Caryl Phillips - The Lost Child

After he came back from the hotel bar, they said a clumsy goodbye to the others, and he and Mandy hurried off to sit together in the corner of a quiet pub, where she listened carefully to everything that he told her (my mother couldn’t cope, with anything really). He told Mandy that after his grandfather had handed him the cheque for one hundred pounds, the man smiled and then started to tell him all about his new bungalow. It was only then that he understood that his grandmother must have died.

“I do a spot of gardening these days. And I’ve got plenty of space if you’d like to stay.”

Mandy looked momentarily baffled. “He actually said that?” Almost imperceptibly, Ben began to shake his head. “Look, Ben, if you really want to go up there, you know I’ll come with you.”

He finished his drink and then turned to look at her.

“I wanted to tell him, I don’t need to read her old letters to know that in her own screwy way she cared.” He paused. “I’m tired. Let’s go back to my room tonight.”

Mandy takes her finger from his lips and then shuffles over a little to give him a bit more space. Ben continues to look at the ceiling in his bed-study room, and he remains isolated in worries as murky as fog.

“Do you feel like you’ve got something else to say to him, Ben?”

“I don’t think so, Mand. I feel badly about it, but I don’t really have anything to say to him. Nothing.”

* * *

He knew that a midmorning departure would enable him to avoid any kind of traffic issues. The motorway is practically empty, aside from the huge articulated lorries charging their way south towards London and the Channel Ports. Again he reminds himself that the ability to forgive is a virtue worth cultivating, but this is something that his daughter never understood, especially after the business with Dr. Greenwell and his accusations. (Let me put it to you simply, Mr. Johnson. My daughter doesn’t much care for the way you leer at her.) Why Hester would say something like this made no sense, but Ruth forgave him, not that he’d done anything wrong. She stood by him. The buff envelope is on the passenger seat. He wanted to see if the lad would remember to take it with him when he left the hotel bar. It soon became clear, however, that in his rush to get back to his friends he was going to leave it behind, so he decided not to remind the boy in the hope that its absence might serve as a spur for him to seek out his grandfather. He remembered to put his address and phone number on the back of the cheque so there couldn’t be any excuse. His mind is racing now. As he passes the Leicester Forest East service station, he realizes that he is going to have to say something. Sadly, the Mrs. Barretts of the world just won’t do, not while he still has something to offer his own flesh and blood. The woman means well, but she’s not Ruth, and she never will be. He is going to have to ask for his spare key back as it’s been promised to another. He deliberately didn’t say anything to his grandson, but he hopes it’s understood. He’ll just have to be patient and wait for the lad to contact him.

I had a feeling it was coming, but I’m still shocked by the way they’re carrying on. After all, I paid my rent on time for the first two months, and we seemed to be getting on fine, but now that I’ve lost my job up the road, and just need a bit of patience, they’ve suddenly changed their tune. The American one is the problem, but if I’m honest, I never much cared for him. He knocks on my door and starts to jabber away like he’s my friend, but I’m not dense, for I know that he ran away from fighting in Vietnam and he probably reckoned that nobody would find him in London. I’ve got his number. While the other one goes off to work, this one stays at home and plays the part of the wife, cleaning the house and singing along to the wireless and drinking vodka, because he thinks nobody can smell it on him. Really, Monica, we don’t want any unpleasantness. But I tell him, look, I can’t give you what I don’t have, can I? Those buggers at the community centre they liked me when the Jobcentre people sent me for the interview, and they gave me the position without a second thought and said that having been to university, I had a different kind of background, which would be good for everyone. However, as soon as I began to do the actual job, running the youth workshops and taking charge of the nursery and organizing the domino evenings, they began to turn on me and tease me, particularly the younger ones, who started telling me that my face didn’t fit and calling me all the names under the sun. I asked them straight out, If this is supposed to be a centre for everyone, why doesn’t my face fit? Of course, nobody wanted to say anything about that. The American man looks at me and listens to me going on, and he shrugs his shoulders and tells me that it will be best if I can produce the rent money before his friend comes back from his solicitor’s job at six o’clock.

Last Friday, after all the kiddies had left the nursery and I’d locked and bolted the door, the people at the community centre told me they were letting me go, and since then I haven’t had anything to do in the daytime. This being the case, for the whole week I’ve just stayed in the tiny attic room that I rent in these people’s house, and I’ve tried to keep myself to myself. At the dead of night when they’re both sleeping, I come out and creep around the place and get myself a cup of tea or some toast, but even though I’ve been making a real effort not to make any noise, I suppose they could tell that something was the matter and that I didn’t have a job to go to anymore. It must have been obvious to them.

When six o’clock arrives, I hear him coming up the stairs, and then he begins hammering on the door. He’s a rude so-and-so, and he doesn’t even wait for me to open it up before he starts his lambasting. I tell him that I don’t have the rent money, and that I’ve already said this to his American friend, and this is his cue to get nasty, and he points his finger and says no wonder they got rid of me. According to him, I’m not right. We’ve tried, Monica. I mean, come on, you’re thirty-six now, aren’t you? What’s my age got to do with it, and what does he mean they’ve tried? It was me who saw the postcard in the newsagent’s window saying they had a top-floor room for rent, and it was me who went to a phone box and called their number and then came around and saw the room and paid a month’s rent up front. It’s not like they made any effort. I came to them. Listen, we both think you need a more structured environment. We’re not equipped. He looks behind me, and he can see that I’ve already packed up a few things in my holdall. I’m not daft, I could see what was coming, so I’ve got myself ready. I’m sorry, Monica, but we need the rent. I want to tell him that he should send his American friend out to get a job instead of letting him waste the whole day just swanning about the house to no particular purpose. However, I don’t say anything. It’s June, and in four months’ time I’ll be going back to university, so until then I’ll just have to get another job and find somewhere else to live. These two smarty-pants think they know everything, and they act like they’re the only ones in the world with a room to let, but they’re not.

The first time I lived in London I frittered away most of my time watching the city like I was looking at a programme on the television set. I could see the people, but they couldn’t see me, and I can’t say it was a happy time. This time I’ve tried to take part, but look where it’s landed me. I pick up my bag and start down the two flights of stairs, and when I get to the door, the American one flits into the hallway like a little mouse and pushes a pound note into my hand and whispers, “Good luck,” before running off back to the kitchen. I walk slowly up the road in the direction of the community centre, but I know I’m not welcome there, so I cross over and go into the Sutherland Arms and order a half of lager and lime and take the drink outside and sit and watch the kids playing in the mews. Then it occurs to me that I know the man who’s sitting at the next table with a pint of Guinness, for he sometimes comes into the centre and talks to people in the bar. He’s an actor who, when he’s not working, drives a minicab. He smiles and asks me what’s on my mind, so I tell him my troubles, and he listens. Then, without asking, he picks up my glass and his own, and he goes into the pub and brings us both another drink. This time he sits down at my table. I have a room, he says. The previous tenant moved out last week, and you can take it till you set yourself up. He asks me if I know Shepherd’s Bush, and I say I know where it is, and apparently this is good enough for him.