The Laments (16 page)

“I can be very flexible about salary,” he said.

“Duly noted!” boomed Barr.

There were interviews at seven other companies, but no job offers. Howard feared the same South African Mr. Barr had alluded to was preceding him at each company to which he applied. So when a letter came from Pan-Europa offering a position in a branch office in Denham, Howard wasted no time accepting and booked the family’s tickets to England.

The offer wasn’t generous by English standards. It was a little more than he had made in Albo, but in Albo his house and car were free and he could afford a cook and a gardener. In England, only the rich could afford a staff.

Pan-Europa delivered oil and natural gas to cities all over Europe. It was a massive conglomerate, a household name, just like Dutch Oil. The logo was everywhere, on trucks and gas tanks and on ads in the tube stations, but Howard felt little pride this time around. The field office in Denham was essentially a bunker with stacks of file cabinets and blank walls, except for a stuffed perch mounted on a plaque, high above his desk; on rainy days the fish appeared to smile—in recollection of better days, perhaps. That was Howard’s guess, at any rate. He would do no designing for Pan-Europa; they had plenty of smart young men to do that. Howard was dispatched to check on complaints from Pan-Europa clients. He examined pipe fittings, assessed faulty valves, and arranged for repairs by qualified Pan-Europa engineers. From a row of twenty three-ring binders full of names of engineers from Düsseldorf to Edinburgh, Howard would select the right man for the job and issue precise instructions.

When clients complained to him about shoddy equipment, he was supposed to be unflappably polite. Poor Howard Lament. This was not a job for a bright young man with ideas; this was a job for a bureaucrat. What had happened to his plan to irrigate the Sahara? What about his design for an artificial heart? How had he—a rebel, a bright young man—managed to derail his career?

He had spared his sons the dubious honor of being privileged whites in an impoverished African nation (and the risk that they might follow their peers to another repressive white supremacist regime). He had given up an affluent life for a semidetached house in Avon Heath with a clear view of his neighbor shaving every morning, plus a secondhand Morris 1100 that refused to start in the rain—which seemed to fall nine days out of ten. Worst of all, there was a feeling in the pit of his stomach that his soul was trapped.

Only the fact that he had a loving wife and three healthy boys could comfort Howard. And perhaps the fact that at thirty-five he was still a relatively young man. Things would surely improve.

God Help Rillcock

On Fridays there was a service held in the mornings in the school canteen. While everybody sang “Jerusalem,” Will tried to imagine what kind of Jerusalem would fit amid the dreary council houses on Ratcliffe Street, with their postage-stamp front lawns and battered TV antennas. He recalled climbing a cedar tree in his back garden the previous day, surveying the rows and rows of semidetached houses, like sliced bread, separate yet jammed together so closely that the knife’s incision seemed purely theoretical. No wonder the British spread out across the globe—they wanted to get out of these rotten little buildings with their narrow staircases and lilac floral wallpaper and rattling plumbing.

Mr. Brogh read from the Old Testament while cooks banged pots and released unforgivable odors from the school kitchen. The Friday menu was a particular assault to the senses: frozen fish cakes, glutinous gravy, flavorless peas, and, for dessert, scoops of brilliant purple blancmange—a substance with the texture of whipped petroleum jelly, sickeningly sweet, whose color would be all the rage on Carnaby Street in just a few years.

After Mr. Brogh’s reading, it was Tugwood’s turn to read a passage from the New Testament.

“He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her,” read Tugwood. As if on cue, a milk carton flew across the room, smacking Tugwood on the back of the head. Mr. Brogh smiled coldly, his gaze fixed on the back row. There was no doubt that he would make the offender pay.

Will had been all set to fight Rillcock, but the sermon gave him pause. Wasn’t he, in effect, casting the first stone? What had the ruffian actually done to him but deliver a few threats? How would he get into the kingdom of heaven if he bashed Rillcock’s lights out? As he pondered this issue, a fierce rictus caught his eye from the corner of the room.

“Oy c’n beatchu up
,
”
it mouthed.

There was nothing in the passage about Jesus having to put up with some feral squirt on the way home from his lessons. Will tried to imagine Jesus kicking the crap out of such a kid. No, Jesus would have appealed to his father for advice. And what would God have said? “Turn the other cheek”? What if the little swine kept up the attacks? What would it have taken for God to say, “Bash thine enemy’s lights out, my son”?

On the way out of the service, Will saw Rillcock elbow Raymond Tugwood, who let out a squeal. Mr. Brogh promptly grabbed both boys by the ears and dragged them across the playground, their feet helplessly dancing on tiptoes.

The following Wednesday, Julia needed to get the car serviced in town and arranged for Will to walk the twins home from school. Usually the twins tore off when Will showed up, but this time they were waiting meekly by their schoolroom, conspiracy in their faces.

“What’s wrong?” said Will.

“Nuffink. Nuffink’s wrong,” said Marcus. The twins had dropped their Rhodesian accents for the local Cockney variation. Curiously, Marcus kept one hand pressed to his cheek.

“Nuffink’s wrong wif ’im,” added Julius.

Marcus nodded. “Nuffink.”

Will pulled Marcus’s hand from his cheek, revealing a bluish crescent just below his right eye.

“What’s that, then?”

“Nuffink.”

Will turned to Julius accusingly. “Did you punch him in the face?”

“No,” replied Julius, adding with a sidelong glance, “and it wasn’t Rillcock, neither.”

“What?” said Will.

The twins shared a look.

“Oh, nuffink,” said Julius.

“You’re sure it wasn’t Rillcock?” asked Will.

“Yes, ’cos I promised Rillcock not to say so,” said Marcus earnestly.

A BLOCK AHEAD
, Will saw Rillcock jabbing his fists and dancing, as he described his conquest of Marcus to two mates. Will recognized them as Digley, a popular boy with a mop of blond hair that fringed his eyebrows, and Ayers, a lean fellow with a sneer, whose trousers were always an inch or two short of his gangly ankles.

Will felt a flash of hesitation; the last thing he wanted was a group fight. If they ganged up on him he’d be the one pissing on the floor for the rest of the year. But he glanced at Marcus’s black eye and felt a new surge of outrage. His father was wrong. The twins did need his protection; thus, his conscience was soothed, his blood was up, and God help Rillcock.

“Whatchu want, then?” said Rillcock.

“You hit my brother.”

“Who, me?” Rillcock blinked.

Will turned to the twins. “Marcus, is
this
the one who
didn’t
hit you?”

Marcus paused to unravel the question; it was getting so complicated. “Um, yes.”

“Hold on, that means I
didn’t,
” said Rillcock.

“He told you to say he didn’t hit you, right?”

“Yeah,” said Marcus.

“You idiot!” said Rillcock. “What I told you to say was—”

“Right,” said Will, and before he knew what was happening, his fist flew at Rillcock, who sank to his knees so quickly that Will wasn’t even sure he’d touched him. Then Rillcock began to writhe, and his lips turned scarlet.

Will looked with horror at his victim. The scream at the base of Rillcock’s throat was still waiting to escape, like a teakettle preparing to whistle.

“Think he needs a doctor?”

“No, he’s fine. He
always
does this,” Digley said.

Ayers winked at Will. “The best part is when he screams. Play football?”

“Yes,” said Will.

Rillcock’s bottled scream finally escaped, and echoed against the houses.
“Ahaah, ahaah, ahaaaaah
!
”
he cried. “I’m telling me mum!”

“Your mum will wipe the floor with you when she hears you beat up a little one,” Digley retorted.

The ruffian cowered, as if afraid his big-headed mother was going to materialize out of thin air. Will took his brothers by their hands and headed in the direction of home, but Ayers called after him.

“Lament! See you at the game in the morning!”

ON THE WALK HOME
, Will sensed a change in his brothers. They stole envious glances at him, and at his swollen left hand.

“Will really bashed his lights out,” said Marcus.

“Blood everywhere,” cooed Julius.

“Will could bash anybody’s lights out, I bet,” said Marcus.

Will said nothing. His heart was still thumping; a giddy, victorious sensation rose into his temples. And even though his limbs were still trembling, he felt brave. He knew he had the twins to thank for his courage.

Julia took stock of their injuries when she arrived home. “Well?” she asked. “What happened?”

“Nuffink,” said Julius.

“What’s that bruise on your face, Marcus?” she said.

Marcus adopted an expression of noble suffering. “It’s nuffink, Mummy. Rillcock didn’t do it and Will didn’t beat him up!”

Julia was silent for a moment. Finally, she fixed Will with a surly eye. “Well, you don’t have to look so proud of yourself.”

Stunned, Will replied indignantly, “But Dad told me—”

“That’s enough, Will. Off to your room.”

Will felt his stomach roll. Didn’t he deserve praise? Hadn’t he protected his brothers? Since his father was away on business, Will chose the only remaining outlet for his frustration: he wrote to his grandmother.

Dear Granny,

We like England even if Mummy has to cook and garden by herself. She says it is a more civilized country, though the toilet makes noises at night and a boy punched Marcus. They want us to be as good as Jesus here, and then go to heaven. Since I have punched the boy back who punched Marcus, I suspect I will
not
go to heaven. Mummy says this is nonsense, and says many people go to heaven who do awful things like the Crusaders who killed lots of people, and soldiers in the last war.

Love,

Will

A most unusual boy, thought Rose. Even through the eyes of a nine-year-old, she was gratified to have some insight into the life of her daughter. It struck her that Julia had no shortage of strong opinions, a quality Rose believed her daughter had inherited from her, and which Rose regarded as a defect.

The First Holiday

“We’re going to see a bit of history,” Howard explained to the twins.

“Will there be anything to eat?” asked Julius.

“It’s something truly marvelous, a two-thousand-year-old fortress built without stone!”

“I hope the food’s not as old as that,” Marcus griped.

It was an economical holiday: a motoring trip to one of England’s great sights. Maiden Castle was a hill fort that dominated the countryside near Dorset. A plain of grass was all that was left, protected by rows of deep concentric ditches visible most clearly by airplane. It had finally been conquered by the Roman Vespasian in
A.D.
43. The thirty-eight tribesmen protecting the fort were buried in their battle gear by the Romans as a gesture of respect. Howard loved these facts and did his best to convey his enthusiasm to the boys on the way there.

The twins were unimpressed. It wasn’t until one of them jabbed the other with his elbow that they began a backseat vendetta that made the trip interesting, and forced Howard to pull the car over and rearrange the seating so that Will was between them. Will invented a game that involved naming a food for every letter of the alphabet. After sausages and tarts, however, there was an impasse because nobody could come up with a food that began with “u,” and the boys fell asleep from mental exhaustion.

IT WAS DURING THIS LULL
that Julia made another attempt to find out about Howard’s job.

“How’s work, darling?”

“Oh—fine,” said Howard.

“Really?”

Howard felt her skeptical gaze.

“Well, it’s not perfect,” he admitted. “But what job is?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

Howard said nothing. There was a fork up ahead, and a similar choice in his brain. He veered to the left and flicked on the windshield wipers as a fresh downpour pitted the glass.

“Tell me, Howard.”

Howard could have complained about the money, but the trouble wasn’t just that—it was about his derailed aspirations. If he admitted that the job was a big step down, that he’d made a horrible miscalculation, what would Julia think of him—the man who’d once planned to irrigate the Sahara?

“Well, it’s the money,” he said.

“Yes, I quite agree,” said Julia. “You’re not paid what you’re worth.”

“Money doesn’t go as far in England as it did in Africa.”

“I know,” said Julia. “We
were
very well off, weren’t we, darling?”

“Yes.” Howard swallowed. Julia gave his hand a comforting squeeze.

There was a silence as Howard steered through a roundabout and continued west. The houses were falling away behind them now. The castle plain lay ahead, broad and green, and the clouds were churning overhead as Julia and Howard contemplated their good fortune gone by.

“Darling?” said Julia. “Why don’t you ask for a raise?”

“I can’t yet; I haven’t been there long enough.”

“But you’re doing a wonderful job, aren’t you?”

“Of course, but one doesn’t ask so soon.”

Julia frowned at being reminded that she knew little of such things. Howard had a boss. He knew.

The sun appeared as they got out of the car. The boys tore ahead, leaping and rolling down the steep embankments, then charging up the adjacent incline until their war cries were shrill with exhaustion. Eventually, they reached the level grassy center of the site, the figure eight of windswept field, surrounded by widening channels. Without walls or towers, it was a naked fortress. Julia leaned against Howard, her arm folded tightly in his as a breeze swept up her hair and snapped at his trouser hems. For a few moments, they contemplated this humble plateau in their alliance—the friendship Julia had lost in following her husband; the shabby job Howard had taken to support his wife and family. No one had warned them about these sacrifices. In spite of this imperfect union, however, Julia and Howard still believed that they shared the same course, and followed the same stars.