by Graham Swift
He’d meant to take the knife—it wasn’t even stealing, to take a knife from your own kitchen drawer—but he hadn’t thought he’d be pushed into doing it as soon as he got home. And he hadn’t thought of all the other thoughts that would rush into his head—almost, so it seemed, into his hand—just before he did so. What it means to hold a knife, in a certain way, in your hand.
At twelve years old he knew he was fearless, or just about. He knew he could look anyone, or almost anyone, in the eyes and they’d give in first. So? So what are you going to do? The brothers perhaps recognised this quality in him.
So: a knife in your hand ought to make you even more fearless. But if you could be fearless without it, why have it? This was the real point. At twelve years old he understood that his fearlessness, rapidly acquired, might soon be over. He would not have the untouchability of being twelve.
He’d been in this same situation before—without the issue of the knife. In a little while Wes would emerge, perhaps buckling his belt. Wes had a belt with a big shiny buckle, part of which was shaped like a skull. But he wasn’t afraid of Wes. Wes wasn’t his enemy, he wasn’t his friend, and he’d just want to clear off anyway, but first they’d have to look at each other. Each time they’d done this before Wes had lost. At twelve years old he was good at looking, even looking at people like Wes who were more than twice his size and twice his age. There’d be a point when Wes’s eyes would flicker, as if to say, ‘So what are you looking at?’ Once Wes had actually said that. Now he didn’t say anything. There’d be just the flicker, then he’d clear off.
Wes was afraid of him. He was twelve, but Wes was afraid of him. Wes had a skull on the buckle of his belt and shoulders that bulged through his T-shirt, but Wes was afraid of him.
And now when Wes emerged he could go a step further. What was a knife for? He might not only look at Wes, but as he did so he might be holding a knife, pointing a knife. He’d never thought about this till moments ago. He’d never thought about it as he was coming home from school. Then there’d be an even bigger flicker in Wes’s eyes, not just a flicker, and he’d clear off even more quickly. And not come back.
Or he could go a step further still. This thought made his hand sweat. He could take the knife and just go into the other room and stick it in Wes’s back. Wes’s back might very probably be turned and bare. This is what a knife enabled you to do. The thought made him freeze.
Wes wasn’t his enemy. In some deep-down way he didn’t even mind his mum having Wes. He was something she needed. Maybe she got money from Wes. In any case she got something she needed. He didn’t even mind them being at it right now like animals and making their noises, even as he was standing here in the kitchen. It was just how it was. He understood very clearly now that it might also have been just how it was with his father, twelve years and more ago. So if he stabbed Wes it would be like stabbing his father. Which might have been the best and the right thing to do. Except he wasn’t around then to do it. If he’d stabbed his father then he’d never have been around at all. Which didn’t make any sense.
His father’s name was Winston. That was all he knew. Winston. Wes. Maybe his mother had invented the name Winston. She had to have a name, at least, to give him. His father had cleared off twelve years ago. Just like Wes would. And had never come back.
Outside, there were noises too, the noises of kids playing. Just kids playing, kids younger than him, cackling and screeching. Both the noises inside and the noises outside were like the sounds of animals.
Wes would emerge and look, and flicker, and clear off. Then there’d be quite a long gap, and then his mother would emerge. Then they’d look at each other too. It would be like him and Wes, but his mother would always win. When she emerged she’d have a deliberately lazy way about her, which he hated, as if she wasn’t going to hurry for anyone, and once when they’d looked at each other she’d thrown up her chin and said, ‘So what are you looking at?’ The very same words Wes had used once and failed. But his mother would always win. She was the only one who could.
And she was the only one he was really afraid of. In all the world. He was afraid of her even now. Once, his mother had needed to come and collect him from the police station. At twelve years old, or less, you could laugh at the police. He wasn’t afraid of the police. But when his mother had come to the police station she’d spoken to them all very obediently and softly, as if she were a child herself.
Then on the way home she’d changed, she’d kept trying to say things, but she couldn’t, her mouth had seemed not to know how to work. Then when they’d got home her mouth had tried again, but not worked either, and then she’d beaten him—hard, with the full swing of her arm and the full whack of her hand. It was an attack. It hurt. But he’d known she was only hitting him because she was incapable of finding the right words, she might as well have been hitting herself. She was hitting him because in some way she was afraid. He understood this. And yet he was afraid of her. His own mum.
Even now he was afraid of her.
Fear was a strange thing. Even right now, with these noises that were like a permission, he was afraid of the simplest thing. To take a knife from a drawer.
His mother might not even notice it was missing. Since when had she taken stock of what there was in the kitchen drawer? And even if his mother were to say later, ‘Where’s my knife? Where’s that knife?’ he might simply say he didn’t know, and shrug. It wasn’t his knife. Or he’d say it must have got chucked in the waste bin by mistake. Plenty of things did, including once one of her big orange bangles. Or he could say that it was another of the things Wes must have walked off with.
He could simply say that. ‘Wes took it.’
And if it really came to it, if his mother looked at him, not saying anything, but with a look that said, ‘You took it, didn’t you, Daniel?’ then he could look back at her with a look that said, ‘Well? So? So? What did you ever do to prevent me? What did you ever do to stop me going down this road? What did you ever do that was so right and good that you could tell me that taking a knife from a drawer was wrong?’
But he wondered if he could actually do that—and win.
It was the easiest thing. What was the simplest way of getting a knife? But he knew it wasn’t simple, since he knew there was the question: Why did it have to be her knife? Why did he want it to be her knife? He knew this wasn’t so much a question now as a question that would come later. A question that might even be his excuse. And even now it seemed he could hear people, people in the future, asking him the question.
Because . . . But couldn’t they see? Wasn’t it obvious? Because if it was her knife then anything he did with it—if he did anything—would have to have been done too by her. And if they didn’t see it (who were these people?) she would.
Because . . . Because she could talk about her father. She could talk about him and she could even talk about his father, her father’s father. And when you got back to him, to his mother’s grandfather—he even knew that his name was Daniel—then you were talking about someone who’d stepped off the boat. You were talking about fucking Bridgetown, Barbados. She had all that, she belonged to all that, and if she didn’t know what to do with it then that was her problem.
He belonged with the brothers.
It was a line, she had a sort of line. But he didn’t have it or want it, no fucking thanks. And everyone knows what you can do with a line. Everyone knows that when you’re born there’s this cord, but it doesn’t stay there for long.
Where is the knife, Daniel? What did you do with the knife? (Who was saying this to him?) What did you do with the knife?
Where is my knife, Daniel?
It was only something she’d have bought in a shop once. In Hanif’s Handy Store. A cheap kitchen knife. He couldn’t remember when he’d last seen her use it for what it was meant for. Slicing a piece of chicken.
He heard the kids outside and the thought came to him that one day he’d remember this moment,
he’d remember it very clearly and precisely as if he were twelve years old all over again. Standing here like this, hand over the drawer, not yet holding the knife. The smeared cartons. The kids outside. In his white school shirt with his tie insolently knotted so that just a few striped inches of it dangled from his neck.
He heard the noise his mother would start to make when things were getting near their finish. It was a rough gasping repetition of a single word, so rough and gasping you could hardly make out it was a word. It was like when she couldn’t find the words before she beat him. But it was a word, and it wasn’t a word that said don’t.
He put in his hand and took out the knife. It was the simplest, easiest, most ordinary thing, to take a knife from a drawer.
MRS KAMINSKI
‘MRS KAMINSKI?’
‘That’s me, dear.’
‘I’m Dr Somerfield. I need to take some blood.’
‘Take as much as you like. It’s no good to me.’
‘We need to do some tests. Are you feeling more comfortable?’
‘You should work in an English hospital, dear, a nice girl like you. The National Health Service, it’s the best in the world.’
‘This is an English hospital. It’s St George’s, Tooting.’
‘It’s the way to Poland.’
‘Are you Polish, Mrs Kaminski?’
‘No, but I’m on my way to Poland.’
‘I need to ask you a few questions. Do you know how old you are?’
‘Ninety-one.’
‘Date of birth?’
‘March the 4th, 1923.’
‘And your first name?’
‘Nora.’
‘Can I call you Nora?’
‘Please yourself. How old are you, dear?’
‘Twenty-five. Do you know where you were born, Nora?’
‘Carshalton, Surrey.’
‘Do you know what month it is?’
‘Why?’
‘You had an accident. A funny turn. A fall, in the street. You were brought here. We’re trying to find out what caused it all. Do you know where you live?’
‘Flat four, Romsey Court, Neville Gardens, Mitcham.’
‘You just said you were on the way to Poland.’
‘That’s right. Haven’t you noticed all the Polish people? They do the plumbing, the cleaning, the central heating. They mow the lawns. They do it all for us.’
‘Do you live alone there, at the address you just gave me?’
‘I don’t live there any more, do I?’
‘Do you have a husband, Nora?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is he?’
‘He went to Poland.’
‘When did he go there?’
‘1944.’
‘1944?’
‘June the 18th, 1944.’
‘That’s a long time ago. You said you were going there too.’
‘That’s right. I’ll soon be seeing him, won’t I? I just have to find him. Or he’ll have to find me. Perhaps you can help us, dear.’
‘Do you have any sons or daughters, Nora? Brothers, sisters?’
‘Relatives, you mean?’
‘Yes, relatives.’
‘I have a son. Ted.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘He went to Poland. He’ll be with his father. He’ll be there too.’
‘We should let your son know that you’re here.’
‘Of course you should. And his father. They’ll both want to know I’m here. You should go and find them for me, dear.’
‘I mean we should let your son know that you’re here, in hospital, that you’ve had a funny turn. If he’s your next of kin.’
‘Kinski. People sometimes just called us the Kinskis. He went to Poland. 1964.’
‘You mean he’s really living in Poland?’
‘He got a job as a boilerman. In a hospital. He had to keep the boilers going that kept the hospital warm. They gave him a boiler suit.’
‘This is a hospital, Mrs Kinski. Sorry, Kaminski.’
‘It’s the way to Poland.’
‘You’re confused. You’ve had a nasty turn.’
‘He hung himself in the boiler room. He hung himself by the legs of his boiler suit. He went to Poland. He went to join his father.’
‘I’m getting confused, Mrs Kaminski.’
‘You said I was confused, dear.’
‘What did your husband do?’
‘He was a pilot. He went to Poland. 1944.’
‘He flew there?’
‘He flew into the English Channel. Haven’t you heard of all the Polish pilots? There were lots of them. They came over here. They shot down Germans for us.’
‘So your husband was from Poland.’
‘Lodz.’
‘Lots?’
‘The white cliffs.’
‘The white cliffs?’
‘The white cliffs of Dover. The English Channel. They never found him. Little Teddy was born after. He never knew his dad. But he’ll know him now, he’ll have known him for a long time. They’ll be getting ready to see me. You must tell them where I am. It’s been such a long time. It will be so lovely.’
‘I’ll take that blood now. It won’t hurt. I’ll just dab your arm.’
‘Pour it down the sink, dear, when you’ve finished. Down the sinkski.’
‘What was your husband’s name?’
‘Ted. He was Teddy too. I had to call little Teddy by his dad’s name, didn’t I? But his real name was Tadeusz. It’s a Polish name.’
‘Tadeusz.’
‘Tadeusz. Ted’s easier. Ted Kaminski. My two Teds, they’ll be here somewhere. Do you speak Polish?’
‘So you have no relatives, Nora? No living relatives we can inform?’
‘We’ll all be together. If you just run along and find them for me, when you’ve finished with that blood.’
‘We have to do some tests.’
‘He flew into the drinkski.’
‘Mrs Kaminski—’
‘It was a flying bomb, dear. It wasn’t the Battle of Britain. He got through all that. Do you remember the Battle of Britain?’
‘I’m twenty-five. I wasn’t born.’
‘Nor was little Teddy. You’d like little Teddy. I can see it, you and him. But I was the lucky one, I had his father. Not for long. Tadeusz Kaminski. He flew into the Channel. I married a Pole. I didn’t mind at all. The Germans invaded Poland. And we’ll all be in Poland soon, we’ll all be together.’
‘This is England, Mrs Kaminski. It’s Tooting.’
‘A flying bomb. He shot it down. He blew it up, then he flew into the sea. That’s what they told me. But it doesn’t matter now. We’ll all be together.’
‘Nora—’
‘They were coming over by the hundreds, nasty buzzy buzz bombs. It was worse than the Blitz. Nothing you could do, except not be under one. Fifty, a hundred people gone in a flash. If they landed on a school. Or a hospital.’
‘Mrs Kaminski—’
‘Just think about it, dear, just thinkski. If one of them dropped right now on this hospital. I know it’s a hospital. You must have a boiler room somewhere. But I’m not here for long, I’m on my way to Poland. Just imagine. If one of them drops we’ll all be gone. You, me, doctors, nurses, all gone in a flash.’
DOG
HIS FATHER HAD once said to him, ‘Money doesn’t buy you happiness, Adrian, but it helps you to be miserable in comfort.’
He’d wondered ever since at this equivocal utterance. Was his father saying that his own life had been miserable? Or that life itself, as a working premise, was miserable? These possibilities were suddenly dreadful.
All he’d done—though it had taken courage—was ask for more pocket money. He wished he’d never opened his mouth. Perhaps his father, who was rich and not given to utterances, had felt the same.
His father had died long ago anyway, and he’d heeded the recommendation—if recommendation it had been. He’d made money himself, l
ots of it. He’d made it when it was possible to make lots of it and he was one of those clever or lucky ones who’d got out before losing it, and put it where it could keep working.
Now here he was featherbedded with the stuff. Which was just as well, with an ugly divorce and an estranged family to pay for. Though all that, too, was now some time ago and all the bills had been settled. So, had his father’s words been only wise? And what counsel—the same?—had he given his own children? Hugh, Simon, Rebecca. He couldn’t remember giving them any counsel at all. He couldn’t remember them ever seeking it. They were all grown-up now.
He pushed the buggy which contained his daughter Lucy, though he was old enough, easily, to be her grandfather, listening to her wordless burblings and knowing that he loved her wholly, that right now he loved her more than anything in the world. She shouldn’t really be there, she shouldn’t be there at all. He already had, he’d already raised, a family. He shouldn’t be pushing a helpless infant still years from articulate speech on a journey to the park. Yet he was, and he loved her completely and loved her burblings as if there were a string running directly from his heart to hers. He loved her as he couldn’t, in all honesty, remember quite loving his other, now adult children.
Whenever his new young wife Julia urged him to take Lucy for a buggy ride to the park so that she, Julia, could have some respite, he tended to feign reluctance or even resentment, for the simple reason that he didn’t want Julia to know that he really loved doing it. Nor did he want her to know that, though Lucy could sometimes be impossible at home, she instantly became utterly sweet-tempered once she felt him pushing her along.
He loved being alone with Lucy perhaps more than he loved being alone with Julia, though Julia, even after a difficult first pregnancy, was a beautiful slender woman with light brown hair, some twenty years his junior. Why, after all, had he fallen for her, then married her? But he knew (he wasn’t stupid) that the question was rather: Why had she inveigled him, seduced him into marrying her? Because she’d wanted a Lucy of course. A Lucy plus security.
And now look.