Felix in the Underworld (28 page)

‘Am I to take Ian?' Miss O'Rourke spoke in a near whisper of plaintive compassion, which tempted Bob Weaver from time to time to thump her too. ‘Watch out,' he reminded her. ‘Ian has violence in his record.'

‘Poor little lad,' Miss O'Rourke said. ‘His mother's done a runner. Left him high and dry. Vanished off the face of the earth.'

Bob Weaver often wished that Ian would vanish also. Neither bumptious nor self-pitying, Ian Bowker had an unnerving way of staring at Mr Weaver, unblinking and for a long time, in an accusing sort of way. ‘All right,' he said, ‘take Ian. And there's no need to hurry back. Don't just let them taste the bloody countryside, give them a real dose of the stuff.' He planned to spend the afternoon in the Sleary Road Odeon where the latest American love story would blur his eyes with tears.

So Ian went on an expedition to the South Downs and stood in the ticket office of the nature reserve looking at the goods on sale. There were calendars, address books and knicker-bags decorated with badgers, baby deer and the occasional owl; dishcloths, egg cups and animal-covered aprons. Miss O'Rourke was struggling to keep the army of Sleary Road children from mutiny when the usually silent Ian approached her with a rabbit-decorated tissue-packet holder and asked if he could buy it for his mum. She was so astonished to hear Ian speak, and so touched by the boy's concern for a vanished mother, that she advanced him three pounds out of her float. She would charge it, she decided, to therapy.

Once out of the ticket office the children galloped into the woods, ignoring the carefully marked walkways. Soon Miss O'Rourke was alone, not knowing which way to turn, peering into the shadows under the dark trees from which golden leaves were still falling, calling, as her Irish mother used to call for her, ‘Coo . . . eee . . . !' but answer came there none. It amazed her that so many children could disappear so swifdy and leave such a heavy silence behind them.

Ian had run as quickly as any of them, slithered down a precipice of wet leaves and stumbled over fallen branches. He felt the edge of a ploughed field sucking at his trainers until he reached the road. He hadn't bought a tissue-holder but still held the three, warm pound coins in his clenched fist. He would be able to pay for a bus if he could find one on the road he had seen signposted to Coldsands-on-Sea.

‘I remembered where you live,' Ian said. ‘I remember where Mum brought me. A long time ago.'

‘Not so long.'

‘Seems long to me.'

‘Well, I suppose it does to me too.'

They were in Felix's kitchen eating fish and chips which they had bought opposite the pier. Ian still had change left from his bus fare and had offered a contribution which Felix refused. As he bit into a flabby chip, only made interesting by salt and vinegar, Felix remembered, for some reason, fish and chips with Ann on the night he brought her home after the theatre, when they talked about the ambiguity of art, and she made love to him with astonishing determination.

Ian said, ‘Mum's not coming back.'

‘How could you think that? Of course she is!'

‘She wrote “I hope and pray it won't be long”. But she took all her stuff. I don't think she'll be back.'

Felix thought of the varying appearances of Mirry, who had burst into his life and disappeared as suddenly because she had lied about a dead body. She might, indeed, stay away a long time.

‘For good and all,' Ian said. ‘I think she's gone for good.'

‘Well, then.' Felix did his best to sound bright and encouraging. ‘Is it all right where you are?'

‘No.'

‘What?'

‘It's not all right.'

‘Why not exactly?'

‘With Mum it was a bit uncertain. I mean, you didn't quite know what was going to happen next. And she wasn't all that good at keeping quiet. But in the children's home ... I don't know. There are just too many people.'

‘You don't like them?'

‘Some of them are all right I suppose. But, well . . . We're not free. I just feel as if I've been captured.'

Unfortunately, Felix thought, I know what you mean.

‘I don't want to stay there,' Ian said and selected another chip.

Then Felix didn't know what to say so, remembering his last conversation with Ian, he asked, ‘Read any good books lately?'

‘
The Dog's Dinner.
'

‘Who's that by?'

‘Nora Bone!'

Felix laughed; Ian looked solemn.

‘Anything else?'

‘The Haunted House.
'

‘Who wrote that, then?'

‘Hugo First! You're not sending me back there, are you?'

‘I suppose we'll have to ring up and explain. We can do that in the morning.'

‘Explain what?'

‘Well, where you are. Who I am. Why you came here.'

‘I came here because I want you to look after me. That's all.'

‘Me? Why do you think I'd look after you?' Felix was sorry when he'd said it. Ian looked suddenly lost, as though his last hope had gone. So they stared at each other, serious and solemn: the lonely man who had lived through a life he'd never thought to encounter, and the lonely boy who reminded him of himself

‘Because you're my dad. You are, aren't you?'

As though from a great distance away Felix heard himself saying, unaccountably, ‘Yes.'

‘This Miss O'Rourke's been quite helpful. Ian's going to come to me at weekends. Then he might be with me all the time. He could go to Coldsands High.'

It was strange but the sun always seemed to shine through the windows of the Evening Star Rest and Retirement Home. Felix's mother was looking straight up to the ceiling, smiling broadly.

‘I knew it'd be a surprise to you to find out that you had a grandson you didn't know about. Well, to be honest with you, I didn't know about him either. But, well, Ian's got no one else to turn to now. You see, he's all alone. He's very quiet; a very quiet sort of boy. He enjoys jokes, you see, but in a quiet sort of way. When, well, when he's settled in, I might bring him to see you. You'd like that, wouldn't you?' His mother turned her head slowly and looked at Felix. Then, as a cloud passed over the sun, her smile faded. He sat looking at her for a long time. Then he got up and went to find Miss Wellbeloved. Now Ian was his only living relative.