I told her that I had.
‘We don’t fully understand why whales do that but there have been many suggestions. Some people say that it’s to see the world and especially the sea from a different perspective, to catch a glimpse of what it is they spend their lives swimming around in. It’s like us humans sending rockets up to the moon only to spend the next fifty years gazing at the pictures of our own earth. The whales want an experience like that. A different view. Some people have suggested that it’s not a visual experience they’re after but a sensual one. When they breach the water they feel the full size and heaviness of their own bodies in the air. They feel gravity and dry cold and when they smack the hard brine with their full airborne weight they quake to their blubber. People say that they’re trying to brush off dead skin, barnacles, lichen, and that breaching is like a horse scratching its rump against rough tree bark. But it meets at the same point, doesn’t it? The need for a physical sensation that they can’t get any other way. That sensation becomes a fixation and each time after they feel it the pressure slowly builds until they can feel it again. I think it’s something like that for the whales. They swim around for days, weeks even, feeding and sleeping and breathing and they start to think about that last time they jumped clean out of the water and how it felt when their head, then their body and fins, and then their tail, all emerged from the sea, and how it felt to momentarily hover in a substance that fills their lungs but dries their eyes, and then they remember especially about how it felt to return to the water after their moment in the air. That thump. That splash. The whale continues to think about the breach, more and more, until the urge to repeat becomes irresistible and it erupts out of the ocean only to fall again into it. And so it’s sated for a while. Your Daddy’s like that, I think. Like one of the great whales. And when he fights it’s like one of their breaches. But bloodier, much bloodier. And it isn’t a lone act. It’s not just an animal and the elements. There’s another animal too. Another human. But it’s the same. It quenches him.’
Vivien and I spent the rest of the morning speaking of softer subjects and baking cakes iced with buttercream. She kept horses in the large field behind her house and there were always chores to interrupt our routine. We paused from our work to go out and feed them and to muck out the stable.
My sister returned from her rovings before noon. Her mood was sweeter than usual. She smiled broadly as she knocked the dirt off her boots and left them on the slate by the back door. Her face was hot red from the cold and dry from the chill of the wind. Her eyes were alert.
Vivien watched Cathy come in then returned to her task. She did not ask the girl where she had been or why. We were setting the table for lunch and Vivien handed Cathy the bone-handled cutlery to lay around the place-mats as if she had just come down from an upstairs bedroom. Cathy put the items in parallel sets and Vivien went to the cabinet to pull out the plates and napkins. I busied myself at the sink. I washed and dried the tall glasses that had been in the basin since the night before and placed them on the table next to a full jug of water.
‘Your father said he was going to bring us lamb chops from the butcher.’
‘From butcher called Andrew Ramsey?’ asked Cathy.
‘That’s him.’
‘Andrew Ramsey sometimes gives us cuts of meat for no money. They’re friends, him and Daddy.’
‘They must be.’
‘Daddy goes down to village to drink with Andrew Ramsey. He’s one of the only men Daddy will drink with.’
‘He must trust him.’
‘Daddy helped him with some business a while back. Andrew Ramsey had some trouble with a supplier and Daddy sorted it.’
‘He’s good like that, your father.’
Cathy nodded. Vivien went back to the kitchen to peel the potatoes and carrots. The chops would not take long to cook. She asked Cathy for help. Usually I did the kitchen work but Cathy was cheerful today and had started a conversation all on her own. They discussed the few people we all knew. Vivien told Cathy that her hair was looking lovely now that it was a little longer and she spoke about how tall she had become. Cathy told Vivien that even if she kept growing, I – her younger brother – would be bigger than her soon. Vivien looked round at me and smiled. I smiled back.
By the time Daddy came with the lamb chops the vegetables were peeled and cut and placed in pans of water resting on the hob. Vivien flicked on the gas beneath them and flames rose against their blackened bottoms. The chops were wrapped in a blue and white plastic bag. Vivien picked up a frying pan from the draining board and placed it onto the gas, wiping a knob of butter against its rim. She did all this with one smooth motion. Daddy stood beside her and pulled the meat from its wrappings. His hold was gentle so as not to spill the blood that had collected in the folds. They were Barnsley chops. A better cut. He eased the flopping maroon flesh into the pan and the fat hissed and cracked. Jess and Becky came up to his side and stuck their noses in the air and flared their nostrils to catch the savoury steam rising off the meat. I called them out of the kitchen and they did my bidding. They knew that if they did well now they might get scraps later.
Daddy and Vivien stood side by side in front of the hot stove. He was so much larger than her. The ribbed woollen jumper he was wearing accentuated the difference. The lamb was turned in the pan and when it was cooked through Daddy took each piece out with a fork and put it on a board to rest. The second two chops took less time. The pan was hotter and Daddy and Vivien preferred their meat bloody. When the carrots and potatoes were ready to drain Vivien took a colander from a low drawer and placed it in the sink. She poured the contents of each pan into it and then back into the empty pan and onto the stove for a few seconds to dry. The vegetables were then put into separate serving dishes with more butter and Cathy took them to the table.
We ate slowly and Daddy talked to us about Andrew Ramsey’s new abattoir. And then he talked about the boiler in Cybil Hawley’s bungalow that had exploded overnight. The barrel had split clean in two. Daddy had never seen anything like it. Hot water had come pouring through the house while she was sleeping in her bed and it was a mercy that her bedroom was on the opposite side of the house otherwise she might have been boiled alive. Daddy had cleaned the place up for Cybil as best he could then set her up in the spare bedroom of a neighbour. She was friendly with her neighbours. Most had been born in that street and had lived along it all their lives.
‘You take care of people and it always comes good in end,’ said Daddy.
Daddy did take care of people. He spent his mornings in the villages around or at the farms of tenant farmers. He had many stories like this.
After we had eaten and cleared away the dishes we left. Daddy walked ahead with our dogs, Jess and Becky, while Cathy and I scuffed our feet behind. The grass up to the house was damp. It must have rained while I was sitting in Vivien’s armchair talking to her as she stoked the fire. I thought about the things she had said, about Daddy and the whales, and about violence. The smooth soles of my shoes slipped with each step and more than once I had to put a hand out to steady myself.
We arrived home and Daddy went straight out into the woods with his tools. The shell of our house was sealed tight against the winter but the insides remained rough. Daddy was working on the lining and the floors. Wood was the material he used as much as he could. It was right there in the copse. Trees of different ages and different kinds.
He had a roughly built workshop and storehouse out there, sheltered by the copse so the thin walls and roof did not have to hold too well against the sudden winds that came up over the crest. He kept his tools in the house, to be safe, but took them out there to work on the wood he had collected and felled and sorted into stacks depending on type. Today he was working on walnut for a floor in the kitchen. He said it would last. He wanted everything in the house to last. Cathy and I had been given instructions to clear, clean and smooth the floor beneath so he could lay the wooden planks that afternoon. I had
asked Daddy if Vivien could come up for dinner, as a way of thanking her for lunch today and all the other lunches, and the lessons, and, secretly, because I wanted to talk with her again. Daddy said that she preferred to see us in her own house and that she would only come here rarely. He said she liked the indoors and the quiet of her own home and that she was stuck in her ways.
While Daddy was out in the copse, Cathy and I moved the table and chairs and other pieces of furniture into Daddy’s bedroom, then got down on our hands and knees to work on the floor. It was hard work. Our muscles soon ached. We scrubbed and smoothed and scrubbed and smoothed but regularly had to stop and stretch like we were getting out of bed in the morning.
As the sun set I pressed my hands onto the cold surface of the kitchen floor and pushed myself up to my feet. I picked the cheese board off the marble counter in the back pantry and carried it through to the kitchen. I spotted Daddy coming from the copse and went to the door to let him in. He smiled broadly at me and took off his gloves and coat and placed them on a chair in the hall. As soon as he had shaken off his boots, his Goliath arms pulled me into an embrace and I wondered what it would be like to touch a real whale, and knew that despite what Vivien had said, Daddy was both more vicious and more kind than any leviathan of the ocean. He was a human, and the gamut upon which his inner life trilled ranged from the translucent surface to beyond the deepest crevice of any sea. His music pitched above the hearing of hounds and below the trembling of trees.
After our dinner, Cathy and I trimmed Daddy’s hair and beard as we did every few weeks. He stripped to his white cotton vest and revealed deep scars on his broad shoulders and thick black hair on his chest. He knelt on the floor by a tin bucket filled with water that Cathy had heated. We stretched to reach his head. His daughter stood in front of him with a pair of kitchen scissors and a comb which she pressed against his cheeks and chin. She pulled at the coarse strands and knots in his beard but he did not flinch. She measured the lengths approximately with the comb and snipped and brushed then doused his face with the steaming water to wash away the specks of trimmed black hair. I stood behind and cut away damp locks. Inch by inch they met the keen blades and cascaded. As the jettisoned hairs fell through my fingers to gather around my feet, I softly brushed my knuckles against the back of my father’s neck. His skin was smooth there. As smooth as my soft inner arms or the insides of my thighs. He was sensitive to my touch. His whole body quivered and as it did I thought again of the whales. Their hides were sensitive like this despite their size. They were reactive and finely tuned. They could be tickled and teased and just a small human hand on a whale’s flank could cause the beast’s entire body to ripple in the waves.
After our Daddy was pruned Cathy and I set down our scissors and passed a hairbrush back and forth to draw across our father’s scalp and chin. As we did so he closed his eyes and tilted back his head. The beads of water on his face and hair glistened in the crude light from an oil lamp that sat upon the kitchen table and a kind of halo emerged around him as he relaxed each muscle in his body save those in his cheeks that tempted a satisfied smile from his plumped lips. I selected and unfolded a towel from the pile we aired near the stove and rubbed the crisp fabric against Daddy’s wet skin. He moaned with sedate pleasure.
III
I stop at a roadside cafe. The windows are thick with filth. Smog from the motorway has caught on the panes and spread like a fungus or a grimy frost. The road licks at the glass with an acid tongue. Plumes from a militant buddleia edge the car park and the cratered tarmac upon which the cars and lorries rest.
I push at the door. It sticks on the frayed linoleum but eases then opens. The sight of people is strange. I am filled with a kind of dread. But the scent of the oil and the frying meat and eggs and bread, and of steak and kidney puddings and mushy peas and chips cooking in dripping pulls me in.
I have not eaten well these last few weeks. Scraps from bins, berries from the verge, raw turnips from a farmer’s field. I ate a pizza that had been left out by the railway then spent the next day curled beneath a viaduct cramping and vomiting.
I have come to beg for hot food. I have come to beg for thick custard poured over apple cobbler. I want gravy over Yorkshire pudding. Bangers and mash.
People sit at tables. The sort with the chairs attached. Most are men and most are alone. Lorry drivers hunch over fry ups and magazines. An old lady in the corner is doing a word search puzzle. There is a family with small children at a table by the window. The children are picking at their baked beans and potato waffles. The mother and father grimace as they sip hot coffee. They are neat and tidy in appearance and delicate in their manners. They are out of place here and their eyes shift from each other to the people sitting about and to the servers behind the counter wiping greasy hands on greasy aprons.
‘What can I get you, love?’ The woman at the till has spotted me from the other side of the room. Her hair is wrapped in netting and a large part of her face is obscured by spectacles. She is wearing catering whites and her hands are placed firmly on the counter before her as if she is holding down the lid of a jack-in-the-box.
A couple of heads turn towards me. Most do not. I walk down the thin aisle between the tables. I want to be closer to the woman before I reply so I do not have to shout over the onlookers. I want to whisper.
It has been weeks since I have used my voice. I will be hoarse.
The woman smiles despite my filthy clothes and face. A good sign. She must get all sorts in here.
‘Hello,’ I say to her. ‘I wonder if I could have something hot to eat. Anything. I handt eaten owt hot in days. Only I’ve no money to pay. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be funny.’
She makes no sign of recognition. I said the words so quietly that I wonder if she has not heard.
She nods her head and her smile becomes that of sympathy. She turns to the girl behind her who cannot be more than seventeen and has blonde hair ripped into a tight bun. The woman speaks quietly to the girl so none of the customers hear. ‘Get this lad a plate of pie, yeah? Whichever we’ve got most of. And put a good helping of chips and veg on as well. I’m not putting it through till so you’ll have to go into kitchen and tell them.’
The girl looks me up and down then does as she is told.
The woman smiles sympathetically again. ‘Take a seat, love,’ she says. ‘I’ll bring you a pot of tea.’
The tea is well stewed. I mix in the milk and gulp it while it is still hot. The plate is brought. Meat and gravy pie with more gravy poured on the top. The peas and carrots are coated too. The plate steams and brings bitter evaporated Bisto granules to my nostrils. Chips on the side. I sprinkle salt and vinegar.
So much food.
The generosity of strangers.
Some strangers.
The out-of-place family get up to leave. They fumble for change and place some silver coins on the laminate table top. The little girl picks her nose. The boy takes hold of his mother’s hand. The door swings shut behind them.
I devour my meal. I look around to see if I am watched before licking the plate clean. I am brought hot apple crumble and custard and consume them as hastily as the pie. I lick the bowl. I take my plate and bowl and teapot and teacup and saucer and cutlery to the counter. I thank them all and thank them again and they smile and nod.
The kindness of strangers. The kindness of women. Women who share cakes with neighbours and volunteer their time with the local PTA. Women who listen. Women who talk.
I leave the cafe. The car park is bright and the surge of traffic is close and tight.
A lorry driver leans against his cab. He watches me then speaks.
‘Need a lift?’
Chapter Eight
Our mother lived with us back in the house with Granny Morley. At times. Now and then. She came and went. Like Daddy. Sometimes she would bring herself to our door, sometimes she would be brought. Sometimes we saw her before she went upstairs to her room. Sometimes we did not.<
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When she was at home she slept. It was as if she was a thousand years old and each of her days lasted a month. She would get up, get out of bed, and leave. Then she would return weeks later as if she were coming home from work or from a day out. Then she would sleep through her night while we came and went, got up and went to school, had lunches and dinners, went to bed.
When she arrived I washed her clothes. When she left I washed her sheets.
Her clothes she placed in a bag outside the door of her bedroom. Granny Morley would send me up to get it. I would bring it down to the utility room beyond the kitchen, which was always cold and damp. The cold and the damp rose from the worn linoleum floor and I would have to sit with my feet up against the gas fire for hours afterwards to feel dry again. The cold and damp soaked through my socks to my feet and up my legs to my body and head. So did the warmth when I sat at the fire.
I would empty my mother’s washing onto the floor, loosing the drawstring of the bag, turning it upside down and shaking it out with each bottom corner clasped between a thumb and forefinger. Tops, socks, knickers, bras, a pair of jeans. A small collection, carelessly strewn. There was carelessness too in the way the garments had been kept. The socks were well-worn at the heels and at the toes bobbles had appeared. Elastic had become detached from the small pairs of knickers, cut from synthetic fabric designed to imitate lace. There were more tallies than the lace-like fabric had intended and these were frayed. Whites were grey now and greys were lilac. Blacks that had been the colour of the night sky now had the smudged, matte finish of a rubbed chalkboard.
The jeans were worn at the knees and the crotch. Mainly polyester with elastane and a small amount of true, cotton denim, the jeans had stretched and retracted many times but now they had come to follow the contours of my mother’s legs and hips.
She was thin. Always so thin. The clothes had little definition but from them I knew her body. I knew the colour of her long hair, strands of which had fallen among the laundry. I knew the smell of her skin. I knew these things much better from the clothes than I ever did from seeing her, touching her, listening to her.
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