The Steep Approach to Garbadale (3 page)

Al suggests he and Fielding take a walk as it’s too early for lunch and so they drive on a little further and park by the river in the shadow of some grand Victorian buildings, then walk along the bank, heading downstream with the swirling brown flow of the waters. It’s a mild, half-sunlit day beneath a sky of small white clouds that makes Fielding think of the title sequence of
The Simpsons.
The air smells good here by the water, though there’s traffic buzzing on both sides of the river.

‘Kind of you to pick up the mail, Fielding,’ Al says.

‘Well, I was in the area.’

Alban looks at the other man, grinning. ‘What, in Llangurig?’ He sounds amused.

Llangurig is a small town in mid-Wales, near the Hafren Forest, where Al was working for the first half of the year. ‘Well, not so much passing through or anything,’ Fielding admits, ‘as scouring the length and the breadth of the land for your absconded arse.’

Alban makes a noise that might be a cough or a laugh or something in between. ‘You were looking for me?’

‘Yes. And now I’ve found you.’

‘Kind of guessing you weren’t doing all this just to facilitate my re-subscription to
Foresters’ Anonymous
and
What Chainsaw?’
Al says.

Fielding looks at him and Alban catches the glance, holds up his left hand, the one with only half a little finger. ‘Kidding. Made them up.’

Another attempt at humour, then. Fielding had taken a look at the envelopes his cousin’s mail had arrived in and there had been nothing obviously from any such publications, but you never know.

‘Well, exactly,’ Fielding says. ‘As I said, I was looking for you. And you are
not
an easy man to find.’

‘Amn’t I? Sorry.’

He doesn’t sound it. Fielding turns to him, takes one sleeve of his jacket, making him turn towards him, so they stop walking. ‘Al, why are you like this?’

Fielding wasn’t losing his temper or anything at this point - he’d decided from the start to be calm and reasonable with the guy - but he really would just like to know why Al’s gone like this, become like this, even though he realises Alban probably wouldn’t tell him even if he could, even if he knew himself. Maybe they’re just too far apart, too different these days, family or not.

‘Like what?’ Alban looks genuinely puzzled.

‘Like a man who’s trying to lose himself, like a man who’s trying to abandon his family or get them to abandon him; I don’t know. Why? I mean, your own parents don’t know whether you’re alive or dead.’

‘I sent them a Christmas card,’ Alban says. Plaintively, Fielding thought.

‘That was - what? Eight? Nine months ago? And they only knew you were still in the country because it had a UK stamp on it. Nobody seems to know where you are. Jesus, Alban, I was on the brink of hiring a fucking private detective to find you when I heard you’d been working in Wales. Even then it was sheer luck I bumped into one of your forester chums who knew you’d started a job round here and
eventually
remembered the firm’s name after a curry and about eighteen pints of Stella.’

‘Sounds like Hughey,’ Al says, and starts walking again. To Fielding, it looks more like wandering off. He falls into step with his cousin, frustrated. ‘How was Hughey?’ Alban asks.

‘Al, I’m sorry, I don’t care about Hughey. Why don’t you ask how any of the family are?’

‘Hughey’s a pal. Seriously, how was he?’

‘Drunk and well fed when I last saw him. Why do you care more about people like him than about your family?’

‘You choose your friends, Fielding,’ Alban says, sounding tired.

‘Al, Jesus, man, what
is
this?’ Fielding asks, controlling his voice. ‘What the hell has the family ever
done
to you to make you like this? I know you’ve had some tough breaks, but we gave you—’

Alban stops and spins round, and just for a second Fielding thinks he’s going to shout or at least poke a finger in his chest or maybe just point at him or, if nothing else, express himself with a bit of passion. But the look on his face fades almost before Fielding can be sure it’s really there and he shrugs and turns and starts walking again, along the broad sand-coloured pavement, between the twin streams of water and cars. ‘It’s all a long story. A long, boring story. Mostly I just got fed up with . . .’ His voice trails off. One more shrug.

After a dozen or so steps, he asks, ‘How’s Lydcombe? You been there recently? They keeping the gardens tidy?’

‘I was there last month. It all looked fine to me.’ Fielding leaves a gap. ‘Aunt Clara, everybody else, they’re all well. Same with my parents. Thanks for asking.’

Alban just grunts.

Forget the draughty castle and thousands of windswept barren acres the family owns - for now, anyway - in the Highlands. Lydcombe, in Somerset, was the first serious out-of-town property purchase Great-Grandfather Henry made when he started to rake in his millions. Quite a beautiful setting, on the north edge of Exmoor National Park. Bit quiet, and a long way from London, but a good place for family holidays unless you want guaranteed sun. Only forty acres or so, but it’s lush and green and sunny and the grounds go rolling down to the coast of the Bristol Channel.

Fielding was brought up in a few different places round the world, but as a kid he probably spent more holiday time there than anywhere else, in the big, rambling house overlooking the terraced lawns, close by the walled garden and the ruins of the old abbey. The main building is listed and, of course, it’s all part of the National Park so there are various planning restrictions if you wanted to do anything radical with the place.

Alban knows Lydcombe better than Fielding. It was his home for most of his childhood, then he spent a couple of summers there as a teenager, discovering what green fingers he had. And thereby, of course, hangs the tale.

Fielding’s moby chooses to go at this point, inside his jacket pocket. He’s left it on vibrate since he made the turn into Skye Crescent and probably missed a couple of calls - otherwise it’s been amazingly quiet. Fielding gets a weird, tight, unpleasant feeling in his guts when he’s out of touch for this long, like there’s vitally important stuff happening that he really needs to know about and there are people on the other end desperate for him to answer . . . Though of course he knows it’ll probably be nothing, or more likely just somebody asking a question they wouldn’t need to ask if they were seriously intent on actually doing their job rather than always passing the most trivial problem upstairs to cover their miserable asses. Even so - though his hand is itching to grab the fucker - he’s not going to answer. He ignores the vibrations, keeps up with Alban.

This is all so annoying! He’s a good manager, a good person-manager and he has certificates to prove it, not to mention the respect of his peers and subordinates. He’s good at selling, good at persuading. Why is he finding it so hard to get through to this one guy he should feel closer to than most?

‘Look, Alban, okay, I can understand . . . Actually, no, I can’t understand’ (about tearing his hair out here!) ‘but I guess I just have to accept you feel the way you do about the family and the firm, but that’s part of what I need to talk to you about.’

Alban turns to him. ‘Maybe we should get a drink.’

‘Whatever. Yeah, okay.’

 
They find a bar nearby, the lounge of a small hotel in the compressed-feeling town centre. Alban insists on paying and has a pint of IPA while Fielding takes a mineral water. It’s still before noon and the place is quiet and dim and smells of last night’s cigarettes and spilled beer.

Alban swallows about a quarter of the pint in one series of gulps, then smacks his lips. ‘So why are you looking for me, Fielding?’ he asks. ‘Specifically.’

‘Well, frankly, I was asked to.’

‘Who by?’

‘Gran.’

‘Good God, is the old harridan alive and compos mentis?’ Al shakes his head and takes another drink.

‘Al, please.’

Gran - Grandmother Winifred - is the Wopuld materfamilias, the head of the family and one of its eldest surviving members. She’s also, in terms of voting rights, the most powerful person on the board of the family firm. She’s not perfect - at nearly eighty, who is? - and she can be prickly and fussy and sometimes even wrong, but she’s seen the firm and the family through tough times and good times and a lot of people still have a real soft spot for her, Fielding included. And she is very old and of course everybody feels protective of her, no matter how spirited and feisty she might seem, so it’s not good to hear somebody in the family dissing her. Fielding tries to let the hurt he feels show on his face.

Al frowns at him. ‘You look like you’re straining.’

‘What?’

‘How’d you find out I was in Wales anyway?’

‘I talked to your girl . . . your friend, whatever you . . . you know: in Glasgow. What’s her—?’

‘VG?’

‘V
D
?’

‘Vee, Gee. Those are her initials.’

‘Right. What was her name again? Foreign, wasn’t it?’

‘Verushka Graef.’

‘Ver-oosh-ka. That’s the one.’

‘Yes, I know.’

This, frankly, does give Fielding pause for thought. ‘You and her really an item?’ he asks.

Alban grins without any apparent mirth. ‘Fielding, I can see you looking at me with new respect and a degree of incredulity, but no, we’re not an “item”. We meet up now and again. Occasional lovers. Don’t imagine I’m her only one.’

‘Oh, I see. Anyway, she told me the last definite address she had for you was in this Llangurig place.’

‘That was good of her.’

‘Took some persuading.’

‘She knows I like my privacy.’

‘Well, hurrah for her. Actually, she took some finding herself, too. Had to go through the university. Are you part of some sort of weird cult or something? I mean, renouncing the use of mobile phones. What the hell is that all about?’

‘I don’t like being at other people’s beck and call, Fielding. VG . . . She just doesn’t like being disturbed.’

‘She for real?’

‘What do you mean, like not a robot or something?’

‘Fuck off, you know what I mean. Is she really this shit-hot mathematician? ’

Al shrugs. ‘Think so. Glasgow University Mathematics Department seems to think so. Not to mention what you could justifiably call a plethora of peer-reviewed journals.’

‘So, really a professor?’

‘Yeah, really. Not that I actually saw her being invested or whatever it is they do when they make you one.’

‘She doesn’t look like a professor.’

‘That’d be the spiky blonde hair.’

‘It was black.’

‘Again?’ Al shakes his head, drinks. ‘She’s a natural blonde.’

‘Is she mad?’

‘She’s a little eccentric. Once dyed it mousy brown, just to see.’

‘Just to see what?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Right. Anyway.’

‘Anyway.’

‘So, Gran asked me to find you and talk to you. There’s stuff happening. Stuff you need to know. Stuff you might even want to be involved in.’ Fielding’s mobile is vibrating again but he’s ignoring it.

‘Really?’ Al sounds sceptical.

‘Yes, and I think you’ll agree when you hear it . . .’

‘This going to take long?’

‘A few minutes.’

‘Hold on then. Better take a leak.’ Alban stands up, draining his pint as he does so. He starts towards the exit, then pauses, turning back. ‘You could get another round in.’

‘Okay, okay.’

 
Alban made his way to the Gents in the Salutation Hotel, sighing and smoothing his hand over his beard. He smiled at a passing waitress, let himself into the toilets, stood looking at the tall porcelain urinals for a moment and then went into a cubicle, closing the door behind him. He didn’t need to sit down; he didn’t really need to visit the toilet at all. He pulled the letter from his pocket and sat on the seat cover. He read both sides of the closely-written single sheet, squinting in the dim light. He read the letter once straight through, then re-read a couple of sections. After that he just sat there for a while, staring at nothing.

A little later he shook his head as though pulling himself out of a daydream, stood, put the letter back in his pocket and left. For some reason he flushed the toilet as he did so, and then washed his hands.

Fielding, just putting his mobile away, looked relieved and then slightly annoyed when he saw his cousin again, as though he’d been worrying that Al had run off. At least the pint of IPA was sitting there.

 
‘Right, there’s a few things,’ Fielding tells Al once he’s started on his new pint. ‘First of all, Gran is thinking of - well, she’s decided, it’s happening - to sell Garbadale.’

‘Uh-huh?’

‘Yes. Well, I mean, come on. She’s eighty soon and she had a couple of health scares over the last year or so and some of us have been trying to persuade her to move to somewhere near a decent hospital for a while now. It can take a couple of hours to get to, umm, the Inverness hospital—’

‘Raigmore.’

‘Yeah, that’s the place. Anyway, that’s far too long, and that’s just a one-way trip, somebody driving her there. An ambulance would take twice as long. I mean, they have an air ambulance, but you can’t rely on that always being available. I think that last heart thing she had—’

‘She had a heart thing?’ Al sounds almost interested.

‘Fibrillations or something. She kind of fainted. Of course, that was back in March, so you won’t have heard, will you?’

‘That’s right. Was it serious?’

‘Serious enough. Anyway, that seems to have convinced her to move out of the middle of nowhere at last. She’s only talking about Inverness or maybe Edinburgh or Glasgow, but I think we can convince her she’d be better off in London and near Harley Street.’

‘But they haven’t, say, given her only a couple of months to live or anything?’