Peter Robinson: The Price of Love and Other Stories

“Sorry about that business with the change,” said Geoff. “My eyesight’s not what it used to be. Honest mistake.”

Banks nodded. “Honest mistake. No offense,” he said, though he still wasn’t convinced. It was the closest he was willing to get to an apology, so it would just have to do. There was certainly no point in antagonizing Geoff and upsetting his mother even more. After all, he was only down for the weekend; these people had to live close to one another day in, day out. And if Banks couldn’t be around to help his parents with their shopping and housecleaning, then it was a good thing Geoffrey Salisbury was.

“How long have you lived on the estate, Geoff?” Banks asked.

“Six months now.”

“Where did you live before?”

“Oh, here and there. Bit of a wanderer, really.”

“What made you settle down?”

Geoff laughed and shrugged. “My age, I suppose. I don’t know. Wandering lost its appeal.”

“Well, there’s something to be said for knowing you’ve always got a roof over your head.”

“There is that.” Geoff took a stick of chewing gum from his pocket. When he had unwrapped it and put it in his mouth, he folded the silver paper time and time again until it was just a tiny square, which he set down in the ashtray. He noticed Banks watching him and laughed. “Habit,” he said. “Stopped smoking five years ago and got addicted to this bloody stuff. Wish I’d stuck with cigarettes sometimes.”

“You’re probably better off as you are,” Banks said. “What line of work are you in?”

“Odd jobs, mostly.”

“What? Fixing things? Carpentry?”

“Cars, mostly. Tinkering with engines. I used to be a mechanic.”

“Not anymore?”

“Got made redundant from the last garage I worked at, and I just couldn’t seem to get taken on anywhere else. My age, I suppose. Again. They can get young kids still wet behind the ears and pay them bugger all to do the same job.”

“I suppose so,” Banks said. “So you work for yourself now?”

“Odd jobs. I don’t need much, just enough to keep the wolf from the door.”

“And you help out Mum and Dad?”

“Grand folk, Arthur and Ida,” Geoff said. “Been like a mother and father to me, they have.”

If there was any irony intended in the remark, Geoff didn’t seem aware of it. “How long have you known them?” Banks asked.

“Since not long after you’d left this summer. They told me about that business with the missing lad. Terrible. Anyway, they always said hello right from the start, you know, like, when they saw me in the street. Invited me in for a cup of tea. That sort of thing. And with them not being... well, you know what I mean, not as able to get around as well as they used to do, I started doing little favors. Just little things, washing, cleaning, shopping and the like, helping them out with their finances. I like to help people.”

“Finances?”

“Paying bills on time, that sort of thing. They do get a bit forgetful sometimes, just between you and me. And taking the rent down to the council office. It’s an awful bother for them.”

“I’m sure they appreciate it, Geoff.”

“I think they do.” He nodded. “Another?”

Banks looked at his empty glass. “Yes,” he said. “Go on, then. One more.” He looked over at his father. “All right, Dad?”

Arthur Banks nodded and went back to his conversation with Harry Finnegan. The pub had filled up in the last half hour or so, and Banks thought he recognized some of the faces. One or two people looked at him as if they knew him, then decided perhaps they didn’t, or didn’t want to. Banks watched Geoff Salisbury at the bar. He seemed to know everyone; he was shaking more hands and patting more backs than a politician on election day. Popular fellow.

Geoff came back with the drinks and excused himself to talk to someone else. Banks chatted with Dick and Mavis for a while — they wanted to know if he’d helped catch the Yorkshire Ripper — then, after his second drink, his father said he was tired and would like to go home. “You can stay if you like,” he said to Banks.

“No, I’ll walk back with you. I’m feeling a bit tired myself.”

“Suit yourself.”

They said their good-byes and walked out into the cool autumn night. It was mild for the time of year, Banks thought: light jacket weather rather than overcoats, but the leaves were changing color, winter was in the air and the weather forecast said they had a shower or two in store. Neither Banks nor his father had anything to say on the way home, but then Arthur Banks needed all his breath for walking.

Banks’s bedroom, he had been amazed to discover that summer, was almost exactly as it had been when he first left home. Only the wallpaper, curtains and bedding had been changed. The bed itself was also the same one he had had since he was about twelve.

As he squeezed himself between the tightly tucked sheets in his narrow bed, he remembered how he used to hold the old transistor radio to his ear under the sheets, listening to Radio Luxembourg amid the whistles and crackles. First, Jimmy Saville playing the latest top-ten hit from “member number 11321,” Elvis Presley. Then, a few years later, came the pirate stations, with even more static and interference: John Peel playing the Mothers of Invention, the Jefferson Airplane and Country Joe and the Fish, names from another world, music so startling and raw it transcended even the poor radio reception.

Banks’s eyes were too tired and scratchy from the smoky pub to read his Graham Greene, so he put on the Cecilia Bartoli CD of Gluck arias and listened as he drifted toward sleep.

As he lay there, he couldn’t help but think about Geoff Salisbury. Something about the man put Banks on his guard. It wasn’t just the wrong change — that could have been an honest mistake — but the manner in which he seemed to have insinuated himself into the lives of Banks’s parents, the ease with which he breezed in and out of the house. Banks wouldn’t be surprised if Geoff had a key. He switched off the CD and turned on his side, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling, telling himself he was being too mistrusting, and that he probably only felt this way because he felt guilty he wasn’t taking care of his aging parents himself. He knew he ought to be glad that someone was doing the job; he only wished that someone wasn’t Geoff Salisbury.

Banks awoke with a start the following morning and experienced a moment’s absolute panic and terror when he had no idea who or where he was. It was as if he had woken from a coma after many years, all memory gone and the world around him totally changed, or as if he had been abducted and had woken up in an alien spaceship.

But it only lasted a second or two, thank God, and after that he managed to orient himself and his heartbeat slowed to normal. He was in his old bedroom, of course, the room he had slept in between the ages of twelve and eighteen. It was at the back of the house and looked over backyards, an alleyway and a stretch of waste ground to the north, where he and his friends used to play. When Banks looked out of his window, he noticed that the builders had moved in since his last visit and laid the foundations for yet more houses. As if Peterborough needed to grow any more. Since the midsixties, when the developers decided to make it a catchment area for London’s overcrowded suburbs, it had done nothing but grow, swamping outlying villages with housing estates and business parks. The planners and promoters said it blended old and new in unique and interesting ways. Even so, Banks thought, King Paeda, who founded the city, would turn in his grave.