Four Minutes

The brown estate came across the forecourt at four miles an hour at five to four, with its headlights on in the June sunshine and Mr Dabrowski in the front in the grey felt hat with the yellow camera already at the window, and stopped exactly level with the north wing door, and did not turn off its engine.

Mr Hartigan did not get out. He sat with both hands on the wheel at ten to two and looked straight ahead through the windscreen at the north end of the forecourt, the way he looked through the windscreen of the twenty-two at the lamppost where Mrs Szymanska stood at seven thirty-nine; and he lifted one finger off the wheel, about an inch; and on the step, Castellanos lifted his.

The back door opened and Theo got out.

He was in the white school shirt. Frederick could see it had been ironed four times. It was ironed so flat and so white and so sharp at the collar and the cuffs that it looked like a shirt in a shop window, and Theo stood inside it on the gravel the way you stand inside something borrowed, very carefully, with his arms a little out from his sides, as though the shirt might mind; and he had on his school trousers, and his trainers that had been white once, which had been scrubbed, Frederick could see, with something, and were nearly white again; and his hair had been flattened at the back with water, and was coming up again, slowly, as it dried in the sun.

He looked up.

He looked over the roof of the low wing, at the flagstaff on the central block, at the flag on it in the June wind; the big one, without the label, the one that went up when his father was in the house; and he looked at it for about three seconds, steadily, taking it in.

He did not ask why it was different.

He looked down again, at Frederick, on the step.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hello.”

“You’ve got that face,” said Theo. “The second-morning one.”

“I haven’t.”

“You have. You’ve had it since Monday.” Theo came up the step. “I’m fine. Stop it.”

In the front of the brown estate Mr Dabrowski wound down his window halfway and pointed the yellow camera at the flagstaff, and pressed it, and wound it on with his thumb, with a sound like a zip; and then, after a moment’s thought, pointed it at the step, at Theo, in the ironed shirt, beside Frederick, in the doorway of the north wing of Columbia Palace; and pressed it again.

“For your mother,” he said, through the gap, to Theo. “She asked.”

And the brown estate went away across the forecourt at two miles an hour, very straight, the way a bus leaves a stop, with Mr Hartigan’s finger off the wheel, and round the corner onto the Axis, and was gone.

---

The tea was in the Blue Drawing Room.

Frederick had known it would be. Dame M had told him on Monday, at the Friday meeting brought forward because his father was in the house: the Blue Drawing Room, at a quarter past four, a table by the window, three chairs, tea, sandwiches, a cake from Monsieur Arnaud, who had been told it was for a boy from Milwaukee and had made a chocolate one again, on the same principle; and the King would come at a quarter past from the study on the first floor, where he would be working, and the three of them would sit, and have tea, and talk, for about an hour, and at half past five the boy would be collected.

So they went to the Blue Drawing Room, at five past four, along the passage from the north wing, through the cream door with the brass handle and no lock, and across the end of the East Gallery, behind the red rope, where the Wednesday visitors were looking at Ernest the First looking at his map; and nobody looked at them, a boy in a jumper and a boy in a very white shirt, because nobody expects to see them there.

Theo looked at Ernest the First as they passed.

He did not say distant. Frederick waited for it. He looked at the portrait, at the man in the uniform with the map, for about three seconds, and then at Frederick, and his mouth did something at the corner; and he did not say it. He went on.

The Blue Drawing Room was long and pale blue and full of afternoon light from three tall windows onto the gardens, with gold on the ceiling and a great many chairs round the walls that nobody ever sat in, and portraits, and a carpet so large and so old that it had worn paths in it from the doors to the windows; and at the far end, by the middle window, a small round table with a white cloth on it, laid for three. Three cups and saucers, white with a gold rim. Three plates. A silver teapot, not yet filled. A stand with sandwiches on it in three tiers, very small, with the crusts off. And in the middle of the table, on a glass plate, a chocolate cake, round, with dark icing so smooth you could see the windows in it; and on the top, piped in white, very small, by somebody who had slept, a single word.

THEO

Theo stopped in the doorway.

He stood in the doorway of the Blue Drawing Room of Columbia Palace in his ironed shirt and looked down the length of it, at the gold on the ceiling and the portraits and the chairs nobody sat in and the worn paths in the carpet, to the small round table by the window, with three cups on it, and a cake with his name on it in sugar.

He looked at it for a long time.

“That’s my name,” he said.

“Monsieur Arnaud did it.”

“On a cake.”

“He said you were the first person in twenty-eight years he’d made a cake for twice.”

Theo looked at the cake a moment longer. Then he looked at the three chairs.

“Which one’s his?”

“The one facing the door,” said Frederick. “He always sits facing the door.”

“Why?”

Frederick thought about it. He had never asked. It had always been so.

“I don’t know,” he said.

---

At a quarter past four the King did not come.

At twenty past, Dacre came, with the teapot, filled, on a tray, and put it on the table, and stood beside it with his very large hands folded and said, to the window, “His Majesty is on the telephone, sir. To London. He asks that you begin.” And went.

Theo looked at the sandwiches.

“Can we begin?”

“He said begin.”

“Does that mean eat?”

Frederick looked at the teapot.

“It means pour the tea,” he said. “I think. It doesn’t mean eat. You don’t eat till he’s here.” He looked at the sandwiches. “Rule four.”

Theo looked at him.

“I didn’t read the rules,” he said.

“I did.”

“Then you don’t eat,” said Theo, “and I’ll eat, and that’ll be fair.” He looked at the sandwiches on the stand, in their three tiers, very small, with the crusts off. “Except I don’t want to. Not on my own. Not at his table. Before he’s come.” He put his hands in his lap. “That’d be rude. You don’t need a rule for that.”

They poured the tea. Frederick poured it, because he knew how, from the silver pot, into the white cups with the gold rim, without spilling any; and Theo watched him do it with an expression of great professional interest, as though Frederick were Mr Pavlik with the Countess; and they sat at the small round table in the Blue Drawing Room by the middle window, in two of the three chairs, not the one facing the door, with their cups of tea, and did not drink them, and looked at the cake with THEO on it, and waited.

---

At a quarter to five the King did not come.

At five, Dacre came again, and took the teapot away, and brought another, hot, and said, to the window, “His Majesty is still on the telephone, sir. He asks that you forgive him.” And went.

At a quarter past five, nobody came at all.

They had drunk the tea. It had gone cold and they had drunk it anyway, because it was there. They had not eaten. The sandwiches sat on the stand in their three tiers, beginning, very slightly, at the edges, to curl. The cake sat on its glass plate with THEO on it in white, shining, in the afternoon light from the window, which had moved round the room since four and was now coming in low and gold across the worn paths in the carpet.

Theo had got up at about five. He had walked round the Blue Drawing Room, slowly, in his ironed shirt, looking at the portraits; not at all of them, at about four, for about three seconds each, the way he looked at everything; and at the chairs nobody sat in, and at the gold on the ceiling, and at the worn paths in the carpet, which he followed, from the door to the window, with his scrubbed trainers, exactly, as though they were a route.

“Somebody’s walked this a lot,” he said.

“The footmen. With trays. For two hundred years.”

“Huh.” Theo stood at the end of the path, by the window. “That’s a lot of trays.” He looked out of the window at the gardens, at the slope going down to the trees, and the pond, with the fountain on now, for the summer. “There’s your pond.”

“Yes.”

“Still not going in it.”

“No.”

Theo came back and sat down. He looked at the cake.

“Freddie,” he said.

“What.”

“He’s not coming, is he.”

Frederick looked at the door.

“I don’t know,” he said.

He did not. He did not know what the telephone call was. He did not know who was at the other end of it, in London, at ten at night; a Prime Minister, perhaps, or a Private Secretary, or somebody in a ministry with a question that had an answer that could not wait until morning; he had grown up in a house where telephones rang at night with things that could not wait, and he had grown up knowing that you did not ask what they were. He knew only that his father had said a quarter past four, and that it was a quarter past five, and that in the whole of his life, in thirteen years, at every hour of every day, his father had never once been an hour late for anything that he had said he would be at.

“He’s not late for things,” he said. “Ever.”

“Then it’s something big,” said Theo, quite simply. “On the phone.” He picked up his cold cup and looked into it. “That’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.”

“It is. It’s his job.” Theo put the cup down. “Dad’s late home when there’s a crash on the twenty-two. Mum’s late home when somebody’s dying. You don’t get cross. It’s their job.” He looked at the cake. “It’s a nice cake, though.”

---

At twenty-five to six Dame M came.

She came in at the door at the far end of the Blue Drawing Room, in the grey suit, without the folder, and walked down the length of the room along the worn path in the carpet, at the pace of somebody crossing a deck, to the small round table by the middle window; and stopped; and looked at the two boys at it, and the three cups, two used and one clean, and the sandwiches curling on the stand, and the cake with THEO on it in white.

She did not say anything for a moment.

“Master Hartigan,” she said. “Sir.”

They stood up. Theo stood up because Frederick did.

“I am very sorry,” said Dame M. “His Majesty has asked me to come and tell you myself. He has been on the telephone to London since ten past four, on a matter that could not be left, and is on it still.” She paused. “He has a dinner at Government House at six. The car is at the south door at a quarter to. He cannot be late for it; it is the Governor-General’s, and it has been arranged for a year.” She looked at Theo. “There will not be time for tea, Master Hartigan. His Majesty asks me to say that he is very sorry, and that it is entirely his fault, and nobody else’s, and that he is ashamed of himself.”

Theo looked at her.

“That’s okay,” he said.

Dame M looked at him a moment longer.

“Your father,” she said, “will be at the north wing door at six. As arranged.” She paused. “The cake is yours, Master Hartigan. Monsieur Arnaud would like you to take it home. In a box. He says that a cake with somebody’s name on it belongs to that person, whether or not it is eaten in the room it was meant for.”

“Thank you.”

“Not at all.” Dame M turned to go. She stopped. “If you would like to wait in the north wing, sir, until six, you may go back through the gallery. The visitors have gone. The rooms closed at half past five.”

---

They went back through the gallery.

It was empty. The visitors had gone. The East Gallery was long and pale and full of the low gold light from the tall windows down one side, with the portraits down the other, and the parquet floor, and nobody in it at all; and at the far end, past the red rope and the PRIVATE sign, the cream door to the north wing.

They walked down it. They did not say anything. Theo had his hands in his pockets and was looking at the floor, at the parquet, at the way the light lay across it in long bars from the windows, and stepping over the bars, one at a time, without seeming to know he was doing it.

At the far end of the gallery, where it met the long corridor that ran along the back of the central block from the south door to the north wing, they stopped, because somebody was coming.

Frederick heard him before he saw him. The stick, on the stone floor of the long corridor. Slowly. One step at a time, as though each one had to be checked. And other footsteps with it, two pairs, lighter, behind; and a low voice, a man’s, saying something about a car.

His father came round the corner.

He was in a dark suit and a black tie, for the dinner, with the stick in his right hand, walking slowly along the long corridor from the stairs to the south door, where the car would be at a quarter to; with the Private Secretary a step behind him on one side, a tall thin man with a folder, and his own protection officer a step behind on the other, a man Frederick did not know well, from London, very quiet; and he was looking at the floor in front of him, the way you look at the floor when you are tired and have a long way to walk and a dinner at the end of it.

He looked up.

He saw them. At the end of the gallery, where it met the corridor. His son, in a jumper. And beside his son, in a white shirt ironed four times, with his hands in his pockets and his hair standing up at the back as it dried, a boy.

His father stopped.

The Private Secretary stopped, a step behind, and opened his mouth, and looked at his watch, and shut his mouth. The protection officer stopped.

The clock on the wall of the long corridor, a plain round one over the door to the back stairs, said nineteen minutes to six.

---

“Papa,” said Frederick.

He did not know what to say next. He had not thought about it. He had thought about the Blue Drawing Room, and the small round table, and the three chairs, and his father coming in at the far end at a quarter past four and sitting in the one facing the door; he had thought about the hour, and the questions, and what his father would ask, and what Theo would answer. He had not thought about a corridor. Nobody had. There was nothing in Mr Pargeter’s fourteen rules about a corridor.

“This is Theo,” he said.

His father looked at Theo.

He looked at him for about three seconds. Steadily. From the scrubbed trainers to the hair. The way Mrs Hartigan had looked at Frederick on the step of the north wing door on the second of November; the way his mother had looked at him on the first morning of school, at a quarter past seven, in her dressing gown; checking a list.

Theo looked back at him.

He did not bow. Not from the neck, not from the waist, not at all. He had not read the rules. He did not say Your Majesty. He did not say sir, although his father had told him to call everybody sir, because it was quicker. He did not do anything with his hands, which were in his pockets, and which he did not take out. He stood at the end of the East Gallery of Columbia Palace in his ironed shirt, in the gold light from the windows, and did the one thing his mother had told him to do that he had not understood.

He looked at him.

He looked at the old man in the dark suit with the stick in the corridor, the way he had looked at Frederick across the yard on the second morning; the way you look at a bus timetable when somebody has told you the times have changed; steadily, for about three seconds, with interest, without alarm, checking.

“Hello,” said Theo.

“Hello, Theo,” said Frederick’s father.

---

“How are Peter’s shifts?” said his father. “Is he still on the earlies?”

Theo did not move.

Frederick saw him not move. He saw the question go into him, and stop, the way the lever had gone over in Frederick’s hand at the AmRail table and stopped, with a clunk, in its slot. He saw Theo’s face, which had been looking at the old man in the corridor with interest and without alarm, do something; not much; something at the eyes; and then stop doing it, with an effort, the way Mr Ferrante’s beard stopped things.

“Yes,” said Theo. “Five fifty-two out. Every day this week.”

“From the depot on Dunmore Street.”

“Yes.”

“And the pothole,” said his father. “On the twenty-two. Between the market and the lamppost. I am told it has gone.”

Theo looked at him.

“On a Tuesday,” he said. “At night. The District filled it.” He paused. “Harold’s in mourning.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” said Frederick’s father, gravely. “Please tell Harold that I was sorry to hear it. A man should be allowed to keep a pothole he has reported eleven times.” He shifted his weight on the stick, very slightly. “And is Anneliese still on the acute ward?”

Theo did not say anything for a moment.

Frederick, beside him, looked at the clock over the door to the back stairs. It said eighteen minutes to six.

“Yes,” said Theo. “She’s on nights. Next week. Monday to Thursday.”

“Then she will be tired,” said Frederick’s father. “Please give her my regards. And tell her that I had her letter. In green.” A pause. “It was the first letter I have had in green ink since 1981. It was a great deal better than the other one, which was about a swan.”

Theo’s mouth did something at the corner.

“I’ll tell her,” he said.

---

His father looked at him a moment longer.

The Private Secretary, a step behind, looked at his watch again. He did not say anything. He looked at the watch, and then at the back of the King’s head, and then at the floor.

“I am sorry about the tea,” said Frederick’s father. “It was very rude of me. I said a quarter past four, and I meant it, and then London rang, and London does not care what I meant.” He looked at Theo. “I should have liked an hour. I had been looking forward to an hour for some time.”

“That’s okay,” said Theo. “We had the tea. We didn’t have the sandwiches. We were waiting for you.” He considered. “There’s a cake. With my name on. I’m taking it home.”

“Good,” said Frederick’s father. “Monsieur Arnaud will be pleased. He does not often get to put a name on a cake that he likes.” He shifted on the stick. “Is it chocolate?”

“Yes.”

“He will have chosen chocolate,” said Frederick’s father, “on the grounds that it is the furthest thing from cheese.”

Theo stared at him.

Then he looked at Frederick. Frederick looked at the clock. It said seventeen minutes to six.

“Theo,” said Frederick’s father.

Theo looked back at him.

“Thank you,” said Frederick’s father, “for coming. And for sitting by the aisle.” He looked at him for about three seconds more; steadily; and Frederick, beside them, could not tell what his father’s face was doing, because he had never seen it do it before, and had no heading for it at all. “I am very glad to have met you.”

“Me too,” said Theo. And then, after a pause, quite quietly, as though it had just occurred to him: “Sir.”

His father nodded. Once. The nod of a man to a boy at a door on any day in the world.

And he turned, slowly, on the stick, and went on along the long corridor towards the south door and the car, with the Private Secretary a step behind him on one side, looking at his watch, and the protection officer a step behind him on the other; one step at a time, as though each one had to be checked; and round the corner at the far end; and was gone.

The clock over the door to the back stairs said fifteen minutes to six.

---

Theo did not move.

He stood at the end of the East Gallery of Columbia Palace, where it met the long corridor, in his white shirt ironed four times, with his hands in his pockets, in the gold light from the windows, and looked at the corner of the corridor where the old man with the stick had gone, for a long time.

Frederick stood beside him and did not say anything.

“He knew Dad’s name,” said Theo.

Frederick did not say anything.

“And Mum’s.” Theo did not look away from the corner. “He said Peter. And Anneliese. Like that. Like he’d always known them. He didn’t say your father or your mother. He didn’t say Mr Hartigan.” He was quiet for a moment. “And the earlies. And the depot. And Dunmore Street. And the acute ward.”

“Yes.”

“And the pothole. And Harold.”

“Yes.”

“Nobody told him,” said Theo. “In front of me. Just now. Nobody said this is Theo, his dad drives the twenty-two, his mum’s a nurse. You didn’t. You just said this is Theo.” He looked at the corner. “He already knew.”

Frederick looked at the floor. At the parquet. At the bars of gold light lying across it from the windows.

He did not say anything. He had been asked a thing, nearly; the shape of a question was in the air between them, in the empty gallery; and if Theo asked it, he would have to answer, because he did not lie. He would have to say: I told him. In October. On a Sunday. At four. On a cream telephone. And he wrote it down with a fountain pen on a pad, and kept it, and remembered.

Theo did not ask.

He stood at the end of the gallery for a long time, looking at the corner of the corridor; and Frederick watched him, sideways, and saw him work it out. Not all at once. Slowly, the way you work out a cryptic clue in a crossword, from the outside in; somebody told him; and then and he remembered; and then and he did it on purpose; and then the last part, the part that took longest, that Frederick watched arrive in Theo’s face like the end of a long train coming into a station, very slowly, carriage by carriage, and stop: and nobody’s ever going to say so.

Theo took his hands out of his pockets.

He did not look at Frederick. He looked at the corner, still.

“He’s nice,” he said, at last. “Your dad.”

“Yes.”

“He’s tired.” Theo considered. “He’s just an old man. In a coat. With a stick.” He thought about it more. “He looked at me like Mum does. Like a list.” A pause. “He’s not…” He stopped. He did not finish it. He did not say what the King was not. “He’s just an old man who asked about the twenty-two.”

Frederick looked at him.

“Is that all right?” he said.

Theo turned, at last, from the corner, and looked at him. Properly. For about three seconds. With the grey eyes, or green, that Frederick still, after nine months, could not tell; and an expression on his face that was not about to say anything funny at all, and had not decided to wait, and did not know what it was going to do.

“Freddie,” he said. “I don’t know what to do with that.”

He said it quite simply. As if it were the time. And Frederick, who had spent nine months waiting for something to go across Theo’s face, saw that something had, at last; and that it was not anything he had been waiting for; and that Theo did not know what it was either.

And then he put his hands back in his pockets, and turned, and walked away down the East Gallery towards the red rope and the cream door to the north wing, stepping over the bars of light on the parquet one at a time without seeming to know he was doing it; and did not look back, and did not say anything else, all the way to the door; and Frederick stood at the end of the gallery in the gold light where his father had stood, and looked at the clock over the door to the back stairs, which said fourteen minutes to six, and did the sum, because he could not help it.

Nineteen minutes to six. Fifteen minutes to six.

Four minutes.