At Hawthorn Time (18 page)

‘Howard!’ – there was Geoff now, grinning affably down at him. Howard stood up and shook his hand, unable to prevent himself looking past him for a moment. ‘Geoff. Good to see you. The others not with you?’

‘Just me, I’m afraid. You know what it’s like. I see you’re still on the Brown –’ he took off his jacket and put it on the chair with Howard’s – ‘I’ll be right back.’ And he grinned at Howard and went to the bar.

Howard sat back down, feeling unaccountably and briefly foolish. He drained the last flat, warm mouthful of beer from his bottle and pushed it to the side of the table, picked a little at a bit of loose veneer with his thumbnail. Ah well. And at least he hadn’t brought Chris out, that was the main thing. They could get on the beers, the two of them; have a bit of a laugh.

Geoff came back with the drinks and sat opposite. ‘So how’ve you been?’ he asked, clinking his pint glass on Howard’s bottle before leaning in to it for a long pull.

‘Cheers,’ said Howard, grinning and taking a swig. ‘Good, you know. Well. How about you? Hope that son of mine isn’t being too much of a tyrant.’

Howard hadn’t meant to bring Chris up so soon; they’d never really discussed the fact that he’d put him in charge of the business, and Geoff had found out at the same time as everyone else – a month before Howard retired. But he’d had a sudden fear that Geoff might start talking about Anne, or say he was lonely or something.

‘Chris? No, he’s . . . I’d say he’s settling in well. No complaints.’

‘Good, good. And how’s everyone else? What about that new . . . Chantelle, is it?’

Geoff exhaled through pursed lips, shaking his head a little. ‘Yep, Chantelle. She’s something. She is something. Smart girl, too – doesn’t take any shit off the drivers. They don’t dare, you know?’

‘Your type, is she?’

‘Twenty years ago, maybe. You know she’s having a drink with your son tonight? I’d say he could do a lot worse.’

‘I did,’ Howard lied, leaning back in his chair and looking out towards the bar; ‘it’s why I didn’t ask Chris to come out tonight. Good luck to the lad, I say. You’ve got to get while the getting’s good, and all that.’

‘You’re not wrong. Though it’s never too late, you know. You wouldn’t believe how many divorced women there are on the Internet, just looking to put it all behind them. Makes me wish I’d done this sooner.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Howard, trying to keep his expression neutral. From what he’d heard, Anne had thrown Geoff out of the house and it had been nearly a week before she’d even let him pick up clean shirts for work.

‘So you’re living in . . . what is it, Harlow now?’ Howard tried to line up a couple more questions; he didn’t really want to hear Geoff’s dating anecdotes – not yet, not until they’d had a few more beers, anyway. He’d always liked Anne, for one thing, and while he and Geoff had been out drinking many times, previously he’d always been the boss, which was probably why the conversation hadn’t ever got really personal. Now, though, they were equals. He eyed the level in Geoff’s pint glass and wondered if it was too soon to get another round in.

The pub was really filling up now; the level of conversation around them rose, and as Geoff began to tell him about the flat he was renting, about his plans, the two of them gradually became hemmed in, the spare chairs carried off, other people’s drinks left in sticky rings on the unused end of their table.

By half ten they were both fairly drunk, though Howard could feel himself battling against it. When he got up to go to the Gents he was careful to stand up cleanly and walk purposefully; before leaving the toilets he looked at himself briefly in the mirror and assumed a steady expression.

On the way back he stopped at the bar for another round. He wasn’t sure why it had been necessary to start in on the shots, but it had been. And he was having a good time, wasn’t he? It was good to be back in London, having a few drinks; it was all good. He felt like his old self, or something. Not quite, though; not the boss, not that old self. But more himself than in the countryside. Was that right?

It didn’t matter, he could just enjoy it. Could do it more often, maybe. Maybe get more of the guys out next time, though. Shouldn’t have left it to Geoff, he thought, fumbling in his pockets for the playing card they’d given him for his tab. There it was. Don’t leave without getting the card back. Perhaps get Geoff to remind him.

He picked up the beers and shots and jostled his way carefully through the crowd. It was so familiar, having to do that. People so close in the city, all around. But distant, too. You could just have a few drinks. That pub in Lodeshill, it was on its arse. Try going in there and minding your own. Not a chance. Community, according to Kitty; nosy, more like.

‘Nice one,’ said Geoff as he sat down. ‘Cheers.’

They tipped back the shots, Geoff with a comedy shake of the head, Howard with a grimace. Geoff seemed drunker than he had a few moments before; he was leaning back in his chair with an unfocused expression and one of his shirt buttons had come undone, revealing a sliver of white, hairy stomach. Better make these the last, Howard thought, get some food inside him. Should’ve signed the card off.

‘Curry after this?’ he said. ‘On me. Might as well.’

‘Could do. Or we could head into town.’

This was a surprise; as far as Howard was concerned they were already in town, though he guessed that Geoff was talking about the West End.

‘Yep,’ he replied, ‘though I’ve got a hotel in Brent Cross to get back to.’

‘Get a cab. It’s not like you can’t afford it.’

Howard looked up, but Geoff’s expression was bland. ‘Can’t face Soho any more, not these days,’ he said. ‘Let’s go to that Japanese place round the corner. You can’t get a decent chicken katsu outside the M25.’

‘Lost your edge,’ said Geoff, taking a large swig of his pint. ‘Happens.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, you know. Retire. Move out of London. It’s all over.’

Howard bridled, despite himself. Geoff was obviously joking, but all the same. ‘And you’re living the high life in Harlow, I suppose?’ he said.

‘Temporary, I told you. Anyway, I come into town, I go out. Saw a band last week.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Again, Howard was piqued; bands were somehow his thing. ‘Who’d you see?’

‘Oh . . . at the Palace. Or whatever it’s called now.’ It was clear Geoff couldn’t remember the band’s name, but there was no sense in pushing the point; Howard knew he’d only have to admit he hadn’t heard of them anyway. Still, he had a sudden fierce urge to go out, do something, anything. The fact was, he missed London. No point pretending. He fucking missed it.

‘Who’d you go with?’ he asked.

‘Steve and Nikki from work and this girl I met off the Internet. I say girl, I mean woman. Thirty-eight, two kids. Box of frogs, you know. But fit.’

‘Good night?’

‘Yeah. She brought some coke out with her, cocaine. Bit like the old days, you know?’

Howard hadn’t realised that Geoff had ever had ‘old days’, not like that. He’d always known him with Anne; when on earth was this period he’d been seeing bands and taking drugs, this period he now felt able at last to return to?

Perhaps it had only happened once, when Geoff was a teenager, or perhaps it had never happened at all. The image people had of themselves didn’t always have much basis in fact; it was something you came up with in your teens, Howard believed, and which you then spent your life trying to stay true to – or maybe leave behind. Although perhaps some people weren’t like that, perhaps they just were who they were without worrying about it. Or perhaps their real selves came out when they were older, in their marriages and with their kids – like with Kitty. Who could say?

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’m going to pay off my card. Then we’ll eat. Then we’ll go into town. OK?’

‘Knew it,’ Geoff said, finishing his pint and standing up. ‘You can take the man out of London . . .’

Howard grinned; Geoff was OK. His mate. He was glad he’d come out. ‘Be right back. Keep an eye on my jacket.’

‘Fucking tweed though. I ask you.’

‘Camouflage, Geoffrey. I’ve got to blend in somehow. They still lynch outsiders in the sticks, you know.’

Halfway through the meal it was clear that Geoff wasn’t going to make it to the West End. His eyes slid dozily around the room; each time Howard spoke it took him a long moment to pull his focus back.

‘Not enough women here is the problem,’ he said, quite loudly. Howard realised he was going to have to try and put him in a cab; he just hoped Geoff knew his new address off by heart.

Howard, by contrast, was feeling more and more sober. What had he been thinking, anyway? Soho was bad enough at the best of times; it would have been a disaster with Geoff. He’d have tried to chat up groups of twenty-somethings, or, worse, he’d have wanted go to some Godawful strip club, and Howard had a prudishness about such things that he knew was quite at odds with his rock-star past. Rock star! Jesus, who was he kidding? Third-rate roadie, more like. Anyway, he would have hated it.

He asked for the bill and settled up. Geoff was becoming hard work now; mulish and unpredictable. He’d clearly worked out that Howard wasn’t going with him to Soho any more, and what’s more he could tell he was being managed.

‘Fucking . . . lightweight,’ he said. ‘Knew you weren’t up for it.’

Howard stood up and shrugged his jacket on. ‘Sorry, Geoff. Another time.’

‘Give us a hug, then. From the old boss. The boss that is no more. Father to the new boss,
plus ça change
, is it? – but I still stay the fucking same.’ And he stood, knocking some cutlery from the table and holding out his arms.

Howard looked at him for a long moment. ‘Come on. Home time.’

‘What? Home time? Not for me, I’m free as a bird. I’m going into town, mate. You should come.’

Howard decided to make for the door and hope Geoff followed. There was a cab office nearby; he’d order two, and if Geoff wanted to tell his to go to the West End that was his affair.

The night air was cool on his face as he stepped out onto the pavement and lit up a cigarette. It could’ve been such a good night, it could’ve been so much fun. Briefly the picture he’d had of it returned, but he closed his eyes for a second and it was gone. He just had to cope with this last bit with Geoff, and then he could cab it back to the hotel. And hopefully when he arrived at the depot to see Chris in the morning Geoff wouldn’t remember any of it. Or he wouldn’t be in.

18

Speedwell, ragged robin, meadow saxifrage (rare). One early foxglove.

There was a starling in Lodeshill that could do a perfect imitation of a car alarm being set; Jamie often listened out for it as he worked on the Corsa in the drive. A hundred years ago they had mimicked the ringing note of the blacksmith’s hammer, and after the village smithy finally closed the sound had lived on for a little while, persisting like a ghost in the repertoires of one or two generations of birds. And then it had faded away.

Now, as Jamie reattached the air filter to the Corsa, he thought he heard the starling call, but it was the woman from Manor Lodge letting herself into her Audi. He straightened up, easing his back, and watched as she drove off.

For a long while he’d felt secretive about the Corsa; he hadn’t wanted to show it to anyone until it was completely finished. The tarp, in his mind, had been like a chrysalis, and what came out would be transformed: a shining, perfect ride. But now the weather was nice he found himself itching to get it on the road and see what it could do. It wasn’t finished yet, but he’d have to make the decision sometime; the fact was, he could keep improving it almost indefinitely. And in any case, the motorbike was on its last legs.

He’d considered taking it out on Friday, but then he wouldn’t be able to have a drink, and he’d be left out while everyone was talking and laughing, and Megan might think he was always like that. No, it was better to wait a bit longer, get the sound system installed, too. Although not for too long; summer was the best time.

Having a car wasn’t just about showing off. Ever since he could remember he’d needed to go away by himself sometimes, to be where nobody could find him: not his mum, or his dad; not even Alex. To not have to think about anyone else, or be answerable to anyone. When he was a kid he used to go up Babb Hill by himself for a bit, or climb the big oak in the Batch; now, having his own car was like always having that on tap.