by Tim Pears
Mid-morning. The clouds break up. The rucksack presses against Owen’s back, he can feel the sweat on his shirt. The straps bite into his bony shoulders. He leans back. An aeroplane rises in a blue sky, like a toy thrown up by a child in a distant suburb. The smell of asphalt. On a cricket ground, out by the side of the wicket, an irrigator: on a tripod a long bar from either end of which water shoots upwards. The bar spins on its axis on the tripod, first this way, then that, so that the jets of water are made to describe helices. One double helix after another, repeating, dissolving.
Owen enters the school by the back entrance, through the cramped staff car park. The little playground is empty. Crisp packets, snack wrappers, rustle and stir in the brisk morning. A hard sun rises above the climbing frame. He screws up his eyes. The sky is white. He walks round the side to the front entrance and rings the bell.
The school secretary opens the door. Sally is a large woman in her late forties or early fifties. She wears what look to Owen like colourful pieces of material flung over her body. Her body a piece of furniture covered in drapes, in throws of fabric. It is difficult to guess her shape beneath. She perspires along her upper lip.
‘Come in,’ Sally says. ‘Come in.’
Owen stumbles into the reception area.
‘Would you like to sit down?’ Sally asks.
Owen doesn’t want to sit down. He isn’t sure what to say.
‘Is everything all right?’
He hadn’t thought about what he would say. He hadn’t considered the need to say anything. The head teacher comes out of her office.
‘Won’t you sit down, Mr Ithell?’ she asks.
‘Can I fetch you a glass of water?’ Sally offers. There is a long pause. They lean towards each other, as if the three of them are praying together. There is the smell of something organic in the vestibule. A machine in Sally’s office comes to life with a quiet belch, followed by animated squeaks. Owen realises the smell is coming from a large brown paper carrier bag in the corner: an uncollected bag from the PTA fruit and vegetable scheme.
‘I’ll fetch him a glass of water,’ Sally decides. ‘He’s white as a sheet.’
Mrs Okechukwu takes Owen’s arm. Before he knows it he is sitting down, next to her, on one of the easy chairs in reception, under the cross. Everything is quiet. There is an odd hush, a peculiar quality to the sound inside the school, with two hundred and fifty children in their lessons. Owen had never noticed it before. The air seems to contain their suppressed energy. He hears a distant teacher’s remonstration. A quick convulsion of laughter in a different classroom. Then the constrained quiet once more.
Sally bows before him with a white plastic cup of water. ‘I’m fine,’ he says, taking it from her with his left hand. The water is lukewarm. He drinks it down, slowly, every last warm drop.
‘I need to take Joshua and Holly out of school,’ he says. ‘I’ve come to collect them.’
Mrs Okechukwu asks, ‘Has something . . . ?’ She stops, keeps the shape of her mouth around the last syllable.
‘Their grandmother,’ Owen says.
‘Has she . . . ?’ Sally asks.
‘She ’s not well, see,’ Owen says. He shakes his head. ‘Doesn’t look good. May be our last chance to visit.’
The two women look upon Owen with tender wariness. It occurs to him that they’d rather look after him than entrust the children to his care.
‘She’s very calm,’ he says. ‘Looks like the end is close but she’s not ranting. Mean a great deal to her to see her grandchildren.’ Owen squeezes his eyes closed, and gulps, and opens them again. ‘Mean a lot to them as well, see,’ he says. ‘Times to come.’ He looks from one to the other. ‘Wouldn’t want to deprive them of the chance to say goodbye.’
Mrs Okechukwu rises and says to Sally, ‘I will get Joshua,’ and the two women go off in different directions. Sally comes back first, clutching a green jacket and a pink rucksack. Holly walks ahead of her. She’s not seen her father in a while. Recognition blooms suddenly on her face. She grins at him. Every few steps she skips, tempted to run yet restraining herself, aware already of appropriate behaviour. So grown-up, his little girl. Her sixth birthday just a few weeks away.
Owen stays seated, but reaches out, and Holly lets him gather her to him. ‘Daddy,’ she says.
The head reappears with Josh, her solicitous hand high upon his spine. He is shaking his head. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Nana’s ill,’ Owen explains. He makes a solemn face. ‘We’ll go and visit her.’
Owen feels Holly’s body give a little wriggle beside him. ‘On the bus?’ she asks, wide-eyed. Her father nods.
Josh is frowning. ‘Does Mum know?’ he demands. Josh’s frown darkens. He looks troubled, angry. He looks like he is doing a comic impression of his father, but it’s not supposed to be funny.
‘Your grandmother’s not very well, Joshua,’ Sally tells him.
Mrs Okechukwu says to Owen, ‘Their mother knows about this?’
‘Of course.’
Josh has always hated disruption to or a break in his routine. Eleven years old now. When he was younger, Owen would remember too late the need to warn or remind his son of what was about to happen. We’re going to the park in half an hour. Tomorrow you’re seeing the optician: I’ll take you out of school mid-morning, and return you after lunch. Josh found it hard to cope with being surprised. Clearly, he hasn’t changed.
‘I don’t want to go,’ he says. His resistance is palpable: perhaps Mrs Okechukwu is exerting pressure on his neck, and he is pushing back against her. ‘I can stay here,’ Josh insists.
‘It’s your grandmother, Joshua,’ Sally tells him.
‘Let me ask Mum if I can stay here,’ Josh says. His countenance has become clouded by suspicion.
‘Is their mother going?’ Mrs Okechukwu asks.
‘No,’ Owen says. The notion of panic occurs, without actually afflicting him. ‘It’s fine. Joshua can stay here. You stay here, Josh. Holly and I will go. I’ll tell Mummy to collect you as usual. That’s fine.’ He stands up.
‘Are you sure you’re all right, Mr Ithell?’ Sally asks.
The vestibule lurches. It feels as if the school is a raft, floating on water.
‘You’re trembling,’ says Sally.
Owen steadies himself against the wall, until the blood has returned to his brain. ‘I’ll be okay outside. Thank you.’ He takes Holly’s hand.
‘If it’s arranged that Joshua should go,’ Mrs Okechukwu says in some confusion, ‘I believe he should.’
At that moment lessons around the school begin to come to an end. Morning break. There is a rustling sound, and something like breathing. The school building is like a skull inside of which the brain of a great creature stirs from sleep. The children are thoughts. They distract the head teacher.
‘We’ll give Nana a kiss from you, okay?’ Owen tells Josh. Josh nods, relaxing, the threat of disruption to his day being withdrawn.
Owen and Holly walk out of the front door and back around the side of the school. Children are bursting out of doors, hysterical, each intent upon some course of action. Girls of various ages skip over to ask Holly why she’s being taken out of school. Gratified by the attention, self-important, she tells them she is going to see her nana, who is ill. Owen keeps hold of her hand, moving her along, urging himself forward too, afraid of a shout behind them, calling them back, reining them in; a phone call having been made, Mel berserk at the other end, a male teacher, others, summoned urgently to corral the out-of-control father.
But no yell comes. They make it out of the playground and through the staff car park, only then do they hear the sound of running feet. Owen stops and turns. Josh reaches them and begins walking, obliging them to resume doing so. He doesn’t want to make a scene, he’s just changed his mind, that is all. Given a little more time, he’d been able to assimilate the information and decide for himself that he’d like to come on this expedition.
; They take a left and a right and cross the humpbacked bridge, and once they are on the towpath of the canal Owen begins to breathe a little easier.
Electric-blue dragonflies blur across the water. Male and female mallards float: they seem to be waiting. A smell of parsley. Owen wipes his sweaty hairline. Holly’s hand is slippery in his. Josh walks beside him, black rucksack on his back.
The sun is above, everywhere and nowhere. Owen raises his head with relief. He knows this is only the beginning, the initial step, the first hurdle. He feels euphoria, like the sky above him is his to float into. The vapour trail of a jet aeroplane curves across the blue sky, as if the pilot has discovered a navigational error, and is discreetly correcting it.
i am a stranger with thee, and a sojourner, as all my fathers were
People pour into the city, tired and hungry. They arrive and are lost, look around for guidance. Others are leaving. The concourse is a jostling swarm of criss-crossing paths. Owen and his children queue ten minutes for a ticket. Josh goes first. The barrier swallows his ticket, spits it out, opens its wings to let him through.
The waiting room is in the middle of the platform. Its walls are thick transparent plastic. Outside, old people tow trolley cases, their breath in the harsh sun condensing before them. Families huddle around bulging bags: bulky, shapeless men and women in sports clothes, children either too fat or too thin. Young men in oval mirrored sunglasses. Alternating tannoys – one voice computerised, female, the other a live man – clamour for attention. Inaudible information.
Owen, Josh and Holly are the only occupants of the waiting room. They sit apart, a triangle of passengers. Holly must have turned towards her father: he can tell from the sound of her voice. ‘Mummy said you’re sick.’
Owen looks at his daughter and shakes his head. ‘She didn’t mean it,’ he says. Holly comes over and climbs onto his lap. Josh is across the room, kneeling on a chair, looking out. Beneath her green jacket Holly wears a red T-shirt with two black embroidered dogs on the front, a blue denim skirt, odd socks – one purple, one pink – pulled up as high as they will go, almost to her knees. Sturdy shoes. Sweatbands on her wrists, her hair in plaits, hairgrips holding them to the sides of her head. Owen is grateful that at their school the children do not wear uniform. That bit less conspicuous.
Holly squirms around until she gets herself comfortable. The hook does not bother her. She lets her body relax into Owen’s. With his left hand he strokes her arm. Holly takes it as her due: an expectation of sensuality. Owen realises she is studying his face, inspecting it closely. He breathes in through his lips and Holly peers into his mouth. ‘What happened to your tooth?’ she asks.
Owen feels with his tongue, finds the gap at the front of his upper jaw. Lost it a month or two ago. ‘Sold it, like,’ he tells his daughter. ‘Get good money for a decent tooth, know who to go to.’
Holly stares at him a moment, then seems to realise she’ll get no sense out of him on this and says, ‘Let’s talk about something. What shall we talk about?’
‘Anything in the whole wide world, girl.’
Holly thinks for a moment. ‘When you did meet Mummy . . .’
Owen frowns. He thinks, Anything but that, but says, ‘Yes?’
‘Before I was in Mummy’s tummy . . .’
‘You mean when you were just a twinkle in my eye?’
‘No. Before.’
‘Before Josh?’
Across the room, Josh’s body stiffens, alert to the conversation behind him.
‘Yes, fore Josh. Fore our sister. When did you meet Mummy?’
Owen sighs. ‘She was so beautiful, see,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘First time I saw your mother,’ he tells Holly, ‘she was wearing a dress so tight I found it difficult to breathe.’
Holly frowns. ‘But when?’ she says impatiently.
‘When? Let’s see.’ He calculates, and decides, ‘Fifteen year ago.’
Holly grows exasperated. ‘But when?’ she repeats.
Owen plucks a date at random. ‘The twentieth of November.’
Holly flushes with anger.
‘Tuesday, Holly,’ Owen says.
Holly’s small hands bunch into tight fists, and she raises one of them. Her eyes well up. Her skin is the colour of raspberry milk. She is about to strike him. But then she seems to pause, to steady herself, as if taking pity on his obtuseness. ‘But were it after?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes. That’s right. It was after.’ This, bizarrely, seems to satisfy her.
Josh turns around. Looking at Holly, he says, ‘Owen doesn’t even know.’
Owen wonders what she meant. Did Josh know what she meant? He looks at Josh, who turns away.
Outside, families haul their items of dead luggage for ten or twenty metres, dump them down again and look around in every direction, unsure of where their train might come from.
Owen recalls when he and Mel married, his feeling of relief. And pride of conquest. She was his now, as he was hers. He knew – he was certain – that her brother, their friends, his own mother, considered him fortunate. At a certain moment during the wedding party he took a break from dancing and stepped out of the barn. He looked down into the valley from up in those hills he planned to take the children to now. Behind him the beats and the rapture. It struck him (and as it did so he knew that he would remember this moment forever, the cloudy sunset, silhouetted hills, shuddering music), it struck him that in pledging herself, her future, her very life to his, that in some strange way Mel had evaded him. The girl he had pursued was not, could never be again, the woman he had captured.
Outside, a train comes. Another leaves. The waiting room begins to fill with people. Lone travellers, they speak into their mobile phones. The sound is different from the murmurous babble of conversation: composed of interwoven, overlapping monologues, it is more theatrical, with odd emphases and pauses.
‘This is ours,’ Owen says.
Shuffling on his knees, Josh backs off the seat, turns and walks across the waiting room, pulling the supports of his rucksack over his shoulders. ‘I thought we was going on the bus,’ he says, frowning.
‘Take the train for a change, is what I thought.’ Owen stands up and half-lifts, half-tosses, Holly over and around his right shoulder so that she can cling to his back like a monkey. Josh shrugs. He lifts his sister’s rucksack and loops it in his father’s hook. Owen is able to carry it along with his own rucksack, leaving his left hand to cradle Holly’s bottom behind him.
They walk to a platform, climb onto a train. Josh walks along the centre aisle. At the end of each carriage Josh pushes a button and the door hisses open. There are plenty of empty seats. The train had arrived from somewhere; people have spread out. Laptops. iPods. Paperback books. Companionable magazines. Dainty paper bags of coffee, sandwiches from the buffet car. Sachets of sugar, tiny tubs of milk. People gaze out of the windows.
They reach an empty carriage at the front of the long train. The driver, whose bull neck and the back of whose bald head they can see through a window in the door of his cab.
Josh sits, silent. Holly empties her rucksack on the table. The flotsam of a five-year-old magpie. A plastic beetle, a hairgrip, one dice, a pink pony, odd crayons, they tumble out, a domino, dented ping-pong ball, one of her mother’s rings, which Owen suspects may be valuable. Holly’s bags were not bad places to look if you’d lost something. The last thing to fall out is Owen’s old toothbrush. It disappeared around the time of the children’s last visit, after which he’d had to get a new one. Why Holly had filched this he has no idea – she is too proud to admit theft, it would be no use confronting her, she’d deny taking it and become angry. Memento of him or merely a momentary covetousness? Neither makes much sense, but Holly is five years old, and she has her own logic.
Josh draws something in his notebook, shows it to Holly. Owen sees them exchange looks. About him? He feels aloof from them, superfluous. A paternal superfluity. The absence, the two of them,
the broken triangle. He will mend it.
The lurch of a train. The judder and sway. It is hard to write by hand. Josh lets out little grunts of frustration when his pen slews across the page. Owen expresses his sympathy. The boy puts down the pen. It rolls over the table.
‘I want to text Mum,’ Josh says. ‘Left my phone at school.’
‘It’s okay,’ Owen says. ‘She knows where we are.’
‘I want to talk to her,’ Josh says.
‘And me,’ adds Holly.
‘I don’t have my mobile,’ Owen tells them. ‘We’ll call her later, from a phone box.’
Their train rumbles through industrial yards: stacks of iron, mechanical shapes of indecipherable purpose, parts less of machines than of giant puzzles; piles of sand, grit, gravel, like spiceyards, the ingredients of industrial civilisation. The yards appear deserted.
Josh watches with a brooding gaze. The train passes a park. A fluoro-jacketed gardener with red earmuffs is agitating leaves with a blow vac, tidying the lawns by means of small tornadoes. You don’t need two hands to do that job, Owen thinks. Bare trees, their trunks like stalks, look like they’ve been stuck into the ground rather than grown from it. At the corner of the park more trees have been planted, hundreds. They look like war graves, like the trees have died, but sticks and rabbit guards remain, a memorial for each dead sapling.
Windows cut into the roofs of houses. Suburban back gardens. Plastic toys abandoned. An upturned boat. ‘We’ve passed this way already,’ Josh says. ‘We’re going round and round.’
Is there an accusatory tone to Josh’s voice? Does he blame Owen for being thrown out? He is disappointed that Owen did not stand up for himself more effectively. He witnessed his father assault his mother’s boyfriend, receive a bloody beating and lose his last right of access as a consequence.