The Goldenacre Episode 45

SIt’s a business like all others, after all. And where there’s business, there’s crooks, and where there’s profit, there’s bad people

hona’s father looked into the wet mud. He reached down and pulled out a tentative weed and threw it away. “All I’m saying is, the arts world isn’t all nice public galleries and museums and wine parties and all that. There are some dark corners. There’s always been. It’s a business like all others, after all. And where there’s business, there’s crooks, and where there’s profit, there’s bad people. We all know that.”

“My old communist dad,” she said. “Oh yes,” he said, nodding heartily. “And it’ll all be proved right in the end.”

Shona stared into her mug. She wanted to get back to the office – to somehow avoid any talk about the digital transfor-mation, and do some research. She wanted to find this Catherine or Katherine Pieters. And more about this Tallis fellow.

“Thanks, Dad. Look, I’d better be off.” “Oh, come now, you’ve only just arrived.”

She stood up and put a hand on his shoulder. “What’s for supper, Dad?”

“Oh, some of my famous chilli con carne,” he declared. “Again,” she said.

“Oh yes, once again,” said her father, smiling.

-oTallis was trying to speak to his son. And he needed to speak to Ms Peters, so that he could see The Goldenacre.

He could not get hold of either. But he really wanted to speak to his son.

Mungo was in the office, trying to make the internet work. It had stopped functioning, and Tallis could not send or receive emails. Mungo was staring at a small black modem.

Tallis imagined a backlog of angry messages from Melcombe. Asking him for updates, for him to come back to London.

Tallis realised, on the walk from the bus to the gallery, that the idea of returning to London did not fill him with any pleasure. Edinburgh was unknown to him, but it was full of quiet, and space, and its own living silence.

You could feel it, the silence with its own tense gravity, flooding the streets, the private squares and gardens. You could feel it landing on your shoulders with a sudden tightness, as you walked its hills and streets.

He called Gretchen again and finally she answered. Was Ray there? Yes, he was, she said, and went to get him.

“Dada?” Ray said.

“Hey, dude,” Tallis said. He found himself smiling.

“Mummy is away,” the boy said. His voice seemed ridiculously high. Tallis had spent too long in the company of adults.

“I know she is. But she is back soon. And I will see you soon!”

“I’ve been drawing this battle,” Ray said excitedly, “It’s like Narnia but different. Are you coming back tomorrow? Gretchen has made pizza. I had to do homework, which was so boring and not fair.”

“No, I am not coming back tomorrow. I still have work to do.”

“So who is going to look after me?” “Gretchen, you know that.”

“She’s strict.”

“Well, she loves you. Mummy is back in a couple of days.”

“The men for Mummy came yesterday. They brought a new piano. It’s white.” “Oh really, a new piano?”

“Yes, a big one in the piano room. Gretchen said I could play in the box. The black piano is gone. Are you doing the boring work?”

“Yes, the boring work. Especially as you are not here.”

“I wish you had your old job, that was funner.”

“This one can be fun, too,” Tallis lied. “I am going now. Bye,” the boy said, and was gone.

The phone was put down, and Gretchen picked up the receiver. She said Ray was fine, eating OK, but he had kept coming into her bed at night. Holding his hair, a thumb in his mouth.

“Ah. Yes. He does that,” Tallis said. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he began to cry. He wiped his eye. He passed a hand across his face. Wetness on his fingers.

“He’s fine.”

Tallis nodded.

“Thomas?”

Tallis shook his head. He wiped tears with the heel of his hand. “Yes. Kiss him. From me.”

“I always do, Thomas.”

Mungo loudly opened a small box with a rip and howl of packing tape. The call was ended.

“Ah, this must be the thingummy we have been looking for. How has your work been today?” Mungo said.

He looked at Tallis, and a slight flinch ghosted across his white face.

Tallis nodded. A finger in his eye, pushing away a tear. “Fine, thank you, Mungo. Slow.”

Mungo stood up, with a hand on the small of his back. “You shouldn’t be working so soon after your shock,” he said.

“What shock?”

“The... package.”

“I’m absolutely fine, Mr Munro. Are you nearly done here?”

Mungo nodded, and his voice took on another tone. “Oh, I think I’ve done myself a mischief. I can’t work out this modem for the life of me. I’ll call the IT man. And I forgot to say: that horrible Ms Peters called for you.”

Tallis sighed. “When?”

Mungo rubbed his hair. “Well, before I started doing this. You know, I came in here with that tea for you? I meant to say she had called, but then I saw the new modem box and I was distracted. She called earlier. I’ll get the note. I’m pretty sure I made a note. A sticky one.”

Tallis put a hand down on his desk with a slap.

“Mungo, what do you usually do when I am not here? What did you do before I arrived?”

Mungo rubbed an ear.

“I was the private secretary of George Newhouse, the curator whose room this was. But after he left, poor man, I have been working in Mr Carver’s office a bit, and helping out a bit in the press office. But I have no fixed role, really.”

“Right. But now you do have a fixed role, don’t you, in helping me?”

“Yes. Do you want me to get those messages?” Tallis nodded and said he did.

More tomorrow.

Philip Miller lives in Edinburgh. An awardwinning journalist for 20 years, he is now a civil servant. The Goldenacre, published by Birlinn, follows his previous novels, The Blue Horse and All The Galaxies. His latest novel, The Hollow Tree, is to be a sequel to The Goldenacre.