Widows & Orphans (3 page)

Thoughts of Jamie filled him with an eviscerating loneliness. When Linda left him, his one consolation had been that she was remaining in Francombe, enabling him to see his son twice a week and to be close at hand in a crisis. But as the years passed, his so-near-yet-so-far status had grown ever more painful. Rather than restricting his access to Jamie, Linda had included him in so many family events that Derek would surely have objected, were it not for his even more convoluted relationship with his own ex-wife. Nevertheless, he was the perennial outsider, grateful for their indulgence of what should have been a right. Jamie’s edginess when they ran into each other in the street made him feel like a stranger. It was as though ‘Dad’ were a subject with a set place on the timetable, which he refused to study out of hours. In his bleaker moments, he wondered whether he had been rash to rule out sending Jamie to boarding school. At least then he and Linda would have been on an equal footing, sharing both the holidays and the emotional reserve. But even if he had broken the solemn vow he made on leaving Lancing, he could never have afforded the fees.

The next morning he went down to the office at 8.30 to find Ken busy at his desk. As expected, he was fully informed about the castle suicide and had sent Brian to visit the bereaved parents. ‘Is that wise?’ Duncan asked, dubious of Brian’s discretion.

‘Still waters, young Brian!’ Ken said. ‘Besides, he’s the same age as the victim – or should that be perpetrator? It might help them open up.’

Rowena had gone to the Town Hall on a tip-off from an anonymous guest that at a wedding on Tuesday the bride’s
two teenage daughters had taken the ‘no confetti on the steps’ rule to heart and, instead, thrown their late father’s ashes over the newly-weds. Ken himself planned to monitor developments on the pier where, according to his source in the fire brigade, charred bedding had been retrieved from the rubble of the Winter Garden, fanning conjecture that the blaze had been started by one or more vagrants.

‘Surprise surprise!’ Duncan replied. ‘Any bets as to how soon it becomes a gang of the Albanian/Iranian/Kurdish asylum seekers who are overrunning the town?’

As usual on a Thursday, Duncan spent the first part of the morning reading the paper from cover to cover. Echoing his father, he found that no matter how closely he had examined the dummy, the stories ‘smelt’ different on the printed page – which had, of course, been literally true in the days of hot metal. He was pleased with both the reporting of the fire and the leader in which he called on the town to reassess its values as it rebuilt its pier. His one regret was the use of agency photographs, identical ones having appeared in both the
Telegraph
and the
Mail
, and he tormented himself with the thought of the unique perspective that Bert Ponsonby would have brought. His reading was interrupted by three calls of complaint. The first was from a Mrs Greene, furious that her name had been rendered ‘commonplace’ by the omission of the final ‘e’ in a list of volunteer tree wardens. The second was from Luca Salvatore, owner of Pizza on the Prom, warning him to keep away from his restaurant after the story on mouse droppings in his kitchen. The third was from Heather Bayley, a local Brown Owl, accusing him of ‘blatant prejudice’ against the Brownies for his failure to feature the 1st Switherton Pack’s Annual Fun Day. ‘We had face painting, knife carving and an inspirational demonstration of balloon twisting from Tawny Owl.’

At four o’clock Duncan left the office for the Central Library to attend to the final arrangements for the Pier Project
exhibition, which the
Mercury
was sponsoring. In an emergency meeting the previous day, the Francombe Pier Trust had decided that, despite the wretched timing, the exhibition should go ahead, both to avoid disappointing the many children who had taken part and in the hope that images of the pier’s illustrious past might influence plans for its future.

Struck by a bitter wind as soon as he stepped into the street, Duncan cast a solicitous glance at the four thinly dressed middle-aged men in the graffiti-sprayed bus shelter, members of Francombe’s army of homeless huddled together for warmth until their hostel reopened at six. One had a bandaged wrist and another a black eye and split lip, injuries sustained either in bouts of insobriety or in fights with visiting youths for whom attacking the locals held more appeal than legitimate entertainments. Duncan’s cheery ‘Good afternoon’ was met by three vacant stares and one ‘You don’t say so, old bean’, which at least showed spirit. He turned away down the shabby side street, which in his childhood had housed a row of specialist shops dealing in coins, maps, cameras and fishing tackle. Now only the coin shop remained, although its heavy grille, stamped with an advert for its website, was generally down. Elsewhere, a café offered all-day breakfasts with OAP discounts; a tattoo parlour blazoned its designs on assorted body parts; three charity shops ran the gamut of Francombe concern, from Age UK through Cats Protection to the Fishermen’s Mission; and a 24 hour mini-mart sold Iraqi, Kurdish and Afghani produce to the refugees and asylum seekers who, with an irony to which only immigration officers could be blind, were housed in the same hostels as the drunks.

He walked up the Parade, the town’s main thoroughfare, where a string of chain stores competed for what remained of its custom. He was accosted by Enid Marshall, his mother’s bridge partner, who had lost her husband to their GP, her divorce settlement in a failed Lloyd’s syndicate, and her only son in a Texan cult suicide, but who refused to dwell on
the past, brushing off every expression of sympathy with a brusque ‘Worse things happen at sea’. Dropping a pound into her RNLI collecting tin, he continued on his way, past the statue of Queen Victoria, her glower finally justified after cuts to the Council’s cleaning budget had left her permanently daubed with seagull droppings, and entered the library. He crossed the vaulted marble hall with its bas-reliefs of Aristotle, Shakespeare, Dryden, Scott, Dickens and Carlyle, the last of whose books had long since been dispatched to storage, and climbed the well-worn stairs to the Reference Section, its usual sober display replaced by the vibrancy of the Pier Project entries.

Back in March, with hopes high for its own bid, the Francombe Pier Trust had sought to stimulate interest in the restoration by holding a children’s art competition. The
Mercury
agreed to sponsor it, provided that the three prizes of £1,000, £500 and £250 consisted of books for the winners’ school libraries. The sheer weight of entries confounded the Jeremiahs, who had claimed that without a personal incentive nobody would take part, and although the Project had been overtaken by events, Duncan found cause for celebration in the vision and accomplishment of the various paintings, models, collages and lone digital projection on show.

This projection depicting the Moorish pavilion in five of its incarnations – concert hall, palais de dance, variety theatre, roller-skating rink and disco – had been awarded first prize, a decision Duncan suspected had been shaped, at least in part, by its use of technology that neither he nor his fellow judges understood. The runner-up was a small camera obscura, through which could be seen an image of the large camera obscura that had stood on the pier head until replaced by a helter-skelter in the 1920s. Third prize went to a painting of a mob of teenagers storming the pavilion during the infamous 1974 concert by The Who. For the rest, he was struck by two scale models of the pier, one made of Francombe rock with a
gingerbread pavilion and kiosks, the other, with what seemed like uncanny prescience, made of matches; a painting of the 1932 disaster in which twin sisters drowned during a display of synchronised diving; and a collage of photographs of the Black and White Minstrels, star attractions at the pavilion throughout the 1960s, interspersed with newspaper cuttings of race riots.

After running through the order of ceremony with Glynis Kingswood and the Mayor’s PR, he paid a precautionary visit to the lavatory, crossing the tessellated floor to the stately urinals where the library’s Victorian benefactors had been able to pee with pride. He had scarcely unbuttoned his flies when the outer door was flung open and a jovial voice called his name. Twisting so abruptly that he risked exposing himself, he spotted Geoffrey Weedon advancing on him with a smile as gleaming as the tiles. He turned back to the wall as Geoffrey, confident both of his own propriety and Duncan’s discomfort, stepped up next to him and unleashed a loud stream of piss. He stood motionless while Geoffrey seized his advantage and started to chat.

‘Fancy seeing you here.’

‘We’re sponsoring the project,’ Duncan said, vainly coaxing his penis. ‘And you? Weighing up the opposition?’

‘Many a true word … The past
is
the opposition in this town. The myth of a Francombe Golden Age, which blokes like you – no offence, Duncan – do all you can to promote.’

‘And why should we want to do that?’

‘Nostalgia? Security? I’m no trick cyclist. A world where the
Mercury
meant something?’

‘Whereas for you, the past is disposable,’ Duncan said, pondering the effect on both bladder and morale of admitting defeat by buttoning his flies. ‘I saw you on the news insisting that you weren’t responsible for the fire.’

‘Best to clear the air.’

‘Some people might think it a smokescreen.’ Geoffrey guffawed. ‘No pun intended.’

‘Why would I burn down the pier? I’ve already got what I want. This just complicates things. Insurance claims. Emergency repairs.’

‘So it was fate?’

‘I don’t believe in fate, Duncan. Fate is the name that losers give to chance. And on Tuesday night chance took the form of Afghan asylum seekers.’

‘Oh, they’re Afghans now, are they? How’s that? Did they have Kabul stamped on their bedding?’

‘Is it my fault if my sources are more clued in than the
Mercury
’s?’

A young librarian entered the room, stopping short at the sight of the men cheek by jowl beside four empty urinals. ‘Come on up,’ Geoffrey said, as if it were his private preserve. ‘No need to be shy. Just two old friends measuring their dicks – metaphorically.’ The librarian gave him an uneasy smile and made for the furthest urinal, where the steady patter showed that he shared none of Duncan’s reticence.

‘You and your lot should be grateful to me,’ Geoffrey said.

‘For what precisely?’ Duncan asked.

‘The Council survey found that, if they couldn’t come up with a buyer, the only option was to demolish the pier at a cost of four million quid. In other words, a lot more cuts to the day centres, youth clubs and, dare I say it, the libraries that the
Mercury
is always banging on about.’

The librarian washed his hands and hurried out without drying them. Geoffrey followed him to the basins, where Duncan was surprised by how meticulously he soaped his hands.

‘I’ve been thinking about the difference between us,’ Geoffrey said.

‘I’m flattered.’

‘Why? You’re practically family.’ Duncan shuddered. ‘The distinction may be a little crude – a little binary – but I try to make people happy, whereas you try to improve them.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Take the motto on your masthead: you know, the one that sounds like the Pope.’

‘
Celeritas
et veritas
,’ Duncan said, concentrating on the water gushing from the tap.

‘What does it mean?’

‘You know what it means.’

‘Yes. But we’d both like it so much if you told me.’

‘Promptness and truth.’

‘Then why not say so? Do you never ask yourself why you’ve chosen a phrase that ninety-nine point nine per cent of readers don’t understand, that makes them think the paper’s not for them?’

‘We’ve used it since the very first issue. It’s tradition.’

‘Is that your answer to everything? You’re speaking a different language. Literally.’

‘It’s only three words.’

‘Is it?’ Geoffrey laughed as he tugged the recalcitrant roller towel. ‘One last piece of advice and then I’m off: book an appointment with your doctor.’

‘What?’

‘I can’t help noticing you’re having problems with Percy there. Sure sign of an enlarged prostate. Best get it checked out.’

Geoffrey’s diagnosis was disproved the moment he walked out. Duncan felt a surge of relief, followed by anger at having allowed his old adversary to gain the upper hand. He returned to the Reference Section, which was busier than he expected, as if the exhibition had become the focus of communal grief at the destruction of the pier. He caught sight of Jamie in a huddle of larger boys, among them his stepbrother, Craig. Flouting the veto on public displays of affection, he walked over and ruffled his hair, causing Craig, whose own hair was spiky, to smirk.

‘Good to see you here, boys,’ Duncan said. ‘Do any of you have entries in the competition?’

‘For fuck’s sake, Dad!’ Jamie said, as Craig and his three companions sniggered.

‘Is the idea so inconceivable?’ Duncan asked.

‘What’s that mean then?’ one of the boys asked, playing dumb.

‘It’s like wearing a condom on your brain so that nothing can get through. Isn’t that so, Mr N?’ Craig asked, as usual spurning Duncan’s Christian name.

‘I expect that there’s an etymological link, Craig,’ Duncan replied, ‘but there are simpler definitions. If you have so little interest in the artworks, why have you come?’

‘Three line whip,’ Craig said. ‘My mum, my dad and my stepdad. All the Weedons have to be here, what with the development plans for the pier.’

‘Plus, of course, there’s the totty,’ one of his friends said.

‘Totty?’ Duncan asked.

‘That’s right,’ Craig said, assuming a donnish air. ‘I expect there’s an etymological link with “tot” meaning “little child”, though I trust that there are no paedo undertones in this common – or street – usage for what, in your day, were known as “chicks” or “floozies”.’

‘Thank you, Craig, that was most illuminating.’

‘Any time, Mr N.’

‘We need to talk, Dad.’ Jamie grabbed his arm.

‘Catch you later, Squirt,’ Craig said.