The Boy Who Could Keep a Swan in His Head

by John Hunt

  Phen enjoyed having insider status. Afraid and purposeful, he’d come home and head straight for the darkened bedroom. Mairead would be standing over his lunch and a perfectly set table as he whisked past. He had to see his father first. If he was asleep, Phen did a reconnaissance patrol. Where was that second slipper? The reading glasses had to be unhooked from the lampshade, the saucer pushed back as it cantilevered over the edge. If he was awake, there were sentences to be traded, normally short and clipped, as Phen wiped his chin where the spittle, iced by the oxygen, had turned crusty like a frozen waterfall.

  He still despised the tape recorder, but in that gloomy room, much of its power had been ceded back to him. Only he had the ability to make it work. His thumb pressed Play and his fingers set the volume. To remind the silver box who was boss, Phen continued to deliberately mangle and twist the tape as he threaded it. Although the tape recorder was still the voice of choice, more and more Phen determined when it spoke.

  His grandmother reasserted her authority on his exit by insisting all homework was to be done after lunch and before the dog was taken for a walk. This assignment would be accompanied by absolute silence, a straight back, an elbow-free table and her knitting needles. Mairead would move from her corner chair to the dining-room table with the grim determination of a Depression-era farmer forced to go west. She’d begin her migration by sighing loudly and rocking herself off her chair. Heavily laden with handbag, knitting carryall, shawl, teacup and book, her body would lean forward and advance. Once at her destination, she’d meticulously unpack her balls of wool as if they were her only provisions for the long winter.

  “Ah dinnae ken,” she’d say every afternoon. “Ah dinnae ken. It’s a jersey for your father, truth be told I have no idea of the size. He’s shrinking every day.”

  His mother’s return from work led to a military handover of responsibility. “Dennis fine. Homework done. Dustbin emptied. Bathroom latch still broken. Caretaker informed.” Supper and the quantity thereof was confirmed. Although there were never any leftovers, Mairead always explained that eating yesterday’s food never killed anyone. “A little starvation,” she’d say, “made for a fine sauce.” Feeling guilty, his mother would ask if she would like to stay for dinner and Mairead would stoically decline. “Not sure there’s enough. Plus, I like to walk while there’s a little light.” Having suitably punished her daughter she’d gather her “bits and pieces” which were “strewn all the way to Timbuktu and back again”.

  “She means well.”

  Phen watched his mother crouch down to his height as the heels of Mairead’s sensible shoes clipped away.

  “How’s school?”

  “Fine.”

  “Look what Mr Lansdown gave me to give you.”

  It was a simple silver cross. She put it in the palm of his hand and let the fine links of the chain fall and curl around it in a tight circle.

  “Why?”

  “Well, you know, he’s a lay preacher and a very nice man. I think he just thought it might help.”

  Phen was furious. Now even his mother’s boss was interfering. Like Mr Trentbridge he also wore too much aftershave. Initially he’d thought that strong, stringent smell was the mark of successful and powerful men. Now he understood it was just another way to perfume the truth. At the company’s Zoo-Day-Away, Mr Lansdown had sat on a tractor and pretended to be a farmer although his teeth were far too straight and white. He’d made Phen sit next to him and go for a drive in the engineless contraption. He’d bounced and swayed and sung “Old MacDonald Had a Farm”, obviously thinking that because he didn’t talk back Phen had the mental age of a four-year-old. He’d called him “partner” and insisted on helping him down, unaware he was fully capable of climbing off a stationary tractor himself.

  “What am I meant to do with it?”

  “Wear it, if you want to.”

  “Around my neck?”

  “That’s where they normally go … under your shirt. No one sees it.”

  Phen wasn’t sure about religion. Like his grandmother’s porridge it was a lumpy affair. And like that porridge, when he sought a little sugar, he found salt. He felt attracted to Jesus yet wasn’t sure who to picture in his mind when he prayed. He particularly enjoyed the colour illustration in his Bible of Jesus preaching the Sermon on the Mount. With the wind tugging at his white, flowing robes and a camel in the background, he looked exactly like Lawrence of Arabia. And if you peered closer, you could see the yellow haze around his head was not caused by the setting sun, but rather by his own inner warmth. It was no wonder the woman was stretching out her baby towards him, begging for a blessing.

  However, he could not bring himself to look at the same person hanging on a cross a few chapters later. Blood poured from his hands and feet and red dots stippled where his crown of thorns dug deep. How could this happen to a man who’d asked you to love your enemies? Mary was there, hugging the base of the cross, but where was everyone else from the Mount? He’d checked the page many times; the crowd was full of huge men with broad shoulders and massive beards. One minute they were waving palm fronds and hallelujahing him, the next they were looking the other way while a Roman soldier stuck a spear into his side.

  Worst of all, the man on the cross with his ribcage forced forward and his empty stomach pushed back reminded him of his father. He, too, was now just protruding bone barely held together by a streched and yellowing skin. This Jesus also couldn’t turn a tape recorder off. Or go to the bathroom by himself. You didn’t want to burden this man with your prayers and pleas for help. He had enough on his plate already. He wanted the Lawrence of Arabia Jesus, but he couldn’t get the sick and dying one out of his mind.

  “So,” said his mother, “here’s a coincidence, you know, a fluke. Mr Lansdown will be preaching at our church on Sunday morning and I said we’d go and hear him.”

  Phen’s anger continued to build. He was irritated that she thought he didn’t know what coincidence meant and floored that she’d said “our church”. She hardly ever went unless it was Christmas or Easter and now it was suddenly “our” church. She’d forced him into Sunday School on the basis that she would also become a regular churchgoer. He’d wanted to meet them on the tiny lawn next to the vestibule, like all the other children. After the service, tea was served and sandwiches without their crusts were offered. Here all the neatly dressed families huddled together. Everyone greeted you politely and wished you a good week when they said goodbye. This, he felt, was what normal was supposed to be.

  “Uncle Ed will pop over to give us a break.”

  “I won’t go to Sunday School. Just the service.” He draped the cross around a large Outspan orange that sat in the fruit bowl. Not wanting to be too sacrilegious, he made sure it hung straight.

  Phen felt a need to punish his mother for all the extraneous people she was bringing into their lives. Whatever was happening to them, whatever they were going through, he wanted to keep it private. She stood up slowly, rubbed her stiff thighs and said nothing. This was, in effect, confirmation of their deal. Phen was learning that silence in place of a negative equalled a positive. He lifted Pal’s lead from the hat rack and stormed out the door, trying hard to show his displeasure. Zelda and Romeo were sitting outside on the low wall that offered a marginal protection to Duchess Court’s slim garden. If you can smoke thoughtfully, that’s what they were doing as they eyed each other in a professional way. Romeo’s bright yellow Ducati was parked brazenly on the pavement, forcing pedestrians to walk around it. Zelda waved with her small finger and the Italian nodded; Phen headed to the park without pausing.

  He decided to place his fury on Heb Thirteen Two. He’d still not seen him. Yet whenever he went for a walk Phen thought he was being watched, maybe even followed. He tried everything to catch him out, even crawling behind the chrysanthemums outside Idlewide Mansions. He’d pulled Pal close and hidden behind the bushes. Someone had kept a steady fifty yards behind him no matter how fast or slow Phe
n had walked. However, the only person to stroll past was an off-duty bus driver whistling softly. He’d undone the two top buttons of his uniform and carried his shopping in a white plastic bag. Eyes at ground level, Phen watched a large tin of Lucky Star pilchards swing by. He waited patiently. Nothing. A fat rock pigeon mock-cooed him.

  He arrived at church two days later in pretty much the same mood. He didn’t know where to direct his ire, so he splashed it over everything. His mother was very grateful that Ed had suggested he drive them. Phen showed his thanks by slamming the door and eliciting a “Steady” from his normally compliant uncle. They sat in a pew second from the front – just the same as at school. He’d tried to peel off earlier, but his mother had insisted on dragging him down the royal-blue carpet. Now they both sat holding their prayer books, waiting for the minister to explain what to do with them.

  Still, by the time Mr Lansdown climbed the wrought-iron steps to the raised lectern, Phen was well hidden. He had a tried-and-trusted strategy. The large lady in front of him made a perfect barrier. Not only was she three times the size of the Leb, but she also wore a yellow-and-brown hat that settled on her head like a cottage pie, its slightly burned crust flowing over her ears. Mr Lansdown bobbed and weaved to catch sight of Phen. Head down, he refused to show himself. It was even better when the congregation was asked to pray. Kneeling comfortably on the grey cushion, he disappeared entirely, his spindly knees making deep holes in the accommodating pillow. With his head against the pew in front, his nose filled with the smell of wood polish. And with everyone insisting he close his eyes, it wasn’t too dissimilar from going down the inkwell.

  “Phen! Phen!”

  He must’ve drifted off. It was the combination of his mother’s whispered exclamations and the pulling of his ear that brought him back to reality. Everyone was already sitting back upright in their seats and waiting. Someone in their row cleared his throat, confirming that piety needed to be punctual. Phen sprang up, exposing himself momentarily to Mr Lansdown, who smiled. The sweep of white reminded him of the ivory knuckleduster Carlos de Sousa had brought to class. Light broke through the stained-glass windows as Mr Lansdown gripped both sides of the lectern. He lifted his chin unto the Lord and let the shaft of dust beams mingle with his blond hair.

  The Lord is my helper;

  I will not fear;

  What can man do to me?

  It occurred to Phen that man could do quite a lot, not that he was paying much attention. If you could swoon in church that’s what the lady in front of him did. She didn’t fall sideways with the back of her hand against her forehead; instead, she tilted as far back as she could go. Her cottage pie was inches from Phen’s nose as she purred at the preacher. Her heavy breathing lifted at the end of each sentence, confirming her state of rapture. With chiselled torso, a wide square jaw and smouldering eyes, he was the Charlton Heston of deacons. He drove the lectern like a chariot.

  There were exhortations to faith and godliness. There were requests that we make our paths straight and narrow. The congregation was asked to endeavour to be perfect in every way. Everyone had to look diligently into themselves and root out bitterness; to endure chastening, and our conversations have to be without covetousness. Finally the gathered group was beseeched to trust in good conscience and to carry the light that is eternal within themselves. Phen was so hidden, he was almost under the back of the woman’s hat when he heard the concluding sentence.

  “Let brotherly love continue. And here I quote Hebrews 13:2: ‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers; for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.’”

  As Phen lifted his head, the clouds once more parted and bathed the whole church in a rich, creamy light. Golden shafts poured through the windows just as they did in the biblical illustration of Daniel in the lion’s den. He remembered their manes on fire, yet they did not pounce. They circled and circled but were made powerless by the holy luminescence. Mr Lansdown finally released the podium and let his hands float up higher and higher so they too could be illuminated. The woman in front of Phen gasped and straightened in a kind of ecstasy.

  “Let us pray,” Mr Lansdown said.

  Over lunch afterwards Phen ate little and said even less. Could it be possible? Could the man in the park be an angel? Why else would he say his name was Heb Thirteen Two? Could it be a coincidence, a fluke? It all made sense and was complete nonsense. What angel needed underarm deodorant? What messenger from God would sing badly and show off dance steps he’d learned at Arthur Murray? Why the felt hat and no socks? The detonated hair? What celestial being had a scar under his chin from a broken bottle? Where was he anyway? Was he gone? Had he just been passing through? What about the feeling Phen had of being followed or watched? The only solution was to stop thinking about it. His brain was too full. He hid his peas behind the mashed potato and obscured the view further with a half-eaten chop. Uncle Ed asked about the service and was a little taken aback by the emotional response of his mother. She checked that the corners of her mouth were clean with her starched Sunday serviette before gushing.

  “Beautiful, just beautiful.”

  Unable to hide the jealousy in his voice Ed then directed the question specifically to Phen, who rolled his shoulders ambiguously and brought his knife and fork together, signifying both the meal and the conversation were over. A strange three-way silence followed. His mother seemed happier in a dreamy sort of way, yet that clearly made Uncle Ed sadder. Everyone stared at the gravy bowl, waiting for a sign of what to do next. In an attempt to re-establish his credentials, Ed decided to take the initiative. He folded his napkin into a half, then a quarter and then almost an eighth. Not quite flat, it opened its mouth towards the side plate.

  “I have an idea,” he said. He took a five-rand note out his pocket and slipped it into the gaping white cloth. “Why doesn’t Phen take a friend for a milkshake this afternoon? What’s the place he always talks about?”

  “The Milky Lane.” His mother was used to talking on his behalf.

  “Or that ice-cream place?”

  “Italian Gelato.”

  “That one. It’s on me. Good for him to get out a little.”

  “That’s an awful lot of money. He doesn’t need five rand.”

  “In the circumstances, I don’t think a little largesse would go amiss.”

  Phen should have been astonished, flabbergasted, even bewildered. This was treasure way beyond his reckoning. Instead that little hammer of anger began tapping again. He didn’t like being spoken about as if he wasn’t there and he knew he didn’t have a friend to share his uncle’s sudden generosity with. He didn’t understand the word but if five rand was involved, he presumed it meant the same as large-ness. He’d never owned a five-rand note in his life. Just the maths of what he could buy with it jumbled his mind. What he really wanted to do with it was casually pull it out his pocket and hear all the whistles of amazement. He wanted Margaret Wallace to know that although his parents didn’t own a Pontiac, or any car for that matter, he was still a man of substance. If his calculations were right, he was worth twenty milkshakes and twice that number of ice creams.

  “Maybe Vakis?” his mother said, relenting and passing him the note as if it was somehow hers to give.

  Phen took the note without looking at it and slipped it into his shorts, not sure if he was being bribed, if his absence was being bought. A few months ago he would’ve dashed straight to Jimmy the Greek. They would’ve double-scooped, always with the strawberry on the top. ‘Never vanilla. It’s sissy flavour.’ After that it would probably have been the Florian Cafe for a sit-down toasted cheese. From outside on the first-floor balcony, Hillbrow breathed a little easier. The elevation helped release the congestion on the corner of Kotze and Twist. While pedestrians waited six deep for the lights to change, you rolled the stringy bits of melted cheese around your fork and above their heads. ‘Crazy! It’s sandwich. Why eat same way steak?’

  Uncle Ed and his mother saw him to the do
or with great ceremony.

  “Be careful,” she said.

  “He’s going shopping, not trying to find the Northwest Passage.” His uncle was trying to sound like his father.

  Phen was surprised how awkward the folded note felt. He carried it gently in his hand in his pocket, careful not to wrinkle it. He held it like a small bird, occasionally pulling it out to give it some air. Jimmy the Greek would be the only person to share it with, but since Phen’s reading of “The Road Not Taken”, he’d kept his distance even more. A friend with two nicknames, Spaz and Stuttafords, was just too heavy a burden to bear. Phen thought Jimmy had waved at him once on the playground. He couldn’t be sure, though. Margaret Wallace had been standing nearby and he knew Jimmy fancied her. Everyone did.

  He stood outside the entrance to the Chelsea Hotel, tied his laces twice and pretended to be interested in the acorns at the base of the last remaining oak on the street. He dug his nail into their leathery shells and prised their cup-shaped hats off. Phen thought of Heb with one stuck on his forehead and wondered where he was. “Oooommmm,” he soundlessly chanted to himself. Mrs Smit had told them the real name for the hat was a cupule. The curtains pulled back on the third floor where Jimmy lived. He waited twenty minutes; no one came down. Phen wondered if it would’ve made any difference to the Greek that a rich boy was waiting down below. If his absence from Duchess Court had been bought, he was ashamed to admit he was willing to buy a friend too. The noise of Hillbrow’s traffic and the flick of its neon contrived an invitation. As he turned to go, a pigeon cooed him on his way.

  It soon became obvious that the money would not be spent. Too many options paralysed him and an individual purchase that went into his mouth didn’t warrant breaking the note. He loitered outside the Flying Saucer restaurant, indicating that he could sit at one of the outside tables if he so chose. Very continental, he reminded himself, noticing that the red-and-white check of the umbrellas matched the tablecloths. The five rand did, however, elevate his browsing at Estoril Books. He genuinely had the means to purchase a book or two and even lingered meaningfully in the hardcover section. Phen audaciously lifted up coffee-table books, went to the High Sierra with Ansel Adams, the Midwest with Norman Rockwell and joined Henri Cartier-Bresson on the streets of Paris. It was Gerhard Gronefeld’s Understanding Animals that made him page the slowest, though. According to the inside flap of the cover, Gerhard, who was born in Berlin in 1911, could reveal many surprises in the behaviour of animals. He had conducted many field experiments himself. His research projects demonstrated that we should look at our fellow inhabitants with new, fresh eyes.