Tyme's End (25 page)

I closed the book and pressed it between my palms. I wanted to write the truth. I wanted everything he had told me to be there, in black and white. Lest I forget.

But it was impossible, and I knew it. Even if I could have found the words.

I opened the exercise book again, searching through the pages for the first time I'd said I was happy here, for the first time I had used the word
love
. It came on the 17th of June. I ripped the page out, and the next, on and on until I came to yesterday's scrawl. I ripped that out too, so that there was nothing, after the 16th of June, but a fan of torn margins and a blank page.

I crumpled up the loose pages and put them in the ashtray. Then I set fire to them with Jack's silver lighter. They burned with a brighter, thicker flame than Fraser's letter had – although that had been in sunlight, a long time ago. He had been right, after all; I'd thought his turn of phrase exaggerated, even sensational, but he had simply been telling me the truth. I wished I could be grateful for that.

I watched the pages burn. They filled the room with whitish, acrid smoke that billowed in the breeze from the window and overwhelmed the scent of roses. When there was nothing left but ash, I took up the exercise book again, and the pencil. In a shaky, childish hand, I wrote:

21st June, 1936. Tyme's End.

REMEMBER.

I put my face into my hands, and wept.

.

The hours passed. When I raised my head, finally, the first thing I saw was my father's photograph. It gave me a kind of strength; for the first time in my life, I was glad that he had been ordinary, that he had died along with so many other men. I had never thought that it would be reassuring to imagine him shot down in Flanders mud, but now, somehow, it was.

I took the photograph in my hand, tried to smooth out the crease across the corner, and put it into my pocket. I closed my suitcase and ran my fingers over my father's faded initials. Outside, the sky was getting light behind the trees and the breeze coming through the window was cold and fresh, blowing away the smoke and the sweetness of the night air. I stood up and turned off the electric light. The room was dim, full of steady shadows. The world beyond the window was silent and touched with a silvery violet colour, like a painting.

I looked round, taking in every detail: the gramophone, the overflowing ashtray, the discarded newspaper on the sofa. I thought that perhaps I'd never be so happy, or so unhappy, as I'd been here. I wondered if I should ever see Tyme's End again and even now the thought made me sorry.

I picked up the suitcase and walked out into the hall. I felt light-headed and hazy, as if the world were not quite substantial. I fumbled at the front door, trying to open it quietly; my hands were cold and stiff, and I struggled to make them obey me. I wouldn't have been surprised to see my fingers pass through the latch, like a ghost's. When finally I managed to open the door I knew that despite my efforts I had made a lot of noise. I stood listening, but there was silence. I took a deep breath. The air smelt damp, like grass stains.

I had set my suitcase down, and now I took it up again. In this subtle daylight I could hardly see my father's initials, but I knew they were there. The case was light, but no lighter than it had been when I arrived: wretchedly poor and shabby, but no poorer or shabbier than it had been. It hadn't changed; and neither had I, or not much.

I shut the door behind me and set off down the drive, walking on the verge so that my footsteps didn't crunch on the gravel. I didn't turn and look back, because I didn't trust myself.

.

I walked through the long grass, feeling the dew soak into my trousers. The birds were starting to sing. I had probably missed the milk train, and it would be hours until the next service; but I could walk to the next station or further – all the way to Tunbridge Wells West if I had to. I was in no hurry: all that mattered was that I was on my way home. I felt as if I could walk for ever.

There was a movement in front of me – a dark patch among the trees – that I took for a raven at first, but then I stopped where I was, staring through the undergrowth. It was larger than I'd thought: the size of a man. I stepped warily sideways, until I could see more clearly. It
was
a man, hurrying through the trees, ducking low branches, with one hand raised to protect his face. I thought I knew from the gracelessness of his movements who it was, and then he lowered his hand to pluck a bramble off his sleeve and I was sure. It was Fraser. I could hear his breathing from here, a harsh sob in his voice as though he had been running for hours. I drew back behind the trunk of a tree and watched him as he scurried past, only a few feet away. When he reached the edge of the grass he reeled and almost fell over, like a sailor reaching dry land for the first time in a year. He looked over his shoulder, and then in the direction of Tyme's End, and I pressed myself against the bark of the tree, praying that he wouldn't notice me. The moment seemed to last for an hour. Finally he turned away and set off towards the gates. As he moved I caught sight of his face. He was weeping, his mouth open.

I relaxed, staring at his back. I could have called out, but there was nothing I wanted to say to him. I owed him thanks, but I couldn't imagine saying so; in spite of myself, I still despised him.

But what had he been doing here? Perhaps he had come to see Jack; but if so, why had he been running through the trees, in the wrong direction? I looked along the path he had taken, noting the trail of crushed bracken and broken branches. There was nothing there; I had wandered through the undergrowth myself a few days ago, and the way Fraser had gone would lead to nothing but a little grassy clearing and the shed where Jack kept his motorcycle.

I put my suitcase down in the grass and took a few steps along the track Fraser had left. The birds were making a jubilant noise; when I advanced deeper into the trees they carried on singing, thoroughly undaunted by my presence. I followed the trail of trodden greenery, my nose full of the peppery smell of it, like perspiration. I went carefully, making as little noise as I could. If Jack were there . . . But I was certain, or almost, that he wouldn't be. He had wanted to hurt Fraser, to make his humiliation as final and complete as possible; there would be no advantage to meeting him at dawn, away from the house, like a lover.

But Fraser had been here, and he had been weeping as he ran away.

I made my way through the last few yards of bracken and brambles, and stepped warily into the open. Jack kept the grass mown short, and in places it had been worn down almost to bare earth by the bike coming and going. There was a bald trail, almost a path, that led away from me, curving back towards the drive. The shed was a little ramshackle production that might have been designed as a faux hermitage in the days when such things were fashionable, but it was as shipshape as it could be, and the door and window frame had been freshly painted. Jack was careless with most of his possessions, but he treated his bike as if it were animate and needed the best conditions to thrive. I had seen him stable it lovingly, attending to its every need, although he mocked himself for taking such pains.

The shed door was a little way open, swinging almost imperceptibly in the breeze. Jack never left it like that, unless he was inside . . .

I ducked sideways instinctively, out of sight of the shed's little window. Slowly I straightened up again and squinted at the window pane, trying to see past the reflections of trees and sky. I cleared my throat and said, ‘Hello? Is someone there?' My voice was flat and thin in the open air. No one answered. I was alone.

I approached the shed like a schoolboy playing at soldiers, my heart beating harder than it should have. Nothing moved, except me.

I stood outside the door, and pulled it gently, to widen the gap between door and door frame. Then I peered inside.

There was nothing there but Jack's bike, covered by a tarpaulin, and the tidy shelves of tools. I hardly knew one end of a bike from the other, so I wouldn't be able to tell if anything was missing, but everything looked perfectly neat, the way Jack would have left it. I could smell something mechanical, like oil. I stood there for a moment, feeling a strange bewilderment. Perhaps Fraser hadn't been here at all; perhaps he'd been running from somewhere else. But the trail of trampled grass and undergrowth had led me here, and someone had left the door open.

It might have been Jack being careless. No doubt yesterday he'd had a lot to think about. But I didn't believe it for a moment.

I went out again into the sunlight and leant against the door, wondering.

I stared into the middle distance for a long time, then I shook myself and turned away. But something caught my attention, and I turned back. There were marks on the white paint of the door: three or four black smears on the edge, as though someone had pushed it open with dirty fingers. I touched them gently, and the dark stuff came off on my fingertips; when I raised them to my nose I smelt something like axle-grease or petroleum.

I imagined Fraser pushing wildly at the door, stumbling out, and forgetting to close it behind him.

He'd had oil on his hands.

I closed my eyes. I could see the bike, covered in its tarpaulin, and the rows of tools. I didn't know anything about bikes; I didn't know how easy it would be to sabotage one, or how likely the rider would be to notice that something was wrong before it was too late. I didn't know what Fraser had been doing, or trying to do.

But I could imagine.

.

.

VII

.

.

I stood and looked at the dirty marks on the door for a long time. The sun reflected off the white paint, and I could already feel it beginning to dry the dampness around my ankles. It was going to be another glorious day.

Jack would notice the fingerprints, and the door left open. Even if no one warned him, he'd know. He was one of the most observant people I'd ever met, and clever enough to be careful.

It would make a kind of peace between us, I thought, if I went back to Tyme's End and told him what I'd seen. There was no need to be dramatic.
I came back to say goodbye, so we didn't part on bad terms
.
Oh, and by the way, someone might've been fiddling with your bike – the shed door was open
. That would do the trick.

I took a deep breath. I raised my hand to my face, rubbing my fingers together, smearing the black grease into the whorls on my fingertips.

Peace between us. A
quietus
, a paying of debts. I wanted that almost more than anything. Even now.

I looked at the marks for a long time.

Then I wiped the door with my shirt cuff, polishing the paint back to shining whiteness; no one could have known there'd been a mark there unless they were looking for it. I shut the door properly, the way Jack would have left it, so that he wouldn't know the difference.

I walked back through the trees to where I'd left my suitcase. I picked it up and walked down the drive at an easy, leisurely pace, until I was outside the gates and I'd left Tyme's End behind.

.

I made my way east, along the long, straight road that ran from Falconhurst to Tunbridge Wells. It was still very early, and I walked in the middle of the road, looking up at the treetops that almost met overhead, separated by a ragged strip of sky. The sunlight cast a delicate net of light and shade over the tarmac. I felt more alone than I had ever felt. It was heady and rather frightening. Perhaps it was because I hadn't slept or eaten, but I couldn't help believing that, now I'd felt it, the sensation would never quite go away.

There was a hum of something behind me. I thought it was an insect buzzing, at first; then, with a cold spasm in my guts, I realised it was a motorbike, a long way away. I walked to the edge of the road, and looked round.

The road was almost perfectly straight, and I guessed that I could see for nearly a quarter of a mile, the level surface stretching away under the trees and narrowing to a point in the distance. There was a little road that joined it from the right, as I looked; that was the road I had taken, the road that led back to Tyme's End. The insect-drone got louder, until it was unmistakably the sound of a bike. Then I saw the bike itself, coming over the lip of the smaller lane to join the road. It was still very distant, but approaching fast, and the road was so straight and the rider so steady that it seemed not so much to get closer, but to grow larger. It was Jack; I couldn't see his face yet, but I knew.

I stood still and watched him come closer. I wondered what he wanted. Was he coming after me? Or perhaps I was nothing to him, now, and he had other projects in hand, other ideas. All I could do was wait, and see if he stopped when he saw me.

If he stopped . . .

In my mind's eye I saw the door of the shed again, and the oily fingerprints. When I looked down I could see the stain on my shirt cuff, and the black grease ingrained in my skin. What had Fraser done?

Jack was only a little way away now: it would only be a matter of seconds before he reached me. I stayed where I was, as tense and immobile as an animal that scents danger. I didn't know if he'd seen me; in any case, he hadn't braked.

Perhaps he couldn't brake.

I watch him draw ever closer. I could have counted down: ten, nine, eight . . . The world slowed down around me. I could see his face, set and concentrated under his goggles. It was the same expression he'd had when he was pulling the legs off the beetle, on that heavenly golden day beside the river. I hadn't stopped him; I hadn't even said anything. I'd watched him quietly, because I loved him, and, after all, it was only a beetle.

I looked up, taking in the shining green of the trees above me. The motorbike was roaring towards me; in a few seconds it would have gone past. There was no time left to think.

I stepped out into the road.

.

Jack saw me, and his mouth opened. I looked into his face, but the goggles reflected sunlight and leaves, like the bulging, opaque eyes of an insect. For a moment I was standing in front of his bike while it hurtled towards me; suddenly, horribly, I felt how fragile I was compared to the terrifying momentum of metal and bone. I would have moved then if I could, but my limbs had frozen, too late. I watched my own death fly towards me, and thought of my father.

Jack swore, tried to brake, and dragged the handlebars round.

The bike skidded and screeched, the back wheel lifting away from the earth as though even gravity had failed. It seemed to pause, poised at an impossible angle, although the noise kept on, battering at my eardrums. I thought I cried out; then I flung my arms up to shield my face and dropped to the ground. In the darkness behind my eyelids there was nothing but the sound of crashing machinery, the bite of metal into flesh. I didn't know if the scream I could hear was Jack's or my own. I smelt rust and faeces. I waited for the pain.

It didn't come.

The world went quiet. When I raised my head there was no birdsong, or rustling in the undergrowth: nothing but the tick of cooling metal. The bike had skidded past me. It was dented and smashed, lying in the bracken as though it had tried to struggle home on its own, hopelessly wounded. I kept my eyes on it. There were stains on the body of it, dark brown against the metal, and I knew they must be blood; but slowly, as I looked, I realised that none of it was mine. It was strangely humiliating.

Then I made myself turn my head.

He was dead; Jack was dead. It was easy to see that. He was nothing but a stuffed, inanimate figure, like a guy, with one hand flung out to the side and his wristwatch shattered. It was half past five; it would never be any later. His skull had been smashed in sideways, and his temple had an odd, concave depression that trickled with blood and something whitish, like sperm. It was distasteful: not the stuff of nightmares, simply an unenviable state of affairs. I felt a faint sense of pity, as though he had walked into a crowded room with egg yolk on his tie.

But he had swerved.

He'd swerved to avoid me.

I stood up, picked up my suitcase, and walked a few paces. I felt fine: in fact, I was rather proud of myself for my composure, as though I had given myself a nasty cut while I was shaving and managed not to curse out loud.

He'd swerved.

If he hadn't swerved I would be dead; and he might not be.

My knees gave way. I folded awkwardly to the ground, shaking. I heard the crash again, saw it again. I pressed one hand over my eyes. Oh, God. He'd swerved. I hadn't expected him to swerve. Why had he . . . ?

I prayed, then. I wasn't especially religious, but I prayed that it had been reflex, and not a conscious choice; that he hadn't known what he was doing. I prayed that, if he'd thought about it, he would have chosen his own life, not mine.

Of course he would. I was sure – almost sure – when I thought about it, and that comforted me a little. It made it seem more like an accident.

But he had swerved, whether he'd meant to or not. I'd stepped in front of him and he'd swerved . . . The words went round and round in my mind, obsessive and relentless. He'd swerved, and I was glad he had.

I was glad he was dead.

I laughed, then, as though Jack were there to appreciate the joke. I laughed, and felt the tears start in my eyes, because I was alive, and unscathed, and free. Whatever had happened, I was going back to my mother in Peltenshall, back to Cambridge in October, back to the life I'd had. I felt an absurd rush of relief and triumph, as though it had all been a game. I had beaten him. I, Oliver Gardner, had beaten H. J. Martin. For no obvious reason, I remembered something I'd seen at school, in the Old Boys' match: our cricket captain bowling out his own father first ball, and the look on his face of pure, undiluted delight.

Then, for the first time in my life, I cried for my father.

After a long time I stood up, wiping my face. I looked back the way I had come. The sun had risen until it was shining full in my face, but even if it hadn't been, I wouldn't have been able to see Tyme's End from here. I shut my eyes and thought about it. I loved it; I admitted that to myself, now that I knew it was mine, and that I'd never live there. Jack had done his best to make me fall in love with it, and he'd succeeded. I'd never be as happy anywhere else. Wherever I was, whatever I did – if I married, and had children – I would think of Tyme's End. I wouldn't forget.

I swallowed. I'd go back one day. I promised myself that. Even if it wasn't for years and years, even if I was an old man. One more time.

It made it easier to turn away. I set my back to the rising sun, picked up my suitcase and looked down the road, towards the railway station and home. The sunlight filtered through the leaves around me, and the birds had started to sing again. It was over.

I started to walk. I wasn't tired, and I had a long way to go.