Mr. Timothy: A Novel (24 page)

And Timothy? He leans against the wall. Lets his thoughts rove at leisure.

Invariably, they come back to the same place, to the fancy-ware dealer outside St. Martin's. My mind keeps stretching, elongating itself, as I try to remember if there was anyone else in the picture. Anyone I should have been on the alert for.

--What did your father look like, Philomela?

She looks up from her polishing. The word lolls on her tongue:

--Look...

I point to my face.

--His features. What did he look like?

She shrugs, makes a sketching motion with her hand. That's all it takes. Within seconds, Gully has procured the necessary items: a quire of paper, a pen, an inkwell. Philomela seats herself at the table, cautiously dips the pen, makes a few preliminary scratches, then abruptly crumples the sheet and begins again.

From there, it is a largely unhindered progression of short, sharply etched lines. Occasionally we hear her make a muffled cry over an errant mark, but for the most part, she works steadily, and as the minutes pass, her wrists loosen and her hands range with greater freedom across the paper, and before we know it, Serafino Rotunno is reborn, in all his Calabrian splendour. Fairly bursting from the page, he is: the round, wide-set eyes, made all the more watchful by the receding brow; the half smile, with its uneven rows of teeth; the tiny dimple in his chin, like a thumb pressed lightly into peat.

--My father, says Philomela.

No particular inflection in her voice. Simply stating it for the world's benefit.

Gully, entranced, leans over the table, whispering into the paper.

--Oh, me. She's got the gift, though, ain't she?

It is impossible to deny, and impossible to define. Working without charcoal or paint, she has nevertheless created her own shading, her own colour. An alchemy of ink. How mysteriously her subject emerges from the paper. And how pleased the subject would have been to build a frame for it.

--Tell me, Philomela. Can you draw the man who was chasing us? The one in the bowler hat?

She frowns, then sets to work. More false starts this time, more sheets sacrificed to her displeasure, and even when she is finished, she must hold it up to the candlelight for another minute before she is ready to part with her creation.

The sight of it sends a shard of ice through me. She has caught him in the moment of our first meeting. The roundish face, with its narrow brown eyes and the barest glimmer of a grin. The hard topknot of the hat.

And the wood-carver's blade, agleam and almost afloat--an obelisk of steel.

--Excellent likeness, Philomela. May I keep it for the time being?

She nods.

--And now...what of the man in the carriage, Philomela?

Oh, I should have expected it. The old eraser, wiping her face clean before anyone can stop it.

--The man who wished to take you away, Philomela. I need you to draw him.

She shakes her head.

--I may not.

--It would be a great help if you could.

--My hand. It won't...

But her hand looks quite purposeful as it descends into the pocket of her newly acquired trousers, clasps its small bundle, and reemerges with fingers fluttering. The rosary beads.

Amazing how the sight of them enrages me. I don't trust myself; I have to walk almost to the other side of the room.

--It's all right, Philomela. You don't have to draw him.

She is calmer when I turn round; the litany has done its work. Indeed, I would go so far as to call her completely serene at the moment she looks up at me and says:

--We kill them.

The contrast between those words and the holy relic in her hand is so pronounced it fattens my tongue, numbs my lips. A line of bluster trails from my mouth.

--Well, no, we may...we may bring them to
account
, yes, but we cannot presume to...that is for the ministers of justice and...and for God....

--Or they kill us.

And what is there to say to that? So many things. Nothing. I sink into Gully's chair, and he takes the chair opposite Philomela, and the three of us lapse into silence--broken only at intervals by the plaints of cats, circling the furniture and snagging threads of rug and brushing against our trousers.

And then, in a quick hot burst of empathy, Gully reaches for Philomela's shoulder, strokes it gently.

--There, there. Won't be no need for a-killin', dear one. Not while Gully's in the crow's nest.

The look she gives him then produces an instant echo in my mind. It is an exact replica of the look George gave me earlier--that strange, fleeting pity, but with a new element this time: consolation.
Poor man
, she seems to be saying.
I don't have the heart to tell you
.

And so she goes back to polishing her boots.

Chapter 15

SOMEONE HAS TIED A WREATH round the gargoyle on Uncle N's door, but this has in no respect limited the creature's omnipotence. If anything, it is simply the tribute a downtrodden world pays its conqueror, and even Mrs. Pridgeon, opening the door with her usual ponderousness, is, in this setting, nothing more than a handmaiden to the great gargoyle god. A lifetime of submission is stamped on her stooping shoulder.

--Good afternoon,
Master
Cratchit.

--Is my uncle about? The barest of shrugs, as though to say,
When is he not
? She leaves it to me to close the door and immediately makes for the stairs.

--Am I at the head of the queue today, Mrs. Pridgeon?

No response. The funeral march has begun. As I follow my fellow pallbearer up the stairs, I sneak a look at the sitting room, expecting to find it empty, and thus all the more startled to find another visitor, yielding place to me. A man of perhaps fifty years, hat in hands, observing me with the keenest interest. How familiar he seems: that theatrical bearing, the fine wounded eyes with their deep-revolving plans. It is the very man who was studying me last time I was here. No more inclined to part with me now than he was then. Even after he has passed from view, I can feel the ray of his gaze striking me between the shoulder blades. It prickles, this gaze--unmans--and it is a decided relief to stand finally on the first-floor landing, in the half light, with nothing but the prospect of Uncle N's bedroom door before me.

--Knock first, says Mrs. Pridgeon.

The fire is still roaring in the bedroom grate, but the bed itself is empty, and the bedclothes have been tossed off like gift wrapping, and I'm just beginning to wonder if this is a form of holiday prank when I catch sight of Uncle N's robed form by his converted dressing table-- bent over a microscope, oblivious to outside distraction.

Who would have dreamt? Uncle N, back to his collecting.

For many years, of course, he collected nothing but mammon. But his friends having long pressed him to take up a hobby suitable to his station and time of life, he, after due consideration, hit upon one that, in some peculiar way, expressed his inner nature. Which is to say, he became an amateur naturalist, specializing in fungi. A small collection at first--mostly mushrooms from the local market--gradually expanding to include rusts, smuts, and mildew. Now and again, Peter and I would bring him a fistful of brewer's yeast or a particularly mouldy loaf of bread that the Cratchits had given up on. One might have thought we'd brought him Arabian perfume: he would sweep his booty into his arms and, with a distracted smile and a promise to return presently, make a headlong dash for the microscope. We might not see him again for an hour.

I once plucked up the nerve to ask him what he found so very appealing about fungi.

--Oh, but they're ingenious, Tim, don't you see? They grow in soil, water--wherever they
can
grow, they grow. Perfect little opportunists.

Much as you used to be, Uncle
: that was the un-Christian thought that first seized me. Over time, however, I came to appreciate the exemplary qualities of fungi. As proof, I offer you Uncle N himself, grabbing the first opportunity to grow out of bed, colonising the surface nearest to hand. Ingenious in his own right.

--You look much better, Uncle, I tell him now.

He draws away from the microscope, rubs his naked eyes. Smiles faintly.

--I find myself at one of those strange crossroads, Tim, between illness and health. Trying to glimpse the signpost, as it were.

--To health?

--To home.

And in that moment, it's as though the air were being drawn open like a drape: I see this same house as it will be not so many years hence. The microscope abandoned in a corner, the fungi scattered to the winds. Strange hands filling and cleaning the lamps. Strange feet resting by the downstairs grate, strange voices commenting on its old-fashioned Dutch tile, the scriptural tableaux. "What sort of person would have kept such a grate?" they will ask, and will not stay to answer.

Uncle N exerts himself to rise from his chair, then abandons the effort halfway. Making a virtue of necessity, he crosses his legs and leans back in an attitude of boulevard ease.

--Well, this is a lovely surprise, Tim. I hadn't expected you back so soon.

--I am as surprised as you, Uncle. I will not keep you long.

--You may keep me as long as you like, I have no objection. Time is bizarrely irrelevant at my stage in life. As are pastimes.

He has taken the room's one chair, and so my only recourse is to sit on the edge of his stillunmade bed. The feather mattress collapses gently beneath my weight, virtually soundless in its protest.

--I have come because I need your help, Uncle.

--You shall have it, if it is mine to give.

--I hope it is. I am looking for an honest policeman.

Carefully, he wipes his spectacles on the sleeve of his robe.

--Why, that shouldn't be so difficult. There must be dozens, surely.

--Be that as it may, I have reason to be skeptical.

He returns his glasses to their original perch and peers at me over the rims, and in that instant, his face assumes the shrewd mercantile air my parents used to speak of. It passes, however, before I can fix it for posterity. All that is left is a straightforward query:

--Does it relate to that business of yours? The one you alluded to last time you were here?

--Yes.

--And is it fair to say that in the course of pursuing this business, you have encountered some less-than-sterling representatives of the Metropolitan Police?

--Yes.

--And you are looking for someone who would not be beholden in any way to these aforementioned persons?

--In a manner of speaking.

One long, knobby finger taps the bridge of his nose in a rigid pendulum beat. He starts to speak, stops himself, starts again.

--I know of a man.

And as though to reassure himself that yes, yes, he does know a man, he nods several times over and says:

--Surtees is the name. Detective Inspector Graham Surtees. Curious sort of fellow. Assisted me with a rather tricky embezzlement case some years back. One thinks he's not quite attending at first, then it turns out he's attended far more than one could have imagined. Quietly dogged, no matter how he behaves on first acquaintance. If there's any of them to be trusted, he's your man.

--I will remember, Uncle. And now, would you be so kind as to write me a letter of introduction?

The ink and paper are easy to procure, and within two minutes, he has written, in his tight, sharply angled hand:

I herein commend to you my
de facto
nephew Timothy Cratchit. Would you have the goodness to hear him out with all due kindness and deliberation? He is most awfully bothered about something, and knowing him as I do, I can assert with conviction that he is seldom bothered without cause. Please assist him as you would me, and you shall have my

Everlasting thanks and gratitude,
EBS

Smiling mostly to myself, I fold the letter in half, turn it into an unsealed envelope, and tuck it inside my jacket.

--Thank you, Uncle. I shall see him this afternoon, with your blessing.

--You have it. Only stay a moment.

--Yes?

--I have promised, I
know
, not to pry into your affairs, and I am bound and determined to keep that promise. But remember what I told you, Tim. If in these next few days, you need anything, anything at all, you have only to send word, and I'll rouse myself from this bed and tear down rafters and...and...oh, that line, Tim. The one we used to laugh about.

--Spirit-calling, you mean?

--Yes, tell me how it goes.

--I can call spirits from the vasty deep.

--And the other fellow, remind me what he says.

--But will they come when you do call them?

--Ha! That's it. Excellent, yes, very fine.

For nigh on another minute, he speaks the line over and over again to the square of floorboard between his feet, chuckling after each iteration and muttering:

--Oh, fine...deuced fine, that.

Whereupon, seemingly replenished, he looks up at me again.

--Tim.

The briefest hesitation then. And in that interval, I feel a roiling inside him and all round him, and I have to fight the impulse to quit the room without a backwards look.