Noose (11 page)

Sometimes, even when a child, Ian thought his father was half mad. Ian's mother would argue that Mr Charteris, despite it all, undoubtedly meant well, and to comfort her Ian pretended he agreed.
Did
agree a bit. ‘He means well' was one of his mother's favourite phrases, equal to Ian's dad's ‘it stands to reason'. For her sake, Ian would never have replied that, if his father meant well, yet behaved as he did about some things, he must now and then be off his head.

‘We didn't
cause
the trouble in the shelter,' Ian's mother said. ‘We didn't even take part in it or understand it. We heard of a disagreement about money, that's all. It was private to the two men.'

‘Oh, yes, you did take part in it,' Mr Charteris replied. ‘Ian went for the bobby and you say he talked to the man – to the murderer himself – outside the shelter, just the two of them. How will neighbours regard that? When they're trying to describe Ian in the future they'll say things like, “You know the boy – the one who had a nice chat with a murderer out in the street while Larch Street burned.”'

‘I feel sorry for the woman waiting for him off the tramcar. What will she think when he doesn't turn up?' Ian's mother said. ‘She'll imagine he's been hurt or killed in the raid.'

‘I don't care what she imagines,' he said. ‘It's not to do with us.'

‘And then she might read about this crime in the newspaper and see his name – see he's been arrested,' Mrs Charteris said. ‘This will be
such
a shock.'

‘I don't want us mixed up with people like that,' he said. ‘That's why I told you to stay under the table, the gas stove nearby for cups of tea.'

When Ian had grown up and looked back at the home situation he could understand something more of his mother's attitude. She had married Ian's father and, because of the money conditions, and the general habit of the time, would be bound to him, regardless. This governed her outlook. And by then Ian knew there might be more for her to put up with than the arguments about the kitchen table. She had to take account of Emily Bass, that trophy saved from the sea by Dad, and who was liable to reappear now and then.

In hindsight, much later, Ian could also see that when his father said ‘it stands to reason', he would frequently be referring to a special form of reasoning – his own, based on something ancient. At university, Ian would learn about an old form of debate known as the syllogism. This gave a framework. The two people disputing would each put forward two propositions which could be argued over, but which eventually ought to lead to an agreed solution. Ian supposed his father's thinking had gone like this:

1. In a public air-raid shelter during a raid there could be all sorts, because it
   was
   a public shelter. This surely would be agreed on both sides of the debate.
   
2. If all sorts went into the shelter some could be good, but some could be very bad and could even have knives. This, also, would have to be accepted as a possibility by the two sides, though not so obvious as (a).
   
3. Therefore, conclusion, stay indoors under the kitchen table and hope the house was not hit by a bomb, bringing upstairs and the roof down, and smashing the table and everybody under it. This also had a claim to being sensible. After all, there were a lot of houses and not all that many bombs, so a direct hit could be regarded as uncertain, or
   very
   uncertain. That meant that the kitchen table rated as a perfect shelter as long as this shelter didn't actually have to shelter anyone.
   

Ian felt that items in his father's reasoning should have been put in a weighted sack, taken a decent distance and dumped with a good splash in the dock. In retrospect, Ian realized his mother couldn't have risked that attitude, though. She had to concentrate on the times he made some sense, or his choice of her as wife would lose value, wouldn't it? She'd attracted a nut case. Plus, she'd have the prospect of cohabiting with an off-and-on extreme oddball until one of them died. She
did
have this prospect but wouldn't want it defined by Ian, thank you. His mother believed bad things could get worse if you described them. ‘Words bring extra' was another of her sayings. She reckoned it came from the Old Testament, but Ian had never been able to find it, not even with a concordance. In fact, he didn't think the word ‘extra' appeared anywhere in the Bible. It was not a Bible sort of word.

Anyway, Ian could understand that if you'd been stuck on a train in the bombing it might upset your brain. Also, it could be that his father considered they should have their own individual kind of shelter – the table – not use a public one, or have a shelter similar to everybody else's, because his brother, Ian's uncle Ron, and his family did have an unusual kind of shelter, and Ian's father would not want to get left behind by a brother who was younger. Uncle Ron worked in a docks firm that made sea equipment and he'd turned a big, cast-iron navigation buoy into his air-raid shelter, with a door on hinges cut out of one side. Ian had been in the shelter and thought it great. Voices clanged and echoed. It reminded him of getting into the ark for salvation from the flood in the Bible, though not even iron would give salvation from a direct hit. Also, he considered it a bit like going into Aladdin's cave, without the treasure. He noticed in school that one of the masters seemed very interested when they were talking in class about what difference the war made to civilians and Ian said one thing was his uncle had a buoy against his shed in the garden.

Then, things began to happen to do with the Barton Street shelter that made Ian think his father might not be completely daft and wrong about the kitchen table after all, especially when those rotten postcards started to arrive. The newspapers had heard of the murder and a reporter from the
South Wales Echo
came to see Ian at home. They had a front door which was half wood at the bottom and half glass at the top, but not clear glass. It had twirly bits in it, so the light came through but anyone on the doorstep could not stare into the house. From inside it was possible to tell the shape of somebody visiting, and you would recognize anyone you knew. If it was a stranger you could see whether it was a man or woman or a kid, but not the face properly. This glass part of the front door had stayed OK during the raid, although some other windows and door panes in the street were blown out by blast, and there'd been pieces of glass on the ground when they ran to the shelter.

They did not know this reporter from the
Echo.
Ian's father was at home because of the tides, and when he heard the knock at the door he came out of the living room into the hall and looked through the door glass to see who was there. Ian followed him, in case it might be a friend calling. He could see from the way his father's back and shoulders seemed to go all stiff that he thought this man outside was bound to be some sort of pest. ‘I told you,' he muttered.

‘What, Dad?'

‘Going out to the street shelter.'

‘It might not be about that.'

‘Of course it's about that. Have you ever come across this bloke before? Did we ever have blokes of this sort calling here previously?'

‘Which sort, Dad?'

‘This sort, of course. The way he stands there facing the front door, as if he's got a right to.'

‘Well, he's only knocking. It might be collecting for the starving in Africa. If he's calling he has to face the front door in case it's opened and someone in the house asks him what he wants.'

‘I know what he wants. People like this, they stare in through the glass as though they think we're all hiding and won't open.'

‘Will we?'

‘What?'

‘Open.'

‘Excuse me, but there's no law I heard of that says we have to open to someone staring in,' his father replied.

‘No, but will we?'

‘Who is it?'

‘I don't know, Dad. I can't see him properly.' It was not just the twirly glass making it hard to get a look. His father was standing in the middle of the hall, staring at the door, and Ian had to try to peer around him, past his body.

‘There you are then,' his father said.

‘What?'

‘If it was someone we knew we could tell.'

The man outside crouched a little and put his face against the glass so as to get a better gaze into the house. He knocked again, this time on the glass with his knuckle, not using the proper door knocker.

‘There you are,' Mr Charteris said.

‘What?'

‘The cheek. He thinks it's fine for him to mess us around.'

‘He can see we're here, I expect, and he's wondering why we don't open the door.'

‘That's what I mean,' his father replied.

‘What?'

‘Cheek. He thinks because he knocks on the door, and even on the glass, that we've got to jump to open it. This is what happens when you get mixed up with people in a public shelter. I ask you, Ian, what does “public” mean? I'll tell you. It means for anyone and everyone. We got no way to affect that mixture. In the house, under the kitchen table – that's privacy. I have no objection to Clifford coming in as well. He's a neighbour. We couldn't control his parents if they badly wanted to see
Down Argentine Way.
It was just a good, friendly thing to say he could come under the table. Staying there would undoubtedly be the correct thing to do.'

Ian's mother must have heard the knocking and came out of the kitchen into the hall. ‘What is it?' she said.

‘I blame you for this,' Mr Charteris said.

‘What?' she said.

‘Have you ever experienced anything like this before?' he said.

‘What?' Mrs Charteris said.

‘Knocking first with the knocker, then on the glass. He doesn't care which,' Ian's father said. ‘I've observed his behaviour.'

‘Why don't you answer?' Mrs Charteris said.

‘Which will be just what he wants,' Ian's father said.

‘Well, that's obvious,' Mrs Charteris said, ‘or he wouldn't be knocking the door.'

‘I won't play his game,' Ian's father replied, ‘not at my time of life. In the past, maybe, when I was younger, but no longer.'

The man drew back from the glass and gave a small wave with his right hand, inviting them to come forward and open the door.

‘Did you see that?' Ian's father said.

‘What?' Mrs Charteris said.

‘Like a signal – an order. The way you would call a waiter. I can't believe the neck of it. Most likely he was snapping his damn fingers, but we couldn't hear.'

‘He won't be able to understand why we're standing here,' Mrs Charteris said. ‘He can probably tell there are three of us, four if Graham comes in from the back garden.'

‘Of course he can tell there are three of us,' Mr Charteris said. ‘That's why I said “cheek”. He thinks he can order us about in our own house – three or thirty-three, he doesn't care; he thinks he's entitled.'

The man bent forward again and this time he spoke through the letter box. ‘Hello. Sorry to disturb. Is there an Ian Charteris here? Could I have a word with an Ian Charteris?'

‘Ah! Didn't I tell you?' Mr Charteris said.

‘What?' she replied.

‘This is to do with that shelter, although I'd spoken often to you about the kitchen table,' he said.

‘I'm from the
Echo
,' the man said.

‘This is disgraceful,' Mr Charteris said.

‘What?' his wife said.

‘Hunting us down in our own property,' Mr Charteris said. ‘This is barging in, the way the Press always does.'

‘I thought you liked the Press,' Mrs Charteris replied. ‘Your scrap book. The cuttings.'

‘This isn't to do with that,' Ian's father replied.

‘Of course it isn't,' Mrs Charteris said. She pushed past her husband and opened the door. ‘Yes, Ian Charteris is here. What's it to do with, please?' She spoke with her special, refined voice again, so as not to seem pig-ig, even though they hadn't opened the door at once.

‘Well, with a murder,' the man said.

‘I knew it, I knew it,' Mr Charteris said. He punched the hall dado rail with his fist three times quickly. Ian's mother hated fist work against walls or furniture. She considered it as showing too much excitement, like foreigners, especially in hot countries where people got so steamed they forgot control. She went to the spot on the dado rail and brushed it with her hand, as though to give it comfort or make sure her husband hadn't contaminated it by getting his skin broken open in the blow and leaving blood. ‘First, down the police station in the middle of the night, and now this,' Mr Charteris said. ‘They want to know everything and spread it. Don't tell me they won't spread it. Why are they called “reporters” if they're not going to spread it? They're going to spread it to people who buy the
Echo
.'

‘Spread what, Dad?' Ian asked.

‘Oh, yes, spread it,' his father replied.

‘Yes, I heard Ian went to the police station so late. That's why I'm here, really,' the man said.

‘We're not at all inclined to take this matter further, thank you,' Mr Charteris said. ‘We're certainly grateful for the interest shown by you and your paper, but we have decided not to proceed. I believe I've heard of a right to silence, and that's what we wish to apply now.'

‘We can't write very much about it, because someone has been charged and it's a matter for the courts,' the man replied.

‘Well, that's that then,' Mr Charteris said. ‘Thank you very much.'

‘But I heard about the police station and going for help in Larch Street,' the reporter said. ‘We can describe that. You've got a boy who's a hero. A child braving the blitzkrieg in the best British tradition. It would be nice to have that presented in the paper and kept for all time as a cutting, don't you think? Someone said he was wearing a helmet. Have you got that somewhere? It would make a great picture to illustrate bravery even at a young age, and defiance of the Nazis. The paper likes to help with morale of the citizens.'