Nocturne (54 page)

I bent to the note again. At t
he end, Gaynor wished Billie an
d me a
Happy New Year. I knew the number to phone if there was any more
hassle but she truly hoped it was sorted. She
’
d signed off with two
kisses, one for me and one for Billie. Lovely thought.

Later that day, we ran into Gilbert in the hall. He made a great fuss
of the baby and when he asked to hold it I saw no reason why not.
Billie was our new start, I kept telling myself, our slate wiped clean.
Nikki, who knew about everything that had happened, thought I was
barmy staying anywhere near him but I had a thousand reasons for
wanting to hang onto Napier Road. It was quiet. It was a perfect size.
And, most important of all, it was ours. Maybe all the stuff through
the ceiling really had been an accident. Maybe it was time to forgive
and forget.

All three of us stayed in the hall, chatting, for nearly half an hour.
Gilbert and Billie seemed to have taken a shine to each other. They
made exactly the same kinds of noises, halfway between a kiss and a
gurgle, and watching Gilbert cradling Bi
llie I was reminded of what his
brother had told me. Good with babies and animals, he
’
d said.
Hopeless with the rest of the world.

I tried to phone Tom that night. I dialled the number three separate
times but got the same recorded message. The mobile phone I was
calling was switched off. First time ever.

Failing Tom, I decided to go to the So
cial Services about Gilbert. My
knowledge of what they actually did was pretty
sketchy but I knew it
included something called the At Risk
register and I thought it was a
reasonable bet that I might qualify. We w
ere a single-parent family, for
God
’
s sake. And human beings don
’
t come more vulnerable than a
month-old baby girl.

The local Social Services department wa
s a bleak suite of offices just
up the road from the police station.
The waiting room reminded me of
the thousand and one documentaries I
must have seen about inner-city
deprivation. Men lolled against the walls. Most of th
e women looked
utterly defeated. Their kids were eit
her silent and tight-lipped, or
raging around, totally out of control.

I waited
for more than an hour and a half.
Finally, I found myself
explaining my problem to a young social worker. He had a neat pony
tail, John Lennon glasses, and a grey collarless shirt. He listened
politely to everything I told him about Gilbert but not even the stuff
dripping through the kitchen ceiling counted for very much after my
earlier admission about the keys.

‘
You actually lent
them to him?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
And he made himself at home?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
Knowing you didn
’
t mind?
’

‘
Of course not. Not then.
’

I recognised the nod and the
weary smile from my encounters with
the police and when I inquired what he might be able to do, I think I
knew what was coming next.

He gestured towards the door. The waiting room outside was full to
bursting.

‘
You
’
ve had a shock,
’
he said.
‘
But no one
’
s dead. No one
’
s even
hurt. That
’
s rare, believe me.
’

I nodded, feeling guilty for wasting his time. When I apologised, he
glanced down and shrugged. His list of appointments was on the desk
in front of him. They went on until
7
.1
5,
name after name, each one a
little pocket of someone else
’
s grief. At length, he helped me towards
the door. To be honest, he said, there was nothing they could do.
Technically, Gilbert might be mad but it would take two independent
psychiatrists to certify him. As long as he stayed at home, tucked up
with his telescope, he was one less case to worry about.

He opened the door. Two kids were on the floor, fighting over the
remains of a can of Coke.

‘
Maybe you were the crazy one,
’
he said gently,
‘
to lend him the
key.
’

I went back
to
Napier Road, feeling faintly disloyal. I was determined
to give Gilbert a fighting chance and t
he more we saw of him, the more
complete was the transformation that
Billie
’
s arrival seemed to have
wrought.

By far the
best
of Tom
’
s prese
nts was a carrycot that doubled
as a pram. For a brief spell in the middle of January the weather was
glorious - unbroken sunshine from eight until four - and the three of
us began to make regular expeditions to the local park. Gilbert and I
took turns to push the pram and Billie g
azed up at us both, swaddled in
her quilted papoose, her bright little eyes just visible beneath the
woolly cap my mother had run up over Christmas. Gilbert had a
special way of tickling her face and Billie responded like the musical
instrument she undoubtedly was. Gilbert had the knack of playing
tunes on her, almost literally, and she loved it.

Afternoons when we didn
’
t visit the little cafe in the park for hot
doughnuts or sticky buns, we
’
d have tea at home
instead. I
’
d hang our
coats over
the back of the kitchen door and toast crumpets for Gilbert
and myself. Not once did we mention what had happened before
Christmas and I was absolutely convinced that I had Billie to thank for
this heartening transformation. Watching the gummy, toothless smile
that spread across her face the moment she laid eyes on Gilbert, I
found myself believing that everything, finally, had come right. Maybe
Billie and I should go into mental health, I thought. Maybe the pair of
us had stumbled on a treatment that had nothing to do with drugs.

It was during one of these little picni
cs that Brendan appeared again.
Gilbert was the one to answer the fron
t door. By the time Brendan got
to the kitchen, I could hear Gilbert
’
s footsteps retreating upstairs.

Brendan was dressed for the city. I hadn
’
t seen him since the night
he
’
d turned up paralytic and the suit and the subtly patterned tie did
him more than justice. I introduced Billie. It should have been one of
those deeply profound moments but somehow it wasn
’
t.

‘
Girl or boy?
’

I thought Brendan was making a joke. Evidently he wasn
’
t. He
’
d
been away again, Japan this time.

‘
Girl,
’
I said, remov
ing a smudge of Marmite from Billie
’
s
cheek.
‘
So
what do you think?
’

He didn
’
t say anything. He didn
’
t even want to hold her. He just
looked round, as if he was drawing up some kind of list.

‘
I
’
m thinking about moving on one of those properties,
’
he said.
‘
I
thought I
’
d keep you up to date.
’

‘
Oh? Which one?
’

‘
The Barnsbury place.
’

I remembered the one with the steps and the red front door.
‘
Isn
’
t it a bit big?
’
I said.
‘
For one?
’

Brendan had crossed the kitchen. The window over the sink looked
out on the back garden.

‘
Mind if I take a look?
’

He was at the back door now. I shrugged, pointing out the key on
the hook by the gas stove. He was out in the garden for quite a long
time, looking up at the back of the house, and I stood at the sink,
watching him. When he returned, he locked the door and put the key
back on the hook.

‘
Chilly,
’
he said, buttoning his coat again and disappearing up the
hall. Seconds later, he
’
d gone, but it to
ok Gilbert more than an hour to
venture back for the rest of his crumpet.

Billie and I took the train down to Dorset several weeks later. It was
another glorious day and the pair of us
sat beside the window
watching
the bare, shadowed fields roll by. At Salisbury
, we were joined by an
elderly lady with a beautiful red setter and b
y the time the train stopped at
Sherborne, she and Billi
e were firm friends. As we struggled in the aisle
, she pressed a pound coin into
Billie
’
s tiny hand.

‘
That
’
s for good luck,
’
she whispered.

The meeting at the solicitor
’
s office was at noon. I
’
d phoned the
previous week and explained that I wanted to talk to him about the
house. He didn
’
t seem the least bit surpr
ised and it occurred to me that
he might have been in contact with Tom.

Mr Clewson turned out to be an amiable, rather tweedy man in his
middle fifties. His office smelled of the brand of pipe tobacco my
grandfather used to smoke and everything about the way he
’
d
decorated it spoke of treasured possessions and a life well spent. He
seemed to me to be one of those rare human beings who are truly
happy.
He radiated contentment.

He gave me coffee and offered to organise some warm milk for
Billie. It was a kind thought but I
’
d fed her on the train and I knew
she
’
d last out until we found somewhere for lunch. Clewson had a
little mobile on his desk, one of those clev
er executive toys that react to
sunshine and go round and round, and Bi
llie couldn
’
t take her eyes off
it. I
’
d brought her because I thought
it might concentrate Clewson
’
s
mind. She was, to me, the very best ev
idence that he ought to take my
story seriously.

I told him everything about Gilbert. I we
nt right back to the early days
when I
’
d just moved in and I took him
round all the bends in the road
between then and now. I explained ab
out how kind he
’
d been, and how
helpful, and how I
’
d been trusting enough to
lend him the key to the flat. I
told him about the liberties he
’
d taken -
sleeping in my bed - and about
everything that had followed from that Ap
ril weekend. I admitted at once
that I was no expert but the longer I spen
t sharing a house with Gilbert,
the more convinced I became that he
’
d be
en through some kind of
trauma. He was certainly damaged. Of that, I was absolutely sure.