The Brave (16 page)

"Ray, listen to me. The show is sinking. When a ship is sinking you don't fuck around with the furniture."

Ray couldn't believe this was happening.

"The western's had its day."

"Oh, Colonel, I don't think that'll ever—"

"I tell you. People don't want them anymore. Don't get me wrong, it's not going to happen tomorrow. The good ones—your Wagon Trains and Bonanzas—they'll roll on for a while. But in ten years' time there won't be a single western left. Mark my words. Maybe the odd movie, but on TV? Not one."

There was a long pause. Ray shook his head.

"I don't know what to say. But, hell, you know, maybe it's an opportunity. Tell you the truth, that's what I came along here today to talk about. You know I've been itching to do a movie. I don't mean some Saturday afternoon Hitching Post deal, I mean a real movie...."

The Colonel gave a little sigh and looked down at his fingertips. Ray picked up the screenplay. His hand was shaking. He suddenly felt desperate, like some sniveling little kid.

"... and I've got some great ideas. In fact, I've brought this script along that might just fit the bill—"

"I'll have someone take a look."

"The kid who wrote it, Steve Shelby, I tell ya, Colonel, he's really something. Herb Kanter reckons he's some kind of genius—"

"Sure, sure. We'll take a look. But I have to tell you, Ray, leaving that aside, after this current season, we'll be terminating your contract."

THE SNOW HAD BEEN FALLING since dawn. There was almost a foot of it by now, enough to deaden all sound except the shuffle of their feet as they followed the coffin out of the church and into the graveyard. There was no wind and the flakes settled fat and feathery on the bare heads and on the shoulders of the bearers in their black overcoats. The funeral director was at the door, handing out black umbrellas.

As the procession wove its way through the gravestones, one of the bearers slipped and the coffin lurched and for a moment Tommy thought it was going to crash to the ground and spill his grandmother's body on to the snow. But the other bearers deftly braced and he righted himself and all that fell was one wreath of roses, a splash of red in a world of white and black.

It was the church where Tommy had been christened. It was six hundred years old and some of the gravestones tilted precariously and were so overgrown with moss and lichen that you couldn't read what was written on them anymore. His grandmother had never believed in God. She used to say it was all stuff and nonsense and never came here with them at Christmas or Easter. But, for some reason, this was where she was to be buried. The grave that had been dug for her was close to an old yew tree, its sprawl of branches bending under the weight of the snow. Tommy remembered reading somewhere that yews were witches' trees.

The bearers put the coffin down on some canvas straps that had been laid ready beside the grave and then, using these, they lifted it again and lowered it slowly between the sliced walls of frozen earth.

There had been no more than a dozen people at the service in the church and fewer still had stayed on for the burial. The only people Tommy recognized across the grave were Dr Henderson and Uncle Reggie and Auntie Vera, who'd cried loudly all through the church service and was still crying now. Nobody else was. But then they were mostly men and men weren't supposed to cry. Tommy felt too empty and numb to cry. And much too cold. His feet felt like clumps of frozen rock. He was wearing his old Ashlawn school suit and wished he'd put on a thicker sweater.

Diane was still wearing her sunglasses. Perhaps she didn't want people to see whether or not she was crying. Tommy was close enough to know she wasn't. She was standing beside him, trying to shelter both him and her father under her umbrella which was difficult because the old man seemed to be off in a world of his own and kept swaying out to stare at the sky with a kind of weary surprise, blinking whenever a snowflake landed on his eyes.

The umbrellas looked like igloos. The old rector's nose had gone purple with cold and his breath made clouds in the air as he hurried through what he had to say. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. The handful of frozen soil rattled on the coffin lid.

The telegram had been delivered to the apartment in LA on Sunday morning, just over a week before Christmas, telling Diane to phone home urgently. It was Auntie Vera who answered. She said Joan had died of a massive heart attack. Arthur had found her lying on the kitchen floor when he came home from work.

Ray drove them out to the airport that same afternoon. They hardly saw him anymore though he still phoned every day. Tommy missed him a lot and felt sorry for him too because the studio was going to stop making Sliprock. Diane was still being horrible to him after their argument. She wouldn't tell Tommy what it had been about. She said he was too young to understand which was one of the most maddening things a grown-up could ever say. On the way to the airport, Ray was really sweet. He looked sad and sheepish and somehow smaller than he used to. Diane hardly spoke to him, just sat there, staring out of the window while Ray and Tommy did all the talking. On the plane, after they'd had supper and the lights had all been turned down, Tommy asked her why she had to go on being so unfriendly to Ray.

"He didn't tell me the truth about something. Something very important."

"What?"

Diane sighed.

"He didn't tell me that he'd been married before."

"Even I knew that."

"Twice."

"What's so bad about that?"

"And that he's not yet properly divorced from his last wife."

"Maybe he forgot."

She laughed.

"You don't forget about something like that."

Tommy thought for a while.

"What's different about him not telling you about that and you not telling me all those years that you were my real mother?"

Diane didn't reply for a moment, just looked at him with a sad smile.

"How come you're so darned clever? Come on, let's get some sleep."

The rector had stopped talking now and everyone piled back into their cars and drove home to eat all the food that Auntie Vera and Diane had prepared. Tommy helped hand out the sandwiches and soup and then walked around with a jug of steaming fruit punch into which Uncle Reggie had poured everything alcoholic he could find in the house. The cold seemed to have made everybody very thirsty. They all asked him about living in California and Uncle Reggie, who'd clearly already had too much punch, kept putting on an American accent and saying howdy, pardner whenever Tommy walked past.

It had been strange to see all his grandmother's things around the house when they arrived two days ago. It was as if she'd just nipped out to the shops. Her apron hanging by the kitchen door, her slippers on the floor by the doormat, her cigarettes and lighter on the sideboard where she always kept them. Diane had cleared a lot of it away and they had gone out and bought a Christmas tree and tried to make the house look a little more cheerful. But the decorations only seemed to make the place seem sadder still. There was another big difference which, for a long time, he couldn't put his finger on. Then he realized it was simply the silence. Joan had always had the radio on.

As the big bowl of rum punch slowly emptied, the voices got rowdier. And when he could do so without being noticed, Tommy slipped away upstairs. His old room had been redecorated as a guest room with green floral wallpaper and a sickly yellow carpet. He stood by the window, staring out at the back garden. The light was fading fast. He remembered how excited he always used to be when it snowed but today everything just looked flat and dull. It didn't seem like home anymore. He no longer knew where home was.

Diane thought they were never going to leave. And even when at last they did, Auntie Vera insisted on staying on to clear up. Tommy and Uncle Reggie were in the sitting room, watching TV. Diane's father had long ago quietly escaped to his little workshop.

"So, whatever happened to that film you were supposed to be doing with Gary Cooper? What was it called?"

Vera was at the kitchen sink, washing the last of the dishes. Diane was standing beside her drying them and longing to smash them over the woman's head. She hadn't stopped yakking all afternoon and everything she said was snide or scornful. Diane took a deep breath.

"Remorseless. It's been delayed."

"Again?"

"It happens all the time."

"Oh, really? Must cost a lot. More money than sense, I suppose, these film people."

Diane wasn't going to give the woman the satisfaction of knowing that the movie would now, in all probability, never be made. Herb Kanter had told her only last week that Gary Cooper had cancer and had been given only a few months to live. Herb asked her to keep this news to herself for the moment because only a few people knew. He claimed he was confident they would be able to recast, but Diane didn't really believe it.

There was a long pause, just the clack of the dishes in the sink and laughter from the TV in the next room.

"Of course, she never got over it," Vera said.

"Sorry, who never got over what?"

"Your mother. When you told Tommy about... you know. It broke her heart."

"Why don't you just say it?"

Auntie Vera turned to stare at her. Her face was flushed with drink.

"Say what?"

"That I killed her. It's obviously what you think."

"Don't be so melodramatic."

"Get out," Diane said quietly.

"What?"

"Put your coat on, take that drunken old fool of a husband with you and just go. Now!"

Not another word was said. When they'd gone, Diane went into the sitting room and slumped on the sofa beside Tommy.

"What happened with Auntie Vera? I heard you arguing."

"Oh, nothing really. I just lost my temper."

"I'm glad they've gone."

"Me too. Give me a hug."

She put her arm around him and he snuggled in close.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too."

For a long time they sat there, staring at the TV. It was some kind of variety show, full of forced Christmas cheer, two men in reindeer suits doing a comic dance routine. It was so alien to how Diane was feeling that it could have been a broadcast from Mars.

The satisfaction of throwing Auntie Vera out of the house was giving way to guilt. But at least the anger had been reassuring. It was the first genuine emotion Diane had felt since learning of her mother's death. All there had been was a vaguely aching void. She hadn't managed to shed a single tear. She tried to tell herself that this was perfectly normal, that she was simply in shock. But she wasn't convinced. The truth that she was slowly being forced to confront was that she had never really loved her mother nor felt loved by her. All she had ever been to the woman was a tiresome problem.

Diane sometimes worried about how this might have affected her. Could an unloved child, she wondered, ever know how to love a child of her own? Perhaps she had been forced to become so intensely selfish, obsessed with her own survival and desire to prove herself of value, that she was incapable of loving. She was certain (or as certain as she imagined one could be in such matters) that what she felt for this other being that she had created, now nestling against her, nine years old but still so small and vulnerable, was a love as true and vivid as any parent could ever feel. Sometimes it was almost too painful to bear. But perhaps that pain was merely guilt dressed in other clothes. Guilt and—the idea so appalled her she could barely name it to herself—pity.

The phone was ringing now in the hallway and she kissed Tommy on the forehead and went out to answer it. The operator asked for her by name and said she had a long-distance call from the United States.

It was Ray. He asked how the funeral had gone and how she was and how Tommy and her father were doing. For weeks, ever since she and Tommy moved out, she had been cold and ungiving with him whenever he called. And he had simply taken it and never complained or stopped calling. But with all that had happened, continuing to punish him seemed petty and wrong. He seemed to sense a thawing.

She told him about their day and realized as she did so how comforting it was to talk with him, to have someone who knew her and listened and supported her. When she told him about throwing Vera out, he laughed.

"That's my girl," he said.

The phrase hung in the ether between them.

"I'd better go," she said at last.

"Okay."

For a moment neither of them spoke.

"I miss you, sugar."

She didn't reply.

"I love you so much."

"Oh, Ray—"

"It's okay. You don't have to say a thing. I just wanted to tell you.... The divorce papers came through."

She didn't know what to say.

"You asked me to let you know," he said, bridging the silence.

"Thank you."

"So, there you go. Say hi to Tommy. And give my condolences to your daddy."

"I will."

She lit a cigarette and stood alone in the kitchen, thinking about Ray. Then she stubbed it out and put on her coat and walked across the back yard to the garage to find her father. The snow had stopped and it was freezing hard. The sky was thick with stars.

He was hunched in a little pool of light over his workbench at the end of the cold, dark tunnel of a garage. He was wearing his headlamp, a magnifying glass clenched in one eye while he delicately painted over the final join of a blue-and-white porcelain vase. She stood beside him, watching, hugging herself against the cold.

"Everybody gone?" he said, without looking up.

"Yes."

"Thank God for that."

It had been years since she'd watched him work. She'd forgotten how nimble his fingers were. He put down the brush and gently revolved the vase to inspect it. You wouldn't know it had ever been broken.

"That looks good."

"Hmm. Not too bad. It was in seven pieces."

"Daddy?"

He took off his magnifying glass, looked up at her for the first time and saw the tears sliding down her cheeks. He reached out and patted her arm.

"Come on, old girl. No need for that."

"I'm so sorry."

"What on earth for?"

She wiped her eyes but the tears wouldn't stop.

"I don't know. Everything."

He got to his feet and put the headlamp down on the bench then awkwardly took her in his arms. The smell of him, that blend of smoke and soap and mothballed tweed, made her feel like a child again, only deepened the sadness. She sobbed into his shoulder.

"I ruined her life," she said.

"No, no."

He was stroking her hair. His voice a rasping whisper.

"I did."

"No, you didn't. She did that all by herself."