Surge

by Frank McGuinness

  ‘Two sugars for you, boss. Have you any jobs for me? Come on, boss, give me something to do. You don’t even have to pay.’ He had the confidence of a rogue.

  Initially, Mr Holmes put him with the girls at the table collating the sections of books: a simple job, putting the pages in order. Jimmy picked it up easily – the girls mothered him to within an inch of his life – but his attention strayed, he had too much energy to spare. Whenever he saw Mr Holmes at the guillotine he would go and join him, busying himself sweeping up the offcuts. He was a self-starter, a quality his boss admired.

  ‘Steer clear of this monster if you value your fingers,’ Mr Holmes warned, as the blade sliced through reams of paper, shearing it into quires. He wiggled the stumps of own index fingers. It was an occupational hazard; he had lopped them off in separate incidents years before. ‘You might need them to pick your nose from time to time.’

  Jimmy gave a funny hiccupy laugh, and Mr Holmes realised that it wasn’t just the machine that interested the boy; rather, he needed responsibility and the company of men. The boss knew this from his own childhood without a father. So, he introduced him to Ambrose, who ran the darkroom, who showed him how to wash the used silk screens, how to hose every trace of the photographic film from the mesh in a special bath. Jimmy was in his element and worked harder than men twice his age. Even the men running the litho machines on the factory floor took to him – an achievement in itself. He became their mascot. And at the end of the week, he got his own brown envelope of cash, his name typed on the front: Jimmy James.

  When his mother went into hospital the following summer – some female problem, nobody liked to ask – Mr Holmes took Jimmy to his house to stay. He had presented Hilary with a fait accompli. Where else could the child go? Their own children were reared, Paddy was qualified, Elaine was married. There was plenty of space. She couldn’t say no. And she didn’t; she understood that her husband wanted to give this boy a chance.

  ‘And I’m on my way out, according to the top man, off to meet my maker,’ Mr Holmes said, almost proudly, pointing to the tablets. Then, tapping the asterisk on 5 February on the calendar, continued, ‘a hundred and sixty-six days to go.’

  Buckled by sudden sadness, Jimmy simply said, ‘Oh.’

  They drank their tea and had biscuits from the stock the daughters had bought. Mr Holmes took his first daily dose of pills.

  ‘Any tomatoes or cucumbers? Or is it too soon?’ Jimmy enquired with forced excitement, deliberately changing tack.

  ‘Ah,’ the old man said, with a wave of his hand, ‘the glass-house blew down.’

  He was embarrassed by the state of the garden; what was once a model of precision was now ragged and overgrown. He could hardly bear to look out at it any more. He continued, ‘Do you remember? You hounded me round that garden, like a pup at my heel. We had it shipshape between us. And you, eating all around you. Do you remember, throwing up that time? The tomatoes were green.’

  Jimmy’s smile turned into a crumple. ‘I sure do, boss. Sure do.’

  ‘Long time ago.’

  ‘And what about the factory?’

  ‘Sold. I thought Dennis might have some interest, but, no.’

  At one point, Mr Holmes had hoped he might be able to guide Jimmy, and eventually hand it on to him. But that dream went awry. There was never a chance that Dennis would step in, too educated to get his hands dirty. He wasn’t a grafter, not like his old man.

  ‘It must’ve been hard to see it go.’

  ‘It was,’ Mr Holmes said, and shrugged. He had hung on for as long as he could. The family plagued him to retire. Then, when he did, and Hilary died, he was left with nothing to occupy him. Marooned. He didn’t want to go over that ground again.

  ‘Is there a girl?’ he enquired.

  Jimmy laughed, ‘I’m a man. What more can I say.’

  ‘So nobody special?’ Mr Holmes prodded, without hiding the disappointment in his voice. He wanted him to have an anchor in his life, somebody to moor him, to see his worth.

  Jimmy took his time answering; his eyes didn’t lift from the floor. Yes, there had been a woman. Between them they had had a little girl, but things took a bad turn. There was no explanation why. He went under. Hit rock bottom. He hadn’t been allowed access for years. ‘The fall out of love, boss. I tell you, it’s dog rough.’ The tumble could be heard in his words.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jim,’ Mr Holmes said, squeezing the younger man’s hand. ‘You deserved better than that.’ All the preparation in the world couldn’t protect a man from that sort of knock.

  Jimmy got up and rinsed out their cups. He flicked on the kettle and refilled the milk jug. It reminded Mr Holmes of how easily he got the hang of things. How could he not have luck?

  ‘And work?’

  Jimmy raked his hands through his hair. ‘Ah, ducking and diving … labouring … landscaping …’

  ‘Is that where you got the scars, pruning roses?’ Mr Holmes asked, deliberately trying to lighten the mood. Not wanting to revisit his catalogue of drink, drugs and hard luck, Jimmy acted like he hadn’t heard. ‘A bit of security. Whatever I could pick up. But now I’ve decided to come back. Home. It’s time to get myself back on the road. A clean start.’

  As Jimmy made fresh tea, Mr Holmes wondered what could have prompted his return, whether he was on the run from something. He didn’t seem to have picked up any skills. He was certainly broke. ‘I could give you a dig out. Until you set yourself up.’

  ‘Stop it now, boss. Please. Don’t embarrass me,’ Jimmy said with sudden force. ‘That’s why I came to see you. I still owe you from before.’ Back when he first left for London, he would only accept the money Mr Holmes had given him if it was a loan. He’d pay him back. He swore. But no roll of notes appeared from his pocket. Instead, he poured the tea and sat back down. Mr Holmes was suddenly skewered by exhaustion. He wasn’t used to company, having to make conversation, and this was like joining the dots. When his children came, they didn’t say much. It was all part of a pattern. They asked how he was, and he’d answer, ‘Hanging in there.’ And that would be that. There might be some mention of what was in the newspaper, something to do with one of their children, and then they’d turn on the television or do some jobs around the house. All of this talking and remembering had worn him out. Though he would normally sleep on the couch, right now he longed for his bed.

  ‘Would you mind if I went up for a doze? I’m in what used to be your room now, away from the noise of the road.’

  Jimmy helped him up the stairs and into the boxroom. It still smelled of talcum powder and musty potpourri, but it seemed smaller than before. When he stayed there that summer, Jimmy claimed that he couldn’t sleep with the door closed. He had never heard anything like Mr Holmes snoring. He used to lie in bed laughing to himself at it. A big ruffle of a sound that he repeated to general amusement on the factory floor.

  ‘I’ll hang on till you wake,’ Jimmy said, as he sat the old man down on the bed. He slipped off his shoes for him and covered him with the duvet, like a child.

  ‘Look,’ Mr Holmes said, and pointed to a glass marble wedged into a knot in the floorboards.

  ‘Still there,’ Jimmy said, laughing, remembering his struggle to shove it in, hammering it down with his shoe.

  ‘Yes,’ Mr Holmes said, and smiled.

  Jimmy left the door ajar.

  In the seconds before sleep, the old man made some decisions. He would change his will, sort Jimmy out, finish what he set out to do by giving him a late bite of the cherry. He would phone the solicitor tomorrow. Yes. Go into town himself if necessary.

  Mr Holmes then drifted off to the hoarse haaw of Jimmy pushing and pulling the lawnmower outside.

  Heroes

  Sheila Llewellyn

  Moscow, December 1998. I walk out of the Metro station, and Tanya is there to meet me. She looks as elegant as ever, fur-trimmed shapka at a slight angle on her head, the sparkly pin at the side catching the weak winter sunl
ight. We hug, then start to pick our way through the fresh snowfall along a short strip of road. A sub-zero wind needles my nose and makes my sinuses throb.

  Tanya’s flat is on the tenth floor of a fifteen-storey block from the Khrushchev era, in a run-down district of South Moscow. Two blocks stand either side of the road connecting the station to the flats. And that’s it. Accommodation at one end, efficient transport to work at the other. The old Soviet way: maybe no worse than the West, just stripped down to the essentials.

  ‘Say what you like about the Russians, everyone has a job and a roof over their heads.’ My uncle’s voice. He’s just said this to my father. They’re both long dead, but since I came to Russia two months ago, they’ve been with me, taking turns to tweak my memory. This time, it’s 1960, and I’m twelve, sitting between them on my uncle’s sofa, watching newsreels of the May Day parade from Red Square. They trade the usual arguments – my uncle, a socialist, veteran of the thirties hunger marches, Manchester Area Secretary of his trade union, and my father, who left fifties Britain behind, made good in the West Indies and has no truck with politics.

  Their spat about the Russians is shorter than usual. My father would rather talk about organising my schooling. He’s going to do the unthinkable – he’s sending me back home. I’ll be boarding at a school close enough to stay weekends with my aunt and uncle. The arrangement suits everyone but me. I’m angry with my father, and I’m miserable. It’s been just the two of us for as long as I can remember. I’ve never been without him.

  While they’re sorting things out, I watch the parade. Children, athletes, ordinary Russian people, all carrying flowers and giant-sized paper doves. Over the black-and-white footage, a BBC voice is saying that this year the Soviets are showing they want peace. Then they show shots of last year’s 1959 parade. Endless blocks of soldiers and sailors marching with a pointy-toed hint of a goose-step, followed by tanks and rows of rocket-launchers dwarfing the people. The missiles come last: fat ones, sleek ones, rolling on and on. ‘That’s the real Soviet Union,’ says my father.

  My uncle turns the sound down.

  Tanya and I pass a few babushki – it’s Saturday, so they’re out selling eggs and undefinable meat displayed on planks placed across upended plastic crates. Kiosks are also open for bread, alcohol, cigarettes. Tanya stops to buy rye bread, and she and the babushka mutter about the price.

  ‘They won’t be around much longer, our babushki,’ says Tanya, nodding towards the Universam supermarket near the flats. Once state-controlled, it’s just been privatised by the Russian equivalent of Tesco. Economics, or mafia muscle, will force the babushki out of business.

  The smell of male sweat, lavender air freshener and stale tobacco hangs about the lift doors of Tanya’s block. Graffiti on the walls praises ‘Metallica’ and suggests we ‘fuck off’. I express surprise that ‘fuck off’ is written in English, and Tanya says our British Council initiative of providing free English lessons to young Russians is obviously a success.

  The lift groans but it works and lugs us to the tenth floor. Tanya’s mother, Julka, opens the door, and I glimpse Olga, Tanya’s daughter, flitting across the tiny hallway in a pink Adidas tracksuit. Julka insists on showing me round before we have lunch. The flat is small but has three rooms, a luxury, but Julka’s husband, dead ten years, was a senior engineer and a solid Party man. She’s proud of the view from the living-room window. The tiny patch of land below, she assures me, is green under the snow. In the centre is a pond, frozen over. Two small boys are using an old tyre as an ice toboggan, harnessing themselves to it with a red plastic rope and squealing as they pull each other across.

  Tanya comes back into the living room carrying plates and cutlery. ‘There are carp in the pond in summer,’ she says, straight-faced.

  ‘Carp?’ I can’t keep the squeak of disbelief out of my voice.

  Tanya and her mother burst out laughing. ‘Not really, no carp. Just crap. Crap all year round,’ says Tanya. It’s not the first time her humour has caught me out.

  The living-room walls are lined with books, some in English and French. ‘Studying is a way of life for us,’ says Julka. She’s a retired teacher and admits to listening to the BBC World Service back when it was banned. Next to Dickens, Hugo and Shakespeare, there’s an Edward Said paperback: Culture and Imperialism. Olga is doing an MBA at Moscow State.

  ‘Moscow State University, that’s where you should go. I could fix a scholarship through the unions,’ says my uncle. It’s 1966. I’ve just moved into the sixth form.

  ‘Bugger that. Your headmistress tells me you’re bright enough for Oxford,’ says my father, when I write and tell him what my uncle has said.

  ‘Oxford, then Moscow State, you wouldn’t be the first,’ says my uncle. I like the idea of Oxford. I’m not sure about Moscow State, but I don’t tell my uncle that. After years of bouncing between his idealistic politics and my father’s hedonistic lifestyle, I’m beginning to filter what I say to them both. It’s a skill I’ve kept with me into adulthood.

  Family photographs crowd the bookshelves: Julka’s husband, bare-armed and stocky, sitting under a plum tree outside their dacha; Tanya’s husband, in military uniform, round-faced, full-lipped (he was killed in Afghanistan); Olga, a toothy baby on her father’s knee.

  The three women sitting on the sofa in front of the bookshelves all have the same high cheekbones and brown eyes, but Olga has her father’s mouth. As I look across at them, I get a lump in my throat. At first, I can’t work out why.

  ‘Think of the history sitting on that sofa,’ my uncle pipes up. Maybe that’s partly it: grandmother born when Lenin was in power, daughter born the year Stalin died, granddaughter living more of her life after Communism than under it. Three generations of women and their men behind them in the photographs, stretching over the century. But it’s not so much the history, it’s their sense of family, still close, still part of each other’s lives. That’s what moves me.

  Lunch is pierogi (vegetable pie) and ploff (spiced lamb and rice), followed by bottled plums from the dacha. Olga ignores the plums, cuts some white bread and spreads Nutella on it. Early afternoon, we decide to go back into Moscow, to Red Square. Olga wants to see the new Revlon counter at GUM, now the department store for Russians with spending power. She changes into her denims. Julka’s not coming with us. Moscow’s no place for the old these days, she says, but she gives her granddaughter some roubles to treat herself. As we leave, she kisses me on the cheek and says I must visit again, we’ll talk more about the old Russia. The lump in my throat comes back.

  I like her, and I’m not good at goodbyes.

  Red Square isn’t square, it’s bent-out-of-shape rectangular. It’s not as vast as it appeared on those sixties May Day newsreels, and the balcony where all the party leaders stood is only about twenty feet off the ground, not as high as it looked back then. Of all those grim-faced old men loaded with medals who stood there waving and saluting, I can only remember Khrushchev.

  ‘Bloody peasant, he’s taken us all to the brink.’ My father is trying to tune the radio, cursing the poor reception but mostly cursing Khrushchev. October 1962, and I’m with my father for half-term, in a rented cottage in Wales. The Cuban crisis has been ratcheting up all week, and he spends every evening searching for ‘Voice of America’ on the radio or fiddling with the silvery aerial feelers on top of the juddery TV, so he can watch the news. We listen to President Kennedy’s speech. He pronounces Khrushchev as Kroo-shof and says the Soviets have nuclear missiles in Cuba that could strike against the Western Hemisphere.

  My father explains to me that this is dangerous but says I shouldn’t worry.

  On Saturday, we go to the village, but there’s scarcely anyone around, and the shopkeepers seem in a hurry to close up. About eight o’clock in the evening, my father switches off the radio and starts to talk to me. What am I reading? Is it good? What do I want to do when I leave school? He might have to go to Quebec next summer. Would I like to
go with him? Then he says he’s sorry he’s had to send me back to school in the UK, he misses me, but it was the only way I could get a decent education.

  It’s the first time he’s talked to me like this, and it feels strange, this grown-up way of doing things. He keeps making me cups of cocoa as the evening goes on. About midnight, he says maybe I should go to bed. I can’t sleep. Every noise is a May Day missile. I get up to go to the toilet and see my father asleep in his armchair, the radio crackling beside him. I wake him up, and he says, ‘Go back to bed, you’ll get cold.’ He hugs me.

  Sunday morning, he brings me a cup of tea in bed and tells me ‘Voice of America’ says Khrushchev has broadcast on Radio Moscow: the weapons in Cuba will be dismantled. He tickles my feet and tells me we’re going out for lunch. Sunday evening, he drops me back at my uncle’s house. Friday, he leaves for Barbados. The whole of that week, my uncle never mentions Cuba.

  I press my bare palm against the freezing brick of the Kremlin Wall and run my finger over the plaque, picking out the name in the Cyrillic alphabet.

  ‘He was my hero, Yuri Gagarin,’ says Tanya.

  ‘He was everyone’s hero.’

  ‘He’s a foundry man, and he likes Manchester,’ says my uncle. July 1961, three months after Yuri’s space flight. My uncle’s fixed it so we can see him at Trafford Park where the Union of Foundry Workers has arranged for him to visit. Yuri’s bright-green uniform almost glows among the grey suits and drab overalls. He’s small, towered over by the men around him, but my uncle explains he has to be, to fit in the space capsule. ‘Yuri! Yuri!’ We all shout. Later, he goes by in the motor parade, and we get a good view of him because he refuses to put the hood of his car up.

  He thanks the people of Manchester for waiting in the rain to welcome him and wins everyone over with that sunburst of a smile.