Chapter 14 #2
‘Good would be too kind, but he was hard-working. Except when the girl came along and I paid him to snog. I liked her, though. Full of beans, wearing the trousers, my kind of—’
‘Which girl?’
‘Fred’s girlfriend. And partner in all crimes. Olivia. He called her Liv.’
‘No, Liv was his friend. They were just friends.’
‘Just friends don’t smooch the way those two smooched. Plus, he pestered her to marry him someday. She always argued that marriage is a moronic institution. I eavesdropped a lot, they were touching, bless them, and— You’re not okay.’
Stifling, Charles pulls his windproof jacket open. He flattens his palm onto Loris’ handwriting and faces the painting on the wall. The horseman. His twisted moustache and golden monocle. The orange. Respire.
‘Should I fetch you some water? Charles?’
‘No…’
Sugar on Loris’ cheek. Doucement. Fingers on his neck, caressing his skin clockwise.
‘I’m alright… Can you tell me what happened?’
Patty looks concerned, so Charles prompts her with a shaky smile.
‘How long did Fred work at your house?’
‘From September until Christmas break. Then again for a few weeks, but—’
‘Hi, Patty!’
‘Not now, Richie.’
‘Okay, Patty.’
‘But less frequently, and he wasn’t as helpful.
I sent him away a couple of times because he obviously had a few too many to handle tools.
And he spent the night once, slept on a tarp, said he didn’t want to go home.
He wasn’t doing too well, but he always dodged my questions, and I didn’t push…
One Saturday morning, he didn’t show up.
I didn’t make much of it, until I came here to open the pub.
The whole of Hampstead had heard the news already…
’ Patty sighs and shakes her bob of hair. ‘What a bloody unfair mess.’
‘Yes, that’s… That’s a good way to sum it up.’
‘I’m so sorry you lost him.’
Charles drinks again to drown a rising sob. He can’t allow himself to ugly-cry in a public place, but it’s a shame. He stopped crying over the loss of Fred after he realised comforting hugs only deepened his pain. But Patty wouldn’t hug him. And they lost the same Fred.
‘I stayed at the back of the church during the service, I didn’t want to betray Fred’s secret.
But I owed him cash, so I spoke to Olivia at the end.
She didn’t want it, said it was pointless now.
So I used it to buy a sturdy carved frame.
I hung it around the paint disaster Fred left on my living room wall.
Thought it was fitting. He loved weird art. ’
Charles chokes and presses his fists against his mouth.
‘I’m sorry I upset you, boy, I—’
‘Oi! Patty! Care to help?’
The entire pub turns towards Billie and the young employee who’s paralysed next to her. Five customers are waiting to be served, and dirty glasses are now forming lopsided towers on the counter. But Patty waves her niece off and refocuses on Charles.
‘I’m sorry if I—’
‘Don’t be. You don’t know how much of… of a difference it makes that you shared that.’
‘He talked a lot about you. Called you Charlie but said no one else could. Claimed your imagination was something else. That you were gonna write a saga and outsell—’
A loud crash of glasses paints a bloodcurdling expression on Patty’s face. Twenty minutes ago, it would have left Charles curled up in a quaking ball underneath the table.
‘I need to deal with that. But you stay here, as long as you feel like, okay? Want another pint?’
Charles should really get going. He’s expected home. The house he calls home. The place Fred loathed.
‘I’d love one. Thank you.’
Patty slogs towards the bar but looks back at him after three steps. ‘How’s your handwriting?’
‘Compared to Loris, I’m a calligraphist.’
‘Grand! Let me grab chalks and a drink list.’
***
Charles lifts the tinsel dangling in front of the most recent photo of Fred on the staircase wall.
A shot of the two of them, sitting on the floor near the Christmas tree with their mutual gifts.
Charles had felt awful discovering the Olwinski pendant, when he had simply ordered a vintage jacket online for his brother.
What a lousy last present that was.
And what a nerve from his parents to display this split moment of joy, considering the day turned out to be a verbal bloodbath.
He’s yet to grasp why it did. He can hear Fred’s defiance, Alice’s hysteria and Milton’s abrasiveness, but the words remain gibberish.
‘Why aren’t you ready? We are about to leave.’
Charles shivers and looks dazedly at his mother, who’s standing on the landing.
They can’t be about to leave, she’s not wearing makeup. She looks younger without any artifice. He should tell her. She reminds him of the woman who cleaned his grazed knee, back when it was acceptable for him to stumble and fall.
Alice climbs down the stairs. ‘Are you feeling alright?’
‘Why were you fighting?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘You were fighting.’ Charles lifts the tinsel again. ‘The Christmas before Fred died.’
She starts and tenses up in a way Charles would usually feel sick over. It’s unfair to spring the loss of her child on her. But it’s also unfair to brainwash a grieving son like she did, so he can’t find any damn to give about her sorrow.
‘Why were you fighting?’
‘No one was fighting. What has got into you?’
‘You were.’ He gestures at a family photo where their forced smiles are petrifying. ‘Look at him. Look at you. You were always fighting. Fred hated it here, and you were—’
‘Stop it! We had some minor disputes, but we always resolved them quickly. Why would you try to find drama where there was none? Have you been drinking?’
Charles smiles, like he did for the portraits. The woman in front of him doesn’t need makeup to conceal the ugliness of her past. She’s moulded a mask she can’t take off. This woman would let him bleed so he would learn to watch his step.
‘Alright, my bad.’
‘Gather yourself, Charles. And hurry to change into your ceremony clothes. Your grandfather requested that we arrive before—’
‘I’m not going.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’d rather swallow petrol than watch my racist, homophobic, sexist grandfather give a speech about tolerance and peer support. But you can tell my father that I have food poisoning, if you want to avoid too much drama.’
Alice clasps the handrail, both her nostrils twitching. ‘If you believe that I will condone such behaviour, you are deluding yourself.’
‘Good thing we always resolve our minor disputes quickly!’
Charles waits for a few seconds. If she became hysterical, he could use it to translate the gibberish from that Christmas, seven years ago. But the shock muzzles her, so he shrugs and climbs up the stairs.
Once in his room, he rushes to his wardrobe, squats down to rummage through his organised mess and pulls out a rubbish bag. He tears it open and sits on the parquet floor, spreading the shreds of notebook pages in front of him.
He will never manage to reassemble his paragraphs the way they were, but reading his broken sentences might help him rewrite his theories and storylines.