Authors: Graham Hurley
‘
Whereabouts in Dorset?
’
Gilbert cocked an eyebrow as if he hadn
’
t quite heard the
question. I
asked him again.
‘
Hasn
’
t Tom told you?
’
he queried.
‘
No. But then I haven
’
t really asked.
’
‘
Well he must, he absolutely must. He
’
s the one who lives there,
after all.
’
I heard a tiny quiver in his voice and I
looked up again in time to see
one bony finger intercept a falling tear. Tears, as far as Gilbert was
concerned, were a giveaway. What nerve had I touched now? And
where might it lead next? I thought of the nice, sane, predictable
conversations I
’
d had with Gilbert
’
s brother. Quite suddenly, I wanted
to go to bed.
‘
I
’
ll ask Tom abou
t the address,
’
I said gently.
‘
I
don
’
t suppose he
’
ll
mind, will he?
’
I struggled to my feet, accepting Gilbert
’
s hand, and then showed
him to the door. After he
’
d gone, I picked up the note he
’
d brought in,
knowing I really ought to phone Tom. Quite why our conversations
had produced such a generous present, I didn
’
t know, but it would
have been churlish not to say thank you.
Tom answered on the second ring. He
’
s probably been waiting all
evening, I thought, visualising the spaniel at his feet.
‘
Filthy night,
’
he boomed at once.
‘
Filthy, filthy night.
’
‘
It
’
s Julie,
’
I said.
I thanked him for the presents and sa
id what a surprise it had been.
He dismissed my protests about going over the top.
‘
Absolute pleasure old thing, the very least we could do.
’
‘
We?
’
-
‘
The family. After all the fuss with Gillie.
’
I paused. Had I been that frank about
my little run-ins with Gilbert?
I rather thought not.
‘
He
’
s a bit vague about family stuff,
’
I said casually.
‘
He doesn
’
t
even seem quite sure where you live.
’
‘
Live? Mama and I, you mean? God, I
’
m not surprised.
’
Gilbert, it seemed, had been on his own for most of his life. Every
family has its skeleton and theirs was Gillie. He didn
’
t go into detail
but there
’
d obviously been a bust up of
some kind and the one to suffer
was now my neighbour.
‘
Does he ever get down to see you?
’
I asked.
‘
Never.
’
‘
You never invite him?
’
‘
God, no. The odd meal, maybe, when I
’
m in town with time to kill,
but Gillie down here? Frightening the animals? My dear, the very
thought
…
’
I remembered Gilbert leaving, a couple of minutes earlier. Some-
thing I
’
d said had upset him. Something to do with the family.
‘
Do you think he misses it?
’
I asked.
‘
Misses what?
’
‘
Home? Dorset? Wherever it is you live?
’
‘
To be frank, my dear, I haven
’
t the foggiest. My poor old brother
has a number of endearing qualities but confiding in the likes of me
isn
’
t one of them. You probably know him better than I do. Why not
ask him? Make friends? I
’
m sure he
’
d welcome you with open arms.
’
He barked with laughter, obviously amused by the prospect, and I
felt a deep rush of sympathy for Gilbert. Tonight, for some reason,
Tom Phillips was fed up with Gillie. The thought of his brother, even
at
a hundred
miles
’
distance, was getting on his nerves.
‘
Actually, it
’
s not such a bad idea,
’
he was saying.
‘
Gillie
’
s damn
protective, once he makes his mind up. Loyal, too. You could do a lot
worse.
’
‘
Worse?
’
‘
Yes. Try him out. Best pals. Why don
’
t you?
’
For the second time in a couple of hours, I was losing my bearings.
Was he serious? My telephone friend? This stranger who
’
d just bought
me several hundred quid
’
s worth of baby gear?
‘
He
’
s a very nice man,
’
I said carefully.
‘
Damn right.
’
‘
And I can
’
t say thank you enough for the presents. We
’
re both very
lucky.
’
‘
Both?
’
He was o
nto the word like a shot.
‘
Yes,
’
I
nodded,
‘
Me and the baby.
’
Brendan started laying siege to me within days. He was coldly polite,
even formal, unrecognisable
from
the man I
’
d fallen in love with. He
’
d
phone from the office in order, he said, to make an appointment. He
’
d
fix a time and tell me he
’
d be round and, whatever I said to the
contrary, he
’
d turn up in the Mercedes and sit in
the car until I relented
and opened the door to him. On the firs
t couple of occasions we talked
on the doorstep, or on the pavement
beyond the gate, but the third
time he came round it was pouring w
ith rain, and my front room was
infinitely preferable to the intimacy of his car.
It was on this occasion that he produced the document from his
lawyer. It was a deed of some kind, a draft legal agreement, and our
joint signatures would give him agreed a
ccess to the baby. Talking like
this about a child who hadn
’
t even been born was the oddest
experience but I told myself that negotiation was a huge advance on
slapping each other around, and in any case it seemed totally in
keeping with Brendan
’
s new persona. There was obviously no more
room in his life for something as unbu
sinesslike as emotion. Whatever
I produced on
17th
December would
be strictly a question of legal
entitlement. In return for access t
o the baby, I
’
d receive regular
monthly payments way in excess o
f anything imposed by the Child
Support Agency. Beyond that, by sign
ature of the deed, I
’
d formally
waive any other claims I might wan
t to pursue against him. It was cold-blooded but,
like I say,
it was preferable to confrontation.
Brendan stayed, that morning, for more than an hour. I
’
d got all the
baby gear out of the boxes by now but his only real interest was in the
donor. Who
’
d sent this stuff? Who
’
d paid for it? When I told him
about Tom, Gilbert
’
s brother, mention of my neighbour triggered
another carefully-tempered lecture. Staying in the flat was completely
unacceptable. He knew what a trial living beneath Gilbert had been
and there was no way he was entrusting any child of his to the mercies
of the loony upstairs. I resented this descript
ion and told him so. Since
I
’
d parted company with Doubleac
t, Gilbert had been nothing but
helpful. We were back where we
’
d starte
d, the very best of neighbours,
and in my little head, having someone as
kind and as helpful as Gilbert
around was a huge bonus. Besides, movi
ng flats at this late stage was
unthinkable. I was knackered enough
as it was. Why on earth would I
want to put everything at risk for no good reason?
‘
Risk?
’
‘
Yes.
’
I pointed out the physical consequences of moving my goods and
chattels halfway across London. After my ante-natal classes, I was
word perfect on the perils of overdoing things.
‘
We
’
re fine here,
’
I told him.
‘
We
’
re staying put.
’
‘
You
’
re not. You can
’
t.
’
‘
Of course we can. It
’
s got nothing to do with you. It
’
s my decision.
’
‘
Our baby.
’
‘
Sure, but my decision. You have to accept it. You haven
’
t got a
choice.
’
It was the latter phrase that really got to Brendan. I
’
d never said it
quite this way before but I could tell from the expression on his face
that he hated being told he didn
’
t pull the strings any more. In
retrospect, I understand this all too well. Control was Brendan
’
s
speciality. At Doubleact, and with me, he
’
d always decided exactly the
way things would be. Now, that control was a thing of the past and I
think he was beginning to realise that no amount of fancy legal
drafting could ever bring it back. Doubleact had gone. I
’
d gone. And
the baby, when he arrived, would emphatically be under my care.
Brendan left towards midday. At the door, buttoning his new
Burberry against the rain, he gestured up towards Gilbert
’
s flat.
‘
One of you has to go,
’
he said:
‘
Maybe it should be him.
’
In a way, it was a declaration of war, though I was blind to the fact at
the time. Late November was busy for me.
I was laying in supplies, squirrelling away nappies and wipes and even a shop-bought Christmas pudding in case the baby and I had to spend the festive season alone.
Providing everything went well, my mother was insisting we go
down to Petersfield for
at
least a week with her - Christmas Eve
through to the New Year - but my faith in other people
’
s
arrangements was at an all-time low and I was becoming increasingly
attracted to the notion of the baby and me against the world. It was
like a call to arms. Life hadn
’
t been easy. The baby, by some strange
ante-natal whispers, would know exactly what the score was. One
way or another, we
’
d battle on through.