Nocturne (47 page)

As it happens, I could but I didn
’
t let on about Sandra. Working
with her was enough for most people. Having to sleep with her was
obviously a seven-figure nightmare.

‘
Singleact,
’
I mused fondly.
‘
Doesn
’
t quite have the same ring, does
it?
’

By now, we were close to the end of October. The nights were drawing
in and I was more than happy to spend my evenings at home in
Napier
Road. The installation of the telescope i
n the attic had effectively put
an empty floor between me and Gilber
t, and it was odd to be without
his music, and the back and forth pa
cing of his footsteps overhead.
He
’
d somehow fixed a camera to his
telescope and sometimes he came
down with handfuls of the photos
he
’
d taken. The quality wasn
’
t
brilliant but a month at Metro had
revised my expectations to the
point where anything in focus was a real treat.

I was admiring the latest nightscape when the phone went. It was
Tom, Gilbert
’
s brother. Gilbert had disappeared back upstairs only
minutes earlier.

Tom sounded cheerful, if slightly out of breath. He was phoning,
sweet man, to check on my well-being.

‘
I
’
m fine,
’
I told him.
‘
Just fine.
’

‘
And baby?
’

‘
Kicking for England.
’

‘
Marvellous, marvellous.
’

I told him a bit more about how things were going. Twice a week I
took the afternoon off for ante-natal classes at the local sports centre.
I
’
d thought I was reasonably fit but some of the exercises were finding
me out.

‘
I ache,
’
I told him,
‘
in the most extraordinary places.
’

Tom thought that was very funny and I elaborated a bit, describing
some of the conversations we had afterwards, us mothers-to-be. A lot
of the girls were black and some of th
eir personal circumstances made
my own situation seem very tame indeed.

‘
How
’
s all that going?
’
Tom inquired.

‘
All what, Tom?
’

‘
Your partner, the father.
’

‘
I
haven
’
t heard a word, not for at least a month.
’

‘
Is that good?
’

‘
It
’
s very good;
’

I meant it. Back in September, just the mention of Brendan
’
s name
made me practically seize up. I dread
ed him coming round or phoning.
I dreaded another scene. Now, thoug
h, much of the angst had simply
dropped away. Snug and safe in Napier Road
, mention of Brendan
Quayle would arouse, at most, feelings
of mild curiosity. Had I really
wasted so much of myself on a forty-
five-year-old cokehead? Someone
else
’
s husband? Was that reall
y me in all those fading mental
snapshots?

Tom, for some reason, still needed persuading.

‘
Won
’
t baby be a problem?
’
he asked.
‘
Won
’
t that bring him back?
’

‘
It might,
’
I conceded.
‘
But I
’
m sure we
’
ll work something out.
’

‘
What kind of thing, my dear? Won
’
t it be terribly
…
’
he paused for
emphasis,
’
…
awkward?
’

‘
Not at all. Every baby has a father and I suppose fathers are allowed
to take some kind of interest.
’

‘
You mean financial? Money?
’

‘
Yes, but other stuff, too. I shan
’
t lock him away.
’

‘
Who?
’

‘
The baby.
’

‘
You know it
’
s a him?
’

‘
No,
’
I laughed.
‘
I
’
m afraid that was Freudian.
’

It was, too. I was always saying him, eye
ing little tiny Arsenal kits in
the local sports shops, planning the rig f
or his first sailboard, nagging
my mother to dig out my brother
’
s
old Dinky toys. Not once had it
occurred to me that the baby woul
d be anything but male and when
the nurse at the clinic had offered me a c
onfirmatory test, I
’
d turned it
down.

‘
No point,
’
I
’
d told her.
‘
It
’
s going to be a boy.
’

Tom was inquiring about Gilbert. How was his dear brother getting
on? I was still looking at the print that Gilbert had brought down. The
pattern of twinkly little dots made absolutely no sense but I did my
best to describe the shot to Tom. The fact that Gilbert had got as far as
taking photos impressed him.

‘
You know, I thi
nk it
’
s a good sign
’
, he said.
‘
I
truly do.
’

‘
Why?
’

‘
He
’
s always been crazy about the night sky, the stars, all that
malarkey, but there was always something, I don
’
t know, not quite
real
about it. He
’
d talk about the dark a lot, the black wind, that kind
of nonsense.
’

‘
The black
wind
?’

‘
Yes, he
’
d carry on about what went on up there. It was as if he
’
d
actually been, actually visited. He was quite proprietorial, I must say.
His space. His planets. His moons.
’
He paused.
‘
Ring any bells?
’

I was still inspecting the photo. The most that Gilbert had ever said
to me about the night sky was that it was so cold, and formless, and
empty. He liked that, he
’
d told me. He liked what he called
‘
the bare
interstellar spaces
’
.

I repeated the phrase to Tom, admitti
ng that it had stuck with me at
the time.

‘
Exactly.
’
I could visualise Tom nodding.
‘
Absolutely spot on. I
think he sees a logic there. You and me? We
’
d probably go for
somewhere sunny and hot and nice to wake up to. Gillie? He
’
d be up
there with the asteroids. He
’
s very austere, you know, personally. Gets
by on practically nothing. Always has done. Maybe he should have
been a monk. I did suggest it once, as a matter of fact.
’

‘
And what did he say?
’

‘
He laughed at me. He was in his acting phase then. God
’
s gift to the
theatre. Major talent in the making. All that moonshine.
’

I thought of the sleeve notes on Gilbert
’
s LP, and the rather self-
conscious pose on the front. Listening to
Tom, it was the first time that
I realised that the yearning to become
an actor had been real, not the
work of the Palisade copywriter.

‘
How far did he get?
’
I inquired.
‘
As a matter of interest.
’

‘
Not that far, as I recall.
I think he tried for RADA and one or two of those other places but none of them would have him.
I knew he wanted
to go into rep but there was some problem
with the ticket. Equity, isn
’
t
it?
’

‘
Yes,
’
I smiled, trying to imagine Gilbert treading the boards. The
range of parts available to him wouldn
’
t have been vast. Too
distinctive. Too idiosyncratic. Too Gilbert.
‘
Did he give it all up in the
end?
’

‘
He did, my dear, as we all said he would.
’

We ended the conversation soon afterwards and I spent the rest of
the evening tidying up in the kitchen, wondering where else Gilbert
’
s
talents might have taken him. The better I got to know Tom, the
warmer the glow that this strange, intermittent relationship shed on
his brother. I
’
d been right no
t to lose patience with Gilbert,
I knew I
had. He
’
d been odd, and occasionally scary, but behind his occasional
mumbles about the dark, I
’
d never once glimpsed anything truly evil.
With his long, awkward body and his big, troubled face, he didn
’
t
quite fit with the rest of the human race.
But that was our fault as much
as his, and if the last six months had
taught me anything then it had
taught me the importance of making spa
ce in my life for a little more
than deadlines, and schedules, and million-dollar programme ideas.

Before I went to sleep, lying in bed, I heard Gilbert overhead again.
He must have come down from the attic. He must have put his
precious stars away for the night. The dark, I thought fondly, reaching
for the light.

My birthday falls on November
5th.
How Gary ever got to know is a
mystery but he phoned that morning, telling me to get dressed and
ready. A car would be at my door at ten o
’
clock. We were off to an
undisclosed destination. As it happens, this was the first week of
freedom after my stint at Metro. Though Gary, being Gary, probably
knew that too.

He was, as ever, early. By now I was very visibly pregnant, much to
Gary
’
s amusement. He
’
d borrowed a decent car from somewhere, a
big, black Jaguar, and as we glided south through Putney he kept
extending a reassuring hand. His years in the SAS had included an
emergency childbirth course. Should our trip extend beyond a month,
he
’
d be delighted to do the honours.

I told him he was welcome to have it himself but he said that didn
’
t
appeal much. What interested him more
was the identity of the father.
Was it really Brendan
’
s? As everyone
was saying? I said yes,
partly because I saw no point in denying it, and partly because I was
curious to know the latest at Doubleact. By now, Brendan and
Sandra
’
s divorce had become the talk of the trade
press and though
there
’
d been n
o official word from Islington, it was an open
secret that
the company was on the verge of closure.