Flamingoes in Orbit
Page 11
We got a taxi to my flat in Hackney Road.
‘So this is your bachelor pad,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a lot of black furniture.’
‘I like black furniture.’
‘Some plants would help.’
‘I’m not a fan of plants.’
‘Why don’t you pour us some drinks?’
I poured us some drinks.
‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
We sipped our drinks.
She went to kiss me.
I pulled away.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘It’s not you,’ I said. ‘It’s me. I . . . I just can’t.’
‘Do you want to . . . try?’
I didn’t answer.
‘Do you want me to leave?’ she asked.
‘I . . . I . . . don’t know . . . I don’t know what I want.’
She stroked my hair. ‘Oh, you little boy,’ she said. ‘That’s all you are. Just a little boy with too much pocket money.’
‘Let’s go to the beach!’ Greg said.
It was a few days after I’d arrived – all by myself! – at Elm Fork.
The weather wasn’t particularly sunny, but Bert had drunk a bit too much the night before and wasn’t in the best of moods, so keeping out of his way seemed like the best idea.
We packed a small hamper (cheese and pickle sandwiches, apples, lemonade, just like Rene used to make) and Greg drove us to the part of the beach that, over the years, we had made ‘our spot’. We liked it because it was rocky – and always seemed to be a bit windy – which meant that, even on ‘heatwave’ days (which today certainly wasn’t) – we tended to have it all to ourselves.
We settled on the shingle and gazed at the ocean.
Greg skimmed a pebble across the water.
I skimmed a pebble across the water.
Greg said, ‘I was thinking of joining the army.’
It took a while for my mum to start talking properly to me again after the late birthday card.
‘I know I overreact sometimes,’ she said. ‘But you don’t know what it’s like to be a parent and have a child grow away from you.’
‘I’m not growing away from – ’
‘We used to talk all the time. But now . . . you buy me expensive gifts and you think that’s enough. But it’s not.’
‘I love you, Mum,’ I said.
‘Well, you don’t show it. I never know what you’re feeling – ’ Her voice cracked.
‘Don’t cry,’ I said.
‘I’m not crying,’ she said. ‘Why do you think I’m crying all the bloody time? Some spittle went down the wrong way. That’s all.’
‘I . . . I’m seeing someone,’ I said.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes. I think so.’
‘You think?’
‘No, no, I am.’
‘What’s . . . what’s their name?’
‘Gena. She’s a bit older than me.’
‘How much older?’
‘About ten years.’
‘Oh, lordy.’
‘What does age matter?’
‘Well . . . what does she do?’
‘She works in Boots.’
Mum sighed.
‘She’s lovely,’ I said.
‘Did I say she wasn’t? Am I going to meet her or is she going to be another one of your secrets?’
‘Of course you can meet her. And I don’t have any secrets.’
‘Bring her round this Sunday. For dinner. I’ll roast a chicken. And I’ll make one of my trifles. They always go down well. Okay?’
‘Okay, yeah.’
‘And, by the way, you’ve got plenty.’
‘Of what?’
‘Secrets.’
‘The army!?’ I said.
‘Why not?’ Greg said. ‘You can see the world. They teach you a trade. And a foreign language. I’ve been looking at the brochures. The photos are amazing.’
‘Of course they’re amazing. That’s what brochures do, Greg. They show you all the amazing bits and none of the unamazing bits. Like solders being blown to pieces in some war and – ’
‘Oh, there’s not going to be another war.’
I took Gena round to my parents’ for Sunday dinner. Dad opened the door and kissed Gena on the cheek. We went to the living room.
‘I’ll be out in a second,’ called Mum from the kitchen. ‘The trifle’s messing me about.’
Dad poured some drinks and we all sat down. Dad was in one of his everything-is-wonderful moods and regaled us with the joys of washing the car and the smell of roast chicken.
After a few minutes Mum emerged from the kitchen.
‘Well!’ Mum said, looking at Gena.
Gena got to her feet.
‘Just look at you!’ Mum said, smiling. ‘Look at you both!’ She strode across the room and embraced Gena, then me.
Gena asked Mum if she needed any help in the kitchen. Mum said she didn’t but she’d be grateful for some company.
I sat in the living room with Dad, listening to the two women laugh and natter.
‘Well, they seem to have hit it off,’ Dad said.
The blissful atmosphere didn’t last long, though. By the time dinner was served Mum wasn’t even looking at Gena, let alone talking to her. When Mum went into the kitchen to get the trifle Gena looked at me and mouthed, ‘What have I done?’
I shrugged and went to the kitchen.
‘What’s wrong, Mum?’ I asked.
‘Wrong?’
‘With Gena. You liked her at first.’
‘I . . . I don’t know . . . it’s not her . . . but . . .’
‘But what?’
‘Her perfume,’ she said. ‘Hyacinths.’
Greg skimmed another pebble across the water. ‘So what are you going to do? Made up your mind yet?’
‘Not really.’
‘What about the factory where your dad works?’
‘I am not packing tins of spam in boxes all day.’
‘That’s not what your dad does, is it?’
‘Not now he doesn’t. But that’s where he started. And so would I.’ I skimmed a pebble. ‘The careers officer at school said I should think about working in a bank.’
‘A bank?!’
‘The shares and investment side or something. He said I might have the right . . . the right . . .’
‘Aptitude?’
‘Yeah.’
I give the photo of Greg back to Pat.
Pat says, ‘When he got back from the war . . . oh, he was treated like a hero. There was a victory parade in the village. Brass band and everything. I was so proud of him. It was soon after that he decided to leave the army. He didn’t want to be away from Nolan.’
‘Nolan?’
‘Oh, God! I’m sorry. You don’t know, do you? Nolan’s our son.’
Greg said, ‘Joining the army! Working in a bloody bank! Not quite the futures we both expected, eh?’
‘I’m not sure what I expected,’ I said.
‘Well, it wasn’t this!’ He kicked at the shingle. ‘Jesus!’ Another kick. ‘Fuck!’ He stared at me. ‘Listen. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since Mum died. Things I should have done while she was alive. You know? Like telling her that I loved her and . . . and . . .’ He grabbed my arm. ‘What I’m saying is, one minute we’re here, the next minute – pftt! – we’re gone. We mustn’t let chances slip us by.’ He grabbed tighter. ‘So if you feel . . . if you feel something for someone . . . if you feel a lot . . . if you . . . love . . . you should tell that person. Right? . . . Right?’
‘This is Nolan,’ Pat says, leading a boy into the room. He’s dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. ‘He’s going to be seven years old next month. Isn’t that right, Nolan?’
Nolan doesn’t answer. He’s got Greg’s eyes. But I only catch them for a moment, because he turns away.
Pat says. ‘He’s been upstairs in his room.’
‘He’s been very quiet,’ I say.
‘Oh, Nolan’s always quiet. He likes silence and he likes solitude. Don’t you Nolan?’
Again, he doesn’t answer.
Pat indicates me, saying, ‘This is one of your dad’s old friends.’
‘Hello, Nolan,’ I say.
No response.
And he’s still not looking at me.
‘He’s shy,’ I say.
‘It’s a bit more than that,’ Pat says. ‘He’s been diagnosed with “a neurodevelopmental disorder”.’
‘I . . . I don’t know what – ’
‘He’s autistic,’ she said.
Greg said to me, ‘You are the only person who makes me feel happy. I think about you all the time. The only time I’m the person I want to be is – Now! When we’re together. We’ve always been close but . . . last year and this . . . it’s become something different. Something more. You know what I’m saying, don’t you . . . Say something!’
Pat says, ‘It’s like Nolan’s pulled up the drawbridge against the world. He doesn’t need us anymore. He doesn’t want us. Here he is, trying to make the world all tidy and quiet, and then we come along with all our . . . messiness and . . . noise.’
We’re in the living room now.
Pat has made some more tea.
Nolan is playing with toy robots.
We watch him for a while.
‘You see what he’s doing?’ Pat says. ‘He’s lining all the robots up in order of height.’
I say, ‘When we spoke on the phone . . . you suggested . . . when Greg got back from the Falklands . . .’
‘He was different, yes.’
‘How?’
‘Oh . . . there was something in his eyes.’ She watches Nolan for a moment. Then, ‘Greg never told me what he’d seen during the war. But it must have been . . .’ She takes a deep breath. ‘He had terrible nightmares. One night – while he was still asleep – he tried to strangle me. I think that’s what pushed him over the edge. The fear he might hurt me . . . or Nolan.’
Greg said, ‘You know what I think? We should get away. Just the two of us. Go somewhere new. Somewhere no one knows us. We could get a place together. Just us. We could make it work. We’ll find a way. I know you feel for me what I feel for you. I know you do! Oh, please don’t let me do all the work with this. Help me! Say something! Why won’t you say something?’
‘Oh, look!’ Pat says, indicating Nolan. ‘His lining up his Smarties now.’
Pat had given Nolan a packet of Smarties. He was now putting the colour-coated chocolates in a very specific (at least for him) order. Row after row on the carpet.
Pat says, ‘It’s always the same sequence. A row of red, a row of orange, then yellow . . . and so on. You see what it is?’
‘No.’
‘A rainbow.’
‘Why won’t you say something?’
‘Is there a cure?’ I ask.
‘No. Not a “medical” cure as such. There are lots of so-called “therapies”. Believe me, Greg and I tried them all. We’d all but given up hope. But then . . . I read about the “holding” therapy.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Exactly what it says. A parent holds their child.’
‘But surely . . . if the child’s autistic – ’
‘Oh, the child hates it, yes. The child resists. Sometimes violently. But the parent keeps holding and holding. Until the child . . . surrenders.’
‘Why won’t you say something?’
‘You’ve tried it?’ I ask.
Pat nods. ‘I’ve had moments of such affection . . . such intimacy with Nolan. Greg had them too. Times when we got a glimpse of the son Nolan . . . could have been.’ She sighs. ‘It worked better when Greg was here. It needs both the parents to be really effective. At least, that’s my experience.’ She looks at me. ‘Why don’t you . . . why don’t you do “the holding” with me?’
‘Wh-what?’
‘We can do it this afternoon.’
‘I don’t think I’m the right person to – ’
‘Nolan can sense your connection with his dad. I know he can. And he misses him so much. Please say yes. Please.’
‘Why won’t you say – ?’
A scream filled the air!
A high-pitched, animal scream.
I said, ‘Wh-what’s that?’
‘It’s coming from over there!’ Greg jumped to his feet. ‘Come on!’ He started to run. ‘Quick!’
I followed him.
The curtains are closed and some candles are lit.
Blankets and cushions are scattered on the floor.
Pat sits among them. Nolan is playing with robots.
Slowly, Pat starts to pull Nolan into her arms.
Immediately he starts to struggle. He kicks. He cries out.
‘I love you, Nolan!’ Pat says. ‘I love you and you are safe.’
The boy thrashes and screams.
I’m sitting beside them.
Nolan is kicking at my legs.
‘Tell him!’ Pat says to me. ‘Tell him you love him and he is safe.’
I try to speak, but the words won’t come.
‘Tell him!’ Pat says.
A dolphin was stranded on the beach.
Seven people – five boys and two girls – prowled round it.
Most of them were my age or younger. Most of them were holding cans of lager. All of them held a knife or a broken bottle or a rock.
They were all taking turns to stab or hit or kick the dolphin.
The dolphin screamed and screamed.
Its mouth opened and closed.
I could see its tiny, white teeth.
‘Stop it!’ Greg yelled. ‘What’re you doing?’
‘Having fun!’ one of the boys said.
Greg tried to push the youths away.
‘Fuck off!’ said the tallest. ‘We found it!’
Blood was pouring from holes in the dolphin’s skin. It let out another cry as a knife was plunged into it. The dolphin’s tail was flapping.
‘Leave it alone!’ Greg yelled, pushing the tallest boy away. ‘You’re going to kill it!’
I said, ‘I love you and you are safe!’
The tallest boy punched Greg.
Greg fell to his knees. His nose and mouth were bleeding.
I ran for the tallest boy. I grabbed him round the neck. One of the other boys kicked me hard in the shin. I felt blood trickle down my leg. I felt someone punch me – or hit me with something – between my shoulder blades.
I fell to my knees.
Two of the younger boys were standing on the dolphin now. One of them stabbed the dolphin. One of the girls laughed. The other one kicked the dolphin.
‘I love you and you are safe!’
I could see Greg trying to stand.
But there was nothing he could have done.
Nothing either of us could have done.
There were seven of them, two of us.
The dolphin’s cries were getting fainter and fainter.
Its blood was spreading across the sand and shingle.
The gang of youths started to dance around the dolphin, spitting at it, kicking it, stabbing it, hitting it, throwing stones at it, pouring lager on it.
Eventually the dolphin stopped moving.
The gang became bored and walked away.
Greg and I knelt on either side of the dolphin.
We stayed like that for a very long time.
We didn’t speak.
Nolan – gradually – stops kicking and yelling. He is covered with sweat and breathless. He becomes still, exhausted.
Pat is exhausted too. She strokes his hair and kisses him. He doesn’t flinch away.
I can feel my heart pounding.
Sweat trickles down my face.
Nolan is very calm now. He’s gazing into Pat’s eyes. He reaches up and touches the tears on her face. He tries to say something.
‘What, darling?’ she asks.
>
‘Water,’ he says.
One night, about a year ago, as we lay in bed, Gena said, ‘I want a child. And you’re going to give it to me. You don’t have to fuck me. Just masturbate and I’ll inject the sperm into me. My body clock’s ticking. I can’t afford to wait any longer.’ She placed her hand on my chest. ‘I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll continue to be the woman on your arm. But you must give me a child. Something that can love me back. If you don’t I’ll leave you. And take half your money with me.’
‘Can I call my wife?’ I ask Pat.
‘Of course!’ Pat says, going upstairs. ‘The phone’s in the hall. I’ll be down in a minute. There’s something I want to show you before you go.’
I go to the phone and dial.
Gena answers.
‘It’s me,’ I say.
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m still here. At Greg’s. Pat’s.’
‘You said you wouldn’t stay long.’
‘I know. But . . . we’ve been talking. Pat cooked some lunch. It was lovely. I’ve met Pat’s son. His name’s Nolan. He’s seven. He likes robots. He’s got Greg’s eyes. We’ve all been having a great time.’
‘You’re such a fraud,’ she says. ‘Everything about you. It’s all fake.’ She hangs up.
I put the phone down.
Nolan is standing in the living room doorway.
He’s not looking at me, but he’s been listening.
‘My wife doesn’t like me very much,’ I say to him. ‘And my son’s going to grow up and he’s not going to like me very much either. What can I do about it, Nolan? Eh?’
He smiles, like he knows the answer, but won’t tell me.
Pat comes down from upstairs with a box.
‘I thought you might want to see this before you go.’ She lifts the lid off the box. It’s full of photographs. ‘There’s some recent ones of Greg.’
We sit on the sofa and she puts the box on my lap.
The first photo I pick up is of Pat, holding a newly born Nolan. She’s in a hospital bed. Greg is perched beside them. He’s kissing the baby’s head.
I think, That’s what I should have done.
Another photograph: Greg and some army friends in a pub. Greg looks very muscular. He’s got his arm round someone’s shoulders. I dig deeper into the box. A black and white photo of Rene and Aunt Fran. A Polaroid of Pat at some party. Mum, as a girl, outside the cottage. Greg, older, his hair long, painting the side of the cottage. Another one of Aunt Fran.