Precious Time (19 page)

‘Warfare,’ Jonah had announced, slipping off his jacket and putting it on the back of his chair. ‘Anyone up for it?’

Their attention caught, just for a second, he wrote on the white board ‘No Man’s Land’, ‘War of Attrition’ and ‘Going Over the Top’. He then asked for a volunteer, specifically from the back row, to come and draw a rough map of the estate he and his mates lived on.

‘Don’t be shy, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, his eyes resting on one lad in particular. His name was Jase O’Dowd and Jonah had heard nothing but bad reports of him since he had arrived at Dick High. Like a lot of the boys in the class, he wore his hair intimidatingly short, but with the most extraordinary gelled-up quiff at the front. He gazed insolently at Jonah, tucked a half-smoked cigarette behind his ear, and said, ‘I thought this was a bleeding history lesson. Maps is for geography.’

The others urged him on. ‘Go on, Jase,’ they chorused. ‘Show Sir where we live.’

‘Yeah, and don’t forget to make it look pretty. We don’t wanna be shamed with Sir thinking we’re not as lah-di-dah as him.’

Whistles and chants accompanied Jase as he lumbered to the front of the class. He snatched the marker pen out of Jonah’s hand, and drew two large rectangles facing each other separated by a thin strip.

With stabs and slashes of the pen on the whiteboard, he marked off little boxes within the two rectangles.

‘For that extra-artistic touch, can you put arrows where you and your friends live, please?’ Jonah asked. Just as he knew they would be, they were all congregated in the one rectangle. ‘And who lives here?’

To the side of the other rectangle, Jase drew a skull and crossbones and wrote underneath it, the Tossers.

‘Okay, so tell me what this space between the two rectangles is.’

‘It’s a friggin’ road, Sir - what d’yer think it was? DurrV

‘So, would I be right in thinking that when you’re in the mood to give someone a good kicking, you have to cross it?’

Jase smirked. ‘Yeah, got it in one. You’re not as stupid as you look, Sir, are you?’

‘Well, Jase, you’ll be delighted to know that the tactics you use to exert your reign of terror on your neighbours are based on the same rules employed by the generals who devised trench warfare on the Western Front in 1915.’ Taking the pen from him, Jonah drew a swastika over one rectangle and a Union Jack over the other, then an arrow from the words No Man’s Land to the road Jase had drawn.

‘Now, one more job for you, Jase. While I draw a slightly more detailed map of Belgium and northern France, can you rig up the TV

and video for me, please?’

A loud cheer went up. ‘What’re we watching, Sir? Hot Mammas Spank My—’

‘I’m afraid not, you’ll have to save that for your role-play sessions in Drama. For now you’re going to watch Blackadder Goes Forth.’

By the end of the lesson, he knew he had achieved what he’d set out to do: he’d got their attention. It was all the start he needed. Six months on, and a class of low achievers who had long been dubbed in the staffroom as tomorrow’s social misfits could now make a reasonable fist of an essay and display an above-average interest in a subject they had previously dismissed - just as they had been unfairly dismissed.

Skirting round the centre of town, he swung the car into Church Brow and took the steep, cobbled road slowly. A row of cars was parked on the right-hand side, and as he drew near to his cottage, at the top of the narrow road next to the church, the easy-going evening he had planned evaporated. Outside his front door, in a flashy electric blue Maserati, was his brother, Caspar.

What was he doing here?

Jonas parked alongside the cottage, gathered up his old leather briefcase from the back seat of his dilapidated Ford Escort and approached the immaculate sports car, the latest in an ever-changing range. This one, even at trade, must have set his brother back a small fortune: the numberplate alone - Caspar 1 - had probably cost him more than Jonah’s heap of mobile rust when it had been showroom new.

The only thing that Jonah and his brother had in common was their love of classical music, although Caspar’s penchant for the pretentiously esoteric works of some latterday composers was where their commonality divided. It was a piece of this shrill, discordant music that Jonah could hear now as he tapped on the driver’s window to attract his brother’s attention. Caspar’s head was resting against the smooth cream leather of the headrest and his eyes were closed as his fingers conducted an imaginary orchestra lined up along the dashboard.

The electric window slid down. ‘You’re getting wet, brother dear,’

Caspar said, above the excruciating ting, ping and scrape.

‘Could be something to do with the inclement weather. Are you coming in, or are you happy to stay out here showing off your new car to my neighbours?’

Caspar gave him a look of disdain. ‘You mean these little shacks are occupied by real people? Heavens, whatever next?’

Jonah let them in. He shed his leather jacket and hung it up in the understairs cupboard, then took his brother through to the kitchen.

He knew Caspar hated his house, that he found the old weaver’s cottage cramped and claustrophobic. Caspar lived alone in a stark loft apartment in Manchester that was a temple of clean lines and minimalism. To Jonah’s knowledge, he never entertained there, never encouraged visitors. The only time Jonah had been allowed in had been when Caspar wanted to show it off. He had come away feeling that whatever his brother had paid to live in such superficial splendour, it wasn’t money well spent.

He watched his brother prowl uneasily round the tiny, low

ceilinged kitchen, his cold grey eyes seeking out the least offensive spot on which to stand. He was dressed in an expensive dark blue suit with a crisp white shirt, a red silk tie and black lace-up shoes. His fine hair was a light-brown version of Michael Heseltine’s, and showed signs of grey just above the ears. The contrast between the two brothers could not have been greater. Jonah wore baggy corduroy trousers, a loose-fitting shirt with the odd splash of paint on the shoulder, and a tie he’d owned for more years than he cared to recall. His dark brown hair was thick and wavy, the opposite of Caspar’s smooth well-cut locks. The kids at school often teased Jonah that his tousled mop made him look like David Ginola on a bad-hair day.

‘I see you haven’t got round to doing anything about the state of this kitchen,’ Caspar remarked, still prowling and trying to avoid hitting his head on the pans hanging from one of the beams. He came to a stop in front of a bookcase crammed with paperbacks and CDs.

Giving the handpainted cupboards a dismissive glance, he added, ‘It really is the last distasteful word in folksy charm. You should gut it and start again. Maybe extend it into something worthwhile.’

‘Actually, Caspar, this is done. Are you stopping long enough to warrant me offering you a drink?’

‘Depends what you’ve got.’

‘You’ll have to be a lot more honey-tongued if you want anything better than instant coffee.’

‘What do I have to do for a decent glass of Chablis? Fawn all over you?’

‘No, go out and buy one. I don’t have anything here of the ilk that would agree with your sensitive nose and palate.’

Caspar gave him a pitying look. ‘Ha, ha, as droll as ever, I see.’

‘I like to keep my hand in. One never knows when one’s older brother is going to come calling and wreck one’s evening.’

‘You had plans? You do surprise me. A night of unbridled passion with a colleague from the staffroom? A lissom games mistress fresh out of college? Oh, do tell.’

Jonah turned his back on Caspar and reached for a bottle of Merlot from the wine rack. ‘An evening of marking essays on the rise of the Nazi Party is what I had in mind,’ he said. ‘Just think, if you’d been around at the time as one of Hitler’s right-hand men, he might have made a go of it.’ He poured two glasses of wine and passed one to Caspar.

Caspar sniffed his suspiciously, then made a great play of picking out a rogue piece of cork. ‘Not bad,’ he said, giving the wine a swirl.

He took a sip. ‘Better than that acidic, enamel-stripping Sauvignon you gave me last time I was here. Argentinean, wasn’t it?’

‘Chilean.’

‘Whatever.’

Did he have any idea how ridiculous he was, thought Jonah, standing here in his expensive suit, pretentiously appraising a bottle of plonk that had cost three pounds from the local supermarket?

How could anyone become such a monumental prat and assume

such an affected air of moneyed arrogance? Sadly, affecting the right air had always been of paramount importance to his brother. Having the right credentials, knowing the right people, owning the right car, it was all part of Caspar’s carefully projected image. For what it was worth, Jonah suspected that Caspar had become a victim of his own arrogance: he didn’t have any real friends, only hangers-on.

‘What are you doing here, Caspar?’ he asked. ‘The phone not good enough for you, these days?’

Caspar shifted position. He went and tried out a space by the old Rayburn that Jonah had bought second-hand and patiently restored.

‘I’ve been sampling the heady delights of Deaconsbridge,’ he said, ‘in particular, Mainwaring’s, the estate agent. It’s just as I thought. It’s the perfect time to sell Mermaid House. I spoke to Mainwaring, and he’s of the opinion that by the end of the summer the property boom will be over. It’s now or wait another year, maybe longer, until things pick up again.’

‘Anything wrong in doing that?’

Caspar narrowed his grey eyes. ‘I told you, Jonah, we need to move on this sooner rather than later. If we let the old man stay put, the house will slide into a total decline. It’s bad enough as it is, but another year and God knows what the place will be like.’

‘And how do you know what state the house is in now? When was the last time you paid Dad a visit?’

Caspar banged his glass down on the table between them, his cool imperious manner giving way to temper. ‘That is hardly the point!

Why do you always have to be so damn picky? Can’t you just accept that I’m right? God! You always were a bloody pain in the backside.

I should have known better than to come here and expect a civilised conversation with you!’

Jonah leaned against the sink, casually crossed one ankle over the other, and considered his brother’s outburst. He was used to seeing Caspar flip, but this struck him as different. Usually he could keep up the act of supercilious prig for at least two glasses of wine before he launched into an attack. What was the urgency about selling Mermaid House? Had he, yet again, got himself into a financial mess? He decided to push. ‘Seeing as you’re in the area,’ he said blandly, ‘why not go and see Dad this evening? If it’s money you’re short of, he might find it in his heart to bung you a few quid.’ He knew his remarks would incense Caspar, but he didn’t care. If it got his brother out of his house, so much the better.

Predictably, Caspar rose to the bait. ‘Who the hell said anything about me being short of money? That’s an accusation I find vaguely absurd coming from someone who knows nothing about business.’

‘It was a logical assumption. You’ve been on at me to go and see Dad and—’

‘Yes, and I’d like to know why you haven’t.’

‘I’ve been busy. If you must know, I’ve arranged to see him tomorrow.’

This seemed to mollify Caspar and he reached for his glass again.

‘Oh. Right. Good. Well, it’s about time too. But mind you be firm with him. Don’t give in to his bullying.’

The amusing irony of this instruction stayed with Jonah, long after Caspar had left. The essays dealt with, his supper coming along nicely, and Mahler well into his stride, Jonah reflected on his brother’s unwelcome visit.

He’s desperate, he concluded, stirring the pan of mushroom risotto, then adding more stock. He must be, to have forced himself to drink cheap plonk in a house he hated with a man he despised.

Caspar’s need for money must be greater than it had ever been, which might mean that he was even more determined than usual to get what he wanted.

It was a grim prospect.

Caspar’s scheming skulduggery over the years would make

humorous reading if there wasn’t always some poor soul who had lost out to his ruthlessness. Lying, cheating and trampling over other people’s feelings to get what he wanted - it all came quite naturally to Caspar. It was a sport for him.

The most breathtaking example of this had occurred two and a half years ago when Jonah had unwisely, and against his better judgement, decided to introduce Emily to his family. He had been putting it off for nearly six months, but now that they were planning to marry, it seemed only right that Val and his father should meet his future wife. Val had been forever trying to bring them together as a family, and had insisted on a full Liberty turn-out with everyone spending the weekend at Mermaid House. Damson was in her most recent post-divorce state and Caspar came with his latest girlfriend, a model of half his age with a fake tan, whom he ignored for the entire weekend. He was much more interested in Emily.

It was just what Jonah had been terrified of. Until then he had deliberately kept Emily away from Caspar; he had even told her why.

She hadn’t taken him seriously, though, and had said he was being paranoid: ‘It’s you I love. Why would I be remotely interested in your brother?’

But that evening during dinner, he had seen Caspar working his charm on Emily, and that she was flattered by his attention. And why wouldn’t she be? He was good-looking, and when he wanted to be, he was erudite and witty. He was the perfect dinner-party guest, regaling Emily with stories of Jonah growing up, telling her what a great kid brother he had been, what hilarious and companionable larks they had had together.

‘You make your childhood sound so idyllic,’ Emily had said, ‘like something out of Swallows and Amazons.’

Looking across the table with his steely-eyed gaze on Jonah, Caspar had said, ‘She’s right, isn’t she, Jonah? We did have a glorious childhood.’

To have told the truth would have seemed churlish and petty, so he had said, ‘It had its moments.’