I leave Southsea next morning. H has already put a call through to Cynthia, making sure she’s OK. Dave, it seems, has had a very difficult night and just now Cynthia wants to get her head down before she braces herself for another call to the ICU.
‘I’ll go round later,’ H says. ‘Maybe this afternoon. Check out exactly what she needs.’
I’m about to suggest she might want to be left alone but there’s something in H’s face that tells me it would be pointless. Fat Dave is dying and, for whatever reason, H needs to be part of that.
‘You’re off then?’ he grunts. We’re standing on the pavement beside my little Peugeot. In daylight, I notice for the first time that one of the ground-floor flats is available for rent.
‘Yes.’ I turn back to H. ‘Call me if you need me.’
‘You’ll be back? For the funeral?’
I nod, letting that single word, so final, settle between us.
‘Of course I will,’ I say brightly. ‘Provided they don’t arrest me.’
This isn’t as fanciful as it might sound. All morning, first on my smart phone and later on the ancient TV that belongs to the flat, I’ve been following the news. Lockdown is what it says on the tin. Every inch of the country I’ve always taken for granted – Holland Park, rural Dorset, and now Portsmouth – has become a giant set in some disaster movie: abandoned, empty, eerily quiet.
Upstairs in the flat, I’ve spent nearly an hour plotting a route north that should keep me out of trouble. This will involve a series of detours through the leafy shires from village to village. Given the time of year, mid-spring, I’m hoping for fields of skipping lambs and roadside trees heavy with blossom, and as I leave the low, grey clutter of Pompey, I realize I’m in some danger of enjoying the journey to come. It does me no credit to admit it, but I’m glad to be out of that hideous flat, itself a kind of tomb. The virus has already cast a long shadow and last night in bed, alert for every sound, I felt I could almost touch the darkness.
By mid-morning, much happier, I’ve left the South Downs behind me and I’m desperate for a coffee. I know it might sound improbable but alone in the car my thoughts have strayed to my mum in Brittany. She was born in 1940, the year the Germans helped themselves to half of France. Back then, she and her family lived in Paris and, with the Germans at their heels, she and most of the rest of the city fled south. My mum was a babe in arms at the time and therefore oblivious but later, after the war, she listened to story after story about those sweltering June days, and much of this she passed on to little me.
I was in my teens by the time I mustered the patience and the interest to listen properly and what struck me then, as it strikes me now, was the sheer speed with which things can change. Only two days ago, the shuttered wayside cafes would have been open. I could have sat down with a big fat cappuccino with spoonable sprinkles on top, and maybe even a croissant or two. But now, locked down, there’s nothing. How long will this coffee-less purdah last? Will I ever hear that gorgeous, anticipatory hiss of steam foaming the jug of cold milk again?
Idling in the middle of the latest village, waiting for the postman to cross the road, I think of my grandmère once more. Given the circumstances – milling hordes of refugees, broken-down cars, wailing kids – she would have killed for this solitude, this peace, this blissful absence of other people. But the shock of her own vulnerability she would have recognized only too well. The virus, thank God, isn’t delivered by squadrons of wailing Stukas, but its sheer invisibility – death by stealth, death thanks to someone else’s sneeze, death after days and nights of slowly drowning in your own secretions – is in some respects more terrifying. Boris Johnson is doubtless doing his best to play Churchill in this crisis but it’s beginning to dawn on me that this virus, Dave’s virus, has no respect for bombast and fancy rhetoric.
Deep in my reverie, the lone driver in an otherwise empty village, the knock on my window comes as a surprise. The face staring down at me is oldish, female, and darkened by something I can only describe as rage. She’s wearing a slash of lipstick, the brightest red, and one thin hand is trying to steady her hat in the lively wind.
The moment I lower the window, she steps back and turns slightly away. This village isn’t big. I’m definitely an intruder and it’s probably wise not to inquire about the off-chance of a coffee.
‘Well?’ she says.
‘Well what?’
‘Some kind of explanation? Don’t you think that’s the least you owe us?’
‘An explanation for what?’
‘For being here. When you shouldn’t. Don’t you listen to the wireless? To the television? Haven’t you read the papers? Or don’t these rules apply to you, young lady?’
Young lady? This conversation, I think, at last shows signs of promise. Wrong. My new friend wants to know where I’m going, where I’ve come from.
‘I’m going home,’ I tell her. ‘To lock myself down.’
‘And you’ve been where?’
‘Portsmouth.’
‘Portsmouth?’ She’s looking at me full-face now, horrified, and for a moment I’m anticipating a citizen’s arrest. On the other side of the street, I’m aware of faces at windows, phones pressed to ears. Then a front door opens and a stout figure in tweeds and a Barbour jacket appears.
‘Everything in order, Margery? Need a hand there?’
Margery, I suspect, would dearly love to take me into custody but dare not risk bodily contact. To spare us both any further angst, I shoot her a bright smile, engage first gear, and floor the accelerator. Two and a half hours later, mercifully intact, I’m back in Holland Park.
On the journey north, I’ve deliberately resisted checking my phone. Now, stepping into my own apartment, I note the texts awaiting my attention. The one at the head of the queue is from H. ‘Phone me,’ he’s written. Nothing else. Just that. ‘Phone me.’
I gaze at it a moment, and then cross the lounge to the window. From up here on the fourth floor, I can see that the car park is full, everyone tucked up for the duration. For a moment, I’m back in the borrowed flat in Southsea. Who did it belong to? Were they a couple? Had one of them died? And if someone was living there alone, was it a man? Or a woman? Given the evidence, I strongly suspect the former. No woman I’ve ever met would spend countless hours reconstructing the battle of Trafalgar. Neither would she let the place get into such a state.
Scrolling through the rest of my emails, I make a mental note to phone Tony Morse and find out. Tony has always been H’s go-to lawyer in Pompey and over the years, when I’ve found myself in trouble, he’s been a priceless source of both comfort and advice. He’s also become a very good friend. With his easy charm and beguiling vanities, he represents yet another side of Pompey, and more to the point he’s never let me down.
Tony, I think. But not quite yet. I bend to my phone again, dialling Malo’s number, and the moment he answers I sense at once what’s happened.
‘Your dad’s been in touch?’
‘Yeah. First thing.’
‘About Dave?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And?’
‘He died, Mum. Early this morning, Dad says. He told me about the place he’s found, the flat where you stayed last night. He’s given me the address. I’m going down there tonight.’
‘Why?’
‘Because.’
‘Because what?’
‘Because he obviously can’t cope. He says he can. He thinks he can. But he can’t. End of story, Mum. I’m packing as we speak.’
‘What about Clemmie?’
‘She’s staying up here. She’s worried about her own folks. Her father’s older than I first thought.’
‘So, shouldn’t you be with her? Moral support?’
‘Of course I should, but Dad comes first.’ He pauses for a moment, then he’s back. ‘Dad says you’ll be down for the funeral.’
‘He’s right. But I don’t suppose they’ve fixed a date yet.’
‘Yeah, sure.’ Another pause. ‘How about tomorrow? All three of us?’
‘Tomorrow?’
To be honest, I’m gobsmacked. H used to be a demigod to Malo. When they first met, first got to know each other, he worshipped the man who’d so suddenly turned out to be his natural father. Later that sense of awe morphed into something much closer to love, which is altogether healthier, but I’m struggling to remember a time when circumstances threw just the three of us together. Until now.
‘Tomorrow?’ I repeat. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why? Am I allowed to ask?’
‘Because we should. Because we must. Because we owe it to each other.’
Each other. Such a simple proposition, I think. The retired drug-dealer, the ageing thesp, and their wayward love child all cornered by tiny fragments of RNA calling themselves Covid-19.
‘Well, Mum?’ Malo is getting impatient. I frown. I gaze out of the window. Then I stare at the phone. Why on earth not?
‘You’re on,’ I say.
‘Tonight?’
‘Maybe tomorrow. Probably the day after.’
‘How come?’
‘Stuff to do, Malo. You haven’t seen the state of the place. Take a sleeping bag, by the way. And whatever food you can rustle up. Oh … and maybe a pack of cards.’
‘Booze?’
‘I thought you’d given up.’
‘I have. I’m thinking of you. And Dad.’
‘Sweet.’ I’m smiling now. ‘That Italian white you know I like. Greco di Tufo? And maybe a bottle or two of Talisker. H lives on the stuff. Maybe some Rioja, as well. Are you writing all this down?’
‘I am, Mum. Tomorrow would be favourite.’
‘This is some kind of negotiation?’
‘Of course it is.’ He has the grace to laugh. ‘Me and Dad banged up together? You know how moody he can get.’
He rings off after I blow him a kiss down the phone. Another first, I think, the sound of his laughter still ringing in my ear.
H, when I finally make the call, is blunt, almost aggressive. He wants to know what kept me.
‘I’ve been on a mission.’ I tell him about the scary natives in the middle of nowhere but it’s like talking to a deaf man.
‘Dave’s gone,’ he grunts.
‘I know. Malo told me. And Cynthia?’
‘All over the fucking place. They phoned her first thing from the ICU. You could tell yesterday she was expecting it. Poor fucker.’
‘Cynthia?’ I’m shocked.
‘Dave. You wouldn’t wish an end like that on anyone. I told Cynth he probably slipped away. I told her it was in his nature, ducking and diving all his life. Probably for the best, I said. You could see how much he was hurting in that vid.’
‘And?’
‘She’s a tough woman. Didn’t believe a word I said. Hurting’s right. We need to keep an eye on her. Fuck knows what she’ll do without him.’
‘And now?’
‘We bury him, say goodbye.’
‘When?’
‘Soon.’ He pauses. ‘Malo’s coming down.’
I hang up without saying goodbye, slightly stung by H’s brusqueness. Like many men under pressure, he has no time for the smaller courtesies. All that counts is the matter in hand. That and the sizeable hole Fat Dave has left behind.
By now it’s early evening and I have just one last call to make. I find a bottle and pour myself a large glass of Chilean Merlot. Tony Morse answers on the second ring.
‘My darling,’ he murmurs. ‘All well?’
‘Still standing. You?’
‘Third glass, alas, but nothing in the in-tray for weeks to come, thank Christ.’
We swap notes about the craziness of the times before I thank him for the loan of the flat.
‘You’ve been down?’ He seems astonished.
‘Flying visit. Life’s a learning curve. If you’re driving, it’s probably best to travel at night. Next time I’ll need to remember that.’
‘You’re coming back?’
‘I am.’
I bring him up to date about poor Dave Munroe and he asks me to pass his sympathies on to Cynthia. Portsmouth, in so many respects, seems to be a village and for all his villainy, Dave has won himself many admirers.
Tony wants to know more about Dave – what happened, how bad – but I quickly bring the conversation back to the flat.
‘Who did it belong to? Do you mind me asking?’
‘A relative.’
‘He? She?’
‘Both. Husband and wife until everything went wrong.’
‘One of them died?’
‘Something like that.’
‘And now he’s gone, too?’
‘Couple of months ago. Massive stroke. Out like a light.’
‘And someone cleared the flat?’
‘I did.’ He breaks off for a moment and I hear the gurgle of wine into his glass. Then he’s back, as charming and playful as ever. ‘I’m afraid I drew the line at the jigsaw. As you doubtless discovered.’
‘No more clues?’
‘It’s the Battle of Trafalgar. Nelson’s the little bloke with the dodgy arm.’
‘I meant the flat. Who owned it? Who lived there?’
‘Ah …’ The softest chuckle. ‘Maybe another day, eh? After all this nonsense is over.’
I wonder for a moment whether to press him but decide not to. Instead I ask whether he’d mind me cheering the place up.
‘As in?’
‘No offence, Tony, but giving it a bit of a clean? Maybe a lick of paint?’
‘Do your worst, my darling.’ That chuckle again. ‘Break a leg, eh?’