Art
Art
“I had rather expected you to be a little more grateful, since I saved the day,” said Daphne as they sat next to each other on the crowded tube. Daphne had intimidated a middle-aged couple into relinquishing their seats. The minute she’d trained her beady eyes on them, they’d wisely given up all hope. Maggie sat on Art’s knee, looking extremely proud of herself, as well she might.
“Daphne. Since I’ve known you, you’ve shouted at me in the street, threatened to have me arrested, then accused me, publicly, of having dementia, incontinence, a dodgy prostate, flatulence, mobility issues, and erectile dysfunction,” he said, then wished he’d spoken more quietly as he noticed the woman to his left edging away from him nervously. “You’ve added nearly fifteen years to my already not inconsiderable age, and then, to top it all, you take the most painful part of my life, something I revealed to you in confidence, and use it for your own ends, without thought of the potential ramifications. So no, I’m not fucking grateful, actually. I’m livid.”
Art had never met anyone more infuriating. He waited for the apology, which any normal person could have seen was required at this point, but Daphne was obviously far from being a normal person, so there was just silence. Or as close as you can get to silence when you have a hundred people squashed into a metal carriage underground, many of them listening to your conversation.
Finally, Daphne spoke.
“Haven’t you worked out by now that if they’re going to stereotype us, we might as well use their lazy preconceptions to our advantage? It’s thanks to your imaginary dementia, advanced age, and incontinence that you weren’t arrested for shoplifting and we got to the front of the queue and a place in the TV show,” said Daphne.
Annoyingly, Art could see her point, but he wasn’t going to let on. He was far too angry to concede any ground.
He refused to look at Daphne, staring resolutely ahead, but found her reflection in the dark window opposite eyeballing him instead. He glared at the Daphne in the glass, who bared her teeth back at him.
“Anyhow, what are we going to do about Jeremy?” said Daphne, with such a rapid change of subject that it gave him whiplash.
“Why on earth do you think it’s your place to fix Lydia’s marriage?” said Art. “It’s none of your business and, besides, you’ve never struck me as the type that likes to do a good deed.”
“That’s not what I was planning at all,” said Daphne. “I have no intention of fixing her marriage. She’d be far better off out of it, in my humble opinion.” Art snorted at the use of the adjective “humble.” “I just want to make that duplicitous weasel of a husband suffer.”
“You’re not a very nice person, Daphne,” said Art.
“Well, luckily, I’ve never aimed for nice ,” said Daphne. “That sort of wishy-washy adjective is much more your bag. You can wallow in nice as much as you like, just don’t expect me to be a part of it.”
There was another long silence, and Art was just starting to think that he might get all the way to Hammersmith without having to speak to her again. Then she said, “I’m thinking that Jeremy has no idea how lucky he is to have Lydia. And I bet that if he was faced with the reality of shacking up with that flibbertigibbet of his, he might get a bit of a shock. He’d find himself hoist to his own bollard.”
“You mean ‘petard,’?” said Art. “?‘Hoist by his own petard.’?”
“No, I don’t,” said Daphne, glaring at him. “What the hell is a petard when it’s at home, anyhow? I want to hoist that fucker to a bollard. Then, ideally, chuck him over a bridge into the Thames so he can swim with the fishes.”
“As I said, not a very nice person,” said Art.
Art noticed a group of youths in hoodies, nudging each other, staring at their phones and then at him. Had he been recognized? In the fifty years of his “career,” this had only happened a handful of times, and it was always a thrill. Perhaps they’d want an autograph, or a selfie. Art gave them a sly sideways look, as if to say, Yes, it is me. But don’t make a fuss about it in public…
He waited for them to make a fuss about it.
The train pulled into Hammersmith station, and he and Daphne stood up to leave. One of the young men elbowed his friend.
“STOP RIGHT THERE, EDWARD FUCKING SCISSORHANDS!” he shouted, brandishing an imaginary sword.
Had he been mistaken for Johnny Depp? Well, that was a first. He must be aging better than he’d thought. Or maybe Depp had gone seriously downhill recently. He smiled, brandished an imaginary sword back at them, bowed gracefully, and got off the train. Daphne had to be impressed by that, surely? Not that he wanted to impress her, obviously. Why on earth would he want to do that? He couldn’t give a toss what she thought of him or, indeed, of anything.
“Tick tock, tick tock,” muttered Daphne, under her breath. He had no idea what she was going on about, but had no intention of asking. The safest strategy with Daphne, he’d decided, was to engage as little as possible.
As they emerged back at street level, Art wondered whether he should escort Daphne home. Just in case she attacked any local muggers. But before he could even suggest it, she’d taken off without a backward glance, her walking stick thrown over her shoulder.
···
Art’s buoyant mood dissipated as he and Maggie approached his house. The lights were on. Had he been burgled? He pushed open his front door, dreading what he might find inside. Something was definitely not right. The house reeked of fresh pine and lemons. What kind of burglar leaves your house smelling of cleaning products?
“Welcome home, Art!” said William, appearing from his kitchen holding two tumblers of whiskey.
“What’s going on?” said Art.
“Have a look around,” said William.
William led an incredulous Art from room to room of his house, which was not his house. It felt as if he’d been catapulted back through time, to the days before Jill and Kerry had left, and it had been a home, rather than just a building filled with stuff that he happened to live in. It was clean, and warm, uncluttered and welcoming.
“Shall we go upstairs?” said William, and Art felt his insides clench. As if William could read his mind—which, after all these years, he actually could—he said, “Don’t worry. I’ve not thrown away any of Kerry’s things. I’ve just stored them carefully.”
William threw open the door to Kerry’s old room, which was clean, fresh, and empty. The memory of her was still there, but it was no longer overwhelming, suffocating. Art walked slowly toward the wardrobe, then looked back at William, who nodded and gave him an encouraging smile. He clutched the doorknob and pulled it open as quickly as possible, like ripping a plaster off a wound.
He stared, unable to take in what he was seeing. The wound had been excised and cauterized. All his years’ worth of accumulated loot, of festering shame, had gone . Replaced by neatly stored teenage possessions. Carefully cataloged memories.
Art sat down on the bed—no longer lumpy, now there was nothing hiding underneath it. He felt lighter. As if a huge weight he’d been carrying for so long had been removed from his shoulders. And he began to cry. For the first time since Jill and Kerry had gone. Huge, bone-shaking sobs, while William sat next to him and rubbed his back.
“You’re not going to start filling that cupboard again, are you, old chap?” said William, once the sobs had subsided to hiccups.
Art shook his head.
“You know it was just a displacement activity, don’t you? To take your mind off Jill and Kerry. And…well, you know.”
Art did know, but it was the last thing in the world he wanted to talk about right now.
“It’s too late to find Jill, but you can still track down Kerry. Please, Art. I’ll help you. Can we look for her?” said William.
“I don’t think we need to,” said Art, through the tears. “Daphne told an effing TV production company all about it, so I suspect they’ll be doing that for me, and opening up a whole festering can of worms. They called it ‘my emotional backstory,’ and it was the only reason they let M through the audition, so there was nothing I could do about it.”
“Bloody hell,” said William. “But maybe the old bird’s done you a favor.”
There was a small part of Art that agreed with this sentiment. He didn’t have the courage to find Kerry himself, but now it was all rather out of his hands. Now he could just leave it to fate. He wasn’t going to admit this, though, even to William. And certainly not to Daphne.
“Hardly. A favor would imply that she’d done it for the right reasons,” said Art. “But it was purely selfish. That woman is evil. And where did she even come from? We know nothing about her, despite hours of playing Truth or Dare Jenga and Never Have I Ever. We’ve lived here our entire lives, and yet we’d never seen her before she turned up at the social club. Doesn’t that strike you as a little odd?”
“Well, Hammersmith is a big place,” said William. “But Daphne doesn’t exactly blend in. We could hardly have missed her, could we?”
“That woman drives me mad. I really don’t like her,” said Art.
There was a long silence before William spoke again.
“You remember when we moved up to secondary school, and you told everyone how much you loathed football, just because you hadn’t been picked to play on the A team?” he said, in an extraordinary change of subject. “But you were so intense and over the top about it that any fool could see how much you cared. Are you sure you’re not feeling like this about Daphne because, deep down, you want to be on her team?”
“Are you mad?” said Art. “Besides, she’s not the sort of woman who’d ever have a team. She’s a lone wolf. A solo-flying, whiteboard-wielding witch. Luckily, it’s Jeremy she has her sights trained on now, not us. I dread to think what she’s planning for him.”