Magnificent Joe

by James Wheatley

  But here I am, and there’s a quality in the light today. Every object seems precisely defined as if embossed on the world: mountain ash, rhododendron, iron railings, paving slabs, chip trays, dog shit. I tramp past it all, out of the estate and along the main road, where cars glide past me, breaking up the morning sun and throwing it back in glints of silver. A bus thunders by, leaving me and a gap-toothed parade of shops in its sooty wake. Twice I have to veer round pools of last night’s vomit, splattered on the flags.

  I fork off at the lane, into relative peace. Some modern houses back onto it with their panel fences, but it is a half-hearted encroachment, and after a while they stop abruptly where the scrubby grazing begins. A pair of stocky horses stand quite still. The lane bends, bridging a beck to run parallel to the old train line. A hedge shadows the road, so here and there the potholes still have a sugar-pane of ice. My arm aches from carrying the tool bag.

  Mrs Joe’s house is at the end of an isolated terrace of railway cottages. Of course, there was once a station nearby, but this is now nothing more than some suggestive bumps in a field where sheep graze. The houses are Victorian, well built, and must be worth quite a bit. I’m sure Mrs Joe knows this, but I’m equally sure that she doesn’t care.

  I go round the back and knock. There’s a shuffling from within. After some time, during which I studiously avoid noticing that the wall is water-damaged and needs repointing, Mrs Joe opens up.

  ‘Morning. I’ve come to fix that lino for you.’

  ‘Come in, son.’ Mrs Joe smiles tiredly.

  There are breakfast smells in her kitchen, but the evidence has been cleared away. There is no sign of neglect in her housekeeping. The offending linoleum curls up in the corner of the room. I hope that no damp has spread under the rest of it.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ll get to work first.’ I kneel and begin to peel back the lino, which comes away with unhappy ease. Clearly it is completely fucked and there’s barely any point in trying to stick it down again. ‘How are you?’ I ask Mrs Joe.

  ‘Oh, fine apart from the usual complaints.’

  ‘Joe not here?’

  ‘He’s gone out walking.’

  It was a pointless question: Joe plods the local footpaths for hours every day. Maybe he has a plan – a timetable of routes that he follows – but it’s not one I’ve ever fathomed. He just appears here, there, or anywhere – shoulders hunched, hands thrust into coat pockets. He has been this way for as long as I can remember. Once, people would recognize him and give him the odd wave or very occasional jeer, but these days, nobody knows him. Perhaps they assume he’s a tramp.

  I fold the loose lino all the way over on itself and weigh it down with my tool bag. Mrs Joe stands at the other side of the room, watching me. ‘Is it bad?’

  ‘Aye. We’ll just have to do our best.’

  ‘You sound like your father. “Do our best.” That’s what he always said.’

  I rummage in my tool bag for a scraper with which to remove some of the old adhesive.

  ‘He used to do bits for me too, you know, after my Johnny died.’

  ‘Aye, I know.’

  ‘That’s right, you came with him sometimes.’

  ‘I did,’ I say, and feel as if I’ve been shown a photograph of myself that I don’t remember posing for. ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘It only seems that way to you.’ She stands there, one claw-like hand resting on the work surface, and looks down at me. She probably remembers a lot of things.

  Mrs Joe was almost a surrogate mother to my father. He had no parents of his own, or any other family. He grew up in a children’s home, and when that was over, he got a job as a trainee welder, where Johnny – Mrs Joe’s husband – was his foreman. One day, Johnny cottoned on that my dad had no tea to go home to and brought him here. It was because of this relationship that my dad eventually moved to the village, where he met my mother. I suppose I have Mrs Joe’s cooking to thank for my existence.

  Of course, this was back in the 1960s, before Johnny died, when Mrs Joe was just Mrs Sally Briggs. Before there was nothing left to define her life but her idiot son.

  I turn back to my work, but the scraper proves ineffectual. I need solvent. It doesn’t really matter. The lino, like almost everything else in this house, is well past it. There is no point in sticking it down again, but there’s equally no point in replacing it. Mrs Joe is old, can’t afford it, and in a couple of years this house will be occupied by some Audi driver who will put tiles down anyway. Best bodge it, then. I am prepared for this eventuality – I pull out a tube of strong glue I nicked from work a few weeks ago and hack off the nozzle with my knife.

  ‘Is that special lino glue?’

  ‘Er…not really, Mrs Joe. It’s…all purpose.’

  ‘Is it going to work?’

  Of course it’s going to work. I pity the poor bastard who has to scrape this shite off.

  ‘Aye, there’s no doubt about that. You sometimes have to be a bit creative when you’re dealing with the older houses.’ I try to sound like I know my stuff as I ram the tube into my caulk gun with authority.

  ‘Not everything in here’s shagged out, son.’

  I feel the tight heat of a smile like the first crease across dried-out Monday-morning boot leather. ‘Oh, aye, there’s plenty of life in the old place yet.’

  ‘Don’t you forget it.’

  ‘No danger of that, Mrs Joe.’

  I twist to face her again; she looks less tired now. She smiles back at me. ‘Well, you’re better mannered than he was, despite it all.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your dad.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You look like him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You do.’

  Her eyes are focused elsewhere. I realize that she is seeing something in the past as if there were nothing between then and now. I have to turn away from her and stare at the exposed floor. A white slug lands right in front of me with a faint putt. Glue. I glance at the caulk gun in my right hand. I must have squeezed the handle; the stuff oozes from the nozzle like thick, plastic toothpaste. The spot on the floor resolves itself into a shallow dome the size of a tuppence and I feel stupid.

  ‘Yeah, I know.’

  She is quiet now. In my hand, a longing stirs at the fingers and ripples up my arm, in one of those strange urges for a cigarette that suddenly come from nowhere even though I gave up two years ago. It was the best thing I ever did.

  —

  After her moment of reverie, Mrs Joe went and sat in the living room while I stuck down the lino. In the end, it didn’t take me very long, but when I looked in on her, she was asleep. So much for my cup of tea. There was no sign of Joe and I left quietly, but I didn’t want to go home, so I left my bag just inside the gate and set off the wrong way.

  I tramp over the fields. This path is familiar to me, but it must be years since I last walked along it. I’m not a big walker, and I don’t have any of the other reasons – a dog, someone to walk with, or a place at the other end where I need to be – so I’ve never really been out here again. When we were kids, though, me, Geoff, Barry, and Mac used to play out here all the time. At least, that’s the way I remember it.

  The field is pasture and a little boggy, so I can see footprints on the path. I didn’t come looking for solitude, or even expect it, but the evidence of human activity hauls me into the present. The cold wind blusters around my face and cuts through my jeans. Two fields ahead of me looms a large stand of trees, and I see that although I set off with no particular destination in mind, I am walking to the ponds. I stop. From horizon to horizon unbroken grey cloud flows across the sky, but I feel that it will not rain, so instead of turning back, I carry on.

  It doesn’t take me long to cover the distance to the copse. I follow the path through the trees and then I’m there. The surface of the water is covered in dead leaves; sycamore and oak spread out flat and slick in
an oily yellow skin. Even with this wind the place smells strongly of their decay. Surrounded by bare trees, all the omens are of death, but I know that really the pond is alive; I used to come here as a kid to collect frogspawn.

  Through a break in the leaves, I see that there is something in the water: a bicycle. I can’t understand how or why anyone brought a bike out here. Any way you come you’d have to lift it over stiles, ride across broken ground; it would be quicker to walk. I move the leaves away with a stick. It’s a child’s bike and the story becomes obvious: nicked from a smaller kid and dumped when it wasn’t funny anymore. I wonder if I could get it out of there and I stretch out further with the stick, but I can’t quite reach it.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Words from behind me. I almost lose my balance and plunge into the water, but manage to drop the stick and flap my arms until I can stand up straight. I turn round and it’s Laura, Geoff’s wife, with her ash-blonde hair whipping in the wind.

  ‘Uh…there’s a bike in the water.’

  ‘It’s been there for ages.’

  ‘Oh. Really?’

  ‘I see it every time I come down here. God knows what else is in there. It’s kids, isn’t it?’ She shrugs and looks at me with her head cocked to one side. I notice that she’s properly dressed – stout shoes, fleece jacket – and quite clearly came out for the specific purpose of ‘taking a walk’.

  ‘Is Geoff with you?’

  ‘It’s Saturday morning. He’s on the sofa watching cartoons and nursing his hangover.’

  ‘Oh. OK. You’re just having a walk?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Your usual route?’

  ‘Well, it’s the closest thing to a beauty spot there is around here. Are you going to interrogate me all morning?’

  ‘No, sorry. Just surprised to see anyone, that’s all.’ In the distance I hear the faint crack of an air rifle – probably someone after rabbits. ‘Sounds like we’re not the only ones, though.’

  She starts to walk along the path and passes me – closely – as if she expects me to fall into step beside her. Without thinking I do just that and we amble alongside the edge of the pond. It’s not a big body of water, but it’s big enough to take a few minutes to get round, and she’s walking slowly.

  ‘What’s your excuse, anyway?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘For being out here. Geoff says you don’t do anything except read and go to the pub.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ I look over the water for a few moments. ‘I just felt like being outside for a while. I used to come here when I was little.’

  Another long pause, during which she stops and sits on a stump. She looks up at me, actually fixes me with her gaze. ‘Were you reminiscing?’

  ‘I try not to.’

  She laughs and her smile is wide and bright. ‘We don’t see much of you.’

  ‘I don’t think Geoff considers me house-trained.’

  She shifts over and gestures me towards her. ‘Sit down.’ The stump is big enough for two and I am careful to leave space between us, but then she reaches out and touches my arm. ‘It would have been easier for you just to tell him, in the long run I mean.’

  ‘It wasn’t the right thing to do.’

  ‘But you didn’t know that then. You didn’t really know me.’

  ‘I could just tell.’

  ‘Thank you, anyway.’

  ‘You don’t need to thank me. You don’t owe me anything.’

  I look into her face. I always thought her eyes were green, but now I can see that they contain flecks of brown. A gust of wind and a few of the last leaves give up and are carried away.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Suddenly, she leans over and kisses me on the forehead – just above my eye, right on my scar – rough and tender at the same time. Then she gets up and walks away, quickly, without another word. Soon she disappears beneath the trees. I feel a vague breath of regret under my sternum; I wonder what it would be like to have someone I could talk to about anything I wanted. Laura is the worst possible choice, though, and anyway, that’s all bollocks: a problem shared is a problem doubled.

  I kick out at the ground and turn up a stone. I bend down and pick it up. It’s muddy, but what does that matter? I straighten my body and aim for the water, then see movement on the other side of the pond: a man, with a rifle and a satchel. He hurries away, but I recognize his walk and his lank black hair.

  ‘Steve!’

  He doesn’t hear me, and I can’t catch up with him from here even if I wanted to. The shifty bugger probably couldn’t see who I was and decided to scarper for fear of getting caught shooting where he shouldn’t. I throw the stone. It hits the water with a satisfying splash.

  ‌‌4

  February 1996

  ‌‌Barry was waiting outside the prison just as he’d promised, and when Jim walked over, he opened the car door for him.

  ‘All right?’

  ‘Aye, I’m all right.’ Jim paused and looked at Barry, who didn’t move but looked straight back.

  ‘Get in, then, unless you want to hang about here.’

  ‘No. No, let’s go.’

  When Jim was seated, Barry closed the door on him and walked round to the driver’s side. Jim watched him through the windscreen; as he passed, he dragged his fingertips across the bonnet. Then he got in and started the engine.

  ‘It’s not mine. I’ve borrowed it for the day.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘We’re buying a van, like. For work.’

  Jim nodded and looked out of his window. Barry reversed out of the parking space and they drove off.

  When they got onto the dual carriageway, Jim began to take notice of the road signs because they weren’t right. They didn’t point home, to the village.

  ‘Are you taking me to Middlesbrough?’

  ‘Aye.’ Barry kept his eyes on the road.

  ‘Why?’ Jim felt suspicious. If he had allowed himself to imagine anything, this would not have been it.

  Barry smiled thinly. ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Baz, I’ve only been out for twenty minutes. Can we not just go to the pub?’

  ‘There’s plenty of time for that.’

  Jim felt uneasy. The heater was on in the car and the air was close. The jeans they had given him didn’t fit properly – too tight on the thighs. Barry smelled of aftershave. Jim started to feel carsick.

  ‘Stop. I’m going to throw up.’

  On the hard shoulder, Barry didn’t stay in the car, but got out and stood almost near enough to Jim to have his shoes splashed. Jim disgorged his breakfast in a long stream, and when he was done, he hooked his tongue through his mouth to pick up the pieces of half-digested food and spat them into the grass. Some of the sick was in his nose and he dislodged it with a hard snort; the chunks spidered to the ground in a thread of mucus. Jim watched them fall, then wiped his mouth and stood up.

  The traffic hurtled past them. The air-wash of the trucks was strong and it made the car rock on its suspension. Jim looked around. There was just the road, the embankment, and then, probably, fields.

  ‘Are you finished?’

  ‘Yeah. What the fuck are we doing?’

  ‘Trust us.’

  Barry turned to walk round the car, and Jim shouted after him, ‘But I don’t fucking trust you!’

  Barry spun back to Jim and threw his arms out to the side. ‘What else have you got? Are you going to stand here? Are you going to walk home?’ Jim couldn’t answer. They faced each other, like that, at the side of the road until Barry spoke again, calm this time. ‘Get in the car, man,’ and Jim did.

  —

  Later, they sat in a café on Linthorpe Road, and Jim could see people everywhere, just doing things: walking, shopping, eating, drinking. Eventually, he had to stare at the Formica tabletop so Barry wouldn’t see that his head was spinning. It was the women, mainly. Jim knew that he was
supposed to find them attractive, but he wasn’t prepared for the colours of their make-up. He thought they looked like Chinese dragons. Nothing had seemed this vivid on his pre-release outings, but now there were no limits.

  Jim realized that his right leg was jiggling and he tensed the muscles, clamped his heel to the floor. He wanted to turn over the table, grab Barry by the shoulders, and scream into his face, ‘What are we doing here? Take me home!’ but he knew he had to ride it out, humour Barry, because without him he was stuck: no lift, nowhere to stay. He shredded a napkin.

  Food arrived, and tea in a big stainless-steel pot. Barry had ordered them a fry-up each, without even asking Jim what he wanted. Barry tucked in. Jim watched him chew.

  ‘Howay, get that down you.’

  Jim sawed off a piece of sausage and put it into his mouth. He held it between his teeth for a few moments before he could work up the will to bite down, but then he got going and it calmed him.

  They were half-way through before Barry spoke again. ‘I’m sorry about your parents.’

  Jim shrugged, tried to keep eating.

  ‘Your mam especially. It wasn’t fair.’

  ‘It was just cancer, Barry. It could have happened to anyone.’

  ‘Are you angry with your dad?’

  ‘For killing himself?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘No. He’s dead. What’s the point? Can I just eat in peace?’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  The food wasn’t going down well now, though, so he pushed the plate away. ‘I can’t afford to eat out, Barry. The money they gave me, it’s fuck all.’