Page 47 of Little Wing
‘I leave for work with the lark, Da,’ said Dougie. ‘It’s always a mad rush.’
Could his son really not see that it was precisely this mad rush that Gordon had come down to London to do something about?
Dougie left for Earls Court far earlier than he needed to. His sleep had been erratic and uneasy and he awoke tired and fractious, blaming his father for it and not the narrow sofa. He dithered about writing a note – but that would suggest he’d given it all some thought and he needed to continue to demonstrate that there was nothing to think about. As quietly as he could, he left the flat for the station, the neighbourhood softly awash with a workforce he didn’t usually meet.
But he couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t. He stood by the ticket barriers, immobilized and infuriated with himself, with his dad, baffled by it all. But however irritated he was, he couldn’t leave the flat devoid of contact, he couldn’t have his father wake to find no word from him. So Dougie turned and jogged home, composing a note to Gordon which, ultimately, bore no resemblance to the one he actually wrote.
‘Douglas, darling darling boy, hold the bloody thing steady.’ Len’s effete side truly flourished when he had an audience and currently he had the attention of four male models in loungewear and a handshake of honchos from head office. He’d been tutting and eye-rolling theatrically for the last hour, and making unnecessary tweaks to the clothing, to the jut of a model’s jaw, to the precise positioning of a hand on a hip. Today, for some reason, he was pronouncing Dougie’s name Douglarse. ‘Be a doll and make me a coffee, would you? Douglarse darling – would you? Gentlemen – coffee?’ And Len snapped his fingers and Dougie, very slowly, picked up his coat and gym kit and then he walked away. And he walked away knowing he’d never be asked to work for Len again on a mail order catalogue of horrible clothes.
‘I’m away home,’ he said over his shoulder.
Gordon wasn’t sure how late people in London worked until so he spent the day hunting out the green amongst the grey, searching for quiet in all the klaxonning of the city’s soundtrack. A rose garden in Regent’s Park. A boating lake. The other side of Primrose Hill where there were no views. He carried Dougie’s short note in his head.
Don’t go, Dad – wait till I’m home??
Although Gordon would always find it odd, almost hurtful, that Dougie called this place home, he found encouragement in Dougie’s double question marks – it made it seem like a plea.
Dougie felt almost euphoric leaving the shoot; rebellious, principled. It felt strange but significant to tell them he was off home and to realize he was talking about Scotland and not Camden.
Just for a couple of days, Dougie told himself as he came up the escalators at Camden Town and into the afternoon. And, as he strolled back to the flat, he told himself he was doing it for his dad. It was the right thing to do. It would be good for his dad to have some company, a helping hand perhaps. Just a few days, Dougie thought. He’d make himself useful. A week, max.
Nell
Sylvie eyed Nell suspiciously when she arrived but on seeing her wax-pale complexion and dried-out eyes, she softened.
‘Not easy,’ Sylvie said. ‘We know that. We understand.’ She gave Nell’s arm a brisk rub. ‘It’s not easy for family, for friends. For us, sometimes. But she’s having a good day today.’
‘Can you come with me?’ Nell asked. For the first time, she didn’t want to be on her own with her mother. Today, she was not fearing what she might hear so much as what she might feel.
‘I can.’
‘Might you stay, please, for the entire time?’ Nell thought she sounded like a child about to have an injection. Sylvie thought she sounded like any one of the residents fearful of sleep.
‘I shall.’
Outside Wendy’s door, Nell lingered. Thoughts of the last time ran through her mind and she turned to Sylvie, reluctant to go in. ‘It’s just she’s not who I thought she was.’
Sylvie touched Nell’s arm. ‘I don’t think she has been for quite some time.’
‘No,’ Nell said. ‘I mean – I’ve found out I’m not who I think I am.’
Wendy was curled up embryonically the wrong way on the bed but she scrambled herself straight when Nell and Sylvie entered.
‘Forty winks,’ she declared. ‘Well, probably a hundred and forty slow blinks but who’s counting!’
‘Hello—’ Suddenly Nell didn’t know what to call her.
Sylvie took over in her jolly and warm, bustling way. ‘Look who’s come to see you, Mrs H. Look who it is.’
And Wendy looked at Nell quizzically for an extended moment.
‘Nell,’ said Nell. And Sylvie repeated it.
Nell touched her mother’s arm, noting the tissue just poking out from the end of her sleeve. Strange how she always had the presence of mind to make sure she had one of these. Nell’s eyes criss-crossed her mother’s face but today there was scant recognition from Wendy for either Nell or Florence or Sylvie, or even herself come to that. It seemed that just then, for Wendy, there were simply two soft-spoken, smiley women in her company and that was enough. Nothing on the telly this afternoon. Not hungry.
Smiles and kindly nods travelled a triangle between them, suspended momentarily for an occasional sigh about nothing or a gaze out of the window.
‘Wendy,’ Nell said eventually, as conversationally as she could. ‘What do you remember of Harry?’
