Authors: Jonathan Gash
Bray’s position suddenly soared.
The firm had grown, owing to demand for restored and lookalike antique furniture. The year before, Mr Winsarls had briefly taken on a promotional unit of pushy youngsters from Moorgate (“We’re P ’n’ E,” they kept saying, “Publicity and Evaluation.”) to explain the unprecedented increase in orders. They couldn’t explain a thing. The surge was put down to fashion, but where did fashions originate, and why?
Now there was another headache: the commemoration book Bray suggested.
Documentation of Gilson Mather’s products to be was excavated by the quiet Tracy. Loggo was in awe when lists were put up on a new wall-board. Even the timber delivery blokes congregated to read. Old Harry Diggins, Cockney yard boss, had a high old time bragging exotic tales of Middle Eastern potentates who’d wanted Sheraton, Hepplewhite, Ince, Mayhew, all the great designs. Many reminiscences were true.
“Mr Charleston did that one,” Harry Diggins would say, pointing. “Get Tracy to find the drawings. Mr
Charleston sent the designer’s sketches back. Christ, the fuss about that!”
Particular woods were remembered, problems with routers, tools spoken of as if they were gifted men of the past. Bray found himself beginning to smile at elevenses. Dick Whitehouse, master joiner in his sixties, matched memory to photos. Loggo and the two sawyers Mick and Pete were full of questions. Mr Winsarls had to restrict tea breaks, too much talk in the busiest season.
No longer did people ask Bray how “things were going at home.” Bray was still the same quiet man who sat on the end bench at break times slowly going over the historic files occasionally marking with his HB pencil. It became quite a topic, which of the Wellington chests, what exploits of craftsmanship, Mr Charleston would select. Billie Edgeworth, fervid Manchester United supporter, wanting more of a say. The others laughed, said Billie wanted the place filled with arty girls from the Metropolitan College down the Barbican. He waxed indignant. A festive air developed.
And the list grew. Letters shot round the world, to wherever famed pieces of furniture were traced. Familiar antiques came to light. Correspondents sought provenance trails. Memories were scoured and exotic woods recalled. Loggo started a different display board, soon becoming a nuisance by spreading along two walls, showing famed pieces. His misspellings became a butt of workshop humour.
Tracy now had a young lad called Danny Purchase, who arrived with a potent new computer system, to develop Mr Charleston’s proposal. Within a week Danny was a feature of the place. Overseas replies increased exponentially. In no time at all he had indexes, records, addresses, locations,
whole maps for the master joiners to goggle at. One marvel was that Danny could somehow turn drawings full circle on the screen, quite as if it stood there in real life. To the owner’s exasperation, it became yet another tea-break amusement.
Even Bray went to see. He conversed with Danny Purchase in initials like HTML, and knew without being told what a gopher was.
“That old geezer picks things up fast, dunn he?” Danny said to Tracy. “Is he —?”
Tracy said quickly, “He doesn’t talk about it.”
In the following weeks the proposed pamphlet became a booklet, then a book, and soon an unwieldy illustrated volume. Bray suggested changing the modem link to save Gilson Mather telephone money.
“Something I heard blokes talking on the train,” he apologised. Danny suspected the old man was a smart arse, until he suddenly made several unbelievably clumsy mistakes that Danny instantly rectified with noisy explanations. Mr Charleston smiled, computer technology really beyond him.
“I can’t see what’s wrong with pen and ink and the ordinary post,” he said wistfully. It gave Danny a laugh, and Danny felt secure again.
Lottie Vinson arrived unexpectedly at Bray’s home one Friday. He was in his shed after supper and heard the relay doorbell. Buster barked, eager to mock-attack intruders, and together they went to answer.
“The contract’s in, Bray!” she exclaimed, delighted. She stood on the doorstep, looking half the age he remembered. “I couldn’t wait to tell you. Your phone’s always on hold.”
He stared, embarrassed. She hesitated. “Is this a bad time?” She held an enormous envelope.
“No. I was just pottering. Do come in.”
“Are you sure? I could easily —”
“No, no.” He led the way into the living room. “Only, I’ve rather gone ahead.” He shrugged as she seated herself. “I heard nothing from you or Miss Lindsay, so I’ve done it myself. A rather scatty job…”
“With another publisher?”
“Certainly not! Just me.”
“Done what, exactly, Bray?”
“The reprint’s on sale, Lottie.” Frantically he checked past falsehoods. “Sharlene insisted.”
“On
sale
?”
“I’ve got this bookseller, by post. I’ve got a computer.”
“But didn’t we agree, Bray?”
“I’m sorry if I jumped the gun. That’s why I wrote to you.” She shook her head in puzzlement. “Care of Miss Lindsay.”
Lottie’s voice became sleet. “Saying…?”
“That I’d go ahead, if I didn’t hear soon.” Her silence unnerved him. He put in, “Would you like to see?”
“Perhaps I better had.”
He took her out into the garden and diffidently admitted her to the computer shed. She stared around. He passed her his two printed books. She sank onto his stool, tilting them for better inspection.
“You really have ‘got on’, Bray,” she said at last. “They’re pretty.”
“Mr Corkhill’s work.”
“Another thousand of the second volume, I take it?”
“Well, more than that.” Bray felt foolish, flustered, losing track. “I had to ask for three thousand this time, and
two thousand more of the first book.” He sighed. “You’ve no idea, Lottie. It’s all such trouble. I find it makes one a bit peevish, new orders coming in. See this?”
He showed her messages on the screen.
“It’s not hard once you’ve done it a few times. Make a page – that’s a screenful – about the writer. See? Sharlene, her life? I did that. It’s called
About The Authoress
. Then a separate screenful about each book.”
“What are all those names?”
“Guest book signatures.” He felt stupid. “Takes an inordinate amount of time. I’ve just learned how to update. I’m doing one computer page per book, see?”
“And the sales?”
He sighed. “They’re the trouble. Booksellers get frantic. They don’t know it’s only me.”
“I can imagine.”
“Mr Corkhill left a message yesterday about another printing, but what can I do? The payments are slow. I’m close to breaking even.” He looked at her anxiously. “That’s quite good, isn’t it?”
He found her watching, and babbled nervously on.
“There’s a programme that generates HTML, a godsend…” He petered out. “I don’t really have the time to keep nipping round to Aldersgate.” He almost started on straight-editor systems as her eyes glazed.
“Sorry, Lottie. You see, I thought you’d given me up.”
“Sharlene insisted,” she finished for him, and rose. “I’d better go in tomorrow and see what they say.”
“Do please tell them I’m sorry.”
She gave a curt laugh. It came like a snap. “Not as much as I, Bray.”
They remained standing in silence.
A night bird made noises in the garden. Something
screeched. He saw the light come on, saw Geoffrey pass a window, go rummaging in the fridge. Bray had made curry and rice from Sainsbury’s packets, and left Geoff his by the microwave. Enough, with bread and butter.
She sighed. “That’s it, then, Bray. Is Sharlene pleased?”
“She wants everything done yesterday.”
He led the way back to the house. Bray quickly introduced Lottie to Geoff, “My friend from London. My son, Mrs Vinson. Shirley’s poorly for the moment, back very soon.”
He managed to make sure that the courtesies didn’t go on. Afterwards he felt he’d rather bullied her to the front door, but there was Geoff’s meal to see to, the book orders to check and the laundry to do. He was dismayed, guessing he’d seen the last of Lottie Vinson. Geoff asked about her disinterestedly. He heard Geoff out about Shirley, then left to cope with the demanding screen. He was so tired. It had been really pleasant having a woman about. Perhaps she’d thought him boastful?
He was shocked to find a series of messages asking when the third book was due. He had given a weak promise a fortnight before saying it was “almost ready”, and now some enthusiast in Portland in Oregon – where was Oregon? – wanted dates. Transatlantic e-mail readers wanted a website for a fan club. Was this yet more Kylee?
That night he had a terrible headache. It was all becoming too much. At work the hurried draft of the firm’s early history loomed. The following Monday he’d said he would check through it, a huge labour he could hardly face. He was behind in his actual cabinet work. He wondered if he was up to any of this, but was determined to press on, keep going. Hunters did that.
Lottie’s visit disturbed him.
Some days he couldn’t quite focus, once almost snapped when Kylee burst out at somebody in Louisiana “moaning about these fucking books”. He kept control and asked her not to let her invective appear in her computer response.
She glared up at him.
“Why d’you talk like that? You’re not like that inside.” Sullenly she returned to the screen. “It’s that old fucker, the bitch.”
“Who?”
“That Lottie cow. You’re too fucking old for thinking shagnasty.”
He asked Kylee how she knew about Mrs Vinson.
“She’s come on here, coupla three times.”
“On the computer?” Bray was startled.
“Two-faced old cunt should keep her ugly hooter out of it. She’s nothing to do with us.”
“What did she say?”
“Wanted to come here.” Kylee glared accusingly. “Like party time. I told her to fuck off. I’m going to prog a key
Fuck Off
.”
He couldn’t afford more headaches after coming so far. Progress couldn’t be an illusion.
“Please, Kylee. Reply with politeness, or…”
“Or what?” she demanded in fury.
“What’s up?” Porky grunted at the shed door. It was dark. His cigarettes were more scented than ever. He swayed, coordination almost gone.
“Keep out of it, you!” Kylee was shouting now. “Well?”
Wearily Bray sat, his vision flickering, jagged multicoloured scags invading whatever he looked at. This never used to happen.
“Please don’t go, Kylee.” She got up and shoved Porky into the garden. The lad fell down, contentedly smoking on. “I don’t know the direction. I’ve just got to keep on. You’re my only help.”
She didn’t return to her stool, stood glaring. Supine Porky chanted some football song into the night air.
“Who’s the old bag then?”
“She belongs to London publishers. The books, well, they didn’t decide quick enough. So I got Corkhill’s.” It was almost true.
“We could’ve wet them.”
“Wet?” This was already too much on a bad evening. Bray had Part One of the Gilson Mather draft history indoors, a zillion scraps, sheets, clippings in folders, now swollen to the size of a theology treatise. He hadn’t been able to carry more than one section.
“Bribe,” Kylee translated. “Give them money to do it for us.”
Us. Bray noted the plural with relief.
“They would do it here, Kylee, see how sales went. I couldn’t – can’t – wait a month, let alone two years. And it’s got to be America, nowhere else.”
She swung her knees. Buster stirred, hopeful the movement might signal a walk.
“Does the old bitch know? Is she your friend? You shagging her?”
“Of course not.” No to all three, he thought, for rectitude’s sake.
“We need a website virtual. Want me to knock one up?”
“Yes, please,” he said. What was it? And why virtual? He felt worn at an end, but tears weren’t a man’s prerogative.
“Through that Yank bookseller, or not?”
He had no idea. “I think so, don’t you?”
She emitted one of her cackles, old style, all disbelieving hilarity, the promise of coming confusion already in there, and swung back to the console. She reactivated the screen’s voice, listening.
“We’ve only two items, for Christ’s sake.”
“Three,” he said wearily. “I’m on the third book.”
“This bookseller doesn’t advertise for us.”
“I haven’t asked her.”
“Sod off, while I do it.” She seemed kinder, fully restored. “You’re a pillock. Nobody sez yes. Proves you’re a cret. I reckon the bookshop’s cutting us. I’ll slice past her a few times, see how bright she is, the rotten cunt!”
“You won’t do anything that might prejudice her cooperation?”
“For fuck’s sake, get out of my fucking
hair
.”
She was already licking her lips, fidgeting, muttering abuse. He said he’d be across in the old shed. Buster stared after him, emerged to look at Porky, then surprisingly returned to Kylee.
As he left he heard the girl mutter, “I’ll prejudice her thieving
cooperation
. Who the fuck calls herself LuAnna-Louise?”
He wrote and drew until midnight. He returned to the computer shed, its lights still burning, to find Kylee and Porky gone. A printout was stuck to the dead screen.
Bray
that fancy bitch in st paul don nart in advts so iv sd shed better
or we pull the rug at wk nd n shes nt webbing like us iv told
her update us in her stok list or thats fuckin it Kylee ps pay us
thursday iv dad with that probashen bstrd wed
His money was holding out, but now this.
Illiterate blurb from his only ally. And she in trouble with the probationary court, her divorcing parents, God knows what else. He knew she’d started some fire at a correctional institution, her ruptured family in litigation over it.
He looked round, wanting to simply rest but not daring to. A shed. A computer he still hadn’t got the hang of. And drawing pictures from a lost grandchild’s fancies in scrapbooks beginning to fade.
Buster sat, chin on his paws, worried.
Bray’s eyes needed wiping. In sudden anger he pressed the On and watched the screen come to life. News on glamorous Florida. That, then geography of continental USA. Why not?
They wouldn’t have sold Davey in Florida, where memories might be reawakened. New York? Bray was unsure about New York. Too much traffic with London, possibly? California? Possibilities there, so vast were its population movements. Alaska was out, or was it? Hawaii?
He tried to work it out. If I’d stolen a child, where would I hide him? Blank out the child’s memory, yes, then
take him where to grow up? Somewhere safe from the annual toll of 160,000 gunshot injuries/deaths that the computer said America had these days. Somewhere where schooling was safe, away from tourists. Coincidence had a long arm. And wasn’t there that little lad stolen in Greece, sold to Germans a few years back, and recognised after years by a bus conductor on holiday?
The screen’s images clicked before his unseeing eyes. He took nothing in, dully going nowhere.
They would have to be rich… He shut down and went in.
A few minutes after midnight the phone rang, scaring him awake.
“Hello?”
“Bray? Lottie.” He was still dully working it out when she said gently, “I came, remember? You didn’t get my e-mail?”
“Er, we’ve had hitches.” Kylee had admitted she’d scrapped whatever Lottie sent.
“I guessed. I want to help, Bray. Any good?”
“Well, I might have enough help to be going on with, thank you.”
A ground war, Lottie versus Kylee, in his shed when he got home? No thank you. And another person to explain to, to serve. It was exactly the dilemma Kylee had seemed to be at first, until she bullied her way in with her computer wizardry. His old Gran used to exclaim, “Lord, save me from mine helpers!” It was the same in the workshop, youngsters coming in for Government financed experience. They all needed continuous help from seniors. Assistance was welcome; assistants were a burden.
“Help finding Davey, I mean.”
He stared at the receiver in his hand.
“Are you there, Bray?”
He said nothing. Nobody had said those words before. He had not let them out. He was done for. He told the black phone sorry, and replaced it.
Next morning he boarded the train, in a state of exhaustion. He sat and opened his notebook. Lottie got on and sat opposite.
“Morning,” she said.
“Morning.” He couldn’t think what to say, and sat with his notebook all the way to London. Once, his gaze caught hers. She smiled.