"I've been up Green Park once or twice to look at the stuff on the railings, but that's crap. Billy always said he'd take me to a proper gallery, but he never got round to it. They probably wouldn't've let us in anyway, not with Billy roaring drunk most of the time." He was flicking through the poster rack. "What d'you reckon to this? You reckon this painter saw hell the same way Billy's lady did? Like being alone and afraid in a place that doesn't make sense to you?" -M-yi0* *
He had pulled out Edvard Munch's The Scream, with its powerful, twisted imagery of a man screaming in terror before the elemental forces of nature. "You really do have an eye." said Deacon in admiration. "Did Billy draw this one as well?"
"No, he wouldn't have liked it. There's too much red in it. He hated red because it reminded him of blood."
"Well, I'm not having that on my wall or I'll think about hell every time I look at it." And blood, he thought. He wished he and Billy had less in common.
They settled on reproductions of the Picasso (for its simplicity), Manet's Luncheon in the Studio (for its harmonious symmetry-"that one works real good," said Terry), Hi-jronymus Bosch's The Garden of Earthly Delights (for its color and interest-"it's well brilliant," said Terry), and anally Turner's The Fighting Temeraire (for its perfection in every respect-"Shit!" said Terry. "That's one beautiful picture.")
"What happened to Billy's postcard of the Picasso?" asked Deacon as he was paying.
"Tom burnt it."
"Why?"
"Because he was well out of order. He and Billy were drunk as lords, and they'd been having a row about women. Tom said Billy was too ugly ever to've had one, and Billy said he couldn't be as ugly as Tom's missus or Tom wouldn't've walked out on her. Everyone laughed and Tom was gutted."
"What did that have to do with the postcard?''
"Nothing much, except Billy really loved it. He kissed it sometimes when he was drunk. Tom was that riled at having his missus insulted, he went for something he knew'd send Billy mad. It worked, too. Billy damn near throttled Tom for burning it, then he burst into tears and said truth was dead anyway so nothing mattered anymore. And that were the end of it."
It was six years since Deacon had last visited the Red Lion. It had been his local when he and Julia had lived in Fulham, and Hugh had been in the habit of meeting him there a couple of times a month on his way home to Putney. The outside had changed very little over the years, and Deacon half-expected to find the same landlord and the same regulars inside when he pushed open the doors. But it was a room full of strangers, where the only recognizable face was Hugh's. He was sitting at a table in the far corner, and he raised a tentative hand in greeting when he saw Deacon.
"Hello, Michael," he said, standing up as they approached. "I wasn't sure if you'd come."
"Wouldn't have missed it for the world. It might be the only chance I ever get to flatten you." He beckoned Terry forward. "Meet Terry Dalton. He's staying with me for Christmas. Terry, meet Hugh Tremayne, my brother-in-law."
Terry gave his amiable grin and stuck out a bony hand. "Hi. How'ya doing?"
Hugh looked surprised but shook the offered hand. "Very well, thank you. Are we-er--related?"
Terry appraised his round face and overweight figure. "I don't reckon so, not unless you were putting it about a bit in Birmingham fifteen years ago. Nah," he said. "I think my dad was probably a bit taller and thinner. No offense meant, of course."
Deacon gave a snort of laughter. "I think Hugh was wondering if you were related to my second wife, Terry."
"Oh, right. Why didn't he say that, then?"
Deacon turned to the wall and banged his head against it for several seconds. Finally, he took a deep breath, mopped his eyes with his handkerchief, and faced the room again. "It's a touchy subject," he explained. "My family didn't like Clara very much."
"What was wrong with her?"
"Nothing," said Hugh firmly, afraid that Deacon was going to embarrass him and Terry with references to tarts and slots. "What are you both having? Lager?'' He escaped to the bar while they divested themselves of their coats and sat down.
"You can't hit him,'" said Terry. "Okay, he's a pillock, but he's about six inches shorter than you and ten years older. What did he do, anyway?"
Deacon propped his feet on a chair and placed his hands behind his head. "He insulted me in my mother's house and then ordered me out of it." He smiled slightly. "I swore I'd deck him the next time I saw him, and this is the next time."
"Well, I wouldn't do it if I were you. It don't make you any bigger, you know. I felt well gutted after what I did to Billy." He nodded his thanks as Hugh returned with their drinks.
There was a painful silence while Hugh sought for something to say and Deacon grinned at the ceiling, thoroughly enjoying his brother-in-law's discomfort.
Terry offered Hugh a cigarette which he refused. "Maybe if you apologized, he'd forget the beating," he suggested, lighting his own cigarette. "Billy always said it were harder to hit someone you'd had a natter with. That's why guys who do violence tell people to keep their mouths shut. They're scared shitless of losing their bottle."
"Who's Billy?"
"An old geezer I used to know. He reckoned talking was better than fighting, then he'd get rat-arsed and start attacking people. Mind, he were a bit of a nutter, so you couldn't blame him. His advice was good, though."
"Stop meddling, Terry," said Deacon mildly. "I want some answers before we get anywhere near an apology." He lowered his feet from the chair and leaned across the table. "What's going on, Hugh? Why am I so popular suddenly?"
Hugh took a mouthful of lager while he weighed up his answer. "Your mother isn't well," he said carefully.
"So Emma told me."
"And she's keen to bury the hatchet with you."
"Really?" He reached for the cigarette packet. "Would that explain the daily phone messages at my office?"
Hugh looked surprised. "Has she?"
"No, of course she hasn't. I haven't heard a word from her in five years, not since she accused me of killing my father. Which is odd, don't you think, if she wants to bury the hatchet?" He bent his head to the match.
"You know your mother as well as I do." Hugh sighed. "In sixteen years I've never heard her admit being wrong about anything, and I can't see her starting now. I'm afraid you're expected to make the first move."
Deacon's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "This isn't what Ma wants, is it? It's what Emma wants. Is she feeling guilty about stripping Ma of her capital? Is that what this is about?"
Hugh toyed unhappily with his beer glass. "Frankly, I've had about as much of your family squabbles as I can take, Michael. It's like living in the middle of a war zone being married to a Deacon."
Deacon gave a low chuckle. "Be grateful you weren't around when my father was alive then. It was worse." He tapped his cigarette against the ashtray. "You might as well spit it out. I'm not going anywhere near Ma unless I know why Emma wants me to."
Again, Hugh appeared to weigh his answer. "Oh, to hell with it!" he said abruptly. "Your father did make a new will. Emma found it, or should I say the pieces, when she was sorting through your mother's things while she was in the hospital. She asked us to pay her bills and keep everything ticking over while she was off games. I suppose she'd forgotten that the will was still sitting there although why she didn't burn it or throw it away-" He gave a hollow laugh. "We stuck it back together again. His first two bequests were made out of duty. He left the cottage in Cornwall to Penelope, plus enough investments to provide her with an income of ten thousand a year, and he left Emma a lump sum of twenty thousand. The third bequest was made out of love. He left you the farmhouse and the residue of the estate because, and I quote, 'Michael is the only member of my family who cares whether I live or die.' He made it two weeks before he shot himself, and we assume it was your mother who tore it up as she's the only one who benefited under the old will."