Corduroy Mansions

63. My Door is Always Open

Now, sitting in the office on Monday afternoon, Marcia and William could look back, if they wished, on that moment of truth and reflect on the efficacy of direct, unambiguous action. And it had been effective: Eddie had stormed out, taking, significantly, his sponge bag and his well-used duffel bag. The note with the address of the landlady had been torn up and thrown on the floor, but, curiously, it had been replaced with another note, this time in Eddie’s hand, saying: ‘Thanks a lot, Dad! After all those years, this is what I get! Anyway, when you eventually succeed in chucking that woman out of your life - and I feel really sorry for you, Dad - then get in touch with me at Stevie’s place. I’ve written the address below. My door is always open, Dad. You know that. Blood is thicker than water, Dad!’

For William, the whole situation had become so painful that he preferred not to think about it. But at least the strategy had worked: Eddie had moved out and the lines of communication between them still appeared to be open. He would contact his son in a week or two. He would continue to pay the money that he transferred into Eddie’s account each month. That would cover his rent and give him a bit left over. He had to do that; he could not cut him off altogether.

But now, in the office with Marcia, William found himself reflecting on the fact that the Eddie problem was by no means fully resolved. Even if Eddie settled in Stevie’s flat, even if he found a reasonable job and stopped being a drain on the family finances, even if Eddie were to meet some respectable girl . . . Yes, respectable, thought William, and why should I be ashamed to use the word? What was wrong with being respectable? How had it become virtually a term of abuse, employed, if at all, with a snigger? It was time for respectable people to strike back, he felt. After years of being ridiculed and mocked, they would strike back and say . . . What would they say? We told you so? We told you that things would get like this and did you listen? You did not. You did not . . . He took a deep breath and returned to his original line of thought. Even if Eddie met a respectable girl and settled down with her, there was still the issue of his past and of the parcel that William and Marcia had found in his wardrobe.

‘What are we going to do?’ he asked Marcia as she passed him another cup of tea.

‘About?’

‘About the picture we found in Eddie’s wardrobe.’ He stared gloomily into his teacup. It was not easy to acknowledge that one’s son was an art thief.

Marcia shrugged. ‘Do we have to do anything?’

William watched her sip her tea. She was an attractive woman - in a slightly blowsy sort of way - and he enjoyed her company. But he was not entirely sure about her, and the answer she had just given caused him some concern. He wanted a soulmate - not just a flatmate - and he wondered how close he could be to somebody who thought that the presence of a stolen painting under one’s roof was not a matter for immediate anxiety. Did women think about moral issues in a different way? Were they simply more pragmatic?

‘I don’t think we can just leave it,’ said William. ‘It must belong to somebody. There must be an owner somewhere who’s missing it.’

Marcia thought about this. After a while she put down her cup and looked at William. ‘So the painting’s stolen - it’s not our fault. Eddie’s stolen it or is looking after it for somebody who stole it. But we didn’t do any of that.’

William shook his head. ‘No, Marcia, you’re wrong. If you hold on to something that’s been stolen, you’re in trouble. It amounts to being in possession of stolen property. You can be prosecuted.’

Marcia seemed unconcerned. ‘I still say that it’s nothing to do with us. Return it to Eddie. Get rid of it. What else can we do?’ She paused. ‘Unless we go to the police. You could always do that, I suppose.’

It was not what William wanted to hear. He had, of course, considered the possibility, and in normal circumstances he would not have hesitated to hand in stolen property. But this was different. This was property that had been stolen by his own flesh and blood.

‘I can’t do that,’ he said, his voice taking on a stressed, almost agonised tone. ‘I can’t turn in my own son.’

Marcia understood. ‘Of course you can’t.’

William rose to his feet and began to pace about the room. ‘And yet . . . and yet there must be cases where you have to report a member of your family. What if you know that somebody in the family is a serial killer, for example? You don’t keep quiet about that, do you?’

‘It can’t be very easy,’ said Marcia. ‘But Eddie’s not a murderer, is he? Eddie’s just a . . . well, Eddie’s just a bit of a naughty boy. That’s all.’

William did not seem to have heard her. He had stopped in front of the small window at the back of the office and was looking out of it. ‘Of course, I could get the painting back to its owner,’ he muttered.

He turned round and smiled at Marcia. ‘That’s the solution, Marcia. We return the painting. Discreetly. We set things right that way. Then I’m spared the duty of handing my own son over to the police.’

William waited while Marcia considered this. She looked doubtful. ‘Maybe.’

‘Just maybe? Don’t you think it’s the obvious thing to do?’

Marcia looked at her watch. She had an appointment with one of her suppliers and she needed to get going. ‘The problem is,’ she said, ‘that we don’t know the first thing about it. Whose is it? Where did Eddie get it?’

‘We ask,’ said William.

Marcia looked at William dubiously. ‘Ask Eddie?’

That was not necessary, William explained. ‘Something I read came back to me,’ he said. ‘I think I know where to go.’

Marcia looked at her watch again. Her seafood man, whom she was due to meet, always insisted on punctuality - which was a good thing, she thought, in a man who dealt in perishables. ‘Where?’ she asked. ‘Where do we go?’

William waved a hand in the air, indicating the ether, the world of www.