Spank: The Improbable Adventures of George Aloysius Brown (39 page)

"
She's already read it,
"
said Tommy Yamomoto, who joined the conversation.
"
Ikoko heads TrashTalk's animation department. She's brilliant. Wait till you see her work. Remember, I told you we would animate the banquet scene at Catherine de Medici's castle. When Doctor Fly seeks refuge in the nether regions she has drawn him, as you envisaged it in tangle of hair, but it is done with such subtlety that even the censors will be charmed. I'll send you the clip.
"

At the end of the evening, George and Catherine shared a taxi home.

"
I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted,
"
she said, moving closer, laying her head on his shoulder. George let her, hoping she was comfortable, hoping that the ride would last forever.

It should have been the best of times, but the day after the party George had a heavy heart. He thought a lot about Pem these days. What would she make of all this? He was afraid of stuff he had written going viral on the internet. What would happen when TrashTalk Mobile began serializing his novel? He had discussed elements of their love life with a lot of people during the course of his research. For him, it had been almost cathartic, a way of getting over his grief, but he was not sure she would have approved. It's too late now, he told himself, but he could minimize any possible damage. He had one computer printout of the novel and this he kept in a locked strongbox in his flat. The only electronic copy now belonged to TrashTalk Mobile and certainly it was in its best interests to keep a lid on the contents. When the rejection slips started to pile up, Catherine, on his behalf, had posted a synopsis and brief chapter summary on a writers' cooperative website where publishers sometimes go in the hopes of finding an undiscovered gem. This was where TrashTalk found
Fly
On
The
Wall
. He took down the synopsis from the site.

This left only a paper trail and George rummaged around in a cupboa
r
d and brought out his paper shredder. It was one of a number of retirement gifts given him by his colleagues at Putney & District. George was a firm believer in not leaving documents laying around that could potentially be embarrassing to council or damaging to taxpayers or citizens' groups and the joke around town hall was that if George was retiring, the shredder could be retired too.

He had stacks of papers connected to his writing; research material, notes and quotes from interviews, failed and abandoned chapters, scrawled notes to himself on beer mats, or the backs of envelopes, printed drafts with handwritten comments in the margins, minutes from the meetings of his editorial advisory committee, some of which were stained with curry, and all of these he shredded and consigned to the recycle bin.

That left him with a flash drive that contained 73 documents, a gazillion words and somewhere in this ragtag collection had been a novel trying to get out. George marveled that something so small could contain so much and he could have just smashed it or chucked into one of the big black rubbish bins at the end of his street. But rather than confine it to landfill to be picked over by swarms of scavenging birds he decided to afford it a more dignified farewell. It would be nice to have company, he thought. He picked up the phone.

"
Hiyer, it's George, what's up?
"

Across the street, Catherine Mallory Jones was thumbing through the classifieds in the local paper.

"
Nothing much, flat hunting, or at least going through the motions. I told Steed I wouldn't move in with him until we are married. I think he may propose to me. How do you like that? I'm little Miss Respectable all a sudden.
"

"
I think that's nice,
"
said George.
"
I have this image of a white wedding in a country church with a Norman spire, surrounded by a graveyard, all dandelions and tilting gravestones. Will there be bells? I love church bells.
"

"
Yes, bells, of course. And confetti, and….
"

"
Catherine?
"

"
What?
"

"
Fancy a trip to the seaside?
"

"
Mmm… I might. Where did you have in mind? The
Azores
is nice.
Western Samoa
, maybe? I hear
Martinique
is beautiful at this time of the year.
"

"
Brighton
.
"

"
Brighton
?
"

"
Yes, there's something I have to do there. And I want you to come with me. I'll buy lunch. I know this little place...
"

"
When did you want to do this?
"

"
Tomorrow.
"

And so, on a bright wintry Monday morning that shone with promise, George Aloysius Brown and Catherine Mallory Jones set off together for
Brighton
where they used to go as children on summer holidays with their parents, stepping gingerly over the pebbly beach to paddle in the briny sea. They caught a train from Victoria Station selecting seats with a table in front of them where they settled in side-by-side.

"
Remind me again, why we're doing this?
"
Catherine said, sipping her latte.

"
There's something I've got to do. I'm starting a new chapter in my life. It's time to get rid of the past.
"

"
What's in your past to get rid of?
"

"
I'll tell you when we get there.
"

At Clapham Junction, south of the river, the train picked up speed, clattering past gasworks and self-storage warehouses, past lines of corrugated sheds with rusty roofs, past vegetable beds in the back gardens of council houses before popping out of a tunnel at Wandsworth Common, an oasis of park land in the heart of industrial London. They could see a man walking his dog and in the distance the lacey pattern of trees in winter.

Catherine studied George's reflection in the window as if seeing him for the first time; pink cheeks, honest twinkling eyes, ears a little too big for a face that is still unlined at 55, thinking,
"
It's been an extraordinary year since we met.
"

He glanced up from his paper and caught her looking at him.

Catherine blushed, not meaning to stare.

"
Don't you think it's weird that we didn't meet until the last day of class?
"
she asked.

"
Not really, I thought you were a bit aloof, one of the privileges of youth and beauty, I suppose. Also you told Wanda you write poetry. That pretty well excluded me from the conversation.
"

Catherine grinned.

"
She wound you up, didn't she? Saying you should write pornography. She was having a go. But you took her on. After that I saw you in a whole different light.
"

"
It's a weakness. I like making people laugh.
"

"
You make me laugh. Your book made me laugh.
"

"
Thank you, ma'am, very kind, I'm sure.
"
George tipped his bowler hat in her direction with exaggerated politeness.

Outside their window, Croydon went by, then Balcombe, then everywhere else, country stations dressed with hanging flower baskets, flashing by too fast to read their names.

"
George?
"
Catherine lowered her voice.
"
We did okay, didn't we? I mean we're both published writers.
"

"
Well, you are. You're in the bookstores. I have to be downloaded.
"

Catherine laughed, changing the subject.

"
I remember going to
Brighton
as a kid, don't you? I remember candy floss and melting ice cream. The sea was always freezing cold. I hated going in, but mummy bribed me by buying me a bucket and spade and she held my hand as together we jumped over the waves. After that, I didn't mind too much. Anyway, the beach was too stony to build proper sandcastles.
"

"
What I remember was the
Punch
and
Judy
show in a tent with red striped awning.
"

"
Puppets, right?
"

"
Yes a fixture at the English seaside since Victorian times? Wouldn
'
t be allowed now, mind you, far too violent for young impressionable minds.
"

"
More violent than today
'
s video games?
"

George chuckled.

"
Less so, probably.
"

"
Then what was the problem?
"

"
Well, Mr. Punch was a villain who bashed his wife with a big stick, wacked their baby when she asked him to babysit, clobbered the policeman who came to investigate, and then laid out all the corpses so he could count 'em. A doctor arrives and Punch whacks him too.
"

"
And this was funny?
"

"
Of course. As kids we howled with laughter. We knew it was only a puppet show. The more bashing went on the louder we laughed. At one point Judy grabs the stick and bashes Mr. Punch. They have a real set-to before the police arrive.
"

"
A domestic. Police hate domestics.
"

"
Wait. The best part was the crocodile.
It sneaks up on Mr. Punch, who doesn't see it coming until all the kids start yelling. We yelled 'crocodile'
'
til we were blue in the face, so Mr. Punch wouldn
'
t get eaten. There's other characters too, a clown, a ghost, the hangman….
"

"
The hangman.....! Don't tell me Punch gets his comeuppance.
"

"
Not exactly. They bring the gibbet in, but once again Mr. Punch wins the day.
"

"
How so?
"

"
He persuades the hangman to put his own head in the noose.
"

Catherine laughed and clutched at his arm.

"
Are you making this up?
"

"
All true.
"

"
And this happened on the beach?
"

"
Used to. Punch and Judy went the way of the saucy seaside postcard. Politically incorrect, I suppose. Now, apparently, kids as young as eleven entertain themselves by rioting and looting.
"

They had arrived at
Preston
Park
, the train slowing, close to the end of the line.

Catherine closed her eyes and slipped her hand into his until the train pulled slowly into the station.

Lunch was at a little French bistro and they were sipping the last of the wine when George called for the bill.

"
No dessert, there
'
s something I have to do and then we
'
ve got a train to catch,
"
he told the waiter.

"
Haven
'
t you heard?
"
he replied, flicking at some breadcrumbs with a white linen napkin.
"
There
'
s no trains out of
Brighton
, not
'
til tomorrow, anyway.
"

"
Why? What
'
s up?
"
George asked.
"
Is there a strike, or something?
"

The waiter approached their table and placed the bill precisely between them.

"
A freight train derailed an hour ago blocking the tracks in both directions. Where do you want to go?
"

"
London
.
"

"
They
'
re supposed to be bringing in some buses.
Or you can take a coach to Victoria Station.
But I heard there
'
s a queue a mile long.
"

Catherine was the first to react.

"
Excuse me.
"
She grabbed her phone and went outside.