bungalow had been estimated at being in excess of half a million pounds, a present from Britain’s most successful postwar architect to his wife on the occasion of their Silver Wedding anniversary. Named after the mythical city in Marjorie Dawson’s favourite film,
Briefly.
My father used to say, “If you want to know the artist, look at the art.”
He was usually talking about Stanley Matthews or Don Bradman when he said it.
I vaguely recalled my father and mother taking a special Sunday drive over to Castleford in the Viva. I pictured them making the run over, talking a little bit but mainly listening to the radio. They had probably parked at the bottom of the drive, peering up at Shangrila through the car window. Had they brought sandwiches and a flask? I hoped to fuck they hadn’t. No, they’d probably popped into Lumbs for an ice-cream on the way back to Ossett. I saw my parents sitting in their parked car on the Barnsley Road, eating their ice-creams in silence.
When they got back home my father must have sat down to write his critique of Shangrila. He’d have been to see Town the day before, if they were at home, and he’d have written about that before giving his two-penneth on Shangrila and Mr John Dawson.
In 1970, Fleet Street still a year off, I was in my seaview flat in Brighton, skimming the weekly letter from up North which Southern girls called Anna or Sophie found so very endearing, throwing the half-read letter in the bin, thanking fuck The Beatles had come from Liverpool and not Lambeth.
In 1974 I sat in the same car at the bottom of the same drive and stared up through the rain at the same big bleached white bungalow, wishing to God I’d read my father’s two-penneth on Shangrila and Mr John Dawson.
I opened the door, pulled my jacket over my head, and wondered why the fuck I’d come this way at all.
There were two cars in the drive, a Rover and a Jaguar, but no-one was answering the door.
I pressed the chimes again and looked out over the garden, across the rain on the pond, to the Viva parked back down on the road. I thought I could make out two or three giant bright orange goldfish in the pond. I wondered if they liked the rain, if it made any difference to their lives at all.
I turned back to give the chimes one last go and found myself face to face with the unkind face of a heavy-set man, tanned and dressed for golf.
“Is Mrs Dawson home by any chance?”
“No,” said the man.
“Do you know when she might be back?”
“No.”
“Do you know where I might be able to reach her?”
“No.”
“Is Mr Dawson at home?”
“No.”
I vaguely placed the face. “Well, I won’t keep you then Mr Foster. Thank you for your help.”
I turned and walked away.
Halfway down the drive I looked back and caught the twitch of a curtain. I turned right on to the lawn and walked across the soft grass to the pond. The raindrops were making beautiful patterns on the surface. Down below the bright orange fish were still.
I turned and stared back at Shangrila in the rain. The curved white tiers looked like a rack of oyster shells or the Sydney fucking Opera House. And then I remembered my father’s two-penneth about Shangrila and Mr John Dawson:
Noon, Willman Close, Pontefract.
Knuckles rapped on the steamed-up window of the Viva. Back to earth with a bump, I wound down the window.
Paul Kelly leant into the car. “What about Barry? Fucking hell, eh?” He was out of breath and didn’t have an umbrella.
I said, “Yeah.”
“Heard his head came right off.”
“That’s what they’re saying.”
“What a way to go. And in fucking Morley, eh?”
“Yeah, I know.”
Paul Kelly grinned, “It stinks in here, man. What the fuck you been doing?”
“I had a bacon sandwich. Mind yourself,” I said as I wound the window back up, though not all the way, and got out.
Fuck.
Paul Kelly, photographer. Cousin of the more famous John and sister Paula.
The rain was coming down even harder, with it all my fucking paranoia:
Why Kelly and not Dicky or Norm?
Why today?
Coincidence?
“Which one is it?”
“Eh?” I said, locking the car door, pulling my jacket over my hea_d.
“The Goldthorpe’s?” Kelly was looking at the bungalows. “Which one is it?”
“Number 6.” We walked across the Close to the houses at the end.
Kelly took a huge fucking Japanese camera out of his bag. “The old bag’s in 5 then?”
“Yeah. Did Hadden give you the money for her?”
“Yeah,” said Kelly, stuffing the camera inside his jacket.
“How much?”
“Two hundred.”
“Cash?”
“Aye,” grinned Kelly, tapping his jacket pocket.
“Half and half?” I said, knocking on the glass door.
“That’ll do nicely, sir,” said Kelly as the door opened.
“Good morning Mrs Sheard.”
“Good afternoon Mr Dunford and…”
“Mr Kelly,” said Mr Kelly.
“A much more civilised hour, don’t you think Mr Dunford?” Enid Sheard was smiling at Paul Kelly.
“I think so,” said Kelly, smiling back.
“Would you gentlemen care for a cup of tea?”
Quickly I said, “Thank you but I’m afraid we’re a little pushed for time.”
Enid Sheard puckered her lips. “This way then gentlemen please.”
She led us down the path between the two bungalows. When we reached the back door to Number 6, Kelly jumped at the sudden barking from Number 5 next door.
“Hamlet,” I said.
“My money, Mr Dunford?” said Enid Sheard, clutching the key.
Paul Kelly handed her a plain brown envelope. “One hundred pounds cash.”
“Thank you, Mr Kelly,” said Enid Sheard and stuffed the money into her apron pocket.
I said, “Our pleasure.”
She unlocked the back door to Number 6, Willman Close. “I’ll be putting on the kettle, so you gentlemen just knock on the door when you’re finished.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind,” said Kelly as we went inside.
I shut the door in her face.
“You want to watch yourself there. Get her sexual motor running, you best know how to turn it off,” I laughed.
