by Ray Robinson
The old woman’s voice: frayed, hoary, two-packs-a-day. She raised her almost empty beaker for Antony to see.
— I quite like flying, he said.
— Oooh, it puts the willies up me. I mean all of this weight in the clouds?
Antony leaned over into the aisle, searching for a stewardess, the plastic-feeling Euros sweaty in his hand. The old lady went on to tell Antony how many children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren she had, and that she’d been coming to the same resort for nearly thirty-odd-years with her two friends here. Antony looked at the elderly couple next to her, sleeping, open-mouthed, the little rectangular peel-off containers in their laps.
The old lady added that it was the four of them last year, but her husband had died two months ago.
— It’ll be hard this year without him, she said.
— I’m sorry.
— Yes, love, so am I.
* * *
It hit him hard: Jack had a whole life where Antony didn’t even figure, and he couldn’t help thinking about that journey home from the prison and the fight he’d had with his mother afterwards. It was his eleventh birthday and he’d just met his father for first time and she would never let him forget it. She was meant to be on the late-shift, and he knew what her being home meant. He tested her with one or two comments; she began to bite. The tension was like a magnet; he felt coiled, tight.
He wanted her to look at him, to notice the buzz inside of him.
— So, he said. You never told us he wanted to marry you.
Dead silence and a stone-cold stare.
— He said he came back when I were four.
She pig-snorted down her nose.
— Said he didn’t know I were born.
— Shite and like.
— Said he came back when I were four and asked you to marry him and you told him to fuck off.
She raised a glass to her lips and took big mouthfuls, looking out of the window.
— I know about copulation, he said. I know about fucking.
Her tongue-pink mouth as she laughed.
— I’m not daft.
— I’m going to fettle you, laddo.
They sat in the bruised silence. The animosity was thick, but he felt buoyed up by it, because he had something now, something she could never take away. The crow’s feet around Jack’s sloe-berry eyes when he smiled—that’s what made Antony real, the lined contours of Jack’s life, formulating something that felt like home. She could rain down whatever words she wanted to now—he liked his father and his father liked him. So fuck you.
He said, — I bet you wish you’d never had me?
The curl of her lip, eyes glowering.
— Yes, she said.
Just like that. A hard-nosed yes.
And she was there in a shot, a bulky mass above him. He curled his fist into a hard rock and struck her breast. She grabbed herself with a gasp as he leapt off the settee.
It was happening again.
He edged backwards towards the door.
— You little bastard.
The dull sting of his brain hitting the inside of his skull, the pressure and blackness about the eyes. He got up, gripping onto the back of the chair. He’d said everything else and so barked it out, the one thing he hadn’t said,
— FUCKING LESBIAN.
The shocking sound of it. The times he’d heard it in whispers and shouts, written all over the snide faces of the town.
— Fuck you.
All those faces were her.
— Fuck you.
Backing out of there, their eyes locked.
— FUCK.
She felt along the edge of the fireplace.
— YOU.
She was wielding the poker by her side. He charged at it, trying to unpeel her fingers from the handle. The nails on her free hand dug into his scalp and she was dragging him by his hair into the kitchen, feet sliding across the lino, down the steps and into the backyard. She was lifting him off the ground, making grunting animal sounds.
He knew where he was going.
— No-no-no-no-no…
Kicking and wailing, flinging his arms out wide.
— Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease…
But she was so fucking strong.
The coalhouse door opened. He felt her hands tighten around his neck. Manky colours smudged and flared in his head, and at that moment he didn’t care whether he lived or died. At eleven years of age, he’d simply had enough. He fell into the cold, slippery darkness.
— And you can go live with your bastard father when he gets out.
Her footsteps, gone. But the door remained opened.
Mother, fading.
* * *
He took a seat beneath the shade of a large, tatty-looking cycad, staring at his hands, lulled by the soft vibrato of cicadas. It felt wrong somehow, the heat in the wintertime, and the sun was a dream that smothered him. He rubbed the sweat from his temples and sighed heavily, intimidated by the thoughts in his head.
The toilet door clicked open and Jack stepped out.
He sat on the bench opposite Antony and began stroking the mangy-looking cat. The cat’s unblinking eyes, two sable scintilla of pupil set into emerald discs, observed Antony with feline loathing. Jack’s thick, sun-dark forearms flexed, making the blue-smudge of a tattoo twitch.
He could sense his father grappling with something, the wings of words trapped in his mouth, and Antony suddenly felt like an intruder.
— So what do you think?
Jack smiled, showing his perfectly white, capped teeth, nodding haughtily towards the restaurant.
It was such a cliché, the retired gangster in Spain with the British bar pandering to the safe monoculture of the ex-pat community and their longings for fish and chips and tepid pints of John Smiths.
— Great spot, Antony said. Love the harbour.
The cat’s tail whip-flickered.
— Been a good earner this season, Jack said. Think I’ll open throughout the winter next year. Carla needs a break though. She’s a good little worker.
Carla, Antony’s sleek-haired, doe-eyed stepmother. Catalan, sexy, and four years younger than Antony. He spent last night trying not to look at her.
— No doubt Daniel will be up early tomorrow, wanting his presents.
Antony nodded.
— He hasn’t stopped talking about you.
— Wish I could understand him.
— He understands more than he can speak.
— Wish I’d made an effort to learn a bit.
Antony recalled the awkwardness at the airport as they shook hands like complete strangers. The whole anti-climax of it.
Jack stood.
— There’s something I want to show you.
* * *
Jack tooled the Beemer along winding, pot-holed roads, and soon the sienna-coloured stuccoed streets dwindled into orchards, cypresses and orange groves. Antony hated himself for wanting to make a good impression, like his father was interviewing him for the position of Son. But when his father started talking about one of the young waitresses he was fucking, Antony felt the comedown. The intimate details were in no way intimate, and intimacy was exactly what he wanted. Antony half-listened, shivering in the icy blast of the aircon as they made their way up into the mountains.
* * *
Jack pointed through the windscreen. Above the tall pine trees, Antony could make out the pinkish walls of a monastery and an enormous stone cross.
— El Picot, Jack said solemnly. Sanctuary of Sant Salvador.
They pulled into the car park and stepped out into the heat. Antony followed Jack towards the large terrace wall, walking behind him, observing.
— It still had a monk when I first got here, Jack said. Last one on the island.
The blue of the enamel sky and sea.
I’d use oils, Antony thought. Or gouache. Bondi blue. Cornflower.
His father beckoned him to the rail.
— That’s Cap de Formento. That over there, that’s Cabrera.
The tangerine Serra Mountains flickering in a haze.
— And that peak in the distance, that’s the Castell de Sanueri. An old Arab fortress. Moorish.
Antony thinking who is this talking?
Jack hooked his thumb over his shoulder.
— And the town we came through, Felinitx, that’s where Christopher Columbus was born. Come on.
Jack led them into the cool, echoing chambers of the monastery, between salmon alabaster walls lit in a soupy candlelight.
Antony followed the large man around the womb-like space, hoping he would find the answer in the next two days, the way to unbind those words trapped in Jack’s mouth.
* * *
He woke to find his own face staring back at him. Daniel’s small, bony finger prodded his ribs again, his breath chocolaty sweet.
— Papa Noel, he enthused. Papa Noel.
Antony rubbed his eyes. The bed was claggy with sweat. He got up and followed his brother into the living room. Jack, his hair sticking on end, was struggling with a camcorder, wearing nothing but his boxer shorts.
A singsong voice came from behind him,
— Merry Christmas, Antony.
Carla, sitting on the settee, watching TV with the sound turned low. She smiled warmly, running fingers through her hair.
— Buenos, err…
Carla laughed.
— Bon Nadal, she said.
— Bon Nadal, Antony repeated. Bon Nadal.
Jack shook his head and grunted at the tripod.
— Right. Got the twat.
The three adults stared at each other.
And so it began.
Antony wished he could disappear, his face aching dully with a faux-smile as he watched his father and Daniel together: unwrapping Daniel’s presents; Daniel curling his arms around Jack’s legs; Daniel’s wilful pouting and carefree laughter; Jack sweeping the small boy into his arms, kissing and embracing him so unselfconsciously.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want Daniel to have Jack’s love—it was just seeing the life he’d always wanted being played out in front of him like that. All of it captured on camera, except for Antony’s heart burning in his chest.
He moved slowly out of the house and walked through the garden towards a lone olive tree. The way the morning sunshine lit the garden—he felt like a 2D figure in a garish trompe-l’œil painting.
Wishing he hadn’t come. Wishing he’d stayed at home.
* * *
Yellow slabs of Mediterranean light warmed the kitchen’s parquet floor as he stood chatting to Carla. She wore a long flowery blue dress, open at the neck, revealing a satin-sheened décolletage and ample cleavage. Antony watched her chopping garlic, putting her weight behind a pestle as she ground almonds in a shiny brass mortar. Sexy little groans and snorts, heavy breasts swaying, soft mouth saying such soft things, those full lips designed for sucking.
Again, he wondered what the hell she was doing with his father, the nearly sixty-year-old man tinkering with the generator in the back yard and swearing loudly.
It was, he realised, like his father fucking Jade.
Carla moved quickly about the kitchen, draining some bread, pouring the almonds and garlic into a blender, adding oil. Then she tipped the mixture into a tureen of grapes and searched the shelves for something, speaking her fast, broken English while Antony struggled with his eyes, envying her effortless, sultry-dark beauty.
If he closed his eyes he’d see himself wearing Carla’s dress, and the idea of wearing her made him cross his legs.
She put her hands on her hips and sighed, waking him from the dream of her.
— OK.
He followed her into the dining room and took a seat at the large oak table and said a thank you as she served the gazpacho. She poured four bowls and shouted something fierce in Catalan. Daniel remained on the floor, playing with one of his presents. She took a seat and tutted, gesturing wildly.
— Eat eat.
His father appeared, wiping oil-fingered hands on a tea towel. In a shot, Daniel was at the table and suddenly it was the four of them. Antony sneaked another peek at Carla’s cleavage and then stared down into the bowl: orbs of grapes covered in white sauce. He swallowed hard, wishing someone would speak.
Jack, Carla, Daniel—they supped and slurped hungrily.
* * *
Daniel pushed his bowl away and produced a toy figure, making it dance while singing loudly. Jack growled at him and Carla lifted a piece of fruit from the bowl. She held it out in front of Daniel’s wide, umber eyes.
— Mandarina, she said. Yum-yum. Mandarina.
She peeled it in front of him and then offered him a piece, taking a segment for herself and putting it in her mouth, sucking her fingers.
— Man-da-rina, she repeated.
Antony realised he was staring at her.
— He’s a fussy eater, Jack said. A real pain, aren’t you, son?
— I ate like a horse as a kid, Antony said.
Daniel smiled a gap-filled smile, offering Antony a part-chewed segment.
— Mandarina, Daniel said. Yum-yum.
— Got my arse tanned if I left food my plate, Antony said.
Carla stood up to clear the plates; Jack stared mutely at his callused hands.
* * *
Skittish tiny lizards scattered between the frangipani and furry euphorbia that seemed to be jostling for space along the garden’s high walls.
— I’m pulling them out to make room for geraniums, Jack said.
Antony moved away again; Jack followed.
Jack hadn’t asked are you OK? He hadn’t asked how are things back home? Not even a cursory are you happy?
— Thanks again for the present, Antony said, fingering the Zippo lighter.
The two men walked a wide arc to avoid the rotating lawn sprinklers, and headed towards the large kidney-shaped swimming pool in silence.
* * *
He stepped out of the bar and onto the quiet esplanade. The Christmas Day sun was beginning to sink behind the mountains and the small harbour was a swathe of twisted, twinkling lights. Painted fishing boats bobbed in front of the waterfront bars filled with ex-pat families enfolded in communal, festive cheer.
There had been a few muzzy looks as he’d sat beside Carla and Daniel. Carla, Jack, Antony—they all knew why: Antony and Carla looked like a couple, like a young family together. Grandfather Jack.
Antony sat on the harbour wall, picturing Kenneth and Julia and Kerry in Christleton. He thought about Jade and what she’d said about Rebecca at the Hushings. Then he reminded himself how desperate Eddie was for him and Jack to have a reunion, to have some kind of relationship.
He looked over towards the bar where his father stood watching him, smoking. They nodded at each other.
* * *
His lungs tightened as he hit the cold water. Gasping, he pedalled water as Jack clung onto the side of the swimming pool, coughing with laughter.
Antony’s jaw chattered.
— It’s fucking freezing.
His father’s long, sonorous laugh, making Antony feel so alive.
— Just try to relax.
The light came on at the back of the house and Carla appeared, walking towards them with drinks on a tray. Antony cuffed a hand over his balls as Carla looked down at the two men, shaking her head. She sat on the sun-lounger and lit a cigarette.
Jack had driven, trying to keep the Beemer in the middle of the road at a lethargic ten miles per hour. He whooped when he got out of the car and ran towards the swimming pool, shedding his clothes.
Jack twisted onto his back, pointing up.
— Look.
The star-mad Spanish sky. Antony recognised the double-U of Cassiopeia.
He tipped his head under. Water silenced the night.
* * *
Restless, feeling effervescent, thinking about his father a few feet away behind the wall.
It’s all he ever wanted as a child—the close, reassuring presence of Jack in the next room. Not the sound of a girl crying. Not the wet sounds of Mother and Lou.
He pictured his father blinking up at the ceiling when he heard Carla’s voice. A growl. A distinct, — Como?
* * *
Daniel woke him by shoving Buzz Lightyear’s hand into his mouth. He put his face up to Antony’s, his breath warm and sweet as he whispered earnestly, nodding his head. The boy’s unconditional love, his carefree openness towards Antony—it was overwhelming. Antony lifted the boy from the bed and they walked out onto the warm veranda holding hands.
He never expected to stay more than three days. Booking the flight, he imagined probably leaving earlier than that, that things would be far more difficult than they were. But when he woke up that morning he felt so at ease.
Daniel played with Buzz, making his own Toy Story sound effects. Yawning, Antony sat down with his back against the wall and rubbed his face.
Daniel sidled close to him, twisting his legs.
— Are you my brother?
A coy but perfect English.
— Yes, Antony said. I am. I’m your brother.
Daniel sat on Antony’s lap, resting a sleepy head against his shoulder.
Jack and Carla watching them from the garden, smiling.
* * *
Lit by the intermittent glare of the fairy lights that hung incongruously in the palm tree, the two men sat beside each other at the back of the garden. They’d been drinking for a few hours now and Antony felt woozy and confused.
— Come stay for longer next time, Jack said.
— Yeah.
— You could have stayed longer.
— I’ve things to do. My new job and that.
Jack offered him a cigarette and lit it. Antony exhaled, smoke sailing upwards.
He got a waft of Jack’s whiskey: an earthy bouquet. He watched how Jack drank, how he took a sip into his mouth and held it there, and when he swallowed it was with a slightly pained look. Finally, he’d drag a thumb across his thick tache and sigh.