by Sid Smith
Tom had read something about Brixton squats, and he was dropping Johnny off along the way. But with all the arsing about it was too late. Anyway, the Pug had been spilling coolant since they’d hit the Mondeo, so they were cadging water at every garage, but when they got to London there were no garages and the engine seized near Tower Bridge. It was dawn when they got to an alley off the Whitechapel Road.
They crept through the kitchen and up the stairs to Johnny’s room. Tom threw a pillow on the floor and lay down saying, ‘I’m really tired. Good night, then.’
He closed his eyes and saw Gilly and her bent hands. He knew she’d be there all night, so he didn’t speak when Johnny lay trembling beside him. But afterwards Johnny said, ‘This is love, you know,’ and Tom thought, ‘God. A genuine queer.’ In the morning he took the Tube to Brixton, knocking on doors along Canterbury Crescent until he found the top-floor room, and didn’t see Johnny for months.
He liked the squat. Every dole day was a celebration in the pub by the viaduct, a big room with bare boards, a pool table, and a hot square of sunlight through the open doors, Tom round-shouldered over his pint, short of small-talk but always good for a loan from his car-repair work, making lumpy roll-ups in brown cigarette paper, brushing the spilled tobacco off his lap, watching the students and hippies, his eyebrows high and pointed, thinking, ‘London.’ Then he’d head to the squat and sit on a tyre under the apple tree, a bottle of wine in a bucket, giving his downward smile as people drifted over with their dope.
And at night he was cosy in the thin sleeping bag that he’d bought from a hippy for a couple of joints. The hippy called it a doss bag, and was angry, holding up the joints, saying, ‘They’re nature’s gift, man. Nature’s gift.’ But then it got cold, and Tom was still fixing cars in the gutter, rain in his toolbox, kids stealing bits, and afterwards the owners giving him hell, though it was a great way to pick up work. Sometimes he could test the cars, so he’d park and stare at women or cruise at 4 a.m., London empty as a street map, stopping at skips and finding an office chair, a table, and the big old electric fire. Then he changed the brake pads on a Mark II Golf which stopped in Chiswick on its test drive, a front wheel jammed, traffic backed up to the flyover so that the breakdown truck couldn’t get through, and Tom sitting next to the owner till the swearing drove him out, forgetting his BMW tools, nothing left but a penknife.
On Christmas Eve he started home. He phoned from Victoria Bus Station, giving the ETA, but his dad said, ‘It’s a long way. You don’t have to come.’
‘I want to,’ said Tom.
‘Yes, but I’m saying it’s not necessary. We’re all right, you know. And Gilly gets over-excited.’
So he went back to the squat. He’d left the fire on, why not, but shivered all day, the doss bag round his shoulders, the phone as cold as a conch when he went to the box across the road to call his dad who said, ‘Well, it is a long way. Too far, really.’
He met a painter in the dole queue, but their first job was a house in a terrace and Tom went round the back and sanded the wrong windows, everyone amazingly angry. The squatters’ pub was too cheerful, so he spent his dole in a losers’ boozer round the corner, alone with the lonely old men, neatly spaced around the room. At last even they were too much. All that winter – bored, sober, cold, un-stoned – he went nowhere but the dole and the Paki paper shop, living off chocolate, crisps, and cola, staring into cars but too depressed to steal, scratching up dog-ends frozen to the ground and smoking them off a pin, re-rolling the tarry stubs. He spent his seventeenth birthday coughing over the big electric fire thinking, ‘When I get money I’ll buy a coat and a scarf and a hat,’ but knowing he wouldn’t. Then Johnny was in his doorway.
‘How did you find me?’
‘Mac came round.’
‘He was in London?’
‘His job placement. Some sort of office or sales thing. Sounds awful.’ He giggled, his face pink from the cold, a new floppy haircut, his long coat open, a scarf to his knees. He strode to the window, elaborately casual. ‘And why did anyone ever listen to him, Tom? Really, I still wonder. His cheap suit, like some kind of minor mafioso. And he’s going to be very fat and greasy. May hated him. We sent him away, I’m afraid. We gave him a cup of tea in the kitchen while he made all kinds of smirking remarks, some about me, some about May, some about you, then I said it was a terrible shame but we were so busy. How people change. Him and us.
‘Anyway,’ looking out of the cracked window, ‘I wondered if you wanted a job. Clearly you can’t stay here. And we’ve so much work at my dad’s. I suppose, at great expense and inconvenience, we might even find you a room.’ His T-shirt said, ‘We love happy time life!’
Tom took the job, but stayed at the squat till he moved into May’s room, working through her China books, his nose tickled by the tassels on her Chinese quilt on the bed that maybe didn’t squeak, and in those days his dreams were fine.
12
A witch stole the shadows of the villagers. Her name was May. She lived with the shadows at the bottom of the river. She made them stand around crops to kill them, or around a man so that he was blind, or around herself so that she had the cover of night.
Without their shadows the villagers were weightless.
One villager fell in love with himself so that his come squirted inwards and his belly swelled with a baby that ate him inside.
Another made his sons work till they were old enough to argue, then killed them. One day his youngest son found skeletons in the field. He said, ‘Were these my brothers, who’ve disappeared?’ His father said, ‘No, these were women. See, they have no dick bone.’ When the boy was older he said, ‘Father, there’s no such thing as a dick bone,’ so his father killed him.
Another was so lonely that he went out when it was windy, so that the wind could take his arm. Or he stood with his eyes closed so the wind pressed against him, cheek to cheek. A woman said hello but he punched her, saying, ‘You’re blocking the wind.’
The punch took out her eye, and no one would love her until a good man bought her a glass eye. But one day a pretty boy walked past and the glass eye swivelled after him so the man punched her and the eye fell out and the man stamped it to bits. The woman put a rag in the socket and stayed at home cursing the pretty boy, who fell ill. His sweetheart cut off her foot to make broth, and the boy got better and said, ‘What good is a girl with one foot?’ But a kind boy courted the girl and she set him tasks to win her and he did them all and at last she said, ‘Count every hair on my body and I’ll marry you.’ Laughing, he counted them but by the end he didn’t love her, so the girl threw herself in the river.
Before she drowned she said, ‘A witch is here.’ So now the villagers knew where their shadows were. They dragged the witch from the river but it was dawn and their shadows were tall and drove them away. They went back at noon and killed the witch, and their small shadows crept back under them.
But now the villagers could only go to their fields at noon. They grew poor and moved away and the village died and people said it was the curse of the murdered witch.
13
Tom got there early, but they were ready at the pub table, shoulder to shoulder. ‘Hello, Charlie,’ he said.
The girlfriend said, ‘And I’m Alice,’ frowning at Tom, who was not to be trusted.
Tom said, ‘Seen Mac?’
‘We’ve seen nobody, have we, Charles. We stay in and study.’
‘Well, usually.’
‘We wondered what you were doing, Tom. Are you working, for instance?’
‘What about Johnny? Seen him?’
Charlie said, ‘He called me.’
‘No!’ said Alice, shocked.
‘How can I stop people phoning, honey?’ His greasy blond hair, acne pits, melted nose: a sick lion’s face.
Tom said, ‘What did he say? Anything about his dad?’
‘No. It was like, just a chat. He said did I fancy meeting up, but . . .’
‘
You didn’t want to.’
‘Well, we’re really busy, you know.’
‘How was he?’
‘People can phone,’ said Alice. ‘Yes. But you needn’t encourage them.’
‘He was OK, I think,’ said Charlie. ‘Hated college, that’s all. I wanted to meet up, you know, but there’s all these lectures and essays and stuff.’ Where did he come from, anyway? Somewhere boring. Fading into his background. ‘Terrible, what you said on the phone. If I’d known.’
At last a wary glance at Tom, who said, ‘His bastard dad.’
‘These Third World fathers,’ said Alice. She sighed: ‘My glass is empty, Honeybuns,’ and Charlie headed for the bar. To Tom: ‘We always say “Honeybuns”.’
Tom folded his arms.
She said, ‘Charles tells me everything, you see. Everything. He wants to put all that behind him: Mac and the old folks’ place and everything. He’s had enough. He wants a normal life. Normal, you see. Do you want to be normal?’
‘I do,’ he said, surprised.
‘It’s Mac we should be careful about. Your beloved leader. And he was with Johnny, you know.’
‘What? When?’
Alice, plain and simple, pursed her lips. ‘I’ve said too much. I didn’t want to get into this. We discussed it this morning and last night. We decided to keep out of the whole thing. You should as well.’
Tom looked round: hurry up, Charlie.
She said, ‘You seem very straightforward, Tom. A friend of mine always says, “If you find anyone else like Charles.” But I always say, “Charles and I are permanent.” She’s really nice. Annie. I’ll give you her number.’ She looked at him again, her pencil poised, suddenly dubious: ‘She’ll insist on changes, Tom. I warn you.’
Charlie sat down with an old man’s grunt. ‘I’m just writing down Annie’s number. You remember Annie, Honeybuns.’
A flicker of fear in Charlie’s eyes, and Tom said, ‘What’s this about Mac and Johnny?’
‘Christ, Tom. I mean you should ask him. How should I know?’ A nervous laugh: ‘God, you look bad. Been fighting or something?’
‘I can’t sleep.’
‘We’re engaged,’ said Alice. ‘Tell him, Charles.’
Tom stood up. ‘Have a fine time, OK,’ and he was out the door with Charlie after him, Alice tangled in her chair and the table and her bag of books.
Charlie on the pavement: ‘Tom, I forgot: this woman phoned. Ellie, I think she said.’ He looked back at Alice, heading their way. ‘We’re not really engaged. Not a hundred per cent. She’s all right, you know. You’ve seen the worst of her. Understandable. But come round if you want. You could do with a shower maybe.’ With a gulp: ‘When Alice is out, obviously.’
‘Oh, Tom. Thank goodness you’ve called. Wherever have you been? We’ve tried everywhere. That takeaway place, as well. Nobody knew. I mean you’d vanished.’
Tom in a call box off the Whitechapel Road, holding the phone next to his hair or his cheek or away from him, because Ellie is a friend of his dad.
‘But never mind, Tom. You’ve called. That’s the main thing. You don’t remember me, I suppose, but I’ve seen you. You came to the service, that day, in the summer-house, last year. I used to help your daddy. He helped me, you see, with my late husband. Alfred. Alfred left me. He was ill, I think, already. Now I look back I think it made him a bit short-tempered perhaps, so I don’t bear a grudge and your father helped me to see that.
‘Anyway, water under the bridge. But listen: Gillian is fine. The council took her. A very nice lady. She’s in a special home, or a special school I mean. I’ll get the number. My friend says it’s very, very nice. If you ask me, if you don’t mind me saying, she perhaps could have gone sooner. I’m not saying anything against Mr Lawson, your father, goodness knows, but.
‘So Gillian is all right. And your daddy too, really. I mean it’s all in hand, Tom. It is Tom, isn’t it?
‘So anyway. How it happened. I went to your house, or your daddy’s house, that Saturday, as usual, for the washing and hoovering. But nobody answered. I was worried right away. I mean, Gillian was in the window as usual, but she didn’t look right. And your daddy, where was he?
‘And he’s been a bit strange, as you know. We used to go for lunch every Saturday, while the washing was in the machine, just to a cafe locally. Your dad paid. Gillian really liked it, and they didn’t mind her, which was very nice, the wheelchair and so on. But then your dad started. The worst thing was the singing. But also he was going over to other people, standing right next to them, and watching them. I said, “Peter. Really,” and eventually he’d come away, but he didn’t want to. He looked like my Alfred, the same attitude. Angry. He wanted to watch them eating.
‘And even if he didn’t do that, he’d do this other thing. He’d be sat with you but not really listening. He’d be twitchy and turning round, and you knew there’d be trouble. Then all of a sudden he was off. He’d go to one of the customers or the girl behind the counter, all polite, and tell them their collar was crooked, or their shoes were tied wrong, or the little tab – you know what I mean, at the back of your sweater, that little nylon tab thing inside the neck? – he’d say it was sticking out, and “Shall I put it back?” His hands all twitchy. He couldn’t help it. It drove him mad. You didn’t know whether to laugh or what.
‘So we stopped going. It was too stressful. I’d worry all week, if they’d turn us away or what would happen. And the singing. Just bursting out, really loud. Hymns or songs or just la-la-la. So I said, “Well, I’ll make us a nice lunch at home.” Chips and things, which Gilly liked.
‘But then, on the Saturday, no answer. I had a key because sometimes I had to pop out for things, and your father said, you know, take this. So eventually I go in. Nobody. And Gillian, so distressed. Not clean. I said, “It’s all right, Gilly.”
‘But nobody downstairs. Well, I shouted and called. I didn’t want to go upstairs, but I thought, “You can’t call the police, just for that.” I had to go.
‘He was in the bathroom. I didn’t fancy that at all. I mean, no offence, but going into the bathroom after him. But who else would do it? He was sitting on the bath: the edge, like. He was stuck. He didn’t know what to do. My daughter laughed when I said. I said, “You weren’t there, lady.”
‘He had a tube of toothpaste in one hand, the top off, and a razor in the other hand. One of those disposables. But he’d put toothpaste on the razor. So now he was stuck.
‘I went straight downstairs. I called Mrs Figgis, my friend. Thank goodness she was in. Usually she goes to the hospice on Saturdays, a very nice lady, so kind. But before that she worked for the council. Donkey’s years, actually. So she arranged everything. A nice lady came and then an ambulance for both of them, Gillian and Mr Lawson, your father.
‘But listen, Tom: the housing officer has been round already. They’ve got a waiting list for council houses, you know. But I said, “Well, he has to clear the house.” You, I mean. Because there’s all the furniture and your father’s belongings, and perhaps some things of yours and Gillian’s, though the lady from the special school or whatever it is, she took Gillian’s clothes and things, as far as I can see. And I suppose there’s the bills to settle, the final bills and whatnot.
‘And also, the other thing, his assistant or whatever he is. Darren. You met him, I think. He wants money. “Compensation”. I won’t say what for. You can talk to him. I said to my daughter, “Tom’s more his age, so they can talk, can’t they.”
‘So that’s what’s happened. I’m very sorry to tell you, Tom. And then you didn’t call. And I tried to find Mrs Lawson, your mum, but of course she went to Spain, and nobody’s heard for years. So unless you’ve heard from her . . .
‘Anyway, I’ll get the number. And the number for the place for Gillian. And the gentleman in the Housing Department. But at least you’ve got in touch now, so we can start making some, you know, progress.
‘Tom? Are you there?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right. So. Anyway, I’ll get those numbers. Hang on while I go. Now where’s my glasses?’
Very slowly Tom put the phone down, quietly so no one would hear.
14
Tom saw a river. Its water was so clear that strangers thought they were walking in a cold wind and were drowned.
He lay breathing the van smells. He was stiff and straight in the doss bag, staring up in the dark. ‘Calm down, for Christ’s sake.’
The river ran through a forest. The forest was beautiful and full of food, with birds like lamps, and leopards that were really ghosts.
Street noise outside. The early evening traffic through the dark, and he was sick with dread about Dad and Gillian and Johnny and May.
He saw a little boy. The boy lived in a village but roamed the forest all day, hunting and playing and collecting wood.
Tom tucked the doss bag tighter round his neck, thinking, ‘Please, a decent story. Just me and May.’
So Tom was the boy in the forest. He looked at the high trees, and the sunlight filtering through, and sang as he walked.
In the van, Tom thought, ‘Where’s May?’
The boy had a friend. Every day they wandered the forest, climbing the trees for fruit and eggs, and stealing honey from the forest bee, the deadliest creature in these hills. Her name was May.
So Tom was climbing a tree. He looked across and there was May, her hair in a ragged crop, her dusty pretty feet. They’d found a nest, as they found nests every day. She peeped inside and gave him her little girl’s grin. She lifted out a speckled egg and put it with a careful frown in the bosom of her dress. Every day she went home with eggs, although her father was rich.
One day she went home with a leech on her precious part.
‘Christ.’
Her father was angry, and asked about her life with the boy. She said, ‘When I’m eight we’ll be married.’ And she talked of their adventures in the forest, and how the boy helped with her makeup, and how she likewise spread the white paste on his face, with a dab of crimson on the lips, and oil to make the hair shine, so that they were alike.