With the black-and-white wallpaper off, Ben’s room looks completely different. Underneath the paper it’s just plain plaster, pale pinkish and dusty, which makes the room seem much bigger; and the furniture’s still shoved into the middle, so his bed’s facing a different way, which Ben quite likes, because lying there makes him feel different too. Which is exactly what he wants, because the idea of his life being back to ‘normal’ makes him want to scream – literally, until his head aches – or smash his fist against the wall.
He’s found a feng shui website that says if you sleep with your feet facing the door, it’s bad feng shui because that’s how you’ll be carried out when you’re dead. But if you align your body north-to-south that’s good for the cells because of electro-magnetic fields. And if you lie with your bed in the north-east that means a fresh start. So that’s where he’s going to put his bed once he’s painted the walls, which is opposite to how it has been, which was in the south-west. Because the south-west means harmony, which to Ben means giving in to Dad, which he is never going to do again.
Dad’s been nagging at him to get started on the painting, probably because he fancies having a go with the roller before he goes off on the boat. But Ben hasn’t decided on a colour yet; plus he quite likes making Dad wait, and pissing him off, and watching him trying not to show that he’s pissed off. And he’s enjoying the in-between feel of the room at the moment, and the idea that it could go in any direction; because now the paper’s off, it’s his room, properly his, instead of Dad and his perfect imaginary son’s.
Ben’s still not really talking to Dad, just saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘OK’. It’s not that he’s in a sulk; it’s more that he can’t be bothered. He used to make an effort with Dad, but now he just thinks, what’s the point? And Dad’s either trying not to notice, or being really chummy-chummy, which makes Ben really angry when he thinks about it, so he’s trying not to think about it – which basically means staying in his room and going on the computer all the time.
Today Ben’s been on Sims 2 for nearly nine hours and he’s beginning to feel a bit weird, sort of dizzy and tired at the same time, and like he might throw up. He’s been applying the principles of feng shui to a new Sims house, which means looking at loads of feng shui sites, which are a mixture of sensible advice, like making sure you can see who’s arriving at the front door, and bonkers instructions like hanging bamboo flutes from the ceiling or putting a green ceramic frog in the west quadrant of your garden.
Nana knocked at one point to say there was half a lasagne in the microwave if he wanted it, which he didn’t. And Dad banged a bit later to say he was heading off to the boat.
Ben hasn’t even got around to getting dressed yet, or brushing his teeth. And the curtains are still closed, because where the computer is now the sun shines directly onto the screen so he can’t see properly. So it’s like being in a pinky sort of cave, that pongs a bit of sweat and damp plaster – plus there’s a slight whiff of spunk from his pjs, which must mean something, except Ben really doesn’t want to think about it, because whenever he thinks about what’s going on inside his body he just can’t bear it.
Ben reckons that as long as he’s not actually talking to the doc and Laura, he can still do some research and Dad can’t complain – and he won’t know anyway, because he’s off on the boat. So he’s come to the library to look up Lord Jim. He’s not sure what he’s going to discover, but he’s vaguely hoping there might be something that will make Dad feel a bit less spooked about being the reincarnation of a fat old gay dude with no legs. Maybe he won a medal for bravery in the war or something, or wrote books, or gave all his money to charity. Anyway, it’s something to do. And if he bumps into Laura or the doc there it won’t be because he’s gone to see them on purpose, so maybe he’ll get away with it.
On the way in, he thinks he spots Ian taking the steps two at a time up to the local history section, but by the time he gets up there himself, there’s no sign of him and it’s just Pete on his own helping an old lady work the computer.
Ben logs on to the BMD site and starts looking for a James from North Shields who died just before Dad was born in 1968. Which is hopeless, of course, because James was one of the most common names in those days, so there’s squillions of them. So then he narrows it down to just blokes over eighty, because he has a vague memory of Lord Jim saying he was eighty-something, and he must have been pretty decrepit to have his legs off like that. Now there’s just twenty-six names on the list, which is still loads, but at least now he can face going through them one by one and seeing if any of them seems right.
So he’s just scrolling vaguely down when one jumps right out at him: James Harold Milburn. Annie’s brother! It must be! So Annie disappeared, but her brother stuck around and grew up into Lord Jim. Which means that Ben and his dad were once sister and brother. How totally weird is that?
He borrows a pen from Pete to jot down the address: 59 Seymour Street, North Shields, NE29 6SN.
The house, when he gets there, is in the middle of one of those old terraces of Tyneside flats that stretch all the way down the street, with front doors opening right onto the pavement, two by two, with one front door leading to a staircase to the upper flat, and one opening into the hall of the downstairs flat. Number 59 is an upper flat, which is annoying because it means Ben can’t peer in, which would have been pointless anyway, as it’s nearly forty years since Lord Jim died. Still, it would have been cool to have a peek and try to imagine what it was like in 1967.
Now it has replacement windows and those beigey vertical blinds that old ladies go in for, that swivel open on chains of little ball bearings. Squatting down, Ben pushes open the letterbox to see the stairs, which are covered in a dark red flowery carpet. There’s a sprinkling of grey gravel stuff in the hall that a cat’s kicked out of a litter tray, which needs emptying by the niff of it.
Ben remembers Lord Jim going on about the stairs, how being stuck in the flat in ‘this bloomin’ wheelchair’ was like being in prison. He can understand what he meant now; because it must have been quite a performance hoying a big bloke like that up and down them narrow stairs.
He considers ringing the bell, but chickens out, so wanders along to the end of the terrace instead, then down the back alley behind the houses, past all the yards, with broken glass and razor wire along the tops of the walls. He’s looking for the rear of Number 59, but there aren’t any numbers on the rear gates. Then at the far end of the alley, he spots a familiar figure and there’s old Skip, trundling towards him with a supermarket trolley full of paintings, back from his stall in the market probably.
‘Howay, Paul’s lad. What you doing round here?’
‘I was looking for someone’s house, but I think I’ve got the wrong address.’
‘What street you after?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘This here’s my place, if you fancy a cuppa.’ He unlocks a hefty padlock on a yard gate then pulls back a butch-looking bolt.
Ben follows him into a yard that’s completely covered by transparent corrugated roofing; like a creaky sort of conservatory, with the doors and windows of the house looking out into it. The whole yard’s kitted out as an artist’s studio and carpentry workshop for making picture-frames, but there’s a load of fishing gear in there too. So there’s jam-jars of brushes and easels and paints and that, plus a Black and Decker workmate and stacks of old wood and doors propped up against one wall, plus nets hanging on another wall, and a heap of pots and creels. But even though there’s so much stuff in there, it’s really tidy and everything has its proper place, like a sideways bookcase for stacking the paintings, and hooks for the broom and the mop; so it’s really quite cool considering it’s an old bloke’s place.
Inside the flat it’s a bit dark and dismal, because the conservatory dims the light from the windows. Ben sits on a wooden stool with a padded plastic seat and watches the old bloke fill a dented old kettle and light one of those little camping gas gizmos – even though there’s a proper gas cooker in the kitchen and an electric kettle. Has he been cut off or something?
‘Carnation milk all right?’ Skip asks. ‘Real goes off in a blink on the boat, so I got out of the habit.’
Ben nods. ‘Can I use the bog?’ he asks. He doesn’t really need to go, but he wants to nose around a bit.
It’s a typical lower Tyneside flat, with the bathroom tacked on the end of the kitchen. Dad says people used to put planks over the bath and keep coal underneath, but old Skip has sheets and towels soaking in his.
Ben does his business and dries his hands on a threadbare pink towel. There’s frilly nets over the window and a china Jesus at one end of the windowsill, with a matching Mary at the other, and a little vase of plastic roses on a lace doily in between. He sneaks a look in the medicine cabinet. There’s loads of weird old stuff in there – he doesn’t know what half of it’s for – like a flat tin with a grinning picture of teeth on it, and a chubby brown bottle of Senokot pills, whatever they are, and a little bottle of olive oil, for some reason; and that ointment for your bum Dad used when he got constipated on that Atkins diet; and some Yardley’s lily-of-the-valley talc, and aspirins and multivits; all grey with dust and looking like they’ve been there for years.
The tea’s ready when he comes out, in tin mugs on the kitchen table, and there’s some custard creams on a chipped plate, even though there’s a little tray right there on the worktop, set for tea, with a pot and milk jug and everything; and loads of thin flowery china cups on hooks, and matching saucers on a shelf above.
Ben bites into a custard cream. ‘What’s through there?’ he asks, pointing to another door.
‘Oh, that’s her lounge. It’s a mucky job, on the boat, so I always tried to keep a bit separate.’ He sucks up a mouthful of scalding tea. ‘So I’d come in the back, like just now, through the yard. And she’d come in the front, so’s she could have her lounge and her bedroom to herself. Then when I’d cleaned up, we’d meet in the kitchen for tea.’
‘Who’s she, then? Your wife?’
‘Ha!’ He laughs. ‘She were old enough to be my nana, never mind my wife. I was her lodger, like, from when I was sixteen. She took me in after Mam died. Said if I’d see to all her odd jobs I’d be doing her a favour. She never married, see? So it worked out fine all round.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘Passed away years ago, God bless her.’ He slurps the rest of his tea. ‘I like to fancy she’s in there still, knitting away and listening to her hymns.’
‘So who lives there now?’
‘I go in sometimes to have a bit of a hoover round, to keep it nice for her.’
The idea of the old lady knitting away behind the closed door makes Ben want to go and look. ‘Can I see?’ he asks.
‘Help yourself. It’s not locked.’
Ben pushes open the door to the lounge, which is typical old lady decor, with flowery wallpaper and a swirly carpet. There’s one of those tall old-fashioned armchairs by the empty fireplace, and he goes to sit in it, and turns the radio on, except it’s all crackles and he can’t find the station. There’s a dusty old copy of the Radio Times on the side table and he looks at the date: 22‒28 January 1994. So it’s probably been there ever since she died.
It’s peaceful sitting in her chair, but sort of sad. The arms have special covers on, to stop them getting dirty, and there’s a white lacy cloth over the back, that looks like she’s crocheted the edges herself. Leaning back with his head against the crochet, he rests his wrists on the arms of the chair.
‘You all right, lad?’
‘There’s an old copy of the Radio Times here with that Joanna Lumley on the cover.’
Skip hovers in the doorway, like he’s scared to come in.
‘I never liked to interfere with her things.’
‘Oh. Sorry.’ Ben jumps up, feeling guilty.
‘No, you’re all right. She’s gone now. I’m just being daft. The front hall’s through that door and then her bedroom’s on the left.’
There’s a heap of mail on the front doormat and Ben scoops it up. ‘Miss Edith Lillian Turnbull, was that her? There’s loads of mail here for her.’
‘Just give me my stuff and put the rest on that shelf,’ says old Skip from the doorway.
‘Isn’t there someone you should send her stuff to? Like a sister or a cousin or something?’ Ben’s leafing through the heap of envelopes, taking out the obvious junk mail.
‘Leave it be, lad. If there’s something important, they can knock on the door, can’t they?’
‘This one looks important,’ Ben says, fishing out a white envelope with National Savings & Investments printed on the front. ‘Shall I open it?’
Old Skip sighs. ‘Go on then.’
‘It’s about her Post Office account. They say they’re “discontinuing the savings account option”, whatever that means.’ He reads on down the page. ‘It says she’s got to open a new account and put her money in that instead.’
‘Ay, she was always on about her savings. In her will, she said I could have the lot, but I never found her pass book. Not that I ever looked, mind.’
‘I could look for it if you like,’ Ben offers. He quite fancies a bit of a rootle through the old lady’s things. It will be like continuing his research, he thinks, into how people lived in the old days.
‘I don’t know,’ Skip says.
‘Only if you want.’
‘It’s just I don’t like going in her rooms. She liked to be private, did Miss Turnbull. And I always tried to respect that.’
‘I’ll be really careful not to disturb anything.’
The old bloke sighs again. ‘Go on then. I don’t suppose it will hurt.’
Ben pushes open the door to the old lady’s bedroom. It smells musty, like the air’s been there a long time. There’s a saggy single bed in the corner with a padded nylon cover stitched all over into little diamond shapes. And a plain brown rug beside the bed, with a pair of old-lady slippers on it, and a nightie folded on the pillow, with a brown handbag laid tidily on top. He looks behind the door, and there’s her fleecy dressing-gown, and one of those nylon house-coat things old ladies wear over their clothes when they’re doing the cleaning.
Ben picks up the handbag.
‘It’s not in there,’ says Skip from the hall. ‘I had to look inside for the nurses when she was taken in. They were after her reading glasses. Then – later, like – I put her watch and her glasses back in there for safe-keeping.’
‘What about in the drawers?’ Ben asks. There’s an antiquey-looking wardrobe and a matching chest of drawers with another Jesus statue on it, and a hairbrush with a comb stuck in it, and a few white hairs wound round the bristles.
‘I told you, I never touched her things.’
It’s spooky seeing the hairs there; it makes the old lady more real. Ben can imagine her brushing her hair, or in the bathroom patting some of that lily-of-the-valley talc under her saggy old arms. He opens one of the top drawers and this smell sort of wafts out at him, the way some people have their own special smell. Hers is soapy and biscuity. He’s a bit embarrassed to rummage around in there, because it’s all big white knickers and vests, like from the oldies corner of Markie’s, and flat little lacy bras, and a pile of embroidered hankies. So he just pushes the things sideways to check if there’s anything underneath, which there isn’t. He tries the other drawers, with her nighties and tights, and piles of cardies and scarves – but no pass book.
‘There’s nothing in here,’ he says, pushing the last drawer shut and looking round the room again. Old Skip’s lurking in the doorway now, as though he feels he’s got to keep an eye on things.
There’s another armchair by the window. Next to it is a round table with a tassely lamp on it, and a tatty black bible; and on the floor beside it there’s a sort of tapestry bag hanging from a wooden stand, with knitting needles poking out, which must be where she kept her crochet and knitting stuff.
‘I bet it’s in here,’ says Ben, lifting the bag onto the bed and easing it open. Shoving his hand down to the bottom, past balls of wool and reels of cotton, he feels a wad of papers and booklets held together by an elastic band. ‘Bingo!’ he cries, pulling it out.
He goes to hand the package to Skip, but the old bloke backs away. ‘Nay, Paul’s lad. You do it.’
When he takes off the elastic band, it’s so rotten it snaps in his fingers.
‘That’s her pension book,’ says Skip.
‘And here’s the savings book. Wow! There’s thousands of pounds in here. Look!’
He thrusts the book at old Skip, who takes it gingerly. ‘Six thousand four hundred and sixty three pounds,’ he reads the numbers slowly. ‘Bloody hell.’ He sits down on the chair and stares at the book.
Ben leafs through the rest of the papers. ‘Here’s another fifty quid,’ he says, discovering a fifty-pound note folded inside a book of second-class stamps. There’s a battered little address book, with crackly brown Sellotape holding the cover on, and a notebook with a cardboard cover.
‘What you got there, lad?’
‘Some kind of notebook.’ He flips open the cover. ‘Wow! Look at this. I think it’s her diary. She’s dated all the pages.’
He turns to the first entry: ‘“14 November 1993”,’ he reads out. ‘It just starts in the middle of the month, so she must’ve just gone on writing till she finished a notebook, then started a new one. “Lord, thank you for last night.” Who’s Lord? Oh, right, I get it. It’s like she’s writing to God. How weird.’
‘Ay, she was very godly, was Miss Turnbull.’
‘Sorry. Is it OK for me to read it?’
‘I doubt there’ll be owt to be ashamed of, knowing her.’
‘Here – you’d better have it.’
‘No, you’re all right. There comes a time for everything and I guess this is probably it.’
‘“The arm was a little easier today, thanks to your grace, so I slept better than I have for weeks. The lad is away, so I had a simple breakfast, just Hovis and a boiled egg.” Who’s the lad?’
‘That’s me. I was always “the lad” to her.’
‘I wonder where the others are.’
‘Eh?’
‘The other diaries.’ Without thinking, Ben kneels down and pulls a dusty plastic suitcase out from under the bed. Inside, when he pops the catches, it’s packed with cardboard shoe-boxes tied with string. Ben opens one, but he doesn’t need to. It’s obvious what’s inside.
‘Wow! Her whole life must be in here,’ he says, sitting back on his heels. Then, remembering why he’d come to Seymour Street in the first place, ‘I wonder if she knew Lord Jim.’
Old Skip looks up. ‘Lord Jim from the Jungle? Oh ay, she knew him right enough. She used to do for him. He had the flat upstairs, see. Gave her a fair run-around, too.’
Ben stares at him. ‘Did you know him?’
‘Not to speak to, as such. Well, she wouldn’t let me speak to him, would she? He was a queer, see. And I think she were scared I’d be turned, like, just being in the same room. But everyone knew him.’ He chuckles. ‘I mean, you couldn’t miss him, could you? The size he was, togged out in them frocks and wigs and that.’
‘He was nice though, right?’
‘Oh ay. Do anything for you, they said. She couldn’t cope with it, though, him going with the lads. Only tried to get him along to see Father O’Brien, didn’t she?’ He chuckles again. ‘But he was having none of it. She took it hard when he passed, mind. She was up at his place all hours when he was poorly at the end. Then they fell out about something – I was off on the boat, so I don’t know the whole story.’ He nods at the shoe boxes. ‘It’ll all be in there somewhere most likely,’ he says.