His jaw quivers. I’m sorry lads, he says. It won’t happen again.
Just go Dave, says Joe.
Aye, before I kick you up and down the fucking street. Look at him Joe. He’ll be blubbering in a minute.
Dave looks from one of us to the other, his eyes flickering and uncertain and hurt. Then he walks unsteadily out of the door.
I’m the last one to fly out and when the others have gone the time hangs heavy. I’m lonely, I guess. I walk through the city looking for Dave. We could patch things up, crack a few beers, check out the lowlife. But I can’t find him, so I just sit in a pavement café and watch the world go by. Street kids beg for money and collapse into gales of laughter when I make small change appear from their ears. Men in severe suits stride past with briefcases swinging, their faces obscured behind dark glasses. Every other car here seems to be a Volkswagen Beetle, the city filled with the drone of aircooled engines. I think of the others, flying into Europe by different routes. Like the wise men, each bearing a suitcase full of snow. I think of that shimmering explosion of little pesos and bolivianos. But most of all, I think of Don Hernán, his golden head flaming like the sun.
16. Whooper Swan
(Cygnus cygnus)
Danny, I can tell when you’re avoiding me, says Kate, from the other side of the world. You’re a coward with bad news. Always have been. The longer I don’t hear from you, the more I know something’s wrong.
What time is it there? I croak, blearily, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. It’s the graveyard shift here.
Sorry love, she says. Never can work out the time difference.
The echo as her voice bounces from satellite to satellite. I sit up in bed and pull the duvet around me. Kelly’s side empty, not slept in. I stare into the darkness of the bedroom. Liquid green numerals on the radio alarm and the tired blue glow of my phone display.
So how are you? How’s Terry? Still working on the handicap?
I stifle back a yawn, but my jaw insists on unhinging itself silently.
We had a pool put in. I’m trying to persuade him to spend more time at home, less in the clubhouse. But you’re changing the subject. Come on, spill.
I take a deep breath.
Yan’s dying, I say. Lung cancer. A year at most. Probably much less.
There’s a long silence in Western Australia, while satellites poised over the Indian Ocean wait for a response. Then a snuffle over the line and I can tell she’s crying. I wait.
Thanks for being upfront, she says. That man, he’s hopeless. How is he at the moment?
Still getting around fine. There’s more shortness of breath now. He needs oxygen sometimes. Think he’s due for another round of chemo soon.
I still love him, you know.
Come back then.
I can’t. I like him best when he’s on the other side of the world.
How do you do it?
What?
Stay so detached.
He gave me plenty of time to practise Dan.
Yan lives in a small Victorian terrace in Hartlepool, the house he bought after the pub was sold. It seemed easy at the time, the way him and Kate divvied up their assets and turned their backs on each other. The detritus of a marriage. We linger in the back yard, strewn with binbags and loose rubbish.
Who’s turned your bins over?
Kids, he grumbles. There are some right ones around here. I’d give ’em a tap if I could catch one.
You’d have the dads round here offering you on, cancer or no cancer.
I right the dustbin and start to pile stuff back into it and a blustery wind elbows down the back alley and across the yards, lifting waste paper into the air and over the neighbouring fences. Next door a net curtain is slipped aside and a sharp face watches from the back kitchen.
Is Mrs Rusniak twitching the curtains? calls Yan from inside.
Yep.
Always swore I’d show her my arse one day, he yells. Never did. Too much of a gent.
Too scared she’d set that little Westie on you, you mean, I shout back. Vicious little tyke. I’ve always wanted to boot it over the wall.
He laughs.
You sound better, I say. Not so breathless.
Aye, he says. I’m winning young James over to my way of thinking.
I finish stuffing the bags back and wedge the plastic lid on.
Any chance of a mash?
The house has been rented out most of the last twenty years and it’s showing the wear and tear. Fag burns in the carpets and sofas, mould erupting in the bathroom. We sit in the back kitchen drinking tea, strong and scalding.
You’ve got your travelling photos up, I say.
A collage of photographs stuck to the wall above the kitchen table. Palm trees, mountains, jungles, beaches, temples. In front of the views is Yan. Smiling at the camera. Flicking a middle finger, raising a can. Grinning in the middle of a gaggle of young backpackers. Arm round a woman, young and nubile. Never the same one.
Yeah, he says. I miss it. Specially Pattaya.
Never did much travelling, I say, wistful. Bali, Lombok, Kathmandu, Macchu Picchu. Just a dream to me.
He taps the side of his nose infuriatingly. Grins.
Never were the gambling type, were you?
Stifles a slight cough. I slurp at the hot tea determinedly.
And the fags?
It’s getting easier. Chocolate’s the answer. Every time I have a craving I eat a chocolate bar. Can’t put weight on at the moment, so it’s a win– win situation. Want to share one now?
He reaches into one of the top cupboards, splits a bar and passes two fingers to me, stuffing the other two into his mouth.
So, the Christmas decs, I say. Sure you want me to put them up for you? You’ve never bothered before.
Thing is, he says, through the chocolate. Probably the last one I’ll have. Seems daft, but I want to do it properly.
Thought you were a cynic.
But it’s been so long, I can’t really remember how to do it. It was always Kate who decorated the pub, and you when you were a kid. Wasn’t really my department.
Leave it to me, I say. Cross my palm with cash, and I’ll buy the decs. Back round here tomorrow to put them up.
Perfect. He shoves a wad of crisp twenties at me. That do?
Bloody hell Yan. I only need a couple of darwins.
Old men playing cribbage at the pub Dan. Small fry. If there’s any change, get yourself a few beers.
I push my chair back and stand up.
Dan, he says. I was meaning to ask.
He stops, and I wait.
Charlie painted you a picture, didn’t he? A bit of a bleak assessment. A complete fucking waster or whatever it was he said.
Damaged goods.
Aye.
Well, you did nail his missus.
Aye, I did that.
So what was it you wanted to ask?
He runs fingertips across his stubble.
Is that how you feel about me too? he says.
I slide a chair out, feet squeaking across quarry tiles. Sit.
Maybe, I say. At the time.
How about now?
Now I’m not so sure.
Right.
If I could understand what happened, up on Mount Longdon. What it was that set you off. You always skate over it, don’t you? Barlow shoots this lad through the eye, but then what? Something must have happened to start you walking. Everything else came from that.
The expression on his face is half laugh and half frown. Half irritation, too. Whites of his eyes flashing as the light fades.
You feel drunk, you know, he says. In an action like Longdon, you’ve not had any sleep for days. I’m not even sure I know what happened meself.
I don’t buy that.
I’m still trying to fit it together Dan.
He looks at me and he’s suddenly a confused old man and I feel this surge of tenderness towards him and put my hand on his shoulder, but later I wonder whet
her he was just playing for sympathy.
Kate rang the other night, I tell him.
How did she take it?
Cried. Said you were incorrigible. Said she couldn’t come over. Still loves you. Prefers you on the other side of the world, though. That was it really.
Sounds about right, he muses.
As I close the back door behind me he’s hunched over the table, staring into his untouched mug of tea.
When I get home, there’s a man in the kitchen with Kelly, helping her empty the dishwasher.
This is Martin, she says. I told you he was staying the weekend.
Yeah. I’d forgotten.
We shake hands and Martin smiles, wagging his shock of dark hair. He’s stick-thin and tanned. Tight denim and a black tee-shirt. Teeth glitter in the leathery face.
You must be Danny, he says. Looks at my rumpled work suit with amusement. Martin and Kelly went out when they were at school, and they’ve kept in touch. My partner in crime, she calls him.
Thought you could cook us your moussaka Dan, says Kelly. Always reminds me of Mykonos.
Yeah man, says Martin. Party island.
We were in the quiet bit, I tell him. Beach, taverna, a stack of good books.
I struggle with the moussaka while Kelly and Martin drink wine and giggle in the front room.
How’s Brighton, then? I ask him, after dinner. Never feel homesick?
Wouldn’t be seen dead. Brighton is one happening place. Clubs are banging, disco biccies coming out of your ears man. Never get bored.
You want to hear about all the nurses he’s been through, says Kelly.
The NHS is a considerate employer, he quips. Slumps back in the armchair, crossing one slender leg over the other, crooked like a daddy-long-legs.
So what floats your boat Dan? he asks, turning his eyes on me. They’re dark, like burnished silver.
I shrug.
He’s a birder, says Kelly.
I try to keep it quiet, I say.
The long winter evenings must just fly by, says Martin.
Anyway, I say. I’m going to turn in. Can’t keep me eyes open these days.
Dan, says Kelly. Don’t be boring.
She turns to face me from the opposite end of the sofa. Not made up, her skin is like fresh dough, a soft flour-dusted loaf. I want to bite her.
Don’t worry about it babe, says Martin. Let Dan catch some zeds if he wants to.
Upstairs, I lie awake and listen to the splurge of their conversation. Shouts, giggles and laughs, rising and falling. I strain to catch their words but they wriggle away into the dark.
The next day, Jean opens the door before I can knock. Wrapped in that long coat, sleek and pencil-slim.
Oh, hiya Danny. I was just going.
She eyes the plastic bags in my hand.
Lads’ night in, is it?
Something like that. Bloody hell it’s cold. Feet went numb on the way over. Jean grimaces at the darkening sky. A smoky smell in the air, and a stillness. One or two stray flakes of snow spiralling down.
Winter coming on, she says. I’d better get going.
*
What’s the story with Jean? I ask, when we’re sitting in his front room. The gas fire creaks and hisses, a warm orange glow starting to build.
She’s lived down the road for years. Nice place, too. Set up just how she wants it since the divorce. Dipped her a few times, over the years, when I’ve been back. Both like our own space is what’s good about it. Bears and their lairs. And when we meet up, well it’s more exciting, more like a date. I guess we’re trying to string out the excitement. The excitement you get when you first meet someone. Heart still jumps when the phone rings and it’s her. Bet you don’t feel like that when Kelly rings up. Get some frozen peas on the way home love.
Anyway, I say, changing the subject. You want to see these decorations?
He nods without much enthusiasm. I unpack the bags one by one. A string of bulbous lights, each hand-painted like a Chinese lantern. Another string in the shape of golden stars. One of them candle bridges everybody seems to have these days. And a fibre-optic tree, small enough to sit on a tabletop.
No flashing reindeer, he says. You’ve gone upmarket.
And the fairy on the top, I say, pulling a floppy raft of cans out of a bag. Something to toast them with.
He looks at the six-pack with satisfaction.
McEwan’s Best Scotch, he says. Now you’re talking.
Doesn’t take long to hang the decorations. Yan helps but he’s out of breath when he has to reach up above his head. We put the plugs in and switch off the room lights. The Chinese lanterns glow peacefully above the fireplace like faraway planets, the stars are strung across the sash window with the candle bridge beneath, and the fibre-optic tree sits on the sideboard, shuffling gently through its sequence of colours which slowly wash over the room in turn. Red, magenta, green, yellow and ice blue. Relaxing, like the edge of the sea, each colour washing over the sand, slowing, stopping, retreating. I go to the kitchen and clatter about in the fridge, returning with two almost frozen cans. Crack them both, enjoying the crisp sound, hand one to Yan.
Cheers, he says. Here’s to. He pauses and thinks. To winter. To midwinter. May she freeze our pipes and bugger up the central heating.
He sips, mischievously.
Something’s fallen out of your pocket, he says.
I grasp around on the sofa cushion, find the tube of sweets I bought for Paul.
Shit. Keep meaning to go and see him. But.
You keep putting it off. Because he’s in a bad way.
He’s hard work, it’s true.
I take a gulp of the malty liquid.
I love this stuff, I say. You can feel the darkness in the lining of your nose, before you even take a drink. And then when you hold it in your mouth it’s like a toffee apple, round and brown like a conker. Rolls right up into the roof of your mouth.
Sound like a connoisseur, he says.
The smell of it, the taste of it. It brings back the past.
I smile, suddenly almost tearful.
Brings back fierce memories, I say.
Smells and tastes, he says. Far more powerful than pictures in your head. Your memory’s shot with holes like an old dishrag, but a few molecules of a particular smell, and you’re right back there.
He smiles, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes crinkling up like parchment.
Powerful medicine, he says.
We sup the beers in silence, watching the surf of colour creep over the room time and time again.
Go and see him, says Yan, suddenly. You don’t know how much time he has left. I’m sure he’d like to see you. He’s not a bad lad, really.
Why the interest? I ask. You never had much time for Paul, when we were kids.
He makes a steeple with his fingers and taps them together, not speaking.
There’s a Chinese just down the road, he says, finally. Fancy some chow?
Dark outside, snow beginning to fall insistently from the smoky sky, animated by the orange flare of streetlighting. I look up and watch the flakes rushing towards me like a field of stars. We wait in the Chinese while a large television babbles in the corner and gloomy fish hang in an aquarium. The girl smiles as she hands over the bags of food. I look at her over my shoulder as we walk out of the shop.
Back in the kitchen I find plates and start to portion out the food. Mounds of rice, a bowl of prawn crackers. I pour glossy red sauce over battered balls of chicken, spoon out the pink-tinged char siu pork with bamboo shoots and water chestnuts. Yan is still out in the yard, freezing air pouring in through the open door.
Shut the door, I call.
Shush, he replies. Listen.
I join him at the door, but hear nothing. The slow rumble of traffic in the town, the quiet buzz of next door’s TV.
There, he says.
I strain to listen. A faint blare of noise, like a distant car horn or the yell of an excited dog.
Whooper swans, he says. Arriving from the Arctic. I bet they’re on their way to Seal Sands. Like a pack of hounds giving tongue, hunting across the sky.
Or a brass band warming up, I say.
He smiles. The sound gets louder, nearer, more urgent.
The winter swans, he says. A sure sign the cold weather’s coming.
We strain our eyes upwards into the sky. Snow whirls towards us. The honking is very close. And suddenly we see them, almost brushing the rooftops, in a tight V formation with stumpy wings working tirelessly and long necks stretched out before the squat bodies. Sodium light splashes back from their white bellies, illuminating them a ghostly orange against the blackness of space. We squint upwards and they pass almost overhead. The discordant baying echoes and booms in the yard, clatters off the stone setts, and we hear the singing of cold air through the stiff primaries. And then they’re over the house and out of sight and we’re holding on to the sound as it recedes towards the cold black estuary.
The plates of food are stacked in the sink. I’ll do the washing-up before I go. Kelly insists on a dishwasher, even though it takes the two of us almost a week to fill it. We butcher more cans and Yan puts some music on the turntable.
Still think vinyl’s better, he says, as the needle crackles through some static. Of course the sound quality suffers a bit, but vinyl records are so much purer, deeper, more organic. Digital music always sounds tinny to me.
Luddite, I say. I get plenty of business out of helping people with mp3 players. They buy them and then they realize they don’t know how to download the tunes.
Don’t start getting techno-geeky on me. This is Dylan, by the way. Planet Waves. Recorded in nineteen seventy-three and not a digital thingy in sight.
We sit and listen to the music for a while. The fibre-optic light circles and circles.
He’s your brother, says Yan.
I stare at him.
Or, technically, your half-brother.
You mean Paul, I say, after a brief stunned silence.
He nods slowly.
I’ve kept in touch with him, over the years. Not often, just the odd phone call. That’s how I knew about the virus.
Who knows about this? I ask angrily. Does Paul know? Does Kate know?
A long pause.
Nobody knows, he says, finally, with a resigned look. Just me, and Deb – that’s his mam – and now you. She didn’t want me to tell him anything about it. She was married to Anth at the time and he thought the kid was his. I would have liked to tell him, to be more of a father to him, but I had to respect what she wanted. And I couldn’t tell Kate. No way.
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