by John Hunt
“It’s not that bad.”
“Good … Do you have a name?”
“Yes.”
“Is it a secret?”
“No.”
“May I know it?”
“Phen. Phen Baxter. My proper name is S-S-Stephen but everyone calls me Phen. I can say the F sound through my nose better than I can say S in my mouth.
The man stood up as if he was about to go and brushed the grass off the seat of his pants. Suddenly Phen didn’t want him to leave. He seemed taller and broader across the shoulders now that he was facing him straight-on. The man pointed just in time for him to see the beehived woman nearly fall into a bed of orange flowering aloes. Her stilettos were drilling into the lawn with every step she took, leaving deep tunnels in her wake. Every yard gained was a stop-start extraction of the heel she left behind.
“Better go and help her before she breaks an ankle. She just wants to give you your hanky back.”
Phen ran to her and accepted the damp cloth. It was presented with two hands like some holy shroud.
“You are a very kind young man,” she said, smiling. “I’m sorry it’s all covered in mascara. I hope your mother will understand.”
Phen nodded and smiled back. He turned immediately, yet knew in advance the man would no longer be there.
7
Stoicism
/sto’i-sizm/ noun
Sarah looked at him and loved him, loved the lines of his face, the darkish blue of his eyes, the straight brows. She saw laughter and need in those eyes, felt strength from his hands flowing into her, saw the background of crimson curtaining at the window.
Her breath caught and she said foolishly, “I’ll be able to finish Ruth’s book with her. She’ll be delighted.”
“It’ll have to wait till we have a honeymoon. I’m not one of those chaps who can wait around for heaven. I want mine red hot!”
“Oh, darling,” she said with that delicious feeling of helplessness, “you say the craziest things. Who ever heard of a red hot heaven? I love you!”
And that, naturally, was more than enough encouragement for Brent. He proceeded to convince her, with a passion both savage and tender, that she was the most adored creature in the universe.
And just for a second, she thought thankfully that of all the women in the world, only she could be Sarah, wife of Brent.
Phen watched the final inch of tape on the right slither off and wrap itself around the bulging reel on the left. His humiliation was complete. Tape Aids for the Blind had mistakenly sent his father Denise Baxter’s literary choice. In this case a Mills & Boon book titled The Tulip Tree by Kathryn Blair. And still he’d preferred to listen to it rather than have his son read to him. It didn’t matter that his father said he’d listened to it for a laugh. That it was full of square jaws and trembling lips and thrusts that went upwardly and inwardly while hearts soared outwardly.
There was little solace, too, in the fact that his father slept most of the time. So he really didn’t know about the tulip tree in Dr Ruth Master’s garden that refused to flower. And how Sarah Knight wondered if it was a symbol of her love for Brent Milward. When Phen heard they’d delivered the wrong tape, he’d gone and stood at the bottom of the bed. He’d even held Grapes of Wrath in his hands because it was the book his father most often chose. “Always lyrical,” he’d say. “Indignant yet lyrical.” Instead he’d been asked to help thread the tape.
The machine’s control of the room was now absolute. It sat deep and centred in the leather chair that used to be Phen’s. A white hand towel even caressed and supported its far-right-hand corner, to keep it perfectly level. Its two smug revolving eyes saw everything and demanded respect. “Easy,” his father had said when he’d tried to force the tape through the narrow slot. “It’s not a toy, boy.” If he couldn’t damage the recorder at least he could crinkle the tape occasionally. He enjoyed hearing words suddenly stretch or fold in on themselves. If the crease made with his nail was really deep, the word disappeared entirely. He wanted his father to know that the STÉRÉO CONTINENTAL “401” wasn’t perfect either, but he never seemed to notice.
Phen watched the full reel continue to spin while the empty one slowed to a halt. He knew the machine was still telling him everything was changing. He sensed his life shifting; he was losing his mooring. The ropes and chains that held him secure were being thrown overboard. Although he desperately wanted to steady himself, he wasn’t sure what to hold on to. Nothing seemed firm. His father lay upright with the top pillow hugging his head like a helmet. The oxygen mask completed the look of an astronaut. Maybe a part of his father was already in outer space?
His mother was different now, too. She shrugged her shoulders even when no one asked her anything. When he did ask her a question, all she’d do was run her hands through his hair. He asked her why his father chose to listen to a love story instead of him reading Grapes of Wrath or even Animal Farm. Phen explained how his father loved his Old Major voice and how in the past they’d even sung “Beasts of England” together. She just smiled and walked away. He followed her and, as she turned the kettle on, he imagined himself climbing onto the vinyl seat of the kitchen chair and singing loudly.
Bright will shine the fields of England,
Purer shall its waters be,
Sweeter yet shall blow its breezes
On the day that sets us free.
For that day we all must labour,
Though we die before it break;
Cows and horses, geese and turkeys,
All must toil for freedom’s sake.
Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland,
Beasts of every land and clime,
Hearken well, and spread my tidings
Of the Golden future time.
“Have your tea,” his mother said, “or it’ll get cold.”
Uncle Edward wasn’t the same either. He came more often yet for shorter periods. As if he was seeing a patient rather than a friend. Somehow, in his mind, there were now visiting hours he had to adhere to. “Don’t want to wear the fellow out!” He always arrived too cheerful and hated himself for not leaving in the same vein. He felt he was letting the team down and apologised to Phen’s mother continually. “I’m absolutely hopeless at this sort of thing.”
“What sort of thing?” Phen had asked and once again there had been no answer.
Ed also knew the arrival of his tape recorder had altered everything. The transference of so much power to the box had repositioned him too. More and more he was forced to stay silent as they both listened to the third voice. The story would fill the room as paragraph after paragraph took them further and further away to another place. Ed would sit straight-backed with a pained look of concentration on his face. Occasionally he’d lean forward as if trying to hear some announcement that might clarify their destination.
“Become the story,” his father had said.
“Righto,” said Uncle Ed.
Mairead pretended she was exactly the same. And the more she did so, the more it became obvious even she was affected by the whirling that was picking up speed all around her. She refused to spin but could not stop herself from occasionally being turned. She carried stoicism like a club. All the better to beat those who might be feeling sorry for themselves.
“Who exactly is the sick one here?” she asked Phen. “I’m beginning to think you’re confusing yourself with your father.”
Phen had been caught angrily ripping the brown paper off the exercise book he’d been trying to cover, and hurling the scrunched-up mess at the wall. The crumpled ball had ricocheted onto Pal’s head and into the passageway. Mairead had bent down slowly to pick it up, examining it on the floor and then in her hand. She held the crushed paper to the light like a prospector confirming his find.
“You’ve wasted a perfectly good sheet of paper, the book remains uncovered and you have a cocker spaniel slinking under the bed thinking it’s his fault.”
“Mom normally does this.”
“I’m aware of that. However, in the greater scheme of things, this is a problem unlikely to cause the universe to implode. There are more pressing issues right now. Ones that require you strap on a man’s pair of shoulders. In addition, the curve of the blade on a pair of scissors used to cut your nails is not appropriate for the cutting of a straight line across a sheet of paper. If you fetch the correct tools from my sewing bag, I am prepared to help.”
It wasn’t just the crooked cutting and the mass of twisted sticky tape that made him angry. It was the thought of school beginning again. The term break was over. One weekend stood between him and his ridiculously wide grey shorts. “It’s not the shorts, it’s his legs,” he’d overheard his mother reply defensively to his gran. “They’re so skinny, I have to put elastic garters in his socks to keep them up. I’ve known thicker toothpicks.” Kobus Visser, who had legs like swollen pork sausages, pretended he was being original by calling them Wednesday Legs. Wens day going to break. The joke had stuck.
In an attempt to dampen his anxiety, Phen decided to visit Zelda. Number forty-three was the only door in Duchess Court he had the courage to knock on. He tapped gently then respectfully stepped away. It didn’t feel right to stand all over a mat that had “Welcome” written on it. Zelda’s blurred head appeared through the frosted glass. She comically squashed her face against it then held up a length of ribbon by way of explanation. He watched her head fly backwards and forwards a number of times as she tried to get her hair to fan out equally. At last the knot was done and the door opened with a grand sweep.
“Your majesty, how kind of you to grace me with your presence.” She bowed low and bade him enter. “You timing is excellent, I have just finished.”
“What?”
“Finishing.”
She checked her vast ponytail, opened a packet of Peter Stuyvesant, and slowly drew a cigarette out. “My passport to international smoking pleasure. Do you have a light?”
“No.”
“Good. Keep it that way. If you ever start, I shall be forced to tell your mom or even worse, your gran. And she’ll make you eat haggis and black pudding.”
“Term begins on Monday.”
“You don’t sound happy.”
Phen shrugged.
“How’s Jimmy the Greek?” The question was asked behind a plume of smoke she tried to drive away with an impatient hand.
“Okay. Doesn’t play with me much any more. S-S-Sometimes I’m reserve goalie.”
“New term, new beginning. Maybe you’ll find a new friend. Maybe someone who’s just moved into the area? You know what Hillbrow’s like. A gigantic train station. I’ve just met a man from Yugoslavia. He said his president was called Tito. Great name for a dog, don’t you think? ‘Come here, Tito! Sit, Tito!’ Evidently he’s one tough guy, so I better watch myself.”
“We’re doing a play this t-t-term. Everyone has to be in it. Everyone has to go to auditions.”
“I see.” Zelda plucked a flake of tobacco from the tip of her lip and placed it in the ashtray. The thin crimson gown, tied tightly at her waist, was full of embroidered tumbling hearts that fell all the way down from her shoulders. Phen guessed there was nothing on underneath. Her body seemed more liquid than usual. It flowed and bobbled, sometimes in two directions at the same time.
“My gran s-s-says I have to put on a man’s pair of s-s-shoulders.”
“She does, does she? Well, I think the pair you’ve got are pretty broad already.”
“Putting on a man’s pair of s-s-shoulders really means my father’s very ill, doesn’t it?”
Zelda nodded and let the faintest “yes” escape from her lips.
“I wish people would just say what they mean.”
“Maybe they’re trying to protect you.”
Zelda waved away another cloud of smoke and offered Phen a chair. He chose the corduroy couch. Usually he would go for the orange beanbag. This time, however, it had a used look about it. The leatherette was spreadeagled across the floor and looked exhausted. Its hollows seemed violent and deep. Besides, he was too shy to beat it like a punchbag to get it back in shape. Zelda sat on a bar stool, although there was no bar, and began to brush her ponytail.
“Remember Ziggy?”
“The s-s-saxophonist from s-s-sixty-one?”
“Yes. He had wonderful hair.” Zelda examined her split ends. “Wish we could’ve swapped. What a ponytail! When he let it loose, it almost reached his waist. He was very good, not just with that saxophone.”
“I heard he’s playing for a top band in America now. Even has his own record coming out.”
“I hope so.”
The doorbell rang. Zelda frowned and pulled her gown around her neck.
“Busy day.”
Phen turned to watch as she padded to the door in her bare feet. This time it only opened an inch or two. There was a pause followed by a whisper, followed by another pause. The sweet, salty smell of aftershave spoke loudly, though. It was Mr Trentbridge.
“Hey, Boyo!” he called from the door. “Just borrowing a cup of baking powder for the missus’s dessert!”
Zelda came straight back to him and smiled. She’d obviously run out of baking powder.
He had wanted to tell her about the dancing man he’d met in the park and the lady who’d been crying next to the empty swimming pool. How the man could spin his hat like a top without even looking at it and sing at the top of his voice while lying down. How his face was square and round at the same time. And how his hair exploded as if someone had put a hand grenade in there and pulled the pin. How you shouldn’t issue ultimatums if the potential ownership of a bakery on an island off Crete is involved. And how stilettos leave holes even deeper than hadeda beaks. But now, something had changed in the room. Although Zelda continued to blow smoke, she no longer tried to wave it away.
Once again, Phen felt he was the cause of a detour. Life was going on around him. Another story was sidestepping him. Words were winking. He felt angry and left out. Like the empty reel on the tape recorder, he was turning mindlessly with nothing to say. He stood up and, copying the man from the park, dusted the back of his pants.
“Better go.”
“So soon?”
Phen shrugged.
“Well, come back, maybe Sunday. I’m planning a marathon baking session. All-you-can-eat pancakes and chocolate brownies to go. Add a little luxury to your school lunchbox.”
He didn’t want to admit it, yet he knew it was true. Every walk with Pal was now a hunt to see if he could find the man with the felt fedora. He thought he’d seen him high up on the construction site next to Duchess Court. He’d pulled Pal to the other side of the road for a better look, but the hollow concrete block he’d been standing in was suddenly empty. Phen also thought he’d spotted him at the bottom of the almost completed waterfall. He’d run down the rough slope of Nugget Hill, filling his socks with blackjacks, almost falling twice, and found nothing. Three cardboard boxes had been joined together to make a tunnel bed. When he peered inside, all he could find was an old blue blanket, half a candle stuck to a tin plate and a key ring in the shape of a crescent moon with no keys attached to it.
He wondered if his laces from the tape-recorder box still held and why, if the man had said he lived in the park, he couldn’t find him there. He ended each search by burrowing under the flopping willow tree. He’d wait for his eyes to adjust to the dark and hope he’d find another silhouette calmly leaning against the trunk. On the fourth day of his search, he assumed the role of Sergeant Bill Dawson, the mainstay of Lieutenant Pitt’s platoon, formed from the rifle regiments of the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry. It was Sunday and Phen was scared he’d not find him before the start of school. He knew Sergeant Bill Dawson died on page nineteen of Pegasus Bridge, the Battle Picture comic he was reading. Still there was no better man for the job. He’d rallied his men in Calais during the dark days of 1940. Thanks to him, a number of survivors had been evacuated
across the channel to fight another day. A tougher and more resourceful Tommy you would not find.
“We’re not leaving,” he said to Pal, “until we get our man.”
They combed every inch of Nugget Hill Park from west to east. The long, narrow stretch of green was crisscrossed again and again. A man asleep on his stomach, with the Sunday Times protecting the back of his sunburned neck, initially had them excited. On closer inspection, they found the shoes were too new and the hat was missing. They crawled under a purple flowering bush, Brunfelsia pauciflora ‘Floribunda’, according to the metal plaque embedded at its base. It was time to calmly take stock. Phen turned his hands into binoculars and slowly scanned from left to right.
“Reconnaissance,” he explained to Pal. “When they can’t see you, they sometimes show themselves.”
He saw an exhausted-looking man lean against the white painted wall. He became his own dark shadow as he battled to gain his breath. Phen guessed he’d been trying to sell mielies all day. It seemed impossible that such a huge sack could be balanced on a single bicycle saddle. He wiped the silver dots of sweat from his forehead and slid down onto his haunches. His long pants were held high around his waist by an old piece of rope knotted in the front. This ensured his bare feet had uncluttered access to the pedals. Phen watched the park attendant in his dark, gold-buttoned uniform tell him to move on, waving his baton like a Keystone Cop. “M-i-e-l-i-e-s!” the man shouted as he battled to push his bike uphill, “M-i-e-l-i-e-s!” And once more Phen understood “mielies” was the word but, by the way he screamed, it was not the meaning.
He refocused his binoculars to the left. A toddler in a sailor suit tried to kick an orange plastic soccer ball. His right foot missed entirely, forcing him onto his padded rear. A cloth nappy is a thing of substance, yet it cannot soothe a howl of indignation. The earnest mother arrived in her kaftan and sandals, determined to right all wrongs. She placed a hand on her hip, question-marking her body and demanding an answer from her child. Sailor Boy immediately pointed an accusing finger at the ball. Her eyes grew wide as she bent down and picked it up. “Naughty ball! Naughty! Smack! Smack!”