The School of Night: A Novel by Alan Wall Page A

at the BBC?’
    ‘Editing news.’
    ‘Why not make some instead?’ We looked at each other for a moment. We were back in the playground.
    ‘Anyway, come and look at what riches are mine,’ Dan said as we began to move from one room to another, with him opening boxes and checking thermometers, and me following after. ‘Oranges and apples. Kumquats, tangerines, avocados, bananas, grapes, damsons and plums. Eat anything you like, Sean. Eat until the juice runs down your neck. Olives, dates, raspberries, melons. Coconuts and hazelnuts and peanuts and Brazil nuts. And just to show that I don’t share my mother’s prejudices, pawpaw and mango, brimful to their skins with African sunshine. Vegetables now. Potatoes and cabbages, broccoli, sprouts, runner beans, string beans, haricot beans, broad beans, rhubarb. Jerusalem artichokes. Onions and shallots, red peppers, tomatoes. Mushrooms and, believe it or not, ladies’ fingers. You are not eating, Sean. When you’ve been in the trade as long as I have now, you notice these things. Will you not taste my wares?’
    ‘Not hungry.’
    ‘No. It always has that effect on me too. Anyway, everything seems to be in order. One or two things already turning putrid, of course, but that’s the fruit business for you. Let’s go have a drink somewhere.’
    ‘Dan, I don’t want to leave Dominique…’
    ‘Oh, love a fucking duck, Sean, this is the day before my wedding. You’re my best man. This appears to be the nearest I’m coming to a stag night. Surely I’m at least entitled to a pint?’
    At the pub he startled me by suddenly saying, ‘Come in with me.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Come into the business with me. I’ll make you a director.’ The suggestion seemed so ridiculous I started laughing. He reached across and took hold of my left ear. It was a gesture he had often made over the years and I’d always wished he wouldn’t. He held it tightly, as my head turned round towards him; I was aware once again that if his mood were to darken suddenly, I might emerge from the manoeuvre looking less symmetric than when I’d entered.
    ‘I can’t see myself as a fruiterer, Dan, that’s all.’ The squeeze on my ear had tightened.
    ‘Do you think I do, Sean? Do you seriously think I intend to devote my life to flogging perishable goods like my pink-faced old daddy before me? It’s a beginning, that’s all. Things will get interesting soon enough. Now do you want to come in with me?’
    ‘But I’ve already got my job at the BBC.’ He relinquished my ear and turned away in evident disgust.
    ‘You could actually do something, Sean, instead of just talking about what other people do.’
    ‘I am doing something.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Studying the School of Night.’
    ‘Wouldn’t be something that happened four hundred years ago, by any chance?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Going to move the world, is it then, Sean?’
    ‘An inch or two.’
    ‘Why did you ever bother getting born in the twentieth century?’
    When we finally arrived back at the house, some hours after we’d left, Dominique barely looked up at me. I knew the dead expression on her face. It didn’t often appear there, but when it did, it spelt trouble. Dan stared at her with interest for a moment, then went into the kitchen. I walked over and sat on the arm of her chair. I put my hand on her head. Fondled a dark ringlet. She didn’t move.
    ‘Did you talk?’
    ‘She talked.’
    ‘What about?’
    ‘Immigration. And someone called Mother Shipton, who I gather predicted, some centuries ago now, how all these darkies would one day land upon our green and pleasant shores. Half-caste children. Prostitution, drugs…’
    ‘Where she lived isn’t very far from here,’ I said quickly. ‘If you wanted, on the way back, we could drive…’ She removed my hand from her head and spoke with great deliberation.
    ‘Leave me alone with the black widow one more time, Sean Tallow, and I’m off back to London by myself, wedding or no