Maggie Gee - The White Family

Besides, Melissa was listening. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll print them out. We can make a book. Miss Simons might help me.’

‘Delighted,’ she said, smiling, smiling.

He looked at his watch. ‘Just one more question.’

‘Please, sir —’

Then there was a lot of giggling.

‘I can’t hear you,’ said Thomas. ‘Go on.’

‘Please, sir, please, sir. Praveena said to arks, are you Miss Simons’s boyfriend?’

‘Carly,’ said Melissa, blushing deep red. ‘And Praveena. Really. What a silly question.’

They clapped him with great enthusiasm, and she was ecstatic, outside on the stairs. He was almost sure that she wanted to kiss him. And absolutely sure that they would kiss, later, when three hundred children weren’t streaming past on their way to eat popcorn in the playground.

‘Come and have a cup of tea in the staff room.’

It was stuffy and small and smelled of stale biscuits, but he entered it like a homecoming hero. Not many people were in there yet. The Hillesden Trumpeter was lying on the table.

‘This is Thomas Lovell, folks. From the library. And a famous writer, as I told my kids.’

After such a success, Thomas did feel quite famous. But only one person looked up from her marking, a harassed nod, a tired smile. They were only just keeping from going under. Writers weren’t going to save them, here.

He picked up the Trumpeter while Melissa made tea. Perhaps there was a good film on at the local. Perhaps the two of them would go –

But the headline story stopped him in his tracks. This must be the murder George had mentioned. He sat and read, his high spirits disappearing:

MAN FOUND DEAD IN BRENT PRIZE PARK

‘Read it to me, woman.I’m not stupid.’

‘It will only upset you —’

‘He’d be interested,’ Pamela insisted, from the next bed. ‘It shows him in a most flattering light.’

‘He’s not supposed to be upset,’ May told her. ‘He’s my husband. Mind your own business.’ She was never openly rude to people, but now she was cornered, defending her own.

Alfred pulled himself up from the pillow, red-faced. ‘If it’s about the Park, of course I must read it.’

May had come in to find him sleeping. That bloody Pamela was reading the paper. May touched his cheek; his eyes opened. He gazed at her, short-sighted, fond, coming back slowly from wherever he had been.

Then the parrot started squawking in the next bed. ‘I say,’ she called. ‘Alfred, dear. You’re famous. This is all about you.’

And quick as a flash, without conscious thought, May had reached out and palmed Alfred’s glasses which were lying on the bedside table, slipping them safe in the pocket of her coat.

She had meant to keep it secret until he was better. When he was stronger, he would have to know. But now, thanks to Pamela, she couldn’t protect him. He was all het up. Red-faced. Furious. He might have an event, right in front of her eyes, if she refused to do as he told her.

Pamela pushed the thing under her nose. Stumbling, nervous, May began to read.

MAN FOUND DEAD IN BRENT PRIZE PARK

A murder hunt is underway after a youth was found dead on Sunday morning following a suspected affray in Brent’s prize-winning Albion Park …

She heard his sudden intake of breath. She saw his colour draining away. But she had to continue. What else could she do?

The man was named as Winston Franklin King, twenty, a Humanities student at London University.

Police are appealing for anyone with any information to come forward. Police spokesmen last night said they had ‘no reason to believe’ the crime had a racial motive.

Winston King’s family were said to be ‘distraught’. ‘He was a good boy who worked hard and never got into trouble,’ said his mother Mrs Sophie King, sixty-nine. ‘We were hoping he was going to get married.’

‘The next bit’s not very nice,’ said May. ‘Then there’s a nice bit about you.’

‘Read it all, woman,’ he gasped, impatient.

The lavatories at Albion Park have for some time been under police surveillance because of suspected homosexual activity there. Alfred White, who had been Park Keeper for fifty-four years, suffered a stroke last month, and his post was vacant at the time of the murder.

‘If Alf had been here this would never have happened,’ commented local trader Mr Ash Khalik. ‘Some of these kids get out of hand, but Alf knew how to handle them.’

A council spokesman refusing to comment on reports that Brent is about to abolish the post of Park Keeper in its latest cost-cutting exercise, pointed out this was the first major crime in the Park since it was opened a hundred years ago. ‘Of course we all deeply regret this tragic event, but we are very proud of our stewardship of the Park. Last summer we won the Steve Biko Bowl in the All-London Floral Displays Competition.’

She laid down the paper on the bed and looked at him, full of apprehension. ‘I’m sorry, love,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want to read it.’

‘You read it too fast,’ said Pamela. ‘You have to learn about pace, and diction.’

May ignored her; hardly heard her. The last few weeks had been the worst in her life. A great lump of dread had settled in her throat. Since Dirk came home on Sunday morning she could not think, or sleep, or swallow.

‘Murder,’ said Alfred, slowly, hoarse. ‘Murder in the Park. I don’t believe it.’

‘It had to happen one day,’ said May. She had no idea what to say to him. He wasn’t listening, in any case. Pamela was, though, blue-lidded, avid. May got up abruptly and drew the curtains round the bed, whipping the green stripes across the old woman’s face, rattling the curtain rings in rapid fury.

‘It’s my fault, isn’t it?’ Alfred said. ‘If I hadn’t got sick, this would never have happened. If I’d stayed at my post. But I got sick.’

‘Of course it’s not your fault,’ said May. ‘The council should have got someone temporary.’ She held his hand. It felt small and cold. He didn’t see her. He looked shocked, wounded.

‘I’ve got to have my glasses. I must read it myself.’

‘There they are,’ said May, and by turning her body she managed to shuffle them back on to his table. He put them on. He looked very old. He took the paper, and began to read, moving his lips slightly, as he always did, and it usually annoyed her, but today it meant nothing, for her world was tearing, breaking apart.

Dirk, she thought.

Fear; horror.

‘So they’re thinking of getting rid of my job.’

‘It’s just a rumour. You can’t believe the papers …’

She tried to sound normal, but she sounded mad.

‘It’s all my fault. I should be back at work.’

‘Course you shouldn’t. Course you can’t.’

But as she watched, he struggled out of the envelope of sheets and blankets, one leg, the other leg, and sat undecided on the edge of the bed. Then he looked at her. Her eyes were full of tears.

‘Please don’t, Alfred. Please don’t. Please . You’ll kill yourself. I knew it would upset you.’

‘Trouble is, no one’s told them I’m coming back,’ he said. ‘That must be it. It’s a misunderstanding. I thought I would let them do a few more tests. But now I’d better get back straightaway.’

‘Alfred,’ she said. ‘Get back in bed. I’ll call Sister if you don’t.’ Then the tears began to flood; she could not stop them.

‘You’re crying, May. Don’t take on.’

‘It’s worse than you think.’ She was whispering. He held on to the blankets, swaying, uncertain.

‘What do you mean? How could it be?’