Think Yourself Lucky (31 page)

"We aren't talking about that, Susan." As his mother makes to respond Stephanie says "And I wouldn't want to ruin your celebration."

"Now you're sounding like David," his mother says as if this is a hopeful sign. "You won't ruin anything by telling the truth."

Perhaps Stephanie realises the Bothams have had quite a lot to drink.

She's visibly making allowances as she says "I think I'd rather leave it if you don't mind."

"I thought you didn't believe in having any secrets," David reminds her.

"I must have learned my lesson." All the same, he has provoked her to say "I'm afraid this was how we ended up carrying on."

"How was that?" David's father seems to feel expected to ask.

"I got to sample his new personality before it went public. You were testing it out, were you, David? Perhaps I should have felt privileged."

"I should think it can be difficult to live with a writer," David's father offers.

"Maybe not as hard as being one," David's mother insists.

"There's nothing easier than being myself," David says, "now I know who I am."

His parents are eager to argue with that, but it's Stephanie who says "Then it shouldn't be too hard for you to tell Susan and Alan what they really want to know."

"I don't find it that interesting to talk about," David says, "to tell you the truth."

His mother takes a fiercely audible breath while his father looks as if he's wincing from a blow in the face. Stephanie regains her poise before David can glimpse any other reaction, a professional performance that puts him none too favourably in mind of Andrea. "Have a lovely birthday, Susan," she says. "If you'll excuse me, I'm needed in the kitchen."

"We hope we'll see you again very soon," David's mother calls after her, and murmurs "Did you honestly have to say that, David?"

"Yes, I honestly did."

"Well, I don't think I understand you." Even more reproachfully she says "And I want to understand."

"We both do," says his father.

"I know you do. That's your job."

"It has nothing to do with the job," his father protests. "We had you. We brought you up."

"We're still your parents. We still feel responsible for you."

"Then don't. Only I am," David says and finds he can manage to add "But of course you're my parents. That's why I'm here."

"We just want to know why you've changed," his mother persists. "Was it having so much death around you?"

"Susan only had her clients' deaths to cope with, and she's over those," his father says. "You had the girl at work and I suppose Stephanie's boss as well."

David hears them training their expertise on him. "I haven't changed."

"David, you have," his mother says low but passionately. "Sometimes you seem like nobody we know."

"Maybe you should have known him." As David sees doubt that could become suspicion in his father's eyes, he adds "This has been me since before I was born. I couldn't own up to it, that's all. Now aren't you going to cut your cake?"

His mother transfers three slices to plates and passes one to him. It's as delicious as he would expect from Stephanie: light sponge, icing with a citrus tang, cinnamon in the cream. Perhaps thoughts of the chef are making his mother almost wistful enough to voice them. He's beset by memories himself, not least of how Stephanie gave him the ultimatum of seeking psychiatric help after his night in the park. Even if he'd convinced her that he'd missed his footing on wet leaves on the bridge, he hadn't been able to hide the consequences that had overtaken him. Being hurtfully honest was the only way he could be sure of saving her from worse.

As soon as he has finished his helping of cake he stands up. "I'll leave you to enjoy the rest of your birthday."

"I enjoyed this part as well," his mother tries to assure him.

"I'm glad. I just need to get home now and work."

He's afraid that if he stays much longer he'll have to hear them talk about their clients. He doesn't want to think about those—to need to deal with his views about them. He kisses his mother and hugs his father and insists on paying the bill. While he's at the cash desk he hears his mother murmuring "Do you think there's anyone else?"

For a disoriented moment he wonders if she has his mental state in mind, and then he realises she's talking about Stephanie "I should think so," his father seems to regret having to say, "after nearly a year."

David hopes Stephanie has found someone else, if only so that he can forget about her. When he steps out of the Sunshine restaurant the sun is setting beyond the roofless church. As the crimson glow sinks through the arch of an unglazed window it looks as if the void within the walls is drawing the sun down. He's passing We're Still Left when the last of the sunlight goes out, and he almost collides with a man who's emerging from the bookshop. It's Len Kinnear.

At first he seems determined to ignore David. He makes to move a display of second-hand books from the pavement into the shop, and then he stares at David. "It's you, isn't it," he declares.

"I don't know who else you think I could be."

"I mean it's you that's writing for that rag. Mr Nasty from the north."

"That's one of the things they call me."

"I knew it couldn't be anyone else. Recognised your style of rant from the first time I met you. So you've decided you're a writer after all."

"I had to be honest. It's the only way to live."

"Still too good for the rest of us, I suppose, now you've made such a name for yourself."

"More like too bad."

"That's what you're trying to be, is it? Must be a chore, having to think that stuff every week."

"Not just then."

"I hope you're not complaining. Think yourself lucky you've got a writing job that pays. In fact I'd say you were a few kinds of lucky."

"Which do you have in mind?"

"There aren't many bloggers that get picked up for print. Lucky for you it's a new paper that wanted to get noticed. Only there's better ways to do that than slagging everybody off and everything as well. I keep wondering how much of that stuff you really think."

"All of it, believe me, and that includes what I said about your writers' group."

He mustn't hold anything back. Kinnear lifts a carton of books off the trestle table and gives him a parting stare. "Watch out you don't get a brick through your window with that kind of talk, and maybe a bit more."

"If I do I'll know where to find who's responsible," David says and heads downhill.

The route to the station takes him past Frugogo. He considers crossing to the opposite side of the street, though what would this avoid? The window of the agency is almost covered with posters for holiday offers, but he's just able to make out the staff through the gaps. Helen sees him first, and looks away at once, tilting her head in that direction too. Bill takes back his automatic grin, and then Andrea notices him. She leaves the racks of brochures and strides to the door as if she means to move him on, presumably demonstrating how she won't let his presence trouble her. As she shuts the door behind her she coughs a warning. "Revisiting the scene of the crime?" she says.

"I didn't know there'd been any here."

"What would you call how you spoke to everyone?" Before David can answer, if he has any reason to, she says "You make a living at it now, do you? Are we supposed to call you Lucky Botham now?"

"That's one of my names."

"It's the one you seem to want the world to know. I'm afraid I know it so I know what I don't want to read."

"I thought you liked your men unrestrained. How is Rex, by the way?"

"I won't discuss my personal relations with you, David. I'll call you that if you don't mind."

"Maybe I ought to. Shouldn't you call your customers whatever they tell you?"

"If you plan to book a holiday through us, and obviously I hope you do, I'd rather you didn't use my branch."

"You've got enough business even without me here to help you, then."

"We're doing satisfactorily, thank you," Andrea says and emits a cough that sounds decidedly final. "Now I must get back to work."

"Then there's two of us."

She can't know why he accompanies this with a dry laugh. As she turns her back he imagines helping her into the shop by propelling her through the pane of glass. So long as he envisions the spectacle and feels the elation it brings, it won't take place. Surely he needn't write about it to make sure; he can't think even
Print
would publish that. "Keep your head up, Helen," he calls as Andrea opens the door. "Don't be niggardly with your sniggers, Bill."

He's almost at the station when he hears the evangelist ranting in the distance. The preacher should be safe; he was in one of the first instalments of
Bad Thoughts
, though how long can the effect be trusted to endure? As David makes for the ramp down to the station he's accosted by a woman selling the
Big Issue
. "You'd be better off with
Print
," he tells her. "That's where you'll find the real truth. Just read Lucky Botham's
Bad Thoughts
and maybe you'll find yourself."

She seems not to understand that much English. David marches vigorously enough for two men down the ramp. A slot in the top of a barrier swallows his ticket, and a further slit returns it to the world. On the escalator and the platform he's as alone as he ever feels these days, and he even has a carriage to himself on the train. "Still in there, are you?" he mutters. "That's where you'll be staying. If I can't get rid of you, at any rate I can keep you where you'll do the least harm."

He has to believe that, otherwise the sense of constant infestation would be unbearable. Often it very nearly is, not least because he knows that in a way it's himself. The train speeds out of the tunnel into a larger darkness that the lights of houses alongside the track hardly seem to touch. Soon he's at the station where the lamps above the car park line up plots of shadow beneath the vehicles. The artificial glare displays how flawless his car looks now that the scrape on the door has been repaired and painted over—as flawless as innocence. He could almost fancy that the accident never happened, that none of the repercussions of the last year did. He has no right to think so, and as he drives home past Dent's house the empty windows and the For Sale board seem to send him a rebuke.

He has braked in the middle of the deserted road and is about to back into his drive when Mrs Robbins comes out of her house. With a bag of garbage in either hand she can't help reminding him of a parody of justice. He lowers the window to call "Always more rubbish."

She lets the lid of the bin drop with a slam and scowls at him. "I think that's your speciality, Mr Botham."

"You'll have to explain."

"All the things you've been writing. Everybody knows it's you."

"I wouldn't want it any other way. I don't mean to hide what I think."

"You won't make many friends round here like that."

"I haven't got too many elsewhere either," David says, though the amount of support he's attracted in the paper and online has taken him aback, not to mention the tone, some of which makes Newless seem restrained. "So can I ask what you've read of me?"

"Not a word. I've been told about it and that's more than enough. I don't think you'll find it round here."

"I should think Slocombe's stock it. He doesn't like to be told not to sell anything."

"I hope he's got more sense than to offend us that pay his wages."

"We'll find out," David says and shuts the window. He feels as if not just Mrs Robbins has prompted him to drive to Slocombe's Open All Hours. He parks in front of the stained concrete parade and skids on an abandoned greasy chip from Ho's as he makes for the general store. In the dull colourless light from the street the magazines and packets of food in the window look more forsaken than ever. As David steps across the grubby threshold Slocombe lifts his head to peer across the counter. His broad flat face seems almost as squashed as the crumpled canvas hat pulled down nearly to his exaggerated eyebrows. "What can I get you today?" he says.

David can't see
Print
among the publications spread across the half of the counter unoccupied by sweets. "You can tell me if you're selling me."

"Selling you." In case this isn't sufficiently incredulous Slocombe says "We sell to people, we don't sell them," and for good measure adds "Hello?"

When did he start saying that? Perhaps he learned the usage from a younger member of the family. David can't think of a verbal habit that infuriates him more, but he says only "I don't mean me personally. I was hoping you sold
Print
."

"Print."

"The weekly that's been surprising the trade with how well it sells."

"I know what it is." Apparently Slocombe is too affronted to bother echoing any of David's words. He yanks his hat an inch higher and squints under the brim at David. "Are you the character that writes for them?" he demands. "Someone said they lived round here."

"I'm one of them."

"One of them." Slocombe makes this sound like quite an insult. "Well," he says, "you won't be finding yourself in here."

"May I ask why?"

"Why." At first Slocombe seems to find the question too outrageous to answer. "They showed us a copy," he says. "We might have taken it till we saw what you did."

"And what are you saying I did?"

"Did." The word appears to be another source of outrage. "If you have to think that kind of thing about people you should keep it to yourself," Slocombe declares. "Even better, don't think it at all."

"I give you my word you wouldn't like it if I did."

"Word." Slocombe frowns as if his brows can squeeze his puzzlement to nothing, and then he abandons trying to understand. "You've been giving us too many of them," he says, "Maybe you'll upset so many people you'll be made to stop."

David can only vow not to let himself be silenced. "If that's what you want, maybe you should stock the magazine."

"That won't be happening." Slocombe has grown too impatient to waste time with an echo. "Now if you want to buy something, this is still a shop," he says. "Hello?"