Finding Davey (13 page)

“It’s real clear over Illinois, Clint,” Pop said. “We say it’s the greatest state in the Union.”

The Chrysler was waiting at the airport. Pop dismissed the uniformed chauffeur, electing to do the driving. Mom smiled and smiled, speaking endlessly on her carry phone. Mom had two phones. Clint asked why she had two phones in her handbag.

Mom and Pop exchanged swift glances.

“In my
purse
, Clint,” she responded quickly. “Two cell phones in my
purse
? Well, Mom’s a busy lady! You’ll soon remember just how busy your Mom is!”

“Who’re you phoning?” Clint watched the scenery go by.

“Who am I
calling
?” Mom cooed. “Why, my helper lady in Tain. My secretary.”

“Tain?” It sounded strange.

“Our new home, honey. We picked it especially for you. You’ll have a bright new start. Won’t that be marvellous?”

Pop smoothly changed lanes. “Tain’s a great town, Clint. We love it, don’t we, Mom?”

“And you’ll love it too, honey.”

“See, son,” Pop explained, smiling, “I’ve my own corporation. I can handle things right from home!”

“Isn’t that great, Clint?” Mom exclaimed. “We can be together as much as we want! Most families aren’t so lucky, are they?”

“No, Mom,” Clint answered.

He was tired. His eyes closed. He’d liked the palm trees outside the clinic windows. There were birds there, near where tidy people played golf and tennis. The birds were not ducks, but sort of. The palm trees made patterns. He remembered those. The previous week he’d got out of bed and traced the outline of one with a finger on the window pane. The nurse had no crayons. Clint slipped into oblivion.

“You hear that, Pop?” Mom whispered to her husband. Tears shone in her eyes. “You hear him say it, just like that?”

“Music, Clodie, sheer music!”

“He makes us complete, Hyme.” She dabbed her eyes. “You expect no trouble relocating to Tain?”

“The usual gripes from those commission fuckers.”

“Can they affect us?” Mom was alarmed.

“It’s business, Clodie, Chrissakes, not a sewing circle. Jesus, I’d like a smoke.”

Mom warned, “Doctor said no smoking – Clint’s medication.”

She could recite Doctor’s rules over and over. Hyme’s own doctor allowed him one smoke a day.

“Tain is set up, Clodie. I might have to go back east a coupla times. My office click ware’s already installed.” Pop was silent as a huge interstate truck overtook. He allowed the vehicle to draw ahead. “I’ll kick ass if the move doesn’t go smooth.”

“Pop,” his wife reprimanded sternly, smiling fondly at the sleeping boy. “You’ll be giving
our son
bad language habits.”

Pop chuckled. “Can’t be too careful, huh?”

“No first names even when Clint’s asleep, okay? Doctor said!”

“The clinic covered every single detail. Jeez, I paid enough.”

“Pop!” his wife cried softly.

“Know what Doctor told me? He has six news clippers, do three hundred newspapers a day! Can you believe that? Every detail, for six months after an abduction.” Pop whistled. “Professionalism.”

The man glanced in the rear view mirror, adjusted it to see the child’s face.

“He’s sleeping like a babe, Clodie,” he said. “Right on course. It’s what we paid for. Just remember that.”

“How far are we?”

“Coming into Tain.” He chuckled, everything perfect. “Home!”

Any doctor’s waiting room depressed him. Nobody was there this time. No anxious fidgety woman, with her
handwashing
movements. No pots of Cyclamen along the windowsills. Bray waited.

When the receptionist called him he made an unfortunate entrance, stumbling over the smooth carpet. Dr Newton came to help, but by then he had his papers back into his plastic envelope. She must have noticed the
Scientific American
articles he’d photocopied. He stood, red of face, and was introduced to Dr Bateson.

The man was monosyllabic. They sat like chess rivals. Dr Newton made light comments about a viva voce
examination at the Royal Colleges. Bray pretended to understand the experience. Dr Bateson masked his impatience in a smile. All of us pretending away, Bray thought. The man was all but bald, his tie slack as if he was hard at work.

“Shall we get down to it?” he said eventually after pleasantries. “Your young relative’s plight. Dyslexia?”

“I should like guidance, please.” Bray indicated his plastic file. “I’ve read extracts but I’m no nearer.”

“Ask away, then.”

“A young lass helps me – with parent permission, of course – with a computer. I pay her.”

“And she’s dyslexic?”

“She colours the keyboard with special inks, varnishes. She makes the computer talk, to save having to read or type.” He waited, but neither of the doctors spoke. “She gives me lessons.”

“Are you improving, Mr Charleston?” Dr Newton asked, smiling.

“I’m terrible. She says I’m stupid. She’s quite right, of course.”

Better to say nothing about her antisocial behaviour. He wanted her dyslexia cured. The rest could wait on better times.

Dr Newton prompted, “Be frank, Mr Charleston. Dr Bateson has worked with dyslexic children for twenty years.”

“She is in difficulties,” Bray said. For all he knew doctors might have to report things to Social Services, and that would be the end of Kylee. “I don’t want her judged. I don’t really have the right. I’m not her father, you see.”

“And might you bring her here?”

“No.” Bray tried to justify his weak attitude. “I want to
know where I might go wrong talking to her. She’s been a godsend, teaching me. I couldn’t get to a proper night school.”

Dr Newton slipped in a lie, helping. “Mr Charleston has work commitments against the clock.”

“I’ve read medical textbooks, but I don’t know their words.”

“Very well,” Bateson said slowly. “How old is this girl?”

“She says fourteen, but I’m unsure. She gets annoyed if I ask.”

Bateson leant back, fingers clasped behind his head. “It used to be said that boys were the main sufferers from dyslexia, but we now know it’s in both genders.”

“What
is
it, though?”

“The brain operates in sections, Mr Charleston. The front parts govern speech output.” He tapped his brow. “There’s a patch called Broca’s Area near the front, that governs your mouth, lips, tongue – controlling speech as it comes out formed into phonemes others can comprehend. Broca’s Area helps to change the act of
seeing
a letter into a related
sound
.”

Bray had memorised a diagram on the train in.

“And there’s a special lobe of your brain,” Bateson went on, observing Bray’s alert attention, “near the crown of your head, called the parietal lobe.” He tapped his bald skin, leaning forward as if that helped Bray to see the anatomy within. Dr Newton smiled at Bray, don’t worry, keep listening. “The Angular Gyrus is there. It arranges what you see – letters, words, patterns printed on a page – so they hook up, so to speak, with various libraries of sounds a child’s brain has stored up.”

“A child’s brain stores sounds?”

“That’s it. The Angular Gyrus makes sure that a child’s
collections of sounds are hitched to the right visual. That is, the letter evokes the necessary sound. Once that’s done, the child is reading.”

“It seems simple.” Bray was edgy, wanting to ask bluntly then why was Kylee having to use colours and rely on talking machines?

“It isn’t,” Bateson said with feeling. “There’s Wernicke’s Area that analyses sounds for the brain. The more parts to the microanatomy, the more things can go wrong and cause dysfunction. We examine blood flowing through a child’s brain while he sorts out words and sounds, by functional magnetic resonance imaging. It isn’t difficult. There are other tests. We can usually discover dyslexia and the range of the defect by simpler tests that don’t require instruments.”

“Can a child be cured?”

“Vastly improved. Catch it early. Six years of age is optimal.”

Bray felt dismayed. He wasn’t so naïf that he’d come expecting Kylee to be given a simple tablet, but this was a real disappointment. The doctors exchanged glances.

“Dr Pringle Morgan described it first, in Sussex a century ago,” Dr Newton said. “The child was a bright youth of fourteen. Very good at maths, games, verbal skill. Nothing wrong with his sight. Now we try to pick it up at much younger.”

“You see, Mr Charleston,
Homo sapiens
is a relative newcomer. We evolved a mere 200,000 years since, when speech began. Writing started less than 10,000 years ago. Reading and articulacy isn’t something we come into the world ready equipped with. Parents hack it into our consciousness.”

Bray sat thinking, the doctors waiting him out. “What’s
best?”

“Support,” Bateson said immediately. He had known the question was coming.

“What does that mean?” Bray sounded testy, and apologised before going on, “Sorry. It’s a catchphrase from talk shows, isn’t it? Where somebody asks questions and an audience whoops.”

Bateson smiled. “Giving her something useful to do, use her talents and appreciate what she does.”

“Thank you.”

They exchanged civilities and Bray left. Not much, but he felt better about what he was doing. Support Kylee. He’d do that, in exchange for her help. She’d regaled him with crude jokes about dyslexia clinics her parents had insisted on when she’d been eleven. It had made her ill. He’d have to do what he could.

Support. Sounded easy, if you said it quick.

Lottie Vinson – how she hated that name! – wished the woman on TV nothing but chin spots, stubby eyelashes and moles. The woman was thin-lipped anyway, a bad sign. Her talk-show interrogator was a tall lawyer, silver of hair and glib with his limited-intelligence and catchphrases (“When your husband left and your children loathed you, how did you feel?” among today’s imbecilities).

The woman said the unforgivable, a ragbag word. “My marriage collapsed.”

Nobody, least of all the besuited wart, asked what the hell she meant by “collapsed”. Why not? New girls in publishing either learned how to define and so got on, or they didn’t and stayed useless typists. She scrutinised the woman’s garb, looking for reasons to hate her some more.

Now, Lottie, she admonished herself, cut it out. What’s she ever done to you? It’s her few seconds of fame, let her be. Despite her better intentions, Lottie found her eyes drawn to the screen, so irritably switched off.

Meeting Bray Charleston had made her edgy.

She watched the estuary, standing at her window. Several boats were out, one of them Bill Iggo’s, with whom
she’d spent time and lived to regret it. Difficult to shelve Bill, but she’d managed it.

Her husband Stanley was living it up in Powell River, Canada. The divorce, a product of differing careers, had been dismayingly amicable. The children, Ian and Barbara, were frequent visitors to him, neither settled down yet. Maybe that too was the modern thing, roam until those first wrinkle lines appeared and party invitations dried up, then find an afterthought partner, pretend it was young love at last? Decent jobs, both, thank God. They visited her when the mood took. She was shocked, realising she didn’t care if they came or not.

How irritating, that a twerp like Lindsay in editorial had the nerve to shunt Bray Charleston to her. Jesus, Lottie thought angrily, I’ve run the entire office in my time, you pompous whizzkid! They’d forgotten that. Retirement meant goodnight nurse, then who’s this ageing face at reunions? That’s what they think.

That she’d been slipped this drogue was Lindsay’s clue: your only purpose, Lottie, is to handle the doubtfuls. Retirees were for reading scripts from fading agents, and provide polite but chilling rejections. Yet this man’s tale sounded vaguely something, with its brief track record. Quite likely, Lindsay was merely making sure she didn’t drop a clanger that might cripple her promotion.

If the little project went well, who’d get the praise? Why, good old – no,
young
– Lindsay! If it went calamitously bad, well, had Lottie Vinson
ever
amounted to much? Forget her.

Lottie felt unsettled, troubled. Something wasn’t right.

Strange how the quiet cabinet maker – he’d said joiner, she must get the OED – kept coming to mind. And his remote stepsister, Sharlene, who evidently hadn’t to be
approached at all costs. And Charleston’s determination to promote his stepsister’s stories. Did he have the slightest idea how many new writers tilted that particular windmill?

Except he seemed embarrassed, feeling his stuttering way. And more than determined. Was there a word for that grave look of his, that readiness for endless setbacks? Like, when she’d explained that manuscript-to-book took a year maybe, his response had been odd, to say the least.

Anybody else would have nodded eagerly, said fine, they’d go along with that. Bray Charleston had stayed silent, then said, “There’s another way.”

“What?” She’d laughed at the arrogance of the man. “Tell me!”

“I don’t know,” he’d replied evenly.

Weird, yet not weird. No word came to mind. Implacability? Resolve?

Watching Bill Iggo’s ketch – two bunks in it, she remembered, wincing – preparing to tack, she thought of the impression Bray Charleston had conveyed, with his embarrassments and his ignorance.

Bray Charleston was in for keeps, she thought. That was it. For keeps. She’d read of his missing grandson, Davey was it? Local papers had Bray’s picture. Was this children’s book thing by way of compensation and guilt? Yet guilt, for keeps, must be wrong.

He stayed in her mind.

The lady in the next trailer was called Charmianne. (“That’s the spelling, Jim,” once they’d said hello.) She grew pansies and wanted to share plants. She offered to paint the stones white near his one step. He declined, told her he was still thinking, like he was planning a shuttle launch. She understood, but said it like a threat; he wasn’t
off the hook yet, no sir. He avoided her.

The trailer park was smart, the investment company choosing pretty well. He’d never been into golf, but went over, listened to the talk, had a beer. Occasionally he ate there, met folk at the leisure centre, getting into the place. He walked. He walked some more. He talked with people who’d got dogs, should he get one for company, finally pleaded allergies and folk said shame but what could you do with allergies? Doctor’s fees killed you.

He called Bray, grimaced with chagrin at the phone bill. He had a cold beer immediately after. Strange, but he wanted to ask Bray if it was true they drank their beer warm, did he go bowling and was his bowling on grass he’d heard some guy say in the Army Air Force, and did they bowl to nine pins in them old English pubs, was that right?

Days after his retirement pension finally came through he took down his photocopied file, C for Charleston. The guy was a carpenter, made furniture. Seemed the sort who’d keep coming. He phoned on the dot, kept saying sorry if the time was inconvenient. Jim thought, how long can he keep this up?

The day before he left, Jim had gone to see his replacement in the missing kids section. She was pleased with herself. No, she hadn’t checked through the list, give her a moment to settle in. He offered to tell her what he could about the cases. She said sharply she didn’t want patronising, meaning piss off out the building.

He’d wished her luck, gave her his trailer-home number. Over and out.

The map he’d brought with him, he didn’t want to put up – Charmianne might peer in and wonder what the hell. He kept a police badge, a farewell replica. Originals had to be handed in. He marked the medical clinics on the map,
some hundreds, and compiled a key for addresses.

Nine o’clock he felt a whole lot better, decided to walk to the leisure bar for some live company. Tomorrow he’d start an alphabetic list of the people running those clinics. Maybe no use, just keeping going like Bray. Must be catching.

Balance was everything to a hunter, a realisation that took Bray by surprise. Some progress seemed founded on daft premises. Some came at breakneck speed.

Think of it, though. Like Hereward the Wake, mediaeval hero of the English fen country, stealing through the wetlands while wicked Normans scoured the terrain. Some nights, mustn’t he have wilted, fagged out, against some damp alder? Perhaps the lulling of distant bells for vespers, cattle lowing homeward – surely, just for one fleeting moment, mustn’t the great outlaw have thought, sod it, rest a while, dream of a cottage fireside and a loving woman? Weakness must have fragged Hereward’s resolve.

But history
knows
that he didn’t. He kept the balance of the hunter. How do we know? Because after a thousand years he’s still legendary Hereward
the Wake
, not Hereward the Dozer who took time off and got caught. Hereward remained at liberty.

So it was that, sternly correcting his balance of time, commitment, Bray gave Lottie Vinson the sequel by the Barbican restaurant fountains, astonishing her.

“She’s finished it?” Lottie marvelled.

Balance, Bray remembered, his lies even better this time. “Sharlene plans her days.”

“I suppose she has to.” Lottie looked at the folder. “These drawings! D and A want to re-do them.” She saw
his puzzlement. “Design and Art do graphics.”

“No,” Bray said gently. It was unthinkable. He would have to fight this.

“They’re worried about tints, densities.” Lottie too had the bit between her teeth. She kept going, leafing away, taken aback at the colour. “Can Sharlene do a conference call? Georgina’s a brilliant pictorial girl. She says that in nine months it’d be really something.”

“Lottie.” In a way, rejection would make things easier. Costlier, but he and Mr Corkhill could race ahead. “Sharlene says no delay.”

“Can’t we ask her?” They strolled along the waterside. Ducks came to pester. “It takes only a second to phone.”

Bray stared at the noisy mallards. Maybe publishers were a mistake. Maybe he should have gone on alone, him and Corkhill’s printing firm, his phoney orders from
nonexistent
buyers, Kylee’s flurry of attention-seeking on the Internet thing. But might he run out of money within reach of Davey?

The mallards also lost balance. One drake, desperate, rushed at Bray’s shoe. Bray carefully didn’t move, so as not to hurt the foolish creature. Yet wasn’t the poor thing also striving for balance? Pestering could become begging, begging turn into demand, a demand into war. Ducks, and Bray, were each in conflict zones.

“Her answer must do, Lottie,” he said, realising he hadn’t spoken for a long time. “Shall I get some food for these creatures?”

“Talking couldn’t do any harm.”

Bray was not as prepared as he’d thought. “It would serve no purpose.” He started inside the building. A bread roll would do it. Did they eat cheese? “She’s determined.”

“I understand that, Bray. They can do draft proposals.
She could fax us back directly.”

He faced her. “Sorry, Lottie. I’ve had it all out with her.”

She glanced at the folder in her hand. “It might be turned down.”

He thought, better to hear it now. “I’m sorry.” Sorrier than he’d thought he could ever be. “Sharlene is adamant. Nothing added, nothing cut.”

“A tough lady.”

He felt rueful, holding the restaurant door for her. “I want it printed and out.”

“The ink wet?” She laughed, shaking her head. “Lindsay’ll really know I’ve lost it!”

“I’ll feed the ducks, then would you like a bite?” This was as smooth as he could get. “I’ve got time owing.”

She said that would be lovely, and sat by the window to watch him give the importuning drake some bread. When he returned she was well into the second KV tale. She kept wondering about this stepsister, so close at such an impossible distance.