‘Nichollas, the lawn! Where are the stripes?’
‘Wot?’
‘ “Wot?” You don’t mean “what” by any chance do you?’
‘Where’s what?’
‘Aah, so you can speak correctly after all! It wasn’t so difficult, was it?’
Nichollas stares forlornly out across the bombsite.
‘I want clean stripes, like a football pitch!’
My father doesn’t even look at me. I don’t do lawns.
It’s time to go. We have to go and see my mother. The old man ushers us outside.
‘Come along then, chop chop! Up off the floor, Steven! And tidy yourself up, for God’s sake! It looks like you haven’t washed your hair in weeks! It looks like a bird’s nested in it!’
That makes me smirk. A bird — is he serious? He points his eyes at me, then marches out towards the kitchen . . .
‘What on earth have you boys been up to? My God, you weren’t born on a gypsy site, were you?!’
He throws himself onto the sideboard and pulls a great pile of dirty plates down on top of himself.
‘Jesus! What have you been doing? Look at this mess! Have you been eating glue?’
He chips at a plate, congealed, enamel-like, set.
‘Here! Both of you, this instant!’
We have to stand in front of him. We saunter over, me last.
‘Now, take a good look around you, young gentlemen, and soak it all in. Stop fiddling with yourself, Steven and take your fingers out of your ears!’ (Apparently, I’ve got cabbages growing in there.)
‘Are you pleased with yourselves? That you can’t be trusted to keep this place ship-shape? Is this what I can come to expect? Well, is it? look at it! Every single pan reeks of the stuff! It stinks like a glue factory! Everything’s stuck solid!’
‘It’s instant mash . . . that’s all there is.’
‘All there is? Well, don’t mope about here complaining, go out and earn a living, dear boy!’ We look at him vacantly. ‘If you haven’t got any money, get out there and make it happen!’
He scrapes a knife through the tarmac and sniffs at it.
‘So this is what you get up to whilst I’m slaving away keeping you in shoes and pocket money? Think of your poor mother! of what you’re doing to her! She’s ill with worry over you two! Now clear it up, the pair of you! Chop-chop! At once! You know where the sink is! Jump to it!’
We dip our hands into the water, tepid, a film of oil, not a sud in sight. We play with the dishes. That stuff certainly had a way of adhering to any surface, cement-like. The old man marches into the drinks cabinet, pours himself a treble and goes upstairs to play with his shirts.
‘I’ll be in the master bedroom. I’ll be down in a jiffy! We don’t want to be late!’
We watch him go, our skunk with the beard. Why don’t we take a leaf out of his book? He only wines and dines in the finest of restaurants. Why all this damned mess eating at home?’
He checks his pornography books, then we hear him coming back downstairs.
‘If you young gentlemen think that I’m going to stand any more of this slovenly, uncouth behaviour, then you’re sorely mistaken!’
He grasps hold of a half-eaten pan of mash and brandishes it like a stick of celery. He wags it under Nichollas’s face.
‘Clean this shit up before I brain you with it!’
My brother doesn’t bat an eyelid — he stares him straight back, right up his nose. The world grows hushed. The old man’s hair shimmering in the lamp light. I can see all the roots, the bits where he’s missed with the peroxide. His eyebrows do a little gallop, then he backs down. I can’t believe it — first the old coot’s bristling with it, then his cock goes soft. He replaces the saucepan. He lets it splash back into the sink and beats a retreat. One second they’re eyeball to eyeball, the next he bottles out. A new and unexpected development; no blood’s spilt, but something to remember, the fable of the worm. I take a swig from his whisky bottle and top it up with piss.
Once we get the kitchen halfways tidy we lock up, climb into the old man’s bone-shaker, and head out towards the hospital. I stare out the window and hold my breath trying not to chuck up. The winter sun running along beside us: orange-black; orange-black; now you see it, now you don’t. Some more trees and a stretch of water. I’ve always loathed motor cars, but hated those winter journeys in particular. The low sun glaring, always finding your eyes, and the stench of upholstery. The trees go past and you feel sad.
We pull in through the stone gates and poodle up to the visitor’s entrance. The old man peers into the rear-view mirror and twists the ends of his moustache.
‘Comb your hair, you boys! I want you to look like young gentlemen . . . And mind you don’t traipse mud onto the ward!’
He climbs out and leads the way. He barks at us, I have to get off the grass . . . He finds the exact right corridor, and then her bed . . . He counts them off as we pass, and then there she is, laid out for all to see, ghostly.
We have to look twice to make sure it really is her. The old man beams . . . It certainly cheered the old bastard up seeing her sprawled out like that, prostrate, so to speak. He has to lean his weight on nursy . . . He goes weak at the knees . . . She brings him a cup of tea and he perks up a bit . . . even manages a few wise cracks . . . It seemed he might be rid of her at long last...
She tries a smile . . . We’re not allowed to kiss her on account of the TB. We just sort of wave and stand back. The old man tells me to take my hands out of my pockets.
‘You look splendid, Juny. The boys are doing fine at home! Don’t worry yourself, you just concentrate on getting better! I’ve spoken to the staff nurse, I left her a little something for you . . . We’ll come again when you’re not tired . . . Your mother’s very ill, you boys, so I don’t want you worrying her! You’re grown up young gentlemen now, you can look after yourselves, can’t you?’ My brother nods and gives me a dead leg.
As soon as we get back home, the old man starts preparations for moving in his cutie. Every evening he brings home another car-load of household gadgets. He even gives us some extra pocket money to tidy ourselves up, on condition that we try out the new Hoover.
‘Steven, I don’t want to see any of your council house roughs hanging about the place! We’ve got a special guest this weekend, so I want the place spick-and-span!’
Then, Friday night he rolls in with his Elisabuff on his arm. That makes my brother suck his teeth. Me too. To tell the truth, I eye the lot of them sideways.
The old man’s eyes glint like shillings . . . He finds the sofa and sprawls out. He puts his feet up and pulls her down on top of him . . . She giggles and farts. The old man picks up the bottle and empties a pint of gin into his delicate little kisser. Damp round the edges, little pearls of moisture, his tongue lapping at the teat. He swings his head round like a cricket bat and nuzzles between her breasts, her cooing like a dove. She pushes him off and adjusts her knickers in her crack.
‘Elisabeth, these are my boys! This is my eldest son Nichollas! And this is Steven, the stupidest! Boys, this is Elisabeth, your new mummy.’
‘E-lis-a-buff!’ She shrieks and falls back on the old man’s lap . . . ‘Give me a dwink, daddy!’
‘Nichollas! Fix a drink for Elisabeth! A drink! Come along, chop-chop! Show her what a young gentleman you are!’
Nichollas jumps to it, he shows willing. He pours her a vodka and hands her the glass. The old man grabs it back.
‘That’s not a drink! That’s not even an eye-wash! Fill the glass! Go on, go on!’
My brother empties the bottle, he glugs it out.
‘There, that’s it, that’s much better, now that’s what I call a measure! Pour yourself one, Nichollas, you’re a young gentlemen and it’s high time you learned to drink!’
He pats the cushion next to him. ‘Come along, Nichollas, come and sit by your father! Father and eldest son enjoying a little aperitif together! Come and say hello to your new m
ummy.’
I sit and watch them from the floor. Their faces, the tongues lolling, my brother and my father, a sort of belated love affair, this new game. They clink glasses and laugh, warming to each other. The old man pulls out his onion and sticks his finger up his nose.
‘Steven, it’s past your bed time, it’s time you were off to bed!’
I don’t move, I sit tight; he looks to me, then to the others.
‘I just don’t know how to get along with that child!’ He shakes his head. ‘He smells! He’s backward! And his feet are too big.’ He grins, opens his trap and shows them his caps. ‘Now Nichollas? -Yes! But him? — No! Not until he’s twenty, not until he’s twenty-one maybe, then I can see us getting along famously, but now?’ He shakes his head sorrowfully . . . ‘You wouldn’t believe what a sickly child he was . . . Steven! I said you were such a sickly, whining child! You remember, don’t you, Nichollas?’
Nichollas nods, he’s in full agreement. ‘He was always crying. He cried all the time . . .’
‘That’s right, he cried constantly! And I had to smell his nappies . . . You were both babies and I had to see your shit and piss! And you cried and you stank! When you’re twenty-one maybe, but not before! My God, you used to cry so much that your mother had to kick your cot! Really, she had to! You were a thoroughly obnoxious child, Steven! And you’re growing into a vulgar youth! Look at those feet! What size are they? He’s out of all proportion!’
He slaps his thighs and puts his face right into Elisabuffs pancake. He delights himself, he re-explains, he swings his head around in ever increasing circles, spittle flying as he speaks, gesticulating, flashing sharp glances at me.
‘Isn’t that true, Nichollas?’ Nichollas nods furiously. The show’s all for him and he must show how much he appreciates it.
‘Yes father, he wouldn’t stop crying, and I smashed a pedal bike into his head!’ He pulls me up by my jumper. ‘Stand up and show her the scar, Steven!’
I pull back and sit down, a button pings off . . . I look for it...
‘Shush, the pair of you!’ The old man scans his audience. ‘You’re not so grown up that I can’t still bang your bloody heads together!’ He turns to me again. ‘You were an obnoxious baby, Steven, you wouldn’t stop crying and your mother had to kick your cot to make you shut up!’
He laughs at himself, he sits back delighted. He underlines it -that’s my brother’s cue. He falls off his seat and rolls around on the floor. He opens his mouth so wide he almost chokes. A hard laugh, twisted, pulled from his bowels, to make believe it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard in the whole history of the world. He goes pop-eyed and almost pukes with the effort, all for his daddy’s benefit. The old man nods his approval, positively glowing with gin. He claps his hands and calls a halt to the proceedings.
‘Come along, Steven, chop-chop! It’s way past your bed time, now off to bed with you! Elisabeth will come and tuck you in, won’t you, Elisabeth? Elisabeth’s good at tucking in little boys!’
I get up and exit whilst they’re still busy congratulating themselves. I go to my room, jam the bed up against the door, go to the mirror and stick my tongue out. I kiss it, French style, like Susan taught me. Ah Susan, unhappiness always finds us, it comes running on cold little feet, like the paws of a cat; it jumps at our throats, and then we swallow and pretend that everything’s just fine.
You see, I’m writing this for you as well, Susan, for you and little Joanne, wherever you are. Because I remember everything and I promise never to forget.
25. REAL LIVE HORSES
Those journeys were bleak. All that winter, we kept driving out there, waiting for a sign, for the old girl to go one way or the other . . . And the old man swigging at his Scotch and lighting up another cigar. He twirled his whiskers and examined his onion. Sunday’s the day of the dead: hell today and school tomorrow! I still can’t get used to that threat, that special type of gloom that settles round the furniture, the day grows tired and any jollity seems somehow fake and hollow.
We revisited the old girl, just me and the old man — my father. He’s too pissed to climb behind the wheel so he calls a cab. The sun goes down and we head out into that gloom. The taxi arrives, we open the back door, the little light goes on and that special acidic stench of new upholstery. The driver goes the long way round, the scenic route. Gradually the street lamps peter out ’til we’re driving through open country . . . We pass under the trees, a tunnel through the wild wood, no other cars, no headlamps, nothing . . . Suddenly he slams on the anchors and skids into a lay-by . . .
‘It’s up ahead, over there . . . the back way, across the field . . . I’ll wait for you. There’s roadworks, I’ll be alright here, don’t worry about me, I’ve got my flask.’
The old man climbs out, me following on his shirt tails . . . He ganders about, sniffing at the sea breeze, getting his bearings . . . a clock tower and a couple of cedars . . . He heads off into the bushes following his nose. I run and catch up with him, hopping from verge to verge. A car sneaks up behind us. Hop! You have to be quick — those country lanes are narrow, footpaths unlit . . . Then we come to a stone wall, we follow it along, grey, continuous, disappearing into the distance. Then another car rushes in behind us and Hop! up onto the verge. The verge, our only hope.
‘We’ll be the ones who wind up in hospital at this rate,’ my father jokes.
Wouldham, Burham, Eccles, Aylesford, half-way to Barming. We followed that wall for ever. The old man shakes out his handkerchief and lets off a few blasts . . . He mops his brow with it, wrinkles his nose and strides on. He decides we should take a short cut across the furrows.
‘The wind’s a south-westerly, so the hospital must be to the north.’
That short cut alone cost us an extra hour. We had to negotiate a couple of gravel pits in the dark, treacherous . . . still black waters . . . twenty fathoms deep, right from the bank. We swam about out there until we finally walked ourselves into a cul-de-sac, a total impasse. The only thing to do was to retrace our steps, re-find the road and stay with the stone wall. At least that way we knew where we were going. That’s the only sure way of finding our Florence Nightingale. Hiking across those fields it’s too easy to get yourself lost, fall down a furrow and never come up again! That was my great fear . . . And the copse, the wooded area, dying elms mostly. We didn’t want to disturb the rooks’ sleep.
We find the wall again, by strenuous efforts. Three barbed wire fences, and then two more. Two miles along the lane, then Hop! up onto the verge, and there it is, the hospital wall, grey stone, ominous, disappearing into the night, and beyond . . . way over there. Then something twinkling in the distance — the porch lights, they must have left them on for us. We make a bee-line in through the gate, up the driveway and there it is. Just like the cabby told us, just follow the wall and you can’t miss it. Follow your noses and you’re there.
Walking onto that ward made you rub your eyes: strip-lights and gleaming linen. I have to wait ten or twelve seconds before my eyes adjust. The old man’s already in there getting pally with nursy, teasing her like she was a kid. He tips his hat and grimaces at her, complimenting her on her uniform, on her nails.
‘There’s nothing I like to see better than a set of well manicured finger nails! Take my son Steven, for instance, his nails are always deplorable!’
I have to look at the calendar on the wall ’til he quits gassing and we can walk through onto the old girl’s ward. He waves to the sister and all the nurses, the old fake! I’ve seen the type of idiots cuties fall for and as far as I can figure it, they deserve one another! The old man’s positively beaming, the lines show up round his eyes, he throws compliments around left right and centre. Then he sees her, the old girl, flitting from bed to bed, her feet in her slippers, a rosy bloom on her cheeks, and a piss-pot in both hands. She waves to us, cheerful, full of life, not in the least bit grey. She walks right up to me, gives me a peck on the cheek and calls the old man ‘darling’ . . .
That stops him dead in his tracks . . . He grins all quizzical, he questions himself, like he’s swallowed a fly.
‘Are you sure you should be up and about, Juny? Surely you should be taking it easy? Think of your lungs, the X-rays . . . Surely you should be in bed? Come, I’ll help you . . .’
The old girl shrugs him off, she’ll have none of it, as far as she’s concerned she’s fit as a fiddle! The doctors showed her the X-rays; the shadow on her left lung has completely gone, vanished! They’re not even sure if it was there in the first place. And the fluid around the right one is ninety per cent reduced. The old girl can’t understand what all the fuss has been about . . .
‘I can’t stand around here natting all night, there’s work to be done!’
And she nips off, helping the staff hand out the evening medication, giving words of comfort and condolence. She has already cured one young Indian girl with some good, sound, old-fashioned common sense advice! A drug addict, by all accounts untreatable, a total write-off! The doctors had given up hope, but the old girl soon put her back on the straight and narrow! She won everybody over; the quacks were falling over themselves, singing her praises. She was a walking miracle. Drugs? Hospitals? Doctors? Who needs them? She cured herself!
Once the penny dropped and the old man realised that she was going to make a full recovery, the spring went right out of his step. He was crestfallen — rubbing at his eyes in sheer disbelief, he splutters and stammers, totally lost for words. He glances down at my mug, then quickly looks away. He hides his heart like a hand of cards — his mush glazes over, he stares into the distance, his little bluey’s framed in between his bags, saggy, a little twitch, the dance of the blue vein. Oh, he did his best not to let his innermost feelings show, but you could read his mug like the weather. He bites his lip to hide his disgust.
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