January 1990, Brighton
‘Mind your coat, Mum.’
Bettina pulled the hem of her fur coat inside the car and Tabby closed the door, coming around to the driver’s side.
‘It’s cold,’ said Bettina.
‘I’ll put the heating on. Seatbelt, Mum.’
Bettina pulled the belt around her bulging stomach and tried to clip it in place. Tabby leaned over to help and Bettina batted her away. ‘I can do it.’ She tried again. And again. The fourth time it clipped in. ‘There.’ Tabby started the engine and the radio came on automatically, playing a godawful repetitive rock song full of grinding guitars and a man who sounded like he was singing through a mouthful of granola. ‘Dear God,’ said Bettina. ‘What in the name of – turn it off. Turn it off.’
‘Sorry. The grandchildren always make me put it on this station.’
Bettina opened her mouth – closed it again. She wasn’t going to be such a predictable old bore. ‘Did you phone ahead?’ she said instead.
Tabby nodded, her eyes zipping back and forth between mirrors as she drove out. ‘He apparently refused a bath this morning but they managed to get him in clean clothes.’
‘Any reporters outside?’
‘No. His mental faculties, or lack thereof, are widely known.’
‘See, that’s what I should do. Say I’ve got no marbles left. Then they’d leave me alone.’
The creatures from the BBC were currently in the Silverbeach ‘sun lounge’ – Freddy had lured them in with a promise of an interview. It was the only way they could leave the building unmolested, and actually, it had all felt quite daring and fun – the rush down the stairs (she could still do stairs) and the nervy dash to the car, gripping onto her daughter’s arm and concentrating fiercely on the placement of her feet in the snow.
‘All the same,’ said Tabby, ‘I’m surprised they’re not buzzing around trying to pap him.’
‘Speak clearer, darling. And louder.’
‘I said – oh, it doesn’t matter. I wonder if the police will try to speak to him. He does have his good days, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes, now and again. What’s the law regarding the ethics of interrogating someone who isn’t compos mentis?’
‘I’m not entirely sure.’
‘Darling, you’re a lawyer.’
‘Yes, specialising in will and probate, not criminal law. I imagine it depends on various factors, such as the nature of the dementia and its severity.’ Tabby smiled. ‘Why? Are you worried he’s going to talk?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Am I allowed to smoke in here?’
‘No,’ said Tabby, turning out onto the carriageway. ‘What did the police say to you this morning?’
‘Say? They didn’t say anything. They fired questions.’
‘Did they at least say why they’re tying you to a gun and a dead butler?’
‘Something about a serial number and that farm I worked on during the war. A bloody cattle gun, darling. For shooting cows in the head. And of course they found it all on land your father used to own – remember those woods backing on to Davenport? They’re trying to put a Tesco there! A Tesco! I can think of nothing worse.’
‘I spoke to Ivy earlier, on the phone,’ said Tabby. ‘She says the police have been trying to get in contact with her too.’
‘Well, they would. She was at Longworth with me at the time of Henry’s disappearance. And of course she worked on the same farm. Anyway, I’ve already spoken to her. She’s as confused about this whole business as I am.’
‘Any idea who might’ve wanted to kill him?’
‘I haven’t the foggiest. He was a highly competent butler, or so we thought. I mean, everyone knows I wasn’t fond of him, darling – I never tried to hide it. But personal dislike very seldom turns into an urge to terminate another’s existence. How far-fetched!’
‘And is it definitely the gun that was used to kill him? Did they say?’
‘No, they didn’t say. They’ve only just identified the body so I imagine it’s too early in the game. For all we know, he mightn’t have been killed with a gun. It could be unrelated. Did you think of that? Eyes on the road, darling.’
‘But if the man was wrapped up and buried then surely it makes sense that the gun is related? It all whiffs of foul play.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. The police keep things close to their chest and— Eyes on the bloody road, Tabby! Slow down. Slow down!’
‘I’m doing twenty miles an hour, Mum.’
‘Did you try your brother again?’
‘Catherine answered. Said he’s at a conference.’
‘A conference? How perfectly exhilarating.’ She lit a cigarette and looked in the mirror. The tops of her hearing aids were poking through her hair, miserable flashes of beige plastic.Vile. ‘Did you speak to my agent about that debacle over my royalties, darling?’
Tabby was leaning forward, trying to read a road sign.
‘Darling, I just asked if—’
‘Shh. I can’t see the … is it the first left or the second? Mum?’
‘It’s the one by the petrol station.’
‘OK. I think I remember. Yes, I spoke to your agent. She said— Mum! I told you not to smoke in my car!’
‘Oh dear. I must be developing dementia. Well, it’s too late now.’
‘Fucking hell, Mum.’
‘You were telling me about my agent?’
Tabby sighed. ‘She said there’s been no mistake and she’ll be happy to clarify that over the phone, so long as you wear your hearing aids. Oh, there we go.’ They were passing the petrol station. Tabby indicated and slowly manoeuvred the car around the sharp bend into the road that contained Haines-on-the-Hill, her father’s nursing home.
‘Look who’s come to see you!’ The carer was tall and brown-skinned with oily ringlets and stubble growing below her eyebrows. ‘It’s your daughter and wife, Mr Dawes. Come all this way in the snow.’
‘Yes, we hiked here,’ said Bettina, sitting down next to Bart on the two-seat sofa. His room was large and comfortable and contained his own furniture, even the old bureaus from his father’s study and his mother’s Welsh dresser which was supposedly worth £150,000. Never much of a reader, his shelves were full of videos and only seven books – four different biographies (of himself) and Bettina’s novels: Silence Is Dying, The Rats Are Upon Us and A Love Most Ungainly. Bettina had requested that he never read them. If he’d told her he disliked them, that would cause unpleasantness (well, full-scale war), and if he told her he liked them, she might not believe him. On top of the huge Panasonic television set stood his sole Oscar statuette from 1951, freshly polished, as always.
Bettina squeezed Bart’s hand. ‘How are you, my lovely boy?’
‘Shit,’ said Bart.
‘Mind your language around the ladies, Mr Dawes.’
Bettina scowled up at the carer. ‘He’s a grown man, let him speak his bloody mind.’
‘Ignore her, she’s just being rude,’ said Tabby to the carer.
‘That’s all right,’ said the carer.
‘Can you all leave us alone?’ said Bettina.
Tabby and the carer exchanged looks.
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ said Bettina. ‘We’re not children.’
‘It’s OK,’ said Tabby, to the carer. ‘I’m sure they’ll be fine. Do you want anything, Mum? Dad? A cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you.’ Bettina gave her daughter a tight, strained smile. ‘Off you go.’
They left, gently closing the door behind them. Bettina waited a suitable time and then took the brandy bottle from her purse. ‘Here,’ she said, passing it to Bart, ‘unscrew the cap, will you? My hands are all buggered up with arthritis. You remember how to do it?’
‘I think I can manage it.’ His voice had an airy, muffled quality, as if his sinuses were inflamed and he’d just woken up. He was freshly shaved except for a strip down the side of his left cheek – the point, probably, where he’d refused to co-operate any more. Stubborn, difficult bastard. Always was. His clothes were clean – a lavender shirt underneath a cadet-grey pullover and dark-grey slacks, the pleat crisply ironed. She’d bought them herself, five or so years ago, back when she was still able to get out and about. Sometimes when she visited he’d be wearing his pyjamas, with snot on the sleeves and dried cornflakes stuck to the lapels. The carers said it was because of the dementia, but she half suspected it was down to the ‘calmers’ they were always giving him to keep him semi-agreeable.
He got the cap off the bottle and sniffed the brandy inside.
‘Your favourite,’ she said, smiling. ‘Do you have any glasses?’
He ignored her, drinking straight from the bottle, then offered it back.
‘Cheers,’ she said, taking a sip.
She got out her cigarettes and lit two, passing one to him. He stared at it, at the lit end, confused.
‘Put it in your mouth and suck, darling.’ She elbowed him, gently. ‘I know you’ve had a lot of practice in that area.’
His blanched eyes moved from the cigarette to her face. He laughed. It was a beautiful golden laugh. ‘Betts?’ he said.
‘Yes, it’s your Betts.’
He took a tentative puff on his cigarette. ‘Betts?’ he said again.
‘Yes, darling. Your adoring wife.’
‘Wife?’ His eyes wrinkled with mirth. She knew what was coming next.
‘Well if I was you, I’d divorce me.’ He slapped his thigh. ‘I’m a fruit!’
She smiled a tired smile. Probably half the home knew he was a “fruit” by now. ‘I would have divorced you years ago,’ she said (and it was the thing she always said), ‘if it’d been worth all the fuss.’ She thought back to Bart’s agent, his whispered, doomy words to her one night in 1973: ‘The only thing keeping all those rumours in the jar is your marriage. Your marriage is the lid.’ No, it wouldn’t have been worth it. The lawyers and journalists and carving up of assets. Why make life hard for yourself?
‘Where’s Étienne?’ said Bart.
‘Étienne’s dead, darling.’
Every week, the same old thing. It was probably why William, his partner since 1952, had stopped visiting so regularly. How could William compete? Étienne existed as an ageless ghost, a beautiful young man frozen in memory who Bart had never had to see grow old. And of course, they’d never got to the stage that all long-term partners arrive at where they don’t want to fuck each other any more, where the sight of the other’s miserable face chewing on toast in the morning is enough to induce screaming. Twenty years it’d taken to get to that point with Ivy. Still, that was good going. And they’d toughed it out, neither wanting to throw in the towel at their advanced age, and arriving eventually at a place of tolerable companionship.
‘Don’t you remember?’ she said. ‘He had that car accident in 1950. He did a Monty Clift and smashed into a tree. You don’t remember? We went to the funeral.’ They’d flown to California – the first time Bettina had been on a plane. Bart had got drunk and, halfway across the Atlantic, almost got caught in the toilets with another man – he was always doing silly things during times of emotional difficulty.
Bart drank his brandy, eyes vapid. He did not remember.
‘What about Henry?’ she said.
‘Henry.’
‘Yes, Henry. Heinous Henry. Do you remember him?’
‘The thing with the … thing. Was it Tuesday? In a box?’
‘I really need you to remember, darling. Henry. Butler.’ She lowered her voice: ‘I offed him in the woods. Remember? He got concussion and choked on his own vomit. Surely you remember something like that.’
He stared at her. Clear thin mucus dribbling down his philtrum.
‘I need you to focus. The police might want to talk to you.’ She clicked her fingers in front of his face. ‘Are you listening?’
‘Yes.’ A trace of irritation.
‘Good. Now I need you to stick to the story. Henry disappeared in 1943, taking your mother’s pearls and antique brooches. 1943. Butler. Pearls. We were all very upset about the betrayal and we reported it to the police, but he was never sighted again. 1943. Butler. Pearls. That is all we know. Bart?’
‘That is all we know. All we know. She sounds like a right scallywag. Did she die?’
Christ. What was the point? ‘Never mind. Have another drink, darling. Before they come back.’ It didn’t really matter. The gun wasn’t responsible for Henry’s death and the police would soon know this for sure (possibly they already did?), taking her and Ivy out of the equation. Hopefully.
‘I need a piss,’ said Bart.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes! I think I know if I need a piss or not, Betts!’
They were so disarming, these moments. It was like Bart was forever drowning in murky water, his head going under, only sometimes he’d rise spluttering to the surface, bursting out like a salmon in a blaze of fierce sunlight – no, that was a terrible metaphor. No wonder she’d been passed over for all the important literary prizes. No wonder that critic had referred to her as a dumbed-down Iris Murdoch. A blaze of fierce sunlight! You had to laugh.
‘Come with me then,’ she said, taking his hand.
He obediently followed, his hand cool and smooth, and she guided him towards the en suite. He looked down into the porcelain, anxious, like a child called on to answer a difficult mathematical question. She undid his belt and his button, her stiff fingers grappling metal and fabric. His trousers dropped to the floor, followed by his undershorts. ‘Sit,’ she said. He just stared at her. ‘Sit, you idiot.’
‘You mean – on there?’
‘Yes. Sit down. For the love of God.’
See, this was why she’d put him in this home in the first place. Every single little thing was a bloody struggle. Every single thing. It was also why she’d insisted on going to a home herself – she didn’t want Ivy to ever have to go through the same frustrations, to carry the same burden. It was a sad business that she couldn’t live in the same facility as her husband of seventy years but honestly, this place was full of dribbling lunatics and there was sometimes shit on the carpets.
He sat down. His penis lay over the peach-coloured seat.
‘Pop it in,’ she said, gesturing at it. ‘Go on, pop it in. Or else you’ll go all over the floor.’
He stared at her.
‘Meow. Put your cock inside the bowl.’
‘Oh,’ he said, laughing, and complied.
‘I thought you’d understand that.’
Grinning, he started to urinate, his knees pressed together like a small boy.
She pulled a tissue out of her cardigan sleeve and wiped away the snot from his upper lip. ‘There,’ she said softly. ‘All better now.’
‘All better now,’ he repeated.