His American Classic (Part 1)

by G J Morgan

  But it worked, the running, the job, getting out of the house. Edges became smoother and small steps became strides. I didn’t think I would ever be truly fixed but I wasn’t broken any more. My sky was looking bluer, paler than yours, but blue nonetheless.

  November became December.

  I was still waiting for something and I knew this wasn’t it. Not yet.

  4

  “Wow.”

  “What do you think?” I took off my dust mask.

  “I think she’ll love it.”

  Coughing. “It’s not finished obviously, but the hard part is done.”

  “Can’t wait to see her open it.”

  “If I get it done in time.” More coughing.

  “You will. Here,” Mum said, passing me a mug of tea. “Warm up those hands.” Drinking, we stood in our coats staring at the carcass of a shed. “I should have had a girl. I would’ve been better suited to this sort of parenting, dainty things, pretty things. You always had me climbing bloody trees or building army forts.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Didn’t we tell you? We must have,” Mum said, sitting on her wall.

  “No, you never did. I don’t think I ever asked.”

  “I miscarried.”

  “I never knew that. Sorry.”

  “It happened when you were about five,” said Mum, checking her rose bushes.

  “Did you not try again? I thought they were quite common.”

  “I had three in total, some easier to take than others, the last was especially hard. By that point I was broken and tired, the moment was lost. Still, we were blessed, one little miracle in a lifetime is enough.”

  “And now you have Molly, too. Where is Molly?” realizing I was missing a child.

  “Don’t worry. Next door has taken her to the farm. She won’t know a thing. I can’t believe it’s the same shed.”

  “Don’t think Dad would mind, do you?”

  “He hasn’t got much choice, has he? Besides, it was a waste, all of his tools and machines just sitting there, left to rust and perish.” Mum sipped her drink. “I’m guessing pink will be the colour.”

  “You’d be right.”

  “I’ve got an old bone china tea set she could have. It’s a bit worse for wear, but it will suit your theme. What are you doing with all this?” she said, inspecting the pile of crap and debris piled on her lawn.

  “With the wood, I’ll try and knock something up. An oven maybe, or a little dinner table, something for Molly to use when she hosts her first afternoon tea.”

  “And what about the heavy stuff? Sell it on eBay?”

  “It would cost a fortune to post. Better off putting an advertisement in the shop, or just giving it away.”

  “It must be worth a fortune. I know the amount of money your father used to plough into that bloody workshop. I tell who might take it off your hands, your dad’s old friend Martin. I haven’t seen him around in a while, from what I’ve heard he isn’t too well. But I know he’d get some use out of all this junk. He only lives up the road.”

  “I don’t want to bother him if he’s unwell.”

  “He’s been unwell for years. His lungs and heart have taken a fair battering over the years. I’ll give him a ring for you if you’d like. I’m sure he’d bite your arm off.”

  “What was his name again?”

  “Martin Baxter. Taught in the same school as your dad.”

  “Baxter. Sounds familiar. Was he there when I was at school?”

  “Most probably.”

  “Smelt like an ashtray. Looked like Geoff Capes.”

  “I don’t know who Geoff Capes is, but yes he was never too far away from a cigarette, or a Scotch for that matter.”

  “Here you go, Mum,” I passed her my empty mug, “I better get this finished off, get all the panels cleaned down. I want this ready for painting tomorrow.”

  “Let me know if you need anything,” she said, walking back down the garden. “I’ll ring Martin and then I’ll start thinking about dinner. You’ve put a lot of work into this, Tom. I’m really proud.”

  “It’s only a shed, Mum.”

  “Not to me, it isn’t. And it certainly won’t be just a shed to Molly.” She ripped off a handful of thyme and headed into the kitchen as I returned my attention back to wood and splinters. My mind filled with something other than dead wives and twisted metal.

  * * *

  “Is that a Sureweld 103 arc welder?”

  I’d been at Mr Baxter’s house for less than ten minutes. He wasn’t how I’d imagined, nor was the house. I don’t know what I expected of a former teacher, but it wasn’t this.

  “This is a treasure chest, young man. Pillar drill, bench grinder. You sure you don’t want more for these? There is a lot of money in these boxes. I mean some of it is ancient, but fantastic pieces of kit.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it. I haven’t a clue,” I said, moving a stack of old curled newspapers from the chair so I could sit down.

  I looked around his kitchen – it was old and unloved. It looked like breakfast hadn’t been washed up yet, nor dinner the night previous. I’d be surprised if he had running water.

  “What did you teach before you retired?”

  “Officially, myself and your father taught everything on the art curriculum. Unofficially, I was your fine arts guy, life drawings, watercolours. Your father was a wood and metal man. Damn good artist though, mind. A better artist than me, the things he could do with ink and graphite. Blew me away.”

  “I never knew he drew.”

  “Well he didn’t. Found it limiting and predictable. He preferred all the ‘isms’, cubism, neo-expressionism – he was a little pretentious like that. Me, I just liked to draw women’s tits, that or trees. Strange to be aroused by such polar opposites.”

  “Is that one of yours?” I pointed over his shoulder to a picture hung up at an angle in a doorway.

  “It is, yes.”

  “From round here?”

  “No. Badby Woods. Where I used to live. Spent many a summer in those woods, I can tell you. A certain Joseph Merrick used to be rather fond of it, too. I don’t suppose that name would be familiar to you?”

  “I’m a huge David Lynch fan, so yes. Is that Badby too?” both of us looked at the similar picture underneath.

  He laughed and coughed. “That is Fangorn Forest. A bit further afield. Trees are great subjects. I find them less prone to breaking a pose.”

  Mr Baxter attempted to lift another box from the floor to the table. It looked an effort. He wasn’t in a good place physically, looked like his legs and back weren’t playing to the same tune. He was a large man, still his clothes hung off him like they were meant for someone larger.

  “When was the last time you saw Dad?”

  “In the hospital,” he said, taking a seat, breathing out like it was a relief. “I’d seen your mother completely by coincidence, she said he’d had a funny turn, offered to take me to see him.”

  “How was he?”

  “We mostly played cards. I don’t think he thought he was dying. He was already planning his next exhibition. Talked a lot about you, in fact.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Lots of things. Think he just missed you. I got the impression you had been away quite a while.”

  “He wasn’t in pain, was he?”

  “Not when I saw him. He looked on top form. I miss him, he was a damn good friend.”

  A cat came through the back-door flap and tiptoed around its food bowl. It purred at my feet like it was about to spray its territory. It looked in worse shape than its owner.

  “Last time I saw your mother she said you were living in America?”

  “I was. But I decided to come home.”

  “For good?”
>
  “I’m not sure. At least for the short term. Need to find a job – well, I have a job, what I need is a career.”

  “Good luck in finding one round here. Unless you don’t mind driving a tractor or a forklift.”

  “I may have to move. Find a city.”

  “Not going back to America, then?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Missed home, hey?”

  “No, my wife died.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  We looked down at our feet. Men’s natural reaction.

  “How are you holding up?”

  “Better than I was. Trying not to forget her. Trying my hardest not to remember.”

  “Loss is a funny beast. I have never been one to cope well with such an emotion.”

  “Your wife died too?”

  “She might as well have.” He laughed, then coughed, like one always followed the other. “No, she left me about ten years ago. Just walked out the door one morning and didn’t come back.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m a difficult man to live with. There are reasons artists are solitary creatures. We struggle in the company of others. She was a good woman. Treated me far better than I deserved.”

  “You didn’t meet anyone new?”

  “Does it look like I’ve met someone new?” he laughed loud, coughed louder. “Take a look around. Take a look at me. I’m a Neanderthal. I’m from a different age. I’m good with my hands, but not a lot else.”

  “You still love her?”

  “I’m afraid I do, Tom. That’s the problem.”

  * * *

  At the door we said our farewells, he thanked me for the donation of Dad’s old junk, said I’d made an old man very happy, gave me an analogy about not looking back, closing doors, not leaving them ajar.

  “You know I think I may even be your unofficial godfather?” he said. “Though your dad was a bit drunk at the time he gave me the title.”

  “Seems like a lot of things were unofficial back then.”

  “Well it was the seventies. We did things at a different speed back then.”

  “Thank you, Martin. I hope things turn out well for you.”

  “I’m sure they won’t. But there’s still hope for you.”

  “Let’s hope so,” I said, stepping into the fresh air, breathing out, like I’d been holding it in.

  As I drove home, I couldn’t help but smile. I’d been set up. Mum swore I hadn’t been, laughed it off when I brought it up, but I knew my own mother. This was an intervention, a warning of what might happen. I’d met the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. I genuinely think Mum thought seeing my morbid future up close would be enough of a threat. God bless her for trying.

  * * *

  “What would you like from Santa, then?”

  “Chickens.” Molly was still looking at me funny.

  “Chickens?”

  “Yep, a girl and a boy one. Girls lay the eggs. Boys make the cock-a-doodle-do noise.”

  “It’s a big responsibility looking after animals. You have to make sure they are fed, kept clean, kept safe from naughty foxes.”

  “I know. I have a book about chickens. Ouch, Daddy!”

  “Sorry,” I said, as Molly returned to staring at my genitals and I detangled her hair.

  Baths used to be a mum-and-daughter thing. They sat in the tub whilst I sorted out downstairs, got dinner on, ironed things. Now the job of shampooing and detangling had fallen to me. Molly still looked a little uncomfortable with my naked self, intrigued and grossed out, just like her mother used to be.

  “Anything else you gonna ask for from Santa? Something easier for the elves to wrap?” I asked, helping her with her pyjama top.

  “No, just chickens please. I have enough toys.”

  “Are you sure there isn’t anything else?”

  “I’d like some mummy cuddles.”

  I kissed the back of her head. “What colour chickens do you like?”

  Downstairs Mum was in her dressing gown, staring at the tray of chocolates on her lap, brushing her hair, always brushing her hair.

  “She go down OK?” she said, mid-toffee.

  “Out like a light,” I said as I fell into the sofa. “Mum, have you watched Bambi with her recently?”

  Mum looked confused. “Few days ago, I bought her a stack of old VHS tapes from the charity shop. Why?”

  “She was asking me questions about it. You think it’s appropriate?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “The last thing she needs right now is tragedy and a dead mother.”

  “Don’t be so silly. It’s a bloody cartoon.”

  “Just be mindful of what you let her watch or read.”

  Mum didn’t answer. She ate another chocolate. “Her chest wasn’t great today, Tom.”

  “How bad? Worse than last week?”

  “No, not that bad. She wasn’t in pain, just doing that grunting thing again. Might be worth us booking her in to see the doctor again just to be on the safe side.” She winced as she knelt down to grab her book off the floor.

  “I’ll ring them first thing. You OK, Mum?”

  “I’m just old. No cure for that, I’m afraid. I wish you didn’t have to go to work tomorrow. The weekends go so quick. I don’t envy you spending your whole week in that horrible factory. Just remember it isn’t forever, Tom. Just get your head down. Save up and then you and Molly can start planning for your future, whatever or wherever that might be.”

  “Feels like it will take forever. I need to earn more. Or work more.”

  “I can always help. I’ve nothing in regard to savings. I could borrow on the house, I’ve plenty of equity.”

  “No, Mum. That’s your money.”

  “I’d like to help.”

  “You’ve helped enough.”

  “Please take these off me, Tom, before I eat the whole box. I shouldn’t be eating so much sugar this close to bedtime.” She passed me the tray of chocolates.

  “Molly said she wanted chickens for Christmas by the way. Is this your doing?”

  “No, that’s all her, I’m afraid. I think it’s a good idea. Better than wasting money on something she’ll be bored of by the new year. Not to mention the prospect of fresh eggs. You had a missed call by the way. Completely went out of my mind. Rang whilst you were at Martin’s.”

  “Who was it? I don’t know anyone who has my number, unless it was work.”

  “Said his name was Vince. He was a bit rude actually.”

  “Vince?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Was he American?”

  Mum nodded. “I thought he was a wrong number at first. Thought I was about to be sold a time share again. You all right, Tom?”

  “No, I’m fine, honest. Just a surprise. What did he say?”

  “Just gave me a number and where he was. I wrote it down, it’s over by the phone. He said to ring him as soon as you can.”

  “I wonder how he got this number.”

  “Me too. I’m supposed to be ex-directory.” Mum got up out of her chair. “You coming to bed, or staying up?”

  “I think I’ll stay down a bit longer. I’m not that tired.”

  “I’ll say night then, Tom. Going to read my book and have an early one. I’ve loaded the fire, so it shouldn’t need any more coal. Make sure you ring this Vince. He sounded pretty hurried.”

  “We are about eight hours ahead. I don’t want to wake him.”

  “Oh, he said he was in London.”

  “London. What’s he doing there?”

  Mum shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him.” Mum lent over and kissed my head. “Night, Tom”.

  It was inevitable I’d revert to an old habit. I grabbed mum’s car keys off
the side and headed for the front door.

  * * *

  I drove, not far, my aim wasn’t distance. My village was small, it took less than a mile for kerbs and tarmac to turn to mud and sludge, street lights to complete darkness. I parked the car on a long stretch of deserted road, fields either side, engine on, my lights illuminating the first few yards in front.

  A helicopter buzzed overhead, loud and then quiet as it sped over the horizon towards a nearby airport. In the distance, I saw the Iron Man over the chalk quarry. To look at those lights as an adult I could still see how it would be easy to believe. Sons believed their fathers and I believed mine every time he told the story, even if I always knew it wasn’t a metal giant, it wasn’t two eyes, it wasn’t my friend that I used to wave to. In the cold light of day, it was just a tower, looked nothing like an Iron Giant with eyes and a smile. Dad always made life a fantasy. Men in suits were spies. The school doctor, a good witch. His appendix scar, a bullet wound. Dad was a great father, they both were great parents and it was a shame they were robbed of having more.

  I forgot how magical childhood was living here. So many things to explore, endless hills and fields, woods to be climbed and conquered, an Iron Man. I took the village for granted, focussed on what it didn’t give me, rather than what it had, spent most of my teenage years plotting my escape. And now I was back, plotting a similar escape again, even though I’d chosen to return. I wanted to love my village, I wished I could be happy living there, it just wasn’t where I wanted to be, where I thought I’d end up. America had always been the goal, America was the only place I’d ever wanted to live.

  My fascination with all things Americana was gradual and constant. It wasn’t an intentional love affair, but it was a love affair. One that started young: a cartoon beagle that talked in balloons, a Butthead and a Beavis. There was the food and drink too, stuff that fizzed or fattened, the stuff I’d spend my pocket money on, the stuff I’d eat behind Mum’s back. It didn’t stop when I grew up either, the music gave me the same type of hit, grunge, punk, hip hop. I couldn’t get enough, everything there was faster and better, the weather, the women. It was of no surprise when I studied it for two years and I loved studying it too, it was never a chore, never felt like a forced subject. And I read everything, Columbus, Custer, Clinton, the Constitution, I wanted to know it all. But I still didn’t know enough, books and lectures and essays weren’t enough education. I had to smell and taste it. Had to see it for myself.