‘He lived in Harrow for six months. I didn’t know him by that name, I didn’t know him at all. He abandoned us.’
‘Are you sure about this?’ Luke asked after a moment.
‘Yes.’
Luke was quiet for a time, watching me. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said at last. ‘I always thought you were English. I honestly didn’t know.’
I ignored him and stared at Al.
‘Did you kill McGann?’ I asked and I saw his eyes turn to Luke as if asking how to reply. ‘Look at me, Al. Did you kill McGann?’
Al shook his head.
‘Do you still want to stay here with me?’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Luke said behind my back.
‘Stay out of it,’ I almost shouted. ‘Look at the state you have him in.’
‘For his sake and yours,’ Luke replied. ‘Somebody had to teach him a lesson. You don’t smuggle guns, especially into England. There’s Irish people serving forty years here for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. You would have gone down with him just for being in the same car.’
‘Do you want to stay here, Al?’ I asked again. ‘Do you want me to mind you?’
I tried to block his sight-lines but I could see he was scared and taking instructions from Luke. He shook his head, although I couldn’t decide what his eyes were trying to say. Luke leaned over me to grab Al by the jumper and pull him up.
‘Give me the keys of his car,’ he said.
‘How can you drive both?’
‘Just put them in my pocket.’
I picked them up off the mantelpiece and did as instructed. Luke was holding Al against the wall.
‘The gun,’ he said, ‘take the gun off the floor.’
‘What are you going to do with him?’
‘He’s my nephew, I’ll look after him, like I look after all my family. You’re one of them for me now too.’
‘I don’t need looking after, especially from you.’
‘Look at the squalid kip you’re living in. I’ll not see you live like this. Now pick up the gun.’
I bent down to pick up the gun and aimed it at him.
‘I don’t love you, Luke,’ I said.
Maybe it was fear which made him sneer as I approached. ‘Daughters always love their Daddy.’
‘You’re sick.’
‘And you look horny with a gun. Put it in my pocket, go on.’
I could see Al watching. My hands shook so badly that if I pulled the trigger I don’t know which one I would have hit. I pressed the barrel right against Luke’s ear and closed my eyes, seeing his ear lobe curve into the face of the man in the moon. For half-a-second I thought I had the courage to do it, then I lowered the gun down until I found Luke’s pocket.
‘Next time I’m going to fuck you so hard for that,’ Luke said. He reached down to grab Al’s bags in one hand and motioned for me to open the door. He leaned Al against his shoulder and walked out into the hall.
‘Don’t come out,’ he said. ‘Get your sleep, you look tired. Christine can get herself blown to pieces with whoever she’s running around with if she wants. Dublin’s finished for us now, do you understand? What matters is that you’re safe and Al can begin a new life here. We’re going to start again, Tracey. We’ll do anything you want, but I promise I’ll make this up to you.’
He hit the timer switch in the hall. I heard the front door open and they were gone. The hall light switched itself off. I stood as though paralysed, without even the strength to close my own door. Finally I heard a door open upstairs and somebody setting out for an early shift in work. I closed my door and turned around. I felt violated. The flat didn’t seem to belonged to me any more. Yet there was nothing to suggest Luke had ever been here, except a tiny bloodstain on the carpet beside the wall.
IV
LONDON
SIXTEEN
EVENTUALLY I SLEPT and no dreams came. No people came either that following morning which was Christmas Eve. I thought of going home to Harrow but pride prevented me turning up there. But I knew that every Christmas Eve Grandad Peter collected our turkey from a butcher in Wandsworth where he had grown up. For weeks beforehand Gran scolded him, claiming there were better stores in Harrow and it was unhygienic to drag some dead bird around the tube, but I suspected that secretly she would have been disapppointed if he purchased one locally. Maybe that’s why it was one of the few times he stood up to her, claiming that if people didn’t care much for tradition any more, it wasn’t Christmas for him until he drank a large Scotch in Stan Thompson’s butcher’s shop.
For years I was always brought along to help collect the bird. He seemed a different man away from Gran, not especially chatty but not needing words to convey what he felt. Even during my worst teenage years I loved walking through Wandsworth with him. Possibly this was because he genuinely lacked the vocabulary to understand my condition. Back then, I often imagined my disorder as taking the shape of a monkey digging her claws into my neck and whispering her disgust at me into my ear. Other people circled her anxiously, watching so closely that she clung to my neck. But Grandad ignored her and if his stoicism couldn’t make her vanish, then at least it made her relax enough to clamber down and walk alongside us.
Every Christmas the ritual would be the same: a walk from the station to the house where he’d been born, then on to the pub where he drank his first pint and finally down to Stan Thompson who was his best friend in school. Every time there had been fewer shops he recognised and fewer locals stopping him for a chat. Stan and the other men filled me with chocolates and talked about streets levelled by German bombs, trips to Brighton to see jazz bands and afternoons listening to the Goon Show behind the counter there. But they never made me see Grandad Pete as young. He had remained always himself, solid and sensible, old and yet ageless and irreducibly my friend.
So, just before two o’clock, after I had cashed my giro and been to the supermarket, I found myself getting off the train alone at Wandsworth. The station was packed with Christmas shoppers, as was the street outside. I walked past the new chain stores, knowing that soon Grandad Pete would stroll along here, putting old names back on to each one. I had no plans beyond running into him, but I knew he would insist that I return to Harrow, for that night and Christmas Day at least. I didn’t wish to stay longer, but I was desperate to escape to some place where Luke couldn’t crash in and nobody knew of him. By bumping into Grandad Pete I could return not as some stray but as his invited guest. Wandsworth was neutral ground, populated by memories which refused to allow recriminations. He would understand I had come half-way by meeting him on his own childhood streets.
I stood across from the house where Grandad was born. Years ago I used to badger him about who lived there now and why he never asked to be allowed to see inside it. ‘That isn’t necessary,’ he always replied. The way he pronounced necessary made him seem in command of everything. It was six years since I’d last stood here with him. I walked to the corner and noticed that the pub had changed its name. I almost ran to the next corner, convinced Thompson’s shop would be transformed into another West Indian supermarket. But the butcher’s was exactly as I remembered it. I even glimpsed Stan Thompson leaning into the window, gathering up a turkey. I didn’t venture any closer, I wanted to retain the pretence that I was meeting Grandad by fluke.
I walked back towards the station, knowing he might possibly be inside the pub but it was too blatant to enter. Besides, he would only have one quick drink there for memory’s sake. I reached the station and examined the flowers on sale outside. He might come by car, but I knew the ritual was important for him and Gran would never let him drink and drive. For the next two hours I devised variations of the route, hoping to bump into him. Three times I stood across from Thompson’s shop, until finally it was dusk and the scene through the butcher’s window was framed by fluorescent light.
I could see the glass jars of assorted chocolates Stan always placed on the counter on Christmas Eve. Th
e queue of customers tapered off. The boy who worked for him began scrubbing down the display units. Older customers still came in. They were men I recognised but I was shocked by how old they had become. They went behind the counter as Stan poured glasses of Scotch and leaned against the chopping block to drink a toast while his boy wrapped their fowl. I knew Grandad Pete should be among them, these hours were the highlight of his Christmas. But I couldn’t go over to ask about him. I watched from a lit doorway, until something in Stan’s glance made me realise I’d been spotted. I turned in embarrassment and had reached the pub before Stan caught up with me.
‘It’s Tracey Evans, isn’t it? How are you, pet?’
‘I’m fine, Mr Thompson.’ I’d no choice but to face him.
‘Were you too shy to come in?’ he asked. ‘I’d hardly recognise you now you’re blonde. I have the bird wrapped and all, but could he not come himself?’ Something about me disturbed him. ‘What is it, Tracey? Is your Grandad not well?’
‘He’s fine,’ I said, ‘as far as I know. Did he not tell you I left home over a year ago?’
‘He was quieter all right last Christmas but he said nothing. Still you know the way it is back there, old fellows talking guff.’
‘I was hoping I might see him here.’
‘Come back to the shop,’ Stan said. ‘There was a time you used to demolish a jar of Quality Street by yourself. He’s bound to turn up before six o’clock, the man never missed a year yet.’
I didn’t want to go with Stan. Of all my childhood outings this was the one I had loved most. The happiness of those memories stung me now.
‘Come on, pet,’ Stan coaxed. ‘You look twenty-two going on seventy-five. Wait till you hear the whingeing from the shower of old codgers back there and it will give you something to smile about. Your Grandad will turn up soon, don’t you worry.’
The old men seemed so delighted to see me that I felt like crying. They vied with each other to tell stories about events during my childhood I had forgotten and assured me that Grandad would arrive at any moment. Six o’clock came but they seemed unwilling to desert me. They asked each other if anyone had seen him since last year. Finally one man spoke up, whose name, Edward Manners, had fascinated me as a child.
‘I could be wrong,’ Mr Manners said, ‘but you know how my Dorothy married an Irishman. Well, about a month ago, one Sunday night he took me to this Irish Centre off the Edgware Road. Now I couldn’t be certain, and he looked so out of place that I thought it couldn’t be him. But there was a man drinking by himself, well-soused in fact, which isn’t like Pete, and shabbily dressed too. But I remember thinking that from a distance he looked the spit of Pete Evans.’
‘What was he doing there?’ I tried to control the unease in my voice.
‘I don’t even know if it was him,’ Mr Manners replied. ‘But he had his eye on the door like he was hoping to meet someone.’
The men didn’t put much store on the alleged sighting. For half a century they had treated Manners dismissively. They were of an age to have more friends among the dead than the living, and only my presence prevented them from speculating about Grandad’s health. Stan Thompson was paying the boy his Christmas bonus. I finished the Scotch he’d poured me and told the men I would call to Harrow and bring Grandad their greetings. Stan came back out and produced a large turkey which he placed in a bag.
‘Bring this out to the old rogue,’ he said, ‘even if he has finally deserted me for the supermarkets. It will make him come back next Christmas to pay for it.’
I knew that behind Stan’s jest he was worried. I offered to pay for the bird, but Stan waved my attempts away. He reached for the half empty jar of Quality Street and placed it on top of the turkey in my arms.
‘Don’t pretend they’re not your favourites.’ He walked me to the doorway. ‘You call to Harrow,’ he said quietly. ‘He’s laid up with a flu or a bug, nothing serious. He’s a good lad, your Grandad. I know your Granny has a sharp tongue, but you’ll want to be there over Christmas, especially with your mother. She used to come here on Christmas Eve long before you. I can still see her as a girl, the spit of you. You tell her Stan Thompson sends his love.’
I couldn’t reply. I just walked and kept walking. I didn’t care if passers-by could see I was in tears and they didn’t care either. I wanted to throw the turkey into the nearest bin. Grandad had never bothered telling Stan that my mother was dead. What sort of man was he and what gave them the right to hunt me down? It had to be him in the Irish Centre. Maybe they had even hired a private detective, because how else could they have found out about my affair with Luke? I felt fury and that old claustrophobia about being watched. Even as a grown woman they had treated my mother like a child. They weren’t going to do the same with me. I didn’t know how much Grandad knew, but just thinking about being stalked made me feel unclean.
I sat on the train, holding that stupid turkey. When I had set out I honestly believed I would be travelling home with him and it was possible for us all to start again as adults. But I could never go home. Even if they didn’t mention Luke it would be torture not knowing how much they knew about my new life. It left no room for the lies and evasions that had always been the necessary currency for survival between us. Besides, they already had a turkey. Grandad wasn’t sick. Supermarkets were cleaner and less fuss. As with everything else, Gran had finally worn him down in the end.
In the basement of the house opposite my flat a separated woman lived with four children. One of her sons had an illness which made his bones weak. He had fallen off a skateboard once on to the pavement and she had come running out terrified. We had never spoken but I’d seen her this morning in the supermarket, pushing a trolley when a basket would have done. It held the cheapest white bread and fizzy drinks, slices of picnic ham and two frozen chickens. Her shoulders were hunched as she pushed the trolley as if it was the heaviest one in the crowded store. I didn’t plan anything in advance, but when I reached my flat I walked across and down the steps to ring her basement bell. A girl of eight opened the door with I’m Too Sexy for My Shirt blazoned across her top.
‘Give that to your mother,’ I said and handed her the bag with the turkey in it. She stood it up against her jeans and stared. I could hear her mother asking her who it was. I smiled at the child but she refused to smile back. I handed her the jar of sweets and she tucked them under her arm indifferently. I was walking out the gate when her mother appeared and looked into the bag suspiciously.
‘Whatever you’re asking we can’t afford it,’ she said aggressively. I shrugged and walked across the road.
‘Listen, I don’t even have a tray big enough to cook the blasted thing,’ she shouted. But her aggression sounded different now, more like a defence mechanism. I took out my key and opened the hall door. I know she was standing there with the child, staring across. I couldn’t decide if I had done right or wrong or which hurt the worse, hunger or pride. But even if she had wished to, I suspected she was too battered to have it left inside her to call out ‘Thanks’ or ‘Happy Christmas.’
People often say if they had a choice they would spend Christmas Day alone, doing routine tasks and ignoring the collective frenzy of good-will outside. But Christmas is as penetrative as mustard gas, seeping unsettlingly into the most sealed of rooms. I stayed in bed on Christmas morning, cursing myself for waking early as if from habit on this morning. I listened to the silence on the street and remembered how I used to run downstairs, with my mother following in a haze of cigarette smoke to laugh at my excitement in discovering that Santa had remembered to take the carrots for Rudolph. Now I could imagine Luke doing the same with his youngest child, before bringing his wife up gift-wrapped jewellery on a breakfast tray.
I cursed myself for being unable to banish him, but I couldn’t stop imagining every part of his morning. I became convinced he had made love to her at dawn, either to cloak his infidelity or because thinking of me had excited him. I could visualise the position t
hey lay in and the acts he refrained from because she laughed at him and for which he had needed me instead.
The images sickened me. I didn’t want to ever see him again. His last appearance had such an element of nightmare that only Al’s bloodstain on the carpet made it seem real. But Luke was capable of calling today. Even while playing with his child, his mind could be calculating how long it would take to drive here and cajole his way into my flat with excuses, the length of time that would leave him to talk me back into bed and how often he could do it and still get home in time to slice the turkey. Later on, when his son was carried to bed and the older children were out, he even had the ability to celebrate his coup by taking his wife again in the kitchen or anywhere with an element of mock danger. I could see him with his zip open and a hand casually straying in his pocket to finger my knickers, which he would have pinched as a trophy from his afternoon’s conquest.
Last night I had put the carving knife under the bed. If Luke did call I swore I would use it on him. But really I knew nobody would call because Christmas Day was for families. These fantasies were part of my old self-loathing, manifestations of how part of me still felt I deserved to be treated. I thought I had left my monkey behind, yet no matter how far I ran he still lurked in the distance, ready to clamber on to my neck. I remembered one doctor asking how I could expect others to love me if I refused to love myself. It was three years since I last cut my flesh. Because the outward signs had stopped I’d convinced myself I was cured. But on Christmas morning I felt back at the bottom of the well I used to dream about, gazing towards the distant circle of sky where confident people who leaned over didn’t even notice me crouched there.
I thought I had recognised some of that insecurity within Al. I wondered where he was and what shape he was in. Maybe he had just wrestled the gun from Christine. The hand-written lyrics in his bag were so inept that I found it hard to imagine him harming anyone. Although he could have had me arrested I still felt he was essentially decent. Maybe that was my problem. Mostly I believed the worst about men, then the rest of the time I believed the worst lies told by them.
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