‘And all of this because she expressed an opinion?’
‘The wrong opinion,’ said Wilkes.
‘The wrong opinion,’ repeated George, laughing again as he opened another bottle of whisky. ‘The powers that be, the Great Unelected Consciences of the World, didn’t approve of what she said and that was the end of her. How Orwellian. Have you ever heard of “civil death”, any of you?’
All three shook their heads.
‘Of course not. So much for the expensive education I put you through, Elizabeth. Back in medieval Europe, the moment a person was convicted of a crime they lost all their civil rights. And this was known as civil death. More often than not, it meant that anyone could simply kill them without consequence because, officially, they no longer existed. Sounds fair, doesn’t it?’
‘Sounds awful,’ said Wilkes.
‘I was being sarcastic, you cretin.’
‘Oh.’
‘And this is effectively what you’re doing to people who don’t agree with you, is it? Including your own sister?’
‘There’s nothing we can do about it,’ protested Wilkes. ‘She got cancelled. It was decided.’
‘By who?’ roared George.
‘By social media!’
‘Oh, fuck social media! And fuck all the morons who spend their time on it. That bloody tortoise has more insight into the world than any of those miserable trolls do.’
‘George, your blood pressure,’ said Beverley.
‘Well, I mean to say,’ he replied, sounding utterly fed up now, ‘I’ve heard some stupid things in recent times, but this one takes the biscuit, it really does. I don’t know which is worse, that you think you either have the power or the moral right to, in your words, cancel another human being, or that you think that normal, sensible people would play along with your idiocy? Cancelled! It’s actually offensive to the ear even hearing such a word spoken aloud. The … the … the …’ He struggled to complete his sentence, but with each utterance of the word the, the other occupants of the room sat forward a little, waiting to see where he went with it. ‘The … the … the insufferable arrogance,’ he spat out finally. ‘The unspeakable superciliousness! The grotesque sense of moral superiority!’
‘All right, George,’ said Beverley, sitting back again and sipping her wine. ‘You’ve made your point. Chillax, darling.’
‘I will not chillax, whatever that means. And I don’t think I have made my point. Not if this pair of numbskulls fail to recognize the truth of what I’m saying.’
‘Your father’s right,’ said Beverley. ‘The whole idea is ridiculous.’
‘So you think I shouldn’t go?’ asked Elizabeth, hopefully.
‘Of course I think that. And, while we’re on the subject, I think you should stop associating with this … this creature,’ she said, nodding in the direction of Wilkes. ‘You can do far better for yourself.’
‘We are in the room, you know,’ said Wilkes, looking across at her with a wounded expression on his face.
‘I know. I can smell you.’
‘But I appreciate him,’ insisted Elizabeth. ‘Them.’
‘And I appreciate a glass of wine after a hard day of reviewing my ghost’s writing, but I don’t want to set up home with one. You’ve had much nicer boyfriends in the past. And you’ll have much nicer ones in the future too.’
‘No, I haven’t,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Gareth was too insecure. David had too much of a temper. Nick was too bisexual. Conor was only after my money. Tuscany was too self-centred. Pylyp was too boring. Will was—’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Beverley, sitting up, fully alert now. ‘Philip? You said Philip, yes? I don’t remember a Philip.’
‘No, Pylyp,’ said Elizabeth. ‘That guy you danced with when you were on Strictly, remember? Oh, I never told you about him and me, did I? We had a bit of a thing.’
Beverley shook her head slowly, unable to speak.
‘Oh, don’t look so shocked. It hardly matters now. It was ages ago. And it didn’t last long. It was purely physical.’
‘I really don’t want to hear that,’ said George. ‘I live in a fantasy world where you’re all virgins.’
‘Even me?’ asked Wilkes, momentarily forgetting his correct pronoun.
‘Especially you.’
‘How long?’ asked Beverley.
‘How long what?’
‘How long did it go on for? You and Pylyp.’
Elizabeth scrunched up her face, trying to remember. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘A few weeks? Until just before I met Wilkes.’
Beverley said nothing, simply sat back and finished her glass of wine in one gulp.
‘What does any of this matter?’ asked George, his face still red with anger. ‘The point is, you are not going to Indonesia. I’m putting my foot down.’
‘Daddy—’
‘No, I’m sorry, but this is an absurd conversation. I’m under a great deal of stress at the moment and I simply won’t listen to another word of your nonsense. Beverley, Elizabeth, Ustym Karmaliuk, Wilkes’s multiple personalities and Wilkes himself – and I list you in order of how seriously I take you all – I’m picking up my whisky and I’m going upstairs to read a book. One printed on paper and that has no comments at the end of each page.’
‘But Daddy,’ protested Elizabeth as he made his way towards the door, ‘what about Indonesia? What about our trip to the leper colony? What do you think we should do?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ he asked, turning back to pick up the bottle before leaving the room. ‘Cancel it.’
Part 4
* * *
16 September 2011
They’re seated outside a restaurant in Newport, Rhode Island, on the second-to-last afternoon of their trip. Since arriving a month earlier, they’ve spent time in Massachussetts, New York and Washington, DC but have decided to end their trip here, in a town where Beverley spent a summer when she was a student, working in the Newport Creamery.
It’s been a hugely enjoyable holiday. Nelson has been fascinated by every city they’ve visited, wanting to explore every museum, every architectural site, and have his photograph taken in front of the Liberty Bell. Achilles, too, although only seven, has kept them entertained with an endless stream of jokes and performance pieces. Although the last to join the family, he is, both George and Beverley agree, the glue that holds them all together, the one around whose antics they all revolve.
President Bush, the first President Bush, has been in the north-east over the last few weeks and, as an old friend of George’s, having appeared on his chat show several times over the years, had invited them all out to Walker’s Point Estate in Kennebunkport for a weekend.
But their holiday is drawing to a close now. Their flights are booked for home and George is due back at the BBC the following Monday. There’s an air of dissatisfaction around the table; they would all like to stay longer. Really, none of them wants to leave.