A DAY OR TWO IN SPRING

The situation at home had gone from bad to worse and Thomas started stacking saucepans inside his bedroom door. He was worried that Rob might come in in the middle of the night and smoke him with the Beretta. Saucepans would at least give him a chance. The plan was to go straight out of the window, no hesitations; as the saucepans clattered he’d be out. And if Rob somehow navigated the precautions and got in silently to club or choke, Thomas had a back-up. He kept a permanently wired Black & Decker under the bed with a three-eighths masonry bit in the chuck. If Rob got on top of him he would drill a hole in the back of his head. There was also a three-foot wood saw in case of power-cuts. While being strangled, Thomas would attempt to saw his father’s legs off.

The fear that Rob might off him, indeed, snuff the lot of them while they slept, was very real. Fuelled by his continuing association with Ruby Round the Corner, there was an atmosphere of terminal hostility about. No one knew quite where it would surface next, but when this Potts business came along, everyone found a focus. Rob didn’t give a fuck about religion, or Vicar Potts. But when the Reverend phoned and layed it on Mabs, there was a temporary lull in the divorce proceedings, and instead of talking through the dogs they talked to each other. You can’t go on loathing the same person in the same room for the same thing for ever, and it was probable this was a welcome respite for them both. When Mabs got off the phone she was worked into something of a lather: said Thomas had all but accused her of trying to murder her father; said Thomas had laughed openly at his cancer, and tried to hit Potts with a rabbit.

‘A rabbit?’

‘He was drunk,’ said Mabs.

Not an awful lot of ancillary information was required for Rob’s eruption. ‘I’ll brain him,’ he said, and walked up and down the living room as though waiting for an opportunity to do it.

‘Brain the bastard.’

He looked at Mabs, and Mabs looked at him, and both of them looked away.

Of an evening, and this was an evening, it was Rob’s practice to sink a gut full of Teacher’s and sit in front of the TV massaging the Dobermann’s balls. It was a common sight around here, a Scotch in one hand, balls in the other, and usually still in his shades. Why the dog backed up for it, why Rob did it, wasn’t questioned. It was so normal it wasn’t noticed, as much a part of the domestic landscape as the room itself and no one seemed to notice that either.

This room was a graphic manifestation of just how bad things had become. The dogs shat all over it and slashed up the furniture. Of late, various protections had been devised, giving the impression of some serious interior-decoration coming up. All chairs were draped with sheets and there was an enormous expanse of transparent polythene covering the floor. It ‘gave’ under your feet, and with carpet under it, felt like walking on sandwiches.

Policemen on the TV and a turd or two at the peripheries – it didn’t seem to bother them any more. Except once a week the sheets had to be gathered in a clutch of gigantic unpleasantness and carried out to be laundered. They hung them on a hook in the out-house. It was Mabs’ new Saturday Bag.

Thomas had spent the afternoon with his darling and had everything to feel happy about because he’d kissed her for the first time. The last thing he expected to walk into was the fall-out from Vicar Potts. By now Rob was arseholed on the sofa and didn’t bother to get up. It was his mother that rose, her eyes the proverbial coals, her tongue an almost inadequate instrument for the tirade. The indictments were many. Thomas judged it better to hear them in silence. Mabs went through it, prefacing each new charge with ‘How could you?’ and when she’d listed the lot, went through them again putting ‘How could you?’ at their end.

Thomas winged it, aware of the gammon-coloured ball of fury in its collar – didn’t want that fucker on his feet – and was therefore prepared to issue whatever apology was required to get out of here, and was on his way about it when Mabs put one in under the belt …

‘He doesn’t want you anywhere near Maurice,’ she squawked. ‘Ever again.’

‘He can’t do that,’ said Thomas. ‘Maurice is my best friend.’

‘You threw him out of bed,’ said Mabs.

‘I did not.’

‘Don’t lie.’

‘He fell out,’ said Thomas.

‘That’s not what Potts told your mother,’ said the rubicund ball, mouthing in for the first time.

‘Potts wasn’t actually there.’

‘You were drunk on sherry, and threw him out of bed.’

Thomas tried a smile, failed, and shook his head.

‘That’s not true.’

‘Don’t argue with your mother.’

‘I’m not arguing with her. She’s arguing with me.’

A big mistake and Thomas realised it. Rob tensed, lard in the knuckles. ‘Shut up,’ he said, his facility for instant anger pushing up the volume. Thomas was perfectly prepared to follow instructions, and anyone with any sense would have let it go at that. But Mabs wanted more. Rage was her only currency with this man, the only communication she had, and she was obviously enjoying the chat.

‘How could you lie like that about your grandfather’s illness? How could you tell such lies about me?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Don’t lie.’

‘I love Grandad.’

She stuck her face into his and looked daft as the front view of a duck. ‘I’ve spent months nursing him,’ she wailed. ‘Months changing his bloody bandages.’

‘Listen,’ said Thomas.

‘How could you?’

‘Listen, if you really want the truth …’

‘Shut up,’ snarled Rob, on his feet like some awful flesh engine. ‘You’re just a loud-mouthed lying little cunt.’

No slip of the tongue this, no spur of the moment either. This was a history of moments, an articulation of animosity reaching far back into Thomas’s childhood. It was enunciated with such venom, such spite in the eyes, it took the breath out of everyone including, it seemed, even the man that said it, and it was the worst thing, now and for ever, that had ever been said to Thomas in his life …

There was a hideous silence. Thomas turned and walked out of the room leaving them alone with it. The silence was theirs again. The malice belonged to them again; it was theirs to share and they went back to it with a relish. Without further remark they sat in the black-and-white light, Rob drinking his whisky, and Mabs adjusting her glasses to watch some idiot bunch of actors pretend to be policemen on the TV.

Upstairs in his room, Thomas sat on his bed, his eyes stinging and he wanted to cry. Not because of what Rob had said, but because Mabs had sanctioned him saying it, engineered the environment and made not a sniff of protest in Thomas’s defence. But there could be no tears, he could share nothing with Rob, and as always the sense of betrayal meant he could share little with his mother either. He felt again as he had as a child, a crushing humiliation, and with it resurrection of all those childhood fears. Memories of bitter days in Bristol, when he was five, and his father was never there. Where Rob had been and why he came back, sometimes after months, Thomas never knew. But he could remember the misery, acrimony and injustice, the clear sense of foreboding when he knew he was coming home. He could remember getting hauled out and beaten like a dog. But he never cried. He made a promise then and would keep it now. ‘I will give you no tears. I will give you no laughter. To laugh because of you, or cry because of you, would be sharing something with you, and I will never share anything with you, for as long as I live.’

That was the promise and it was honoured on this day.

Thomas was hungry but determined to wait until they’d all gone to bed before descending to sort out some food. He went down at midnight. Dogs in their baskets and meat in the larder. He took a plateful of tongue and cheese back up to his bedroom, together with a roasting dish, forks, and assorted saucepans. He stacked the ironware inside his door and sat up in bed eating with his fingers and drinking a cup of milk. He was thinking about the Potts business, and thinking about his grandfather. Since Gwen had come into his life there had been a marked diminution of interest in the pornography. But if it was true Potts wanted a cessation of his friendship with Maurice, there would have to be an incentive to keep it alive. The one thing Maurice craved was the pornography, he’d always stay a friend for that, and Thomas was going to have to launch one last initiative to get it. Now was the time to look for the key, in the middle of the night when everyone was asleep. But not this night, he felt very tired, emotionally wiped out. It was about half-past midnight when he last looked at his watch, turned out the light, and slept.

It was about half-past two when the saucepans clattered, a terrifying jangle in the darkness. Thomas was out of bed before the last hit the floor.

‘Keep back, keep back. I’ve got a drill.’

It howled at six hundred revs a minute, prodding indiscriminately at the gloom. Too dark to see Rob, but he was moving forward, trampling the forks. Thomas heaved to speak but got nothing. There was a high-pitched whine somewhere in his lung that overtook even the drill. The adrenalin was blinding him: he saw the stars of homicide, and thought he’d already been shot.

‘I’ve got a saw,’ he gurgled.

‘Tom?’

‘Spare me.’

‘Thomas?’

It wasn’t Rob. It was a girl.

‘It’s me, Tom,’ and Bel turned on the light.

‘What are you doing?’ he said, fencing forward. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ He was still drilling the air in front of her, waving his saw. ‘I thought you were in fucking Germany.’

‘There’s a train strike coming up, so we got an early flight.’

‘It’s two o’clock in the morning.’

‘I know, we had to hitch. Got a lift to Ramsgate.’

The Black & Decker decelerated and Thomas stood staring at his sister. Bel was tanned from skiing, looked tired and pretty. She was clutching a couple of blankets that Thomas assumed must be something to do with her journey. With his heart still thrashing he turned away to relocate his weapons under the bed.

‘What’s all this?’ she said.

‘Just some saucepans.’

‘I can see they’re saucepans, but what are they for?’

He lifted eyes and shook his head, couldn’t get into explanations now.

‘It’s for burglars. There have been burglaries. The police advised us to take precautions.’ He stood up. ‘I thought you were a burglar.’

She seemed to buy it, and quietly closing the door, advanced further into the room.

‘Germany was wonderful,’ she said.

‘Was it?’ said Thomas, but he wasn’t in the mood for the travelogue. He retrieved saucepans and forks. Bel hovered with her blankets, looking around somewhat furtively before spotting uneaten cheese.

‘Can I have that?’ she said. ‘I’m starving.’

‘Help yourself,’ said Thomas, and he switched off the wall-light in favour of a lamp by the bed. Two seconds later he was in it with the covers pulled up and eyes peering at her over the top.

‘Does Mum know you’re home?’

‘No, I didn’t want to wake her.’

‘Don’t mind waking me, though.’

‘What?’

‘I said,’ he said, lowering the eiderdown, ‘you don’t mind waking me.’

‘Sorry,’ she said, chewing her cheese, trying to smile through a mouthful. ‘I wanted to ask you a favour.’

‘Why couldn’t you ask it in the morning?’

‘I want to sleep in your spare bed.’

‘In here?’ said Thomas, immediately suspicious. ‘What’s the matter with your bed?’

‘Eva’s in it.’

‘Eva’s in it? Why?’

‘Because I couldn’t put her in that room down the end. It’s the horriblest room on earth.’

‘It’s all right if you’re asleep.’

‘It’s got a turd in it.’ This articulated in conspiratorial tone as though something astonishing had happened. But no surprise from Thomas who was acclimatised to such discoveries.

‘It’s so embarrassing,’ said Bel. ‘They’re so hygienic, the Germans. I don’t know what I’m going to say, Tom, the whole house smells of shit.’

‘I know.’

‘Why does she let them do it?’

He didn’t know.

‘I’ll clean it up in the morning,’ she said. ‘Sleep there tomorrow. But I just can’t face it now, I’m so tired.’

There was a yawn somewhere in all this. Thomas caught it and too exhausted to argue, nodded in reluctant acquiescence.

‘All right, one night, and that’s it.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning in with a kiss. ‘I’m sorry about barging in on you like that.’

‘That’s OK.’

‘You’ve grown, you know?’

Dodging her affection he turned over, gesturing with his head. ‘Careful how you sleep on that bed. It’s an antique.’

Bel kicked off her shoes and he heard her undressing. Before she could get at the bed, the commode and various other bits and pieces had to be dealt with. There was a stuffed rook and a bag of rags and half a hundred gramophone records. His teeth clenched as she shifted them. These were very early recordings and would be extremely rare in the future …

‘Tom?’

No answer.

‘Tom?’

‘What?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, ‘but I’ve just got to ask. How’s Grandad?’

‘Not good.’

‘What about “them”?’

‘Not good either.’ He rolled over and looked at her with one eye. ‘Not a good time to have your friend here.’

‘I know,’ said Bel. ‘I’m dreading it.’

‘Has she got large tits?’

‘What?’

‘Are her tits gigantic?’

‘No.’

He looked momentarily perplexed, then reaching for the lamp, rolled back in the direction from which he had come.

‘If it’s all right with you, I’m gonna turn out the light.’

Darkness resumed, together with a nasty sound of sliding vinyl. Thomas cursed her in silence. Still half dressed, Bel got into the bed and tried to make it on top of herself. There was much flapping of blankets and thumping about until at last she lay down, and then pumping violently in the pillow area, immediately got up again. Thomas knew he was in for more yak, and he was right.

‘Tom?’

‘What?’

‘What shall I do with this?’

‘What is it?’

‘An old pot.’

Light on again, he swivelled, wide-eyed again and instantly out of bed. She was carelessly handling an eighteenth-century gravy-boat. This was one of his best pieces of porcelain, and he told her so.

‘Put that down. That’s Coalport.’

‘Is it?’

‘1760, worth at least twelve quid. More, with a lid on.’

It was snatched before she could give it and he vanished into a maize of furniture and bric-à-brac to secure it under his bed.

‘You can’t imagine how rare that is,’ he said with a reappearing head. ‘I bought it in Ramsgate, five shillings. The idiot didn’t know what it was.’

Neither did she, and that was maybe what he meant. He clambered back into bed and glared at her. She looked up at him, contrite and imprisoned behind the bars of a dining chair.

‘I’m sorry, it was under the pillows.’

No pity. No reply. No light.

A dozen or more minutes came and went and Thomas was at last on the nod. Not yet asleep, but in the business of blissful amnesia. He forgot about his armed father, and treacherous mother. Forgot the divorce and the dogs and the fear. And he forgot all about his sister, trampling in from Düsseldorf, who was still lying there wide-awake and worried in his room.

‘Tom.’

No answer.

‘Tom?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you asleep?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Sorry for what?’

‘I’ve got to have a pee.’

Definite silence. Taut.

‘I’ve got to have a pee. Tom?’

‘Fucking Ada!’ he snapped up, annoyed, awake, and loud. ‘Are you gonna do this all night?’

‘I can’t help it, I can’t get out. Can I have the light on?’

‘No.’

‘I can’t see.’

He didn’t care.

‘I might tread on something.’

An observation that initiated a certain resentful compassion. ‘All right, hold on.’

She heard him fumbling in the darkness and was suddenly blinded as the beam of a powerful flashlight hit her full in the face.

‘Go on then,’ he instructed. ‘Get on with it, I’ll steer you out.’

‘Can’t I take it?’

‘No.’

Bel got up and followed the beam through the furniture. At the door she hesitated and looked back.

‘I’ll wait,’ said Thomas.

Out she went and he killed the light and started waiting, and despite best efforts, started thinking again. He didn’t want to think, he wanted darkness, wanted to dream. The thoughts came in no particular order and shared little but their morbidity. Mabs up first, and then Walter, and then Rob. What if it really had been Rob, barging in with the Beretta? Two terrifying flashes in the darkness, the first bullet through the palm of the extended hand, they always are apparently (he’d read that somewhere); and the second, a neat entrance hole in the left tit, searing pain, and the sound of a high-velocity .32 smacking into the wall behind you. It’s very painful being shot, ‘Body cavities cannot tolerate blood’ (he’d read that somewhere else). Did he really think it credible that Rob might murder him? He considered it for several moments and decided he really did. That outburst in the sitting room was more than just incidental passion, no fantasy either, it was hate. Clearly there would have to be a rethink of securities. No hope of finding a key for such an obsolete lock. Why hadn’t he put a bolt on? With a bolt he wouldn’t have even had Bel in there. But then maybe it was a boon her clattering in, a piece of good fortune demonstrating catastrophic failure of the precautions? He was lucky it was Bel, he had her to thank for that, and where in God’s name was she? This was the longest piss in history.

Downstairs the grandfather clock struck four so it had to be about three. His thoughts returned to his father, and he lay there in dingy torpor recalling highlights of Rob’s aggression – the incident on the beach, for example, when Thomas was thirteen.

Running and running with Rob and his riding-crop and dogs. Rob always carried a riding-crop even though he didn’t have a horse. From time to time on these loathsome marathons, it was Rob’s practice to sprint up from behind with a fist of seaweed (the polished stuff, two yards long), and as he passed, launch this saturated and stinging mass hard into the back of your head. It was always a shock to receive it, always a laugh to give. Thomas laughed too, you had to, because Rob didn’t like it if you didn’t. But he didn’t like what was coming next, and neither ultimately did Thomas. A cataclysmic error was imminent. Thomas did something he’d never done before: he picked up the seaweed and threw it back at Rob. This was all right in principle, but this particular clump was attached to a previously unnoticed portion of flint. The weed hit Rob square on the head and the flint, still travelling with considerable centrifugal force, spun around to the other side, and like some evil fucking bolas, clouted him in the opposite ear. Now this was a very cold day in January and it hurt. Clutching both ears, Rob sagged a bit, and spoke a few words like someone learning Korean. Thomas knew what was coming and ran for it as fast as he could, but there was nowhere to hide on this bleak stretch of beach so he ran into the sea – plunged in with Rob bearing down on him. When the waves were at his chest he felt his feet float up, and Rob beat him as he swam. Thomas went further out into the North Sea and Rob went with him beating, swam at his side, ploughing through the surf in his shades and surgical-collar, the riding-crop reappearing through the firmament to beat with every stroke …

It was an appalling reminiscence, that riding-crop in the sea, but before reaching its fearful conclusion, the door silently opened and Bel crept in. He hit her with the light, ushering a suggested path back to the bed.

‘Where have you been?’ he said.

‘Downstairs,’ she whispered. ‘I just nipped down to get some more cheese. And an apple.’

‘An apple?’

‘Sorry, Tom, I’m so hungry.’

She couldn’t see his indignation.

‘Don’t talk,’ he said.

‘Sorry.’

As she got into bed the cheese came out and he noticed it had been secured between two slices of bread.

‘You’ve made a sandwich?’ he said.

She nodded, transfixed by the authority of his light.

‘You were supposed to be on a toilet.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Jesus.’

Light out.

And then the eating started. An apple never sounded louder. He sprawled in frustration listening to every bite. And then there was glugging. She had milk. Obviously concealed a bottle on the way in. He heard it going down with the cheese. And then she belched, from deep in the throat, and he nearly got out and hit her.

‘Be quiet!’

‘Sorry.’

The silence got longer and turned into minutes, maybe five minutes before she started snoring. Thomas couldn’t believe it, she’d come in here and given him insomnia, and now she was asleep. ‘Quiet,’ he demanded, but the impact of the protest fell upon himself. He was annoyed, and you have to be awake to be annoyed. He was both, the one fuelling the other in dreadful symbiosis. The iniquity of it all was overwhelming, so now was the snoring. She was cutting it up like a fucking chain-saw. He withdrew under the bedding to escape, but could hear it still – nothing changed but the simile – it was like someone mowing a lawn. Too hot to sleep under here of course, and anyway, he’d already abandoned any idea of that. The Ever Ready was still in his hand and he fired it at his watch. The brief but intense rush of light stamped his retina with purple circles that went green when he closed his eyes, and he did, blinking frequently until the phenomenon disappeared. It was 3.27 a.m. …

He was on the worry over Walter again, and thinking about the Vicar’s dictum in respect of Maurice, when suddenly the obvious dawned. If he was going to have to make a final search for the key, why not now? What was there to lose? After all, there were only two requirements (to be wide-awake in the middle of the night and in possession of a torch); he was presently umpire of both. Why wait for another night to force himself into a position he was already in? Why risk an alarm clock, albeit buried in pillows, waking someone else? Plus with the kraut in the house you never knew, there could be unforeseen complications. Better surely to go now when Bel and her pal from the Ruhr were guaranteed to be asleep?

The proposition was instantly enticing and he got out of bed for it. To go or not to go, that was the question, but he was already going. Stifling light through his pyjama jacket, he put a last look at Bel who had her mouth open and was snoring like a man. He went through the door with the expertise of a ghost, sealing her carefully behind it. Even so, he could still hear her rasping until he was halfway up the corridor, many footsteps from his room. Out here were all the usual ingredients of the night. He passed the bathroom with its collective odours of flannels and disinfected things, its door ajar, and its interior illuminated with a faint blue of the water heater’s pilot light.

At the end of the corridor he turned sharply on to the little landing. Years of familiarity with these premises meant his Ever Ready would not be necessary until he was inside his grandfather’s room. As he climbed, a series of unavoidable creaks shoved up the adrenalin. He could hear his own blood, especially now, as in absolute darkness he felt the chill of a coal-black china doorknob in his hand.

This was unquestionably the most dangerous investigation he’d ever made – to be caught out here would be disaster – but to falter now would be to abandon the whole thing. It was too late for that, this really might be his last chance, and to that end he applied himself to the slowest twist this knob had ever had …

On resistance, he gathered the courage to push, and got an eye into the gap. There was a duo of egregious greeting, the one expected, the other not. First came the humbling of the nostril, an unequivocal capitulation to unwholesome wards of stale poultice with vigorous undertones of po. And second, the totally unexpected presence of moonlight. Had the sky suddenly cleared? This was the south side of the house and the moon was down on it, pressing at the windows and all over the floor. Was it friend or foe? Without alternative he was obliged to consider it benevolent. Moonlight would mean minimal use of the flashlight and that could only be for the good …

With meticulous caution he entered, fully opening and closing the door in one skilful manoeuvre. This most unnerving part was over without incident. He was in. For a minute or more he didn’t blink, stood stiffly inside the door waiting to acclimatise his eyes. When focus came it was naturally on the bed where Walter lay sleeping with shallow sighs. Thomas fought his own tremulous inhalations, trying to get his breathing into synch with the old man.

As he calmed his confidence grew, the darkness thinned, and he sent eyes off on a rehearsal of the route he would take. Stop one was the wardrobe for a comprehensive search, and if no success in there, the infinitely more risky journey to the bedside table. This was a two-drawered affair with a cupboard, less than a yard from Walter’s head. One slip could cause an avalanche. There was also a three-and-a-half-foot-high table lamp with a shade like a Turk’s hat. If activity at the bedside was required this monstrous item would have to be removed.

Settling eyes on the wardrobe he struck out with the precision of a man on a high wire. Arrival felt like an eternity, but in fact he was on it prompt. It was circa 1930 with octagonal handles, a substantial but inelegant piece. The doors were identically veneered, featuring a pair of central knots with vertical lines bulging around them like a magnetic field. They were tightly closed but the key was in the lock and presented no problem. He put a glance back at his grandfather, all quiet in that department, and he eased one of the doors. Inside was a full-length mirror and a refreshing waft of camphor. On the various rails hung a fine-looking collection of suits, hats above, and some weird-looking shoes below. No light was necessary to check out the pockets. He found sixpence, bus tickets, and some ancient cigarettes. Nothing to detain him here and he sank to his knees to have a go at the more interesting collection of boxes. The first was cardboard packed with aluminium devices for stretching shoes. Another box revealed other such apparatus, some interestingly antique, one or two shaped like a whole wooden foot. (Were circumstances more favourable, he wouldn’t have minded one of these.) He worked deeper and, risky as it was, was going to need the light. Shielding the lens he released a sliver through fingers, no drama from the bed, and he let out the lot. Brown shadows and several small suitcases. He withdrew the first, carefully censoring any snap from its locks: toiletries (including shaving-soap, blades, and denture cream, pyjamas, slippers, and a dressing gown, everything assembled for Walter’s next trip to hospital). It was a depressing collection and he didn’t trouble with it further.

Next case up was just as dull, as was the one after that. More rubbish in boxes, more ties and bow ties and socks patterned like wallpaper, unopened Christmas presents going back over years. In the depths of the case was a family of tins that on any other day would have fascinated – full of oddments and assortments, cuff-links, collar-studs, a frustrating selection of keys – but all were little keys and never the key he was after …

A stab of desperation brought him to his feet and for the next few minutes he was all over the cupboard again, fingers in shoes and hats and feeling at the hems. He went round the inner brim of a bowler hat and plunged to his shoulder blades in the lining of a coat. There was something down there, no question. It felt like a key and it was a key, but a Yale and not a Union. And that was it for the wardrobe. He was clammy with sweat and his anguish intense, plus his watch was catching up with the anxiety. He’d just caught a glimpse of it. Rob would be abroad in less than an hour and if anything went wrong in here this would not be a good place to be.

Closing the doors he turned once again to his grandfather, knowing he was going to have to tackle the bedside table and its dangerous set of drawers. His head craned in exhausted apprehension, eyes unwittingly on the ceiling. A crack fractured its way across like a portrait of lightning, and something not entirely dissimilar began to assemble in Thomas’s head. Wait a minute, he thought, wait a fucking minute …

If Walter had something to hide he wasn’t going to stash it where Thomas could easily find it. Walter was tall, Thomas was not, he’s therefore going to exploit the physical disadvantage and stow it out of his reach. This ugly sod of furniture was over seven feet, tall enough to have an attic? A chair was procured, hardly high enough, and he mounted with trepidation, hauling himself a last inch or so to get eyes over the top. And there it was – at least, there something was – a green leather case with what looked like gold-plated clasps. He had to stretch till it hurt to reach it, got a finger round the handle and hauled it in. It was smaller and of much higher quality than anything below. Clutching it to his chest he descended, reopened the doors and almost got into the wardrobe with it. Flashlight on and a surprise: the clasps were solid gold, with a Birmingham hallmark (1922?). He was poised for the first when he noticed an inscription embossed into the lid of the case. It was his grandfather’s initials, accompanied by a repetition of the design he’d seen downstairs on the Vicar’s training ball: oak leaves, encircling two pairs of dividers. This was the kind of stuff he was after, highly concealed things and confidential property. It was also the most likely repository to date to contain a secret key. Securing his light, he again positioned the case for opening. It was locked. The bastard was locked and he almost groaned out loud, busted with the abhorrent realisation that to find one key he would first have to look for another. For a moment the will went out of him – it was pointless buggering about in here. There was only one solution, he was going to have to confiscate this case and get it into his workshop, sort out some alternatives. It was a simple-looking lock, all it wanted was a simple little key. Like the keys in the collar-box, for example? Optimism hit with the thought; with unexpected hope he disinterred the tins. If there was a God it had to be in one of these, and if it was any one, it was the obvious one, it was going to have to be the gold.

Bingo.

Excitement was making him clumsy. In his haste the second clasp snapped open with more volume than he would have cared for. And another noise in the darkness! There was movement somewhere and he crouched, shooting alarm at the bed. If Walter woke and spotted him, he’d cross the floor like a zombie, pretend he was sleep-walking, walk to the door, and walk out. He couldn’t actually see Walter from here, but after an aeon of waiting there seemed little discernible variation in the breathing, and he again risked turning on his light …

The interior of the case was shared by two opulently lined compartments. The first sported a pair of white silk gloves with a tasselled scarf of the same material folded underneath. In the adjacent space was a peculiar-looking garment of shimmering fabric, heavy satin, almost watery to the touch. He shook it out: it looked like a kind of apron, oak leaves and fish embroidered at the edges and silver letters woven at its front: ‘Most Holy Order of the Unveiled Prophets’, the rest was silver stars. It was obviously valuable, at least, important, but what was it for? Thomas wasn’t of a mind to care. Depressed at yet another false dawn he stuffed the apron back in the case. Its lid was about to go down when he noticed something (how he didn’t miss it is anyone’s guess, but he didn’t). Sticking up by the hinge was a fragment of paper, so meagre a protrusion he had to use fingernails to get it out. It revealed itself as a yellowing business card with a central trademark that he recognised instantly. Staring out was an Arab’s Eye, the same Eye as the one in the window of Madame Olanda’s hut. Text was printed in confirmation: ‘Madame Olanda – Fortune Teller – Reader of the Tarot – Advisor of the Ball. Consultations daily. Telephone Thanet 346 (Nearest phone box on the jetty).’

Thomas studied the card and reversed it. Scribbled in pencil on the back: ‘Dearest Wally, at any time convenient to you before eight o’clock, but not after for obvious reasons! Ever & for ever, your wandering love, Olanda.’

Your wandering love? Not available after eight o’clock for obvious reasons? But what reasons? For reasons of the Ball, or was it at eight that she began wandering about? He considered it and couldn’t know and anyway there was suddenly something of greater importance on the agenda. This card revealed two things. The first, that his grandfather’s relationship with the fortune teller was more intimate than he imagined, and the second, and of more significance, that there was another layer to this case.

He went at it, lifting a kind of tray. Nothing in here but a clutch of old letters done up with a rubber band. At first sight it could have been another disillusionment, but actually it wasn’t. The very location of these letters invested them with an inherent distinction. Nobody’s going to hide anything in a place like this unless something incredibly secret is going on and (astonishing as it is to report) Thomas momentarily lost interest in the key.

He went through the envelopes, all in the same hand, Olanda’s hand, and all postmarked at around the time Walter first became ill and was forced to give up his business …

My dearest,

It was a pleasure to see you Saturday, and a sadness to see you so hurt. Please don’t take it all upon yourself, I like you am grieved at the turn of events. You say you can never forgive, and I don’t see you should, not because of her, love matters little here, but because of the boy. Silence is yours to do with as you like. U quotes silence as the divine dimension – existing before time and light – it is yours to use as you will. In this poor world, only love can be entrusted with the truth. Be well soon, Wally. Olanda.

The letter left Thomas blinking. He didn’t understand it but was anxious for the next. It was hardly out of its envelope before a voice pole-axed him with shock.

‘What are you looking for, Tom?’

He swung around, his torch delivering a random graph of panic along the wall.

‘What d’you mean, in here? Nothing?’

Walter looked at him and looked like he’d been awake for a hundred years. His fingers clutched the sheets like roots and his voice was very frail.

‘When you’re out hunting secrets, make sure you’re looking for the right one.’

Thomas didn’t know what to say so he didn’t say anything, crept to the end of the bed and stood speechless for excuse. There wasn’t one. Nothing on offer but embarrassment. His grandfather was aware of his discomfort, and always a friend, changed the subject on Thomas’s behalf.

‘What time is it, Tom?’

‘Ten-past four.’

‘Come and sit down. Talk to me.’

If Walter wanted to let it go, Thomas was only too pleased. He pulled up a chair, and eager to keep the subject changed, said the first thing that came into his head.

‘Bel’s home, Grandad.’

‘I know. I heard her.’

‘Did you?’

‘Got her friend with her. I heard them talking.’

‘Her name’s Eva,’ said Thomas. ‘I haven’t met her yet.’

‘Hoffentlich ist sie schön.’

‘What?’ No reply and Thomas asked again. ‘What does that mean? Is it German?’ This got a nod and Thomas was impressed. ‘I didn’t know you could speak German, Grandad?’

‘Not since the last time I died,’ he said, and he barely had muscle to smile. ‘Not since then.’

His face looked like he was wearing it, eyes peering out of it like it was a mask.

‘I was in hospital for over a year, and they all used to come and talk to me, about the war, what we were all going to do after it. One girl from Dresden, she had her husband in an English hospital, in Bournemouth, that’s how daft it all was. Anyway, that’s how I learnt.’

‘From nurses?’

‘Yes.’

‘Say some more?’

‘Die Krankenschwestern waren sehr sympathisch.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘The nurses were very nice.’

His voice went away and he went somewhere with it. There was silence about. Somewhere outside you could hear the singing of the first bird.

‘Can I ask you a question, Grandad?’

The old man’s eyes came back.

‘Is it true that you’ve got enema?’

‘Enema?’

‘Have you got it?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Enema,’ insisted Thomas, like Walter, all but whispering.

‘Anaemia? They say I’ve got anaemia?’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘One’s in your blood, and the other’s up your arse.’

‘And you haven’t got one?’

‘No.’

‘Oh.’

This time the silence came from Thomas. He felt a shiver in his arms and not just because of the chill in here. Maybe he really had said something untoward in the vicarage, but if he had, whose fault was that? He didn’t want to say anything, they made him say it. If anyone was to blame, it was Vicar Potts.

‘Early for you?’

‘Bel woke me up,’ said Thomas. ‘She’s in my room.’

‘How’s that?’

‘There’s a turd in the spare room and she wouldn’t go in there.’

‘It’s the Jack Russell,’ said Walter. ‘Useless, that dog. Fucking Crippen came through the window, he’d try and lick him. It’s him gets the other two to mess in the house.’

‘I don’t know why they do it.’

‘It’s a protest, Tom.’

‘What have they got to protest about?’

‘Not the dogs. Your mother.’

‘Mum? What d’you mean?’

It was a question that nearly didn’t get answered. Walter looked at him and didn’t seem entirely anxious to pursue it.

‘She thinks she’s getting shat on, so she’s telling him with shit – talking through the dogs, like she does? All the dogs are doing is passing on how she feels.’

‘With dog-shit?’

‘That’s right.’

‘How do you know that, Grandad?’

‘I know a lot of things,’ said Walter. ‘And some things are said better without words. No better way to say “I hate you” than a bayonet in the gut?’

This faltering hypothesis touched something in Thomas’s psyche that he wasn’t able to articulate. But it sounded like truth, so simple, yet so unexpected coming from the source it did. Walter knew a lot of things all right, but no chance of getting any further with it now, because once again the old man changed the subject …

‘Your grandmother tells me you’ve got a sweetheart.’

Something else he didn’t expect Walter to know.

‘I told her that in secret.’

‘That’s how she told me.’ He pulled in some breath. ‘I’m happy for you, Tom. What’s her name?’

‘Gwendolin.’

‘Is she pretty?’

‘She’s got very blue eyes.’

The light in the room was changing, moonlight into daylight; it was strange being here with his grandfather in the dawn. Thomas felt that he could talk to him about anything – Gwendolin, being in love, anything – things he could never say to anyone else, and that was probably true for Walter too. They were very alike, Thomas and he, liked the same things and thought in a similar way. Both were thinking about a girl with blue eyes.

‘When I was your age, a little bit older, I was in love, Tom. She had the bluest, bluest eyes. She was the love of my life.’

‘More than Grandma?’

‘More than anyone I ever met. I never told anyone, but I can tell you, I’ve thought about her every day for nearly fifty years.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘The war, always the war.’

‘Was she killed?’

‘No, I was.’ He smiled but his mask didn’t. ‘Before I went up the line, on that last day, she gave me a coin, a silver dollar, for good luck. And I was so afraid of losing it, I took it to the company blacksmith, had him drill a hole in it so I could hang it round my neck. And you know what, he drilled this hole right through the bit where the luck was, drilled the luck right out of it. I never saw her again.’

There was another lengthy silence and you wouldn’t want to own the regret in Walter’s eyes. After all these years, there was still the regret …

‘You love her in the best way you can, Tom, because no one else will tell you this, but this is the best time, sometimes the only time? When you’re young, you think it’s yours for ever, your gift? But life goes so quick.’ He would have smiled again if he could. ‘Then one day you wake up, and girls you wouldn’t have looked at twice don’t look at you once no more. You take it from me, it’s the best time, it’s springtime, and you don’t want to muck it up.’

‘I won’t.’

‘You’re after the wrong secret, Tom.’

It wasn’t possible not to register how this was said, nor the penetrating look that came with it. After all the murmuring, his grandfather sounded curiously focused.

‘What do you mean?’ said Thomas.

Walter didn’t answer and in the immediate context didn’t need to. There was only one secret Thomas was after, and that was the secret of the filing cabinets. He felt the blood rising and feared an incriminating blush. Had Walter known all along, always been aware of his clandestine investigations? It seemed that he had, and if he had and the filing cabinets were therefore the wrong secret, it presupposed there was another secret that was right. What kind of secret was that?

‘What is the secret, Grandad?’ Again no answer from Walter, and Thomas let the lack of it evaporate before hazarding another question. ‘Is the secret the reason you don’t talk to Rob?’

Hard to read the silence, but you want to say there was more yes in it than no.

‘We’re very alike, you and me, Tom, not much education, but smart.’

Thomas agreed, praying he’d get back to the secret. But it wasn’t to be. Walter closed eyes and shrank into the pillows until there was nothing left of him but a nose.

‘I feel tired,’ he said. ‘More than tired.’

‘Can I just sit here for a while?’

‘As long as you like. I’d like it if you did.’

There was a burst of song-thrush in the gardens and another day expanding into the room.

‘Grandad?’

‘Yes?’

‘How would it be if I moved the Morse key in here? We haven’t transmitted for ages. I could wire it easily out of the bay tree, move the key up, and send you stuff when I got home from school.’

Walter replied but there was nothing in his voice and Thomas moved in closer.

‘What did you say?’

‘I’d like that.’

A long sigh and he was asleep. Thomas looked at him, mulling a confusion of thoughts including various kinds of guilt – guilt about sneaking in here in the first place, and guilt about staying here now. The truth was it was coming up to five and he didn’t want to run into Rob. He also felt guilty about reading the letter (was it somehow a facet of the secret?). There was mention of a boy – was the boy him? He desperately wanted to read them all, but that was impossible now. Walter had every chance of telling him, but chose not to, and to pry further felt like betrayal. No way could he get back into that case. Nothing to do but reinstate it, and with hardly a sound he and the chair returned to the wardrobe and the letters went back into hiding.

‘Tom?’

‘What is it, Grandad?’

‘I thought you’d gone.’

‘No, no, I’m still here,’ and he resituated himself at the bedside as evidence. Several slow minutes passed and the guilt went away: he was here for the right reasons now. He loved this old ruin of a man; above everyone in the house, he loved him. It was always Walter that looked out for him, let him steer the car and toot the horn even when he was a little kid. And now he was going to die. Death was all over him, every corner of his face, in his fingernails and eyes and hair. No point in pretending anything different. Very soon his grandfather would cease to exist and it made Thomas sad.

Outside he heard footsteps, someone walking the gravel, and he crossed to the window and looked out. White lilac all over the garden and the daffodils already gone. He looked down and saw Rob climb into the Wolsey on his way to work.