Finding Davey (27 page)

Bray waited until Lottie had gone to bed before he opened the laptop and got through to Kylee.

: ur late

Only a split second,
he typed,
Jim S. Very pleasant. I hope I can introduce you both some day. You’ll like him.

: get on wi it the 1st q guz in 2 days

Yes. Have I to write it here?

: less u wont me 2 gess

Here goes then: Question One: What are the kites made of?

: is that it

Yes
.

: sure it’s never bin telt in storiz

Yes, I’m certain. I re-ran all of the television episodes last night & I’ve checked the books a million times.

: now wot

Bray pondered, and finally supposed she’d not managed to get the difference between know and now. The question mark always maddened her because she had to speak the word for query yet it wasn’t a real letter.

No
, he tapped in.
What?

: i rekon will get > 70,000 anserz owzat for gudnis

I think it’s excellent. You have done brilliantly. I’m so appreciative.

: wot

He wondered a short while. Her dyslexia seemed so patchy, and he knew how it distressed her. It moved his heart. So dazzlingly numerate, and so limited otherwise. Yet wasn’t normalcy a definition asserted by the majority? He considered, then carefully sent
uv dun brill ta luv,
feeling embarrassed, mutton dressing itself trendy.

: is that cow wi u

Of course not. Kindly mind your manners, miss. Separate rooms, of course.

: gd luk wiv it for uz 2

For we two, not for Lottie, Jim Stazio, or George the printer.

Amen. Good night, God bless.

: do ur teef

Her bitter joke from the remand homes and prisonages. He was about to sign off when another message arrived. He read it, read it again.

: u mekt me cri sayin tha

She’d never messaged anything like that before. Would she know how to tell him if anything was actually awry? He took a chance.

: I’ll phone pm tmrw?

OK

: Give colours, please.

A list of shapes and colours followed, tomorrow’s codes for her cell phones. He noted them down and waited. Nothing else came. He felt exhausted, had a bath, and slept until the alarm woke him at six-thirty.

Bray took longer than he’d expected winding up his talk
Development of Tea Furniture in England from Queen Anne.
Over ninety people attended, tickets restricted to proven buyers. His lecture was taped, and copies sold during the break. Lottie made sure he was given a few minutes before they resumed for questions. He left her vigorously defending Bray’s inability to allow his 35 mm slides to be copied. “Sets will be available in response to written requests,” she was intoning brightly as he made the public phone in the anterooms.

He rang Kylee’s number, arduously translating his scrawled list of colours into numbers.

“Hello?” No names.

“Wotch, Owd Un. I’ve got a helper’ll do as I sez, yeh.”

“Are you certain —?”

“Shut it. The thing is, you’ll hear of lawsuits an worse, yeh. I gets everybody worked up to stop the telly and the book things, yeh.”

He was horrified. “No, Kylee! We want the opposite —”

“Shut the fuck up. Politicos are on our case. Watch fer it, yeh.” She cursed a crude mouthful. “You said it yerssel. We got one chance, yeah?”

“Yes,” he answered lamely.

During the next hour he fielded questions on fakes. Luckily Lottie had prepared comparison graphs of simulant furniture, reproductions, forgeries and genuine antiques. The session went off well. He was asked to visit auctioneers in neighbouring Cincinnati.

He promised to do what he could. Buyers would be visiting London in the New Year. He undertook to welcome them at Gilson Mather and do tours of London’s museums. Lottie checked addresses. The next venue, West
Chester, was a thriving place that had grown precipitately in the preceding decade.

As usual, the place had been chosen for its buyers, this time of Long Acre Regency-to-Victorian antiques, with the emphasis on Gilson Mather and rival firms. During the drive, Bray narrated the news from Kylee. He made sure the driver didn’t hear a word. Lottie was as worried as Bray. Neither showed anxiety.

Doubtfully they agreed. No such thing as bad publicity.

“See the letter?” Mom demanded.

Manuela was enjoying a noisy fight with the garbage man, late again. Pop was about to leave for the airport.

“Clint seems to like it there.”

“I’m worried, Hyme. That story business. It’s not right.”

Pop had work to do in Atlantic City. He’d been telling Clodie that it was impossible to get out of. This was the last thing he needed, her inventing difficulties for Clint. Atlantic City would allow time for a little recreation.

The boy had been there only three days. “They do things, Clodie, activities –
supervised
activities – together. Closely monitored. What’s to worry?”

“Clint says they’re doing a computer story. Some quiz. It’s on the news.”

“A school gets a prize if the kids answer a few questions? Where’s the harm?” He’d seen the reports, heard the criticisms. “If you ask me, a million dollars’ worth of antiques is worth having.”

Mom said stubbornly, “They send their answers on computers.”

“So?”

“They can trace computers, can’t they?”

“Only when they’ve something to go on.” Pop felt her argument eroding his sanity. “How many Americans trace lost uncles, legacies from the old countries? Hundreds of millions. We’ve been into all this. You ever hear,” he challenged, “any of them find anybody?”

“I don’t want Clint doing it.”

He sighed. She thought computers were extraterrestrials that would take over the universe.

“Where’s the risk? Make him the only kid in camp can’t play some game? That’s like pointing him out. Kids talk. Why this, why that.”

He put his arm round her.

“Clodie, Clint’s got to be like the rest, not a kid everybody looks at and wonders what, why, how. Doctor’s never had one go wrong. Okay?”

They compromised. Pop would travel to Atlantic City, do his work, journey to Boston’s embattled office, then return home a day earlier than planned. Meanwhile Mom would keep check on Clint’s progress. They had a deal with Clint’s Brighter, a girl called Sally. Pop said to get Brighter Sally to phone every evening. She was being paid enough, let her earn it.

Clodie wished Pop didn’t have to go. Men trusted computers, women didn’t. Mom wanted differences she knew about, not ones so new that nobody could understand.

Sally was a second-level Brighter and subordinate to Ricarda, a bitch queening it over everybody. Ricarda ducked the night roster twice in a week, airily saying that she’d make it up later, which pissed Sally off, new staff coming and going like they did. Sally depended on Colnova Camp for her tuition at Arrington Campus State U.

“This KV game,” Sally introduced at the Brighters’ Meeting when She-Wolf Ricarda threw it open for questions. “We got enough onlines?”

“We’ve plenty,” Vern said. Tall, casual, he wore logos on every stitch to show he was rich enough to do just that.

“
We’re
sure, dear,” Ricarda said, snide. She’d spent time with Vern and gamester Coach Toke. Votes counted before they were counted, Sally knew.

“Twenty-three’s enough, surely?” Coach Toke put in.

“Only four online.” Sally decided on calm. No skin off her nose if the camp defaulted. “The kids checked that re-run episode yesterday.”

“They
all
watch TV, Sal.” Ricarda knew Sally hated being called Sal. “It’s a kid thing.” Like Sally was a moron.

“Okay,” Sally said, for once not putting up a fight.

Less than a month since, Sally had predicted the sleeping-bags fiasco. She’d been overruled, so now let Admin pick these new bones. Except Ricarda, flinging her glorious raven locks about, kept the minutes of every meeting. Such a responsible position, you see, for the Top Brighter.

“When is it?”

That was Mol, another Second-Level, Arts and Crafts. A Milwaukee girl, she proved invaluable when weather ran riot in the timetable.

“When is what?” Ricarda smiled her smile at Vern, her game of divide and rule.

“This KV programme.”

“Tomorrow.”

“I think Sally’s right.” Mol looked round. “My kids want to do it.”

“This the same programme the state legislature’s complaining about, hmmm?” Ricarda said sweetly. “Commercialisation of childhood? Or have I missed something?”

“Let’s play it by ear.” Vern loafed elegantly. “It’s a detail.”

“Sounds about right,” Coach Toke said.

They took a vote, sixteen to three in favour of Ricarda. Sally shrugged it off. It was the camp’s responsibility, not hers.

That evening she took a call from Clint’s mom, who wanted private reports on her beloved Clint. Sally was pleased. One more report would make a difference to her money.

And the kids’ interest in the competition would be a one-day wonder, no big deal. It would fizzle out if the weather held. Kids were so predictable.

In consecutive hectic days Bray spoke in Washington, Baltimore, and Philadelphia. The entire country was so vast and fascinating, which came in useful when the audience asked, “What do you think of our city?” He was able to answer, “It’s beautiful,” knowing that it simply would be so. Buildings were astonishing, the vigour of every town stunning.

“I can’t honestly see why the USA bothers with the rest of the world,” became his stock phrase. He meant it.

If challenged, he would expound on America’s resources, the wonderment of size and spectacle. The good cheer and loquacity of his audiences were remarkable. Nobody seemed shy of asking questions straight off.

“You’re seen as a television personality,” Lottie said candidly.

They were in a shopping mart. Bray liked to watch people, forever looking, listening. She didn’t know if he’d always been this way, or if it was only since Davey. Now was too late to ask.

“Because you’re from media. Publishing, writing, creating, whatever. Back home, you’re a subset of a subset. Here, media is all one.”

He wasn’t so sure.

“And,” Lottie contended, not wanting to let this one go, “remember the majority have Granny’s rocking-chair in their attics, and want you to spot it as a priceless Hepplewhite or Chippendale.”

He thought this too cynical and said so.

Lottie had taken over Bray’s duty of sending off a daily report to Gilson Mather. She got back Mr Winsarl’s encouraging replies. Only occasionally did they receive any comment, usually asking if Bray could fit in another
talk. Lottie, conscious of Kylee’s edict prohibiting changes, remained firm.

“There’s a limit,” she told Bray.

Neither mentioned reaching the end of the first week. “Is it churlish to refuse?”

“No, Bray. We mustn’t lose sight of our purpose. I did once.” She was condemning herself. “At Maldon, remember? I never shall again. We’ll be here together when Kylee dissects the results.”

“Yes, but —”

“Yes nothing.” She grew spirited. “Umpteen more sessions will only hinder us. Kylee ruled no, so no it is. After it’s run its course, we can accept more engagements.”

Grudgingly Bray conceded. He had it all in a system.

There was his basic slide lecture, on one of his sixteen subjects. Then there was the round, as Lottie termed it, a conducted walk among antiques and reproduction furniture in some auctioneer’s gallery. Third was the chat session, where Bray judged the personal possessions of enthusiasts. Fourth was the frankly exhilarating open question-and-answer, where he told anecdotes of antiques and forgeries over the years. The trouble, he openly admitted to Lottie, was that he had his eye on the clock, always thinking of Kylee’s next call.

“She sent word, Bray. The answers to the first question are mostly dried up.”

“What time was that?”

“While you were speaking, an hour since.”

Lottie mentioned her exasperation at Kylee’s inability to write clearly. “At first, I wondered how much of it was put on.”

“Like life,” Bray said more curtly than he intended.

“Wouldn’t it be sensible to send Kylee the answer with each question?”

“No. Kylee says anybody can hack in. We’d get thousands of correct answers and ruin the hunt. She says restrict it all to what you’d not want read on a postcard.”

“What happens if you —?”

“Get run over by a bus?” He’d thought of that. “Kylee contacts Geoffrey and Shirley. It’ll come up on my computer.”

“Not me, then?” Lottie demanded truculently.

“You’d opted out when I arranged it. Sorry.”

The newspaper stacks showed headlines, one related to the KV series. A State governor condemned the competition, TV companies howling infringements of their artistic freedom. A serious contest was developing. That Kylee, Lottie thought wryly. The publicity angle worked if nothing else.

“Isn’t it odd how marvellous everybody’s been,” Bray said, following the direction of her glance.

No question there, she observed, from one so innocent that he thinks everybody only becomes bad from exposure to crime. Like the Ancients, she believed mankind evil and needed to be educated into morality. Another gender thing? Gender was supposed to become simpler with age.

“You mean Jim?”

Jim Stazio had returned home after a long session with them. He’d reminisced interminably, yet conveyed a sense of vigilance. They had a list of his whereabouts, detailed right down to phone numbers of bars and a social centre he frequented. He carried a cell phone. She had spoken with him twice since, just reporting where Bray had reached.

“He’s kept two police friends on alert. I know the odds are against us, Lottie, but I’ve had a lot of luck. I’m so
grateful.” He looked away.

She rose too quickly. “I’ll get us a sandwich. You gape into space.”

It was her joke, his amiable looking about at folk. He stirred his empty cup, waiting for the first signal to come from Kylee.