The Late Hector Kipling

by David Thewlis

  As I help her unpack the shopping there’s a long interrogation regarding my bald head and the bruises on my face. I manage to justify more or less everything and then it’s back to my thingy in the porch. This I cannot justify. ‘I must have been dreaming,’ I say.

  ‘About what?’ says Mum.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  We can visit Dad at seven o’clock. Until then me and Mum sit in opposite chairs wolfing down plates of paella and lettuce. The paella’s full of peas and they roll off my fork till I’m left with nothing but peas. Thirty, forty, perfectly spheroid, perfectly green, chemically shiny, stupidly salty, ignorant peas.

  Idea For a Piece: Ten trillion peas packing out the Turbine Hall of Tate Modern. Er ... that’s it. Peas In Our Time.

  ‘I thought you were going to go and see Eleni,’ says Mum.

  ‘I was going to see Eleni, I was, but then you rang and told me about Dad. How can I go and see Eleni when Dad’s lying in hospital?’

  ‘Have you heard from her?’

  I take a breath. I’ve spent most of the journey preparing for this conversation. I’ve been over and over every option. Finally, exhausted by the demands of duplicity and the relentless maintenance of my deceit, I’ve resolved to tell the truth. Every last detail. Well, not everything. There’s no need for me to go into too much detail regarding Rosa. I don’t have to talk about ropes and knives and flambéed nipples. In fact I should just leave Rosa out of it for now. But I’ll tell her everything else. I’ll tell her that Eleni came home, but I won’t explain the circumstances of her departure. But then Mum will want to know about her departure. Well, if I leave out the bit about Eleni actually coming home then I won’t have to get into the whole departure thing. And anyway if I tell her about Eleni coming home then I’ll have to explain why and that means telling Mum that Sofia’s dead, and I’m not sure that I’m up to that right now. Not right after the paella.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said have you heard from Eleni?’

  ‘No.’ There we go. Nicely handled.

  Mum clears away the plates and shuffles off into the kitchen, her slippers barely leaving the carpet. ‘Sparky’s still not turned up,’ she mutters as she banks the corner out of sight.

  ‘He will,’ I shout. Though I don’t know why, cos he obviously won’t.

  *

  Dad is stoned out of his mind. I don’t know what they’ve given him but he looks like William Burroughs, propped up on his pillows, drawling on about the hospital food. Christ, he even sounds like Burroughs.

  ‘And then they brought me some meringue, but I couldn’t eat it and it was covered in pins and the wool wouldn’t... it was singing that song. It was singing that song again.’

  ‘Right, Dad.’

  And he starts to whistle, but his mouth’s all dry and white and all that comes out are toneless little puffs of breath. ‘So what is that?’ he says.

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Derek,’ says Mum, placing her hand upon his, ‘don’t keep going on. You’ll tire yourself out.’

  He glances over with these new reptilian eyes and stares at Mum’s hairdo. ‘There’s Sparky,’ he says.

  ‘Dad,’ I interrupt, as Mum looks to the ceiling, ‘Dad, listen, my exhibition went really well. You know that I had that show opening? Well it went really, really well. I’ve got lots of commissions. I’ve written a letter to Michael Parkinson, asking if I can paint him. The National Portrait Gallery have shown an interest in that one. Should get a lot of money for that one. I’ll do it for you, Dad. I know how much you like Michael Parkinson.’ He’s looking at me, but he’s staring straight through me. And guess what, here’s the best part, you know that painting I did of you? Remember when I painted you? Well, it was in the show the other night and someone wants to buy it. And you know how much they want to buy it for, Dad? Eh?’

  No response.

  ‘For forty thousand pounds, Dad. Forty thousand pounds. And I thought that since it’s of you, then some of that should come your way. In fact all of it should go to you. What do you think of that then, Dad? How do you fancy forty thousand pounds?’

  Of course there’s not a word of truth in any of this. His pyjama buttons are undone and there’s a long strip of taped bandage cleaving his blue-and-mustard torso.

  ‘What do you say, Dad?’

  Dad looks at me as though I’m speaking Aramaic and turns to Mum. ‘Who is this?’ he asks her. ‘Is it Mr Chorley? Is it Baldy Chorley, that bingo caller?’

  ‘No,’ says Mum, ‘it’s Hector. Hector, your son. He’s had a haircut.’

  ‘Remember when he wa’ having a doo-dah wi’ that Mrs Slatt and he kept fixing it for her to win? It wa’ in the Gazette, ’bout three years back. He wa’ buggering about wi’ the balls, reading out whatever numbers came into his head, which were always the numbers where Slatt was sat. Remember that?’

  ‘It’s not Mr Chorley,’ says Mum, ‘it’s our Hector.’ She wipes his nose tube with her tissue. ‘Derek, it’s our Hector. Listen to what he’s saying. Did you hear what he just said?’

  No response.

  ‘It’s me, Dad. It’s Hector. I was just saying, remember that painting I did of you? Well, someone’s buying it.’

  ‘Ey up,’ says Dad, craning his neck to see behind me, ‘there goes that chair again, off out the door.’ He rests his head back on the pillow. ‘It’s a rum do,’ he says and closes his eyes.

  It was a beautiful thing. When we arrived home Mum made us both a cup of tea, set them down on the coffee table and then asked if I would draw her, like I did when I was little. And so I did. And you know what? It’s the finest drawing I’ve ever done, by far. She lolled back in her chair and sipped at her tea. As I unpacked my charcoals and pads she began to weep. I worked fast, scratching at the paper, describing mad, erratic loops and lines, sometimes from the wrist, other times from the elbow. When I tackled her hairdo, it came straight from the shoulder and maybe my lower back. I wet my thumb with spit and smudged every shadow, one by one, starting with the jaw, ending with the relief of the fringe on the brow. Mum wept the whole way through.

  ‘You know what this is about, Hector?’

  ‘What what is about?’ I said, breaking up another stick.

  ‘It’s all about that settee. All this would never have happened if I hadn’t bought that bloody settee.’

  ‘Well, you did, Mum, and that’s that. There’s no point in regretting what’s done. Where’s that gonna get you?’ I sharpened the charcoal with my teeth and returned to the eyes, reworking the lashes.

  ‘Do you know why I bought that settee, Hector?’

  ‘No, Mum.’

  ‘I bought it cos I’m not right in the head. I bought it cos something outside of me told me to buy it.’

  I stopped drawing. For the first time I noticed the tick of the clock on the wall. ‘What do you mean,’ I said, ‘something outside yourself?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said and wiped at her cheeks with a scrap of pink tissue. ‘Like a voice. Like someone else’s voice was urging me to say yes and write out a cheque. Not my voice. A man’s voice. The voice of a man. I knew I didn’t like the bloody thing. I knew that your dad would hate it. I knew it was too much money, but there was this fella, in my head, whispering, “Buy it, Connie, buy it, Connie. You know you want to.” And so I did, and I believed that I wanted to. Maybe it was because it reminded me of my grandmother. She had a settee a bit like that. Next thing you know, I’ve got my chequebook out and I’m booking a van. I don’t know, Hector,’ she said, ‘does all that sound queer?’

  ‘No, Mum,’ I said, ‘I understand.’ I worked on her nostrils.

  ‘I don’t want to go mad, Hector,’ said Mum, her face on her lap. ‘I don’t want to lose my mind.’

  ‘I know, Mum,’ I said, ‘I know what you mean. Neither do I.’

  This is my old bedroom. I mean it’s nothing like my old bedroom as it’s been my parents’ since I left home. The
wallpaper’s changed, the carpet’s changed, the curtains, the light fittings, the door handles, the door. I’d hardly recognize it were it not for the consistency of shape. It’s the shape that comes flooding back, like a smell. On the shelf above the mantelpiece there’s a framed photograph of my grandmother. The one feature that has never changed. Ever since I was born – and presumably long before – this small tinted photograph of Mum’s mum in bloom. She’s sitting on a bench in the garden of some stately hospice. She’s wearing a yellow cardigan and her ginger hair is all blown to one side. She’s smiling and nothing about the photograph suggests that three days later she will be dead. In the past I’ve turned this photograph to the wall, but not tonight. Not tonight Emily. Emily Lane, that was her name. I like that. I’ve always liked that. I like the way it sounds when it’s spoken out loud. I like the way it feels in the mouth. It’s a sensual thing.

  I undress and lie back on the bed. My breast is scabbed and seared. I think of Sofia. Poor, burned Sofia. I think of her. How could I not, at a time like this?

  So. She is gone. She has faded away to nothing in the space of a few days. Never to return. And what does it mean? How does it feel, Hector? What is your understanding of this? Can you feel it? Is there any part of your soul that can feel it, or is the loss merely somatic? Does any part of you register the shift? No? Well, then think about it. If not one part of you registers the shift then you’re not thinking about it enough, or rather, you’re thinking about it plenty, but the quality of thought is hardly incisive. Then make that incision. Dig deep. Dirty your hands. Dirty the whole caboodle. Don’t fear the dirt, Hector. Not now. Not now, mate. The dirt is all you have.

  All right, let me come at this from another angle. After all, this is it, Hector. This is death, this is really it – the real thing. At last, someone died. Now come on, get it together. This kind of thing is not to be sniffed at. Come at it from another angle, creep up on it from behind. Put yourself in Eleni’s place. The woman who bore me, the woman who fed me, bathed me, gave me suck. Gone. How would I feel? I turn out the light and lie there in the dark. How would I feel? Gone. Once and for all.

  Silence.

  A passing car.

  Silence.

  Fuck, I’m hungry.

  Silence.

  I sneeze. I sneeze again and quite enjoy it.

  Hmmm. So let’s think about this. Sofia. Beautiful Sofia. Dead. Dead. The end. Well, er ... now let’s see. Let me just think about this. It feels er ... Well, it feels ... or should I say, I feel? Yeah, that’s better. I feel. I feel er . . . Sofia, Eleni’s mother is absolutely dead, totally finished and done with and I feel er ... what? What do I feel? Er ... I feel...

  Shit! What’s wrong with me? Shouldn’t I be flailing around the mattress in a fit of impulsive despair? I’m not flailing at all. I’m dead still. And what’s this? What the fuck is this? Is that a smile. Is that the ghost of a smile creeping across my lips? Oh my God I think it is!

  Silence.

  I smoke a fag out of the window. The night is full of ice, and all these vapours pouring from my lips, creeping through my teeth, serve only to remind me that nothing is real. Nothing will ever be real. Nor was it real in the first place. I think of Descartes, but not for long. In fact I only think of how to spell his name and something I once read about how he shut himself up in some oven to have a right good think about things. I mull it over for a while and wonder if such a thing might help. After a minute or so I abandon the idea. After all, I’m five foot nine, and weigh fifteen stone; I’d be lucky to get one leg into Mum’s old Neff.

  I awake in the middle of the night and scribble something in my sketchpad. In the morning I read it back. I dreamt of a pig. An enormous pig. Forty foot tall, resting on its haunches. The pig told me a poem. Here is that poem in full, verbatim, unexpurgated:

  I am a joint of meat,

  Not veal, nor beef, nor lamb.

  My tail is short and sweet,

  I oink – therefore I’m ham.

  I make no apologies for this. I am not the author. Blame the pig. Or praise the pig. Whatever. I am not familiar with your tastes.

  The next day we sit with Dad for two hours, but he’s asleep the whole time. The nurse happens by every now and then and has a little chat with us. Eventually she introduces us to the doctor, Mr Poliakov, who was also, presumably, the surgeon, since he refers to the operation in the first person. I think he’s boasting a bit and take a consuming dislike to him. But then I’ve always disliked doctors. Something to do with their mania to save life at all costs. Things should never be that simple. Basically, Poliakov’s a bit worried about Dad. He’s not doing as well as the other blokes on the ward and his blood pressure is still alarmingly high. They’ve administered him some pills to thin things out, but so far, well . . . ‘We’ll just have to wait and see,’ says Poliakov, before strolling over to the other side of the room, consulting his notes.

  It’s difficult to think of things to say. Mum’s sat upright in her chair on the other side of the bed. What is there to say? How can we possibly discuss anything other than the crisis set before us? And yet how can we possibly discuss the crisis set before us? We sit there for another hour. It is the longest silence of my life. The sort of silence that might be broken at any moment. The sort of silence that may shift, but never does. That sort of silence. The worst kind, believe me – I know about silence.

  Dad’s face is as white as a plate. His hands are on the edge of blue, that blue that’s on the edge of grey. That grey that’s on the edge of green. That green that will soon give way to brown and all manner of blacks. For the first time in my life, I hold his hand. I don’t know what it feels like. I think of Rosa. God knows why, but I do. I wonder where she is, what she’s thinking. At one point I find myself wondering what she’s wearing. Something blue, perhaps. I look around the ward and feel sicker than the lot of them.

  If I don’t have a cigarette soon I’m going to explode all over this car. Mum’s curled up in the passenger seat going through a box of tissues. There seems to be no end to the tears in her head. I wonder if it’s possible to die from crying. Not that I’m in any danger of that. I keep my dry eyes on the road.

  ‘Do you want the radio on?’ I say.

  ‘Do I hell as like want the radio on,’ says Mum.

  ‘Righto,’ I say and pass her another tissue, as though she can’t do it for herself.

  Silence.

  ‘Mum,’ I say, ‘he’ll be all right, you know. Nothing’s gonna happen to him.’

  ‘We don’t know that, Hector,’ says Mum. ‘Don’t be an idiot. Your dad’s getting old. I’m getting old. In fact there’s no getting about it, we’re old, the pair of us. We might go at any time. You have to start preparing for that.’ She sounds a little cross with me. I wish she didn’t cos it makes me feel like running the car off the road into some shop window.

  ‘And how do I do that?’ I protest. ‘How do you prepare yourself for something like that?’

  Mum stares off to her left. ‘By accepting it as a real possibility. Not just by saying that everything’s gonna be all right all the time.’ She can’t look me in the eye. ‘Cos it might not be. There’s no good reason to say that it will be. You just have to give it some thought.’

  ‘I do, Mum,’ I say, ‘I do give it some thought.’

  Jesus, Mum! Jesus monkey-legs-Costello, do I give it some thought.

  She goes into the glove compartment looking for more tissues, but it’s empty save for a small torch and an old Liza Minnelli cassette.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she sniffles, ‘I’m ever so sorry.’

  ‘What are you sorry for?’

  ‘I’m sorry for leaving you alone.’

  ‘What do you mean, leaving me alone?’

  She’s got her hand over her face and the tears are running down her wrist. ‘I never gave you a brother or a sister. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Mum,’ I say, finding it difficult to carry on driving.

  ‘I’m sor
ry that there’ll only be you when we’re gone.’

  ‘Mum, stop talking like this. You’re still here, Dad’s still here.’ The road is turning into a billion scarlet crystals.

  ‘I’d like to have held a little grandkiddy before I ... to have seen some part of me and ... but I suppose that’s not going to ...’

  I pull over to the kerb and hit the brakes. ‘Mum,’ I say, putting my arms around her, ‘stop it. Please stop it. Today’s a day just like any other day. Yeah, Dad’s a bit sick right now, but he’s had an operation, and I know he doesn’t look too bright, but who does after something like that? And you will hold a little grandson or daughter. Both! Three of each! Eleni’ll come back from Greece, her mother will be fine, everything’ll be fine. Just give us a bit of time. Give yourself a bit of time. Give Dad a bit of time.’

  Mum opens the window and dries her chin. ‘Why have we stopped? Take us home.’

  We don’t say much more. Two miles pass in silence. Halfway through the third mile, pulled up at the traffic lights, Mum turns to me and belts me across the head with the wide, flat slab of her hand. She struggles with the door and runs off down the street, ducking into some alley. I’ve never seen Mum run before. Not even when I was little. Mum was never a runner. But she’s running now. There she goes, tiny little steps, bent at the waist, her handbag flying out behind her. Christ, she can shift, can the lass. Look at her go. I can’t find it within myself to follow. Maybe she longs for me to follow, to take her in my arms and promise never to go. Or maybe she wants to be alone. In which case I’m a good son, cos that’s the way I leave her.

  The lights have turned green but I’ve forgotten how to drive the car. You might as well ask me to drive the space shuttle. All I can see is dials and pedals. None of it means anything. A mob of horns break out behind me. A couple of cars get it together to pull wide of me and pass, but the remaining six, stranded back at red, let loose their fury with a sequence of klaxons and curses. This is the new music. Music to make your skull glow. I step out of the car and walk to the car behind. The driver winds down his window relishing the prospect of a good old-fashioned exchange of accusation and slander, but I’m having none of it. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of only words. Like Kirk said, ’Words mean nothing at all’ I step back and balance precariously on one leg, whilst thrusting the other into the cabin of my accuser. My foot connects with his head and his dentures fly out onto the passenger seat.