Bucket Nut (29 page)

‘Came to see you, Harry.'

‘What you want with me, girl?' he said. ‘More trouble? What you done now?'

‘Nothing,' I said. ‘No trouble. Why? Are those bastards still looking for me?'

‘Better lie low, Eva,' he said. ‘Better let the big men fight it out without you. You and me, Eva, we small fry.'

The old guy he was playing with sniggered. He set down a domino, slapping his palm flat on top of it – whack. ‘Small fry!' he said,
giggling. ‘Someone close your other eye, man? You gone blind or what?'

Harry said, ‘Go home, girl. You ain't important to the big men no more, but you not welcome in their territory neither. Din't you hear?'

‘Hear what, Harry?'

‘Negotiations,' Harry said. ‘Mr Cheng and Count Suckle, they both go to Heathrow airport. No soldiers but plenty security. Nobody's territory, see.'

‘What happened, Harry?'

‘Everyone say Mr Cheng keeps Bermuda Smith's Cellar Bar. Mr Cheng is one very smart gentleman, Eva. Bermuda Smith going to open up again so maybe I get my job back.'

‘Bully for you, Harry,' I said. I was choked. No one was going to give me
my
old job back.

‘You stay missing, Eva,' Harry said. ‘Biggest mistake I ever made, asking you to help out.'

‘Fuck you too, Harry,' I said. ‘I only came to be sociable.'

He stared at me out of his one good eye.

‘Don't be what you ain't,' he said. ‘You goin' to be a good fighter, Eva, but don't try bein' sociable. You get me killed one day. Go home. Be safe.'

Well, sod him! I went to see Dave de Lysle instead.

When he opened the door he was wearing an apron. It wasn't a lady's apron. It was a big white canvassy thing with splatters of gunge on it, but it was an apron all the same. I ask you! What sort of bloke opens his front door in an apron? I'd have blushed for him if I'd been the blushing kind.

‘Eva!' he said. ‘What a surprise. Come in, come in.'

Say what you like about dwerbs who open doors in aprons – at least he knew how to be sociable, not like some I could mention.

‘I've got some plaster going off,' he said. ‘Just let me finish and then we'll go up and put the kettle on.'

I thought he was doing a proper plaster job, like a wall or something, but he wasn't. He was smearing the stuff on a big ball thing which was attached by an iron bar to a board.

‘A portrait,' he said.

‘What of?' I said. ‘A giant white bollock?'

‘No, no,' he said. ‘I'm making a mould. Under all this plaster there's a clay head.' And he kept on daubing plaster all over it. Scupture doesn't look like a very skilled job to me.

His work room was covered in grey dust and you couldn't see what anything was. All the big shapes were covered with wet sheets and polythene. It was quite boring really. Maybe one day when I'm feeling helpful I'll offer to spray-paint his walls red like the Static. Red's a good colour. It's got a bit of life in it – not like all the white and grey in Dave de Lysle's room.

To please him, I said, ‘I thought you lost your old grey Volvo.'

‘I did,' he said. ‘Otherwise I would've come to your fight. I was really sorry to have missed it.'

I could've said, ‘What about taking a taxi, dwerb? How hard is that?'

But I didn't. I said, ‘There's an old grey Volvo out in the road a few doors down from your house.'

‘No!' he said, sounding all amazed.

‘Take a look,' I said, enjoying myself. ‘You can probably see it from the window.'

He set down his plaster bowl which was just about empty anyway, and went to the window.

He craned his neck. He said. ‘That's it all right. How the hell did it get there? What rotten luck.'

‘Why?' I asked, beginning to feel a bit choked.

‘I was going to get a new car out of the insurance company.'

He looked upset and bewildered. ‘Damn,' he said. ‘I
wanted
a new car.'

Well, really! You try to do some blokes a favour and what do you get? A boot in the teeth – that's what you get.

He turned away from the window, all disgusted. He went over to a big stone sink in the corner and started washing his hands.

‘Someone must have brought it back,' he muttered. ‘Why would anyone do a thing like that? How very odd.'

He dried his hands on his apron. Then he took the apron off and slung it on the floor.

‘Never mind,' he said, and smiled, looking like his normal self again. ‘Let's get a cup of tea and cheer ourselves up.'

I followed him to the kitchen. He filled the kettle.

‘Sit down,' he said. ‘Make yourself comfortable.'

He pulled a big glass jar out of a cupboard. The jar was full of biscuits.

‘Help yourself,' he said. And I did.

He made the tea.

‘So,' he said, when we were sitting on opposite sides of the table, each with a big mug of tea and the biscuit jar in the middle. ‘So what brings you to my door this afternoon?'

He had forgotten! Bleeding Dweeg de Dwerb had fucking forgotten. I was glad I'd brought his rotten motor back. I was well chuffed he couldn't have a new one.

‘What's the matter?' he said.

‘You've forgotten,' I said.

‘Forgotten what?'

‘My sister,' I said. ‘You promised you'd ring the solicitor. I took my clothes off and you did your drawing. But you've forgotten.'

‘Don't
shout,'
he said. ‘For God's sake! You don't have to chew the carpet. I'll do it now. Just sit down and … Where's that letter?' And he dithered around like a fart in a trouser leg. Well what would you expect from a bloke in an apron? I was just about ready to ram his teapot down his corduroys when he found the letter.

I followed him into the sitting-room where the phone was but he said, ‘Sit in the kitchen, Eva.'

‘No,' I said, ‘you'll let those poncy blobs of goat's dribble walk all over you.'

‘Thanks,' he said.

‘You will.'

‘I won't,' he said. ‘But it's good to know you think so highly of me.' He stared at me. And I thought maybe I'd better be a bit more careful of his feelings. I'd forgotten about him being an artist and all that crap. People say artists are very sensitive about their feelings, and who knows, maybe they're right. I never met one before.

‘All right,' I said. ‘But I know what I'm talking about. I had a solicitor
once and he never listened to a word I said. I had to chuck his briefcase out the window before he'd even look me straight in the eye.'

‘Did you?' he asked, looking very interested.

“Course I did.' Well I did. But it didn't do me a blind bit of good. At the end of the day I was still on remand and that shite-hawk went home to his tea without a care in the world.

‘Lawyers are nearly as bad as social workers,' I told him, because he didn't know very much and he needed some friendly advice.

‘They play silly buggers with other people's lives,' I said. ‘They cock up, but it's no skin off
their
noses. They just go home to their gin and tonics and forget all about you and the dog-dung they got you into.'

I wanted him to know how important it was.

‘See,' I said, ‘it's my sister. I haven't seen her since she was twelve and I was eleven. And the why of us not seeing each other is all down to solicitors and social workers. They don't understand family feeling. They put you in places where it's convenient for
them.
Never mind you were perfectly happy where you was before they came along sticking their noses in.'

I was feeling all hot and sore inside and my teeth started to hurt. I dug in my pocket and came up with the photo I stole off Ma who didn't deserve it.

‘There,' I said. ‘That's her. That's Simone two days before the last time I saw her. That's two days before the Place of Safety Order. And who did that? Solicitors and social workers did that. That's who.'

He looked at the photo long and hard. I let him look because he had to see why it mattered.

‘All right,' he said. ‘I'll be very, very careful. I understand.'

‘You don't,' I said. ‘And it doesn't matter. I just want you to believe me.' Which was true.

‘I do believe you,' he said. ‘But I still want you to go back to the kitchen. I can't think with you looming over me. You'll put me off. I might have to lie a little, you see.'

‘Lie a lot,' I said, feeling a bit better. ‘Lie your head off. You have my blessing.'

‘Thanks,' he said. ‘But go and finish your tea.'

So I went, and I thought about him lying to a bunch of solicitors on
the telephone. For me. It almost made him a pal. And I looked at the photo and I thought of all the times I'd lied for Simone and she'd lied for me. There's a bond between people who lie for each other.

The funny thing was that people believed Simone when she lied, but they hardly ever believed me even when I told the truest truth.

Dave de Lysle said he believed me. And I believed him when he said that. But it doesn't do to believe too much, especially from blokes. So I went and put my ear to the door.

Good big houses have good thick doors. I had my ears out on stalks trying to catch what he was saying but I couldn't, and I remembered how I couldn't earwig him and his long-necked lady friend having a fight. Thick doors are a big disappointment. In Ma's flat I'd have heard every word. In Ma's flat they'd have heard every word three doors along. It's like everything else – secrets cost money.

He took his time.

Actually I don't know why I say that. He didn't take his time – he took mine. I mean, who was doing the waiting? Me. That's who. I'm glad I've acquired a relaxed mental attitude – otherwise I might've started breaking his blue and white china, he took so long. Which would have been a pity because it was nice china and it reminded me of blue eyes.

But he came back after a while. He came back frowning and tapping his teeth with a pencil. He came back with a piece of paper in his hand, but he didn't give it to me.

‘Well?' I said. ‘What happened?'

‘You'll go through the floor if you jump around like that,' he said. ‘Sit down. Please. I've got something for you but I don't think you'll like it.'

‘What?' I said. ‘What? Spit it out.'

‘It isn't much. Are you going to sit down and listen quietly?'

I sat down, and he said, ‘You wanted Simone's family address …'

‘What d'you mean, “family”?' I said.
‘I'm
Simone's family.'

‘All right, all right,' he said. ‘Please sit down.'

‘Foster family,' I said. ‘Get it right.'

‘Eva,' he said. ‘Take a deep breath. Listen calmly. Simone was adopted. She's Simone Redman now.'

‘No she ain't,' I said. ‘She's Simone Wylie, just like me. She'd never change her name.'

‘She was adopted, Eva,' he said. ‘Please sit down.'

I sat down with a bump. ‘They lied to you, those lawyers,' I said.

He said, ‘I don't think so, Eva.'

‘They lied,' I said. ‘And I'll prove it to you.'

‘How?'

‘Did you get an address off them?'

He held up a piece of paper.

‘Well, come on then,' I said.

‘Where?'

‘Where it says on that bit of paper,' I told him. ‘We'll go there and I'll prove it to you. My sister would never let herself get adopted and she'd never in a million years change her name.'

‘Perhaps she didn't have much say in the matter.'

‘No!'

‘You're upset, Eva,' he said. ‘I do understand. But shouting and jumping up and down won't help.'

‘I'm not upset,' I said. ‘Those cat-piddle lawyers lied to you and you believed them. I can prove it to you. Come on.'

I snatched the paper out of his hand. But the light had gone funny and I couldn't read what he'd written.

‘What's it say here?' I asked. ‘Your writing's all straggly.'

He handed me a tea towel.

‘Blow your nose,' he said. ‘I'll make a fresh pot of tea.'

‘You can stuff your tea,' I said. ‘I'm going to see Simone. I've waited long enough.'

‘You can't just march in there unannounced.'

‘When did they pass that law through Parliament?'

‘Eva,' he said, ‘Eva, have you asked yourself why, in all these years, Simone has never come to find
you?
'

‘What are you saying?' I said. ‘
What are you saying?
'

‘I'm not saying anything, Eva. I'm only asking.'

‘What other lies they been telling you?' I asked. ‘It's nothing but lies.'

Because, quite suddenly, I remembered something. I remembered
something about the time I usually don't remember. I remembered something about the time I went to Braintree in Essex to rescue Simone from the Redmans. The time they wouldn't let me see her.

I remember I went there and it was a Saturday. Mr Redman was at home. He opened the door to me. Mrs Redman came from somewhere in the house and stood beside him. They didn't want me to come in. They said Simone was at her ballet lesson. And it was lies, all lies. Simone and me wouldn't touch anything soppy like ballet with a ten foot pole.

They didn't want me inside their house. But I was only a little kid of eleven or so, and I hadn't met Harsh yet, so I hadn't acquired a relaxed mental attitude. I pushed past them and I ran to the bottom of the stairs calling Simone's name. Because I knew they were telling me lies about the ballet lessons and everything.

I would have run up the stairs, but Mr Redman caught me and pulled me back. He said something. Something about how Simone had a new life now and a fresh start and how I mustn't upset her.