Nocturne (43 page)

Before I made a decision about getti
ng in touch with the mysterious
Tom, I went out in the street again. The build
ers had left at five
o
’
clock, sweeping the shattered tile
s into a neat pile against the
cemetery wall, and now I stood in the mi
ddle of the road, peering up at
the roof. The ragged-edged hole had been covered with an old
tarpaulin. The tarpaulin was secured with ropes threaded through
eyelets at each corner, and every time the wind got underneath, it
billowed up like a poorly-set spinnaker. Across the tarpaulin, in faded
white letters, it read
‘
Property of Leyton Orient Football Club
’
.
Gilbert had already told me that the work should be finished by the
end of the week but his indifference to
things like rain were making me
more than nervous. What would happen
if these builders of his didn
’
t
turn up to finish the job? What if they got a better offer from som
e
other lunatic with equally grandiose plans?

I returned to the flat. I needed help now, an assurance that Gilbert
really did know what he was doing. The mobile phone number I
’
d
found on the doormat was still on the mantelpiece. I picked
up my own
phone and dialled the number. It took ag
es to answer. At last I heard a
voice. It sounded quite old, and not at all sure of itself.

‘
Hallo?
’

I introduced myself. I explained that I was living in Napier Road
and
that I was a neighbour of Gilbert Phillips.

‘
Who?
’

‘
Gilbert. Gilbert Phillips.
’

I waited for the name to register. It fel
t like a fairground game. I had
my hand in the bran tub and I hadn
’
t a clue what I was about to draw
out.

‘
Ah, you mean Gillie?
’

‘
Yes, Gilbert, Gilbert Phillips.
’
I tried hard to remember exactly
what the note had said.
‘
He
’
s a friend of yours, I think.
’

‘
My brother, actually.
’
The voice was stronger now, more sure of
itself.

‘
Your
brother
?

‘
Yes, my brother. There are two of us.
’

He inquired what he might do for m
e. He sounded cultured, refined
even, recognisably from the same stock as Gilbert.

‘
Your brother
’
s having some alterations done upstairs,
’
I said
carefully.
‘
It
’
s quite a big job. I just wondered whether you might
know anything about it.
’

‘
Good Lord no, why on earth should I?
’

I
’
d half anticipated this. Next he
’
d want to know why I was
interested. And after that, he
’
d probably ask why I didn
’
t go and talk
to Gilbert himself. I could, of course, but I wasn
’
t entirely sure I
’
d
get a
coherent response.

‘
Your brother can be a bit
…
’
I frowned,
’
…
evasive at times.
’

‘
You mean he
’
s not all there?
’

I smiled. It was a remarkably apt description of Gilbert, though
saying so wouldn
’
t make this conversation any the less awkward.

‘
No.
’
I tried to make light of what I had to say.
‘
It
’
s just
he can be
a little vague.
’

‘
Vague?
’
I heard him laughing.
‘
That
’
s very kind of you, my dear.
Extraordinarily kind.
’

‘
What would be your word for him then?
’

‘
Gilbert? You mean Gilbert?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
He
’
s barking, dotty, cuckoo, always has been.
That’s the authorised version, anyway, though I imagine it depends who you talk to.
Some people say there
’
s absolutely nothing wrong with him. Upstairs,
I mean. Me? I think he
’
s potty. Frightfully nice, terribly nice, but
potty.
’

It was my turn to laugh. I hadn
’
t come across such frankness, such
irreverence, yet such affection in quite t
his combination before. It was,
in a very exact sense, the voice of sanity. Tom consider
ed his brother
was
a lunatic, and yet he obviously
loved him.

I thought of the note on the mat again.

‘
Do you see him a lot? Gilbert?
’

‘
Good Lord no. I p
opped round the other day, first time for months.
He w
asn
’
t in, of course. Typical.
’

‘
You live in London?
’

‘
Work there. Very occasionally.
’

‘
I
see.
’
I paused, wondering whether to own up about reading the
note he
’
d left.
So far, Tom hadn
’
t asked
how I
’
d got his number.

‘
I
happened to see your mobile number on the envelope you left,
’
I
said lightly.
‘
I
hope you don
’
t mind me ringing like this.
’

‘
Not in the least, my dear. Now then, these builders. What can I do
to help?
’

I explained again about the work Gilbert had commissioned on the
roof and about the landlord, Mr Clewson, down in Sherborne. He
’
d
been no use at all.

‘
Never are. Bloody lawyers, all the same. Take your money, tie you
in knots, leave you out for the w
olves.
’
He paused for breath.
‘
Is
it
urgent? Or is that a silly question?
’

I found myself telling him about the baby. In three months
’
time, it
would be nice to know that the roof was in one piece. I hoped I wasn
’
t
making a fuss but what I
’
d seen today had made me nervous.

‘
I
’
m sure.
’
Tom had gone abruptly quiet and I wondered whether I
’
d
ventured too far. Saddling a stranger with bits of m
y private life was, at
the very least, an imposition. I began to
say so, as apologetically as I
knew how. There
’
d be another way around it. I was sorry to have
wasted his time.

‘
Not at all, not at all,
I was just having a think, wondering what I
might suggest. Why don
’
t I give Gillie a ring? Find out what the daft
bugger
’
s up to? Wouldn
’
t do any harm, would it?
’

I broke in. The thought of him telling Gilbert about the baby was a
little premature. I
’
d have to break the news sooner
or later, but not just
yet.

‘
Good Lord
no
,
of course not
. Though he
’
s v
ery good with babies, you know,
always has been. Babies and animals.
Loves
‘
em, just loves
‘
em. Same
wavelength, I shouldn
’
t wonder. P
robably born a rabbit, poor old
Gillie. Now listen, just give me your num
ber. I
’
ll have a chat with him.
Ring you back
ASAP
. How
’
s that?
’

I thanked him, absurdly grateful, and hung up. I stayed in the front
room for the rest of the evening, listening to the slap-slap of the
tarpaulin against the roof, but I didn
’
t hear the phone go upstairs.

Next morning, even earlier than usual,
the builders were back. I awoke
to Chris Evans on the radio. The volum
e was so loud, the trannie must
have been directly above my head. I fl
ed to the kitchen, shutting the
door and making myself a pot of
tea. Expecting a letter from my
mother, I tried to edge into the hall but
the path to the front door was
blocked by a pile of sawn timber. It wasn
’
t a good sign.

Back in the kitchen, I made myself a couple of slices of toast. I was
loading the second with Marmite when the door opened. I looked up.
It was Brendan.

‘
Your do
or was open,
’
he said at once.
‘
I
knocked twice but nothing
happened.
’

I was still staring at him. I must have le
ft the door on the latch. Shit,
shit, shit.

Brendan was eyeing the teapot. I pulled my dressing gown more
tightly around me. I didn
’
t invite him to sit down.

‘
What do you want
?
’

‘
A cuppa would be nice.
’

‘
It
’
s cold, stewed.
’

‘
OK, then,
’
he shrugged.
‘
No tea.
’

I wanted him to go. B
adly. Letting him see me like this was a
nightmare, not at all what I had in mind f
or the eventual settling of our
accounts.

‘
How are you?
’
he said.

‘
Fine. You?
’

He didn
’
t answer. He was wearing a light tan polo-neck sweater
under a leather jacket I hadn
’
t seen before. I wondered whether he
’
d
got it in Singapore but I didn
’
t ask.

‘
I
’
m back with Sandra,
’
he said.
‘
I thought I should be the one to tell
you.
’

‘
What makes you think I
’
m interested?
’

‘
Nothing. It
’
s just that I wanted you to know.
’
He ducked his head,
as melodramatic as ever.
‘
I have to tell you something else, too.
’