The Glass Eye Game
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Chapter 1 is set approximately 25 years before the main action of the book and acts as form of prologue.
CHAPTER 1
Eddy and Gail, aged twelve
“Is it real?”
At this height you could feel the breeze, an almost imperceptible sway in the framework.
“Is what real?” Eddy replied.
The leaves ruffled slightly. The scent of apple blossom hung in the air.
“You know,” said Gail.
“I don’t know. My leg?” He smiled.
The tongue-and-groove platform stretched out around them, clinging to the trunk.
She tilted her head and paused, flicking her eyes to the left, checking on her younger sister, cross-legged beside her. Rhea couldn’t be much more than ten, but seemed older, thought Eddy, as she straightened the buttons on her brightly coloured summer dress, aware of him eyeing her.
“You do know. Do you see things differently?”
He looked out across the garden, the escape rope hanging down, ending high enough to scare you, but low enough to do you no harm, unless you were little Billy Bowler, that is. He closed one eye, stared, opened it, closed the other and stared again. Yes, he did see things differently.
“Not really. I can still see everything, still see clearly.”
“What’s different though?” said Rhea. She sounded the same as her sister, if you closed your eyes and just listened. He liked to do that sometimes, relying on sound alone.
“I can’t always tell how close or far things are. It’s more difficult when I’m somewhere new.” He looked at the façade of the Wendy house behind them on the platform. “When my dad first built this, I used to be scared, unsure of where the edges were. But now I’m used to it.”
Why was he telling them all this? He didn’t really know them. That was one reason: the unknown daughters of his dad’s friend turning up unannounced. Go show them the tree-house, Eddy, his dad had said. Cordy can stay here with Mr Gryff, she’s too little to be up there. And there she was now, noticed Eddy, looking back to the house, her small infant form concentrating on the grass at her feet, while Mr Gryff stood nearby talking with his dad. Had he been like Cordy when he was younger? Carefree but content, occupied? Probably not.
So they had left Cordy behind, crossed the lawn, the spring sun warming their heads and backs, and climbed the rusted steps to the tree-house’s platform in a journey to hidden heights.
“Do you bump into things?” asked Rhea.
“Not really. Sometimes, but not much. It’s more difficult when I get something in my eye, or rub it too hard. That’s when I really can’t see.”
“Why don’t you be a pirate?” asked Rhea “Wear an eye patch?”
As if it were that simple, thought Eddy.
“I’m more of a martial arts boy. Samurai, if you like.”
“Can I have a look?” said Gail, staring intently. “Please.”
He stared back. She held his gaze, as he raised his hand to his face, pulled gently at the soft skin immediately below his eye and eased the lifeless prosthetic out of its socket, dropping it into his palm which he then held out. She looked at the recess where his eye had been and then quickly looked away.
Picking the glass eye from his hand, she examined it closely.
“It’s warm,” she said.
“It can be cold in the winter. In the mornings,” he replied.
She turned his eye over in her hand and then held it up to her own.
“Can I have a look?” said Rhea, reaching out.
“You don’t look with your hands,” she shot back.
“It’s beautiful,” she continued. “It’s one of his, isn’t it?”
“You mean your dad’s?”
“I’ve seen lots of them before, but never where they’re meant to be, in someone’s eye.”
“It’s no different,” he said.
“But it is,” she replied quickly. “It feels like I’m holding a piece of you.”
He felt a wave of anxiety, with an undertow of excitement.
She brought the eye down, lifted her t-shirt and placed it gently in her navel.
“How does it look now?” she said, as the eye stared out from her stomach. She pressed her hands together in prayer above her head and then moved her face from side to side, like the dancers in that old Indian musical movie he’d once found his mother watching.
“Kinda weird,” he laughed.
“Close your eyes,” she said. He felt the breeze against his face, smelt the blossom and just caught the sisters’ low breathing. He missed the sound of seagulls.
With his eyes closed, Gail observed this strange boy, Eddy, whom she’d just met, and wondered how much he could really see.
She plucked the eye from her tummy and held it aloft.
“What about now? What can you see?”
“Nothing,” he said.
She closed her hand around the eye.
“And now?”
“Still nothing.”
She lowered her hand and held it out in front of her, down by his crossed legs as he sat in front of her.
“Can you see me now?”
“Maybe. A bit.”
“No you can’t.” It didn’t look like he was cheating: his eyes were still closed. “I don’t believe you.”
Staring hard to check for cheating, she undid the top button of her shorts and gently slid the eye inside the waistband of her knickers.
“Can you see anything now?”
“Only darkness.”
She looked again, and smiled. With eyes closed, he was no different to any other boy. She reached inside her knickers again and pushed the eye further down.
“Can you see me now?” she asked.
Eddy paused.
“I think I can.”
The inspiration for The Glass Eye Game
The kernel of inspiration for The Glass Eye Game came from a BBC Radio 4 programme about individual experiences of losing an eye and having it replaced with a prosthetic (or false) eye. I was fascinated by the rich psychological territory to be explored, particularly in relation to people’s perceptions of themselves when they’ve lost an eye, how they then see the world and how others perceive them. A lot of what I heard in the programme was unexpected and changed my understanding of eye loss, especially the purpose and function served by prosthetic eyes themselves. As part of exploring this topic for a book, I researched the history of glass eye-making, including stumbling upon the real-life account of the last glass eye-maker in Britain, a German named Jost Hass.
Thus was born the idea of the generational end of a family-based glass eye manufacturing business, in turn leading me to use the plot of King Lear as a starting point for the story, as it echoes some of the family elements that I was interested in. However, while The Glass Eye Game touches on some of the central themes of the play, as can be seen, the plot and characters develop in a very different direction.
Chapter 2 is set 25 years after the first chapter and a few summers ago ...
CHAPTER 2
It’s a matter of positioning, thought Gail, as she entered her father’s house. A staggered staircase looped around three sides of the hall, punctuated by a half-landing at the far end, jutting out into the dining area below, creating a snug-like quality, with the high arched windows at the first floor level letting in the early summer evening light and sharply illuminating one side of the table at the back. The weather and season changed your experience at the table. Choose wrongly and be blinded, squinting as your retinas slowly fried. She remembered many meals with Cordy wearing Ray-Bans, dazzled and dazzling, the rest of the family looking on from the shadows. Cordy’s stubbornness usually overcame their mother’s admonishments. If only you were here, Mum, she sighed.
“Dad, I’m here,” she shouted into the house, enjoying the faint echo from the curved anaglypta ceiling at the top of the stairwell. She had let herself in early, with her spare keys, on the pretext of helping with the preparations, but really wanting a snoop.
“Down in a mo,” came the muffled reply.
“OK. I’ll start setting up.”
Gail walked to the kitchen doorway at the back of the house, paused, one hand on the door handle, and looked back down the hall. Even though it was her family home, filled with childhood memories, it was tainted by loss. Gail exhaled, rubbing her right eye with the back of her hand, that moment of blurred vision revealing her mother sitting at the table, healthy and happy, that voluptuous and gorgeously round figure of hers holding up a proud head and a strong stare, eyes sparkling, looking straight at Gail. Gail blinked and her Mum was gone.
Could her father have done more, Gail asked, despairing, knowing once more she’d never know. They had all looked on, as she wasted away, her curves becoming straight lines, then angles, until there was nothing left.
Enough, thought Gail, finding herself drawn from the kitchen to the half-open door across the hall, which led into the small, tidy living room. A sofa, two armchairs and a TV screen sat around a wood-framed gas fire. A faded Canaletto print hung above the grey stone mantelpiece, a wilted fern to the left. Curtains, worn at the edges, hung limply by the tall windows. Gail walked over to a dusty set of mahogany drawers and opened a smaller one at the top right.
Sleeves of old photographs were piled haphazardly inside. Gail sifted through the drawer, opening packs to peek at the first few pictures before moving to the next, eventually settling on one from which she pulled a set of small glossy photos, the colours immediately seeming too sharp for real life.
Twenty years ago, maybe older. A party in the house, her Mum and Dad entertaining. Women in brightly coloured dresses, hair pulled off their faces in fancy fashions, or permed and styled in looks too big and flamboyant for today’s tastes. Men mooching about in plain dark trousers and comfortable jumpers. Another era, but not so different. It couldn’t have been long before her Mum died, maybe a year or two. Yet there she was, the life and soul, twinkling with an undimmable brilliance. Where had all the light gone?
Deeper in the same set, Gail found herself, all waved hair and a cow flick, rouged cheeks and green eye mascara. She laughed out loud, struck by her youthful vitality and naivety. How old was she? Sixteen? Seventeen, maybe? Either way, far too young to be on the verge of losing your mother. She ruffled through more photos. Her father again, tall and upright, even quite handsome, staring straight down the camera lens. Not how she thought of him, she realised, either then or now. Arms around Peter and Martine Foster, his right draped upwards and lazily over Peter’s shoulder, the left dropping lower for Martine’s smaller stature, pulling her waist towards him. They looked happy, thought Gail, although something wasn’t quite right in the body language. She pushed the photo back, closing the wallet and replacing it in the drawer.
Worrying about the past, when there’s more than enough to deal with now.
* * *
She returned to the hall. As a young girl with her Mum running through it, pulling along a daisy chain of daughters, the house had been limitless, full of excitement, airy and spacious, but now it had no soul. At the bottom of the stairs on a pedestal stood a jardiniere decorated with an art nouveau hyacinth, housing some rare cacti, which had kept a dry eye on the family dramas and celebrations. Her Mum loved the lines and colour of the hyacinth pattern. How often had Gail nearly crashed into it as she cascaded down those stairs towards the front door, the expectant chime of the doorbell ringing in her ears, eager to greet a friend or boyfriend? How many times had she sat on that half-landing or at the table, glancing longingly at the front door? Her Mum chastising her for either mooning about or for distracting herself at mealtimes. Rhea, on the other hand, simply teasing her, her father oblivious and Cordy watching and listening, occasionally complaining about something unfair, when usually that just meant things hadn’t gone her way. Like that time when Nick came round and Gail ran gleefully to the door only to find him avoiding her eye and mumbling guiltily. The long walk back to the table, as Gail stoically told Rhea she had a visitor. Cordy had said that was unfair too.
She wished she could walk away from these memories, as she climbed to the half-landing, and then surveyed the ground floor and table below. That table had been the centre of countless meals, drinking sessions, conversations, arguments. Homework and reading had been done here, artwork projects finished, and, ah yes, other times too, recalled Gail. Before Nick had had his head turned by Rhea, he’d paid sufficient attention to her on top of the table one Saturday afternoon when they’d unexpectedly found themselves alone. How times change. Had she been happier then? Freer, definitely, she sighed, and then caught her thoughts. Don’t take everything for granted. Yes, the darker corner of the room, a good vantage point to watch the action unfold without revealing too much of herself.
She heard movement, a door opening upstairs, and her father appeared on the first floor landing above her, buttoning up a faded, checked shirt.
“Hello, dear,” he said. “Surveying all that you see?”
“You look well,” she said, smiling in reply. “Very smart.” If shabby chic is what you’re after. “Taking a trip down memory lane. Stories everywhere I look.”
“Never mind that now,” he said. “Give me a hand setting up. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”
* * *
In the kitchen, Gail saw that everything was in order, but it had become functional. There were areas of brightness on the worktops that were exposed to regular use, but elsewhere a thin layer of grime clung to everything. Her mother would never have tolerated this.
“We need to get some drinks sorted out,” stated her father, half reflection, half instruction. “There should be some bottles in the sideboard. Well, red, at least.”
Gail walked to the sideboard, smiling at the two pictures on the walls at opposite ends of the table. A striking monochrome photographic print of half-timbered medieval buildings with snow-bedecked rooves, taken in a Westphalian town in Germany, versus an Aubrey Beardsley pen-and-ink print of a woman in a long, curving dress. Her mother had always wanted to visit the town, Freuden-something or other, loaded as it was with the history of her Dad’s early learning and training of the glass eye world, but he had always avoided a visit, as if not wanting to share that part of himself with his wife. As for the print at the other end, Gail remembered her mother’s plaintive complaint: “You put the colour back in people’s eyes, so why can’t we have more colour in our house?”
Gail took two bottles of red wine from the sideboard and placed them on the table, moving a pile of paper to give her space, which jostled with loose change, keys, and flotsam and jetsam from assorted pockets, coats and bags. Looking more closely she saw a number of ocular magazines, the distinctive front cover designs drawing her attention to similar piles stacked on some of the chairs around the table.
“Having a clear out?” she asked, returning to her father, watching him retrieve some glasses from a cupboard near the sink, while she looked for a corkscrew.
“A bit,” he said, stooping to pull a tray from a rack between two of the base units.
Perhaps he really is ready to move on, thought Gail. Maybe Tres was right last night? We’d be doing him a favour.
“We should put some snacks out,” he said.
“What’ve you got in?” asked Gail.
“Nuts,” he replied.
“Same to you,” she snapped back, smiling.
Her father’s eyes twinkled and then he frowned.
“That was what your,” he started.
“I know.” It had just come out. Without thinking.
“No joke too low,” she added, another of Mum’s favourites. “I’ll get a bowl.”
* * *
They were laying out the drinks and snacks in the hall when the doorbell rang, Rhea letting in herself and Tres. Very Rhea, thought Gail. Got a key, but still rings the bell.
“Daddy, you look wonderful,” chimed Rhea. Usual sister bullshit, thought Gail. Daddy this, Daddy that.
“Mr T, Gail,” nodded Tres, the bulk of his frame blocking some of the light from the front door. Although he was expensively dressed – all dashing sports jacket, burgundy and gold pocket square, offset with a white satin, open-necked shirt, designer chinos and Italian loafers – he still smacked of that bouncer outside the old Luna nightclub, the one that let you in or turned you away seemingly on how you dressed, or the way the stars were aligned. Gail half-expected Tres to place his hand over her face and push her to one side.
“Can I help with anything?” asked Rhea, looking at the table and raising an eyebrow.
“It was all we could find,” replied Gail.
“Hmm,” said Rhea, forcing a smile, while Tres winked at Gail, before moving to the dining table, grazing his hand casually into the bowl of nuts and putting them to his mouth.
Hearing a car engine, Gail smiled, watching her husband’s arrival through the door’s sidelight windows.
“Al’s here,” she announced to no-one in particular.
“Just Cordy then,” said her Dad. “Running late as usual. The prerogative of the young and carefree.”
Typical, not sure Rhea or I would be granted the same laxity.
“She’ll be here soon,” said Gail, opening the door for Al.
“Go and help with the drinks,” she whispered urgently into Al’s ear.
Al smiled. “Good to see you too, darling. All nice and relaxed then?” he whispered.
“Don’t,” said Gail. “Just don’t.”
Al laughed. “Don’t worry,” he said, “it’ll be fine,” and then turned to greet everybody else, offering to pour drinks.
“How kind of you, darling Al,” she heard Rhea ring out. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Five minutes later Cordy opened the door and walked in, smiling, yet visibly sizing up the room.
“Sorry I’m late,” said Cordy. Fashionably so, on Cordy’s terms, thought Gail. Downright rude on anyone else’s.
Her father moved towards his youngest daughter.
“You made it then,” he said, and Gail detected that mixture of favouritism and exasperation he always had for Cordy.
“No Frank, darling?” asked Rhea, a caressing hand on Cordy’s upper arm. Trust Rhea to gently probe any open wound.
“Well, no. Didn’t seem quite right or fair. Not sure he signed up for this,” said Cordy, laughing slightly. “Not quite sure what I did sign him up for, to be honest.”
“Oh well, family functions aren’t for everyone,” said Rhea. “Especially if you’re not really family.”
Cordy snorted. “Good to see you too, sis. How is the nuclear family? Who’s looking after the kids tonight? Nanny or housekeeper?”
Just like something Mum might have said, thought Gail, to keep things in check, and saw Al smiling, as he picked up his drink from the table.
“OK, let’s get on with it,” intervened her father. “Why don’t we all sit down.”
Gail walked straight to her chosen seat, pulling Al alongside. Her father sat on the shaded side, while Cordy took in the full brightness of the light streaming in, leaving Rhea and Tres half-in and half-out of the light.
Let the games begin.
CHAPTER 3
Eddy, aged eight
From the doorway, the boy saw a busy, cluttered room, a cross between a child’s messy bedroom and an old man’s garden shed, but dappled with magic. At his eye level, he looked over the worktop surfaces, a higgledy-piggledy perspective of metal instruments, a Bunsen burner, clamps and retorts, implements he couldn’t name on one side, paints, brushes, bottles and boxes on the other. He knew why he was here, but worried about what he could see. Elsewhere books and papers were piled haphazardly, while segmented trays offered up a range of small, shiny, brightly coloured glass objects, like the chocolates he’d had for the first time this Christmas, he thought.
At the other end of the room by a half-open window sat a man on a comfortable-looking chair behind a smart dark wooden desk with a green leather top. Three less comfortable chairs were lined up neatly in front, defying the jumble of the rest of the room. The man looked over his half-moon glasses and smiled: “It’s a pretty sight, isn’t it?”
I wouldn’t call it pretty, thought the boy, looking around again, and then at his father, whose hand he was holding and who was also now smiling. Perhaps he should smile too? But he didn’t think he could.
“But I know where everything is,” continued the man, “whenever I need it. You see, here’s my favourite brush. I’ve been looking for that for days. Right in front of my eyes all the time. You must bring me luck, young man.”
He didn’t feel lucky. That was exactly why he was here. If he’d brought luck to other people, then they hadn’t said anything, hadn’t wanted it. He touched the skin under his eye. It felt sensitive, itchy, but he resisted the urge to scratch it.
“He’s a bit shy and nervous, Mr Gryff,” said his father.
“Quite, quite,” said Mr Gryff, running his right hand through thinning hair. “And why wouldn’t he be? I haven’t even introduced myself. I am too rude. Sit down please.” He gestured to the chairs.
They sat, and as Mr Gryff walked around his desk, the boy noticed the framed photograph immediately behind. A picture of a large ship that appeared to be moving or stuck in the middle of a thick forest or jungle, clouds of steam or fog floating up around it.
“You can call me Charlie,” said Mr Gryff, squatting beside the boy.
“And you must be,” he continued, then pausing. “Interested in my picture.”
“What’s the ship doing in the jungle?” asked the boy.
Charlie laughed. “Just passing through.”
“But it looks stuck.”
“That’s what I like about it,” said Charlie. “An optical illusion. Never ceases to amaze me.”
“But how?” said the boy. “Is it real?”
Charlie laughed. “Oh yes, very real. A marvel of the modern world.” He gestured at the picture. “What you can’t see, through the trees and the clouds, is the water, that the ship is on.”
The boy looked at his father, who nodded. “Panama,” was all his father said.
The boy enjoyed the up and down sound of the word.
“They needed to shorten the journey round the bottom of South America,” continued Charlie. “They didn’t think it would be possible, until someone had the vision and will, and the money I suppose, to make it happen.”
“Took them years,” added his father. “And a lot of people, but eventually they cut a canal all the way across Central America.”
“A man, a plan, a canal, as they say,” smiled Charlie.
The boy looked at Charlie.
“There’s no need to frown,” said Charlie. “Now tell me your name.”
“It’s OK,” said his father.
“Eddy,” he said.
“What a good name,” said Charlie. “Do you know that an eddy is also a small whirlpool or wind? Is that you? Is that what you are, Eddy?”
Eddy’s mind swirled at the image, feeling the chaos of the churning water, scared of being drawn in.
“I don’t like whirlpools,” he said.
“And who does? But a whirlwind, surely that’s a different matter? No?”
“A vortex, maybe,” said Eddy. He liked the sound of the word. It felt safer than the others.
“Indeed,” said Charlie. “A fine word, indeed, for a boy of your age.”
His father smiled. “He’s good with words; knows a lot for his age.”
“So I see,” said Charlie, “or so I hear, I should say.”
“I do know some other words,” said Eddy.
“Yes, Eddy?”
“Seagulls, ice cream, jellyfish, shark, telescope, ahoy there and other nautical things.”
Both men laughed.
“Right, Eddy, do you mind if I sit you on the edge of my desk,” said Charlie, “so I can have a better look?” He pushed some papers and books to one side, patting the clear space with his hand.
“I’ll lift him for you.”
“Thank you.” As Eddy shuffled onto the desk, he drummed his heels against the wooden side-panelling.
“Right, let me have a look,” said Charlie.
He stooped so that his face was close to, but slightly above, Eddy’s.
“Can you look up a little bit for me, Eddy, please.”
He thanked Eddy, looked directly at him, then cupped his head gently in his hands. Eddy flinched, then allowed Charlie to move his head from side to side, his gaze focused on Eddy’s face.
“Do you mind if I take off your eye-patch, Eddy?” he said. “Would that be alright, Mr Foster?”
“Of course. That’s OK, isn’t it, Eddy?” Eddy felt his father’s larger hand engulf the smallness of his own right hand. Both safety and worry swept over him.
“I don’t like taking my eye-patch off,” said Eddy, “but Dad said I would have to here.” He steadily and deliberately pulled the patch outwards and upwards over his head, with the attached elastic following from behind, causing a ruffle through his hair, like the wind across a field of ripe wheat.
He looked downwards for a moment, noticing the repeated circular, geometric patterns of the carpet, tempting him to fall into them.
“Can you look up now?” said Charlie. “Take it easy.”
Charlie placed his face in front of his, removing his glasses to get a clearer view. Why was that, thought Eddy? If glasses make you see better, why take them off to look? As Charlie shifted from side to side, Eddy felt the concentration in his breathing, occasionally sensing warm breath on his face and on his damaged eye.
“Do you mind if I touch it? Just gently?”
Eddy shook his head, not that it would make any difference, he thought. The doctors always touched it, but at least this man asked. Charlie traced his finger gently round the edge of the socket, before saying: “Can you close both eyes – I want to see how much muscle movement you have.”
Eddy did as instructed. “Good. That’s good. And again please. Now to the right with your good eye. Thank you.”
Eventually Charlie stepped back and stood upright.
“I think I can help you,” he said. “But let me ask you one more thing.”
“Yes,” said Eddy. Another person who wants to help, he thought.
“Can you feel anything, Eddy, with your eye?”
Eddy paused. “With my good eye, you mean?”
“No, your missing eye. Can you feel anything with the eye you don’t have?”
Eddy looked at him. “I don’t know what you mean.” But he knew exactly what he meant. Not that he could explain it. As soon as Charlie Gryff had touched the edges of Eddy’s eye socket, a searing electricity had fizzed around where his eye had once been and vibrated across that side of his face, sinking deep into his skull. He couldn’t see Mr Gryff’s fingers and hand touching his face, but he sensed they were there, each bit of skin, every fingerprint ridge, the tone and colour, the thin layer of sweat and grease that coated the fingertips. He sensed everything that made them real.
More though; that sense tapped directly into the question of how he had lost his eye, coursing like lightning directly into who he was. He didn’t know what had actually happened – he was too young to remember, his dad said – but deep down he knew, but couldn’t explain and it hurt, badly. He also knew that he didn’t want to know. And that hurt too.
“Don’t worry, then,” continued Charlie. “I always ask. Some people say they can see and feel something. More importantly though, I can help you. Make you something better than your old eye, more than your missing eye. What about that, Eddy?”
Better than what I’ve lost, thought Eddy. It sounded hard to believe, but he was excited.
“I think I would like that.”
CHAPTER 4
Why did Cordy never learn, thought Rhea, watching her little sister squinting in the evening light on the other side of the table? Some people must find it hard to lose childhood traits, but not me.
“Do you want to start then, Dad?” asked Gail.
Taking charge as usual, thought Rhea.
“I could start at the beginning,” said Charlie.
Oh, please no, don’t.
“But you’ve heard it all before,” he continued.
That’s for sure.
“And now it’s time to talk about the future.”
“Are you alright, Dad?” asked Cordy.
Let’s not jump the gun.
“Of course, I’m alright,” he snapped back.
“I was just worried,” added Cordy, tears welling in her eyes. “You’re not ill, are you?”
Very Cordy. Always assuming the worst.
“No, no, no,” Charlie said. “You don’t need to worry about that, but I need to do something about my work, my business.”
Good, thought Rhea, glancing at Gail. Things are moving.
“I’m not so much stepping back, as walking away,” said Charlie. “It’s time for you, my family, to step up.”
Rhea leaned in, clasping her hands, while Tres leaned back. She thought she saw Gail gulp and wondered if anyone else had noticed.
“It’s a lot to ask, I know,” he continued, “especially as none of you know the business that well.”
Not for want of trying, thought Rhea.
Charlie looked around the table, stopping at Cordy.
“But it’s the right thing.”
“The right thing?” frowned Gail. “As opposed to?”
Cordy put a hand in front of her face against the light. “What about Eddy?”
What about Eddy? Tres placed his hands face down on the table.
“Well,” said Charlie. “There’s been talk, yes, but I think it’s the right thing.”
“What is?” said Gail, moving forwards into the light. “For heaven’s sake.” Control yourself sister, thought Rhea. He may be important. To you, especially. But just how important is he really?
“Eddy’s important for the business,” said Charlie. “But I’m not sure he’s right to run it.”
Cordy laughed. “But he’s the only one that knows how it works,” voice raised, hands dropping to her side in exasperation, still squinting.
“Yes, but,” said Charlie.
“But what?” cut in Cordy.
“Well, he has,” continued Charlie. “Ideas.”
“Could be risky,” said Al.
“But that’s what you want, isn’t it?” added Cordy. “Surely.”
Charlie stared at Cordy, his face lightly flushed. He looked down at the table, then raised his head and spoke to no-one in particular. “It’s true. He’s learnt the business and mastered, if not all, then most aspects of it.”
“I thought he was one of the best,” said Gail. Rhea fought back a smile.
“Well, let’s keep some perspective,” he snorted, turning to Gail, “but, yes, he’s very good at what he does.” He paused. “It’s just that his passion for the work can be … all-consuming.”
“Hardly surprising,” said Gail quickly. Too quick, thought Rhea. Rein it in.
“He can lose sight of what’s important in eye-making, what matters to the person,” said Charlie. “You need to keep a distance, especially on the business front. See all sides, all the dimensions.”
“Pah,” said Cordy, lifting her drink.
“But that distance, those dimensions,” said Charlie, opening his arms to the table, “could come from the three of you.”
Tres leant forward, dipping his head. “Very wise, if I may so, Mr Gryff,” he said. “Business is all about perspective, clarity of vision. If you don’t have that, you’re lost.”
“Exactly,” said Charlie. “Thank you, Tres.”
Rhea smiled. Well said, Tres. “For the best, like you say, Daddy,” she said.
“Yes, yes, that’s right,” said Charlie. “Just wouldn’t be right for Eddy. You can’t have a client running the show. Too much internal conflict, might steer things in the wrong direction. And, of course, Peter will still be there, at least until he retires. A steady hand on the financial tiller, while I sail off into the sunset …”
Not sure how long we’ll need that, thought Rhea.
“Aren’t you’re going to stay around too?” asked Cordy, putting her glass down heavily.
“I thought about it,” replied Charlie. “Perhaps take on an ambassadorial role, but the more I thought it about, the more I thought I’d get in the way. You can run it. Peter and Eddy can help, if you need them.”
“I think it’s a great idea, Dad,” said Gail. “What you’ve done is amazing, but you really should be thinking about retiring at your age. Eddy needs to be involved, but he doesn’t need to run it. We can do that. We’d love to help.”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Rhea, looking directly at Gail. “He’s … his ideas, are not always to everyone’s taste, if I’m honest.”
“And don’t get me wrong,” said Tres, looking first at Gail and then turning to Charlie. “The talent is important, but sometimes when you manage talent, you also have to temper it.”
Rhea saw a flash of anger in Gail’s eyes. She doesn’t like that. Eddy is her domain. Be careful what you say next, darling.
“Here’s an example,” continued Tres. “Condoms.” My husband the showman. “It’s a competitive marketplace, so we were brought into help one company, drive up their market share. But what do you think we found?”
Tres looked around the table at the blank expressions.
“A company making good product, but not knowing how,” he answered. “Except for one man.” Another pause. Enough already, thought Rhea. “He worked on the factory floor, testing every vat of rubber solution they made. Mostly by sniffing, occasionally dipping in a finger to taste. If the rubber was right, he’d give it the nod, and off it would go to be moulded into condoms. But if it wasn’t, then it was rejected and the vat was poured away.”
Al laughed, before speaking: “But they must have worked to a formula. Why did they need him?”
“Yeah, sure,” shrugged Tres. “But there were variables everywhere. Temperature changes, atmospheric conditions, differently composed constituent ingredients, all sorts, and probably lots of other things they weren’t even aware of. It was an old company. Worked like this for years, but it was a quality check that worked and you can’t have faulty products, especially not a condom. And this guy had worked out – through smell, taste, consistency, whatever – how to spot the perfect, or at least the right, solution.”
“What a job,” said Al.
“Yeah, right,” said Tres, leaning forward, his looming presence prompting Al to move back in his chair. “But here’s the thing. They were dependent on this one guy. He was the only one that knew what he knew, and even he didn’t really know how. That’s a massive business risk.”
“So what did they do?” asked Al, his voice higher now, noticed Rhea with satisfaction.
“What we did,” replied Tres, “was test every single part of that process – and I mean everything, in every type of condition – to understand the exact scientific basis behind that guy’s sniff and taste test, and how we could measure it perfectly. And with that knowledge, we could make the perfect product every time without fail. And not only that, we could make other types of product, different styles for different tastes, because we knew what we were doing. Once we’d got to that point, we just blew the competition away, and the company became a global brand.”
“Wow,” said Al. “And what happened to the guy? The sniff and taste guy.”
Tres laughed. “Lost his job. We didn’t need him.”
“I bet he didn’t see that coming,” replied Al, laughing at his own joke, a sharp kick to his right ankle from Gail. “Ow.”
Cordy snorted at the other end of the table. “So what do we take from that? That Eddy should look out, look for another job?”
Rhea looked at Gail.
“Not necessarily,” replied Tres. Seems pretty clear to me, but not sure what Big Sis will think, thought Rhea. Tres is ruthless when it comes to removing obstacles.
“The simple fact is you can’t be dependent on one person,” continued Tres.
Was that really true, thought Rhea, suddenly? It might be nice to think that you didn’t have to be, but all too often we are. Just look at her and Tres. She depended on him, but he also depended on her. Not that he would admit that, but just see how far you’d get without me, darling.
“Hardly the most reassuring of responses,” said Cordy, before turning to her father. “Does Eddy actually know about any of this?”
Charlie hesitated. “Not yet. I wanted to talk to you all first.”
“He should be here,” stated Cordy. “He’s got a right to be here.”
“How would that help, darling? You know how he is.” Charlie looked briefly at each of his three daughters in turn. Gail looked away. “It’s best that we decide what to do. Then we can ask Peter to talk to Eddy, with a clear plan.”
“But he’s going to wonder why you didn’t talk to him as well,” said Cordy.
“She’s right,” added Gail. “But then that would be just as difficult, more difficult perhaps.”
“Look, it’s decided,” said Charlie. “Rightly or wrongly, rightly I think, it’s done.”
“We could call him now. Invite him over,” suggested Cordy.
“That’s not helpful, Cordy,” said Rhea.
“I don’t see why not.”
“Don’t you? Don’t you really?” said Gail.
“No, I don’t.”
“He’s going to come over, all agitated, wondering why he’s been invited as an afterthought,” Gail explained. “And he’s going to find a roomful of people talking about what he does for a living, most of whom have had precious little interest until now.”
“We could do this another time, when he’s,” Cordy began to argue.
“Enough now,” interrupted Charlie. “We’re doing it now, here. This is a family matter.”
“Except for Eddy,” persisted Cordy.
“Enough now, enough I say,” Charlie said, slapping his hand on the table, pushing his chair back, standing up and glaring around the table.
Same old stubborn bastard, thought Rhea, as her father walked to the bottom of the stairs, stopped by the jardiniere, ran the tips of his left fingers over the side of the rim nearest to him, and turned to address them. “We’ve got decisions to make and Eddy will only complicate things,” he said. “Running a business is more than just making eyes that fit people who need them.”
Rhea heard the scraping of a chair leg on the wooden floor, and looked across the table to see Cordy stand up and take a couple of steps towards her father.
“Apart from you and Peter,” she said, “no-one else knows more about the business than Eddy.”
Tres coughed and Rhea turned to him, raising her eyebrows.
“Not more than me though,” replied Charlie. “We don’t need him here.”
Cordy moved towards her father. “But we do need him,” she said, and Charlie backed away. “He’s the future.”
“No, he’s not, Cordy,” shouted Charlie. “This is about our family, not anyone else’s.”
“I don’t believe this,” said Cordy, raising an exasperated hand at her father, her hair flying across her face as she shook it from side to side. “He’s the only one with any new ideas, the only one that understands the business and what your clients want.”
“Cordy,” exclaimed Charlie, his complexion reddening.
“Just look how the business has grown since he started making the eyes,” continued Cordy.
“All under my expert guidance and tuition, of course.”
Pompous as ever.
“He knows what people want,” added Cordy, thrusting her face towards her father. “And he does it well, with style.” She took another step forward, spitting out her words, voice raised. “He should be here. He’s the real talent, not you.”
The words hit Charlie like bullets, he stepped backwards, pushing directly against the jardiniere, which tilted, teetered and then fell to the floor with a crash.
“Now look what you’ve made me do,” said Charlie, blue, green and brown pottery scattered across the hall floor and a mini-landslide of soil and plants at the foot of the stairs.
Rhea joined Gail, Al and Tres as they rose from the table. Divine justice, thought Rhea, moving to the mess, recalling her mother’s explanation of the mythological significance of the hyacinth leaves’ markings.
“I’ll sort it out,” said Gail.
“I’ll go and get the brush,” added Rhea, stooping for a piece of broken pottery with a red-stained hyacinth leaf clear to see, the despair from a lover’s accidental death writ large.
“Sit down,” shouted Charlie. “All of you. We can deal with that later.”
The room fell silent. “I’ve had enough of this insolence, Cordy.” He moved away from the jardiniere. “If you can’t or won’t accept what we’re doing, Cordy, then you need to think about your place at this table.” He paused. “And perhaps in this family. All the love in this family needs to be in one place now, united and focused on our business.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Cordy, sitting back in her chair, head in hands. “It’s not about love.”
“Your father’s right,” said Tres. “There are some important decisions to make. We don’t need to fix everything now, but we need to get things going.”
“I get that, Tres, please. Credit me with a bit of common sense,” said Cordy. “What I don’t get is how decisions about Dad’s work, his business, are now being equated with family love. I love him, I love this family (although God knows it drives me mad from time to time), but I don’t love the business. I’ve got nothing against it, but I don’t love it.”
“It’s a family business, Cordy, and I need you and your sisters to look after it,” said Charlie.
“It’s not a family business,” replied Cordy. “It’s your business. Always has been. We’ve never had anything to do with it, nor have we ever shown any interest in it. And I suspect that’s just how you liked it. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Pass it on to Eddy. He’s the only one it means something to. Not any of us.”
Steady on, thought Rhea, and waited for Gail. “It means something to me,” said Gail.
“Me too,” echoed Rhea, relieved that Gail had intervened.
“Bollocks,” retorted Cordy. “You’ve never shown the slightest interest.”
“That’s not the point,” said Rhea.
“It’s a chance to look after your father’s legacy,” said Tres. “Build on it.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Cordy. “Any of you.”
“Look, Cordy, if that’s how you feel,” said Charlie. “I can’t force you to love me and my work, so perhaps you should leave. Gail and Rhea can run the business. I’ll work out what to do with them.”
“Do you know what?” Cordy looked quietly at her father. “You’re welcome to it.” She stood up, gathered her coat and bag, and walked to the front door, pausing and turning as she opened it.
“Know only that I love you,” she said, walking out of the house.
