Dying to Know You (21 page)

I doubt very much that Karl or his pals had heard this ancient command before. But the manner of its delivery carried such authority and its meaning was so plain that it had the effect of restraining Karl and his pals and, more astonishingly, silencing the yobs, who wandered on their inebriated way with a few yeowls and whoops to save face.

After which, with huffs and smiles and raised eyebrows from the older of us, and some rumbling irritation among the younger, the party continued with pretended disregard of the interruption.

Later, when I tackled him about it, I gathered from Mr. Cooksley that he’d spent eleven years in the army, where he reached the rank of warrant officer, which explained his expert and timely intervention.

We were looking at Karl’s sculpture.

“What d’you think?” I asked him.

“Not my cup of tea, to be honest,” he said.

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s well made. But so it should be!” He smiled. “I taught him.”

“But you’re not too keen?”

“I don’t see what he’s trying to do. I like pictures, sculptures, that sort of thing, to look like they are meant to be.”

“He means it to be what he feels. About fishing. What fishing feels like. What it means to him.”

“Well, it’s beyond me. But I’ll tell you this. I’m pleased he wants to do it. His dad would have been pleased as well.”

“You knew his dad.”

“He was my best friend. Grew up together. Same schools. He was brainier than me. Went off and did engineering at college, built up his business. But never forgot where he came from. Never any airs and graces. And never forgot his old friends.”

“You must miss him.”

“You could say.”

“And Karl. You must have known him since he was born.”

“I was with his dad in the maternity ward the night he arrived.”

“So, since his father died, you must have been like a second father to him.”

Mr. Cooksley gave a huffing smile. “No, no! Nobody could replace him. I’ve never seen a father and son so close. Did everything together from day one. Too close. I used to think it wasn’t good for a lad to be that attached. And I was right. The loss of his dad devastated him.”

“But you’ve been a big help.”

“Done what I could. For him and his mother. She and my wife are as good friends as his dad and I were. Boyhood sweethearts we both married. Not cool by today’s standards.”

“Admirable, in my view,” I said, thinking of Jane and me.

Mr. Cooksley gave me a square look. “You’ve helped a lot. I’ll say that. Sometimes takes a stranger to sort you out when you’re in shtook.”

“If that’s right, I’m glad.”

“Seems to me, the trouble is his father died while Karl was still a kid. Before he was old enough to rebel.”

“Before he was a teenager?”

“Exactly. Before his balls dropped. If he had, rebelled a
bit I mean, kicked over the traces, like most boys do when they’re that age, he might have got aback of his father and become his own man.”

“Deidentified.”

“Is that what it’s called?”

“By the developmental psychologists.”

“Really? Well, whatever it’s called, he never did it.”

“From what you say and from what Karl has told me, he loved his father as much as one person can love another. I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing.”

“However much you love somebody, you should always keep a part of yourself to yourself. Never give it all. You can never be yourself otherwise. And when his father died, Karl felt he’d pretty much died with him. That’s what’s caused the trouble. He’s struggling to find himself. Like who he is. What he is.”

I said nothing. We were on touchy ground.

“That’s my opinion, anyway,” Mr. Cooksley said.

I said, “He’s told you he wants to do more sculpting?”

“We talked about it.”

“But he wants to go on being a plumber. To keep his feet on the ground, so to speak.”

Mr. Cooksley smiled.

“I’m proud of him for that,” he said.

“Maybe the sculpting will help him find himself.”

“You think so? I can’t see it myself. But there’s always hope.”

When everyone had gone, Mrs. Williamson, Karl and I cleared away the debris and washed up. Then Mrs. W. went off home, leaving Karl and me to return ourselves to normal. But I sensed that in some as-yet-indefinable way the party had caused a change in our friendship.

It was dark by then, and frosty. Icy, in fact, which, sitting in the warmth of my kitchen over final mugs of coffee, neither of us realised.

“That went well,” I said.

“Some of it was all right,” Karl said.

“Only some? Everybody liked your sculpture.”

Karl huffed. “So they said.”

“You didn’t believe them?”

“Not all of them. Most of them thought it was just about fishing and the fish were the letters to make words.”

“You mean they only took it literally?”

“They didn’t get it.”

“How do you know?”

“Their eyes. They said nice things. But you could tell from their eyes they didn’t mean it.”

“Give them a chance! People don’t always catch on straightaway.”

“Maybe.”

He drank his coffee.

I said, “You find it hard to take compliments.”

He gave me an unyielding look.

“Do I?” he said dismissively.

But I wasn’t going to be put off.

“You shy away when you’re praised,” I said. “You didn’t believe them when they said they liked it. Would you have believed them if they’d said they didn’t like it?”

“Probably.”

“Why?”

“I don’t trust people when they’re being too nice.”

His head went down. I knew better than to press the point.

Silence.

Then, giving me his wary sidelong look, Karl said, “What did you think of Fiorella?”

Ah, I thought, now we’re getting to it.

I said, “Not quite what I expected.”

“How?”

“Less sure of herself. Perhaps she was nervous.”

“Why?”

“Meeting me, perhaps.”

“Why would that bother her?”

“Readers often are when they meet a favourite author. They get excited. And often the author doesn’t live up to their expectations. At least, I don’t think I do. So they end up disappointed. And that makes them more nervous, because they don’t know what to say.”

“I don’t think that was it.”

“What then?”

“It might have been.”

“You were there as well. She was probably a bit nervous about that.”

“Why?”

“Unsure how you’d treat her. Unsure what to say about your sculpture. Three reasons to be nervous. You, me, and your sculpture.”

“Maybe.”

“So?”

“She was a ladge.”

“A ladge?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“A
ladge
. You know.”

“No, I don’t know.”

“A ladge. An embarrassment.”

“That’s a new one.”

“No, it isn’t! You should get out more.”

“I told you this was a day for telling truths. So she embarrassed you?”

“Yes. You didn’t notice?”

“Not particularly.”

“The way she trumped around the lads? And the hyper guff about the sculpture?”

“I didn’t hear. I saw you talking, but I was talking to your boss at the time.”

What I didn’t say, because it was so obvious there was no need, is that nothing kills love—and friendship come to that—more quickly than embarrassment.

Trying not to sound too obvious about why, I asked, “What about her friend?” I’d spotted them talking for a lot longer than he and Fiorella spent together.

“Becky? She’s OK. I like her. She said some interesting things about sculpture.”

“Such as?”

“She asked what got me started. I told her. And she knew about Tucker. William Tucker.”

“Really? What a coincidence!”

“She’s doing art history. First year at uni. King’s College London. She’s a year older than Fiorella. Keen on sculpture. She understood what I’m trying to do straightaway. Which Fiorella certainly didn’t. I didn’t have to tell her. She told me! She’s seen a piece by Tucker at the Tate. Very minimal. The work independent of the subject. Getting the richest effect from the simplest means. That’s what I’m after. We’re going to see it together.”

Even his vocabulary had changed: Tucker … A piece by … Uni … Minimal … The work independent of, etc. … Richest effect from, etc. … The Tate.

All in one afternoon’s conversation.

The changeful power of instant recognition!

I smiled to myself.

Hello, Becky. Good-bye, Fiorella.

Karl sped on. “She’s read a book Tucker wrote about sculpture. Told me some of the stuff in it. Made a lot of sense. She’s lending it to me.”

“What did she say about yours?”

“She made a good suggestion for how to make it better. As soon as she said it, I could have kicked myself. Should have seen it myself.”

“Well, that’s OK. You still can.”

“Yes. A good thing I didn’t have time to fix it.”

“So you’ll be seeing Becky again.”

“She’s coming to help me take the piece back home tomorrow. She’ll borrow her dad’s car, so I won’t need to bother you.”

Well, I thought, that’s a step in the right direction.

But, all the same, isn’t jealousy an ugly emotion!

“I’d better push off,” Karl said. “Thanks for today.”

“I enjoyed it. See you tomorrow.”

“Becky’s picking me up from work. So we’ll be here about six.”

It was then we heard the racket in the garden.

*
Karl and his pals might not have heard this before, but I had. It was common in my childhood as a warning not to take any impulsive action you might regret or would be inappropriate at the time. I didn’t know then, though I do now, that it originated in 1858 on the island of Malta, where the 2nd Battalion, the Royal East Kent Regiment, was stationed. The regiment was one of oldest in the British Army, dating back to 1572. They were called “the Buffs” because at one time their uniforms were made of light brown leather. In 1858 they were quartered with the Royal North British Fusiliers, with whom there was some rivalry. One day on the parade ground, this rivalry would have led to competitive unseemliness, but it was forestalled by the very strict Royal Kent adjutant, a Scot named Cotter, who brooked no disobedience. He called out, “Steady, the Buffs!” and the brewing trouble was dispelled. From that day the Royal Kents used this as their battle cry, until in 1961 the regiment was amalgamated with others and is today part of the Princess of Wales Royal Regiment. I offer this item of useless information for your edification and amusement.

I KNEW THEM AT ONCE, EVEN THOUGH THE ONLY LIGHT WAS THE FADED
orange blear from the streetlamp some way down on the other side of the road. The four who had jeered. The four from the incident in the pub. The four brain-dead apprentice thugs.

And this time not even the parade-ground authority of ex–warrant officer Cooksley would have stifled their mob-handed intent.

By the time Karl and I were outside and had taken in what was going on, they were ripping apart the rods from the sculpture and flinging them around the garden.

Karl let out a cry of rage and launched himself in ruggerstyle at the nearest vandal.

Instinctively aware that this was not a wise move, I shouted at him to stop and set off after him, meaning to hold him back. But had taken no more than a couple of
strides when one of the rods came flying at me, struck me on the chest so hard that I stumbled, my foot slipped on the icy path, and down I went, cracking my head on the stone wall dividing my garden from my neighbour’s.

I came to in a hospital bed an hour or so later. For once, I can’t be exact about the time.

What happened next I know only from what I was told by Mrs. Williamson and Karl himself over the next two days, and from the testimony of my next-door neighbour, Gillian, a middle-aged divorced librarian, Tom the publican from the pub up the road, and the police, during the trial of the four offenders in the magistrate’s court a couple of months later.

Karl’s rugger tackle brought down one of the four, who struggled to get free while yelling to his pals to “get ’im off of me.” Karl was sure it was the one he’d had the barney with in the pub. (I learned the names of the four of them from the police after they were arrested. But can’t use their names for legal reasons.)

The others came to his aid and hauled Karl to his feet.

But Karl, with his robust and fit 180 pounds in full flood of anger, was not a force to mess with. And though his assailants were the soul of bravery when mob-handed and timidly opposed, their emboozed physique was no match for an enraged Karl. As he twisted out of their grip their flabby condition was no protection against an elbow
rammed into the brewer’s gut of one, a plumber’s fist jabbed into the snozzle of another and a back-footed kick into the groin of the third.

The gutted one bent double, gripping his belly while he chundered the evening’s intake onto his feet. The snozzled one staggered back, holding his face in his hands while letting out a sound resembling an alpine yodel. And the groined one fell jackknifed to the ground, knees up and hands gripping himself between his legs, while alternately moaning and sobbing.