But when he’d visited his mother at Easter he had found that Edgar, for the first time in his life, had upset her. He had written to her to say that he and his wife were getting a divorce. Mrs Muncaster had been shocked, wringing her gnarled hands and telling Frank she hadn’t liked Edgar’s wife the one time he’d brought her to England: she was brassy and full of herself, a typical American. His mother had cried then, saying she would never see her grandchildren, adding bitterly that Frank was hardly likely to give her any now. Frank wondered if all the shock and distress had led to her stroke.
The crowds on the train frightened him; he was glad to get off at Esher. He walked to the house. It was a cold, misty afternoon. A boy on one of the new Vespa scooters buzzed past him, making him jump. When he entered the house he was aware of an emptiness, a new silence. Mrs Baker would have said it was because a spirit had gone over. Frank shivered slightly. There was dust everywhere, peeling wallpaper, damp patches. Somehow he hadn’t noticed how badly his mother had let the house go.
Edgar arrived a few hours later. He’d put on weight since Frank had last seen him. He was forty now, bespectacled and red-faced, his hair receding, the youthful handsomeness Frank had envied just a memory. ‘Well, Frank,’ he said heavily. ‘So, she’s gone then.’ Just as Edgar’s voice had taken on a Scottish accent while he was at Strangmans, so now he spoke with an American twang.
Frank took Edgar round the house. ‘It’s in a bad state,’ Edgar said. ‘Some of these rooms don’t look like anyone’s been in them for years.’ They went into the dining room. There were mouse droppings on the floor. ‘Hell,’ Edgar said irritably. ‘I don’t know how she could’ve lived like this. Didn’t you try to get her to move?’
Frank didn’t answer. He was looking at the big dining table. The electric light above still had the cheesecloth shawl draped over it; Mrs Baker had needed muted light to commune with the spirit world.
Edgar pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘What are house prices like in England these days?’
‘Going down. The economy’s not doing well.’
‘Best thing we can do is get shot of this place as soon as we can. Sell to some developer.’
Frank touched the table. ‘Remember the séances?’
‘Lot of bloody nonsense.’ Edgar laughed scoffingly. ‘They were all nuts. Mum, too. Believing Dad came through to her every week, just for her to tell him off about going to war and leaving her in 1914.’
‘I don’t think she ever forgave him for going away to fight the war.’
Edgar looked at his brother, considering. ‘Maybe that’s why she didn’t like you much, cos you looked so much like him.’
That evening Edgar suggested they go out to eat so they walked to a restaurant a few streets away. It wasn’t much of a place. They had beef stew with potatoes and Brussels sprouts, all swimming in watery gravy. Edgar ordered a beer. Frank, as usual, drank little but he noticed Edgar was drinking fast, one beer after another.
‘The food in this country’s still bloody awful,’ Edgar said. ‘In California, you can get anything you want, well cooked and lots of it.’ He shook his head. ‘This country looks more miserable and downtrodden every time I come.’
‘Did you go to the San Francisco Olympics in the summer?’
‘No. It made getting around difficult, I can tell you. The next ones are in Rome, aren’t they? Old Mussolini will mess it up, the Wops can’t organize for toffee. By the way, I keep seeing the letters V and R painted on walls. What’s that all about?’
‘The Resistance signs. R for Resistance, Churchill’s V for Victory sign.’
‘I’d give him a V sign.’ Edgar laughed. ‘How’s Beaverbrook? Still licking the Germans’ arses?’
Frank said, ‘Yes, yes, he is.’
‘Thank God Britain lost the war and Roosevelt lost the election in 1940, and Taft did his deal with the Japs. Though if that do-gooding leftie Adlai Stevenson wins the election in November he could start sticking his nose into Europe again.’
‘Do you think so?’ Frank asked, perking up a little.
Edgar gave him a sharp look. ‘I hear these Resistance people are making trouble here. Stealing weapons from police stations, arming strikers, blowing things up, even killing people.’
Frank said, daringly, ‘Maybe Stevenson should stick his nose in here, sort it all out.’
‘America needs to mind its own business. Nobody’s going to make trouble for us,’ Edgar added complacently. ‘Not now we’ve got the atom bomb.’
Four years earlier, in 1948, the Americans claimed to have exploded an atomic bomb, and there was even a film released of it going off in the New Mexico desert. The Germans said it had been faked. ‘I’ve never been sure those stories are true,’ Frank said. ‘I know the atom bomb’s theoretically possible, but the amount of uranium you’d need is so colossal. I’ve heard the Germans are trying to build one, too, but they haven’t got anywhere. If they had we’d have heard about it.’ He looked at his brother, scientist to scientist. ‘What do you think?’
Edgar gave him a hard stare. ‘We’ve got the atom bomb. We’ve other things, too, new types of incendiary bomb, chemical weapons – in a few years we’ll have intercontinental missiles. The Germans probably will, too, by then, but we’ll have atom bombs on top of ours.’
‘And then where will we all be?’ Frank asked sadly.
‘I don’t know about you, but we’ll be safe.’
‘While Britain’s tied to Germany.’ Frank shook his head. He had always hated the Nazis and Blackshirts, the whole pack of bully-boy thugs. He had wished Britain hadn’t surrendered even back in 1940.
Edgar had never liked Frank talking back to him. He frowned as he took another gulp of beer. ‘Got a girlfriend yet?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Never had one, have you?’
Frank didn’t answer.
‘Women are bloody bitches,’ Edgar announced suddenly, so loud that people at neighbouring tables stared. ‘So I had a fling with my secretary, so bloody what? Now Ella’s taking half my salary for alimony.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I could do with my share of the money from Mum’s house.’
‘I don’t mind. We can sell up if you like.’ So that was why Edgar had really come over; he wanted his inheritance.
Edgar looked relieved. ‘Are the deeds at the house?’ he asked.
‘Yes. In a drawer. With Mum’s bank books.’
‘I’ll take those, if you don’t mind. For – what do you call it – probate?’
‘If you like.’
Edgar asked, ‘You still working at that lab assistant job at Birmingham University?’
‘I’m not a lab assistant. I’m a research associate.’
‘What are you researching, then?’ Edgar’s tone was belligerent; Frank realized he was very drunk. He remembered a lecturer at Birmingham who had got divorced and turned to drink; he had quietly been given premature retirement.
‘The structure of meteorites,’ he answered. ‘How their elements bond together.’
‘Meteorites!’ Edgar laughed.
‘What are you working on?’
Edgar tapped the side of his nose in a ridiculous drunk’s gesture, setting his glasses askew, then lowered his voice. ‘Government work. Can’t tell you. They weren’t that happy about my coming over here for the funeral. I have to report to the embassy every day.’ He picked up the menu. ‘What’ve they got for pudding? Jesus, spotted dick.’
Mrs Muncaster’s funeral took place a few days later. Frank arranged it with the local vicar, careful not to tell him of Mrs Muncaster’s religious views. Apart from Frank and Edgar, only a couple of women from the days of the séances came; Frank had found their details in his mother’s address book. They were old now, sad and faded. After the service one of them came up to the brothers and said their mother was with her husband on the other side now, walking through the gardens of the spirit world. Frank thanked her politely though Edgar flashed her a look of distaste. As they walked away from the cemetery Edgar said, ‘Talking of spirits, I could do with a drink.’