It was the morning after Grant’s night on the town with Justyn that he viewed the film footage. He had returned to his home in Mill Hill with a hangover and in a state of some anxiety. Brigit, who had left for work some hours earlier, had left the parcel in the hallway. With it she had placed a small note. ‘So sorry. Let’s talk. Love B.’
Such was his preoccupation that Grant hardly registered the note but ripped open the parcel with all the excitement of a starving man opening a pack of food. Inside he was some-what startled to discover three DVDs apparently spanning six years of the holidays in Cornwall. Having anticipated viewing a single film, he had forgotten that Suzie had referred to DVDs in the plural. He made himself a large espresso and sat down to watch. He loaded the disk dated August 1972 and was disappointed to find that there was no soundtrack and that the picture quality was frequently poor. Still, at least it was in colour. The film showed a hotchpotch of holiday antics, and it took him some time before he found anything of real interest. Eureka! He could make out who all the people were, happy smiles from the hotel’s tennis courts, the nine-hole golf course and swimming-pool. Tom was featured greeting all the arrivals, and the date was recorded as 10 August 1972.
The first car to arrive contained a family Grant hadn’t thought about until now: the group included identical twin brothers in matching sports jackets and grey flannels who appeared from the back seat. He burst out laughing. He recalled Justyn had nicknamed them the ‘Speaking Clocks’. Burgess was their family name; they had driven down from Yorkshire, and the twins, Frederick and Edward, were then aged around fifteen. They did everything together. Grant remembered them being very serious and constantly being mistaken for one another. He recalled their excitement on watching the Test Match on the hotel lounge television when their favourite player walked to the crease, ‘Boycott’s batting!’ repeated almost immediately by the twin, ‘Boycott’s batting!’ For the others it became their catchphrase, adopted rather cruelly behind their backs. Justyn used to inquire, ‘Is there an echo in here?’ Grant also remembered them asking if they could watch a game of pontoon he and some of the usual crowd were playing one evening. As it approached nine one twin remarked, ‘It will soon be nine o’clock.’ The grandfather clock in the hallway promptly chimed, and the other remarked in a deadpan voice, ‘It is nine o’clock.’ Suppressed laughter had ensued. Grant now found himself wondering what might have happened to the Speaking Clocks. He couldn’t recall giving them a second’s thought since that time, as they had seemed an entirely inconsequential part of his early life. Or were they?
The weather in the film was bright and sunny as Justyn pulled up in his white Peugeot 204 with his sister, Fiona. Grant was struck by his now ridiculous-looking white flared hipster trousers, held up with a belt with an oversized silver buckle and worn below his once familiar blue, pink and purple tie-dyed T-shirt. There were people hovering around the Silver family, but there was no sign of the father, Bob. Justyn greeted someone who looked like Jenny Charnley, and before long there was quite a gathering.
Grant could make out Richard Hughes-Webb with his two children, Tony and Suzie, hauling luggage from the car. Then with a powerful sensation of sadness he saw his own family arrive, his father looking drained, as they had come off the night train from Penzance and Dennis had driven the twenty miles or so to the hotel, quite an ordeal for him in his state of health. He saw his younger brother, Glen, aged fifteen, helping Tom with the baggage and carrying golf clubs.
At this moment the land line rang, and after a moment’s hesitation Grant decided to answer it. Brigit’s voice sounded strained and distant. ‘Hi, how are you?’ she asked wearily.
‘Oh, hi. Thanks for calling. Look, I guess I overreacted a bit yesterday. I was knackered after the long flight …’
‘It’s OK,’ Brigit said quickly. ‘Look, could we meet in an hour’s time at the office? We can go for a coffee round the corner.’
Grant was torn. He had turned off the DVD, but he couldn’t wait to see the whole thing. He didn’t think he could watch it in twenty minutes, and it would take him about forty minutes to get to Brigit’s office in Cromwell Road. After some muttered prevarication he became more forthright. ‘Look, Brigit. I really want to see you, but I need a bit of time. Can we meet this afternoon? I hardly slept last night.’ Guiltily he refrained from revealing to her the reason why.
‘You’re watching those DVDs that arrived yesterday, aren’t you? You just can’t let up, can you? I can’t meet you this afternoon. I’ve got back-to-back interviews and a client meeting in Watford at five.’ Brigit found herself biting her upper lip, her characteristic way of revealing disappointment.
‘So be it,’ said Grant, and he heard the line go dead. Caught between a rock and a hard place, he nevertheless had to see the rest of the film. He returned to the living-room and pressed ‘Play’ again, and it didn’t take long for his silent movie to provide some drama and intrigue.
He saw Tom surreptitiously hand over what looked like a key to his mother. He felt an uneasy twinge in his lower back, cursing aloud that Richard Hughes-Webb could stoop so low as to include the porter in his subterfuge; it added further humiliation to the betrayal of his father by his mother. By this stage most of the teenagers were arriving in family cars and none of them took much notice of the adults, greeting one another enthusiastically as if it was the greatest of reunions or a close friend’s wedding day.
Tom was next seen heading away down the drive; he had, after all, worked all night. Hector Wallace then came into view with his frail Aunt Agatha, emerging out of a chauffeur-driven car. At that point Grant imagined it was approaching midday, as Sidney, the barman who had tried to take control when the police swarmed in at Sunday lunchtime after Tom’s collapse in the lane, was filmed loading up a mobile bar by the kidney-shaped swimming-pool.
Henry’s footage next featured a shot focused on a bedroom window at the hotel. Paul Galvin was visible, appearing to shout at someone from within; it was a jarring image, made worse when he slammed the sash window shut. Grant replayed this scene a few times but couldn’t make out at whom he was shouting. Henry’s attention had then switched to Hector walking briskly out of the hotel and down the drive to his first midday session at the Office, wearing a three-piece checked suit with the tie pinned in place and a monocle protruding from a breast pocket attached to a small chain. Grant scrutinized his awkward but hurried walk, focusing on his pock-marked face – evidence of a life of too many sherbets, he reflected. He was now so immersed in the film he jumped half out of his seat when his mobile rang. He was surprised to see that it was Danny calling. Grant answered, and Danny got straight to the point. ‘We need to talk.’