wrong.
Chapter Eight
When the phone rang Jonah was standing on the top rung of the stepladder. He knew straight away who it was. Caspar was the only person he knew who could make the telephone ring with menace, and could be relied upon to do it at the worst possible moment.
He put the brush between his teeth, picked up the pot of paint, and made his descent. By the time he had found the phone under the dust-sheet by the side of his bed, and had switched off the Haydn piano sonata, he could easily picture his brother’s tight-lipped face at the other end of the line. Just for the sheer hell of it he let it ring three more times before he put the receiver to his ear.
‘Liberty Escort Agency, how may I help you?’
‘Yeah, very funny, Jonah. Now, if you could act like the adult you’re supposed to be and quit fooling around like one of those idiots you teach, perhaps you’d tell me how you got on. What did the old man say?’
‘Absolutely nothing.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘Not a word.’
There was a pause.
‘Oh, I know what happened, you didn’t see him, did you? You lost your bottle just as I thought you would. You always were a coward.’
Caspar’s voice was hard.
‘You could always talk to him yourself,’ Jonah said mildly. ‘It is your idea.’
‘Look, we’ve been through this before. These days, you’re the only one who can get anything sensible out of him. He’ll listen to you.’
Exasperated, Jonah pushed a hand through his hair. Too late he realised there had been a smear of Windsor Blue emulsion on his palm. He turned to look at himself in the mirror above the chest of drawers and saw that his wavy dark hair - the bane of his life as a boy - now had a blue streak running through it. Better than yellow, he thought, with a rueful smile.
‘Jonah? Are you still there?’
‘Sadly, yes. And I don’t know why you think I’m any different from you and Damson.’
A loud snort told Jonah that if he didn’t divert his brother, he would be subjected to the familiar lecture on what it was to be the hard-done-by Caspar Nobody-loves-me Liberty. ‘Actually, I did go and see him this morning, but he wasn’t there.’
‘So what was wrong with trying again when you’d finished work?’
‘This might come as a surprise to you, but when I’m not carrying out your dirty work, I do have a life of my own.’
‘But you fetch and carry so well, brother dear. Who else can I rely on in this splintered family of ours?’
‘It’s not a family you need, Caspar,’ Jonah said, ‘it’s a battalion of henchmen. Now, if there’s nothing else, I’m in the middle of decorating, so I’d appreciate it if you would let me get on.’
‘Good God, why do you insist on living like a peasant? Get a genuine peasant in to do it for you.’
‘Caspar, was there anything else?’
‘Yes. Speak to Dad as soon as you can. Every day you botch this up, is another day of … well, never mind that, just do it.’
Back on the stepladder, Jonah resumed painting his bedroom ceiling. If ever a child had been born to upset the sibling apple cart, it had been him: Caspar and Damson had never let him forget that his birth had precipitated their mother’s death. As children they had been cunning and wilful, had taken pleasure in setting him up as the fall-guy and enjoying the spectacle of him being punished. If anything went missing, you could bet your bottom dollar it would be found in his bedroom, hidden at the bottom of the wardrobe. If anything got broken, you could guarantee that he would be
positioned right by the smashed window-pane or the shattered vase.
Their devious schemes worked every time. They would pretend they had decided to let him be a part of their coterie and, like the fool he was, so desperate to be accepted, he would go along with whatever dare or initiation ceremony they felt inclined to put him through. He fell for it time and time again, hook, line and sinker. He was the
Chapter Eight
When the phone rang Jonah was standing on the top rung of the stepladder. He knew straight away who it was. Caspar was the only person he knew who could make the telephone ring with menace, and could be relied upon to do it at the worst possible moment.
He put the brush between his teeth, picked up the pot of paint, and made his descent. By the time he had found the phone under the dust-sheet by the side of his bed, and had switched off the Haydn piano sonata, he could easily picture his brother’s tight-lipped face at the other end of the line. Just for the sheer hell of it he let it ring three more times before he put the receiver to his ear.
‘Liberty Escort Agency, how may I help you?’
‘Yeah, very funny, Jonah. Now, if you could act like the adult you’re supposed to be and quit fooling around like one of those idiots you teach, perhaps you’d tell me how you got on. What did the old man say?’
‘Absolutely nothing.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘Not a word.’
There was a pause.
‘Oh, I know what happened, you didn’t see him, did you? You lost your bottle just as I thought you would. You always were a coward.’
Caspar’s voice was hard.
‘You could always talk to him yourself,’ Jonah said mildly. ‘It is your idea.’
‘Look, we’ve been through this before. These days, you’re the only one who can get anything sensible out of him. He’ll listen to you.’
Exasperated, Jonah pushed a hand through his hair. Too late he realised there had been a smear of Windsor Blue emulsion on his palm. He turned to look at himself in the mirror above the chest of drawers and saw that his wavy dark hair - the bane of his life as a boy - now had a blue streak running through it. Better than yellow, he thought, with a rueful smile.
‘Jonah? Are you still there?’
‘Sadly, yes. And I don’t know why you think I’m any different from you and Damson.’
A loud snort told Jonah that if he didn’t divert his brother, he would be subjected to the familiar lecture on what it was to be the hard-done-by Caspar Nobody-loves-me Liberty. ‘Actually, I did go and see him this morning, but he wasn’t there.’
‘So what was wrong with trying again when you’d finished work?’
‘This might come as a surprise to you, but when I’m not carrying out your dirty work, I do have a life of my own.’
‘But you fetch and carry so well, brother dear. Who else can I rely on in this splintered family of ours?’
‘It’s not a family you need, Caspar,’ Jonah said, ‘it’s a battalion of henchmen. Now, if there’s nothing else, I’m in the middle of decorating, so I’d appreciate it if you would let me get on.’
‘Good God, why do you insist on living like a peasant? Get a genuine peasant in to do it for you.’
‘Caspar, was there anything else?’
‘Yes. Speak to Dad as soon as you can. Every day you botch this up, is another day of … well, never mind that, just do it.’
Back on the stepladder, Jonah resumed painting his bedroom ceiling. If ever a child had been born to upset the sibling apple cart, it had been him: Caspar and Damson had never let him forget that his birth had precipitated their mother’s death. As children they had been cunning and wilful, had taken pleasure in setting him up as the fall-guy and enjoying the spectacle of him being punished. If anything went missing, you could bet your bottom dollar it would be found in his bedroom, hidden at the bottom of the wardrobe. If anything got broken, you could guarantee that he would be
positioned right by the smashed window-pane or the shattered vase.
Their devious schemes worked every time. They would pretend they had decided to let him be a part of their coterie and, like the fool he was, so desperate to be accepted, he would go along with whatever dare or initiation ceremony they felt inclined to put him through. He fell for it time and time again, hook, line and sinker. He was the
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