‘And your older daughter? What did she think?’
‘Fleur has always delegated paternal management, as she puts it, to Ivy. The fact is, she doesn’t have much choice. She’s in the army. Major Cowling, in fact.’
I sensed, or perhaps I only imagined, a sudden tension in him. ‘Active?’ I inquired.
He winced ‘Very. She’s a surgeon, in the field. Bloody awful job. I told her not to join, but she was adamant. I don’t know how she does it. I don’t know how any of them do it, her people or the boys they patch up.’
‘As far as I’m concerned, she’s a heroine.’ Then I tried to put myself in his shoes. ‘That said, if Tom ever announces that he wants to join the armed forces, here or in Britain, I’ll. .’
‘What?’ he asked. ‘What will you do?’
‘Lock him in his room, possibly. But more likely I’ll go all weepy Mum and beg him not to risk breaking my heart.’
‘Is it likely that he will?’
Good question; I had to take a few moments to consider it. ‘At this moment, I’d say no,’ I decided, aloud. ‘He goes to martial arts classes, but as a discipline, not to encourage aggression, or even to work it off. His teacher’s very strong on pacifism and he’s being brought up by me to believe in the sanctity of life. Somehow I don’t see him with an assault rifle in his hand, or launching a missile.’
‘There’s always bomb disposal,’ Shirley chipped in.
‘Fuck!’ I barked at her. ‘Don’t even think that. I’ve seen The Hurt Locker, thank you very much. I take it you weren’t in the army, Patterson.’
He laughed. ‘Me? No, boring old civil servant, me. I spent most of my career in a suit in Whitehall.’
‘Mmm. A mandarin, no less. I’ve met a couple of them.’
‘Nothing so exotic.’
‘Senior, though.’
‘Eventually.’
‘Were you one of those who earn more than the Prime Minister?’ All of a sudden he seemed a little fidgety. ‘You were,’ I exclaimed, ‘weren’t you?’
‘Well, yes,’ he admitted. ‘But most of us would argue that the Prime Minister isn’t paid nearly enough. It’s reasonable to suggest that the people who run the country are worth more than footballers. .’
‘Or silly birds with artificially big tits who’re famous for being famous,’ Shirley added. ‘Every time I log on to AOL and see the shit on the “Welcome” page, it makes me want to throw my computer out the bloody window, and my breakfast after it.’ She paused. ‘You’re right, love,’ she added. ‘MPs shouldn’t have to fiddle their expenses.’
‘My dear,’ he said, quietly. ‘As long as there are expenses, people will always fiddle them. . apart from civil servants, of course.’
‘What was your department, Patterson?’ I asked.
‘I moved around. But I spent most of my career in the Foreign Office. It was balls-aching boring stuff, most of it. You’ll appreciate that, given the job you’ve been doing.’
I shook my head. ‘Actually I enjoyed mine, while it lasted. The expenses were crap, though,’ I added.
‘So why give up?’
I leaned back in my chair and took a long, leisurely look around the square, with its cafe restaurants, full of happy people, then sideways towards the crowds under the tents of Arrels Del Vi, and finally at the ancient church, and at our house.
‘I understand,’ he murmured.
‘It’s very quiet in the winter, mind,’ I pointed out. ‘But Miles’s wine business should keep me occupied. That and writing.’
Shirley stared at me. ‘Writing?’ she repeated. ‘When did you become a writer?’
‘As soon as I handed in my resignation from my job,’ I told her. ‘That’s one of the things I plan to do.’
‘What the f. . are you going to write about?’ Then her mouth fell open. ‘Here, you’re not going to do a biography of Oz, are you?’
I whistled. ‘No danger. And I will block anyone who tries. No, I’ll possibly write about. . about this place, and about the things that have happened since we settled here. Dunno yet. I’ve still got to work it all out in my head.’
‘How about children’s books, with Tom the boy detective?’ Patterson suggested.
‘Mmm. His grandmother did that; she was quite successful too. But that might give him too high a profile, and I don’t think I want to draw attention to him. Maybe I’ll write a cookbook instead. Anybody with a shilling for the gas meter seems to be doing one of those these days.’
Actually, although a village portrait was on my agenda, I knew very well what I was going to write about. I was planning to undertake a biography of my father, one of life’s great eccentrics, a quiet, creative Scotsman who’s managed to keep much of the twentieth century at bay, and all of the twenty-first. I even had a title: The Man Who Makes Monsters. (He creates wonderful, hand-carved, chess sets, populated by creatures weirder than any you’ll see in a video game.)
We moved past the cross-examination stage, and on to general chat, although I was left with the nagging feeling that I was losing my touch, and that Patterson had got more out of me than I had from him. However I was impressed that he hadn’t asked me anything about Miles and Dawn, even after he’d learned of the relationship, and very little about Oz. I have an automatic antipathy to people who meet me and quiz me about them, but he didn’t fall into that trap. Okay, they were famous, but he seemed to be interested in me for what I was, not for my link to them.
One thing I did learn was that he had revived Shirley’s interest in golf. He asked me for a rundown on the courses in the region and I was able to help him. Tom and I are members at Platja de Pals, the oldest course on the Costa Brava. He’s been hitting balls since he was five; he shows promise, not only in my eyes but in those of his Grandpa Mac, who’s no slouch himself. The game’s big in the Blackstone family, as it happens. Oz was a low handicapper, and of course there’s … but I’ll get to him, in due course.
‘I’ll take you both along next week,’ I offered. ‘We can’t start too early, because I’ve got to get Tom off to school, but it isn’t desperately hot during the day just now.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Patterson, ‘but I’ve got plans for next week. There’s a European Tour event, the Catalan Masters, at the PGA course at Girona, wherever that is, and Shirley and I are planning to go along. The pros will be practising from Monday, I’m assuming. We were going to take a look at them before it gets too busy. Fancy joining us?’
I doubted if it would ever get too busy, since golf is still very much a minority sport in Spain, but it sounded like a nice day out. ‘Okay,’ I agreed. ‘Who knows, I might pick up some tips.’
‘Or even a nice young golfer,’ Shirley suggested, with that gleam in her eye.
‘At my age, love,’ I pointed out, ‘if I was on the prowl for talent, I’d be eyeing up the senior tour. I’ll be older than most of next week’s field.’
‘Nobody’s going to believe that without seeing the date on your passport.’ Shirley is damn good for a girl’s morale; it’s one of the things I’ve always liked about her.
Once we had finished eating, I left them to carry on exploring the fair and went back home, to rejoin my son. The game was approaching a climax, but he seemed to have only one eye on it. I took a couple of Fanta drinks from the fridge, handed one to him and sprawled on the sofa. He jumped up from his usual place on the floor beside Charlie, and came to join me, pressing against me, his head on my shoulder.
‘Are you all right, Mum?’ he asked.
‘Sure. Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘I thought you might have been sad about Gerard.’
I ruffled his hair. ‘I stopped being sad about Gerard a long time ago; that’s if I ever was. If he’d wanted to be with us as part of our family, he wouldn’t have taken two years to consider it. He could have stayed but he didn’t.’
‘So we forget him?’
‘No, let’s not do that,’ I decreed, firmly. ‘It was nice to have known him for a while. You’ll find that, love. People come into your life, and then they go out again.’