The Fetch (12 page)

Among them, though, was a bronze and gold inlaid dancing figure, a human male wearing the mask of a wolf. It was only half the size of the statuette from the chalk pit, and the dancing position was different. But there was something so similar about the two pieces that it caught Richard’s breath.

‘You say the girl dancer is a copy,’ he said to Goodman, while the curator listened, ‘but could it be real? Could it have been stolen
from a collection? Even from the museum?’

The curator examined the wolf-girl carefully, shaking his head. ‘Not from this museum. It’s familiar, of course, but I have no knowledge of something this beautiful having been stolen. Besides, it’s too new. I agree with Dr Goodman, it’s a superb copy. Where did you say you obtained it?’

‘My son says he found it. But if that’s true, he certainly found it on the surface of the ground. There’s no sign of his digging down to a hoard. I don’t know if it’s
treasure-trove
or not. So before I go through the normal procedures I want to try and find out exactly what it is.’

‘I tell you one thing,’ Goodman said with a smile. ‘It’s worth a few bob. The gold alone, if it’s as high quality as it looks, must be worth several thousand.’

‘It would be a shame to melt such a lovely thing,’ the curator murmured.

Richard took back the statuette. ‘I don’t intend to. I just need to know where it came from and how it got into my son’s possession. You’re sure you don’t recognize it as stolen goods?’

‘Positive. I’d ask at Sotheby’s though. They have a department that specializes in detecting the movement of stolen art.’

‘I’m going there next.’

Sotheby’s didn’t recognize the dancer. The young woman who examined the piece was intrigued and entranced by the statuette, however, and offered to sell it on Whitlock’s behalf, just as soon as he could establish his credentials of ownership.

‘What would you say it was worth?’

She stared at the wolf-girl for a long time, then looked up abruptly and smiled broadly. ‘More than the value of its weight in gold,’ she said. ‘Beyond that, I have no idea. It’s curiously …’ She turned the piece over
, shaking her head. ‘It’s curiously old, yet it’s new … if it’s a copy, it’s so intricate, even to the signature of the craftsman who made it …’

‘What signature?’ Richard was surprised. She indicated with the nail of her index finger the tiny head of a bird, marked on the back of the wolf-head. Richard had thought that to be a part of the design.

The woman said, ‘I have such a strange feeling about this piece. I can’t shake it off. It
must
be recent, I suppose. But it has an odd age about it. Where did you say your family acquired it?’

‘It was a gift. Out of the blue. Until I’m certain about its origins I’d rather not go into more detail at the moment.’

She looked slightly irked. ‘I can’t sell it unless you have established your ownership, and its pedigree, however poor.’

‘I’m not going to sell it. Not yet. But I do appreciate your time and help.’

‘My pleasure.’

He was held up by traffic on his return to Kent: a Dutch juggernaut had jack-knifed on the narrow section of the A20 close to Charing. A five-mile crawl, taking two and a half hours, meant that he arrived back at Eastwell House after seven.

Susan had made supper, fresh fish and new potatoes. Michael sat at the end of the table, his face a sparkling mask of pleasure and excitement. Weary from the car, frustrated, Richard poured himself a large scotch and listened to his daughter for a few minutes as she conversed about things that didn’t
quite
make sense to his adult hearing, but which were presumably important to her. He agreed, supported, questioned, laughed, and cuddled.

Michael watched him, and he
smiled at the boy, talking to him through Carol’s oddly disorientating conversation.

He talked about traffic. About the museum.

Michael watched him through eyes that blazed, those green eyes, the sparkling eyes of a boy who had a secret to tell.

‘Supper’s up,’ Susan announced, and plates of fish were placed upon the table.

Richard sat down and reached for the water jug.

‘I have a few things to tell everybody here,’ he said, and placed the wolf-girl statuette upon the table.

Carol giggled. Michael looked coy. Susan passed the bowl of greens down to her husband.

‘Before you tell us what
you’ve
found out, Michael has a little present for you,’ she announced in a quiet, steady voice.

Carol said, ‘Mikey’s found something else …’

There was silence at the table. Then Michael reached into his pocket and stretched out his hand to his father. ‘Pretty…’

Green eyes watched fervently, hopefully.

Fingers opened.

Richard took the fragment of silver brooch with its massive, embedded emerald and raised it to the light.

‘It’s for you, Daddy,’ the boy said. ‘I fetched it for you.’

Susan watched him solemnly. Carol had succeeded in spreading most of her mashed white fish over her face and napkin. She ate and chattered to herself, unaware of the tension behind the silence in the room.

Good God! This must be worth a fortune!

‘Thank you,’ Richard said, trying to control his voice. ‘It’s beautiful. Did Chalk Boy give this to you?’

‘He showed me where it was,’ Michael said, edgily.

‘Will you say thank you to him?’

‘Yes.’

He placed the fragment of jewellery
on the table, took a deep breath and looked up to meet Susan’s gaze. He smiled and shook his head. She allowed her face to register a restrained delight, then began to eat.

Michael said, ‘Will you tell me a story?’

Coming back to his senses, Richard said. ‘A story? Yes. Yes, of course. Which story would you like me to tell you?’

‘The Fisher King. Will you tell me about the Fisher King?’

Richard stared at the boy, then glanced in panic at Susan, who was watching him with an expression of controlled hilarity. His eyes said it all: I don’t know a damn
thing
about the Fisher King. But he said brazenly, ‘The Fisher King. Old King Fish himself. OK. You’re on. The Fisher King. In all his glory. But let’s eat supper first, shall we?’

Michael bent down to his plate, delight on his face; he began to fork the fish and potatoes into his mouth with one hand. The other, his left, was clenched into a fist, and Richard noticed that as the boy ate, so the fist beat out a quiet but regular rhythm on the table top.

The camp had been disturbed. Even by the fading light, Richard could see how the screen of blackthorn and elder had been struck by a violent force; branches were broken, cut or cracked. There was a great quantity of crude plaster and shards of stone on the white chalk, and bits and pieces of mahogany (he guessed), a dark wood, a heavy wood, stained, varnished and polished, cracked and crushed now, as if someone had deliberately smashed a piece of furniture.

His impression, as he collected together these artefacts at the base of the chalk wall, was that he was looking at the remains of a dressing-table.

Perhaps the jewelled brooch had
been in a drawer in that table?

Chalk Boy’s ‘fetching’ was obviously very violent.

Michael bounded up the stairs, tripping on the feet of his pyjamas, which were slightly too long. He thundered across the landing, burst into his room and leapt on to the bed, instantly doing a headstand with his feet up against the wall.

In this unlikely posture he greeted his father, who came calmly into the room, switched on the bedside lamp, and sat down on the mattress.

Richard watched the boy, trying not to think of the thousands of questions he longed to ask his son. The boy watched Richard from his bat-like position, then suddenly collapsed down into a heap, sitting up and grinning.

‘Headstand,’ Michael announced.

‘I noticed. Are you ready for a story?’

‘Fisher King! Fisher King!’ Michael chanted.

‘I’ve got a special story for you. One I’ve made up myself …’

Michael subsided, leaning back against the pillow, his freckled face lowering in looks until it registered positive gloom. But he didn’t speak. He watched his father through eyes that were suddenly anguished and sad.

Richard said, ‘Don’t you want to hear the special story I’ve made up for you?’

The ‘yes’ in the boy’s voice was so quiet as to be almost inaudible. Michael’s gaze shifted to the window. Disappointment clouded him.

‘On the other hand,’ Richard said quietly, glancing at Susan who had appeared in the doorway, ‘I could always tell you my special story tomorrow, when I get back from work. And tonight …’

‘Fisher King! Fisher King!’ Michael said brightly, and sat upright again.

‘Fisher King it is. Shall we get Carol to come
and sing in the—’

‘NO!’

He had been about to say: to come and sing in the chorus. In the story of the Fisher King – he had just researched it in half an hour flat, finding a children’s version that explained a lot – there was a song that could be sung, with a chorus that celebrated the land coming back to life after the Holy Grail had been discovered.

Shocked by the screaming negation from his son, Richard took a moment to recover the initiative. Carol was already in bed, but still awake, the evening having been one of excitement and general good humour. Richard had not expected this violent rejection of the girl, although it was clear to him, instantly in retrospect, that he should have expected such a denial.

Michael wanted his father all to himself, now. It was important.

Richard was shaking slightly. Susan withdrew from the bedroom door, because Carol was calling for attention. Michael’s shout had penetrated the house.

‘We’ll sing the song together, shall we? Just you and me.’

‘Yes! Just you and me!’

He began the story.

‘A long time ago, in a land not so very far away, a Great King lived in a Great Castle …’

‘The Fisher King,’ Michael screeched delightedly. ‘The Fisher King!’

‘He had another name, of course.’

‘What was it? What was his name? What was his name …?’

‘You’ll have to guess his name. Because his story is a tragic and sad one to begin with. Because in all his land there wasn’t one field, or one valley that
was fertile. He lived in the blighted land—’

‘Waiting for the
Grail!
’

‘Don’t jump ahead of me, young man. If you want the story, wait for the story …’

Michael slipped down below his blanket, eyes glowing, face stretched wide with excitement as he listened to his father’s careful, slow telling of the story.

Every so often he whispered into the blanket: ‘When the Grail came everything was all right … when the Grail came …’

‘… and one of the fine Knights who came to the castle of the Fisher King was a bold and valiant Knight indeed … and do you know what his name was? His name was the same as yours. Sir Michael! He was one of Arthur’s favourites. One day King Arthur said to Sir Michael, “Of all the Knights in my Kingdom, you, Sir, are the bravest. You have the fine ginger hair of the Knights of Old. There are secret messages in the freckles that pepper your handsome features. You are swift on horseback, and a master of the joust. Truly, sirrah, there is no finer Warrior Knight in my Kingdom. And it is to you, Sir Michael, that I entrust the quest to find the castle of the Fisher King. You will find the land barren, a wasteland, empty, mournful, filled with crying, wailing souls, and great empty bogs, and sucking pits, and forests with grey leaves instead of green. There are people there who never laugh, never speak, never cry …” ’

I know …

‘ “And only you can find the true path to the castle doors, young Sir Michael.” ’

He saw his father and his mother, and they were ghosts …

‘So brave Sir Michael – famous for keeping his room tidy – rode on horseback into the barren land of the Fisher King, and at last he came to a great earthworks, the same earthworks that
we now call Hawkinge Wood … and he crept up those earthen walls and looked over to see the land of the Fisher King beyond – and what he saw there, he would never forget …’

No. He won’t. He won’t. He’ll never forget …

He had watched from the top of the rise, face down in the leaf mould, fingers digging into the soft turf. The woodland was alive with birds. The breeze, heralding the approach of rain and colder weather, was already causing a sombre, shadowy shifting of light and movement in this favourite picnic place.

Carol was being cradled and cuddled, down there by the picnic fire, down there by the tablecloth, and the wicker hamper, and the cold box with its sparkling wine.

He watched them as they fussed and loved. He could hear their voices, the songs, the laughter, the hopes and fears for their daughter’s future.

What exactly
was
a hole in the heart? They seemed to worry. They seemed to reassure each other.

He heard mention of his grandparents’ names.
Gwen
and
Doug
. Poor Doug, his father said. But it had been quick. It had been sudden. He had not been in pain. What had been sudden?

His death, of course. Even as he watched the picnic party from his hiding place of leaf and turf, he knew that they were talking about the death of his grandfather.

Poor old Doug. Poor old horse
.

Carol Carol Carol.

How they fussed. How they pampered.

(‘Where’s Michael?)

I’m here. I’m here. Poor old Michael. Poor old horse. I’m here. Call me down to you …

(He’s playing. He’s fine. Leave him alone. If he wants to come and eat he’ll come and eat. Sulky little bastard.

(Don’t say that. He’s not taking it well. He’s jealous of Carol, can’t you see that? He’s having adjustment problems
and we need to be sensitive to his feelings.

(Sensitive to his feelings!
What
feelings? He’s his mother’s son …

(We don’t know anything about his mother!

(If he wants to be part of us he’ll be part of us. If he wants to play silly buggers in the woods that’s fine by me.
This
little lady though …