Tyme's End (10 page)

‘Thank you, Olly.' He held up a hand to stop me. ‘Please, sit down, both of you.' He came into the room and put a hand on the teapot, checking how hot it was. ‘May I?' He didn't wait for me to answer, just poured some tea into the cup I'd brought up for myself. He was casual and deliberate at the same time, like he was doing it on purpose. He stirred it and tapped the spoon on the edge of the saucer. ‘Philip, I thought I made my preferences on this point perfectly clear. You're not welcome in this house.'

My dad's face did something strange. He said, ‘Look, I'm only here because – come on, Father –'

Granddad turned to me. ‘Olly, did you pour your father's tea? There appear to be tea leaves floating in it.' There was an edge to his voice; someone was in big trouble. I just didn't know if it was me.

‘I don't know,' I said.

‘Well, perhaps you should –'

He stopped, because he'd caught sight of the book on the arm of my chair. It was almost a double take; it would have been funny except for the look on his face. Like – I didn't know what it was like. Like meeting your worst enemy in heaven. Like seeing a ghost.

‘Whose is that?' He raised his hand and pointed with the spoon. It
should
have been funny. But it wasn't, somehow.

‘Mine,' I said, scared to speak but more scared of not answering him. ‘Dad gave it to me.'

He lowered the spoon, very, very slowly. ‘Did he,' he said, but it wasn't a question. ‘Give it to me, please, Oliver.'

I picked it up and held it out for him to take. He reached out –

But I didn't let him take it. I snatched it away, just as his fingers touched it, before his grip could tighten. I jumped back, my heart pounding, and ducked out of his way, but I couldn't hold on to the book. It dropped on to the floor. Granddad's cup of tea fell and smashed next to it, splattering tea all over the cover.

For a moment we stared at each other. His face looked bleak, foreign. I didn't recognise it.

My dad said, ‘It's none of your business. He's my son.'

Granddad's gaze faltered and he glanced down at the wreckage on the floor, but when he looked back his face was his own again. ‘Go to your room, Olly. I need to speak to your father alone.'

I looked down at the book, and then at him. ‘But –'

‘
Go to your room
.'

I went. Granddad stood in the doorway of the drawing room, watched me go up the stairs to my room, and shut the door with a sharp, decisive click. I stood on the landing, counted to twenty, and then crept back down to sit on the lowest step, my arms wrapped round my knees. I felt sick and cold. My stomach was sinking slowly, like a battleship.

At first their voices weren't loud enough for me to hear what they were saying. I leant forward, watching the shadow under the door. Then I heard my dad say, ‘For God's sake, it's just a book!'

The shadow moved suddenly, as if Granddad had walked towards him, away from the door. He replied quietly, precisely, so all I could hear was the rumble of his voice and the consonants.

Dad said, loudly, ‘I thought Olly would like it, that's all! Jesus, you are so arrogant. This is about me and
my
son
. Why the hell would it be about
you
?'

I felt a little flash of warmth because of the way he'd said
my son
, but it died immediately, leaving me colder than ever. My face felt funny, like the skin was sticking to my skull.

Granddad said something else, indistinctly, in that low, dispassionate tone.

‘Well, what if I
do
? You've got him wrapped round your little finger – he bloody worships you! Do you have any idea how hard this is for me? I've come all this way, and all I find is that he's a spoilt little brat who thinks you're the bee's knees because you buy him everything he wants –'

And then the noise of something breaking. My dad must have broken something, because Granddad wouldn't – I'd never seen him break anything, even by accident. I could feel the tears building up again in my throat, inexorably, like when you put your thumb over a dripping tap.

I heard Granddad's voice again, still quiet, but suddenly so clear it was as if he knew I was there and wanted me to hear. ‘Don't you
dare
call Oliver a spoilt brat!'

Then, unbelievably, there were two voices shouting at once, blurring, wiping each other out so I couldn't hear the words. I'd never heard Granddad shout, not in thirteen years. His voice rose above Dad's, making my teeth vibrate.

‘You know nothing whatsoever about him! You reckless, selfish, predatory idiot – you come over here and think you can play at being his father. You appal me. It's contemptible. Who do you think you are? Have you even noticed how upset he is? Or did you imagine that it was perfectly normal for him to be constantly on the edge of tears? He was fine before you got here. It would have been better if you'd never come. Have you any conception at all of the damage you've done? If you had any decency you'd leave him alone –'

And it went on. On and on and on, a tight, furious,
wounded
voice I'd never heard Granddad use before, telling my father I'd be better off without him. I wanted to go down and shout at him to shut up. I wanted to say,
I don't care if he does damage me, I'd still rather he was here, I'd still rather . . . He's my dad
.

‘And I cannot express my – Philip, you bought him that book because you knew how I'd react. You let the boy think you wanted to buy him a gift, when you were simply using him to get at me. You haven't changed, have you? It's despicable. I suppose you still think that somehow
I
am responsible for what
you
–'

‘Don't lecture me, you pompous bastard! As if
you
knew anything about being a decent father – as if you cared what I did, as if you'd
ever
–'

‘All right. I don't propose to discuss the past. I am only, and absolutely, concerned with Oliver. And I
will not let you
do this to him.'

‘Oh, yeah, of course, you want to turn him against me –'

‘I hardly think I need to bother. Oliver is quite intelligent enough to understand the situation.'

Silence.

Then my father's voice again, only this time it was low and sibilant, spitting the consonants, and for the first time he sounded like Granddad. It made my back feel shivery, like I had a temperature.

He said, ‘All right. You want to keep on punishing me. You want to keep me away from my son. You win.'

I opened my mouth. There was a tiny noise, barely audible, as my vocal cords opened and closed.
No
. He'd go away and never come back, and he was my
dad
. . .

The drawing-room door opened and Dad was standing there, his face blotched and red over the cheekbones. He stared at me, and his mouth moved, but he didn't say anything. I looked at him, scared that he could see how I felt, but glad too, because if he could see how I felt he might not leave.

He met my eyes. And I think – even now, I think he
could
see how I felt.

Then he shoved his hands into his pockets, walked straight past me and down the stairs. I heard the front door bang.

There was a pause, and footsteps. Then Granddad was leaning in the doorway, lighting a cigarette. I was looking at the carpet, but I could see his shoes, and hear the clink of his lighter. A second later I smelt the smoke. I was used to it, but it still made me want to gag.

He said, ‘Olly . . .'

There was silence; just the sound of him smoking.

‘Oliver. How much of that did you hear?'

‘Quite a lot.'

‘I'm sorry.'

I clenched my jaw, pushing my tongue against my lower teeth. I couldn't help listening for a knock at the door, because Dad had to come back any second now. He couldn't have left without even saying goodbye. Any second now . . .

‘Olly, I'm afraid your father has – I'd be very surprised if he comes back.'

I said, ‘He's taking me to the Tower of London tomorrow.'

‘No,' Granddad said, ‘I'm rather afraid he isn't.' A pause. ‘Would you still like to go? Shall I take you?'

‘No,' I said.

‘Very well.' He looked around for an ashtray. His eyes seemed to flicker, as if he was somewhere he didn't recognise. ‘I'm truly very sorry, Olly. I know how hard it's been for you. I promise you that I didn't want your father to leave like this.'

‘I'm fine.'

I wasn't looking at him, but I could still feel his gaze on my face. I knew he didn't believe me, but he didn't say so.

There was a pause. He sighed and lowered himself slowly down until he was sitting next to me on the stairs. His right hand rested on his leg, the smoke streaming up between his fingers. The skin over his veins was crumpled and shiny, like paper. His other hand was still holding his lighter, turning it over and over so that the silver caught the light.

‘Olly, the book he bought you . . .'

It wasn't like Granddad not to finish a sentence. I couldn't help glancing at him. He was watching the drawing-room door as if it was . . . I recognised the expression on his face, but I wasn't sure why.

‘That book – I'm going to keep it for you until . . . I don't think you'll enjoy it. It's somewhat too . . .'

I waited. Granddad didn't turn his head. I realised, with a strange, distant shock, that his face looked the way mine had when I looked at Dad. As if he could see someone standing in front of him, someone older than he was.

‘Granddad,' I said, ‘please let me have it. It's only a book. Please give it back.
Please
.'

‘I'll find you something you'll enjoy more.'

‘No – Granddad, I want
that
book. Dad bought it for me.
Please
–'

He stood up, making a brief painful noise as he braced himself against the wall. Tiny flecks of ash drifted down on to the carpet. I got to my feet too, holding on to the banister because I wanted to touch something solid. I said again, ‘Granddad –'

‘No.' He didn't look at me. ‘I'm your grandfather, Olly, and I know better. You'll have to trust me on this.'

‘Well, I
don't
,' I shouted, and heard my voice crack. ‘You
made
him go away – you won't let him in the house – you stole my book –'

‘Oliver –'

‘I hate you! Why couldn't you just let him –' I was choking. I could feel the tears running down my cheeks. I forced the words out, although I could hardly speak through the sobs. ‘I
don't
trust you! You don't care about me – you just want him to go away. And he's your
son
! Why couldn't you just be nice to him?'

‘What happened between your father and me is over. Do you understand, Olly? I am not going to discuss it with you. I'm sorry about what happened tod—'

‘No, you're
not
! This is what you wanted, all the time! For him to go and never come back and –' I wanted to keep talking – wanted it desperately, because it was working, I could see Granddad struggling to control his anger – but I ran out of breath and leant over, crying too hard to make the right shapes with my mouth.

‘Olly . . .'

He put his hand on my back. I spun round and lashed out at him, not caring how hard. My hand knocked his arm away. He drew his breath in and there was a thunk as his lighter dropped against the skirting board.

I looked straight into his eyes and said, ‘I
hate
you.'

He didn't answer. For a moment I thought he was going to hit me.

I waited, glaring at him, until he turned away and bent, wincing, to pick up his lighter. Then I ran up the stairs to my room and lay face down on my bed.

.

.

II

.

.

I knew Dad was going to come back. I knew it. He'd come back and apologise for letting Granddad wind him up. He'd tell me I should go and live with him in Australia. Or he might even decide not to go back to Sydney at all.

The next day I got dressed and put my coat and shoes on, so I'd be ready to go when Dad came to pick me up. At eleven o'clock Granddad came up to see me. He brought me tea and toast on a tray like I was ill, and three or four books that he said he thought I might like. He put them down carefully on my desk, and sat on the edge of my bed. He asked me if I was all right, and if I wanted Rosina to buy anything special at the supermarket, and what did I want for dinner, and was I sure I didn't want to go to the Tower of London, because he could take the day off and he knew I'd enjoy it. I didn't answer. I didn't even look at him.

In the end he went away again. He was meant to be working but when I crept past his study on my way to the loo I couldn't hear any typing. I imagined him staring at the engraving of Napoleon on his wall and feeling the way I did, and I thought,
He deserves it. He made Dad leave me here. It's all his fault.

On the day after that I made Granddad phone up and tell the coach I wasn't coming to football practice that evening because I was ill. I didn't dare to leave the house in case Dad came round and I missed him.

On the third day I still thought Dad might turn up.

Dad's flight was Sunday afternoon.

The day after that I had to go back to school.

.

I didn't tell anyone about what had happened, not even Adeel, my best mate. But I couldn't get it out of my head. When I got home from school that Monday I went straight upstairs and stood outside Granddad's study. He was typing, but the door was ajar, which meant I could go in and talk to him if I wanted to. I shifted from foot to foot, imagining what I'd say.
You made Dad go away.
Or,
I want my book back
.
It's mine, you've got no right
. . .
Please
. . .
I don't understand why
. . . I took a deep breath, shuffling back and forth, making the floorboards creak.

The typing stopped. Granddad said, ‘Olly? Is there something I can help you with?'

Weren't old people meant to go
deaf
? I swallowed. ‘Um, yes please.' I peered round the door. ‘I wanted to ask you – to talk to you about – um . . .'

Granddad leant back in his chair and smiled at me. The air in the room was grey and rippling with smoke. He pushed his typewriter to one side and reached for his cigarettes. He was still looking at me but his hand went straight to the right place. ‘The Roman legions again, is it?'

‘No, it's –' I stopped. ‘About – Dad.'

‘Ah.' He took a cigarette out of the packet and fumbled with his lighter. It took four goes before he got a flame, and he flipped the lighter shut and clenched his fist over it, staring at his knuckles.

‘I – Granddad, please can I have the book he gave me? He's never given me anything before, not even for birthdays or Christmas, and –' I swallowed.

‘No. I said no, and I meant no.'

‘But –'

‘Oliver.' He looked at me for what seemed like ages. Then he sighed and got up, put a hand on my shoulder and pulled me gently into the room. ‘Sit.'

I sat down in his chair. The seat was warm. I bent my head and frowned at the typewriter as if this was my study and Granddad was disturbing me.

‘Olly, old chap. Listen to me. I –' He leant against the bookshelves, flicking the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray at my elbow. ‘I'm not going to give you that book. Not until you're much older. Possibly never.' I started to say something and he raised his voice a little, so that his words cut through mine. ‘You have every right to be angry. I myself, in your situation, would be furious. But you must understand that I have only your best interests at heart.'

‘You told me I should read more. You said –'

‘Yes. And you
should
. How are you getting on with those books I found for you?'

‘I want the one Dad gave me.' I twisted to look at him, wishing that I could trust myself not to cry. ‘Granddad,
why
won't you –'

‘Because –' He tilted his head back against the shelves, blowing smoke at the ceiling. ‘Your father . . . I suppose you've gathered by now that he was – we were something of a disappointment to each other. He made us both – Marian, your grandmother, and me – very unhappy. He got in with a bad crowd, and . . . We weren't on good terms for some time before he married your mother, and then . . . Marian died, and when – he had to go away, and your mother needed my help . . .'

I sat very still.

‘I don't want to speak ill of your father, Olly. I know you – you were very excited to see him, and that does you credit. But I've lived almost sixty-seven years longer than you, and I want you to trust that I
do
know what's best for y—'

‘How can a book be bad for me? He's
gone
, Granddad! He's not coming back! Why won't you –?'

‘What?' His voice was sharp all of a sudden, as if he was talking to someone else, not me.

‘You shouted at him until he left!'

‘Oh.' He breathed out in a tight, uneven way; it was like a laugh, but it wasn't one. ‘Very well. The book.'

I hooked my feet behind the rung of the chair and stared up at him.

‘The truth is, Oliver,' he said, ‘your father – when he was your age, or perhaps a little older – discovered a great liking for – an obsession with, one might even say – H. J. Martin, the subject of the biography he bought you. Your father knew that I had met Martin once or twice, and that I'd disliked him, and it seemed – to amuse him, I suppose, to develop this – hero worship. It was an act of rebellion against me, I think. An attack. And when he took you to that exhibition, and bought you the book, it was not only in spite of the fact that he knew I would see it, it was
because
he knew I would see it. It was nothing more nor less than an attempt to remind me of the tensions of his own adolescence.'

‘You mean he doesn't care about me at all.'

‘I –' Granddad paused, took a last drag on his cigarette, then leant towards me to stub it out. ‘It is entirely possible that he does care about you, Oliver, very deeply. I'm simply afraid that it wasn't uppermost in his mind when he chose that particular gift for you.'

I looked down at my hands, spread out flat on Granddad's desk. I didn't want to believe him, but it was
Granddad
. He didn't tell lies, not even when everyone else would, to be kind, or to make his life easier. He always told me when something would hurt. Even when I was small, when I'd asked he'd told me that my mother had got ill and died, and that God didn't exist, and what
gay
meant.

‘Olly?' He bent his knees and put his arm round me, so that our faces were on the same level. ‘Oliver, old chap. There's no need to be ashamed –'

‘I'm not,' I said. ‘And I'm
not crying
.' I pulled away. Granddad watched me for a few seconds, and then stood up. He reached for his cigarettes, glanced at me, and put them in his pocket without lighting one. He didn't say anything. I swallowed over and over, trying to breathe normally, trying not to blink, because my eyes were full of water and I was
not crying
. I said, ‘I hate you,' but only my mouth moved, and the cowardly bit of me was relieved that I hadn't said it out loud this time.

I heard Granddad take a deep breath. ‘I don't – I honestly can't imagine that you would
enjoy
the book, at your age.'

I felt something odd squirming in my stomach. I didn't look up.

‘It isn't – Oliver, I don't want your father to . . . You were terribly miserable all the time he was here, and I don't want . . .'

It had started to rain again. I could hear it against the windows.

‘Oliver. Suppose we make a bargain?'

I turned my head. Granddad was leaning against the mantelpiece, gazing into his own eyes in the mirror. He reached out and straightened a photo frame, touching the glass gently. My grandmother beamed at the camera, cradling me in her arms, and my mum touched my hair with one hand, as if she couldn't bear to let go of me completely. That was taken when I was tiny, before my grandmother died and Mum got ill. I couldn't remember either of them.

Granddad cleared his throat. ‘If I were to give it to you, Olly, would you be willing to make me a promise?'

‘Yes,' I said.

His reflection smiled at me. ‘You don't know what it is yet.'

‘Whatever. I don't care.'

‘Very well. Suppose I ask you to promise that, if I give you this book, you won't read any other books about H. J. Martin; that you won't let him become – an obsession, the way your father did.'

I stared at him. I don't know what I'd been expecting, but it wasn't that. I opened my mouth to ask why, but there was something about Granddad's face that made me stop.

‘Will you, Olly?'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘Yes.'

His reflection searched my face with his eyes. ‘You won't seek to know more about him? Once you've read that book, you'll stop? You give me your word?'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘But why? I thought you were worried about
Dad
.'

‘I – yes. Yes, I am.' But he didn't look at me, and if I hadn't known that Granddad didn't lie . . . ‘You can be a much, much better man than your father, Oliver. I don't want you to end up like him. Neither do I want to be reminded of him. And as for H. J. Martin, I hardly knew him, but he was –' For a second his voice seemed to hang in the air, but then he started speaking again and I thought I'd imagined that silence, that fractional pause. ‘He was simply a rather good-looking upper-class dilettante, who happened to be in a particular place at a particular time. He took in many people, but then we – they were like children: eager for myths, for heroes, for easy answers. He was . . . not a good man.'

‘Oh,' I said. ‘Right.'

He caught my eye and smiled, but he looked more tired than I'd ever seen him, even more tired than he had on Wednesday afternoon when Dad walked out. His face was all creased and baggy, like the framework underneath was rusting away. ‘All right, then, Olly,' he said. ‘We have a bargain. Now . . .' He got his keys out of his pocket, unlocked one of the low cupboards and took out the book. He held it for a moment, looking down at the photo, and then passed it to me without a word.

‘Thank you,' I said.

‘You're right,' Granddad said. ‘What harm can it do?'

I opened my mouth, but he wasn't expecting an answer. I wanted him to pat my shoulder, or kiss me goodnight, or say something so that I knew I wasn't in trouble, but he turned away and propped himself against the desk, watching the rain spray the window. It was getting dark.

I waited until I knew he wasn't going to look at me, and then I left.

As I shut the door behind me, I heard Granddad say quietly, ‘Stop being stupid, Oliver. What harm can it do? The man's been
dead
for nigh on sixty years.'

I turned round, confused, but he wasn't talking to me. He was still looking out of the window, staring into his own reflected eyes.

.

I went upstairs, trembling, holding the book in my arms like it was alive. I was filled with an odd mixture of shame and triumph – because Granddad had given in and I'd
won
.

I sat on my bed, opened the book, and started to read.

.

On June 21st 1936, at half past five in the morning, a motorcycle and its rider hurtled along the long, straight road that still runs from Falconhurst in East Sussex north-east towards Tunbridge Wells. It was already a clear, sunny day. In that era the traffic along the quiet country roads was minimal, and it would have been unusual – even startling – to meet another vehicle, especially so early in the morning, on a Sunday. The road holds no other surprises or hazards for the driver, stretching as it does for several miles without unexpected changes in direction or gradient. It was also well-known to the motorcyclist who rode along it that morning: his familiar, habitual route to the nearest town. We know, from evidence I will examine later, that he was travelling at no more than 38 mph; we also know that he was ordinarily a careful driver, averse to taking unnecessary risks.

Why, in the early hours of that glorious summer morning, H. J. Martin should have crashed his motorcycle – in such a violent impact that he was apparently flung several metres from the machine – and been killed instantly, we simply do not know.