Drawing the Line (18 page)

It was a good job I’d pretended to be ignorant: Lord Elham’s directions took me not up the long avenue but past the Hop Pocket pub, and down a lane that started as a gentle slope and ended as a steep hill. I took the unmarked track to the left he’d suggested, warning me that it wouldn’t be good for a low-slung car and urging a slow walking pace. At last I was rewarded by a glimpse of chimneys. The track was so bad it helped me get my story ready. My car was in dock, and I was so eager to get my interview I’d come by cab, the driver refusing to risk his suspension for the last stage. Hence my arrival on foot, rather later than just after lunch. Just after three, in fact.

This morning I’d buried my emotions in the search for decent gear. Now I could worry about where to put my feet – it’d be easy to twist an ankle in one of the ruts. But sometime I’d have to unearth and face them. Meanwhile, I’d know all too soon how it felt to see a man who might be my father, face to face.

But it was me I saw first. His front door, tucked away at the back of the east wing, was panelled with bevelled glass. As I rang the doorbell I saw what he’d see: a small woman in something like combat gear, baseball cap at a rakish angle. The surprisingly painful trainers had gone: I sported baseball boots instead. Not second foot, as you might say. Still couldn’t face that. But dead cheap from the market. The clothes I’d set out in were in a stylish rucksack I’d picked up from Oxfam for fifty pence. Yes, Lena as in Horne looked good.

Lord Elham didn’t.

Despite Griff’s propaganda against the upper classes, I rather hoped that Lord Elham would be a handsome hero. Whenever Iris had overdone things, she’d retire to bed with hot chocolate and a Regency romance by Georgette Heyer. She swore she knew them all by heart, but that didn’t stop her having a wallow in escapism. She persuaded me to try a couple. After six I had to admit I was hooked. I never dared tell Griff, but when I was rifling through old books I’d look for copies for myself.

This lord wasn’t a heroic dashing six foot, greying lightly at the temples and generally sleek and elegant like some of the money-splashers we saw at shows. He was about five foot six, and, while he wasn’t really fat, wore his trousers under the bulge of his belly. His hair was in dire need of conditioner, and his skin looked pasty and unhealthy like that of ex-cons during their first week out of gaol, even the young ones I’d come across who’d only had short sentences. I tried not to look at his teeth as he gave a welcoming smile. It was harder to keep my eyes off a fork that emerged prongs upright from his shirt pocket.

I had to ignore the welcoming pong as he opened the door. The place smelt like a dossers’ den. No, there wasn’t any piss in the general stink, but I picked up food, dust of ages, unwashed male and booze, all in one quick breath. Plus there was something else, I wasn’t sure what, but I could have done without it.

We shook hands. I made my shake the sort Griff insisted on, firm but not an unpleasant grip. His was barely more of a brush. I suppose the half bow with which he invited me in might have been courtly. But it was no better than Griff’s. He ushered me past a room
full of Wellington boots and waterproofs – that was the smell I hadn’t identified. Old rubber, with old sweat inside. At least he didn’t seem to have any dogs, something I wasn’t really looking forward to. I found myself in a nondescript room, sixteen by sixteen, maybe, though it was hard to tell with all the clutter in it. Once, perhaps, it had been the estate office, since the butler’s and housekeeper’s accommodation would presumably have been near the kitchen and this looked as if it had never been grand enough to be on show. The wainscoting was grained brown, and the curtains were brownish heavily textured stuff, which gave the place a forties or fifties feel. The furniture was a funny mixture of what I was fairly sure was a Hepplewhite sofa, one of those clever library chairs concealing a couple of steps, a
brass-inlaid
nineteenth-century chiffonier Griff would have given his teeth for, and a set of 1960’s G-Plan
dining-chairs
and a matching table which was blotched with tomato ketchup and other things I didn’t want to touch. In one corner was a huge wide-screen TV, the sort that had a music system built in. Home cinema: that was it. Even that was smeared.

Lord Elham cleared a couple of
Readers’ Digests
from a dining-chair and pushed it forward for me. I didn’t see any good reason not to park my rucksack on the table, apart from manners and a desire to keep fifty pence worth of investment clean. I put it at my feet, retrieving the bottle of champagne, the best that Oddbins near Canterbury station could provide. Within reason.

He shuffled off in his Scholl sandals, stowing it in something I’d not noticed since it was tucked behind the door – a fridge, on which stood an electric jug-kettle. It
seemed to house nothing but bottles. A couple of still sealed cardboard boxes had Pot Noodles stamped on them. At the far end of the table was a pyramid of upside down Pot Noodle pots. They didn’t seem to have been washed before they were made into sculpture. Beside them was a smaller pyramid of whisky glasses, all engraved with some sort of scene I couldn’t work out without standing on my head. From this distance they looked like lead crystal.

What on earth had I let myself in for? I mustn’t start thinking; I must start acting. In both senses. Time for my reporter’s notepad and a couple of pencils. The Duke reached out a bottle similar to the one I’d brought, parking it on the fridge, and, bending with a grunt, hunted for something else. OK, what sort of glasses would he find? Nineteenth-century goblets? Plastic picnic cups? Habitat champagne flutes? He came up slowly clutching his back with one hand. He put his trophies on the fridge while he removed the cork gently – just a quiet pop and no waste at all – and poured.

‘There. Cheerio, my deario!’ He passed me my glass, holding his to be clinked.

I clinked very carefully indeed. I was drinking from an eighteenth-century wineglass, with a double opaque air twist stem. Dropping it would set me back – or his insurance company, with luck – by at least four hundred pounds. The bonus was that the bowl was so small it’d take many refills to get me even remotely tiddly. Except I hadn’t had any lunch. I’d better factor that in.

‘Not a bad tipple,’ he declared. ‘Not vintage. The vultures won’t pay for vintage. Nor will the Scrooges.’

‘Better than an alcopop, anyway,’ I agreed.

‘Alcopops – what are they?’

I explained.

‘Here, write a down a few names on that pad of yours. Must try those. Now, this film – tell me who’d be playing me. Or is it all a bit nebulous at the moment? Would I get power of veto? Don’t want the wrong sort of person playing me – couldn’t stand that Depp person. Have to be pretty short, of course – but then, a lot of them are. Look at Paul Newman. That pretty boy Capriatti or whatever. He’d be all right for me as a youngster, I suppose, but I don’t see him handling a cricket bat.’

Was he serious or was he taking the piss? I was saved the trouble of answering as he made for the fridge again.

‘Always have a little something at this time of the afternoon. Care to join me? Ah!’ Clapping his hand to his head he wandered out of the room.

I was ready to panic. What was I doing, alone in this weird room with a madman – except he’d just gone out, of course. Was he coming back? And what with? I’d been a total fool, putting myself in a position where no one knew where I was, and, probably, no one cared. He didn’t know that, of course. He thought I came with my boss’s backing, that if I disappeared someone would come looking. I’d better make sure he continued to think that. Just in case, I flicked on my mobile. If there were any signal round here I could always dial 999.

All the same, something was missing, and I was pleased it had gone missing. My normal sense that I didn’t belong, the one that had bugged my early weeks in Bredeham, my visits to Oxford – where was it? I looked around again. Perhaps I felt a tip like this was my
rightful place in life. But how could I possibly feel that if my natural instinct was to clean it all up?

‘Here we are,’ he declared, coming back clutching a fork. ‘What flavour? I can recommend the Bombay Bad Boy Beef. Or the Hot Chicken’s very acceptable too.’

I plumped for the beef. At the very least it’d provide blotting paper for the fizz. Funny, I’d had a vague hankering for a Pot Noodle ever since I’d come to live with Griff, but I knew that he’d see it as an expression of his failure to educate me properly, so I’d kept my secret to myself. I’d tried to cut down on crisps and other snacks, too.

‘There’s quite a cult following for these,’ he said, boiling the kettle. ‘There’s a website, and you have to have a password to get in. Bloody childish, I suppose, but a harmless bit of fun, don’t you think?’

I nodded. Was he on something? Or was his fuddled head the result of being on other things, and a lot of them too, according to my research, when he was younger? We’d always sneered at drugs education at school: maybe if he’d given the talks we’d have taken more notice. No. You never think that you’ll end up in a shirt and trousers with Pot Noodle stains down the front.

I’d have liked to scald the fork before using it, only managing a quick wipe with a tissue when I thought he wouldn’t notice. There must be a kitchen, somewhere, surely – that was where people usually kept their forks. And washed up. There must be a bathroom and bedroom. There must be far more rooms in this wing alone than in your average family home – so why were things like a fridge and a kettle kept here? Griff and I had once
had a horrendous week of picnicking when we had a drain problem and we couldn’t use the kitchen. But this chaos had a more permanent air. It wasn’t just a week’s mess. Look at those pictures: the frames hadn’t seen a duster in months. And the windows: you could have written your name in the grime.

‘Thank you very much,’ I said. ‘I’ve never had champagne with Pot Noodles before.’

‘Champagne really is the only stuff to drink,’ he said earnestly, sitting at the table at right angles to me. ‘Doesn’t give you a hangover.’

I smiled and flicked open my pad. ‘As you can see,’ I said, ‘I’ve already done a certain amount of research for this project. But we wanted to talk to you informally before involving lawyers to talk about contracts and –’

‘I don’t like lawyers. What’s your phone number?’

I reeled it off. ‘Easier to get me on my mobile.’

‘Office?’

‘Usually we leave the answerphone switched on.’ I wrinkled my nose as if in disgust, trusting he didn’t like the things, either, writing the mobile number down, tearing off the sheet and handing it to him.

‘Who’ll play the leading ladies?’

‘We haven’t got as far as casting yet,’ I said trying to sound firm.

‘Ah. Yes, so you said. Have to be a lot of leading ladies, of course,’ he sighed.

‘We were thinking of focussing on just one relationship. Which would you suggest?’

‘One! This’d be what they call a low-budget movie, eh?’

‘More an in-depth portrait of one period of your life.
Your glory days.’ Goodness knows where that sprang from but it pressed the right button.

He smiled happily, staring at the TV screen as if watching a replay. Perhaps he was.

‘Was there any special woman then?’ I prompted.

‘My dear child, they were all special.’

I jumped. No, he was only using a term older people often use to younger ones. That was all. What I should be paying attention to was the simple word,
all
. I repeated it. ‘All?’

He chased a bit of noodle round, waving it on the end of his fork. ‘Yes, all.’ As if there were nothing more to say.

‘Could you elaborate?’ I asked.

‘Thought you were supposed to have done your research, my girl. What was your name again? Oh, yes, Lena. As in Horne.’

‘I did find your name romantically linked with a number of women,’ I said, ‘but thought that was because gossip columnists always exaggerate.’ Perhaps his teeth hadn’t always been that bad. These days I couldn’t imagine
one
woman wanting to be kissed by a mouth like that, let alone enough to warrant
all
.

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘Would you have time to tell me about your life in your own words? That might clarify things for us.’

He peered at the TV. ‘Rather late for that. I always watch
Countdown
at this time. But if you came a bit earlier tomorrow I could go through it. I could show you round a bit, too.’

‘I’d love to see the place,’ I said. ‘I always get so frustrated on those National Trust tours when all you get to
see is the public rooms, not the real ones. Don’t you?’

He laughed. ‘Why should I want to go traipsing over other families’ houses? There’s enough here to look at. See that – over there, by the fireplace? Any idea who painted that?’

‘Stubbs,’ I said promptly.

‘Not a bad guess. But it’s more likely a contemporary of Stubbs – the horse’s legs aren’t very good. See?’

I picked my way over. The carpet might have been very good once: I suspected it had been made for a much larger room, and was now folded over to fit this.

‘Real Stubbs on the West corridor. You ought to take a look. Costs a fiver though, doesn’t it? Tell you what, come again. Yes, come again tomorrow. A bit earlier. I’ll give you a bit of lunch. Or you could bring something. I’m always partial to a bit of smoked salmon.’

It wasn’t one of my favourites, but might have the edge on Pot Noodles. Griff would tell me what to take with it. Except I wouldn’t be going home to Griff.

He got to his feet, too. I was being ushered to the door. For a moment I stood my ground. ‘It’d be really helpful for casting if you could look out a few photos – of your ladies.’

‘What?’ He sounded flabbergasted. ‘All of them? Tell you what, if we can find it, I’ll show you the list.’

What the hell did Griff think he was up to? He’d only let himself into the caravan and rooted through my things! No note, no nothing. Except a carrier bag with an empty shoebox inside it dumped by the sink. I’d kill him. I’d bloody kill him.

I strode into the village to ask what the hell he thought he was doing. OK, he had a perfect right to be in the caravan. It was his, after all. He had a key. But to go in and not leave me a note! And to pick up my clothes and drop them on the floor – Griff, a man who demanded such meticulous tidiness! What was happening in that skull of his? Any moment he’d turn into another Lord Elham and then where would we be?

Lord Elham. Was he mad or was he bad? How much of this present lifestyle was real? That was the easier question. All that dirt and mess would have taken time to accumulate. They were genuine. But was he? Was he putting on airs of innocence to hide something? If so, what? None of my research showed anything to hide. But –

No, I mustn’t think about Elham, or I’d lose my head of steam. I had to be furious with Griff, or I’d throw myself into his arms and howl that the man I’d hoped was my dad was a dopehead, and weird with it, but that I had to go and see him tomorrow in case he was simply a very clever man.

As I turned the bend into the village, I could see some activity ahead. Outside our cottage. A man in a hoodie talking to Griff. I speeded up, even more when I saw a Ford Focus parked about twenty yards further down the
street. But hoodie man was still talking and Griff was pointing, as if giving directions – no, there was nothing to worry about. Someone was simply lost and Griff, the gates open and the van half inside, was helping.

If I sprinted before, I hurtled now. It wasn’t help the man wanted, it was the van. Hoodie stepped towards Griff, grabbing his shirtfront. Griff was struggling. He wouldn’t stand a chance: he was too frail. The other bloke must have thought he was quids in.

Not with me to reckon with, he wasn’t. I’d learned to fight years ago, but never with any rules. Head down, I went for the man’s midriff. But not before Griff staggered back too. I heard him stumble – couldn’t see, because I was in mid head-butt. Hoodie dropped the keys. My fingers just missed them. The Focus roared into action. Hoodie was up now on all fours retching. That didn’t stop him fumbling after the keys. But I got there first, flinging them out of his reach. And not just that – hard as I could, I threw them at Tony’s front window. I knew what to expect. Hoodie didn’t. Suddenly the quiet street winced at the sound of Tony’s alarm. That, and the scream of the Focus’s tyres.

‘Sweeter than the “Hallelujah Chorus”,’ Griff declared, and went out cold at my feet.

‘Sweeter than the “Hallelujah Chorus”,’ Griff said every few minutes, as we waited for the ambulance.

‘Just a spot of concussion,’ Tony said, trying to sound reassuring. Reassuring nothing: wasn’t concussion serious? ‘When his head hit the pavement. And yes, I’m sure you’re right – that wrist looks broken to me. Bones break easily when you’re his age.’

‘I thought it was women who had osteowhatever,’ I objected.

‘Oh, men too.’

‘Sweeter than the “Hallelujah Chorus”.’

‘Absolutely,’ I agreed, smoothing his hair back with one hand, the other holding his good hand. What I wanted was an even sweeter sound – a nice two-tone ambulance horn. Even a wail if they felt like it. I’d heard about old people and shock, all right, and I was scared.

‘Did Tony get those thugs?’ Griff asked suddenly, returning my grip.

‘He got the number. So his mates will.’

Tony had found a blanket and tucked it gently up to Griff’s chin. ‘Was it the number I left on your answerphone?’ I asked him.

‘Yes. But that’s not a lot of consolation. It’s a cloned number. In real life it belongs to a church organist in Warwickshire. Sorry.’

‘And they’re probably changing it even as we speak for another cloned number?’

‘Probably. Plenty of lanes round here to provide cover – there’s a lot to be said for cities and CCTV.’

‘You’ll get something from our security camera,’ I said.

‘Probably no more use than before. Unless it caught him full on his face. Ah! Sounds like help at last.’

The paramedics treated Griff as he hated to be treated, a slightly deaf old bat. Chattering inanely, they popped a support round his neck and another on his wrist. Then they stowed him in the ambulance. I wanted to go to, but Tony laid a hand on my arm.

‘They’ll almost certainly want to keep him in
overnight. If you follow in the van, then at least you’ll be able to get home.’

I hated the idea, but he was right. The garage and house needed to be secured, and I couldn’t leave that to him, not when he had his own window to worry about.

By the time I arrived at the hospital – and I certainly didn’t hang around admiring the view – Griff had already been registered and was being seen by the medics. I hung around, feeling useless and miserable – after all, I’d only gone into the village to bollock him – and guilty. If I hadn’t walked out, I’d have been there to prevent him doing anything as silly as talking to anyone with the van as vulnerable as that. Wrong. The villains hadn’t been after the van. If they’d wanted the van, Focus man could have been in the driver’s seat before you could say Kitty Gang. After all, the engine had still been running when I’d arrived. Why hadn’t I clocked that at the time?

They’d been after the house keys. Perhaps they were Kitty Gang members after all. I’d have to make sure that next time they came, Griff wasn’t on his own. It’d be the work of five minutes to move back home again. It’d be the work of slightly longer to make sure that Griff wasn’t there at all. Yes, I had to get him out of the house into a place of safety.

A coffee told me the answer. What about farming him out to Tenterden and Aidan? OK, I’d never liked the man any more than, to be honest, he’d liked me. But he and Griff were friends, if not lovers – and if they were lovers, what business was it of mine? Slipping outside, into what was now a thin drizzle, promising more later, I dialled Aidan’s number. I couldn’t do much in the way
of breaking the news – a fall is a fall.

‘And yes, he was pushed,’ I added. ‘There’s a gang preying on older people in the area at the moment. The police know all about them.’

‘So why don’t they
do
something?’ He sounded pettish.

‘The thing is, I think he’d be safer out of the way for a bit. This is the second time they’ve marked us out for attack, and this time they may have broken his wrist.’

‘Can I speak to him?’

‘I haven’t even seen him myself yet. The doctors are still with him.’

‘You’re at William Harvey? I’m on my way.’

‘Wouldn’t you rather –’

But he’d cut the line. I awarded him a whole row of brownie points.

They were just looking for me when I went back in. The dear old NHS had X-rayed him, plastered his arm and even found a bed for him so they could keep an eye on his head injury.

‘A bed? You mean, he won’t have to spend the night on a trolley? Promise?’

The doctor, who didn’t look much older than me, eyed me coldly. ‘There’s no need for sarcasm.’

‘I wasn’t being sarcastic, just grateful. Can I see him – just for a minute – before he goes up to the ward?’

‘He’s already gone up.’ She scribbled the number. ‘But I daresay they’ll give you a minute with him. No more. I’ve given him something to help with the pain. And not the brandy he thought would help.’

‘That’s my Griff,’ I grinned. ‘Thanks, doctor. Look, when you discharge him, you’d better give me all the
instructions about physio and such – I’ll make sure he carries them out.’

‘I’ll make a note, Ms Tripp.’ She managed a smile, which I appreciated all the more since she looked as if she’d been on her feet for the last twenty-four hours. ‘Wonderful old man, your grandfather, considering.’

‘Considering what?’

‘Well, the probable state of his liver.’

‘It wasn’t booze that made him fall,’ I assured her blithely. ‘He was pushed.’ And then I asked the question I didn’t really want the answer to. ‘He’s an alcoholic, isn’t he?’

‘You’d know the answer to that better than me. Even if he isn’t, he’s certainly drinking to excess far too often.’

Her bleeper chirruped. ‘Talk to your GP,’ she added, over her shoulder.

Chew on that, Lina.

Having done the decent thing and called Aidan, the least I could do was leave a message for him with the reception staff. Then, following their directions, I went to find Griff.

I didn’t recognise him at first. He took such care never to let me see him without his dentures or in any way unkempt. And there he was, this frail old man, dressed in a hospital gown that showed his poor scrawny neck, lying on his back, mouth slack and toothless. Thank goodness I’d brought his toilet bag with his clothes for tomorrow. If he consented to go and stay with Aidan, he’d want to be spruce before he was picked up.

I took his hand again, and leaned across to kiss him.

He whispered something. I bent closer to hear. But whatever it was, it slurred into a snore.

There must be a tissue somewhere in one of my pockets. No? I tiptoed out, rubbing my nose fiercely with my cuff.

‘My God! He’s –’ Aidan leapt up and strode across, gripping my shoulders.

‘He’s just asleep, Aidan,’ I insisted through my sniffs. ‘He’ll be fine. You’ll be able to see him first thing. I tried to stop you coming, but –’

‘My dear child, I had to come. I’m in BUPA. I can get him proper treatment, private ambulance, everything.’

‘I don’t think he’ll need anything like that. What I do think he’ll need is a haven for a couple of weeks. Until the police have sorted everything out.’

‘You mean stay with me? An invalid? Bedpans and everything?’ His voice rose with each question. ‘No wonder you want to palm him off on me!’ Zip went the brownie points.

‘Especially bedpans. And probably blanket baths. Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Aidan,’ I exploded at last. ‘The only reason I don’t want him to stay in the cottage is his safety. Or I’d nurse him happily. And no,’ I added, really quite worked up now, ‘you can rest assured I won’t steal all his property and sell it to the Kitty Gang. I shall look after it as if it were my own. Griff’s my friend too, you know. I love him.’ There. And the three simple words – which I’d rather have said to Griff himself, if only the old bugger had been halfway conscious – reduced me
from snivels to full-flown tears. I’d have liked Aidan a lot more if he’d produced a hanky, not just watched in horror as my nose dripped.

There was a note Blu-tacked to the front door:

IF THERE’S A LIGHT ON, I’M STILL AWAKE. SOUP ON OFFER. TONY.

So that was why I was so weepy. I was hungry. Nothing since His Lordship’s Pot Noodles. Bombay Bad Boy, indeed. How old did he think he was?

The light in Tony’s window was still on. I was very tempted. What was there to hold me back? Thinking of Iris and her pigs, I rang Tony’s doorbell.

He was wearing that snazzy bathrobe again. And, as before, nothing else that was visible. Oh, apart from a big grin.

‘I’d almost given you up,’ he said, almost scooping me in. ‘Food or drink first? Come on in and tell me all about Griff.’

I sometimes wondered, not very hard and not very often, why I never fancied going to bed with Tony. He was attractive enough, after all, with his long muscled limbs and friendly smile. He was bright enough to appreciate Griff. He was in a respectable job – unlike some of the mates I’d mixed with when I was young, I didn’t object to the police as such, or as Griff would have put it,
per
something or other. His hobby, classic motorbikes, didn’t seem to occupy too much of his time. So why, with a stomach pleasantly full of soup, garlic bread and rosé wine, didn’t I want to round off an interesting day in his bed? It would have been less effort
than nipping home, with all the keys, bolts and burglar alarms that that involved. He’d probably have given me quite a pleasant time. He’d almost certainly have had handy the condoms it had made Griff so embarrassed to talk about. Three or four years ago I certainly would have done. I’d actually bonked blokes I didn’t like much at all. You do all sorts of things when you’re young and lonely and – yes, stupid. I wasn’t exactly in my dotage and the cottage would feel horribly empty, but – no, unless I felt a real spark, I’d sleep in my own bed. With Tim the Teddy Bear for company if needs be.

Tony did his best to persuade me. He was good at kissing, no doubt about that, and not bad at all at several other things, but a tiny corner of my head told me that he’d never shown much interest in me when Griff was around, apart from making sure I noticed his legs. Was he simply chancing his arm at an opportunity that might not present itself again?

‘Look, Tony, I’m really sorry, but I just don’t feel like it tonight. It’s been a bit of a day, what with one thing and another. At least now that Griff and I are friends again I shall be able to use the van to get around. Buses, trains! They’re awful.’

His expression was hard to read, but despite now steady rain he insisted on walking me the few yards home, looking carefully up and down the street for cars or hoodies. ‘Are you sure that that van’s the best means of transport?’

I looked at him for a second, ready to tell him just how long it took to get from A to B without your own wheels. But that might involve mentioning that B stood in my case for Bossingham. Until I’d sussed Lord Elham
to my own satisfaction, I wasn’t going to share him with anyone. Slowly I took in the implications of what he was saying. ‘Are you saying it might just be sensible to take it in for its thirty thousand mile service and borrow a courtesy car? Preferably one that doesn’t announce to the world it belongs to Ashford Ford or whatever?’

‘I’m saying just that. I’m not happy about your living on your own, either: you haven’t got someone – else – you could stay with?’

Why hadn’t he smiled like that when he was trying to get me into bed?