‘Yes,’ I lie.
‘I think tea would be nice.’
I get up too quickly but don’t think he notices. In the kitchen I lean against the door and take a deep breath. That whining chair, rising and falling, a counterpoint to the dementia. Now composed, now anxious. Thank fuck the carer starts tomorrow. I’m glad it’s her who has to watch the pendulum swing all day long. There’s a lump in my throat I can’t swallow.
‘You don’t need to sit with me,’ he says when I hand him his tea.
‘I thought you’d like the company.’
‘I read the paper when I drink my tea.’ He pats The Times on his lap.
I hesitate before closing the door. He’s sitting stock still but his eyes are darting round the room, his cheeks wet. The newspaper’s an excuse. He just doesn’t want me near him as he struggles to set his new bearings. I have no way to reach him and no comfort to offer if I could. Because he’s never been comfortable in my home and only some magical transference to his little old seaside cottage would achieve that. Instead he’s here, he’s here to take his place with all the other strangers.
‘Pour us one too, will you? How is he?’
‘Fine.’
‘You ok? You look a bit pale.’
I’ve managed two whiskies and a beer before my wife’s got home and feel just fine. ‘It’s winter.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Well here’s to change, eh?’
She clinks my glass and goes through to see him. I hear the chair whine, he’s obviously trying to get up, greet her like a gentleman. I have to avoid being alone with him. It’ll help having the carer and the shift-work will make it easier too. Nurse Davidson said that normality is what he needs more than anything. Simple routine Mr Drever. Well Nurse Double D, there’s nothing more routine than the awkwardness that’s always underpinned our relationship.
He infuriates my wife too but she’s got a better sense of duty than me. And he’s always been so affectionate with her, I see it again when I go into the living room. She’s sitting on the floor and he’s leaning down, holding and stroking her hand. The daughter he would’ve preferred? C’mon, only a paranoid egomaniac would consider that. ‘How about I get the dinner on?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it,’ says my wife.
‘No no, my turn.’
She nods. ‘Uh huh.’ That you sneaky bastard look. ‘Cook away then.’
‘Fish and chips, Dad. How does that grab you?’
‘Yes, that would be nice.’ He looks down at my wife with a secretive smile. ‘In the home we had fish every Friday.’
One by one we pay our respects to the returning patriarch. It’s not quite The Godfather but the deference is palpable. The Boy’s under strict instructions and manages to be polite. Amber gives her granda a big hug and Peter doesn’t have a clue what to do, eventually sticking out a hand and saying what a privilege it is to meet you. He keeps calling him sir for some reason. Is all this respect truly meant, or a means of maintaining our distance? Our deference is perhaps wariness, none of us knowing how his illness will be from one day to the next.
What about simple routine? That would mean sinking the usual two bottles with dinner. But it wouldn’t be right. We limit ourselves to one glass and envious looks at the unopened Rioja.
The silences stretch. We glance at one another, all apart from my father, who picks and pushes at his fish and chips. I flash a look at my wife as if to say should we cut it up for him? I should’ve asked Nurse Davidson. These are the things, the little things that are essential to harmonious functioning, as my wife’s gurus would have it. I don’t want to offend him by asking if I can help but he’s probably too proud to ask. My wife rides to the rescue, reaching across and cutting up his fish. He watches her passively. In fact, we’re all watching, all trying to pretend we’re not watching, listening to the knife squeak on the plate.
‘Thank you,’ he says.
I’m not sure he is but at least he’s finally eating. His head bobs up and down as he chews. I can’t help thinking about my mother’s journal. The lump is suddenly back in my throat. I can’t stop watching him. Bits of food dribble from his mouth onto the plate. My phone starts vibrating in my pocket. Adelina, I know. My wife’s looking at me. Everyone wants something, all of them, and I’ve never asked anyone for anything. I can’t swallow this fuckin lump.
* * *
Endless snow. I’m getting fevered. I don’t want crumping boots and gritty scrapes on the salted car-park. I want to kill everyone who talks about the weather. Some find romance in endurance. Let me squat instead by the just-lit fire, staring into a distance leached of every detail.
I’m on the early shift. 5am alarm. My father’s already moving about in Amber’s room.
They say the elderly find it difficult to sleep. Is it a conscience thing, the remorse accumulated over a lifetime? He must be the exception that makes the rule because no more worthy a man have I ever met. Jesus himself would feel threatened. Yes, my crimes are all my own, no sins of the father rest on these shoulders. By the time I’m out of the shower he’s sitting in the kitchen. I see him from the hallway and leave by the front door without a word.
I pass round by the old mash tun, onto the steps up to the stills. Stan and Ronnie stand at the top. They’re leaning close, whispering away the sleekit bastards, even though no-one can hear them in the noise of the Stillhouse. They both turn and look at me at the same time.
I can’t help stopping, I even look down at my scuffed boots, as if I’ve done something wrong. Fuckin stupid. I run up the last few steps and nod to them, nipping into the bog and glancing back. They’re both still staring in my direction, not saying a word. No doubt they’re discussing the strike, the fact that they scabbed. They’re probably wondering about where I stand, my positioning. I was at the picket but also on leave. Does that make me friend or foe?
I’m not sure myself but what does it matter. I take a new cloth from the cleaning cupboard, pour on the waxy liquid and start at number 1 wash still. Slow circles, a white smear that gradually disappears as I polish. The still gives a little burble, enjoying the massage. When I notice my face in the polished copper I see that I’m smiling. I work my way down the wash stills and back up the spirit stills on the other side. I don’t need to polish them. I just do it. I like the motion, round and round so my thoughts don’t have to.
‘You at that again?’
I’m kneeling on the mesh walkway, finishing off number 3 spirit. Some would say it’s peculiar to have a favourite still, but this is mine. No point telling Rankin that sometimes in the deepest part of the night it sings to me. I finish off the polishing and look up. Rankin’s always on surveillance and has probably been standing watching for a while. In a Scorcese movie he’d be the edgy gangster watching Joe Pesci twist a ballpoint pen into the stool pigeon’s eye. What he can’t understand is that the stills run so much more sweetly when you look after them.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Same as, same as.’
‘Bit early for you isn’t it?’
‘It is that.’
Rankin’s way early for his shift. ‘You on secret OT? Jack won’t be best pleased.’
‘Got a favour to ask.’
Rankin’s got this problem. Jeannie, the unrequited love of his life who manages the visitor centre. It’s been going on since they were at school and they’re both 35 now. Rumour goes he shagged her one lunchtime in the security guard’s portacabin. Camp Gary claims he glanced at the window and Jeannie was slightly bent over, Rankin standing very intently behind her. Both looked me straight in the fuckin eye! Then Rankin closed the blind . . . Every day he’s down the visitor centre like a love struck pup. Every day he’ll offer to do a tour for her.
‘S’ just a wee group. I forgot I’m meeting the boss at 12.15. You don’t have to do the whole tour, just the Stillhouse bit till I get back.’
‘Fuck’s sake.’
‘You’re a star.’
You’re a star, when did people start saying that? I only agree to help with the tour because it means I can delay going home. It’s a piece of piss really. All I have to do is stand up by the demonstration spirit safe in the exhibition area at the bottom of the Stillhouse and explain the distillation process. Crank up the accent and invoke the myths, puff my craftsman’s chest.
The tour group appears at ten past twelve. I’m washing my hands and can hear Rankin belting out his spiel along by the grain hopper. Then they’ll be trooping round the mash tun, peering in, Rankin burbling on about drunk cows eating the leftover draff. His hackneyed shtick in the fermentation room is to feign being stoned by the carbon dioxide and say whoa, reminds me of Woodstock, ‘69. I nip through the mash tun control room to avoid the group as it snakes back down the stairs to the Stillhouse. Rankin’s not supposed to take them up there. Health and Safety. Slinky’ll be there before you can say clipboard and pen.
I follow them after a couple of minutes, stopping a few steps from the bottom. They’re gathered at the spirit safe with their backs to me. A dozen or so, usual outfits of Goretex and woolly hats. Rankin’s on the gantry and raises a hand. He explains that the one and only Jim Drever, our master Stillman, the sarcastic swine, will be taking over. He even does a drum roll. The faces turn as if choreographed, a mix of non-commitment and expectation.
And I see her.
I should’ve clocked the duffle coat and Davy Crockett straightaway but she was lost in the crowd.
I hesitate for a moment then turn and hurry back up the steps. She’s seen me, of course she has. I feel like a little boy, running away. Rankin’s calling my name but when I get round to the mash tun I can’t hear him anymore. Portland Bill gives me a funny look as I barge past him and down the back stairs and outside. Thank fuck for this mini Ice Age, I feel I’m burning up. I kneel down and rub snow on my face, rub until my skin is red and numb.
They’re all sitting in the kitchen when I get home; my wife, father and a new presence, the top-of-the-range private nurse suggested by the manager of my father’s home, salary to match. She’ll do the 9-5 and we’ll look after the old man at night. It’s baking hot. My wife’s insisted on cranking up the thermostat since my father moved in, to make him feel comfortable. Am I imagining the strange kind of abbreviation that hangs in the air, as if they’ve suddenly stopped talking about me? My father coughs and splutters but remains absent, a ghost haunting no-one but himself. He’s got dried egg down his Rotary Club tie.
‘We’ve just been talking about how everything will work,’ says my wife.
‘That’s good.’
‘This is Maggie.’
‘Nice to meet you Mr Drever.’
‘You too.’
‘Call him Jim, for goodness sake!’
Maggie looks at me.
‘If you want,’ I say.
She smiles but seems unsure.
‘You forgot your phone,’ my wife says.
I push back the swell of panic. ‘Noticed that.’
She reaches into her pocket and looks at it closely before handing it across. ‘There’s a number that called a few times.’
‘No name?’
‘No. No name.’
I take the phone. ‘Cold caller I suppose.’
‘Must be.’
She turns away and I stare at the phone, as if it might tell me if my wife answered or called the number back.
‘You’ll be late for the union meeting,’ my wife says.
I didn’t know there was one.
I stand by the visitor centre door, beside the display racks of postcards. An easy getaway spot. There are no cars in the car-park, no coaches. Adelina must be gone, back to wherever she’s hiding. Maybe she bought a postcard to send back home, a smiling Loch Ness Monster in a Jimmy cap. This edginess, I don’t know if I can handle it. The world usually leaves me pretty much alone.
Jack’s persuaded Jeannie to let him use the visitor centre over lunchtime. The internal phone goes just as he stands up on a chair and scans the crowd, primed for the Big Moment. Jeannie’s agreed to the meeting without checking. Slinky’s informants must have tipped him off. She stammers a bit, flushes red as Rudolf’s Christmas conk and hands Jack the phone.
Jack remains on the chair, delicately holding the phone between thumb and forefinger, pinkie out, the world’s most effete revolutionary. With the other hand he tries to quieten the hubbub. No, your concern is unnecessary . . . There are no tours booked in and no tourists . . . Why should we hold our meetings in the Filling Store when you have a warm boardroom and all the pies and drams that an expense account can buy? Sniggers of amusement at this, exchanged glances mixing admiration and something more complex, like embarrassment mixed with incredulity. My wife’d be creaming her best frillies if she was here.
Jack hands Jeannie the phone. ‘They think they’ve granted us the use of the visitor centre. But we don’t need their permission, their blessing. This meeting was going ahead. Regardless.’
Rankin shouts hurrah, his way of impressing Jeannie. He’s virus-close to her, over by the pyramid of branded tumblers. Gary nudges Malky and they shake their heads. Dumb Juan they call him.
‘This time last month? We were worried. That leaked memo talking about short-time working, redundancies. And what did they do? They gave us an ultimatum, stop the strike or we won’t talk, like we’re a bunch of children to be ordered around, threatened. But what did we do? We struck, we took it to them. And they’ll talk all right, they’ll talk on our terms!’
Fuckin right Jack. Fuckin right they will. This from a couple of the warehouse lads, Glasgow boys, not long started. There’s probably about sixteen of us in here, not counting the visitor centre staff. The TV’s been muted but still shows the Story of the Spirit on endless loop. They shot this a couple of years back, made stars of some of us; moody coopers, conscientious Stillmen. For a brief moment Jack’s on both the TV screen and up on the chair.
‘What now, now we’ve shown we won’t just wring our hands and back away? Well lo and behold another letter from the company!’ He takes a sheet of paper from his pocket, slowly unfolds it.
‘They weren’t expecting a strike,’ shouts Camp Gary. Always takes him a while to catch up.
‘They were not – ’
‘Couldn’t believe we’d do it.’
‘Absolutely, they thought – ’
‘They were wrong, eh?’
Jack’s extended both his arms, moving them up and down like a double sieg heil, trying to get Camp Gary to shut up. This is spoiling it, he’s got rhetoric to expound. He waves the letter in the air. Brothers and sisters! The hubbub’s back again, a shuffle of feet as people look at each other, move their heads to get the best view. What’s it say, shouts Rankin, managing to brush Jeannie’s tit at the same time. Everyone looks a little bit more sweaty-faced. I can’t take any more. I slip out as he pauses for effect, eking out the last atom of drama.
At the corner of warehouse 6 I hear a muffled cheer and glance back. The windows of the visitor centre are yellow, steamy. What’s been said? For a moment I’m jealous I missed the big reveal. I cross the bridge, watching the sickly line of smoke rise from my chimney. My windows too are yellow. And more voices, ever approaching, no matter how much I try to outrun them. More voices and more questions. I’d dawdle if I could but it’s too damn cold.
‘Well?’ says my wife.
I pull the back door shut. ‘How’s he doing?’
My wife rolls her eyes. ‘Your dad’s fine Jim. He’s through in the living room with Maggie.’
I walk past her before she has a chance to say anything else. Maggie the carer is young, about nineteen or so. Bleached blonde hair, a few zits, and a bursting burlesque chest which probably explains why the Boy’s down in the living room. He’s sitting on the sofa opposite Maggie and my father, pretending to read a graphic novel. The Sandman. He’s got no chance and knows it, just down for an eyeful, stocking u
p the images for a midnight wank.
‘Jim.’
My wife tugs at my arm. ‘Hi Dad,’ I say, but he doesn’t look up. Maggie turns and gives a beaming smile. Afternoon, Mr Drever. They’re playing a card game and after a moment I realise its Snap.
It’s so dispiriting I feel suddenly exhausted. My father was a man who got an Open University degree in philosophy and theology while working full-time and looking after me. Every damn night, sitting reading in that high-backed, red leather chair by the fire. He’d look at me, ever-patient, glasses slipping down his nose. I’d sit in the chair when he wasn’t around and once read a few pages from the book lying there. Something about St. Augustine. I’d have been about fifteen, same age as the Boy. The only saints I knew about were football teams.
‘Do I have to phone Jack to find out what happened?’
‘Might be better.’ My father’s shaking hand lays down a card on the chair between him and Maggie. They’re not even playing with a proper deck, it’s one of those Happy Family sets. Was this Maggie’s idea, does she think he’s a retard, only able to deal with Mrs White, the baker’s fat fuckin wife? ‘Might be better. He’ll be waiting, no doubt he’ll be waiting.’
‘Take an interest, man,’ and she storms out of the living room.
Maggie gives a quick, uncertain glance. The Boy raises The Sandman to hide his smirk. The doorbell rings and my father looks up. Confusion in his eyes that slips away. For the first time he sees me.
‘I’d like a new kilt too,’ he says.
‘A what?’
‘A new kilt.’
Now I remember. The Boy and I, we’re supposed to be going to town to look at wedding kilts.
Maggie looks up at me, expectant. The Boy casts a furtive glance. ‘Right. If you want.’ There’s not much else to add. He goes back to playing cards. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it, says Maggie, as if talking to a pet, or a child. He just takes it, even smiles as he says yes, very nice.
‘Can I get a velvet one,’ says the Boy.
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