‘Dad wasn’t a very emotional man. He wouldn’t tell you that he loved you or put his arm around you. It just wasn’t his way.
‘He had a tough upbringing, which he always reminded us, and that made him a tough man. He was used to life being hard. He used to say to us that a few hard knocks made a man of you.
‘He thought that hard work was the key to life. If you worked hard you got your rewards. If you didn’t work hard then woe betide you.’
John sways and rubs his eyes. ‘When I was eleven I used to have two paper rounds. It took me three hours every morning. Dad made me do an extra one as a punishment for not getting into grammar school like Graham did. One morning, it was well over thirty degrees, and I had chicken pox. I did the rounds as usual and when I got home I went straight upstairs to bed. Dad came storming into my room, dragged
me out of bed by my hair and kicked me down the stairs into the back garden.
‘He screamed in my face wanting to know why I was still in bed and I tried to tell him that I’d finished my paper rounds and I was ill. He said he didn’t care and told me I was a lazy little bastard and would be punished.
‘He made me stand out in the burning sun in just a pair of pants for hours and hours. It must have been at least seven hours.’ John has another sip of his drink. ‘He sat in the kitchen watching me and if I started to slouch, he’d run out and beat me with a length of cane he used to grow runner beans up at the allotment.
‘I was crying my eyes out and he told me that unless I stopped crying he’d get really angry because no son of his would be a cry baby, and the noise I was making was interrupting him reading his newspaper. I was trying to stop but I couldn’t because I felt so ill and sun burnt.
‘I remember he came outside and pushed me on the lawn, and then ran into the shed and got a watering can and a tea towel. He tied my hands and feet with garden wire, pinned me to the ground with tent pegs and then filled the watering can up from the tap. Then he put the tea towel over my face and he started pouring the water over me.’ John clears his throat and his hands start to shake. His eyes are glassy. ‘I couldn’t breathe, but the tea towel kept slipping off.
‘I heard noise coming from the kitchen and suddenly Mum came running out, going mad at Dad. “What are you doing? What are you doing?” she screamed. She told him he was doing it all wrong and that he should have… he should have used a bath towel, not a tea towel, so she ran back inside and got him one from the airing cupboard. She held it tight over my face and Dad kept pouring and pouring until I passed out.
‘When I came round in hospital a couple of days later, Dad told me that he’d taught me an important lesson. I’m not sure what the lesson was, but he could be a bit cryptic sometimes. It was hard to know what he was thinking. He wasn’t a very emotional man, but that day he said he was almost proud of me.’
Tears are rolling down his face.
‘I’d like a toast,’ John says, his voice trembling, ‘to Victor.’ He sinks the rest of his drink and rushes out of the room.
The last of the guests have left. Mark sits in the living room watching a documentary on Channel Five about a woman with two heads whilst his mum clears up the last plates and glasses. There is a cake smear on the old leather sofa which he hides under a cushion.
Above the fireplace are two framed photographs: Graham and
Patricia
’s wedding day and a shot of Mark’s late grandmother on a beach. The drinks cabinet has been left open. Next to it is another glass cabinet housing a collection of classic toy cars.
Annie wanders in with a sandwich and slice of Battenberg. ‘Can we watch something else?’ she says, curling into an armchair.
‘There’s nothing on. Grandad didn’t have Sky.’ Mark throws her the remote control. ‘Where’s Dad?’
‘Driving John to the station so he can humiliate himself somewhere else.’
‘He wasn’t that bad.’
‘Not that bad? He was drinking pints of whiskey by the end. Trust you to defend him.’
Mark types a text message as Annie eats her cake.
‘Has Dad spoken to you about the will?’ he asks.
‘No. Do you really think Grandad would have left you anything?’
‘I spent loads of time with him when I was younger. He used to love playing swingball with me.’
‘That was about twenty years ago. When did you last visit him?’
‘Umm, when you last came back.’
‘You’ve not seen him since last summer? In fact you didn’t even come down then, it was just me and Mum. You were taking Jenny to Chessington World of Adventures.’
Graham goes straight into the kitchen where Patricia is washing up and tells her that John passed out in the car and had to be carried onto the train. He pours himself a glass of red wine and joins his children.
‘You’ve upset me today, Mark,’ Graham says. He looks tired. ‘We had enough to think about without your performance.’
‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. Mum told you I was stuck in
negotiations
. I haven’t been to bed for almost two days. No wonder I was ill.’
‘Mark, you stank of alcohol.’
‘We had some champagne when we’d renegotiated. One glass, that’s all I had.’
‘Mark, I know what you look like when you’ve been drinking. There’s no point in lying to me. You should have been here with us last night. I don’t like you ignoring my phone calls either. It’s not on.’
‘There was nothing I could do,’ Mark says. He glances at Annie. ‘Do you know if Grandad left me his medals, Dad?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can I have a quick look at the will if it’s around?’
‘Mark, give it a rest will you, for God’s sake!’ Graham says, turning the news on.
Mark sits on the toilet with the tap running and his iPhone pressed to his ear:
‘Craig, it’s me. I’m still annoyed with you, but I need you to do something. I own part of a house in Worthing and I need you to get it valued, tomorrow if possible. I assume you’ve got an office down here or somewhere near.
‘The address is 12 Merit Street, Worthing, Sussex, BN14 7TY. It’s a three-bedroom semi with a large garden and a garage. It’s in good
condition
. We must be talking four hundred grand at least. Ring me when you get this.’
V
alerie Simpson, a surly woman in her late forties with a thin, tight face and long auburn hair, tells Craig that her daughter, Ophelia, is running late. She leaves Craig at the gates to The Block, Wall Street and sits back in her BMW convertible which is parked outside the terraced houses across the road.
Ophelia, a freckly girl with a mass of wavy bleached hair bounces down the street. Despite it being an autumnal afternoon, she’s wearing shorts and flip-flops and has a long seashell necklace hanging down to her waist. She has full, round features and long, fluttering eyelashes. Valerie gets out of the car and gives her daughter a passionless hug.
‘How do I look, petal?’ she asks, posing in her jeans and knee-length cashmere cardigan in the middle of the street.
‘Beautiful, Mummy.’
Craig introduces himself to Ophelia, who gives him a beaming smile, and opens the gate. Valerie says that she’s heard that this is a violent area and Craig tries to reassure her that the streets around Clapham Junction are very safe compared to other parts of south London.
‘This building is so amazing,’ Ophelia says, tilting her head back to take in the towering walls.
‘I can’t say I like it, petal. It looks like a ghastly factory.’
‘It was an orphanage for Victorian children until the Seventies,’ Craig says. ‘It’s still got lots of original features, but it’s totally new inside. It’s one of the most desirable properties in London.’
‘That doesn’t say much for the rest of London.’
‘
Mum
,’ Ophelia says.
‘No, it’s fine.’ Craig leads them into his block. ‘I am biased though. I’ve got an apartment on the same floor as the one we’re going to. I’ve seen lots of new developments in this area and this is definitely the best. A lot of places are renovated on the cheap to move people in as soon as possible.
These have been finished to a much higher standard. They’re very popular with lawyers and executives and people who work in the City.’
‘And estate agents,’ Valerie says.
‘Yes and estate agents.’ Craig presses the lift button. ‘It’s got a lift.’
‘We can see that.’
There’s a screwed up KFC box in the corner and Valerie stands as far from it as possible, pinching her nose the entire way up. The doors ping and open. The motion-sensitive lights blink into life as Craig leads the mother and daughter along the corridor to a front door two away from his own.
‘The house is owned by a lovely woman called Abigail who lives here with her two children,’ Craig says, letting them in. ‘I’m not sure how tidy it will be, but I’m sure you’ll be able to see through any mess.’
The laminate floor shines when Craig turns on the hall spotlights. The interior is pristine and decorated with a stylish minimalism. The living area is bigger than in Craig’s flat and comes furnished with a long black dining table, chaise longue and sofa, and stumpy coffee table. A flat screen television and a stereo system hang on the wall.
‘This place is amazing,’ Ophelia says, walking into the kitchen. ‘It’s
so
cool.’
‘I thought you’d like it,’ Craig says. ‘Have a look in the bedrooms. They’re both en suite.’
Valerie stands in front of the mirrored wardrobes in the master
bedroom
, opens one of the doors and has a close look at the shoe collection.
Ophelia breezes into the second bedroom and sits on one of the two children’s beds. Craig follows her.
‘This room is so cute,’ she says. ‘Look at their little clothes.’ She picks up an ‘I Love Mummy’ t-shirt from a pile of clean washing that sits in a basket by the girl’s bed.
The children’s toys have been neatly piled into the corners or
hidden
in boxes on top of the wardrobes. There are small round marks on the walls where posters have been taken down.
‘It is cute isn’t it,’ Craig says, opening up the bathroom. ‘I love the kids, they’re so funny. The little boy is always running up and down outside, shouting his head off. I play football with him in the corridor sometimes.’
Ophelia grins. A tiny roll of her tanned stomach pokes out from
between her shorts and her yellow t-shirt.
‘Is it just the three of them who live here?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘No Daddy?’
‘I don’t know,’ Craig says. ‘Abigail has never mentioned him. I think he might have… died, sadly. There are a couple of photographs of a man in the bedroom.’
Ophelia’s face drops. ‘Oh my god, that’s so terrible. Those poor
children
. Why are they moving?’
‘Abigail said that she doesn’t really want to bring the children up in London. They’re moving down to Hove. I think that’s where her parents live.’ Craig sits down on the bed opposite. ‘Have you just come back from holiday?’
‘I’ve been in Bali.’
‘Oh right. Where’s that?’
‘Indonesia,’ she says, smiling. ‘A friend of mine from university has got a house out there. We were celebrating graduating.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Newcastle. I did art history.’
‘Oh, right. Do you work near here?’
‘No, not yet. I’m doing some work experience at a gallery for a few weeks but I’m not sure after that. I’d like to do something arty but I’ve not really decided yet. I just want to move up here first and settle in. Then I’ll start job hunting.’
‘Where are you living at the moment?’
‘With my parents, in Kent.’
Ophelia looks around the gleaming en suite and goes back into the living room to join her mother.
‘What do you think, petal?’
‘I absolutely love it. Did you see the balcony? It’s perfect.’
‘It hasn’t got much character.’
‘It’s got style though, Mummy. And it’s safe, which you said was one of the most important things.’
Valerie takes a seat on the chaise longue and calls for Craig, who comes scurrying from the bedroom.
‘What do you think Mrs Simpson? Amazing flat isn’t it? It’s got
everything
. It’s a great location. Excellent transport links,’ he says.
‘I like it,’ she says impassively.
‘Have you been out to the roof terrace?’ Craig asks, opening one of the doors which lets in a blast of cold air.
‘I can see it through the window, thank you.’ She gestures that Craig should close the door.
Ophelia is opening and closing the built-in cupboards in the hall. ‘Lots of room for all my things, Mummy,’ she calls out.
‘There’s a huge amount of storage,’ Craig adds. ‘You’ll never run out of space.’
‘How much is it on the market for?’ Valerie asks, adjusting her silk scarf.
Craig consults the spec. ‘The guide price is eight hundred and seventy-four thousand. But I know the owner is looking for a quick sale so I may be able to barter her down to eight hundred and fifty if you can complete soon. You’re not in a chain, are you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
Ophelia sits next to her mother. ‘I’ve simply got to live here. I’ll text Daddy. I love it,’ she says, her eyes drifting around the room. ‘Did you hear that those poor little children that live here haven’t got a daddy which is why they’re moving away?’
‘Spare me the sob story. Have there been any offers so far?’
‘So far,’ Craig pauses, ‘there have been four: a couple of low ones and two at eight hundred and forty-five which have been rejected. One big advantage you have over the other bidders is that Abigail said that she only wants to sell to somebody who’ll really appreciate it and look after it - preferably a girl. That would definitely count in your favour.’
‘I’d look after it so well. It’s just so…’ Ophelia spreads her arms, ‘It’s just so me.’
‘It’s a lot of money, darling.’
‘It’d be a great investment,’ Craig says. ‘It’s a buyer’s market at the moment. You’d probably double your money in five to ten years.’
‘See, Mummy. He knows what he’s talking about.’
‘I’ll have to talk to my husband. We may be willing to make an offer, but I saw a television programme about your company a little while ago and rest assured that if at any point anything happens that we don’t like, or if we sense that you’re lying to us or trying to pull the wool over our eyes, then we’ll walk away. Have I made myself clear?’
‘Perfectly,’ Craig says. ‘Mrs Simpson, I can assure you that
programme
is not representative of how things work in my office. We are extremely professional.’ He smiles at Ophelia. ‘Do you have any other questions before you talk to your husband?’
Valerie takes a small notebook from her Gucci handbag and flicks through to a page of hand-written questions. ‘How much is the council tax?’
‘It’s in band H,’ Craig says.
‘That means nothing to me. How much is it, per year?’
‘I think it’s about two thousand pounds.’
She makes a note. ‘Are there any other hidden charges?’
‘You do have to pay a small service charge which goes towards
maintaining
the property. That’s around five hundred pounds a year.’
‘No doubt there’ll be plenty of hidden charges from you.’
‘No hidden charges. We’re just like any other estate agent, Mrs Simpson.’
‘Do I get a car parking space?’ Ophelia asks.
‘Yes,’ Craig confirms. ‘There’s one allocated per flat. Have you got a car?’
‘Yes, a Mini.’
‘Same here,’ he says. ‘Mine’s a company car though.’
Valerie stares out of the window at the dreary weather. ‘Do you really live here?’ she asks Craig.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Isn’t it a bit expensive for you?’
‘It’s not cheap but for-’
‘I don’t believe you. Prove it.’
‘
Mum
!’ Ophelia exclaims.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Go and open up your flat then, if you really live here. It’s on this floor you said. I’ll watch you from the door.’
‘Mummy, this is ridiculous.’
‘We’ll find out whether he’s trustworthy or not, won’t we.’
‘All right,’ Craig says. ‘I’ll show you.’
Valerie re-emerges from the bedroom and puts her mobile phone in her handbag. Craig is on the chaise longue next to Ophelia, who’s laughing
at his stories about nights out he’s had in Clapham.
‘Did you speak to Daddy? What did he say?’ Ophelia asks.
Her mother eyes the pair of them with suspicion. ‘He’s going to phone back in a couple of minutes. He said that if you’re sure it’s what you really want, he’s willing to make an offer, but he wants to talk to you first. And he wants some assurances from you, as well,’ she says, looking to Craig.
Ophelia jumps up and gives her mum a hug and kiss but she pushes her off and tells her not to get too excited.
‘That’s great,’ Craig says, with a cheery grin. ‘As soon as you decide a figure, I’ll get the ball rolling. Brilliant.’
Valerie’s mobile phone rings. ‘It’s Daddy. Can you leave us in private for a few minutes?’ she asks Craig.
‘Sure, call me when you’re done.’
Ophelia gives Craig an excited smile as he slips into the children’s bedroom, shutting the door behind him.
He stands in the middle of the room silently pumping his fists, then takes deep breaths to calm himself. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ he says, his eyes closed.
There’s a small plastic
Winnie the Pooh
ball under the boy’s bed. Craig rolls it out and starts doing keep-ups. He manages ten before the ball slides off his polished shoes. He starts again and gets to six before a heavy touch knocks the ball too far in front of him. He stretches out his left leg in an attempt to regain control but only succeeds in toe-poking it straight at a mug of blackcurrant cordial that has been left on the girl’s bedside table. The ball clips the mug, toppling it, and the liquid cascades down onto the basket of clean washing.
‘Oh shit, shit,’ Craig hisses, frantically picking up some of the
soaking
garments. He takes the whole basket into the bathroom and runs the hot tap. As much as he rinses, everything is stained. He wrings the clothes out and piles them by the sink.
Ophelia calls out to him from the hallway. He tells her he’s coming but decides to quickly give the clothes another run under the tap.
‘Brilliant news,’ Ophelia calls out. ‘Daddy’s agreed. He’s going to phone you later to make an offer.’
‘That’s great,’ Craig shouts back. ‘I’ll ring him in a minute and then I’ll get on the phone to Abigail and we’ll see how quickly we can push this through.’
‘Are you OK in there, Craig?’ Ophelia asks.
‘Err… yes I’ll be out in a second. I’m just in the bathroom.’
He’s scrubbing away with soap but the stains won’t budge. He finds a plastic bag under the sink and starts filling it with the wet garments when suddenly the bathroom door bursts open and Valerie stands there giving him an accusatory stare:
‘What the hell are you doing?’ she shrieks.
‘I’d-’
‘What have you got in that bag? Are you stealing?’
‘No, I’m-’
‘Give me that.’ She lunges at the bag.
Craig grapples with her but she gets a hand inside it and, to her
horror
, pulls out a tiny pair of stained pants.
‘It’s not what it looks like,’ Craig says, mortified.
‘You animal,’ she says, dropping the pants. ‘I’ve read about people like you, stealing children’s underwear. Paedophile!’
‘N, No,’ Craig stutters. ‘It’s a misunderstanding. I’m not stealing them, I swear.’
‘I’m calling the police, you deviant.’
‘Mummy, please, stop,’ Ophelia pleads.
‘Please don’t get the police involved,’ Craig begs, ‘I can’t go through that again.’ He empties the stash of wet clothes on the floor.
‘Don’t you tell me what to do. You’re going to prison.’
‘No, Mrs Simpson, please. I spilt a drink over them in the bedroom. I was taking them home to wash. I swear. Please. Please.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
Craig looks to Ophelia for help.
‘Mummy, please don’t call the police. It’s just a mistake. He was trying to help. He was telling me earlier how much he loves the kids and how he plays with them.’
‘Bragging about your perversions?’
‘Not like that,’ Craig says. ‘Please, you must believe me.’