The Square (28 page)

He looks over at Larry. Larry raises his hand in a salute, and starts the projector.

By now, it is dark enough for the images to show up clearly on the sheet.

He starts to play.

Behind the sheet, Anya and Roberta are hugging each other and clenching their fists, willing for him to get through the piece without a major disaster.

As soon as he begins the familiar tune, everyone cheers loudly.

Darth Vader, in Lego, is there, flying above George’s solar system curtains and wielding his lightsabre. The Death Star appears, and rather oddly, vanishes. A small Lego milk float appears for a brief moment, replaced by a hand bearing the Millennium Falcon which does a few circuits of the curtain/ galactic backdrop. Everyone cheers even more, then whistles and boos as General Grievous’ own personal ship appears above it.

Larry turns to Tracey.

“This is clearly full of meaning for the child. Meanwhile I have not got the faintest idea what is going on.”

Tracey puts a hand fondly on his knee. “Just enjoy it,” she says.

The music comes to a short, assertive climax.

“My idea,” whispers Roberta to Anya. “Short and sweet.”

Darth Vader swoops once more across the screen, followed by a train of other figurines from the movie. Chewbacca, Han Solo, Princess Leia and after a pause, Yoda.

George triumphantly finishes the piece. His small hands play the final chord.

He stands, puts his helmet back on, regrasps his gun, and bows low.

The audience are all on their feet, cheering loudly.

“Fucking masterstroke,” says Patrick, running to the front. He leaps onto the dais, embraces George, who stands stiffly to attention.

“Well done old sport,” he whispers in his ear.

“Dad! You are so embarrassing!”

“Well done lad,” says Patrick, taking no notice of his son’s attempt to push him away. “Erasing the class war with
Star Wars
. Bloody brilliant.”

George acknowledges this mysterious motto with a nod, jumps off the dais, walks down through the cheering audience. Roberta skips round the sheet, grabs the music from the keyboard and follows him away and out of the park.

“Encore! Encore!” shouts the crowd to George’s retreating back.

Patrick finds himself still upon the dais with Alan Makin.

“Back off,” whispers Alan. “I need to wrap this up.”

Humbled, Patrick walks around the sheet where he finds Anya, laughing.

“Your son is marvellous,” she tells him.

Emboldened by this, he enfolds her in his arms and kisses her, properly this time.

“And now,” says Alan Makin. “That is the end of our fundraising Talent Show. Thank you, all of you, for coming. I really mean it. I will be here for a short while,” he says, nodding to his fan base, “to sign autographs. I have also brought copies of my latest book, so if any of you are keen… it’s quite a good read, I think.”

Behind the sheet, Patrick and Anya are clenched together. He decides to venture towards unclipping her bra.

“That man Alan Makin has no shame,” pouts Jane to Harriet.

“Where is Patrick?” she says, to nobody in particular.

Patrick’s whereabouts are soon made very public. As Alan steps off the dais to sell books to his fan base, Larry, mindful of the fact he must not forget to take back the bedsheet, leaps onto it.

Without any warning, he unties the rope holding the sheet in place. The sheet falls to the ground, revealing to the entire audience the sight of Patrick wildly kissing Anya. The only noise in the Square is a few seconds later, when people start wildly reaching, scrabbling for their phones in order to capture the moment.

“Not only that,” as Belle, still gasping with excitement, later tells Roberta, “but he had his hand right up her shirt!”

Chapter Twenty-Nine Tracey

In the Square, banks of irises are nodding gracefully, their violet sheen offsetting the sward of emerald grass behind them. A flamingo willow provides splashes of creamy ivory. Scarlet roses stud the earthy beds. The park keeper bends down, picks up the last remaining empty crisp packet, surveys the flattened grass, straightens his shoulders.

The chairs were all taken away early that morning by a van from Rayners. The small podium had also been removed. In short, there is nothing left standing of the Talent Show in the Square.

In Jane’s room, the curtains are still closed. Jane is still in bed.

“And I may remain here all day,” she shouts towards the door, a half sob catching in her throat.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” asks Patrick gently.

“Fuck you.”

After a while, Patrick calls George down for breakfast. They begin to eat Weetabix together. A spirit of male cameraderie is palpable in the room. This has been largely brought on by Jane’s refusal to talk to anyone since last night. Having run back to the house in a fit of hysterical sobbing, she is now disdainfully ignoring all living creatures in it.

The impact of the end of the Talent Show on the Square has been significant. In response, a respectful community silence has been draped over Jane and Patrick’s house. Nobody has dared to call, ring or email. This has been a group, yet somewhat unconscious, decision. The other way of looking at it is that nobody dares.

“Alright, old sport?” says Patrick, to George. “Any, er, plans?”

The boy nods brightly.

“Yes. I am going to take apart General Grievous’ ship today and rebuild it.”

“Ah,” says Patrick knowledgeably. “General Grievous. Good name. Is he a Jedi?”

“No,” says George.

“Isn’t he linked to… Yoda?” offers Patrick, hoping to impress the child with another name from the film.

“No,” says George happily. “But Yoda IS a Jedi, at least.”

“Oh. Well, it’s Sunday, isn’t it? Nice to have a day full of nothing. Do you have any prep, sport?”

“No,” says George.

Patrick, at a loss for other avenues into George’s diary, gives up the attempt at conversation, and resorts to the
Daily Mail.
He whistles a little. He feels the brooding presence of his wife dripping through the house like malicious oil.

Over at Larry and Tracey’s house, there is a similar hush, although Larry persists on breaking it. Essentially he is far too amused to stop talking about it all.

“It was just that the timing was so perfect,” he says again, to break a conversational lull. “Couldn’t have been better if it was on stage. Which, in a way, it was. Masterful.”

“Dad,” says Belle wearily. “We know you think the timing was perfect. You keep telling us that it was. It may have been perfect for YOU. It was not perfect for most of the other people concerned, frankly.”

“Just the way that they didn’t actually realise the curtain had fallen down, for a good few crucial seconds,” he chortles.

“That was the killer. Good old Patrick. Tongue right down her throat! Hand up her wotsit.”

“Dad!” says Belle, desperately. “Will you kindly shut UP. The way you go on about it, it’s weird.”

“Shut up everyone,” hisses Grace. “Here comes Anya.”

“Morning,” says Anya, coming into the kitchen.

“Morning,” the girls chime in unison.

“Good morning Anya,” says Larry, beaming as if his face is about to be bisected.

“How are we feeling today?”

“Fine,” says Anya neutrally.

“Did we enjoy the event last night?”

“Yes, it was good,” says Anya. She is not going to rise to this.

After she and Patrick had been so dramatically revealed by the dropping curtain, she had turned, picked up her bag, unplugged the keyboard and shouldered it. Then she had left the dais, carrying the keyboard. It was such a long piece of equipment that nobody could see her face or, more importantly, catch her eye.

She had simply walked back to Tracey and Larry’s house, carrying the equipment. Then she had not come out of the house again.

The phone rings.

“Who can that be?” says Belle. “Nobody ever uses the landline. Hope Grannie is okay.”

“It’s probably some electricity salesman,” observes Larry, barrelling over. He picks up the reciever.

“Hello,” says a commanding voice. “Have you fired her yet?”

“Ah, good morning Jane,” says Larry, signalling furiously for the girls and Anya to leave the kitchen, or at least, stop talking. Anya melts away.

Grace and Belle turn into one giant ear.

“What was that?” asks Larry, although he has heard her perfectly.

“I asked if you have you fired her yet. Have you fired her… your… au pair?”

She cannot name her. She spits the offensive word out.

“Jane, Jane,” says Larry in what he hopes is a placatory tone.

“Don’t Jane Jane me,” retorts his neighbour icily. “Have you fired her yet?”

Larry takes a deep breath. “No. And I don’t intend to.”

There is a dreadful silence on the other end of the line.

“It’s a free world and she is a grown woman. I’ll take a look if you like, but I don’t recall anything in her contract which says she must not kiss her neighbour… deeply,” he adds, mischeviously.

There is more silence on the line.

“Well thank you very much,” says Jane, eventually. “I am so grateful for your neighbourly support. How on earth do you think I can carry on in the Square, holding my head up when everyone has seen your… bloody au pair, of all people, snogging my husband? Have you thought about that?”

“I’m sure everyone has forgotten it already,” lies Larry. “Give it a week, Jane. Jane? Damn.”

He replaces the reciever in its cradle and wanders to the kitchen door.

“Tracey, do come down here,” he shouts.

“You should know that Jane has just called. She probably wanted you, but she got me instead. Then she slammed the phone down on me. She is in a frightful bait.”

He turns back into the kitchen, smiles at his daughters.

“This is the most excitement I can remember having since we won you know what. Marvellous stuff.”

Tracey appears in the doorway, humming happily.

“What? Do you know, I’ve just been counting the money we took last night, Larry. Lucky I was still at the door when all the… fracas happened, otherwise who knows what would happen to the cash box. Jane just abandoned it, you know. Rushed off! Anyway, we’ve made nearly a grand, that’s good isn’t it?”

“It’s marvellous,” says Larry, pulling his wife close to him and embracing her.

“You are a clever bird. And well done for snaring old Makin. Those chavs just loved him, didn’t they? And he loved them. Must have sold about twenty bloody books, the opportunist.”

“Don’t call them chavs.”

“They are chavs.”

“They are not. One of them is an old swimming friend of Belle’s. You know, Jas. Introduced her to Philip and that mad old Gilda. But you’re right. Alan was perfect.”

“Celebrity. Bring a famous person on, everyone is happy. The ideal social glue.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so. Apart from all the… stuff with Anya, last night looked like it might be heading for a very nasty face-off between Béla Bartók and a Staffordshire Bull Terrier. Very nasty indeed.”

Tracey wags a finger in his face.

“Don’t forget Gilda. It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing.”

“How could I? Bonkers. But apart from Patrick and our lovely au pair, tongues at dawn, it was the combined forces of Alan Makin and
Star Wars
which did it for me.”

Tracey giggles, remembering George’s Storm Trooper outfit.

“I love that child.”

“George?” says Larry, pouring more coffee from the Bodum Cafetiere. “He is a true original.”

He drinks his coffee, musing on George’s household.

“Poor old Patrick, though. He’s probably had such a thorough bollocking he won’t be able to sit down for weeks.”

He shakes his head, smiling.

“Don’t be so gleeful,” says Tracey. “It wasn’t a very edifying sight, frankly. Was it? I for one was just relieved that George had been taken away by Roberta.”

“Was he?”

Tracey nods. “Yes, she had whisked him off. I think he was about to faint from lack of air in that
Star Wars
suit.”

Larry laughs. “The whole evening was entirely surreal. A night of ‘talent’, headed by a B-lister from daytime television, nearly sabotaged by locals, with an injection of madness from a former Communist in an evening dress, saved by a child in a
Star Wars
outfit, only to climax with a bit of extra marital carnal activity in front of everyone. In our front garden. As it were. Extraordinary.” He pauses, considering everything. “Jane will come round.”

“Yes. I suppose so. But the joke is that Jane is hardly a saint herself.”

“What?”

“Oh, come on Larry. You must know.”

“What?”

She puts a hand fondly on his hairy forearm.

“Jane has been screwing Jay for bloody years.”

Larry chokes on his coffee.

“Bloody hell Trace,” he splutters.

Tracey gets up, goes over to the sink.

She looks out at the Square, considers its controlled beauty, its uniform regime of proportion and line. Does its severe architecture keep everyone in line, or is it simply all for show? She thinks that it is probably the latter.

“If all these front facades of the houses around here fell off, you know, as if they were suddenly blown off by a hurricane, or removed by a giant hand, you’d find that how people SEEM to live is completely different from how they ACTUALLY live.”

Larry smiles.

“Trust a true makeup artist to observe that. How long has this been going on?”

“What, Jay and Jane? Oh, I don’t know. I only found out about nine months ago.”

“How?”

“Jane told me. I think in a weak moment. I was at the Royal College of Music with Belle before her Grade exam. And Jane was there with George for the same reason. They had gone off to the warm-up room and we, we were having one of those conversations married women sometimes have, you know, about sex. She obviously wanted to tell someone about it. Either because she wanted to confess to someone, or because she wanted to show off to someone. Or a bit of both.”

They had been sitting in a sepulchral waiting room, adorned with plastic chairs and old copies of
Gramophone.
Belle was taking Grade Four, George Grade One. As they both learned with Roberta, their exams were in successive order. Roberta had taken them both to the warm-up rooms, to practise scales and arpeggios, and run through their pieces one last time, leaving Jane and Tracey to sit. Being a basement, there was no phone signal. So the two women were forced to chat to one another.