The Trouble with Henry and Zoe (25 page)

‘Sorry. Okay then, well, it’s been . . . it’s been nice seeing you. Both. All three of you.’

April nods and – against her will, it seems – smiles.

I make it all the way to the gate before remembering; and when I turn around, April is standing in the doorway, waiting. ‘Yes?’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve got my passport?’

April laughs.

‘You remember where Mum and Dad live?’

As I walk, I sing ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ inside my head. I sing slowly and drag my feet, but it does nothing to shorten the distance.

April must have called ahead, because her old man is waiting on the step when I turn the corner. At his feet is a battered Samsonite suitcase – they’re advertised as indestructible
but it looks like someone has had a good go at disproving this claim. The shell is dented and scratched, the pull-up handle twisted and bent, and the zip is broken. But it’s still
standing.

April’s father says nothing as I shuffle down his drive, his expression doesn’t flicker. And if it turns out the old bugger died six months ago and has since been stuffed and placed
outside to scare off burglars, then I have to wonder why April forgot to mention it. As I get within punching distance, however, I can hear the old man breathe and see the hairs in his nose quiver
under each exhalation.

‘Derek,’ I say, nodding.

Derek’s jaw tightens, the muscles bunching at the hinges. His hands clench into fists.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and Derek shakes his head very slowly, the message as clear as the sky:
Don’t!
He toes the case and it wobbles.

‘Right,’ I say. ‘I . . .’

Another shake of the head. ‘Don’t mek me break a promise to my daughter,’ he says. ‘She’s had enough of that, don’t you think?’

To pick up the case I will have to bend down, placing my jaw within six inches of Derek’s foot. I don’t know if he’s been working today, but April’s dad is wearing his
work boots. Again, he nudges the case with his foot.

I bend at the waist, stretch forwards and grip the handle, but as I snatch at it, the handle comes free, leaving the battered case still wobbling on its wheels. I try again, bending further now
and needing both hands to lift the case out of Derek’s range. He doesn’t kick me in the face.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘My passport’s in the . . .’

Derek’s nostrils flair, he exhales slowly and turns to go back into the house. ‘George sends his love,’ he says, and he closes the door in my face.

I wait until I get round the corner before sitting on a wall and opening the case. The crotch of my swimming shorts has been slashed, my new linen beach trousers have lost a leg, my sunglasses
have lost both arms, a hole has been cut in the heart of my favourite shirt. Underwear, socks, shoes, sandals, hat, everything has been destroyed. The book I had packed to read on holiday is now a
loose collection of torn pages. And all of it stained and sticky from the contents of, amongst other things, a skewered bottle of suntan lotion, and – to look at it – a jumped-on tube
of toothpaste. On the front of the suitcase is a separate, zipped compartment. Inside are our tickets, intact, unused and expired. Also in this compartment is my passport, in one piece, and
containing all its pages. No one has taken a pair of scissors or a blowtorch to it. No one has drawn glasses on my picture, a dagger through my neck, a penis on my h—

‘Fucking jilter!!!’

The thrown hamburger hits me square in the chest, bull’s eye. It’s hard to be sure with mustard in my eyes, but the receding car looks an awful lot like George’s Ford
Cortina.

‘You didn’t think to tell me?’ I say to Mum.

‘Of course I did,’ she says. ‘But it wasn’t my place, sweetheart. Here . . .’ she licks her finger and rubs it through my eyebrow, ‘. . . bit of
mustard.’

‘You got off lucky,’ my old man says. ‘I’d have knocked your head off.’

Mum smiles at my father with affection.

Nailed above the front door to the pub is a small oblong plaque with the name of the licensee painted in white on black. When I turned eighteen, Dad had had my name added so that it read:
CLIVE SMITH & SON
.
LICENSED TO SELL ALL INTOXICATING LIQUOR FOR CONSUMPTION ON OR OFF THESE PREMISES
. From a man of few sentimental gestures, it
meant a great deal. Not only did it announce my arrival as a man, but it signified my father’s pride in his son. It put us together, as equals. So it was a huge shock to see my name had been
painted over when I walked through the front door an hour ago.

‘So,’ I say, ‘I guess I’m not licensed to sell intoxicating liquor anymore.’

My dad frowns in confusion. ‘You’ve lost me, son.’

‘The licensee thingummy,’ Mum says. ‘Honestly, Clive, I do worry about your memory.’

‘Right,’ he says, cocking his fists. ‘Bobbed when I should’ve weaved.’

‘Weaved when you should have bobbed,’ finishes my mother, and again the smile.

‘So,’ I say, ‘the sign?’

‘Well, you see, son. You’re not the most popular man in town.’

‘By a long chalk,’ says my mother.

‘Thing is, lad, someone took a brush to it.’

‘Clive Smith & Bastard,’ says my mother. ‘Licensed to sell blah blah blah.’

‘They did a good job, too,’ says Dad. ‘Din’t they, Sheila?’

‘Very good, I reckon it was weeks before we noticed.’

‘Anyway, son, I thought it simplest to just . . .’ He makes a gesture as if painting out a bastard.

‘Thank you, I suppose.’

‘So,’ says my mother. ‘You’ve no excuse not to come back for our anniversary now.’

‘Except for not being the most popular man in town by a long chalk, you mean.’

‘Smith and Bastard,’ says my dad, laughing.

Mum shrugs. ‘Time heals. More slowly in some cases than others, but it heals.’

‘When is it, exactly?’ I ask, earning a scowl from my mother. ‘What? It’s not my anniversary.’

‘Ninth of August,’ Dad says. ‘Haven’t lost all my marbles yet, see.’

Mum leans across the bar and kisses Dad on the cheek.

‘What’s got into you two?’

‘It’s not every year you get to have a ruby anniversary,’ says my mother.

‘Well, that’s kind of the point, isn’t it,’ I say. ‘So, what’s the plan?’

‘Thought we’d have a bit of a do here on the Saturday,’ says Dad. ‘Friends, family.’

‘Well, I guess that includes me. Will April be here?’

‘Of course, love. She’s like a—’

‘—daughter to you, I know. But her, me, Brian, their bloody baby . . .’

‘Time to move on, Henry. April knows that.’

‘Anyway,’ says Dad, ‘can’t see her throwing much in her condition.’

‘Well, that’s reassuring. Anyway, it’s not her I’m worried about.’

Dad leans forwards on the counter, resting his weight through the knuckles of both hands. ‘There’s nowt else to worry about. They know whose son you are.’

It seems like the thing to be done, so I lean across the counter and kiss my father. He acts embarrassed, but it’s an amateur show.

‘I’ll be here,’ I say.

‘Maybe you could bring that Zoe?’ says my mum.

I laugh out loud. ‘Are you sure? You could barely say her name a couple of hours ago.’

‘Well, I can’t blame the girl for the sins of my son, can I? It’s not her fault you’re a bastard.’

Dad laughs and walks to the other end of the bar to serve a customer.

‘Thanks, Mum, but . . . I don’t think it’s a good idea.’

‘Think about it. It would be nice for you to have someone with you.’

‘Okay,’ I lie. ‘I’ll think about it.’

The sound of thumping from the next room is ruining the movie. It’s not a particularly good movie, and I’m having trouble focusing, but we needed something to drown
out the noise. The relentless thud of man on Vicky, Vicky on mattress.

‘I’ll give him top marks for stamina,’ says Rachel.

‘Well, it’s kind of his job, isn’t it?’

‘What, shagging the punters?’

‘Well, perk of.’

I should be next door in the twin room with Vicky, but she pulled our stripper so I’ve moved in with Rachel.

‘Did you have a fun hen do?’ I ask.

‘Yeah, lovely. Be more fun if I was pissed, I imagine.’

‘That’ll teach you to go fooling around.’

‘Hmm. And what about you . . . how’s the Henry thing working out?’

I consider telling Rachel about Henry’s secret identity as an extractor of teeth, but it’s too late, too complicated, and I’ve drunk too much Pimm’s. I’ll tell her
on the train back tomorrow.

‘He made me a birdhouse,’ I say.

‘For birds?’

‘Yup, in the garden. Bust my fence to get the wood, but still . . .’

Rachel coos at this. ‘Romantic.’

‘I know, but . . .’ big sigh ‘. . . what can you do?’

Rachel slides an arm around me and kisses my temple. ‘It’ll work out for the best,’ she says. ‘One way or another.’

The sound of thumping in the next room builds to a crescendo.

‘Thing with willies,’ says Rachel, ‘is, they do look a bit daft, don’t they.’

‘Some more than others.’

‘What was that thing he was doing again?’ Rachel rotates her wrist, emulating the concluding part of The Manaconda’s act.

‘Helicoptering.’

‘Has it left a mark?’ she says, touching her cheek.

‘Yeah, looks like a penis, only bigger.’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘I’m kidding. Nothing a bit of foundation won’t hide. Oo, here he goes.’

The Manaconda reaches terminal velocity, testing the welding on the bed to the limits of its engineering.

‘Blimey,’ says Rachel after a final juddering wallop from next door. ‘It’s enough to put you off for good.’

It’s a few minutes past two when I wake to the sound of breaking glass. Not just a pint pot or a whisky tumbler, but a lot of glass. And then someone shouts:
‘Jiiiiiilter!!!!’

The noise has also woken my parents; we congregate in the hallway, Mum huddled behind Dad, Dad clutching a baseball bat and a torch. I’m just grateful he pulled on a pair of pants.

‘Was it inside?’ asks my mother.

‘I think it was the car park,’ I say.

And I’m pretty sure it was George.

Mum waits upstairs, and if Dad had his way so would I. But he’s not as fit as he used to be, and anyway, we all know whose mess this is. The bar is empty and the doors, front and side, are
still closed. Dad unlocks the side door and we step outside.

It’s as quiet as the countryside gets; a hooting bird, the rustle of something small in the hedges, a bit of wind for added atmosphere. But no engines, no laughter, no sound of a shotgun
being cocked.

Dad pans the torch around the car park and up the walls, checking the windows one by one.

‘Try over there,’ I say, indicating where my car is parked.

And you have to hand it to George. Not only has the mad bastard heaved a hod through my windscreen, he has taken care to first fill it with bricks.

‘Best hope the rain holds off,’ says Dad.

‘It won’t,’ I say.

‘Probably not. Come on, I’ll buy you a nightcap.’

It’s all about stories now.

Since handing in my notice three weeks ago, Claire has phased me out of the day-to-day; out of the spreadsheets, finance meetings and, of course, author relations. Instead I am back to light
duties; opening envelopes, reading stories. Everyone’s a writer now; everyone seems to have a story to tell – although some are more worthy of an audience than others. Every week
between fifty and a hundred hopeful packages drop through the office letterbox. And I read them all. Alliterative alligators, otters and sprites with their hang-ups, confusions, lacks and
conflicts. And I devour them all, as if each one holds the answer, or at least a clue – play fair, don’t tell lies, beware of dragons; be foolish, be brave, be yourself.

Wisdom and precedent tells you that they must be junk; derivative drivel, clumsy rhyme, mixed metaphor and garbled logic. It’s not for nothing that we call it the ‘slush pile’.
One good story a month is a standard haul; one submission out of every four hundred or thereabouts. But my bin is practically empty, the stack of pages growing on my desk, reaching closer to the
light fittings by the day. I read them and I read them again, arrange the stories between piles: yes, maybe yes, maybe no, maybe maybe. Because if there is anything these stories teach us, it is
that everyone has potential. Everyone
can
. It’s become my mission to make one of these happy endings happen before I leave this office in a little under two months. But time is running
out.

On Friday afternoons, as the paper tower develops into a health and safety issue, I select the best dozen manuscripts from the yes pile, drop them into my bag and read them again over the
weekend. I read them over breakfast, in the bath, in the garden, behind the bar of the Duck and Cover. I listen to Henry read these stories to me as I chop onions, wash my hair, lie in bed with my
head on his chest.

But it’s not all dragons and daisy chains.

Some evenings, we watch movies, the ones Henry watched with his mother:
Brief Encounter
,
An Affair to Remember
,
Roman Holiday
,
His Girl Friday.
Stories about love,
thwarted by timing, pride, circumstance, politics, family, money, war, others. Stories with only two endings; will they/won’t they stories, although you can usually guess which.

Our own brief affair ends in seven weeks, it’s a weepy for sure and I already know the final scene – it’s one we’ve watched together, laughing at the melodrama in black
and white. Ridiculing the silly accents, dated dialogue and awful hair, as if desensitizing ourselves for our own inevitable goodbye. Henry apologizes for the films as if they were his fault, but I
enjoy the simplicity, the lack of expensive effects and cheap thrills. It makes me feel close to him, sharing something from his own history, I suppose. We won’t be together when the credits
roll, but we will have a story. But a lot can happen in seven weeks, so I remind myself to shut up, sit back and enjoy the final act.