Blackberry Wine Page 4

  A discreet phone call. Then another. Rapid French into the mouthpiece. Someone brought coffee and Italian pastries from across the road as they waited. Jay suggested another price, somewhat higher than the existing offer. He heard the voice on the other end of the line rise by half an octave. He toasted them in café-latte. It was so easy, buying a house. A few hours’ wait, a little paperwork and it was his. He reread the short paragraph under the picture, trying to translate the words into stone and mortar. Château Foudouin. It looked unreal, a postcard from the past. He tried to imagine standing outside the door, touching the pink stone, looking over the vineyard towards the lake. Joe’s dream, he told himself dimly, their dream fulfilled at last. It had to be fate. It had to be.

  And now he was fourteen again, gloating over his picture, touching it, folding and unfolding the thin paper. He wanted to show other people. He wanted to be there now, to take possession, even though the paperwork was only half completed. His bank, his accountant, his solicitors could deal with the formalities. The signing of the papers was merely an afterthought. The essentials were already in motion.

  A few phone calls and it could all be arranged. A flight to Paris. A train to Marseilles. By tomorrow he could be there.

  8

  Pog Hill, July 1975

  JOE’S HOUSE WAS A DARK, CROOKED TERRACE, LIKE MANY OF the houses which lined the railway. The front gave directly on to the street, with only a low wall and a window box between the front door and the pavement. The back was all crowded little yards hung with washing, a shanty town of homemade rabbit hutches, hen houses and pigeon lofts. This side looked over the railway, a steep banking sheared away to form a cutting through which the trains passed. The road went over a bridge at that point, and from the back of Joe’s garden you could see the red light of the railway signal, like a beacon in the distance. You could see Nether Edge, too, and the dim grey flanks of the slag heap beyond the fields. Staggering unevenly down the steep little lane, those few houses overlooked the whole of Jay’s territory. Someone was singing in a nearby garden, an old lady by the sound of it, in a sweetly quavering voice. Somebody else was hammering wood, a comforting, primitive sound.

  ‘D’you want a drink?’ Joe nodded easily in the direction of the house. ‘You look as if you wouldn’t turn one down.’

  Jay glanced towards the house, suddenly aware of his torn jeans and the dried blood on his nose and upper lip. His mouth was dry.

  ‘OK.’

  It was cool inside the house. Jay followed the old man through to the kitchen, a large bare room with clean wooden floorboards and a large pine table, scarred with the marks of many knives. There were no curtains at the window, but the entire window ledge was filled with leggy green plants, which formed a lush screen for the sunlight. The plants had a pleasant, earthy smell which filled the room.

  ‘These are me toms,’ remarked Joe, opening the larder, and Jay saw that there were indeed tomatoes growing amongst the warm leaves – small yellow ones, large misshapen red ones, or striped orange and green ones, like croaker marbles. There were more plants in pots on the floor, lining the walls and growing against the doorpost. To the side of the room a number of wooden crates contained fruit and vegetables, all arranged individually to avoid bruising.

  ‘Nice plants,’ he said, not really meaning it.

  Joe shot him a satirical look.

  ‘You’ve got to talk to em if you want em to grow. And tickle em,’ he added, indicating a long cane propped up against the bare wall. There was a rabbit’s tail tied to its extremity. ‘This is me ticklin stick, see? Very ticklish, toms.’

  Jay looked at him blankly.

  ‘Looks like you ran into some trouble back there,’ said Joe, opening a door at the far side of the room to reveal a big larder. ‘Bin in a fight, or summat.’

  Guardedly Jay told him. When he got to the part where Zeth broke the radio he felt his voice jump into a higher register, sounding childish and close to tears. He stopped, flushing furiously.

  Joe didn’t seem to notice. He reached into the larder, picking out a bottle of dark-red liquid and a couple of glasses.

  ‘You get some of this down yer,’ said Joe, pouring some out. It smelt fruity but unfamiliar, yeasty, like beer, but with a deceptive sweetness. Jay looked at it with suspicion.

  ‘Is it wine?’ he asked doubtfully.

  Joe nodded.

  ‘Blackbry,’ he said, drinking his with obvious relish.

  ‘I don’t think I’m supposed to—’ began Jay, but Joe pushed the glass at him with an impatient gesture.

  ‘Try it, lad,’ he urged. ‘Put some art in yer.’

  He tried it.

  Joe clapped him on the back until he stopped coughing, carefully removing the precious glass from the boy’s hand before he spilled it.

  ‘It’s disgusting!’ managed Jay between coughing jags.

  It certainly tasted like no wine he had ever tasted before. He was no stranger to wine – his parents often gave him wine with meals, and he had developed quite a fondness for some of the sweeter German whites, but this was a completely new experience. It tasted like earth and swamp water and fruit gone sour with age. Tannin furred his tongue. His throat burned. His eyes watered.

  Joe looked rather hurt. Then he laughed.

  ‘Bit strong for yer, is it?’

  Jay nodded, still coughing.

  ‘Aye, I shoulda known,’ said Joe cheerily, turning back to the pantry. ‘Takes a bit o gettin used to, I reckon. But it’s got art,’ he added fondly, replacing the bottle with care on the shelf. ‘And that’s what matters.’

  He turned round, this time with a bottle of Ben Shaw’s Yellow Lemonade in one hand.

  ‘Reckon this’ll do yer better for now,’ he said, pouring a glassful. ‘And as for the other stuff, you’ll grow into it soon enough.’

  He returned the wine bottle to the larder, hesitated, turned.

  ‘I think I might be able to give you somethin for that other problem, if you’d like, though,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’

  Jay was not sure what he expected the old man to give him. Kung-fu lessons, perhaps, or a bazooka left over from some war, grenades, a Zulu spear from his travels, a special invincible drop kick learned from a master in Tibet, guaranteed never to fail. Instead Joe led him to the side of the house, where a small red flannel bag dangled from a nail protruding from the stone. He unhooked the bag, sniffed briefly at the contents and handed it over.

  ‘Take it,’ he urged. ‘It’ll last a while yet. I’ll make some fresh for us later.’ Jay stared at him.

  ‘What is it?’ he said at last.

  ‘Just carry it with you,’ said Joe. ‘In yer pocket, if you like, or on a bitta string. You’ll see. It’ll help.’

  ‘What’s in it?’ He was staring now, as if the old man were crazy. His suspicions, allayed for a moment, flared anew.

  ‘Oh, this an that. Sandalwood. Lavender. Bit o High John the Conqueror. Trick I learned off of a lady in Haiti, years back. Works every time.’

  That was it, decided Jay. The old boy was definitely crazy. Harmless – he hoped – but crazy. He glanced uneasily at the blind expanse of garden at his back and wondered if he could make it to the wall in time if the old man turned violent. Joe just smiled.

  ‘Try it,’ he urged. ‘Just carry it in yer pocket. Happen you’ll even forget it’s there.’

  Jay decided to humour him.

  ‘OK. What’s it supposed to do, then?’

  Joe smiled again.

  ‘Praps nothin,’ he said.

  ‘Well, how will I know if it’s worked?’ insisted Jay.

  ‘You’ll know,’ said Joe easily. ‘Next time you go down Nether Edge.’

  ‘There’s no way I’m going down there again,’ said Jay sharply. ‘Not with those boys—’

  ‘You goin to leave yer treasure chest for em to find, then?’

  He had a point. Jay had almost forgotten about the treasure box, still hidden in its secret place beneath t
he loose stone. His sudden dismay almost overshadowed the certainty that he had never mentioned the treasure box to Joe.

  ‘Used to go down there when I were a lad,’ said the old man blandly. ‘There were a loose stone at the corner of the lock. Still there, is it?’

  Jay stared at him.

  ‘How did you know?’ he whispered.

  ‘Know what?’ asked Joe, with exaggerated innocence. ‘What’s tha mean? I’m only a miner’s lad. I don’t know owt.’

  Jay didn’t go back to the canal that day. He was too confused by everything, his mind racing with fights and broken radios and Haitian witchcraft and Joe’s bright, laughing eyes. Instead, he took his bike and rode slowly past the railway bridge three or four times, heart pounding, trying to find the courage to climb the banking. Eventually he rode home, depressed and dissatisfied, all his triumph evaporated. He imagined Zeth and his friends going through his treasures, rocking with dirty laughter, scattering comics and books, stuffing sweets and chocolate bars into their mouths, pocketing the money. Worse still, there were his notebooks in there, the stories and poems he’d written. Finally he rode home, jaw aching with rage, watched Saturday Night at the Movies and went to bed to a late, unsatisfying sleep, through which he ran ceaselessly from an unseen enemy while Joe’s laughter rang in his ears.

  The next day he decided to stay at home. The red flannel bag sat on his bedside table like a mute challenge. Jay ignored it and tried to read, but all his best comics were still in the treasure box. The absence of the radio filled the air with a hostile silence. Outside the sun shone and there was just enough breeze to stop the air from scorching. It was going to be the most beautiful day of the summer.

  He arrived at the railway bridge in a kind of daze. He hadn’t meant to go there; even as he pedalled towards town something inside him knew he was going to turn round, take a different route, leave the canal to Zeth and his gang – their territory now. Perhaps he would go to Joe’s house – he hadn’t asked him to come back, but he hadn’t asked him to keep away, either, as if Jay’s presence was a matter of indifference to him – or maybe drop by at the newsagent’s and buy some smokes. Either way, he certainly wasn’t going to go back to the canal. As he hid his bike in the familiar stand of willowherb, as he climbed the banking, he repeated it to himself. Only an idiot would risk that again. Joe’s red flannel bag was in his jeans pocket. He could feel it, a soft ball no bigger than a rolled-up hanky. He wondered how a bag full of herbs was supposed to help him. He had opened it the previous night, laying the contents out on his bedside table. A few pieces of stick, some brownish powder and some bits of green-grey aromatic stuff filled the bag. A part of him had expected shrunken heads. It was a joke, Jay told himself fiercely. Just an old man having his fun. And yet the stubborn part of him, which wanted desperately to believe, just wouldn’t leave the thing alone. What if there was magic in the bag, after all? Jay imagined himself holding out the charm, incanting a magical spell in a ringing voice, Zeth and his mates cowering … The bag pressed comfortingly against his hip like a steadying hand. With a lurch of the heart, he began to make his way down the banking towards the canal. He probably wouldn’t meet anyone, anyway.

  Wrong again. He crept along the bridle path, keeping to the shade of the trees, his sneakers silent against the baked yellow earth. He was shaking with adrenalin, ready to run at the slightest sound. A bird flapped noisily out of its reed bed as he passed, and he froze, certain that an alarm had been given for miles around. Nothing. Jay was almost at the lock now, he could see the place in the banking where the treasure box was hidden. Pieces of broken plastic still littered the stones. He knelt down, removed the piece of turf which concealed the stone and began to work it out.

  He’d been imagining them for so long that for a second he was sure the sounds were in his head. But now he could see their dim shapes coming over from the ash-pit side of the canal, shielded by bushes. There was no time to run. Half a minute at most before they broke cover. The bridle path was wide open from here, too far from the railway bridge to be sure. In seconds he would be an open target.

  He realized there was only one place to hide. The canal itself. It was mostly dry, except in patches, choked with reeds and litter and a hundred years’ worth of silt. The little jetty stood about four feet above it, and he might be hidden, at least for a while. Of course, as soon as they stepped out onto the jetty, or joined the path, or bent down to examine something on the surface of the greasy water …

  But there was no time to think of that now. Jay slid down from his kneeling position into the canal, pushing the treasure box back into place as he did so. For a moment he felt his feet slide into the mud without resistance, then he touched bottom, ankle-deep in the slime. It slid into his sneakers and oozed between his toes. Ignoring it, he crouched low, reeds tickling his face, determined to present as small a target as possible. Instinctively he looked for weapons: stones, cans, things to throw. If they saw him, surprise would be his only advantage.

  He’d forgotten about Joe’s charm in his jeans pocket. It got pulled out somehow as he crouched in the mud, and he picked it up automatically, feeling suddenly scornful at himself. How on earth could he have believed that a bag of leaves and sticks could protect him? Why had he wanted to believe it?

  They were close now; ten feet away, he guessed. He could hear the sounds of their boots. Someone threw a bottle or a jar hard against the stones; it exploded, and he flinched as glass showered his head and shoulders. The decision to hide beneath their feet seemed ridiculous now; suicidal. All they had to do was look down and he was at their mercy. He should have run, he told himself bitterly, run when he had the chance. The footsteps came closer. Nine feet. Eight. Seven. Jay flattened his cheek against the wall’s dank stones, trying to be the wall. Joe’s charm was moist with sweat. Six feet. Five feet. Four.

  Voices – Sideburns’ and Aeroplanes’ – sounding agonizingly close.

  ‘Tha dun’t reckon he’ll be back, then?’

  ‘Will he heckers, like. He’s a fuckin’ dead man if he does.’

  That’s me, thought Jay dreamily. They’re talking about me.

  Three feet. Two feet.

  Zeth’s voice, almost indifferent in its cool menace: ‘I can wait.’

  Two feet. One. A shadow fell over him, pinning him to the ground. Jay felt his hackles rising. They were looking down, looking over the canal, and he didn’t dare raise his head, though the need to know was like a terrible itch, like nettle-rash of the mind. He could feel their eyes on the nape of his neck, hear the sound of Zeth’s smoker’s-corner breathing. In a moment he wouldn’t be able to bear it. He’d have to look up, have to look—

  A stone plapped into a greasy puddle not two feet away. Jay could see it from the corner of his eye. Another stone. Plap.

  They had to be teasing him, he thought desperately. They had seen him and they were prolonging the moment, stifling mean laughter, silently picking up stones and missiles to throw. Or maybe Zeth had lifted his air rifle, his eyes pensive …

  But none of that happened. Just as he was about to look up, Jay heard the sound of their boots moving away. Another stone hit the mud and skidded towards him, making him flinch. Then their voices, already receding lazily towards the ash pit, someone saying something about looking for bottles for target practice.

  He waited, oddly reluctant to move. It was a ruse, he said to himself, a trick to make him break cover, there was no way they could have missed him. But the voices continued to recede, beyond the jetty, growing fainter as they took the overgrown path back towards the ash pit. The distant crack of the rifle. Laughter from behind the trees. It was impossible. They had to have seen him. But somehow …

  Carefully Jay pulled out the treasure box. The charm was black with the sweat from his hands. It worked, he told himself in astonishment. It was impossible, but it worked.

  9

  London, March 1999

  ‘EVEN THE DULLEST AND COLDEST OF CHARACTERS’, HE TO
LD HIS evening students, ‘may be humanized by giving him someone to love. A child, a lover, even, at a pinch, a dog.’ Unless you’re writing sci-fi, he thought, with a sudden grin, in which case you just give them yellow eyes.

  He perched on his desk, next to his bulging duffel bag, resisting the urge to touch it, to open it. The students looked at him with awed expressions. Some took notes. ‘Even’ – writing laboriously, straining so as not to miss a single word – ‘even … at pinch … dog’.

  He taught them on Kerry’s insistence, vaguely disliking their ambition, their slavish obedience to the rules. There were fifteen of them, dressed almost uniformly in black; earnest young men and intense young women, with cropped haircuts and eyebrow rings and clipped, public-school vowels. One of the women – so like Kerry as she was five years ago that they might have been sisters – was reading aloud a short story she had written, an exercise in characterization about a black single mother in a flat in Sheffield. Jay touched the Escape brochure in his pocket and tried to listen, but the girl’s voice was no more than a drone, a slightly unpleasant, waspish buzz of interference. From time to time he nodded, as if he were interested. He still felt slightly drunk.

  Since last night the world seemed to have shifted slightly, moving closer into focus. As if something he had been staring at for years without seeing it had suddenly come clear.

  The girl’s voice droned on. She scowled as she read and kicked one foot complusively against the table leg. Jay stifled a yawn. She was so intense, he told himself. Intense and rather disgusting in her self-absorption, like an adolescent looking for blackheads. She used the word ‘fuck’ in every sentence, probably an attempt at authenticity. He felt the urge to laugh. She pronounced it ‘fark’.

  He knew he wasn’t drunk. He had finished the bottle hours ago – even then he had barely felt dizzy. After that day’s business he had decided not to attend the tutorial, but went after all, suddenly appalled at the thought of going back to the house, to face the silent disapproval of Kerry’s things. Killing time, he told himself silently. Killing time. Joe’s wine really should have worn off, but still he felt oddly exhilarated. As if the normal running of things had been suspended for a day, like an unexpected holiday. Perhaps it came of thinking so much about Joe. The memories kept coming, too many to keep track, as if the bottle contained not wine, but time, uncoiling smokily, like a genie from the sour dregs, making him different, making him … what? Crazy? Sane? He could not concentrate. The oldies station, permanently tuned to summers past, jangled aimlessly at the back of his mind. He might be thirteen again, head filled with visions and fantasies. Thirteen and in school, with the smells of summer coming through the window and Pog Hill Lane just around the corner and the thick tick of the clock counting time to the end of term.