The Whites of Gold

by Sam Lock

  ‘Clean your fucking teeth!’ he said. ‘What the hell for?’

  ‘Because I always clean them, Charlie – that’s why – before going to bed. And I want to get a drink as well.’

  ‘You want a drink!’ he shouted, with a nasty snarl. ‘You want a bloody drink?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘I always have one.’

  ‘Well, come here, then,’ he said, ‘and have a swig of this.’ And he raised a beer bottle that he held in one of his hands. ‘That’s what you need, Eddie, you little bastard, you.’

  I had no idea why Charlie was behaving in this way. Odd though he was, he had always been a rather gentle, docile character, so his behaviour startled me and I hastily backed away.

  ‘What you up to, Eddie – eh?’ he said yet again, scowling at me and taking a single step towards me.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Charlie,’ I said. ‘I’m not up to anything!’

  ‘Oh, yes, you are, you little monkey, you … come here! I’ll teach you!’

  By this time his behaviour had become quite frightening and I recall wondering what I should do – whether I should run into the kitchen, perhaps, or even escape through the main entrance-door of the flat, which was immediately behind me – when I heard the sound of Rufus’s van turning into the driveway from the street.

  ‘That’s Rufus,’ I said to Charlie.

  ‘That’s who?’ he growled.

  ‘It’s Rufus, Charlie. He’s just driven into the driveway.’

  Charlie listened, and obviously realised that this was so; then, to my surprise, he turned and went back into the living room, muttering, ‘Little monkey, you are, Eddie,’ as he went. At the same time, Rufus let himself in through the door behind me.

  ‘Hello, Eddie,’ Rufus said, in a very cheerful tone of voice. ‘What are you doing here? On your way to bed?’

  ‘No – not yet,’ I answered. ‘I was about to clean my teeth and make myself a nightcap.’

  ‘Where’s Charlie?’ Rufus asked.

  ‘He’s in the living room.’

  ‘He all right?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ said Rufus. ‘I thought he might have been drinking.’

  For some reason I didn’t tell Rufus that he had been, or indicate to him that Charlie had been unpleasant to me. I simply said, ‘He was asleep when I came in, Rufus. A window was open, so I closed it.’

  ‘Good lad,’ said Rufus, passing me and heading down the passage towards the living room. ‘You’re a good lad, Eddie,’ he repeated, patting me affectionately upon the shoulder, ‘one of the best.’

  Writing about it now, I realise that it was probably this irrational exchange with Charlie that made me decide to leave Rufus’s flat and, with Len’s help, to move to a place of my own. For, after it, I never felt quite comfortable there again, even though there was no repetition of Charlie’s aggressiveness and he returned to being the gentle, docile creature I had always taken him to be. Nor did he show any sign of embarrassment about it, neither later that night, as he went to bed, nor at breakfast the following morning. And I was unable to understand what the cause of his turbulence had been. I just know that from that night on, I behaved a little differently in the flat, keeping more to myself and seeing a little less of my two flatmates. They didn’t appear to notice it, however, and certainly neither of them commented in any way upon the change in my behaviour. Obviously, in their eyes, things were as normal between us. Finally, when I left, Charlie twice raced into the garden to blow a sharp blast upon his whistle (which, I imagined, might have been a protest against my leaving, because I am sure that he was fond of me and enjoyed having me there), but I noticed an odd look in his eye that seemed to reflect the wildness of his expression when he had turned on me that night. Yet, until that moment, the general air of normality had remained – and, as I have said before, odd trio that we were, or that we appeared to be, we were happy enough together.

  X

  How circular life seems to be, with memory ever at work, bringing the past back into the present. I experienced this today on receiving a letter from my aunt, inviting Mark and I to go down to the country again. For as I was reading it, I suddenly remembered, as if it had occurred just a few days ago, an incident I had forgotten, or perhaps had forced out of my mind. It was connected with Mark having asked me, when we had stayed with my aunt and uncle earlier in the year, if we could see my parents’ house.

  ‘Where you were born, Eddie,’ he said. ‘You speak about it a lot.’

  ‘Do I?’ I answered, not being conscious that this was so.

  ‘Yes. You do. You’re always going back to it. Always saying something about it. Don’t you think it would be good for us to see it together?’

  I panicked when he said this, and quickly hid what I was feeling by muttering that I didn’t think that we could.

  ‘Why?’ Mark asked – a little bluntly, I thought.

  ‘Well, because it’s sold – that’s why. The house has been sold, Mark.’

  ‘So what? We can see it from the outside, can’t we? There’s nothing to stop us from doing that.’

  ‘No, there isn’t,’ I answered, but showing by the tone of my voice that I wasn’t too keen on the idea.

  ‘What is it, Eddie?’ Mark asked. ‘Have I done something wrong? Don’t you want us to go there? Or is it that you don’t want to go there, perhaps?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I answered truthfully, because I realised how confused my feelings had become. ‘I don’t know, Mark. But we will go, if you really want us to.’

  ‘Look, Eddie, I don’t want to –’

  ‘I know you don’t. I was just caught out – that’s all. Listen, it’s not far. The town’s only two miles away, so why don’t we do it now, before lunch. It’s Saturday. The square will be busy. We can park behind the church, then walk from there through the churchyard.’

  And that is what we did. We drove along the winding country road where I had walked so often as a boy, entered the town from the north, then parked the car behind the church, where I knew there was always plenty of room.

  As Mark locked the doors of the car he looked across at me apprehensively.

  ‘Are you all right, Eddie?’ he asked. ‘Are you sure you want us to do this?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered, doing my best to sound positive about our decision.

  ‘Right,’ Mark answered with a nod. ‘Let’s go then, shall we?’

  Without speaking, I left the car to join him; then led us quickly around to the front of the church, where the churchyard’s yew-lined pathway led forward in a straight line towards a side entrance to the town’s square, which we could see was already busy with cars and many shoppers.

  ‘There it is,’ I suddenly said to Mark – meaning the house; and speaking in a half whisper, almost as if we were stalking it.

  ‘Where?’ Mark asked, also lowering his voice.

  ‘To the right. Between the trees. We can see the back of it. The landing window.’

  ‘Looks a bloody gloomy place to me,’ said Mark. ‘No wonder you didn’t like it.’

  ‘But that’s just the back of it,’ I answered, surprising myself by being defensive about the house. ‘You’ll see. It looks different from the front.’

  Again the two of us fell into silence as we made our way along. Then, as we finally reached the narrow flight of steps that marked the path’s end, I stopped and turned to look back; feeling a need to see the view from there of the church tower.

  How often have I watched it soar upwards as it did then; its stonework a mixture of pinks and greys set against the soft light blue of the sky. It will always be there, I thought, both in my mind and in reality. And it will be there too when I am no longer here on this earth, with generations ahead of me looking up as I did then, towards the church tower’s gilded weathercock turning cheerfully in the breeze. Already my parents had come and gone, and I knew that, before I reached old age, I would be joining them. />
  ‘How can you know that?’ Mark had asked me one day, when I told him about this premonition that I have had since I was small.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I had answered. ‘There are some things that you just do. I don’t mean that I’m going to die soon, Mark – don’t worry. But I know that I won’t see seventy. Sixty, perhaps, but not seventy.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Mark had replied to this. ‘You do talk rot at times, Eddie – honestly you do.’

  I had laughed at this, much as I thought it might be true. ‘Well, I’m here now, at least,’ I’d said to him.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ he’d answered, giving me a hug.

  As we entered the square, I told Mark that we would be able to see the house towards the right, which meant that we both saw it at the same time – and both stopped walking as we confronted it.

  How different it seemed from how I’d remembered it. It was as if it had been robbed of all its darkness – all its shadow; and now seemed like the other houses surrounding it – a rather simple, almost innocent, abode.

  ‘That it?’ Mark asked, knowing that it was.

  ‘Yes,’ I answered, and we began to move on.

  ‘It’s being done up,’ Mark commented, as we drew closer and saw a step-ladder in one of the ground-floor rooms, where someone – a painter or a plasterer – was at work.

  ‘Yes – well, it’s sold,’ I said, as Mark strode quickly across the pavement and pressed his face against one of the windows – causing the workman to pause in what he was doing and to look down at him.

  ‘Good morning,’ Mark called out. ‘Doing the place up, I see.’

  ‘Yes.’ The man answered good-humouredly, in the way that country people so often do. ‘It needed it too. We’re decorating the whole place – outside and in.’

  ‘Do you mind if we come in?’ Mark asked. ‘Take a look at it? This friend of mine was born here. In this house, I mean. Grew up in it.’

  The workman came down from his ladder, then crossed the room to push up the lower half of the sash window.

  ‘You Mr Carpenter’s son, then?’ he asked, staring at me.

  I nodded.

  ‘Well I’ll be blowed. I knew your father, I did. Used to have a drink with him at times – over there: at the Castle. You’re –’

  ‘I’m Edwin,’ I answered. ‘Carpenter.’

  ‘That’s right. You went off or something – didn’t you? – for some reason. Left home.’

  ‘Look,’ said Mark, quickly interrupting, and knowing it was wise to do so. ‘Do you mind if we take a quick look round? Just a few minutes. Just to – well –’

  ‘’Course you can. If that gentleman’s Mr Carpenter’s son, you’re more than welcome to do so … The door isn’t locked, in any case. Just give it a push. It’s Saturday. There’s no one here but me … Yes, take a look round – do. Just come and tell me when you leave.’

  The speed of Mark’s action had unsettled me, and I half wanted not to enter the house; but Mark more or less pushed me through the door, knowing instinctively, I guess, that the experience was going to be good for us.

  ‘Shall we go upstairs?’ he asked. ‘Shall we do that first?’

  I nodded yes to this, and we swiftly made our way up to the first-floor landing.

  ‘Big room,’ said Mark, as he pushed open the door of what had been our sitting room. ‘Good view of the square, too,’ he added, as he crossed towards the room’s two windows.

  ‘That clock right?’ he asked, pointing towards the neatly proportioned clock tower that perched on the roof of the town hall.

  ‘Usually,’ I answered, recalling the night when I left home, when I had nervously read its time.

  ‘You’d hardly need a clock in this house – would you?’ said Mark with a laugh; to which I had nothing to say in reply because I was feeling too emotional to speak; with so many memories suddenly flooding back to me; and hearing, as I did, the delicate sound of my mother’s laugh, and the much heartier one of Amy; and seeing, in my mind’s eye, the sight, so awesome, of my father when he was dying; looking at me in such an impersonal way, then turning on to his side to stare at the bedroom wall.

  ‘Now,’ said Mark, ‘which was your room, Eddie? Which was your bedroom?’

  Our tour of the house didn’t last long. All the rooms were empty; some of them stripped of their wall coverings; the kitchen not at all as I had remembered it, with brand-new cabinets and fitted cupboards, and a pale-green Aga cooker where Amy’s old black range had been. So there was little to look at. No furniture, no pictures, no books. And apart from the sudden flush of memories that had come back to me in the sitting room, when Mark had spoken about the clock, I experienced few remembrances of things past. Even my father’s study, which was what I had most feared seeing, just looked like a ‘room’ – any room: bare; empty; and not at all gloomy in the way that I had remembered it. This was partly, I have to say, because one of the churchyard’s yew trees had been felled, which had lightened the room considerably. All of which made me reflect upon the fact that the past exists solely in memory; that its reality is a totally subjective one; and that attempts to capture it through exterior things are inevitably likely to flounder, as this one did that day.

  ‘Bring it all back to you?’ asked Mark, as we left the house and began walking back to the car.

  ‘Funnily enough, no,’ I answered with a laugh. ‘Not really, Mark. A few things; but not much, really.’

  ‘Well, at least it’s made you cheerful; so it must have been good for you in some way or another – good for us both … Shall we do the church while we’re here?’ he then suggested. ‘Almost a grand building, isn’t it? Did you have to come here for services when you were small? A lot, I mean?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I answered, seeing myself accompanying my mother almost every Sunday, and hearing the relentless toll of the church bell as it called the congregation to prayers. I recalled too the deep sense of quietude there always was on that day, seeming to unite the town with the fields and moorland surrounding it. This memory was now mixed in my mind with that of the smells issuing from doorways or kitchen windows, where a Sunday roast was being prepared; or, as far as the poor were concerned, that were issuing from large roasting pans that were being brought home from the local bakery – where, for just a few pence, use had been made of the oven.

  ‘Smells of wax,’ said Mark, smiling at me. ‘And of Brasso too,’ he added, as he pushed open the church door and ushered me inside.

  Thelma ‘dropped in’ to see me today. For once, she had done what she had said she would do yesterday (which was Sunday) when Mark and I (yes, Mark and I) were having lunch with her and Len.

  ‘We don’t see much of each other these days, do we, pet?’ was how she began our conversation, once she had settled herself upon the sofa. ‘Not now there’s Mark,’ she added; but not said, I am glad to be able to write, with any hint of reproachfulness in her voice.

  ‘And that’s how it should be,’ she went on. ‘It’ll force me to do something more with my life. Go out. Get more work. Try that restaurant idea of mine. You did mean it, didn’t you, Eddie, when you said that I was good with people?’

  ‘Of course I did,’ I answered. ‘You are, Thelma.’

  ‘Well, it’s nice of you to say so, sweetie,’ she replied; somewhat nervously, I thought, and I noticed that her lips had begun to quiver.

  ‘Thelma! What’s wrong?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Oh, nothing, pet. Nothing serious. It’s just that – well, I’m not always as confident as I look, you know. I often say big things – such as that I’d like to run a restaurant on my own, but when it comes to it, it’s a different story.’

  ‘No it isn’t,’ I said, trying to help her to be positive. ‘Or it doesn’t have to be.’

  ‘A lot of the trouble is that I’m a woman,’ she continued. ‘I try at times to think and behave like a man, but I’m not that, am I? That’s mainly why it’s so difficult, Eddie. And I can’t talk to Len about
it, either.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I just can’t. Perhaps I’m too proud. Perhaps I don’t want him to know that I am afraid: don’t want him to see that side of myself. I’m sure that’s wrong of me, because I’m sort of hiding myself from him – disguising myself; but there – I can’t.’

  ‘Which is why you’re talking to me about it. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I suppose so, sweetheart,’ she answered, taking out a handkerchief and quickly wiping away a tear that had fallen on one of her cheeks. ‘Yes, I suppose it is. It’s good to talk to someone about it.’

  ‘But perhaps the truth is that you don’t really want a heavier job, Thelma – a full-time one. Perhaps you are forcing something.’

  ‘No. I am not,’ she answered, looking directly at me. ‘I know I’m not.’

  ‘And it isn’t that you’re wanting to compete with Len, Thelma – is it? That you’re wanting to do what he does?’

  ‘I’ve thought about that,’ she replied. ‘Wondered if it might be so; but I’m sure it isn’t. If it was, it wouldn’t be good, would it? Wouldn’t be right … No, I do have to make more use of myself: be more active. I dread the idea of becoming like my mother; sitting at home all day and getting to be the size that she became as she grew older: stuffing herself with food because she was bored. I’m fat enough as it is.’

  ‘You’re big, Thelma, but not fat,’ I said to her, even though it wasn’t entirely true.

  ‘You’re being kind, Eddie. I’m already a lot overweight. And the thought of my becoming like my mother really frightens me … I remember once, when I was in my teens, how she called me into her bedroom and asked me to unlace the stiff-boned corsets she always wore. Pink ones they were, that held her together, and that she had to have made for her. And I remember too how I could hardly bring myself to do it, fond of her though I was … No. I need to be active, Eddie,’ she said. ‘I need to do more. There are some women who don’t mind being at home – don’t mind being indoors and having their menfolk go out – but I’m not one of them. For one thing, I’m no good at domestic things, as you well know. I simply am not.’