Familiar Rooms in Darkness (39 page)

Adam surveyed the worn, preternaturally handsome features. ‘Don't you ever feel like giving it up?'

‘No. I might start to grow old. Besides, bills to pay, parties to throw. You know.'

Adam got out and fetched his bags from the boot. He leaned through the passenger window. ‘Thanks for the ride. And for listening to all my problems concerning the biography.'

‘Old Uncle Richard, ever ready with a sympathetic ear. We had a blast.'

‘I'll call you soon.'

Compton-King raised a hand in salute, then roared off down the road.

Adam went upstairs to his flat. It was blissfully silent. The cupboards were empty of Megan's clothes, except for one or two small items. How quickly a woman could disappear from one's life. Not even a trace left in his heart. He went to his bag and took out the piece of paper on which he'd written the number of Bella's house in France, then picked up the phone.

It was wonderful just to hear her voice again.

‘I'm missing you already,' said Adam.

‘I wish you could have stayed longer. It's strange without you. Charlie asked me what I was moping about this morning, so I told him.'

‘About us?'

‘Yes. I had to tell someone. You know that feeling.'

‘Yes.'

‘So my brother seemed like the best person.'

‘Not your other brother?'

‘Derek's different… It won't always be like that, I
hope, but no – for the moment I just told Charlie. He said that anyone whose absence made me this miserable must be good for me.'

Adam smiled. ‘Ring me as soon as you get back to London.'

The next day Adam sat down with the sheaf of notes he'd compiled during his stay in France. He re-examined Frank's India story, then rang Leila, one of the women who had formed part of Harry's household in Simla many long years ago, in the days of flower power and swamis and the dream of universal love, and whom he'd managed to track down a couple of months previously. She was a housewife now, living in Croydon with three children and a husband who ran a chain of dry-cleaning shops. Though not much good on detail, in her initial interview with Adam she'd provided him with some good insights into Harry's character. Adam knew it was probably against the odds that she would have any specific recollection of Frank McVeigh's brother's friend after all this time, but it was worth a try.

‘Leila, this is Adam Downing. We spoke a couple of months ago about Harry Day.'

‘Oh, yes.'

‘Look, I've been speaking to someone who mentioned a specific incident which occurred while Harry was living in India, and I wondered if you had any recollection of it.' Adam sketched out the story which Frank had told him.

‘To be honest,' said Leila, ‘it's so long ago, and so many people came to visit… I can't remember them all.'

‘Yes, of course. But this boy stayed for some months. It seems he may have become – well, sexually involved with Harry.' He waited. Nothing of this kind had ever been mentioned in his previous conversation with Leila, no suggestion that Harry was anything more than a benign, paternal figure in the household in India. The silence stretched out. ‘Leila? Is that true?'

‘Yes,' replied Leila slowly. ‘But I still can't help you.'

‘Why not? If you know that, then you must remember the boy.'

He waited several seconds for her answer.

‘There was more than one. It could have been any one of them. I don't know what happened after Harry got tired of them, got rid of them.'

Adam struggled to absorb this. ‘But – you didn't mention any of this when we last spoke…'

She sighed a deep, dispirited sigh. ‘I didn't want anyone thinking badly of Harry. He was such a great man, you can't understand… The things he taught me, all that wisdom.' Her voice shook with all the earnest wistfulness of the gullible young woman she had once been. ‘It wasn't his fault.'

‘So there were young men who came to visit, whom Harry seduced –'

‘They were stupid, they got into something they didn't understand. Harry wasn't like other people. He had his own rules, his own standards. People just couldn't measure up to them… Look, I didn't say anything about this before because I didn't want you to write about it, or people to read about it. They'd just get the wrong idea about Harry. It's impossible to explain how things were
then. No one would understand. I don't want you to quote anything I've said. I'll just deny it.'

‘But–'

‘I really don't want to talk to you any more. That time was very special to me. I don't want to destroy the memory of it. Please don't call me again.'

And she hung up.

Bella came back at the weekend, and Adam went round to see her as soon as she got back.

‘It seems like weeks since last Tuesday,' she said, kissing him.

He marvelled at how inadequate and imperfect his recollected thoughts of her had been. The reality of her was so fresh, so vivid and lovely. He kissed her. ‘So, how have the last few days been?'

‘Good. It's been worthwhile. A crowded couple of weeks, but worthwhile.' She smiled. ‘Derek and the girls enjoyed themselves. They may come out again next summer.'

‘I thought you and Charlie were selling the house?'

‘That was before Claire saw it. She's rather fallen in love with the place, and is apparently not quite so keen on Charlie selling up his share just to fund a mansion in Surrey. No doubt she's already combing
Country Life
for something more modest, but still sufficiently poncy.'

‘She's not too bad.'

‘No, she's all right, I suppose. A bit too aspirational and class-conscious. Charlie has the same tendencies.'

‘Maybe Derek will be a good influence.'

‘Mmm. Meeting Derek has had quite an effect on
Charlie. I think, for the first time in his life, Charlie's looked outside himself and seen how it could be, where he came from, and how lucky he is. He hasn't said a great deal to me, but I get the feeling he rather looks up to Derek. He likes that, the big-brother thing.'

‘And what does Derek think about Charlie?'

‘That I don't know. I'll find out when I see him next week. After that, when we meet up, I hope it'll always be the three of us.' Bella glanced at Adam. ‘Don't worry. I'm realistic. I don't hope for great things. Just enough. Just enough not to lose the connection. So, how's the biography going? Unearthed any more dark secrets?'

‘It's progressing,' said Adam. What else could he say? He gazed at her fixedly for a moment. He hadn't really given any thought over the past few days to the possible effect of his work on their new relationship. But the way things were going… The outrage and wrath of Briony and Cecile – those were things he could distance himself from. But Bella's reaction? She was the one person he should be able to sit down and discuss this with, but that seemed impossible. Not now, and not in the foreseeable future.

Adam was sitting in his study the next day, wondering whether he could interest the
Sunday Times
in a feature on Aldous Huxley and drugs, when the phone rang. It was Charlie.

‘Adam? Hi, listen, I'm just on my way into court, so I'll keep this short. Remember that schoolfriend of mine I told you about, James Gifford? Well, I've managed to track him down. He's teaching at a boarding school near
Slough, called – hold on, I've got it here… Ravensbourne College. I'll give you the number.' Adam reached for a pen and took down the number. ‘A friend gave me the information, so if you do get in touch, he won't know who you are. I have to dash. Bye.'

‘Bye.' Adam put the phone down and stared at the paper on which he'd written down the number. There was probably nothing in it, mere base speculation on his own part, and he would doubtless be wasting his time. None the less, fifteen minutes later, he picked up the telephone, rang the number, and was put through to the Masters' Common Room.

At Gifford's invitation, Adam drove to Slough later that day, wondering what kind of questions he was going to ask.
Tell me, were you ever sexually molested by the great Harry Day? My readers would like to know
. The fact was, he thought, if the man had any dark secrets concerning Harry Day, he probably wouldn't have agreed to see Adam in the first place.

It was the end of August, and the school was still deserted. James Gifford greeted Adam and led him down echoing corridors to his study.

‘Somewhat spartan, I'm afraid. I think of it as my monastic cell.' Gifford, tall, soft-faced and dark-eyed, looking not a great deal like George Michael, showed Adam in. The study was small and austere, the walls lined with books, with no more furniture than an old leather-topped desk and a swivel chair, and a low coffee table in front of a squat sofa. None the less, the room possessed a certain charm, an old-fashioned and mournful
quality. The open window looked out across playing fields and a line of summer trees.

‘School's quiet, of course,' said Gifford. ‘The boys don't come back till Wednesday. Please–' He gestured towards the sofa, and Adam sat down and drew his tape recorder from his pocket. James Gifford sat in the swivel chair and gazed at Adam with mild interest.

‘It's good of you to see me,' said Adam. ‘I've been working on this biography for a year now, but your name only came up the other day.' Adam placed his tape recorder on the table in front of him. ‘Mind if I switch this on?'

James Gifford glanced at it with what seemed like faint apprehension, then nodded. ‘Go ahead.'

‘You were at school with Harry Day's son, Charlie, I believe?'

‘That's right. I was at Uppingham from '83 to '88. Charlie came around '84, '5, something like that.'

‘And you spent several half-term holidays at Gandercleugh?'

‘Yes. I think I must have been there six or seven times, in all.'

‘Tell me what you remember about those holidays, particularly about Harry. Charlie says you had quite a close relationship with his father?'

Gifford glanced down at his fingers. They were long and white, the nails not quite clean. ‘Yes. He was a very charismatic man. I was rather star-struck, I think, when I first met him. I'd read all his books. He'd just been shortlisted for the Booker Prize.
Adventures Of
…'

‘How old were you then?'

‘Fourteen. I mean, looking back, I'm not sure I could really have understood the themes he was dealing with in that book – not properly, as an adult would.' Gifford gave a little laugh. ‘But he was incredibly patient. I would sit expounding all my half-baked adolescent theories about literature and writing, and he never patronized me. We talked a lot about politics, I recall. He'd been a member of the Communist party, just like Amis, but he never quite lost the faith, as Amis did. My God, I blush to recall how I actually had the temerity to accuse him of political hypocrisy, enjoying fame and wealth and at the same time espousing the socialist cause, while I ate his food and played on his tennis court.' Gifford shook his head. ‘That was later, though, when I knew him somewhat better. When I was sixteen or so…'

The tape wound on, reeling in Gifford's hazy account of conversations, meals, outings, acts of kindness, heated discussions about politics and drugs, none of it startling or revelatory. Adam watched Gifford, whose drifting gaze never touched Adam's, but now and then fell meditatively upon the tape recorder; he watched the odd twitch which touched his mouth whenever he smiled, the pale fingers twisting as he spoke. The words came out, a prosaic but charming account of adolescent hero worship, marked with self-deprecation and wistful sentiment. Adam listened, asking the odd question, letting the story unfold, and realized as he did so how much this man wanted to talk about Harry – and how little of it had anything to do with whatever it was that lay, dark and still, at the core of Gifford's memory. Twenty minutes ticked by; forty. There came a pause, a loss of momentum, as though
whatever had impelled Gifford to invite Adam here had suddenly wound down, broken. There was just silence. The tape spun.

Adam, when they had begun this conversation, had not expected to be able to ask the question which he asked now.

‘Tell me–' began Adam, watching as James Gifford wound his fingers together, over and over, ‘–was there ever anything inappropriate in your relationship with Charlie Day's father?'

Gifford fixed his gaze on the view from the window, as though straining to see something in the far distance. Trying not to let someone see your tears, thought Adam. Gifford shook his head, as though he didn't trust himself to speak. Still the fingers went on folding, twisting. He suddenly reached down and, fumbling for a second, pressed the ‘stop' button on Adam's recorder.

‘Is that the kind of question a biographer asks?' Gifford's voice was unsteady, but he let his gaze meet Adam's.

‘There's no question I can't ask. People needn't always answer.'

For some seconds James Gifford struggled to find words. ‘Harry Day did a great deal for me. He – he read my poems. He pushed me to believe in myself, my ideas. I didn't have a lot of self-confidence in those days. Not a great deal now…' Gifford's laugh was almost soundless. He paused, frowning. ‘He made me see that literature is something incandescent, absolutely transforming, that it can change people for good or ill. He introduced me to writers, ideas, gave me a perspective on the world
which no one else had ever done.' There was a new undercurrent of passion in Gifford's voice. ‘That is a great deal to give a boy, someone who was essentially quite lonely, far from home…' Again he fastened his gaze on something far beyond the window. ‘I was impressed, naturally, overwhelmed. Overwhelmed with kindness. I was grateful. One doesn't wish to offend. At fifteen, one is–' He stopped. There was a long silence, stretching out over minutes.