Love, Charlie Mike

by Kate de Goldi

  ‘Better get a move on,’ said Gran, picking up the cases. ‘Time waits for no man.’

  ‘If she was just at home all day,’ murmured Finn, ‘maybe it was the milkman.’

  ‘You’re making me nervous,’ said Dad, getting off the exercycle, stretching his hammies. I’d been swivelling gently on the office chair at his desk, listening to his Led Zeppelin CD, watching him do The Warm-Up. He selected a pair of dumb-bells, slowly raising his arms. ‘To what do I owe the honour?’

  ‘Tell me about Pops,’ I said.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, now. Exercise your body and your mind.’

  ‘You know I can’t do two things at once. Anyway, you know everything about Pops.’

  ‘I know bits, but it’s not in any order, I don’t know how everything fits together. And I don’t know what he was like.’ I’d remembered thinking exactly that the night before Pops’ funeral, and feeling wretched about it. I hadn’t really cared about him. Not deep down.

  ‘Don’t know if I really did, either,’ said Dad. ‘Don’t know if you ever know what your parents are like. Really. Or your kids, for that matter.’ He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Don’t worry, dear, you’re an open book. As Gran would say. And speaking of Gran—’

  ‘Must we?’ He changed dumb-bells and lay down with his knees raised. ‘I’d definitely rather talk about Dad.’

  ‘How did they meet? Him and Gran?’

  ‘Tennis club.’

  ‘Rilly?’

  ‘He was staying over here and went along to the St Alban’s Club with this friend and met Mum there. She was at dental nurse school, but nice girls played tennis on the weekends. So they could meet nice men, I suppose.’

  ‘He was good-looking, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Tall, dark and handsome,’ he said, straining with the weight. ‘Well, actually, not all that tall. But strong. Wiry. And fast. Very fast on the court. Played half-back, too.’

  ‘Spare me the sporting history. What was that work he did — on the Coast?’

  ‘Slabby. Saw mill. End of the chain. Used to cart away the cross-cuts for burning.’

  ‘Boring.’

  ‘You said it. But not much else on offer without secondary education.’

  ‘And his parents were poor?’

  ‘And it was the Depression.’

  ‘So he wasn’t — like — dumb?’

  ‘Course not. Okay.’ He got up. ‘Rowing machine.’ He pulled a face. ‘I hate the rowing machine.’ He sat down, unhitched the chain and set the timer. ‘Can’t talk on this.’

  For the next ten minutes I watched him pant and puff and grimace and sweat — all in the name of good biceps and a powerful serve.

  You could call him wiry too, I decided, looking at his body critically. And, if you weren’t his daughter, you might call him dark and handsome too. Like Pops. Ha. So much for biology. Perhaps nurture was stronger than nature. But then he’d hardly lived with Pops. This was a mystery with a dearth of clues.

  ‘Do you remember much about Pops before he left home?’ I asked when the whirr and wind of the rowing machine was over.

  ‘Bits,’ he said, after a while. Sit-ups now.

  ‘What?’

  He did ten sit-ups. ‘I remember he made the porridge in the mornings. And he used to plunge a heaped spoonful of golden syrup into his. And it melted and made the porridge caramelly. He biked to work—’

  ‘What was he doing then?’

  ‘Meter reader for the MED. You knew that.’ So I did. Only he’d retired before I was born. And now it was called SouthPower.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Tennis mostly. He bought me a racquet for my sixth birthday. Left about a month after that.’

  Dad’s birthday was in June, so Pops must’ve moved out in the middle of winter. I pictured him leaving on his bicycle — the one he’d had when I knew him, an old-fashioned, one-speed affair with saddlebags. I imagined him riding off into the smoggy Woolston night.

  ‘Did you know he was an alcoholic?’ I said, suddenly not wanting to think about six-year-old Bobby with a birthday tennis racquet but no Dad to make his porridge.

  ‘Sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy!’ He jumped up and changed the CD. ‘Warm-down music,’ he said, climbing onto the bike, pedalling gently. ‘I knew he drank — in the shed. He had tools and books there, but it was really for drinking. He always smelled of whisky. But I liked that. It didn’t seem to make any difference to the way he was. Not to me, anyway. He hit Mum, I think. When he was pissed. I never knew anything at the time, but I’m pretty sure he did. He virtually told me. That’s why she finally chucked him out — that and the drinking.’

  ‘Did he drink before the war?’

  ‘He wasn’t alcoholic.’

  ‘So it was the war and the … accident that made him?’

  ‘For sure.’

  I stayed on the swivel chair, watching the Warm Down, thinking about Pop’s bad war. ‘Did you like him?’ I asked, finally. ‘I mean like him.’

  He took a long time answering. He got off the cycle, wiped his face and arms with a towel. ‘He was gruffish, but he was kind. Things about him embarrassed me. I hated his bike — no one else’s father rode a bike. And definitely no one else’s parents were separated — not Catholics. That was awful and I blamed him, because he was the one that lived in another house. But I was proud of his tennis. And that he’d been in the war — we were all into the war. Ironic.’ He pulled on a sweater. ‘He was an ordinary guy, really. Bright, but hopelessly underutilised. And the war ruined his life. Simple as that, really. And I always sort of knew that, though not the real reason. I knew he’d been in the bin—’

  ‘He was in the bin?’

  ‘Didn’t you know that? Mum used to call it When Jim Was Under The Weather.’ He laughed. ‘He was there off and on for a year or so after the war. Before I was born. But I knew. Poor bastard. A fuck-up of a life. And I didn’t know the half of it. I’ll tell you one thing.’ He pressed the stop button on the CD, looking at me. ‘One thing I do like about him. In retrospect, so to speak. He knew he wasn’t my father. So he didn’t have to be my father, if you see what I mean — he didn’t have to be a father to me. But he was. Even after they separated he was there every Saturday to take me to tennis. Or take me out somewhere else on a Sunday. He went to parent-teacher evenings. He took me over to the Coast every year so I could get to know my relations, or whatever they are. I guess he gave me a family — no one on Mum’s side. Except for that horror-story, Lenora. He was a good man,’ said Dad, as if this was his summing-up, worked out over the last two years. ‘And he had crap line-calls.’

  ‘Not the tennis metaphor.’

  ‘Thought it was appropriate, under the circumstances. You want to come and see me vanquish Beryl?’ He opened the door.

  ‘Think I’ll give it a miss, dear. Shut the door behind you.’

  ‘Thanks for the company.’

  ‘Thanks for the biography.’

  ‘Life’s a bitch, eh?’ he said, stepping onto the landing. ‘For some.’ He closed the door.

  ‘And then they die,’ I said, pressing the play button, shutting my eyes against all images of war.

  ‘Sunnyside,’ said Finn. ‘Jeez. And Gran went off while he was there? Jeez.’

  ‘Look at it from her point of view,’ I said, briefly seeing Gran’s point of view. ‘It’s a wonder she wasn’t out there with him. They’d only been married five minutes when he went to war, then he comes back with no nuts and she’s traumatised—’

  ‘What about him?

  ‘Yeah, well, he is too, of course, but I’m thinking about her at the moment. She’s traumatised, and they probably can’t talk about it — you know what they were like about their privates in those days. And no one else knows ’cos it’s too shameful or something. They were so weird then—’

  ‘—not that you’d exactly broadcast it now—’

  ‘So she can’t talk about it to anyone else. I thought of
Gran and Pops in the little house on Ferry Road, having breakfast, lunch, dinner, endless nice cups of tea, jointly and separately miserable, not talking about it, slowly going under.

  ‘Then Pops goes to Sunnyside—’

  ‘—and Gran’s all alone again—’

  ‘—the milkman knocks at the back door — oww!’

  ‘Don’t be repulsive,’ I said. ‘It was terrible. Think about it.’

  ‘Believe me,’ said Finn. ‘I have thought about it.’ He made a face, cupped his hand protectively over his groin.

  I looked at the line of postcards on my desk, at the framed photograph of Sonny. Sometimes I found it impossible to believe that this flat two-dimensional figure had real substance, was warm, broad flesh, living and moving elsewhere. I found it hard to summon his face, his smell, his feel in my mind’s anxious eye. Imagine Gran, I thought, living that way for five years, but hoping, hoping, getting about, busy and bossy and bigoted — everything changes, but actually stays the same — and young and in love, scared and hopeful. And then he’s back, but it’s not truly him; he’s not the man she dreamed about, pinned her future on, hoped and hoped for. He’s maimed and reduced, untouchable, piteous.

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ I said to Finn, ‘imagine it.’

  Dearest Sonny, I wrote. The more I think about Pops the sorrier I feel that I never knew him. Though Mum reckons he was unknowable. We’ve worked out he was in Sunnyside when Dad was conceived. Mum says that Pops told Dad when he found out Gran was pregnant — and, obviously he wasn’t the father — he didn’t care, he thought it was a chance to have a life, be a family, be normal, and that made him want to get better, get out, start over again. He said he loved Gran and wanted a kid. And Gran needed him to support her, be a father to the child.

  Pops told Dad having a son gave his life purpose again, made him want to keep going. But, Mum says that Gran was repulsed by Pops’ injury, and he drank, so in the end it was all hopeless. And Dad finds it hard to forgive Gran for rejecting him. Complicated.

  This is the only thing we talk about now — me and Finn, me and Brenna, me and Finn and Brenna, me and Dad, Finn and Dad, Finn and Mum, me and Mum, no doubt Mum and Dad — though they must have been talking about it for two years now. They’re not as red-hot as Finn and me. And Brenna. She says she likes something to get her teeth into.

  Meanwhile, there’s Gran, fluffing round the edge of everything, same as usual, obsessed with the suitcases, when’s the taxi coming, obsessed with the mail, wondering who Dad is, repeating herself ad nauseam, mostly oblivious to objective reality.

  Not that Mum and Dad are all that big on reality either. God knows what’s going to happen long term with Gran. (Like when we go back to school in two weeks.) They haven’t decided anything yet. Dad’s too busy preparing for Veterans. Next week — did I tell you I’m going?

  I miss you so much. I wish you were here to talk to about all this. Please take care of yourself, come back to me whole. Love, Charlie Mike XXXXXXX

  ‘You been there?’ said Brenna. ‘Sunnyside? Ma’s friend Sheila, she was there for a bit when she was mad, couple of years ago. Gave me the willies. But imagine it in 1946.’

  ‘Full of soldiers, probably,’ said Finn.

  ‘Your generation don’t know how lucky you are, eh boy? No combat to put hair on your chest, curdle your brains.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Brenna, when I didn’t laugh. ‘Don’t worry about the lance-corporal, he’s peacekeeping. You’ve said it a thousand times. He’ll be okay.’

  We were on the verandah again. The summer seemed to have contracted to this one set, the lush garden as backdrop. And Jess Morton with a walk-on part. The sun shone day after day. So far it was the hottest, driest January on record. When it got too hot we turned on the sprinkler and ran round it, screeching like pre-schoolers. But mostly we just lay there, drinking iced water through straws, eating biscuits and raspberry buns, keeping an eye on Gran in a desultory sort of way, sometimes reading, sometimes listening to music, always talking. There was only one topic of conversation.

  ‘I have a cunning plan, m’lord,’ said Finn. ‘We do take Gran on another drive — to Sunnyside, or past it, anyway. No, don’t interrupt. Listen. It’s the only thing or place, apart from Ferry Road, that we know about for definite from 1946. And you think about it: Gran must have gone there to visit Pops quite a bit, and if you think about what was going on at the same time — whatever it was—’

  ‘—whoever—’

  ‘whoever—’

  ‘—it might’ve just been a one-night thing, unlucky accident, a passing sailor, a travelling salesman—’

  ‘You’ve got the wrong woman, Brenna! Gran isn’t like that, she wouldn’t have been like that, she wouldn’t just do a onenighter—’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘—if she was depressed, desperate—’

  ‘Shut up, both of you. If you think about it—’ But here came Gran, rattling down the hall, making her zillionth sortie to the verandah this afternoon. Her latest opening gambit was: What about a nice cup of tea? Followed swiftly by: I do wish you girls would show a little modesty. And: Taxi?

  ‘Right,’ I said, jumping up, knowing I’d howl if she started. ‘Attack is the best form of defence. Gran, tell me something?’

  ‘Yes, dear?’ She gave me one of her intelligent Bridge-champion looks.

  ‘Dumb idea,’ said Finn.

  ‘Doomed,’ said Brenna.

  ‘Remember when Pops was in Sunnyside—’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Gran, very curt. ‘We do not wash dirty linen in public. That’s impertinent. And please cover yourself up. You’re a most immodest young woman. Go and get some decent clothing on.’

  The weird thing was, while Brenna and Finn laughed themselves silly, I actually had to think twice, stop myself scuttling inside, doing what she said.

  ‘Thing is,’ I said, that night, after Gran had left the table, ‘she called it dirty linen, she knew what I was talking about.’

  ‘Course she did,’ said Dad, ‘she often does. It’s all in there, it’s just scrambled. Addled. Or is it coddled? Look, guys, it’s nice of you and everything, but I’ve been down this road. It won’t work. You’ll just go bananas with frustration.’

  ‘I think you guys lacked a little science in your approach,’ began Finn.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Dad, ‘I’ll have my people call your people.’

  ‘—like Christy—’

  ‘I was experimenting with shock tactics.’

  ‘Been there, done that,’ said Dad. He raised his glass at us. ‘If it passes the time — but you’ll end up biting your own bums.’

  ‘What’s your idea?’ Mum asked Finn.

  ‘Take her to Sunnyside and sort of—’

  ‘Rebirth,’ I said.

  ‘Since it was, presumably, a tricky time for her, Gran, you know, Pops—’

  ‘—under the weather,’ said Dad.

  ‘—and her seeing someone, well, maybe it’s sort of imprinted in her memory, I don’t know, just an idea.’

  ‘In a word — guilt,’ said Dad. ‘Play on her guilt. I thought about that, but I just couldn’t do it properly. To my mother. Didn’t seem right.’

  ‘I think you should leave it,’ said Mum, starting to clear away.

  ‘No worries,’ I said. ‘We just drive past Sunnyside, take her for a little walk in the grounds.’

  ‘Book her a room while you’re there,’ said Dad, putting his foot up on the bench extension, stretching. ‘Kill two birds with one stone. Christ! When does school start? We’ve got to get organised, Cush. You rung Nurse Maude?’

  Typical. Leaves it to Mum to make arrangements for his own mother. I started stacking dishes noisily.

  ‘—don’t really want her to,’ Mum was saying.

  ‘—give up work?’

  ‘—companion?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘—housekeeper.’

  On and on and on. I turned the tap on full blast and ind
ulged in a small Sonny reverie. Ten weeks until he returned. It would be practically winter. I’d be cruising through my last school year. Sonny would be at Burnham, we’d go out as often as we liked. I might sneak nights at barracks. A dreamy warmth spread through me as I contemplated the future, near and distant, stretching sweetly all the way to the horizon and beyond. The vista was hazy and unspecific, but full of goodness. I was sure of that.

  ‘—after the Veterans,’ said Dad. ‘Then I’ll give it my full attention.’

  ‘Really?’ Mum sounded doubtful.

  ‘For sure.’ He disappeared out the door.

  ‘Beryl calls,’ I said, lolling my tongue.

  ‘Show some sympathy for once, could you, Christy?’ snapped Mum.

  ‘I am!’ I was aggrieved. ‘What do you think this Gran stuff is about?’

  ‘I know what it’s about. You think that if by some miracle you can find out who Bob’s father is, there’ll be a nice tidy finish to everything. Somehow, miraculously, Gran won’t piss you off any more, or your father; things will be “normal” according to some specious definition you intuited at some stage—’

  ‘Thank you, counsellor,’ I said nastily. ‘I may be young — ish, but I’m not stupid. I do not think that it will solve everything, whatever everything is. At least I don’t float through the house pretending we’re the embodiment of suburban serenity—’

  ‘I try to st—’

  ‘I just want to know, and I think Dad does too but he’s lost the will—’

  ‘I just don’t think it’s important—’

  ‘Counsellors aren’t supposed to think, they’re supposed to listen—’

  A bony hand closed round my arm. ‘You need a jolly good clip round the ear,’ said Gran, ‘shouting at your mother like that. I wouldn’t take it, Cushla. No. I. Would. Not!’ She shook my arm with each word. ‘Now take yourself off and learn to keep a civil tongue in your head!’

  How come she could always remember how to do the interfering-old-biddy number? I mentally exterminated her.

  ‘This bit’s called “The patients take over the asylum”,’ said Finn, who’d been sitting all this time, playing drums on the table with his knife and fork.