40 - Carols on the Quay

Gabriel leans forward as though he's about to vomit and hawks up a series of dry, pain-filled, sobs. He straightens up and scratches his stomach thoughtfully. No, that's no good. He jabs at the pause button on the tape-recorder, does some relaxation exercises and gets himself into a more lyrical state of misery. He sets the tape running again and emits a descending octave of plaintive sobs. That's better.

Gabriel has decided to follow his father's advice and make The Crying Man into a short drama for radio. The story is narrated through the eyes of The Crying Man's son, Edwin, now an adult in a psychiatric institution just after The Great War and reliving a series of flash-backs to his childhood. He has decided to use the sound of the Crying Man's sobs as a kind of scene divider, fading in and out between the dialogue. He listens back to the recording, then rubs his hair and sighs. He can't decide whether the whole things is a groundbreaking tour de force, or a total heap of shit. Since this is caught up with general doubts about whether he, Gabriel Lamb, is a groundbreaking tour de force, or a total heap of shit the whole process is becoming quite draining. He puffs his cheeks then lets out another long sigh. Oh to hell with it - let Radio 4 decide!

He looks at his watch. "Shit!" He grabs his coat from the back of the armchair, pats his pocket for keys and wallet, and ducks out through the tiny front door of Oyster Cottage. Gabriel has promised his Dad that he'll call for him at six and walk down to the quay with him for the carols. A fine rain has been falling all day and Geoffrey is nervous about coming down the hill on his own in case he slips. Gabriel cuts through the churchyard, enoying the slippery twinkle of lights through the dripping branches. He shelters behind a buttress for a moment and lights a cigarette. The smell of the rain makes him feel a bit 'heightened'. He wishes he was on his way to see a lover. For some reason, he thinks of the woman who sold him those stupid books at the Christmas Bazarre, or Beth as he now knows her to be called. He still trips over the bloody box in the hall each morning. Robin Askwith's cheeky chirpy grin mocking him from the bright yellow cover of Confessions of a Plumber, as if to drive home the point.


Beth, it turns out, is not a full-time purveyor of Timothy Lea novels, but a Registrar at Saxeburgh General. They've chatted at the bar of The Anchor a couple of times. Gabriel has made full use of these encounters to sketch out for Beth a more accurate picture of his acting career - aside from the Tiny-Tom advert. He has subtly name-dropped, shared a couple of his favorite on-set anecdotes, and generally been charming. And Beth, who is earthy and self-deprecating, has held his gaze, pitched her head to one side to indicate interest, and laughed generously at his punchlines. And yet there's something about her that's a bit... withdrawn, somehow. Gabriel unlatches the wrought iron gate into Blythe Lane and closes it carefully behind him. The way she remains so self-possessed. The way her eyes slack off into the middle distance when he's not looking directly at her, even when he's still talking. The way she wanders off to laugh and hug with other friends on her way to and from the loo, sometimes not returning at all, her glass sitting half empty on the bar until Alan rings the bell. She's definitely a bit of a strange one, Gabriel decides.

Geoffrey is ready and waiting in front of his gate, swaddled in a tweed coat and cap, and leaning on his stick. "I might not stay very long." He says as Gabriel approaches.
"That's all right." Gabriel takes his elbow. "Is your knee bad?"
"Oh, not too bad." Geoffrey says, but he's limping slightly. "But how are you?"
"Fine."
"How's the script coming along?"
"Oh nearly finished." Gabriel starts to run through some ideas he has for a title. The working title is The Crying Man, only now he thinks perhaps he should call it The Crying Man's Son, or Son of a Crying Man. Only it's not absolutely clear that Edwin is the Crying Man's son after all. He might be the son of the Great Ronaldo, or even Roger the laudenum-addicted dwarf.
Geoffrey listens attentively as they make their way carefully down the hill. He thinks The Crying Man is still the best title, he says, as they reach the bottom.


The quay is already crowded with bulky figures in hats and scarves, shuffling in the ochre glow of the street lamps, and clutching their carol sheets . A few people have brought torches and lanterns and one man is wearing a pot-holer's head-torch which Gabriel thinks is excessive. He puts up his golfing umberella and scans for familiar faces but doesn't recognise anyone. The tide is in and the boats lurk contentedly on the dark water. They have a strange animal presence at night, like floating cows. He takes a hip-flask from his pocket and offers it to his Dad. Geoffrey takes a nip and hands it back to Gabe who takes a prolonged swig, enoying the feeling of the warm fruity brandy pouring down his throat and spreading through his chest. He looks again for Eleanor and Basil but still can't see them. Too many twats with golfing umberellas blocking the view, he thinks to himself, before realising he's one of them.

Finally, after a few words from Douglas which Gabriel can't quite hear, Alison Carduggan plays the opening bars of Once in Royal David's City on her trumpet and they're off. Normally it is Glandice Morgan's voice that rises above the amateur drone, but she doesn't seem to be there. It is Reverend Carduggan's blowy squeeze-box of a baritone that distinguishes itself in her absence. Gabriel always forgets how many bloody verses hymns have. He remembers the words to the first verse and the chorus, which frankly he thinks is ample, but then it goes on and on and on. Fortunately, Gabriel's low boredom threshold is matched by Geoffrey's aching joints, so when he senses his Dad shifting his weight uncomfortably from side to side he suggests they warm up in the Anchor.

It's quiet in the pub and they get the round table next to the open fire. Gabriel grabs the leatherette clad menu.
"Have you eaten, Dad?"
"I have actually. A lovely Lancashire hot-pot?"
"Mmm, very nice. Where did you have that?"
"Rosamund brought it over."
"Whose Rosamund?" Gabriel says distractedly, still scanning the menu.
"You know Rosamund. Works in the bookshop."
"Oh, book-shop Roz. She brought you over a hot-pot did she?" That was kind, he thinks, but doesn't say so for fear of sounding patronising. "I didn't know you were friendly."
"No. I suppose we have rather...It's quite recent."
"I might have the Thai Curry." Gabriel leans back and soaks up some heat from the fire.


"You like Rosamund don't you?"
"Oh yes, a good sort is old Roz."
"Yes." Geoffrey takes a sip of his port and lemon. "A good sort. I'm glad you think so."
"Then again, the steak and kidney pudding is quite tempting." Gabriel flips the page back to Traditional Fayre.
"So you don't mind if she joins us for Christmas dinner?"
"What?" He lowers the menu.
"I'm afraid I've already asked her. I do hope that's alright with you?"
"Well, yeah, sure." Gabriel is a bit taken aback. "We're still going to Framlington House, though?"
"Oh yes, it's all booked."
"You, me, and Roz."
Geoffrey holds his gaze with his gentle blue eyes. "She's alone too, you know."

Alone too? Gabriel thinks. It's true that he has lived on his own since Marianne pissed off with their accountant, but he's never thought of himself as 'a-lone'.
"Great. That's great. The more the merrier Dad. Not a problem." Gabriel smiles to prove it.
"You're sure?"
"Absolutely."
"I'm so pleased."
Gabriel takes his numbered wooden spoon up the bar and waits to be served. What the hell is his Dad up to now? Book-shop Roz? Sure, she's great, Old Roz, with her wild hair and her adult-sized tricycle and her psychadelic cardigans, but really. He's not that lonely. He taps the end of the spoon distractedly on the bar. Then again, perhaps his Dad has another agenda. Perhaps it's Goeffrey who's alone, that's why he wants to pair him up with Roz, to keep him here in Tendringhoe a bit longer. Gabriel sighs and pulls at his earlobe. If there's one emotion he doesn't handle at all well, it's guilt.