Darkmans (46 page)

‘Something I heard,’ Fleet freely admitted. ‘
John
told me.’ He shrugged.

‘I’ve never even
seen
the queen…’

‘So what do you think John means when he says that the queen is vulgar?’ the man asked.

Fleet thought hard for a moment. ‘It means she’s
stupid
,’ he declared, ‘and she doesn’t have any…’ he paused, frowning, ‘
finus…
no…
finesse
,’ he corrected himself.

The man glanced over towards Elen. ‘How old is this child?’ he demanded.

‘Five,’ Elen murmured. ‘He’ll be six in July.’

‘
Five?
’ he seemed startled. ‘But his language skills are nothing short of astonishing…’

‘Yes…well he’s…he’s not
normally
quite this talkative,’ Elen observed (plainly somewhat confused herself by this rare display of loquaciousness).

‘Look at Papa!’ Fleet suddenly yelled.

They both turned. Dory had fallen to his knees in the bank of mud (it was now slowly enveloping his thighs) and was patting at it, naively (almost like a baby), as though experimenting with its texture.

‘My youngest daughter,’ the man explained (obviously struggling not to be distracted by this curious spectacle), ‘was also a gifted child, so I know exactly what the pressures are – I mean as a parent – the particular kinds of
challenges
it generally gives rise to…’

‘
Gifted?
’ Elen echoed, dumbfounded.

‘Have they picked up on it at school yet?’ the man wondered.

‘At school?’ Elen slowly shook her head. ‘Uh…no.
God
, no. If anything they probably feel he’s a little
under
the average…’

‘
Under
the average?’ The man seemed amazed. ‘They must be deaf and blind…’

Elen said nothing.

‘I mean he’s only five years old and he’s using synonyms. He’s experimenting with the Latin root. Surely that’s exceptional by
any
standard?’

Elen’s cheeks reddened with a combination of pride and anxiety.

‘John told his wife that the queen was deaf,’ Fleet began chatting away again, ‘so when the queen summonsed her to court to talk about all the bad things John had done – to try and get her to make him stop – his wife shouted at the queen so that the queen might
hear her. Then the queen shouted back because John had told the
exact
same thing to the queen about his wife…’

He giggled. ‘Instead of making things better, they was just
shouting
at each other. And the more they was shouting the more crosser they got…’

The man listened intently to the boy’s chatter, his head cocked.

‘He got paid back in the end, though,’ Fleet ran on, with apparent satisfaction, ‘because the queen told the king about it.’

‘And what did the king do?’ the man wondered.

‘Nothing. But he warned John, in private. He said, “Stop teasing the queen!”’

‘And did he?’

Fleet looked astonished. ‘
Stop?!
Of course not. The next day he pulled down his trousers in the queen’s private chambers…’

‘His
trousers
?’ the man repeated, alarmed.

‘Yes. It was
horse
play…’ Fleet trotted gaily around on the shingle, whinnying. ‘He was pretending to be a
horse
, see?’ he chortled.

‘Goodness me. And how did the queen respond?’

‘She was furious. She went straight to Edward and she forced him to choose…’

‘Between her and John?’

‘No. Between John and Jane Shore.’

‘Jane Shore?’ The man scowled. ‘How does
she
enter the story?’ Fleet rolled his eyes, despairingly: ‘Edward was in
love
with her, of course.’ ‘In love?’

‘She was his
maîtresse.
’

‘His
maîtresse
?’

‘Yes.’

The man mulled this over for a moment and then the penny suddenly dropped. ‘
Ah
,’ he said, ‘his
mistress.
I
see…
So who did he choose?’ he asked.

‘He chose his
hure…
’

‘Fleet!’
Elen chastised him. ‘Enough!’

But Fleet ignored her. ‘He told John to leave the court, and said if he
ever
came back he would set the hounds on him…’

He snapped at the air again: ‘
Beita!
’

‘So did John ever dare come back?’ the man wondered.

‘Oh yes,’ Fleet smiled, as if delighted by the question, ‘John
always
comes back. That’s the whole
point.
’

‘And did the king set the dogs on him?’

‘Yes.’ Fleet nodded. ‘But John was too clever for him. Because when he came back he brought a fast hare, hidden in a sack. He waited for Edward to release the dogs, and then, when they was right in front of him, he set the hare free…’

Fleet re-enacted the scene.

‘Weeeeeee!’

The man chuckled.

‘…and it ran and ran…’ Fleet clapped his hands, laughing, watching the hare, cheering it on, ‘and the dogs followed the hare and not John, see?’

‘My. That was very clever of John,’ the man indulged him. ‘Yes. And John thought the king would think so, too. But he didn’t…’

‘Enough now, Fleet,’ Elen interrupted. She smiled over at the man, apologetically.

‘So what did the king do?’ the man asked, ignoring her intervention and squatting down, stiffly (in his ungainly boots), so that his head was now at a level with Fleet’s.

‘It was very hard for Edward,’ Fleet explained, ‘because John always made him laugh. John wasn’t like the other fools. He was
educated.
He was a scholar. He went to Oxford, you know. John was a Master of
Farts.
’

The man blinked.

‘John had lib…
lïber…
’ Fleet scowled, trying to wrangle the word. ‘
Liber
,’ the man interrupted, glancing up at Elen, ‘is Latin for “free”. It’s at the root of the modern English words liberty and libertine…’ Elen smiled, then nodded, almost too brightly.

‘I’m actually quite a keen, amateur linguist,’ he added, by way of explanation.

Fleet didn’t seem to register this interruption. He just ploughed on, regardless: ‘The queen wanted to throw John in the tower,’ he said, ‘but the king still loved John, so he came up with a clever idea…’

‘Did he indeed?’

‘Yes. He called John to him and told him to return the hare.’

The man frowned, confused. ‘How d’you mean, exactly?’

‘The fast hare. The king said he wanted it. John said, “I can get you another hare, but not that one. It’s a fast hare and it’s gone…”’ Fleet paused, speculatively. ‘Although not in those words, because they spokes in all different ways back then…’ he grimaced. ‘But the
king wouldn’t change his mind. He said, “I don’t care if it’s gone, John. I want it and you shall bring it to me.”’

‘Well he’s the
king
,’ the man shrugged. ‘He can do as he likes, I suppose…’

‘Exactly,’ Fleet nodded. ‘But John says, “Where will I look?”’

‘Good point…’

‘And the king says…’ Fleet paused as if he was about to say something highly ingenious, ‘the king says, “Thou must look him as well where he is
not
, as where he is.”’

The man bent in still closer to the boy, frowning. ‘Say that again?’

‘Thou must look him as well where he is
not
, as where he is.’

‘I see.
Okay.
And is that what John did?’

‘Yes. He
had
to. Because that was what the king wanted.’

‘And did he ever find the hare?’

‘The same fast hare?!’ Fleet exclaimed. ‘Don’t be
stupid
! He was never
meant
to find it.’

‘
Fleet…
’ Elen interrupted.

‘The king
knew
he would never find it. That’s why he asked.’

‘My. So is that how the story ends?’

‘No,’ Fleet shook his head, regretfully.

‘It
isn’t
? Dear oh dear…’ the man glanced up at Elen, with a smile, but Elen wasn’t smiling.

‘John was very angry about being sent away,’ Fleet explained, ‘but he pretended it was all a joke – same as he
always
does – and just as soon as he got a chance he escaped his guards and he climbed up on to the roof of the palace. There was tiles all around him, so he grabbed one and he threw it down into the courtyard…’

Fleet mimed John hurling down a tile: ‘Then another one, and
another…
’

Fleet threw down more tiles, with ever-increasing violence.

‘Everybody was running away and hiding. They was
scared.
They thought he was gone mad.’

‘Gracious!’ the man was plainly riveted. ‘So what did the king do next?’

‘He sent his soldiers for him and they dragged him down from the roof. The king was very, very cross. He asked John
why
he was throwing down all the tiles from his roof, but John just laughed and said, “I am looking for the fast hare.” And the king said, “Why would you
think a fast hare might be hiding in my roof?” And John said, “I’m looking for him where he is not.”’

Pause

‘It was meant to be funny,’ Fleet said, with a shrug.

‘Who told you this story?’ the man asked, fascinated.

‘John told me.’

‘Really? Is John your friend?’

Fleet gave this a moment’s thought, then, ‘No,’ he said.

‘He’s not your friend?’

‘No. He’s not my friend because he hurt my mama.’

As he spoke Fleet pushed up the sleeve of his mother’s jacket, revealing the fading ring of bruises around her wrist. Elen yanked the sleeve back down again, quick as a flash.

The man straightened up, pretending not to have noticed.

‘You have an astonishing child,’ he commended her.

Elen nodded, a strand of her dark hair falling across her face.

‘My youngest daughter,’ he continued, ‘was extremely precocious at his age.’

‘Your youngest?’ Elen held Fleet firmly in front of her (one hand on each shoulder). ‘How many children do you have altogether?’

‘Three. Although…’

‘I see…’

Elen shoved her hair brusquely behind one ear.

‘Does the boy excel in any other areas?’ he asked.

‘Excel?’ Elen frowned. ‘No. Well…
yes…
I suppose he’s pretty good at building things,’ she conceded. ‘He’s built an entire town out of matchsticks. A cathedral, a water mill, a
bridge…
’

The man’s face lit up. ‘How
extraordinary.
My daughter trained to be a civil engineer. She
loved
to build things…’

‘The gifted one?’ Elen enquired politely.

‘Yes. My beautiful Eva,’ he pronounced her name with an almost unbearable poignancy, ‘her two great passions were building and the beach. She
lived
out here as a child. In fact they once filmed a feature on
Blue Peter
about the extraordinary sand structures she constructed…’

‘How old is she now?’ Elen interrupted, glancing, distractedly, over her shoulder.

‘Eva would’ve turned twenty-seven this year.’

‘Ah…’ Elen turned back. Then she blinked, uneasily, as she gradually registered what’d just been said.

‘Your daughter’s
dead
?’ she asked, almost incredulously.

‘Yes,’ he answered simply.

‘God. I’m so
sorry…
’

‘She went missing about five years ago,’ he explained, ‘Although…well, they never managed to retrieve the body…’

He gazed down at Fleet. ‘She was working in Darfur, in the Sudan,’ he expanded. ‘She was taken hostage by a local militia. They held her for three weeks and then nothing else was heard of her. The police believe she was decapitated.’

Elen looked stricken. She didn’t know what to say.

‘How terrible,’ she finally muttered.

‘Yes.’ He cleared his throat. He looked down for a moment. He regained his composure. He looked back up. ‘I’m Charles, by the way…’ he said, ‘Charles Bartlett.’

He held out his hand to her. Elen hesitated for a second, then she took his hand and shook it.

‘I’m Elen,’ she said, ‘and this is Fleet.’

‘Fleet?’ he stared down at the boy, benignly. ‘What a
fine
-sounding name for such an agile young fellow…’

Fleet gazed up at him, blankly.

‘You
are
fleet,’ he amplified.

Fleet nodded. He
was
Fleet.

‘I don’t know if you’re interested,’ Mr Bartlett continued, ‘but I’ve compiled a wonderful treasure-trove of material about gifted kids over the years. It’s my area of special interest. I was once a teacher, by trade. In fact I was lucky enough to help establish the National Academy for Gifted and Talented Youth. It’s a government-funded initiative. Are you at all familiar with their work?’

‘No.’ Elen shook her head. He looked a little disappointed.

‘They sound very interesting, though,’ she quickly added.

‘They are,’ he smiled, mollified. ‘In fact they run some amazing residential summer programmes, although he’s way too young for those right now, but I do have some incredibly useful books back at home – some pamphlets, contact addresses…’

‘That’s certainly a very tempting offer…’ Elen started, ‘but…’ ‘You’d be doing
me
the favour,’ he insisted. ‘I’d love to see them put
to good use and space is in fairly short supply at home right now – my older son’s just separated from his wife…’

Elen opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again.

‘I mean I live literally 20 yards away,’ he continued, ‘just the other side of the wall. The little place directly behind the toilets: Kennel Cottage. That’s the chimney…’ he pointed to a small, smoking chimney only a stone’s throw from where they stood.

Elen turned (once again) to peer over towards Dory. Dory – as if timing this manoeuvre purely for effect – suddenly toppled, face-first, into the mud.

‘Look at Papa!’ Fleet whooped.

‘Good God. Is he…
uh…
?’

Mr Bartlett nervously readjusted his spade (as if he might be called upon – at any moment – to dig Dory out).

Dory slowly pulled himself up straight, and then fell, dramatically, back –

Splat!

‘Yes…
No.
He’s…’ Elen struggled to find an adequate explanation, ‘he’s just being…’ she frowned, ‘uh…
silly
,’ she concluded, as Dory commenced a strange, clumsy back-stroke in the mud.