The Possession of Mr Cave (11 page)

'Now,' she had told me that morning, 'we really ought to
make it a bit more dynamic. Don't you think, Terence? It
looks a bit flat at the moment, doesn't it?'

'I don't know,' I said. After the exhausting confusion of the
previous night, when I had found myself on Winchelsea
Avenue, I had little more to offer. And besides, everything
looked 'a bit flat' nowadays so it was increasingly difficult to
compare one flat sight with another.

'Well, it does, Terence. It does. The reason you're not
getting any passing trade any more is because there is nothing
to engage people with in the window. All you can see is that
giant oak bureau which serves no purpose but to block half
the light in the shop. Honestly, it's like being in a . . . in
a . . .'

'Cave?' I suggested, wearily.

'Yes, Terence. A cave.'

'Rather apt, then. For Cave Antiques.'

'It may be rather apt but the point remains that no one
wants to spend money on an item they cannot see. Now, I
think we need to do more with the figurines.'

So, this was her plan. Have the tall oak bureau swap places
with the walnut dressing table, upon which she would choreograph
a dynamic arrangement of figures. She wanted the
Barrias to be the centrepiece.
Nature Revealing Herself to Science
was the name of it. A near-pornographic piece I had been
reluctant to buy in the first place and had only done so upon
your grandmother's urging. She had ringed it in the catalogue,
along with the Arabian dancer, adding the small message:
'IGNORE YOUR PRUDISH TENDENCIES AND
APPRECIATE THE BEAUTY!!'

It is easier, I believe, for a woman to make such statements.
Indeed, if women could see the world through a man's eyes
they would understand that beauty can corrupt a male soul
quicker than any drug or doctrine. Too much earthly beauty
throws the male psyche towards insanity, as it reminds him of
what he must one day leave behind, and men, as eternal children,
can never cope with things being taken away from them.

A man sees beauty and he wants to possess it, in the fullest
sense, or otherwise destroy it, but never simply appreciate it.
And so, where there is beauty there must also be violence, to
correct the balance. We need to leave our ugly marks in the
face of the earth in order to feel at home. We need to see
palaces looted and ransacked in times of war, just as the beauty
of Imperial Rome needed the murderous blood-house of the
Colosseum and just as the gorgeousness of Helen's face necessarily
led to the Trojan War.

I had no idea at all what a bronze, voluptuous Nature forever
slipping her robes for the delectation of Science would lead
to, but I knew Cynthia did have a fine eye for such items so
succumbed to her judgement.

Her fine eye had also decided that full-bosomed Nature
would be accompanied by two further nudes, albeit more
modestly posed, and that they would all bask in the light of
a gilt toleware candelabrum. Somewhere behind, as a themed
backdrop, would be the old slipware dish featuring a fig-leafed
Adam and Eve on either side of the Tree of Knowledge. The
chest itself would be flanked by the satinwood wardrobe and
that suggestively shaped art deco longcase clock, which brought
further boudoir connotations to mind.

I had advocated the inclusion of a fully clothed figure, the
Girl with a Tambourine, but Cynthia insisted it be left on
the high chest by the counter. I was too tired to argue, just
as I was too tired to be heaving that blasted table over to
the window. But anyway, there we were, halfway through
the morning, halfway across the floor, when Cynthia cried
out with a sudden pain.

'Cynthia? Are you all right?'

She bent over, wincing. 'I'll be all right,' she said, holding
her left side. 'It's nothing. It's been playing hell for weeks.' She
tried again to help direct the chest as I pushed it, but she had
to stop almost as soon as she had started.

'Oh, you silly woman,' she said, scolding herself. 'What's
the matter with you?'

Of course, the matter was the hernia she wasn't going to
have properly diagnosed for another couple of days.

'It's all right,' I said, before pushing the chest straight into
a table and nearly toppling over a Doulton vase in the process.

And it was then, at the precise moment the base of that
vase settled on that flat mahogany surface, that the door opened
and Mrs Weeks entered the shop. It seemed like years since I
had seen her, since that day I had so upset her about her son's
behaviour. I had thought I must have put her off coming into
the shop for good. Through my delirious gaze she looked quite
a vision, in her crisp blouse and pleated skirt and shopping
basket. Indeed, the sight of her neat golden loveliness was such
a tonic for the ugly chaos of my thoughts that it took me a
good few seconds to realise she was with George.

'Oh, Mrs Weeks, do excuse the mess,' I told her. 'We're just
changing the window display.'

At which she gave a sad, regal smile and said: 'Oh, I see.
No, that's quite all right, Mr Cave. George is here to say something.
Aren't you, George?' Her voice was delicate and her
eyes, as they looked up at her son, contained a hopeful pride.

I followed those eyes up to George himself and saw he
looked wholly different from the last two times I had seen
him. He was smartly dressed, with a dark blue shirt tucked
into a pair of corduroy trousers. His blond hair, now free from
its pink fringe, was flattened and side-parted. Indeed, only his
glasses remained the same. Still, as I looked up at him I was
instantly reminded of the previous evening's encounter with
his father, and felt a coldness run through me.

'I'm sorry,' he told the slipware dish. 'I didn't mean to trip
you up. In the field. I was showing off to my friends.'

Mrs Weeks smiled as she whispered to her son. 'Look at
Mr Cave when you're speaking, George. Tell it to his face.'

And he did tell it to my face, and my face did its best to
show forgiveness. 'Well, George, don't worry too much. It's
in the past. But you must realise that you can't go throwing
your weight about. Not everyone would be quite as tolerant
as myself.' A brief image of my hand pressing against Uriah's
throat flashed guiltily in my mind.

Cynthia, still wincing and holding her side, released an
audible breath of laughter at the use of the word 'tolerant'.

'He is truly very sorry, Mr Cave,' said Mrs Weeks, her pretty
eyes wearing a sorrow of their own. 'Indeed, it was George's
own idea to come around and apologise face to face. We've
been away to the West Country. A lovely place near St Ives.
It's done us a lot of good, hasn't it, George?'

'Oh, St Ives is – agh – wonderful, isn't it?' Cynthia was
saying.

George offered an awkward 'yes' that addressed both enquiries.

'I assure you he has changed a lot over the last month, Mr
Cave,' added Mrs Weeks. 'He wants to make amends.'

This fact, combined with George's altered manner and
appearance, was truly impressive. Indeed, it gave me hope. If
he could change so much in the space of a few weeks, then
maybe you could too.

'If there's anything I can do to make it up,' said George,
the eyes behind the glasses looking so timid I almost felt sorry
for him, 'I'll do it, Mr Cave.'

'Well,' I said, weighing up the possibilities.

Cynthia was quicker off the blocks. 'You could help – ow
– move this dressing table over to the window,' she said.

George agreed and was quickly put to his task, using his
considerable weight to heave the table forwards to its intended
position. All the while, Cynthia was using those pencilled
eyebrows of hers to prompt me into gratitude.

'Thank you, George,' I said eventually. 'That's very kind
of you.'

'We could do with a nice young man like you to help in
the shop,' said Cynthia, looking in less pain than before.

Mrs Weeks gave us a flash of her smile, as fleeting as a
fish darting through a stream. 'Oh, George would love to,
wouldn't you, George?' she said.

'Yes,' he said, before sucking on his inhaler.

I took a moment to signify my consideration of the matter
but knew it was impractical, given the state of the accounts.
'Well, unfortunately we're not looking for anyone at the
moment. We simply can't afford to –'

Mrs Weeks looked at me. The smile was gone. 'Yes, Mr
Cave, we completely understand. Don't we, George? George?'

'I'd work for free,' he said, to even his mother's surprise.
He had his breath back now, and spoke in a more confident
tone. 'It would be good experience.'

'He wants to work in antiques,' said his mother, nodding
her head in a small but rapid movement.

'But, what about school? Doesn't he have to –'

'He's sixteen,' said Mrs Weeks. 'And he's not cut out for A
levels. He's never been an academic type.'

She sighed and gave a distant look, and I felt a great pity
inside me. I thought of her horrendous husband and their
separation. I wanted to reach out to her, one stranded human
to another. My glance switched between Cynthia, holding
her side and wincing as the pain returned, and the dressing
table, perfectly placed by the window.

I thought of the effect he might have on you. The visible
change in him might act as a signpost back to the old Bryony.
After all, he was one of your tribe. Or had been. And perhaps
he would share the secrets of that tribe. Perhaps he knew
things about you that I didn't, things that would help me in
my quest to restore you.

'All right,' I said. 'We'll give it a try on Thursday. Come
in at nine o'clock and I'll show you the ropes.'

Mrs Weeks smiled in gratitude. 'Thank you,' she said. 'Say
thank you, George.'

George looked towards the hallway, towards the home that
lay beyond the shop. 'Thank you,' he said, as I slid like a
ghost across his glasses. 'Thursday. Nine o'clock.'

So, the game continued. You kept up the pretence of adhering
to the rules, and I kept up the pretence of believing you. In
accordance with number 1, Imogen would sometimes visit on
school evenings, filling the whole place with the smell of stale
tobacco.

All those times you thought I was doing the accounts, or
scanning the auction lists, or repairing antiques, I would be
holding the speaker to my ear and listening to your conversations
with Imogen.

Out of the crackle, your voices quiet as ghosts:

YOU: I kissed him.

HER: Ugh.

YOU: It was nice.

HER: Oh my God! Ugh. I'm sorry. It's just. Ugh.

YOU: I said a kiss. Nothing else. I like him. More than like.

HER: I suppose you heard Mozart or something, when
you kissed him.

YOU: Stop it.

HER: I'm sorry. It's just –

YOU: What?

HER: He's –

YOU: He's what? He doesn't live in a stately home? It's
not a Jane Austen novel, you know.

HER: Go on. He's what?

YOU: Never mind. You're just prejudiced.

HER: Ha. Pride and Prejudice.

YOU: Funny.

HER: I'm not a snob. I'm just not that into boys in
sportswear. It doesn't really do it for me.

YOU: He's a boxer. That's why he –

HER: Classy.

YOU: Stop it. He's nice. He's kind. You can see it. In
his eyes. You know, there's a depth. It's not what he
says, it's –

HER: Bryony, you are the strangest individual sometimes.
Do you even know what he's into?

YOU: What?

HER: Music and stuff. God, could you imagine him at
the Cockpit?

You said something that I failed to catch, as Higgins had just
jumped up on the bed at that point, crying for his forgotten
supper.

HER: What does he like, band-wise?

YOU: I don't know. We didn't talk about it.

HER: I couldn't put my lips on a boy's face without
knowing what he was into. It would be like, I don't
know, going to church without knowing the religion.

YOU: I didn't plan to kiss him. It just happened.

HER: Oh my God. Your eyes are glazing over. You're
falling for him.

YOU: No. I'm not. I'm not. I'm not.

HER: Denny, Denny, wherefore art thou Denny?

YOU: I'm warning you.

HER: Give me my Denny: and, when he shall die,/Take
him and cut him out in little stars.

YOU: Stop it. Stop. It.

I heard the thump of a pillow and your words stopped and
became laughter and then I heard her offer you something and
the window opened and it was at this point I knocked on your
door. You eventually opened it, and sighed at the sight of me.

'Bryony, would you be able to feed Higgins while I get on
with the dinner,' I think I said.

You looked at me with disgust, but no suspicion, and Imogen
left with her unsmoked cigarettes.

I have learned that in this life there are two principal types of
belonging, namely the type you are born into and the type
you have to prove. This is the difference between a family and
a tribe. A family requires no test, whereas a tribe always expects,
and needs new proof from those furthest from its centre.

I believe that Reuben lacked that essential core feeling of
belonging he should have got from us, from me specifically,
and that is why his focus was always out towards the tribe.
And what proof did that tribe require? That tribe which Denny
had also been a part of? What did Reuben need to do to show
his allegiance, to show he wasn't just a middle-class boy who
would cut and run at the earliest opportunity? Well, we already
knew the answer in part, didn't we? But other information
came, as the
York Daily Record
rushed a crowd of foreign
thoughts into my brain.

The boy's face stared out from the second page. The shaven
head and hard, squinting eyes. It was the one who had staggered
backwards, away from the scene of Reuben's death.
And then, in bold Times Roman: TEEN SUICIDE NIGHTMARE.
I read on, picking up only the more crucial words.
'Aaron Tully', 'overdose', 'his mother's midweek nightshift',
'suicide note', 'I am sorry', 'on antidepressants', 'single parent',
'distraught', 'living nightmare', 'police', 'no suspicion'. And
then his address, no less horrifying for being cushioned inside
the last line: '17 Winchelsea Avenue'.