered out of the window, scanning the street below.

  ‘Looking for someone?’ I said.

  ‘You can never be too careful.’ He turned and smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I shan’t stay long.’

  I closed the door. He cast a glance around what passed for my home. If he was shocked by the state of the place, he did a good job of disguising his fe
elings and pretending not to notice my dishevelled state. Ignoring the piles of washing-up and pizza cartons, he gestured towards the kitchen.

  ‘Do you have any proper coffee?’

  I set the kettle to boil. When I turned to face him, he was sitting on the sofa, polishing his glasses with a handkerchief.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘You’ve grown and I’ve shrunk. What else has happened since I last saw you?’

  It turned out that my father’s father had recently returned from what he called ‘my grand tour, perhaps my last hurrah’: driving Route 66 in America in a red Cadillac then travelling around Australia, the Far East and South America, stopping off to look at a gold mine in Peru. Unsurprisingly, there was a woman involved, a widow called Imelda. Her husband had been something to do with the oil industry and left her very well off (or as he put it, ‘obscenely rich’). I dimly recalled a long-ago argument between Mum and Dad, when she’d called George a ‘superannuated gigolo’.

  ‘Imelda is a wonderful woman. Perhaps the love of my life.’ He pocketed the yellow handkerchief. ‘Well… one of them.’

  ‘Lucky man,’ I said, setting his mug on the coffee table.

  ‘I’ll invite you to our wedding,’ he said. ‘Chelsea Town Hall then lunch at the Savoy.’ He peered at my grubby fleece. ‘Think you can manage a suit?’

  I ignored the dig.

  ‘Have you told Dad you’re getting married?’

  The flinch was unmistakable. He shook his head and spoke softly.

  ‘I’m hoping that you might tell him for me. We’re on non-speaks.’

  As if I didn’t know. I tried to sound nonchalant.

  ‘Because?’

  He cleared his throat, clearly playing for time, but it was he who’d raised the subject of their estrangement so what was the point of skirting the issue?

  ‘I can’t recall,’ he said.

  An obvious lie but I let it go. He reached into the pocket of his raincoat and took out a notepad and pencil.

  ‘Do you mind if I sketch while we talk?’

  ‘Sketch what?’

  He didn’t answer but opened the notepad and began to trace the pencil softly over a blank page.

  ‘How’s your dear maman?’ he said.

  ‘In Goa. Having a midlife crisis.’

  He looked up and arched an eyebrow.

  ‘Another affair?’

  I frowned.

  ‘ “Another”?’

  He had the grace to look sheepish then gave a mischievous grin.

  ‘Oops,’ he said.

  Insofar as I’d thought about my grandfather at all, this was the George Brocklebank I’d imagined. Here less than five minutes, he’d already let a family secret out of the bag. But I wasn’t ready to have lifelong assumptions overturned by a man I barely knew.

  ‘I think you’re getting muddled up,’ I said. ‘If anyone has affairs it’s Dad.’

  He gave a small shrug, as if the matter were of no consequence.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ He gestured towards the Yamaha keyboard. ‘Are you a pop star? That would explain the tattoo, I suppose.’

  ‘No, I’m writing a musical, and I’m worried.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘That I’m no good at writing musicals.’

  The skin around his eyes creased as he smiled.

  ‘Do you have a vacuum cleaner, Tom?’

  ‘Why, do you feel like doing some housework?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Have you heard of James Dyson? The man who revolutionized the vacuum cleaner and became a billionaire?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Do you know how many prototypes he built before he made a successful one?’

  ‘Five? Ten?’

  ‘Five thousand, one hundred and twenty six,’ said George, still sketching on his pad. ‘Repeat after me: “I’m not very good at writing musicals – yet.” ’

  I smiled and did as instructed.

  ‘Are you writing from the heart?’ said George.

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘There’s your answer,’ he said. ‘Find a subject that comes from the heart and Lady Luck will shower you with blessings.’

  I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat opposite him. Memories were stirring: George reading me a bedtime story (Pinocchio?). Eating ice cream on a pebble beach (Brighton?). Riding dodgems on a blustery pier. But that was all there was in the section of the memory bank labelled ‘Grandpa’. The man had disappeared without trace when I was five, maybe six.

  ‘What happened to you?’ I said.

  ‘Long story.’ He put the notebook on the table, pocketed the pencil and took a sip of coffee. ‘It’s all in my autobiography.’

  He reached into the pocket of his raincoat. This time he took out a tattered red exercise book.

  ‘It’s called You Had to Be There.’

  ‘Have you got a publisher?’

  ‘I’m working on it. But they tell me the book’s too racy or that no one would believe it.’ He pocketed the exercise book, put down his cup and cracked his knuckles. ‘I tell them every word is true – every hard-earned scar, every stolen kiss, every narrow escape.’

  I studied his face.

  ‘Is my grandmother alive?’

  The light seemed to leave his eyes.

  ‘No, the poor thing died much too young. Run over by a hearse. Things would have been different if she were still around.’

  ‘Is that true? About the hearse?’

  ‘Who would make up such a thing?’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘But life is short, Tom. Eat the cake, buy the shoes, take the trip. Have you got a girlfriend?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s just… complicated.’

  ‘Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose,’ said George. ‘Boy meets girl, boy gets girl, boy loses girl. Story of my life.’ Finishing his coffee, he took off his jacket then unlaced his shoes. ‘Mind if I grab forty winks?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ I said, getting to my feet as he stretched out on the sofa and propped a cushion under his head.

  ‘Can I ask a question?’ I said. ‘Why does Dad resent me?’

  He blinked.

  ‘I’m sure he doesn’t resent you, exactly. But life can be complicated.’

  ‘What does that even mean?’

  ‘Tout comprendre, c’est tout pardonner,’ he said. ‘To understand all is to forgive all.’

  ‘That’s the point,’ I said. ‘I don’t understand.’

  He shrugged and closed his eyes.

  ‘C’est la vie.’

  And that was that. I let the silence stretch.

  ‘What should I call you?’ I said.

  He opened one eye.

  ‘Anything but Grandpa.’

  ‘George it is.’

  There was warmth in his smile now, and a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘Charming boy. You must take after your mother.’

  He closed both eyes. Within seconds he was asleep.

  I sat for a moment, considering the idea of tidying up but what would be the point? He’d seen me at my worst and didn’t care. I’d warmed to the man straightaway. He was nothing like the ogre my father had led me to expect.

  I checked my watch: just after seven-thirty. Harriet’s yoga class didn’t start until three. I should have followed George’s example and grabbed some shut-eye but his arrival had left me energized, my brain racing; there was so much to ask when he awoke.

  I shaved and took a shower. When I emerged from the bathroom, George was snoring softly. I picked up his notepad and looked inside. His sketch was good, so accomplished it made me gasp. In a few strokes, he’d captured me perfectly – not just the contours of my face but my posture and expression: wary, on my guard. I replaced the notebook on the table then turned my attention to his jacket. A plum-coloured wallet jutted from an inside pocket. No – not a wallet, a passport…

 
I drew it out and flicked through the pages. A slip of paper fell to the floor. Four words in black ink. Rochester House – Camden. Paddy.

  The passport photo showed my grandfather looking fit and tanned. There weren’t many stamps and nothing to suggest recent trips to Peru, America, Australia or the Far East. Puzzled, I put it back, along with the slip of paper. My fingers made contact with something else in the pocket – a second passport. This told a different story. Every page was full. There were stamps from all over the world including the destinations on his ‘grand tour’.

  But the holder’s name was not George Albert Brocklebank. It was Lord Anthony Buckingham.

  RICHARD

  Harriet did a great job on that first show. (The Evening Standard would later call her debut ‘brilliant, a promising start to a glittering new career’.) No gaffes, no slips of the tongue, no awkward moments. Jennifer was beaming as we came off-air at nine o’clock, high-fiving the two of us on her way into a budgets meeting. Pam was pleased too, in her own low-key way, telling us we’d made ‘a good start’.

  Sitting opposite Harriet in one of Soho’s few remaining greasy spoons (her choice not mine) I was glad I’d waited until we were alone before giving her her ‘congratulations’ gift. Her eyes widened as I pushed the distinctive turquoise box across the table and placed a muffin on top.

  ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s,’ I said.

  Smiling, she untied the white ribbon and removed the lid from the box. Then she parted the tissue paper and gasped as she saw the silver bracelet nestling inside.

  ‘Wow…’

  She picked it up and examined the inscription I’d had engraved. Nothing romantic (or, God forbid, suggestive), just today’s date. Her first broadcast.

  ‘I hope today is one you’ll remember as a red letter day,’ I said.

  Okay, I sounded pompous but I had a sense that we were making memories. Finding the right words wasn’t easy.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. Her face darkened. ‘But I can’t accept it. It’s too much. Besides, I haven’t got anything for you.’

  I waved her protest away.

  ‘It’s your big day, not mine.’

  She chewed on her lip, a tic I was finding increasingly charming, along with her way of looping strands of hair behind her pink, perfect ear.