Father of the Man (12 page)

Not a 1930’s edition. The blue binding looked quite cheap; there wasn’t a dust jacket at all, let alone the one he’d been imagining: boldly, even gaudily, suggestive of piracy in the Caribbean—California-style—and of gay swashbuckling gallantry. This was a copy published in 1973, by Hutchinson. But it was only one-pound-fifty: cheaper and in much better condition than the paperback he’d just seen: and it
was
, essentially, the book that he’d been looking for. At least he remembered to offer up his thanks. He rushed back to the shop where Jenny Maddox worked.

The moment before going in he paused to wipe his face and blow his nose. He hoped she’d be dealing with a customer, so he’d be able to leave the paper bag on the counter and not have to furnish any explanation.

But she wasn’t—again there was no one else in the shop—and he had to place it directly in her hand: “Only something quite dopy! ” She looked from him to the bag in smiling mystification and he’d already got back to the door by the time she’d taken out the book.

She stared at the title on its spine.

“I…” She opened it up; flicked aimlessly through its pages. “I don’t know what to say. I really don’t know what to say.”

“I just happened to see it. Seemed like providence. Divine guidance!”

He trusted she’d realize this was humorous. Or at least—he quickly amended that—so far as she herself need be concerned. Once more, he had to wipe his forehead, was still having trouble with his breathing.

“Must go. They’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.”

And indeed as he entered his place of work, which was also at the moment devoid of anyone other than staff, he saw Henry, who’d been sitting sideways on one of the cane-seated chairs and staring intently out of the window, above the various kinds of seatsticks, instantly swivel back towards the door and purse his lips and shake his head and tap his wristwatch and look expressively towards the gallery.

“Is something the matter, Henry?” Alan Cavendish remained seated and could not be seen behind his wooden barrier. “Or are you perhaps rehearsing for the birthday dance you’re going to have to entertain us with tomorrow? I imagine you’ve been told about it: a tradition of the firm which dates back to our beloved founder. There’s no way we can break with it.”

Henry took this in good part. “Ah, that’s a fine joke,” he laughed. “I must say, that’s a
very
fine joke!” He chortled at it for maybe half a minute—he would return to it several times during the course of the afternoon—and then, without leaving his chair, allowed his feet to execute a fleeting form of soft-shoe shuffle.

And to accompany himself he hummed—but at least he didn’t sing—the first few bars of ‘Young at Heart.’

Roger was about to go downstairs, to put his bag containing the two cards, together with his lunch and study materials, into the cupboard where he always left his coat and umbrella if he’d brought them, when he heard himself addressed.

“Oh, good afternoon, Mr Mild! How very nice of you to join us! We thought you might be attending the dentist’s—or else the funeral of some favourite grandmother—and simply forgotten to mention it.”

“It was actually the dentist’s funeral and my favourite grandmother asked me to cleverly avoid telling you. You see, it wasn’t very nice, the thing he died of. She thought any
truly
elegant establishment would much prefer to stay in ignorance.”

Even Henry gave a smile. Even Rose appeared amused.

“Did you hear that, Mr Cavendish? Isn’t he a cheeky bugger! Honest! I didn’t know he had it in him!”

Inadvertently, she had risked taking over from Roger in front of the firing squad. But possibly the manager had been too appalled to notice.

“Do you realize that not only did you take most of the day off but, on top of that, you actually split an infinitive?”

Roger laughed and, guessing he could now go, descended to the basement. He felt pleased with himself—and not purely on a single count.
Honest!
I didn’t know he had it in him!
Good old Rose! He would remember that tonight, when heading for St Pancras. A form of recognition which maybe most of his life he had subconsciously desired.
I didn’t know he had it in him!

Also, of course, it was scarcely ninety minutes ago that he had first seen Jenny Maddox. But he had never met anybody like her and already he could tell it was a turning point. He may not have read Sabatini (although he would! he would!) yet he had more than once read of people who—immediately after meeting their future spouse—had brazenly declared, “
That
is the person I am going to marry!” Well, he himself could prove as brazen as any of them! Why not? Why not? Jenny Maddox was going to be so
completely
the person he needed.

10

Since he was so late already Ephraim decided he might as well be hanged for a Doulton figurine as for a phone call from Calcutta.
Royal
Doulton.
Two
figurines. One was a wistful-looking Columbine with diamond-patterned skirt and sleeves—yellow, blue, black, green, white and purple—and bodice cut extremely low, both front and back, edged by a broad white frill repeated at the wrists; she stood on a black base, wore black shoes, green stockings and a black tricorn—but beneath the hat her grey hair made her face too old (a little like Billie Burke playing the Good Fairy, Glinda, when really she was past it) despite the peachy smoothness of her neck and upper chest. The other was more chocolate-boxy, ginger-curled, and had a Cupid’s bow that could have roused the jealousy even of Ann Blyth: pink riding habit, and plumes that tumbled to one shoulder from her hat; pale blue underside to the brim of that hat; white Puritan collar, black gloves, black riding crop. Turn her arse-over-tip, you saw she was identified as “Maureen”, whereas the first was merely Harlequinade, without inverted commas, and apart from being less sentimental carried the distinctive mark of its potter and was almost certainly older and more valuable.

Not that Ephraim was considering selling. They were a part of his childhood, good companions at either end of the mantelpiece in his mother’s bedroom (fireplace boarded up), and he could remember at an early age running his finger over each of them (“Darling, you’ll hold it
very
carefully, won’t you?”) whilst sitting at her curtained dressing table on the matching stool—the same brocade that hung in the bay window—and being especially susceptible to the prettiness of Maureen; holding her
very
carefully in front of the triple mirror on the glass-topped dressing table…before which mirror, many years later, on occasions when he was alone in the flat, he could recall sometimes standing naked and using the silver-backed hand glass and opened wardrobe door to assist him in his narcissism: of course with an erection: and the mortified anxiety of having once to scrub, with dampened flannel and remorseful vow, at the linoleum-framed beige carpet; could recall the repeated inspections—and the ultimate relief when nothing was noticed, no far-fetched, squash-spilling assertions necessary.

No, nothing would ever induce him to sell either of these figurines; he had so little of his mother’s; just those and one of her dancing medals and her beautiful Persian lamb coat which Jean unfortunately could never wear—“Unless I had a placard on my back: ‘I swear, it belonged to my mother-in-law; what would you have me do?’” But merely
pawning
them…that surely was allowable. In fact, National Home Loans, Solihull, West Midlands, might well regard it as advisable. At the moment he wasn’t too worried about the bank; didn’t give a sod about Swan International; all he cared about was staving off the bailiffs—and the repossessors. Well, anyway, that’s all he had cared about when he’d first looked in the Yellow Pages, but now there was Oscar to consider—Air India top priority. The directory listed no more than three pawnbrokers: only one in central Nottingham: Carlton Street, which led down into Goosegate.

He didn’t know quite what he had expected…yes, actually he did: some backstreet moneylender’s straight out of a black-and-white late-Forties second feature, with a fleshy, stubble-jowled Semitic dealer (and Ephraim, who had been born Jewish and could still recite the Shema, well at least its first part, as easily as the Lord’s Prayer, was permitted—wasn’t he?—frankly to acknowledge
that
bit without needing to feel racist); in short, a stereotypical fence, complete with eyeshade and eyeglass and a shirt maybe gaping clammily above the waistband.

But Messrs William Taylor & Co, though established in 1854, had perhaps never been to the movies. They had the three brass balls, it’s true, yet there was nothing else that seemed right. Despite a tacky picture in the window—of a watermill whose wheel was represented by a shoddy and gaudily bright clock—they looked like any other respectable jeweller’s, with welcome symbols on the door from Visa and American Express and Diners Club International; it was all a very long way, thought Ephraim, from ill-lit alleys and running footsteps and Edgar Lustgarten and
The Shop at Sly Corner
. Inside, there were carpet tiles, cuckoo clocks, closed-circuit television and a fresh-faced young fellow in a neat suit.

“I’d like to talk to you, please,” said Ephraim, “in your
pawnbroking
capacity.” He began this way because, notwithstanding the brass balls and the Yellow Pages, he still half-wondered if he could be making a mistake. And besides the measure of quaintness in his manner of expression there was even a measure of challenge. He wanted to indicate that he found the situation amusing—and completely free of stigma.

“Yes, sir.” The assistant was encouraging.

Ephraim explained. “…And I believe one of them at least might be worth six or seven hundred. Could I raise a thousand on the two?”

“I’m sorry, sir. We only deal in gold.”

The shop door opened and in came a sinister-looking black, very tall, with beaded shoulder-length hair. Both hands were in the pockets of his trench coat. He pushed the door to with his foot.

“Only in gold? But…” Ephraim glanced about him. “But you seem to sell everything. Cut glass—pictures—rings—pearl necklaces…” It was a fact, however, that he couldn’t see any porcelain. “Lumps of amethyst, masses of wristwatches…” He wished the black would at least turn and look the other way. “A couple of bone china figurines would surely fit in nicely. Besides, I’m not talking about selling them. It’s just their value that’s in question.”

“But you see, sir, we wouldn’t be able to judge their value. We’re not experts in bone china.”

Ephraim felt like a man who’d come for interview and was being turned down for the job. “Perhaps you’d first like to serve this gentleman?” he said, mainly to give himself time to think of reasons why he shouldn’t be turned down.

“That’s all right, man. I’m in no hurry. Just take your time.”

Damn him.

“But if I went and fetched them, later on today, and left them here for a few hours, couldn’t you have them independently assessed, by people who
are
experts?”

The assistant said: “I’m sorry. But, no, we don’t do that.” He produced a regretful little smile and really did sound as if he were unhappy about it.

“Why not?” Ephraim asked.

“Yes, man, why not?” The fellow wasn’t behind him any longer but alongside.

“I don’t know, sir. It’s our policy.”

“May I speak to your manager?”

“The manager’s away this week.” (
I trust in thee, O Lord; my times are in thy hand
. Psalm 31: 14-15.) “And neither of my colleagues”—he indicated a mirrored door to his right—“could be of much assistance to you. Yet anyhow…” He shrugged. “I think I can guess what the manager would say.”

“Piss off?” suggested the newcomer.

But this time it was Ephraim who ignored him. Ephraim, fighting for his loved ones. Fighting for Oscar. Fighting for Jean.

“Then here—what about this?” He wrenched the bracelet off his wrist. The bracelet was made only of base metal and of stainless steel and he suspected that the watch itself was much the same, although it certainly had the appearance of gold. “Here’s something you’d be qualified to judge.”

And at least it was a Seiko. Quartz. And the time it gave was always accurate even if its date-keeping wasn’t: for the day—and in shining vermilion, what’s more—it still provided SUN.

He had forgotten it had once belonged to Liz.

“Sir, I’m afraid that unless it’s a Rolex or a Patek-Philippe a secondhand watch has scarcely any value. But there’s another pawnbroker, you know, at Beeston. Mrs Barks. She might easily be interested in figurines.”

“There’s also one at Radford, man. Though the two guys I saw there—I don’t know as they’d know a whole lot about any bone china. I don’t know as they’d know a whole lot about any Crown Jewels either come to that, even if they arrived there with a note on them saying Signed by me—personal—with love and thanks—the Queen.”

Ephraim laughed and restored his undervalued watch to its rightful place on his wrist; he had now remembered it had once belonged to Liz. He appreciated their companion’s consistently lighter note. It supplied him with an unexpected lead.

“Well, then, all I’ve got to offer is myself. People always say I’m worth my weight in gold.” (Oh, yeah?
Really
?)

“A pound an ounce, sir,” declared the assistant. (And there were so many who merely stared at you when you attempted that facetious kind of pleasantry.)

“Up on the scales, man!”

Ephraim, for a moment, felt such gratitude that it was almost love. He could have hugged the pair of them and when he left the shop—though having, instead, only shaken their hands—he was still smiling. (If I can’t be anything else in life I may as well settle for being a character. A star. “Dad, you’re a star,” Abby had used to say, when he’d done something a bit special, like, for instance, taking up the children’s breakfasts in bed and giving them croissants or
chocolatines
, or peanuts or Maltesers, in an attempt both to surprise them and to vary their diets a little. “Dad, you really are a star!” Oscar had been apt to imitate her, or else gently to tease her, most memorably when he’d broken his arm in the school playground and for weeks Ephraim had sat next to him after supper, writing out the homework he dictated, or copying up the geography and history notes he’d been obliged to borrow.) Now, walking away from the jeweller’s, he thought it was a shame about the cash—but communication was also very necessary. As he turned towards the Lace Market it struck him that his depression seemed to have lifted again; he actually felt good. Yet such was often the way of it. Here one minute—gone the next—dependent on responses.