Tyme's End (12 page)

After I'd signed it I folded it up into a little thick square and shoved it into one of the posh envelopes I'd nicked off Granddad ages ago. I sealed it and scrawled the address on it and then put it in my bag, where I wouldn't stare at it and change my mind. I knew I shouldn't send it. But I was scared that if I didn't, sooner or later I'd write something even worse.

I hate you. You bastard, I wish you were dead. I hate you.

Even what I'd written was better than that.

.

For weeks after that I waited for a reply, half hoping, half dreading it. Dad hadn't answered my other letters – but this one was different. He had to answer this one, surely. But I'd come down to breakfast every morning and there'd be nothing, or just a postcard from Auntie Jo in America, or a bank statement addressed to Granddad that he'd left for me because the money was invested in my name. But there wasn't anything from Dad. He didn't care enough to answer. And by the time Granddad went on his book tour I'd almost forgotten I'd sent it.

Granddad left a couple of weeks before the end of term, just before our exams started. He'd been excited all week – like a kid about to go on holiday – rushing around leaving piles of things everywhere (books, socks, and teabags, for some reason) and making copious notes for Rosina (in Spanish,
por supuesto
) every time he thought of something else I'd need while he was away.

But the morning when he left was different. It was ridiculously early – about four in the morning – but I hadn't slept well and in the end I got up to see him off. He was sitting in the kitchen waiting for the taxi, with a big cafetière of coffee and what looked like his tenth cigarette. I gave him a kind of salute and went over to open the window. It was already light-ish, but rainy, and water spattered in over the windowsill.

I said, ‘Morning.'

Granddad didn't smile. He ground the end of his cigarette into the ashtray and immediately lit another. ‘You're up early. Revision?'

I rolled my eyes, like,
Yeah, right, revision at four in the morning.
‘No, Granddad, I got up to see you off. You're going to America, remember?'

‘How kind.'

I shot a look at him to see if he was being sarcastic, but he was just staring blank-faced at the wall. ‘Well, I thought so.'

A silence.

Eventually, against my better judgement, I said, ‘Are you OK?'

‘I'm not sure . . . yes, yes, of course, Olly. I'm perfectly – indeed. I was simply – would you like some coffee?' His voice was slack, skating over the consonants. For a horrible second I thought he was drunk.

‘Thanks.' It was all I could think of to say. I poured myself a cup of coffee, staring at him sideways. Jesus, was he
ill
? ‘Is it – I mean, how long's the flight?'

‘Eight hours or so.'

I knew it wasn't that, anyway; Granddad loved flying. I swallowed and coughed: the coffee was so strong I could hardly drink it. I said, ‘What's up?'

He looked at me then. ‘I . . .' He tailed off. For a moment I was sure he was going to say more; then he shrugged and carried on smoking his cigarette as if that was his highest priority.

‘Is it about leaving me? I'll be fine. You can't just – I'll be fine. I don't – ' I stopped. ‘Seriously, what's the matter, Granddad?'

‘Oh – nightmare,' he said, and gave a little laugh. ‘Absurd, at my age. Nothing of any import.' But his eyes slid away from mine.

‘About going to America?'

‘About leaving you on your own.' A beat, then he tapped his ash into the ashtray. ‘But, as you say, Olly, you will be fine. As, I hope, will I. So there is no need to discuss it further.'

‘Are you scared I'll make Rosina let me live on chips and ice cream?'

Granddad shook his head. ‘I can't say that was my main preoccupation.'

‘Ah well,' I said, ‘maybe you
should
be scared. Of that, I mean.'

‘Believe me, young Oliver, you couldn't stand up to Rosina any more than I can. That woman is formidable. In fact I have a sneaking suspicion that she's descended from the Borgias – an illegitimate branch, of course.' It wasn't quite as casual as it should have been; but it stopped me saying anything else.

By the time the taxi came he looked better: less grey, less drawn. He stubbed his cigarette out carefully in the ashtray on the hall table, gave me a brisk kiss on my forehead, and picked up his case. ‘Goodbye then, Olly. Look after yourself.'

‘Yep.'

‘Any problems, contact me or Robin at Reid Hartley –'

‘At Reid Hartley. Yes, I know, Granddad, the number's in the black book –'

‘And –' He stopped suddenly, and the pause got longer and longer. I'd never seen him at such a loss for words: as if he'd suddenly been transplanted into a foreign country, where he didn't speak the language. It was strange to watch.

‘Granddad.' I tried to laugh. ‘Get into the taxi. I'll be fine.'

He put his bag down.

‘
Granddad
. The taxi's waiting.' More silence. ‘Call me from New York, OK?'
Just go,
I thought.
Just go.
‘I thought you said you were perfectly –'

‘So I did.' Granddad nodded. ‘Very well.' He ruffled my hair, then turned away. ‘See you in July, then. Goodbye.'

‘Goodbye,' I said. He glanced back at me as the taxi driver slung his case into the boot of the car, then beamed, unexpectedly, like a light coming on. It made everything all right. I grinned back, waved, thumbed my nose, and then waved with both hands, widely, as the taxi went down the street. Granddad waved back, flapping his travelling hat at me through the back window. He was still smiling his wide, warming, unfakeable smile.

That wasn't the last time I saw Granddad. But I wish it had been.

.

‘All right, ladies and gentlemen,' Mr Fletcher said, ‘put down your pens –
now
. You know the drill: papers on your desks –'

Possibly he carried on speaking, but the noise of twenty chairs being pushed noisily away from twenty desks drowned him out. I got up and fought my way to the door, through clusters of people, then stood outside in the corridor, waiting for Adeel. I heard him say, ‘What do you mean, the
Allies
won the Second World War? Oh my
God
, Eithne, you're joking, right?' before he sauntered over to me, still laughing. ‘Hey, Olly, how was it for you?'

‘Fine.'

‘Looking forward to the
partay
?'

‘Yeah. Gotta go home and change first.'

‘Yeah.' Adeel grinned at me. ‘Good idea. And bring some decent drink, OK? I'm really skint, and –'

‘I'll see what I can do.'

‘No, really, something decent. Hey, Sarah's smiling at me, see you later.'

When I got home I was so tired I could have gone to sleep on my bed. After I'd showered I pulled on jeans and an old T-shirt – no point in changing into my nice shirt until later – and had lunch, fighting to keep my eyes open as I forked my way through the olive-and-anchovy pasta Rosina had left for me. It was about a quarter past one, which meant I could have a nap before I went to the party. Then I'd be fresh and alert, ready to drink heavily and stay up all night. I thought,
I'll go and look in the cellar first, work out which wine to take
.

But the cellar door was locked. I tried the door twice, incredulous, then rummaged through the drawer in the dresser for the key. It was never kept locked. And where the hell was the key? It was supposed to be in here, with the string and brown paper and packs of playing cards. Where –?

I thought,
Rosina
. She'd obviously decided I wasn't allowed free run of Granddad's wine. Who did she think she was, for God's sake? I pounded on the cellar door with my fists, but it was too sturdy to give way. Damn. I didn't have any fake ID, and it was the last day of exams, they'd ask
everyone
. And I couldn't turn up without anything, because Adeel was relying on me.

Wait –

I stopped hitting the cellar door and stood still for a second. Granddad had a decanter in his study. And it was proper Scottish malt, I knew – something decent if ever I saw it. I wasn't allowed to go in there while he was away – the penalty would be death, or possibly something worse, if he found out – but the study key definitely
was
in the dresser drawer, for Rosina, in case of emergencies.

It didn't even occur to me to feel guilty. Not even once I'd opened the door and gone in. It felt – well, pretty normal, really. As if I'd gone in to ask Granddad a question, and he'd just popped out for a moment.

I should have gone straight to the decanter, picked it up and walked out. I should have taken it into the kitchen, poured the whisky into a bottle, come back, put the decanter down, left, closed the door behind me, locked it again. But I didn't.

Of course I didn't.

I was curious, I suppose. I could look at all Granddad's stuff properly, without him breathing down my neck, making suggestions about which books I might like. I had time to stare at the pictures on the wall, go through the drawers in the sideboard. I could get out the old photo album from Granddad's desk, the one with all the photos of Mum and Dad from before I was born, before Dad left. There was even the long row of Granddad's diaries in the glass-fronted cabinet.

Jesus,
no
. What was I thinking? I'd half sunk into the nearest chair, one hand already reaching for the handle of the cabinet.
No way, Olly, that would be seriously out of order. Definitely not.
I stood up again and picked up the decanter. It was half full.

One of the cupboard doors in the sideboard was ajar. The key wasn't in the lock, but you could see it'd been turned – like someone had tried to lock it in a hurry, pocketing the key and walking off without realising the door wasn't properly closed. But I didn't notice that until a few seconds later, when I was kneeling in front of it. What I noticed first of all was the gleam of glass through the gap. Bottles.

Wow. Who would have thought he'd have so
much
? I rocked back on my heels, and then started to get the bottles out one by one, lining them up on the Turkish rug. And all nearly full. Rum and brandy and cassis, and something with a label in German, and something in Russian, which had to be vodka. For a nasty dizzying moment I thought,
Oh, Christ, he's an alcoholic
. Then I thought,
No. It's just because he doesn't want me to get at them.
No wonder he never kept any spirits in the cellar. So he didn't trust me after all.

I leant forward. There was another bottle right at the back of the cupboard, lurking in the shadows, shining dark green. I reached for it, my forehead pressed against the wood above the cupboard door, my fingers touching cardboard or paper or something before they found the neck of the bottle. I grabbed it and brought it out into the daylight. Absinthe.

I couldn't. Could I? I put it at the head of the little squadron of bottles and narrowed my eyes at it. Absinthe could
kill
you. I really, really shouldn't. Oh, but I could imagine Adeel's face. It would be a night to remember.

I shook my head, feeling the dust from the cupboard in my nose, and slid down on to the rug, propping myself on one elbow. Granddad would know I'd taken it and he'd kill me. It would be worse than when I'd borrowed his lighter without asking, or when Adeel and I had been suspended, but . . .

I was staring right into the cupboard. There was an old shoebox at the back, giving at the corners, held together with an elastic band. It was too small to hold any more bottles, of course, but I pulled it out and took the lid off idly. I was still thinking,
Absinthe. Granddad's not due back for a week or so . . .

Then I glanced down at the papers in the box.

.

Dear Olly,

Good to meet you too. I have lived in Australia so long it is always nice to come back to old England, as they say. I am sorry that your grandfather and I had a fight, it was not to do with you, I mean it was not your fault and I am sorry.

.

Oh God. Oh my God.

.

Dear Olly,

Thank you, I had a very nice Christmas, of course here it is summer, it is a bit hard to get used to when you're English. I do not ‘do' presents very much but I am pleased that your grandfather gave you something nice. I have got a girlfriend now, her name is Kathleen, and she says I should have sent you something from Oz. But I thought you probably would not like a boomerang or a surfboard, I thought you are not that sort of boy! I mean you're very English, like your granddad
. . .