The Man Who Wasn't There, page 1
Other novels by Pat Barker:
Union Street (1982)
Blow Your House Down (1984)
The Century's Daughter (1986)
PAT BARKER
The man
who wasn't there
Published by VIRAGO PRESS Limited 1989
20-23 Mandela Street, Camden Town, London NW1 OHQ
Copyright © Pat Barker 1988
All rights reserved
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Barker, Pat, 1943—
The man who wasn't there.
I. Title 823'.914[F]
ISBN 0-86068-891-7
Typeset by CentraCet, Cambridge
Printed in Great Britain by
Bookcraft (Bath) Ltd.
All characters in this book are the invention of the author. None is
identical with any person living or dead, neither do any of the described
episodes coincide with actual events.
For David
Thursday
1
Colin Harper, one eye open for snipers, turned the corner into his own road. You were supposed to walk down the middle, but the last time he'd done that Blenkinsop's dad had honked his horn and shouted, 'Get off the road, you stupid little bugger!'
The houses were tall and narrow, set back from the road behind low walls whose railings, pulled up in the last war to make Spitfires, had never been replaced. Before the war, his nan said, entire houses had been lived in by just one family, but now they were divided into flats, or turned into boarding houses. Not very successful boarding houses. Most of the notices he passed said Vacancies: they were too far away from the sea to be easily filled, especially in September.
Colin plodded up the hill, half moons of sweat in the armpits of his grey shirt. In the distance, lampposts and parked cars shimmered in the heat. All around him was the smell of hot tar.
Gaston jerks himself awake. A sniper is crawling across Blenkinsop's roof, but Gaston has seen him. He spins round, levels the gun, and fires.
The sniper—slow motion now—clutches his chest, buckles at the knee, crashes in an endlessly unfurling fountain of glass through the roof of Mr Blenkinsop's greenhouse, where he lands face down, his fingers clutching the damp earth—and his chest squashing Mr Blenkinsop's prize tomatoes.
Gaston blows nonchalantly across the smoking metal of his gun, and, with never a backward glance, strides up the garden path and into the house.
As he passes through the hall, Gaston taps the face of a brass barometer, as if to persuade it to change its mind. No use. The needle points, as it does unswervingly, in all weathers, to Rain. Madame Hennigan, the landlady, believes in being realistic, and no mere barometer is permitted to disagree.
Gaston clatters up the uncarpeted stairs to the top-floor flat.
Where he becomes, abruptly, Colin again.
'Where the bloody hell have you been?' Viv asked. 'I thought I told you I wanted you back in before I go out?'
'I got kept in. And anyway, I am back.'
'You're always getting kept in.'
'Not my fault.'
'Aw no, it couldn't be. Well, you can get your own tea. I'm not doing it.'
'I always do.'
'You poor little sod.'
Colin went through into the kitchen, where a tin of baked beans stood by the gas cooker. He put his head round the kitchen door. 'Beans again? I'm sick of bloody beans.'
'Then you'd better learn to cook summat else.'
'Farting Fenwick ought to live here.'
'Who's that?'
He could tell by her voice she wasn't interested. 'Lad in our class. He can fart "God Save the Queen".'
'That must please the teachers.'
'Last time he did it Miss Campbell burst into tears.'
'I've no sympathy,' said Viv. 'None whatsoever. If they took the stick to you a bit more often, 'stead of all this keeping you in, they might get somewhere.'
''S not me. I'd shove a cork up his bum as soon as anybody. I got kept in because you still haven't signed me report.'
'What's to stop you signing it?'
'It's supposed to be your signature.'
Viv turned to him. 'So forge the bugger.'
'You haven't even read it yet.'
Viv sighed. 'Look, love, just let me finish getting ready, and I promise you I'll read it. OK?'
'OK.'
Colin put two slices of bread under the grill, poured the beans into a pan, and began to stir.
'Is that a wooden spoon you're using?'
'Yes, Mam.'
'Good. Only I don't want them saucepans scraped.'
The doorbell chimed.
'That'll be Pauline.'
Pauline was Viv's best friend. They worked in one of the nightclubs that had sprung up along the coast road, 'glorified waitresses' Viv said, though they were dressed as fawns.
'Give me ears a quick steam, will you, pet?'
'I'm watching the toast.'
Steaming Viv's ears was a nightly job. Fawns with bedraggled ears got into trouble, and Viv couldn't afford trouble. Thirty-six was over the hill, for a fawn.
Pauline came in. 'Hiya, Viv. Hello, Colin.'
'I won't be a minute,' Viv said. 'He's just doing me ears. I think.'
'No rush.' Pauline settled herself into the armchair. 'And how's Colin?'
'All right.'
'He got kept in again.'
Pauline smiled. 'You been a bad lad?'
'No.'
'No, it's all my fault apparently. A mother's place is in the wrong.'
'You should hear the two little bitches I've just left. Halfstarved, nothing to wear. You'd think they were walking down the street with nowt to cover their bums.'
'Your ears.' Colin dumped them on the table.
'Beats me why men fancy women with fluffy ears,' said Pauline.
'They don't,' Viv said. 'They wouldn't bring their wives with them if they were fancying.'
'Oh, the wives.'
'I know what you mean. Bloody beady little eyes all over you. Give me a fella any day.'
'Are you gunna read me report?'
Viv waved her fingernails. 'When I've finished drying me varnish, yes.'
'Can I have a look, Colin?'
Colin gave Pauline the report, though he couldn't see why she would want to read it.
'They don't half do some funny things at that school. Al … Al … What is it?'
'Algebra.' Colin was watching Viv. 'It's sums … sort of.'
Viv laughed. 'It's not sort-of sums you need. It's the sort that stops you getting diddled. Do you know, I sent him out with a quid to buy a loaf of bread and a jar of jam and he came back with one and six? I says "What's that?" He says, "It's all she give me." I says, "You get yourself back there, and tell her you give her a quid." It was her at the bottom, you know. Her with the blue rinse.'
'Ooh she's very sharp, her. Did you get it back?'
'Yes.'
'Aye, this time. But he mightn't always be as lucky.' Viv screwed the top back on the nail varnish. 'He's in a dream.'
Pauline shrugged. 'We've all got to learn. How old are you, Colin?'
'Twelve.'
''S a nice age, that.' She raised her voice to carry across the room. 'You want to make the most of it, you know, Viv. Last little bit of calm before the storm.'
'I thought this was the storm.'
'Don't you believe it. Fifteen's the storm.'
Viv looked at Colin. 'Oh, all right, give it here.'
'You've got a bright lad there. You want to be proud of him.'
'Oh, he's sharp enough …'
'A bright lad and a bonny lad, eh, Colin?'
'Sharp enough to cut hisself.' Viv glanced down the report. 'I just wish I could see the point of a lot of it. Latin: Very fair. English: I enjoy reading his stories.'
'He's getting an education, isn't he, that's the point. I just wished I'd had the opportunity. I wouldn't be stuck in that dump putting lead in pencils for a living.'
'You don't put lead in pencils,' Colin said.
'Not always I don't, son. You're right there.'
Colin blushed, realizing what she meant a second too late.
"Course, his dad was bright,' Viv said, pushing her hair into shape. 'I think.'
'Bright enough to bugger off,' Colin said.
Viv turned on him. 'He didn't bugger off, Colin. He was shot down.'
Pauline busied herself with straightening the seams of her nylons.
'When you going to tell me about him?'
'When you're old enough.'
'And when will that be?'
'I don't know, do I? Twenty-one.'
'Aw Mam.'
'Never mind, "Aw Mam".' Viv turned back to her reflection. 'Dunno why I bother.'
'You look all right,' Pauline said.
'Mind, you look at them you wonder why any of us bother.'
'What you doing tonight, Colin?' Pauline asked.
'Dunno. Going to the pictures.'
'You got enough money?' Viv asked.
'I could do with ten bob.'
'When couldn't you?' Viv handed him the note. 'And I don't want you running the streets till all hours, either. I want you back home, in bed, asleep, by the time I get back.'
Pauline ruffled Colin's hair as she walked past. 'See you.'
Outside, in the passage, Viv said, 'You can't keep your hands off him, can you?'
'I'm in training to be a mucky old woman.'
He heard the tap of their heels on the lino, and a click as the front door closed.
2
As soon as he was sure they'd gone, Colin ran upstairs to his mother's room. He hesitated in the doorway, but only for a second.
—Course, his dad was bright. I think.
—Bright enough to bugger off.
—He didn't bugger off Colin. He was shot down.
Colin sniffed, identifying the various smells in the room. Amami setting lotion. Pond's cold cream, the crumbly, purple mothballs Viv put in the pockets of her winter coat.
—When you going to tell me about him?
—When you 're old enough.
—And when will that be?
—I don't know, do I? Twenty-one.
'Not bloody likely. I want to know now.'
The wardrobe was the likeliest place. He opened the door, pushed the heavy coats aside, and there, at the bottom, behind a row of shoes, was a battered, brown handbag. It was so old the leather had split in places, and the canvas backing showed through. He knelt down and took it out.
Every compartment was stuffed full of papers. Colin pulled off his school sweater, threw it across the foot of the bed, and tipped them all out on to the floor.
He'd seen his birth certificate, of course. The shorter version. On his first day at Queen Elizabeth's, they'd all had to take their birth certificates to show the headmaster …
They had to go out to the front, one row at a time, and queue to show their certificates.
On the blackboard, in capital letters, were words Colin couldn't understand, though he recognized some names: Pierre, Gaston, Maurice, and guessed the language was French. He moved his lips, as he waited, trying to imagine the strange sounds.
When he'd arrived at school that morning, he'd been worried, because Viv had insisted on buying his blazer several sizes too big. Plenty of room, she called it. But now, when he looked round the classroom, he could see that everybody's blazer was too big, so that was all right.
The boy in front had a larger certificate than his. Colin peered over the boy's shoulder, and saw the name of his father: Gilbert Reid.
He looked down at his own certificate. It gave only his own name, and the date and place of his birth. March 5th, 1943. Scarpington. Feeling slightly uneasy, he looked at the boy behind, and then at the boy behind him, and so on down the line. All of them had the long certificate.
Except one boy, right at the end, who met Colin's eye, and looked away.
It was all right, nothing unpleasant happened. Mr Sawdon took the certificate, checked the information against the register, even smiled as he handed it back. But underneath the smile, Colin thought he detected a flicker of … Something else. Curiosity? Whatever it was, it wasn't there when he looked at the other boys.
Remembering that look, Colin sighed. He thought, It's no use, I'll never find it. After all, he couldn't even be sure it existed, perhaps he just didn't have one, but then he reached for the next bundle of papers, and there it was.
Very slowly, he unfolded the thick paper and smoothed the creases out. His own name and sex, Viv's name and occupation, and then:
Name and surname of father:
Rank or Profession of father:
Colin stared at the lines of black ink, even ran his finger across them, as if willing them to disgorge words.
He thought: It doesn't matter. After all, whoever his father had been, he was still the same person, it made no difference to him. And all the while he thought this, he knew it did matter.
A RAILWAY STATION IN FRANCE. MARCH 1943
The steam from a train clears to reveal German guards waiting at the barrier.
German soldiers, the majority of the travellers, come and go freely, but French civilians must queue to present their identification papers. Housewives, young girls, an old man, a priest, and several schoolboys—wearing the maroon-and-gold blazer of Queen Elizabeth's Grammar school. All, in turn, present their identity cards for inspection, and, after a slow, careful checking, all are waved through.
Two faces stand out from the rest. One, a young boy, Gaston, an orphan on his way to join his uncle. Or, at least, this is what his identity papers say. Only a slight twitching of the muscles round the eyes betrays an inner tension and suggests that the identity papers he holds out so confidently are false.
The other is a young man at the back of the queue.
Von Strohm, head of the Gestapo in this region, and, in another time and place, the headmaster of an English grammar school, watches closely as the guard returns the papers.
Gaston walks on, not looking back, but he's clearly interested in the fate of the young man at the back of the queue, whose face, as he comes closer to the barrier, begins to glisten with sweat.
GASTON
(under his breath)
C'mon, c'mon, it's all right.
But the man at the back of the queue is beyond help. His eyes focus on the gloved hand of the guard reaching out to take the identity papers of the woman in front, and, with a sudden tearing of the nerves, he runs.
GUARD
Achtung! Achtung!
Rifle-fire cracks out, French civilians scatter, and the man throws up his arms, caught like a runner breasting the tape, and held there for a moment, before he, slowly, falls.
Von Strohm turns away from this death. He's already watching the faces of the other civilians, looking for the one face that betrays excessive fear. Gaston meets von Strohm's eyes, calmly. They hold one another's gaze.
High above, pigeons, alarmed by the shots, beat their wings against the glass roof, bewildered by the solidity of air. The clapping of their wings echoes round and round the roof of the station …
and fades on the window of Viv Harper's bedroom.
Colin shivered as the room took shape around him again. He put his birth certificate back into the handbag, and closed the wardrobe door.
3
Adrian Hennigan ran his fingers through his hair and smiled at his reflection in the glass. 'What you see before you,' he said, 'is some bint's lucky night.'
Mrs Hennigan shrieked her appreciation, and even her next-door neighbour, Mrs Hinde, managed a thin smile.
'You'll have to get summat else on though, won't you?' she said.
Adrian was still wearing his work trousers and shirt.
'Missus,' Adrian said, turning from the mirror, 'it's not the clothes that make the man. I …' He raised his index finger, '… have a secret weapon.'
The women dissolved into giggles. Adrian grinned at Colin, who was curled up in a corner of the sofa. 'Colin, there is nowt worse than a mucky-minded woman. Here.' With a mock-effeminate gesture, Adrian unbuttoned his cuff, rolled back his sleeve and put his wrist to Colin's nose. 'How's that for Evening in Paris?'
Colin pulled a face. 'Ugh.'
'You wanna know what that is, son? That is lions' …' He glanced at Mrs Hinde, '… widdle.'
'It never is,' said Mrs Hinde.
''S true as I stand here. I'd just gone over to have a chat with Johnny Stewart and I was stood with me back to the cage, you know—watching the odd bit of talent go past when all of a sudden, up he gets—Caesar, this is—strolls across the cage, points his bum in my direction and … pssssss … All over me. Well, I had to go and get washed, didn't I? And then—this is luck for you—what does the headkeeper do? He decides he'll go and have a look at the lions. "Where's Hennigan?" Well, of course, that daft bugger Stewart told him. Oh, and you should've heard him go on. "If you was close enough to get pissed on, son, you was close enough to "get mauled. I've warned you before," he says. "You're supposed to be a keeper, not a bloody lion-tamer." I says, "But I'm part of his territory, aren't I? He's bound to want to … widdle on me. But you know, that's the difference. Some folks think as long as you're shoving food through the bars and mucking 'em out, you're doing a good job, but you're not. You've gotta think like them.'
'You don't half pong,' Colin said.
Adrian looked disgusted. 'Well, of course I do.'
'I thought there was something when I come in,' said Mrs Hinde, glancing at Mrs Hennigan. 'But I didn't like to say.'
'Powerful stuff this. Missus. You should see what it does to the lionesses.' Adrian leant over Mrs Hinde, and roared.
Mrs Hennigan laughed, but Colin thought she looked worried. A few years ago Adrian had been in constant trouble with the police. Even National Service, which Mrs Hennigan had hoped would sort him out, didn't. He got to know every rogue in the Army, and kept in touch with them all. Within a few weeks of his discharge, the police were again knocking at the door.
