by Alex Barr
Contents
About the author
By the same author
Title Page
Dedication
Worthy
Homecoming
The Visitor
The Ones No-one Wanted
Curtains
How One Thing Becomes Another
My Life with Eva
Creels
Trouble
Whiskey and Halva
Snaps
Whole
Doing It
Theory & Design in the Age of Innocence
Romey and Jullit
The Fan
And Gnashing of Teeth
The Smell of Happiness
Acknowledgments
Copyright
Alex Barr read Mars as the Abode of Life and wanted to be an astronomer, but Schrödinger’s equation foxed him. His birth marked a turning point in the Battle of Britain and he wanted to be a pilot, but the RAF lost patience with him. After seven years as a journalist (reaching the zenith of his career as wire editor of The Wichita Beacon) he read The Pleasures of Architecture by Clough Williams-Ellis, gained a Dip. Arch. with Distinction from Portsmouth Polytechnic, and for seventeen years taught architecture at Manchester Met. In 1996 he and his wife Rosemarie (a ceramic artist) moved to a smallholding in north Pembrokeshire. His haphazard career has included work as a bus conductor, ice-cream vendor, kitchen porter, and garden labourer. He has won prizes for poems and short fiction, but none for sport. The stories in this collection span the period from 1980 to the present.
By the same author
Poetry:
Letting in the Carnival
Henry’s Bridge
Orchards (translation)
For children:
Take a Look at Me-e-e!
Triangle Ted and the Grand TV Dance Competition
Jessica Vesica in the Land of Wedge Women
Penny Pentagon and the Hat Hunt
Rectangle Rex and His Pompous Pride
Lucy Lune and the Baby
MY LIFE WITH EVA
Alex Barr
For Rosemarie
with love
Worthy
MacAllister’s heart expanded and filled the enormous hall. It resonated with the organ music and the murmurs of graduating students. The stained glass windows full of saints and heraldry were all for him.
The graduands sat row on row. More were filing in, black gowns rustling. Soon they would receive, in yellow tubes, their scrolls. From his seat on the dais MacAllister sensed their pride and anticipation, though theirs were nothing to his. To one side of him were professors in a row like exotic birds, while behind and above, on a carved throne, sat the Vice-Chancellor. The organ played Strauss. MacAllister imagined waltzing with the beautiful Chinese girl in the front row. Perhaps later, inspired by his speech, she would congratulate him. Enter his gravitational field.
A thick-set man stopped by MacAllister’s chair – the Bedellus. When MacAllister received his honorary doctorate, this man would hood him.
“I’m told this grand chair you’re on was made by your father.”
MacAllister smiled. “Indeed.”
“You must feel pride.”
“I do.”
He thought of his father in collarless shirt and braces, bending to stoke the fire or sow peas in his allotment. Or reading to him:
Katie Bairdie had a coo
Black and white aboot the mou
Wasna that a denty coo?
Dance, Katie Bairdie.
He pictured the joinery shop, deep in aromatic shavings like angels’ curls. Wee MacAllister bringing sandwiches.
“Ye brought ma piece? Guid wee laddie.”
A broad smile on his father’s chubby face. Reaching for the package, his broad hand briefly touched his son’s. He took time to show the boy how to sharpen a chisel and cut a mortise. The sunlight caught every floating grain of dust. It lit this very chair, which was upside down. A peppery smell of oak as his father carved into the armrest.
“This chair’s for the univairsity, son. And this wee birdie’s my secret mark. A joiner needs his mark.”
MacAllister felt under the armrest. There it was, the bird. The rough hollow of the figure contrasted with the smooth wood around. Now his heart filled the whole city, Govan to Shettleston, Pollokshaws to Bearsden. Yes, he thought, Glasgow belongs to me, not to mention Canada, the USA …
The Bedellus said suddenly, “I saw him just before he died.”
“Sorry? Who?”
“Your father.”
But the organ music changed and swelled. Gaudeamus Igitur! The Bedellus moved to his own seat, ready. The Professor of Contemporary Studies was moving to the mike, turning to grin at him, the sway of her heavy gown calling attention to the trimness of her ankles.
MacAllister had noticed the ankles an hour before, drinking sherry in her office. She was wearing purple tights and a short tweed skirt, and her bobbed hair was deep burgundy.
“You’ll be voting yes to Independence,” she remarked.
“Och, I may not vote. I’m used to the States now. Scotland’s small.”
“Small!”
“New York State alone has four times the population.”
“And Scotland has ten times the history!”
He thought her mouth, shut tight in an accusing pout, would soften if he kissed it. That would show her. He thought the battle of wits had excited her. If she came on to him after the ceremony he might postpone his transatlantic flight.
“Vice-Chancellor,” she announced into the mike, “I present to you Douglas Munro MacAllister, who has been found worthy to receive the honorary award of Doctor of Philosophy, for his sterling contribution to the international …”
MacAllister’s attention drifted. The Professor worked through his biography. Glasgow born and bred. Searched local pubs for talent. (Was she aware of the ambiguity?) Scoured the Western and Northern Isles. Set up recording studios and labels. Well-known names still obscure but for MacAllister. North America a rich field for his endeavours …
He should have felt a glow of satisfaction. Instead he felt on edge. Someone must have opened the door to the antechamber, because there was a draught around his calves. It was June but the weather was dreadful. MacAllister pressed his legs together, trembling, and wound the black and crimson robes tighter.
‘I saw him just before he died.’ The phrase nagged him.
A light touch on his shoulder. It was the Bedellus, who moved away and beckoned, as if to say, ‘Arise, MacAllister, stand before the Vice-Chancellor while he presents the scroll, and I place the hood in its parrot colours on your deserving shoulders.’
The Professor ended her oration, grinned at him again, and resumed her seat. MacAllister stood. There was too much space and too much light and something was happening. Tide? Storm? No, a sea of applauding hands, pale or brown. The hanging lights below the great beams swayed a little. The stained glass reflected them.
Instead of approaching the Vice-Chancellor he spoke to the Bedellus.
“How long?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How long before my father died did you see him?”
The Bedellus glanced towards the Vice-Chancellor, as if to excuse the delay. He said, “The day before. He said you were flying back and would be there any moment.”
“I was too late!”
The Bedellus glanced again at the Vice-Chancellor, then anxiously at MacAllister.
“That’s very sad, Mr MacAllister. At least you spent time with him in New York.”
MacAllister closed his eyes. Like sea-mist rolling in to chill a warm beach, something invaded his heart. He surveyed the ocean of faces as if from a scaffold, then turned away. The
Vice-Chancellor leaned forward to welcome him, smiling. His smile froze as MacAllister passed him and left the hall, down the oak stairs he had ascended in what seemed a different life. Through the ornate antechamber where he had been robed, down a stone spiral stair into numbing rain, the void of the Gothic courtyard.
“What’s going on?”
The Professor and the Bedellus were standing over him.
“If you’re sick, Mr MacAllister,” said the Bedellus, “there nae use crouching here.” MacAllister rose and confronted them. The Professor took off her glasses to wipe away the rain and he saw she had a cast in the left eye. He shrugged off his heavy gown and threw it aside. The Bedellus picked it off the flagstones, tutting.
“Are you ill, Douglas?” the Professor asked. “For heaven’s sake, man, let us help.”
“Bodach bochd,” MacAllister said, and laughed. His laughter echoed harshly off the hallowed stonework.
“What?”
“You don’t know the Gaelic? Poor old man.”
They led him as if blind to shelter at the foot of the stone stair.
“Tell the VC he’s recovering,” the Professor told the Bedellus, “and will return in a moment.”
“Aye, I will.”
He sat on the lowest stair and the stone chilled him. The Professor stood close. MacAllister thought of parting her gown, leaning his head against her warm tweed belly and holding her warm purple thighs.
She tugged at her hair. “We need to go back.”
“To the Taft Hotel?”
“The Taft … ? You’re not making sense, Douglas.”
“There’s no going back ten years.”
A picture of the hotel lobby flooded his mind. Manhattan traffic creeping by outside. His father, grey with exhaustion, rising from a soft armchair.
“Ye said there’d be a room for me, son.”
“Jesus, Dad, when did you arrive? I’m so sorry, I’ve had meetings all day.”
“Aye. If I could just get ma heid doon.”
In the morning his father was snoring on the spare bed in his suite. He left a note. See you for lunch, hopefully. But he wasn’t back till six. His father was in the room.
“More meetings, son?”
“I’m so sorry, Dad. I couldn’t get away.”
He couldn’t get away from Judith García. They had the mastering done by midday and could have parted then, but no, he wanted her, though after many highballs the memory of his afternoon with her was a blur. The taxi back to the Taft seemed to take forever.
“Have you eaten, Dad? Let’s go eat.”
His father’s burger was barely nibbled.
MacAllister sighed. “Tomorrow I’ll cancel my appointments.”
“My flight leaves at seven the morn.”
“Oh no.”
He ordered double Scotches. His father sipped his dutifully.
“They’ve given me six weeks.”
“What do you mean?”
“Six weeks is what they’ve given me, son. I’m sorry.”
“Oh my God.”
His father smiled.
“I brought ye this.”
Now on the cold steps, MacAllister remembered the texture of the wax-paper wrapping. The smoothness of the bowl inside, the scent of Tung oil.
“It’s cherrywood, son. Turn it over.”
The bird was incised in the base.
A few weeks later he was back in Glasgow. His father lay on a trolley in a cold basement. They had closed his eyes but his mouth was open, as if the Dark Angel had astonished him.
“Did he say a word about me before … ?”
“Aye, Mr MacAllister. ‘Wee Douggie’s flying in frae Canada. Be here ony moment.’”
As for the bowl, somewhere – Toronto, L.A., Vancouver, Orkney, Skye? – it was lost.
The Professor was looking at her watch. He studied her blue patent leather toes and the stone paving. A yellow snail was progressing.
“I’ll announce you’ve been taken ill,” she said.
Her heels clacked on the stair.
The rain ceased. The film of water on the courtyard shone. A small motherly woman arrived, breathless, with an Eastern look, in some kind of uniform.
“Sorry I late. I come to see, you need treatment.”
He stood. She took his arm gently.
“Come.”
“No.”
He detached himself and started up the stairs. The woman ascended beside him in small bursts, comically.
The hall was full of space. The faces were a frozen tide. A different professor was speaking. His professor stood, and put her hand on his arm. The Bedellus restored his gown. The man at the mike announced, “But I see our honoured guest is back,” and gave way with a gracious gesture.
MacAllister paused, then announced, “I am Douglas Munro MacAllister, son of Robert Allan MacAllister, Joiner.” He looked up at the great beams, but they were blurred. He said, in too loud a voice the mike distorted, “And no way worthy to receive this honour.”
The silence that followed seemed endless. He felt a touch at his waist. The Professor turned the mike off.
“Douglas,” she hissed, shaking him, “don’t do this to me.”
He stared at her. Her centre parting was grey where the dyed hair had grown. Her face was close and he smelt stale cigarette breath. He nodded and turned the mike back on.
“Not worthy for myself, that is. But on behalf of my father, who made that fine chair behind me and who steeped me in Scottish culture, I accept it.”
The Professor led the applause. He received his scroll from the Vice Chancellor, who tapped his head and shook his hand.
“Well done, Dr MacAllister. I liked the human touch. All right now?”
“Fine.”
The Bedellus hooded him and motioned him back to the chair, and the ceremony continued. The stream of graduands seemed endless. He fingered the bird under the armrest and longed to hold the cherrywood bowl again.
Suddenly it was time for his speech. An anticipatory hush. A shuffling of feet, amplified by the acoustics. MacAllister had meant to speak impromptu, inspired like a revivalist preacher. But he read from his notes mechanically, hardly looking up, like a policeman in court reading a statement. The Chinese girl, snug in her green hood, looked blank.
The occasion ended with champagne and strawberries in the cloisters, which were open both sides. A chill wind whipped through. The Professor approached with a fixed smile.
“So what was all that? I feel dumped on.”
“If we go somewhere warmer I’ll explain.”
He stroked her shoulder and tried to imagine her bedroom. Heavy blankets tucked in tight like those of his childhood. She lifted her face towards him. He thought she meant to kiss him, but she whispered, “Fancy yourself an expert at soothing angry women?”
MacAllister shivered. Greeted by colleagues, the Professor drifted away.
He thought again of the cherrywood bowl and tried to remember his travels. Perhaps, if he sent enough inquiries … whatever it took. And perhaps he would vote. He parted his robes and felt inside his jacket. His heart was there. Very small, but still beating, and that was a start.
Homecoming
It was only the plants they had to leave. Everything else went into crates. Bernard screwed down the lids while Rosalind noted the contents in a jotter. Before they even thought of checking the time, a big blue and green van appeared. The transfer company, five minutes early. The crew made breath clouds through their scarves in the subzero cold. Lit by the bright Kansas sun the boxes with their shadows looked solid. In fifteen minutes everything they owned was loaded.
The furniture was staying to be collected. Voluntary repossession. Their furniture had always been on credit, successive waves of it. This was the last wave. Bernard wandered through the bright rooms saying goodbye to it: the combination bed head and shelves covered in soft vinyl, the bookcase with trim that looked like brass but was paper. He remembered the spring day they ordered it
all, from Mr Green’s on Hydraulic Avenue where even the parquet was painted green. He remembered the high they felt when they found that, even with the business faltering, they could still get credit. Those were the days.
Bernard’s ex-partner Wayne arrived to drive them to the airport motel. It was cosy in the cab, the three of them wedged together, Wayne smelling of Dentyne. Rosalind looked behind, at the suitcases in the back of the pickup, out in the cold. She felt neat and clean, her feelings packaged.
Wayne pulled out onto Eighteenth and paused for a moment so they could look back. At the front room window were the big cut-out leaves of the philodendron she and Bernard got in a garage sale when they first arrived. On the sill were the saw-tooth leaves of the aloe their daughter Lesley brought them from Arizona. Rosalind and Bernard caught one another’s eyes. They both pulled faces and raised their eyebrows.
“It doesn’t have that reproachful look,” said Rosalind, “like it always did when we left to go on holiday.”
Bernard nodded. “I know what you mean.”
Now it was just a container, a box they’d lived in, storm windows worn but neat, ready for the next owner. The frost on the porch rail glinted. Beyond, the swing seat moved in the icy wind, brilliantly sunlit. Bernard remembered all those summers, Lesley with bunches, in dungarees stroking a guinea-pig, or riding on his back pulling his ears. Lesley and Rosalind cross-legged on a blanket, laughing, racing to eat popsicles before they melted.
“Okay, folks?” Wayne asked.
“Okay,” they said.
He drove away fast.
At the motel they dumped the suitcases onto ribbed concrete which someone had marked with a finger PG ‘91. They hugged in a circle.
“So long, old horse, old buddy,” said Wayne. “So long, Roz, you fantastic lady. And if you get to Italy, hello to Lesley.” He paused and looked at their faces. “Hell, I wish things had’ve worked out.”
“Recession is … recession,” said Bernard. He wanted to feel some pain, to prolong the moment, but there was just this dryness, and the biting cold. They released each other.
Rosalind said, “We came with five hundred pounds. We’re leaving with five thousand dollars. It’s not so bad.”