The Last Weekend (9 page)

Em mostly is all right. But the loss of two parents within three years has been hard on her — harder than the loss of my
parents would be on me. She never used to cry. But these days almost anything can set her off: family photographs; television programmes her mum used to watch; the tasteless knick-knacks her parents left behind. There’s the baby issue, too: her mum was desperate to have a grandchild, and nowadays Em is desperate too, if only to grant her mother that wish posthumously. Baby or not, it tests my patience to see Em so weepy. Surely a year’s more than long enough. I’ve told her that when the tears dry up I’m giving the house a name as well as a number (it’s 27, by the way) and putting it on our garden gate: Dungrievin.

Not funny, Em says. Very little amuses her in her current state. But I know she’ll stop moping in due course. And at least she is reasonably healthy. Unlike Ollie, whose tumour I brooded on as he drove us back and insects exploded on the windscreen.

The girls will be furious, Ollie had said. But they did not look furious in the least. They were sitting in the orchard talking to someone, a third girl it looked like, and laughter skirled back at us as we walked towards them. Only Em’s face, when she turned round, belied the high spirits. I could see trouble there.

‘I’m afraid we’ve polished off the bottle,’ Daisy said.

The third girl had her back to me, but when she turned, the late sun on her curls, it was Archie. Black drainpipe jeans, black sleeveless T-shirt with a skull and crossbones, tattoo on his left shoulder, looped metal chains dangling down his thigh, leather wristband, bead necklace and bare feet — what had happened to my godson? His hair was darker, and he’d either been getting no sleep or was wearing eyeshadow. We have goths in Ilkeston, too, but Archie reminded me more of a guitarist from a 1970s heavy metal band.

He and Ollie ignored each other. But he managed a handshake, from a sitting position, for me. The hand was soft and the face deathly white between the acne. So here was the ghost from upstairs.

‘Hello, Archie.’

‘Hi.’

‘Come and join us,’ Daisy said, patting the wooden chair beside her.

Rufus’s tail thumped the grass as I stepped past him. The yellow bales out in the field were casting blue shadows. The solitary tree in the middle looked frozen.

‘Sit down, Ollie,’ Daisy said. ‘You’re making me nervous.’

‘It’s nearly time to go,’ he said.

‘Already?’

‘It’s gone half seven. The table’s booked for eight fifteen.’

‘We’d better change then. Come on, Em. Let’s make ourselves beautiful.’

Ignoring the girly banter (which I suspected was Daisy’s way of soliciting a protest that she looked quite beautiful enough already), Em got up and followed her. The departure made me feel awkward, as if we’d curtailed a cosy chat. I tried talking to Archie but all I got back were monosyllables — sometimes not even those. He kept glancing nervously at his father.

‘I need to put a clean shirt on,’ Ollie said. ‘Coming, Ian?’

‘In a minute,’ I said.

A weight lifted from Archie once he had gone.

‘How’s school?’ I said.

‘Yeah, you know.’

‘Never changes, eh?’

‘Too right.’

‘But they’re obviously not too disciplinarian.’ He shook his head, baffled. ‘I mean your hair.’

‘No, they’re OK.’

‘Personally I think long hair is fine,’ I said, and described the policy for dress at our school, where we’ve kids from many different ethnic backgrounds. Rather than look at me, Archie stared at his hands. I was obviously boring him. Time to go.

‘They’ve not told you, then,’ he said, as I stood up.

‘Who?’

‘Mum and Dad. About me not going to school.’

‘That’s the way with GCSEs nowadays, I hear — no lessons after Easter, just revision and exams.’

‘I’ve barely been since January.’

I wondered if he was exaggerating so as to shock me.

‘Have you been ill?’ I said, thinking of his pallor.

‘Not really.’

‘Did they exclude you?’

‘I wish.’

‘What then?’

‘Ian! Are you coming?’

It was Ollie, from across the garden, barefoot, tucking his shirt into his trousers.

‘I’m on my way,’ I shouted, but sat down again when he went back inside.

‘I just stopped going,’ Archie said, fingering his wristband. ‘I was bored.’

‘What about your GCSEs?’

‘The school wouldn’t let me take them. They were worried I’d fuck up their position in the league tables.’

‘Idiots. You’d have sailed through,’ I said, remembering how nauseatingly Ollie and Daisy used to celebrate Archie’s achievements in their Christmas round robin: top of the class, captain of cricket team, lead role in drama production, etc.

‘I expect you’re pissed off with me,’ he said, ‘what with being a teacher.’

‘I’m just sorry things have been bad.’

‘Ian!’ Ollie shouted again.

‘Coming,’ I shouted back.

‘You’re probably not meant to know,’ Archie said, as I stood up. ‘Don’t tell Dad I told you.’

‘I’m sure he will tell me. We only got here this afternoon.’

‘Still. Promise you won’t say anything.’

‘I promise. But let’s talk, shall we? I’m here till Monday.’

I took his silence as assent.

‘So are you coming to the restaurant?’ I said.

‘Nah.’

‘You don’t like seafood, eh?’

‘Not much.’

‘I’m sure there’ll be other things on the menu.’

‘I promised Em I’d look after Rufus,’ he said, stroking his neck.

You may have problems but you’re still a good kid, I thought. Here you are, missing out on dinner, in order to do a good turn.

Only later did it occur to me that he hadn’t been invited in the first place.

‘Close the door,’ Em mouthed as I entered the bedroom. ‘Have you heard about Archie and school?’ she whispered, once the door was shut.

I nodded. She was leaning into the oval mirror of a rickety dressing table to apply mascara. The room was low-ceilinged, with faded gingham curtains and a reproduction of Millais’
Ophelia
over the bed.

‘Daisy told me,’ she said, keeping her voice down. ‘It’s been very upsetting for them. For her anyway. Ollie won’t talk about it. I’m surprised he even mentioned it to you.’

‘He didn’t. Archie did.’

I took the least crumpled shirt from my suitcase.

‘Daisy wanted to call us when he started truanting, to ask our advice. But Ollie wouldn’t let her. Plan B was to get Archie to call us himself. But Ollie vetoed that as well.’

‘He’d be embarrassed about involving us,’ I said.

‘But you’re Archie’s godfather. And I know about school refusers. We could have helped.’

‘I agree,’ I said.

‘Good. So you won’t object if I give Ollie a piece of my mind.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ I said. The guy had a terminal illness, for God’s sake. And we were meant to be having a night out. ‘What’s the point?’

‘Apparently he thinks their mistake was not sending Archie to boarding school.’

‘I thought he was doing brilliantly where he was.’

‘He was. Then the usual happened. He got bored. Fell in with the wrong crowd. Started drinking, smoking dope, staying out all night. Much like the kids I deal with, in fact.’

‘A typical Friday afternoon for you.’

‘Yes, busman’s holiday. Except that Archie’s not in trouble with the police.’

‘Not yet,’ I said, pulling on my trousers, which were black like Archie’s but baggy. ‘He looks a mess.’

‘Daisy says he’s better than he was. She’s found this college where he can sit his GCSEs in January then do ASs next summer.’

‘Some posh West End crammer, eh?’

‘No, a sixth-form college down the road from where they live. Archie wouldn’t consider anything else.’

‘There’s my boy — good for him.’

Education has been a sore point between the Moores and us ever since they removed Archie from the local primary
school and went private. They spent hours justifying their decision to us — Archie was being ‘held back’, state education in London was lousy, one’s kids were more important than one’s principles, and anyway the school they’d chosen for him was liberal and co-ed, etc. Later they didn’t even try to justify it — they just knew they’d done the right thing.

‘He’s friends with a couple of kids who go there,’ Em said. ‘It’s nothing to do with politics.’

‘Of course it is. He’s against his parents buying him privilege. It’s Ollie and Daisy who have screwed him up.’

‘He’s not screwed up,’ Em said. ‘He’s lost his way for a while, that’s all. Most kids do, at some point. Only Ollie can’t see that. So tonight I’m going to put him straight.’

‘Everyone ready?’ Ollie called from below.

Hearing his voice, I felt a pang: how many more times would I hear it? how much longer did he have? The brain tumour was surely a random event. But perhaps he thought the stress over Archie had brought it on or made it worse — another reason he found the truanting difficult to talk about.

‘Two ticks,’ I shouted down.

I slipped a jacket on, in case it was chillier on the coast.

‘Leave it for tonight,’ I said to Em. ‘Give Ollie a break.’

‘What are you afraid of? Ollie can look after himself.’

‘I’m not so sure about that.’

‘What do you mean?’

I told her what I meant. About the brain tumour. And how he didn’t have long. With Ollie at the front door, shouting at us to hurry, I kept it brief. But she got the gist.

He had asked me not to tell anyone. But he could hardly expect me to keep it from my wife.

Em’s eyes filled and her lip trembled. I worried she would cry and that Ollie would hear her. Or that her mascara would run and give her away.

‘Don’t say anything,’ I said, as she rechecked her make-up.

‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘Unless they do.’

‘They won’t. Ollie can’t bear to and Daisy doesn’t know.’

‘What?’

‘He hasn’t told her.’

She shook her head, struggling to take it in.

‘Coming!’ I shouted, when Ollie called up again.

At the top of the stairs, Em pulled me back and whispered: ‘She can’t not be told. If Ollie won’t tell her, then we must.’

‘So it’s a seafood place,’ I said, as we set off.

‘That’s right,’ Ollie said. ‘Oysters from the local creek and fish from the North Sea.’

‘We remembered Em’s not keen on meat,’ Daisy said.

‘And that you’ll eat anything, Ian,’ Ollie said.

As usual they’d got it slightly wrong. Em avoids beef and pork but does eat chicken and lamb. The only fish I like comes in batter, with chips. But we both smiled and said the restaurant sounded great.

I sat in the front with Ollie, Daisy having surrendered the passenger seat on the grounds that I have longer legs than she does — Em, who’s as tall as I am, scrunched up with her in the back. At university, Ollie had craved a car like this, with leather seats, a walnut dashboard and a soft top. But it seemed a bit desperate for a barrister with a late-teenage son. Had he bought it knowing or suspecting he was ill — a last indulgence?

‘Slow down, Ollie,’ Daisy said, her hair streaming behind her, ‘it’s blowy back here.’

‘I’m only doing sixty.’

‘It’s the last time you buy a sports car,’ she said, nearer the bone than she knew.

‘My dad used to drive an MGB,’ Ollie said, turning to me. ‘This could be his, in fact.’

‘The same model?’

‘The exact same car. They only made about 350. You see the chip in the glass of the oil gauge, there — I can remember that from childhood. That’s why I bought it, to tell the truth. Paid over the odds but it was worth it. Me sitting where my father sat — can you imagine?’

I couldn’t. But if deluding himself this was his father’s car made Ollie feel better, that was fine by me.

He was taking the back roads to avoid speed cameras, he said. All the roads round Badingley seemed to be back roads anyway, as if the budget for road-building had run out twenty miles inland. The landscape changed between each village — from deciduous woodland to pine forest, from scrubby heath to lush farmland, from reed beds to rolling hills. The sun sank in the west over Ollie’s shoulder. Side-on, circled by light, he looked like an emperor on a Roman coin. And Daisy, in the back, was a minted empress, her hair flying behind her.