Authors: Graham Hurley
‘
Long time, no hear,
’
he said.
‘
I
’
ve been away a bit.
Hors
de
combat
.
How
’
s the baby? He? She?
’
‘
She. And she
’
s brilliant. Wonderful. The best thing ever.
’
I told him all about Billie. Then I said we were down in Sherborne.
There were plenty of trains back to London. We could delay our
departure a couple of hours. Might there be time for a get-together?
‘
Extraordinary,
’
he said at once.
‘
The one day you make it down
here, I
’
m off the plot.
’
‘
You
’
re what?
’
‘
Indisposed, otherwise engaged. In fact, old thing, it
’
s even worse
than that.
’
‘
Oh?
’
‘
Yes, you
’
ve caught me in bloody London. Hell
’
s teeth, you should
have phoned earlier. Yesterday maybe. I
’
m sure we could have sorted
something out.
’
I said I was sorry I hadn
’
t. I checked my watch. It wasn
’
t three
o
’
clock yet.
‘
We could be back in London by six,
’
I suggested.
‘
Why don
’
t you
pop round for a drink before you come back down here? It would be
nice to meet you. Billie, too. She loves all those things you bought
her.
’
‘
She does?
’
‘
Yes.
’
There was a long silence. I wondered whether he was looking for
excuses to turn the invite down. Meeting after all this time would, for
both of us, be a strange experience.
‘
What do you think?
’
I said at last.
‘
Nice idea?
’
‘
Very nice.
’
‘
You
’
ll come? Eight o
’
clock, say? Have something to eat?
’
‘
Of course I will.
’
He checked the address and mumbled something about having to
be away before the last train out of Waterloo. Then he rang off.
Billie and I were back in Napier Road by seven. I
’
d bought a bagful
of stuff from the local deli, and two bottles of good Rioja. I
strapped
Billie into her little rocker in the kitchen and she watched me while I
found bowls for the various dips. I was polishing the glasses when it
occurred to me that I ought to ask Gilbert, as well. The two of them
were brothers, for God
’
s sake. One social evening a year wouldn
’
t
over-stretch the family ties.
I went into the hall, meaning to call up to Gilbert, but then I had
second thoughts. One of the reasons I wanted to talk to Tom face to
face was to try and sort something out about this brother of his.
Things between us were fine just now but if anything happened again
it would be nice to know that Gilbert had somewhere to go to. Better,
therefore, to keep Tom to myself for an hour or so and then invite
Gilbert down afterwards. That way, I told myself, it would be a nice
surprise.
Tom was due around eight. By half past, Billie was asleep and there
was still no sign of him. I
’
d already been to the window twice, peering
up the street. I was about to try his mob
ile number when I heard a light
tap at my door. It made me jump. I got
to my feet and crossed the
room. It was Gilbert. He was carrying a wicker basket.
I invited him in, knowing that he
’
d seen the food and glasses
already. With Tom due any minute, I could hardly preten
d I was
expecting anyone else.
‘
Have a drink,
’
I said, stepping back.
Gilbert put the basket on the floor. Already I could see something
fluffy moving around inside. Gilbert was looking down at the
carrycot. Billie was still asleep.
‘
May I wake her up?
’
‘
Why?
’
‘
I
’
ve got a little present.
’
I could see the kitten now, tiny little paws reaching out through the
wickerwork. Gilbert knelt on the floor, undoing the straps that
secured the flap at one end. He reached in, extraordinarily gentle. The
kitten was the sweetest thing you ever saw, tabby
with a white blaze on
its face. Gilbert was looking at the bot
tle of wine I
’
d uncorked beside
the gas fire.
‘
You could call it Rioja,
’
he suggested.
Gilbert stayed for the rest of the evening while we waited for Tom.
Billie was entranced by the kitten and Gilbert hovered over the pair of
them, making sure that neither came to any harm. When Tom didn
’
t
turn up, we piled hummus and taramasalata onto biscuits and ate our
way through the egg and anchovy rolls I
’
d prepared. Gilbert was even
quieter than usual but when I asked if anything was wrong he said no.
Around ten o
’
clock he fetched his flute from upstairs and played some
of the lullabies I remembered from that first night I moved in. One in
particular, Billie seemed to love. Gilbert played it again and again,
drawing the notes out longer each time, a strange, far-away look in his
eyes. He said it was his own favourite. He said it was called
Nocturne
.
Finally, past midnight, I tried Tom
’
s number. Gilbert was still
cradling
the baby,
the kitten curled in his lap.
Billie, by now, was
fast asleep. I keyed in the last of the numbers for Tom
’
s mobile. This
time there wasn
’
t even a recorded message.
Just silence.
Clewson
phoned
two days later. As soon as I heard his voice I could
smell the tobacco in that office of his. He asked me about Billie. I said
she was fine.
I
’
ve been talking to the family,
’
he said.
‘
As I expected, they want to
put a proposal to you.
’
He mentioned an intermediary. For reasons he wasn
’
t prepared to
discuss, they were insisting on keeping
themselves at arm
’
s length from
anything, as he put it,
‘
pertaining to
31
Napier Road
’
. Halfway
through trying to change Billie, I was trying to prevent her rolling off
the mat.
‘
I thought you were the intermediary,
’
I said.
‘
Isn
’
t that what
solicitors do?
’
He told me he was too busy to make it up to London. There was
someone else they were happy to use, a name he thought I
’
d recognise.
‘
Who?
’
Billie had caught the corner of her soi
led nappy. She began to drag it
towards her.
‘
Morris Fair
weather,
’
I heard Clewson say.
‘
I
believe he
’
s an MP.
’
Fairweather
arranged
for us to meet at the House of Commons. My
days on
Members
Only
had given me a working knowledge of the
geography of the place and I had no problem finding the big Central
Lobby where the public can mill around, waiting for a word with their
MP. I gave my name to one of the policemen on duty at the desk. He
winked at Billie and made a phone call. By the time Fairweather came
down from his office, we were sitting on one of the benches across the
other side of the lobby.
I don
’
t think he expected the baby to have come too.
‘
Name?
’
‘
Billie.
’
‘
Billie
?
I thought it was a girl?
’
‘
She is.
’
‘
So what kind of name is that?
’
He was as bluff and direct as ever. I hadn
’
t seen him since I
’
d
tempted him onto
Members
Only
but the intervening months hadn
’
t
changed him at all. We agreed that the lobby was a lousy place to talk.
Getting us passes for his office might be
a pain so I suggested a turn or
two around St James
’
s Park. At first, he looked horrified. Like most
MPs, he had a deep mistrust of physical exercise but he fetched his
coat, and a funny little pork pie hat, and when we got outside he even
volunteered to push the pram.
St James
’
s Park was a trailer for early spring. There were drifts of
snowdrops and crocuses, white and mauve against the pale gr
ass, and I
propped Billie up in the pram, giving h
er a chance to see the ducks on
the lake. Fairweather had recently
made a return appearance on the
first of the new series of
Members
Only
,
and he amused me with a
couple of behind-the-camera stories. Brendan, it seemed, had just
added the programme to his private collection, another of the office
goodies he was smuggling out to his new life.
‘
He was always crazy about you,
’
Fairweather said.
‘
You know that,
don
’
t you? I always told him he had no chance. I said you had taste.
’
He was looking rather pointedly at Billie. I told him that Brendan
and I were no longer together.
‘
So I gather.
’
He brought the pram to a halt beside a bench.
‘
Does
that mean I was right all along?
’
I smiled but said nothing. I wanted t
o know what the family planned
for Gilbert. And I wanted to know wh
y on earth they
’
d chosen Morris
Fairweather to pass the message on.
‘
Old friends,
’
he said briskly.
‘
Is that the only clue I get?
’
‘
Dead bloody right.
’
‘
But you know them well?
’
‘
Well enough.
’
‘
So why didn
’
t you let on before?
’