Ideas Above Our Station

by M Y Alam

  Rachel turned into one of those sullen teenagers. I kept hoping that she’d grow out of it, but then she got involved with that JJ – a right waster, piercings everywhere. Worked at a car wash, a car wash, I ask you. We kept warning her. We wouldn’t have him near the house so she started staying out all night.

  Then late one night Marty had just pulled up on the driveway and he jumped him. I heard the commotion and looked out of the window and saw them. JJ had him on the ground, kicking him in the stomach and his privates. His face was all twisted, bawling abuse at Marty about God knows what. Marty all curled up whining like some wounded animal. I opened the window and screamed, ‘I’ve called the police.’ He gave him one last almighty kick and ran off.

  Marty was in a terrible state. Three broken ribs, horrendous bruising – said his privates looked deformed. I’m convinced that’s what set the cancer off. But he wouldn’t have the police involved. Said he didn’t want Rachel dragged into it all. He was always thinking of her. Well we couldn’t let it go on. Marty said to her, ‘Rachel it’s him or us.’ She actually spat in his face. I was shaking. ‘Rachel, Rachel apologise to your father at once.’ Do you know, she just turned round to me looking like she had a bad taste in her mouth and said, ‘You pathetic cow.’ Then she left. That was almost nine years ago now. Brainwashed that’s what she was. I can’t believe they’re still together.

  Pauline said the council was on a drive to stamp out threats to employees. So she put up a poster: ‘Abusive behaviour towards staff will not be tolerated’. Fat lot of good it does. I had this scrawny girl in a while back, ranting and raving at me because she’d put three pounds in the condom dispenser and got nothing out. Nine a.m. this was, so I knew what her game was. I’ve got the key but I didn’t tell her that. Told her to ring the company if she had a complaint. She screamed right in my face, ‘You useless bitch.’ Next time I spotted her as soon as she came in. She’d been in the cubicle for ages so I guessed what she was doing. I find a lot of their filthy needles. The police are useless, they never bother. So I start banging on the door. Then I have to look over from the next cubicle and there she was slumped over the toilet, vomit everywhere. Well I was furious, really bawled at her. I didn’t realise she was dead. They took her out in one of those body-bags. I had to give a short statement. They said that they wouldn’t need to bother me again. The policewoman reckoned she was no more than fifteen. What kind of parents would let that happen to their child? Some people shouldn’t be allowed to have kids.

  It’s easy to lose track of time down here; before I knew it I hadn’t been out for three whole weeks. Well, I thought, this is ridiculous. So that lunchtime I made myself climb those steps. When I reached the top I was soaked through with sweat. I could feel my heart banging in my head. I stood tall and tried to gather myself but it was no good. The sunlight attacked me and the disgusting smells and sounds turned my stomach and then the people; swarming towards me like an army of ants. Then it started. I couldn’t catch my breath, it felt like a giant fist tightening around my chest, and the more I tried to gulp in air the stronger the grip got. I was ripping at my collar, losing control and all I could think was – I’m going to die. And then the real terror took hold as I realised that any second now I was going to have to face Him and He’ll know everything, everything. And what horrors He will have in store for me. And as I slid to the floor I begged Him to give me more time, more time to prove to Him that I really am sorry.

  Next thing I remember was this honey-coated voice saying ‘Breathe slowly and deeply – in then out.’ She had a paper bag to my mouth, she said she’d done first aid as she shooed the gawping crowd away. She rubbed my shoulders and kept repeating really slowly, ‘In then out.’ I watched that bag go up and down and I could feel the grip loosening. I felt so relaxed, like a big bar of melting chocolate. But then she started with the questions. Could she take me somewhere to be looked at? Did I have someone to be with? I shouldn’t be on my own. I got rid of her eventually – told her I was meeting my husband and when she was out of sight I crawled back down and I haven’t been out since. I couldn’t tell you how long ago that was, but I can tell you one thing for sure; next time I leave this place they’ll have to carry me out just like they did that girl. You see when I make a promise I keep it. I’ve always believed that a deal’s a deal.

  Side Exit

  Daithidh MacEochaidh

  Such a time since he’d taken a journey north of the Wash. Everything was different, although he couldn’t help think that nothing that mattered had altered at all. It was this presentiment which stung him still, that years didn’t matter, no progress had been made. The nation patched and bodged, but nothing really new had been created. It was like the roadworks, where men in fluorescent jackets had been making good, a modern surface smothering the straight line of a Roman road. Hard work. These men had sweated over the bubbling asphalt like slaves laying the stones for the emperor. He’d thought to make a shortcut through some of the old villages that he had frequented, when stationed during his national service.

  National service: you mentioned it now and either people didn’t know what the term meant or they confused it with Dad’s Army, making light of it all. Just before the bend, just by the baggy oak tree, he knew he could have cut a right and avoided the delay taking a track that would link up with the upper road. That he should have done, but he wouldn’t take any risks, misled by memories of supposed good times or be waylaid by the present, some new ring road or housing scheme perhaps.

  No, the straight road ahead, despite delays, would suffice. Ironic that his son should have ended up a mere thirty miles from where he had been based: that time of revelations and changes that had so altered him. Some dilapidated line of huts, similar to an old airfield that he had passed, had been where he first saw the world differently; his national service giving him an enthusiasm and determination to give a lifetime of service, and not just to one nation alone. Ideas and ideals, he fixed his mind on them even as he made out the dim spike of Lincoln Cathedral, pricking the skyline ahead.

  More delays, single lane again, workers sweating at the side of the road. By a coned-off section, a sign stood proud which he found tickled his somewhat peculiar sense of humour:

  NO HAT

  NO VEST

  NO BOOTS

  NO JOB

  There was the hint of something militaristic about it, regimented, controlled and disciplined, nothing ambivalent and honestly direct. It was also pathetic. As if, by implication, that a hat, a vest and a pair of boots could guarantee employment – such a simple solution. He’d fought for simple solutions: full employment, the right to work, beating the boom-and-bust machinations of the market – the future. He’d liked to think that there really had been a time when he had fought for the future. It made sense of what he was doing now, even after all this time.

  A squat workman, red-faced and sweating, turned his sign and waved him on. Unfit, fat and unhealthy these younger men. He remembered rationing, that in spite of hardship, the country as a whole had never been so well fed. The State could feed, clothe and organise its people properly, if it wanted – the war had proved that.

  Yet the shadow of the war had blighted his youth. Later, the crass stupidity of doing national service had stolen time from him, although something had been put back in its stead; a togetherness, a basic consensus and underlying sense of solidarity to those times. And a belief and a commitment, despite differences, that things were going to be different; it was possible to rebuild. He fought and had campaigned for that.

  A car streaked by, music blaring, the window down, ‘Stupid old wanker.’ The engine moved through the gears, gracefully, nothing hurried, forced or anxious. The slowness was measure enough of any latent anxiety. The car picked up speed gradually. The road still lay ahead. It hadn’t moved. And, he was no longer in any hurry to get anywhere. In a quarter of an hour, he knew that he would arrive in good time, with some five minutes or so to spare, despite the delays. All
of this, he had clearly mapped out and accounted for almost as soon as the meeting had been agreed upon. That had been the hardest and the most unsure movement that had to be made. He had known that this meeting would come.

  Planning, something that he had excelled at. Further, ensuring that plans succeeded as designed was something over which he had delighted. At the council, he had been known as a stickler, though never a bosses’ man or a jobsworth. The labourer is worth his hire – his motto. He’d given good service, demanded a decent wage for doing his job to the best of his abilities, nothing more. It still smarted that they had offered him redundancy; insulting to somehow suggest that it was in his best interest. He’d stuck it out, retrained at his own expense, night classes, where he had mastered the skills required for using a desktop computer, the sending of electronic mail, and even designing a few simple and straightforward macros. He’d worked his time. No one had carried him. A labourer is worth his hire.

  No Hat No Vest No Boots No Job!

  There was something to that, sensible and inherently right.

  Sign of the chef, nothing wrong with his eyesight. Indicating in good time, he made the turn, parked between a black Mercedes and a marine blue Toyota. Carefully, he removed his glasses, packing them into their case, safely enwrapped. He had these particular glasses seventeen years come September and good as new. Getting out, he noticed a woman in the Mercedes – resigned shake of the head. The car was littered with clothing, spread to dry upon the back seats: pants, bras and things. The woman read a tabloid, obliviously listening to a wireless, playing loud enough for him to hear. None of his business, he had no right to pry, but he took his time, ensuring that the car was properly locked; walking the narrow corridor between the vehicles, just to be sure, taking his time. He never asked of what he wanted to be sure. The question unasked, unanswered, and the woman read on, ignorant of the man stealing past her car, skirting the perimeter, wary as a prison guard dog.

  Finally, tutting, he set at a brisk march to the door. His grip was firm on the handle. The door didn’t move. He squinted, saw the sign:

  PLEASE USE THE SIDE DOOR

  He muttered aloud, something about nothing working as it should in this damn country, anymore. The side door opened without incident. He bought a small cup of tea, taking a seat by the door, so as to see or to be seen. No point hiding; no point trekking halfway up the country, then faddling about when it came to the rendezvous. A smile, brittle and somewhat faint, stole across his lips. He had caught himself just in time, his hand snaking out to the sugar set on the table. He still craved his regimental two lumps. In all of their forty years of marriage, Judith had never forgot to sugar his tea, correctly. One sugar is not enough for a strong, British cuppa, while three is far too sweet and often wasteful, an undissolved slush pooled at the bottom. Two is quite a sufficiency. The doctor had said, too much sugar in his urine. Oh well, it could have been worse. At least it explained why he was visiting the toilet so frequently. Harold, a former civil servant in the foreign office, a man who too had given loyal service, one of his keenest allies at the carpet bowls club, well he, Harold Winters, had faired far worse. Half the night going to the toilet and when finally he saw the specialist at the hospital it was too late. Harold Winters, H.E.O. foreign office, had died just before his sixty-seventh birthday through prostate cancer. As if pushed by some Pavlovian impulse, he made his way to the conveniences.

  When he returned, he sighed, but not too loudly. His tea removed, half-drunk, and his table taken by two lorry-driver types, full of tattoos, tabloids full of right-wing tosh and dolly-birds’ tits, tabs sucked down to the nubbins hung from their lips, scattering ash all over the table. In a curious way, they reminded him of Yanks. He’d resented the Yanks coming over. No morals. They’d chase the orphanage girls most of them not even sixteen. They tried to bribe him and other lads with chocolate or fags to bring out the girls for them. They were so brash – the manners and morals of animals. Yes, he resented the Yanks, resented more that empty platitude so commonly voiced by them or even by the British themselves, that the USA had saved Europe. As if the disaster of Hitler’s Eastern Offensive, as if the massive sacrifices of the Soviet Union, had counted for nothing in the Third Reich’s collapse. His reveries broken, a young man, tepidly tugging his elbow.

  ‘Excuse me, are you Malcolm?’

  ‘I am Mr Malcolm Taylor.’

  ‘I’m Karl.’

  ‘Yes, good, pleased you’ve arrived – good journey?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Roadworks…I say, would you like to take a seat?’

  ‘I was sitting there.’ He pointed to the table where the ‘lorry-driver’ types still slouched. ‘I sat there to ensure that we didn’t miss each other.’

  ‘Never mind, eh – I’ve a table by the window.’ Karl tried to guide the elder man over to a chair.

  ‘Ablutions, you know.’

  ‘Never mind, must have only just missed you,’ said Karl, rather more successfully moving the man to his table. ‘Can I get you anything: tea, coffee, soft drink – something to eat perhaps?’

  ‘A cup of tea, please.’

  ‘Just tea?’

  ‘Just the tea shall be sufficient,’ said the man. Did he have to repeat himself? Had his son turned out to be some kind of idiot? Or, was this now what passed for good manners: repetitious dithering? He shook his head slightly.

  The place wasn’t full. Why those drivers hadn’t sat down somewhere else and found their own seat he just couldn’t fathom. Irritable, he knew he was feeling irritable again. It was bad for his blood pressure or so the doctor had said. But it was galling…Perhaps, it wasn’t so annoying, just the long journey, perhaps there were other reasons why he tended to behave so curmudgeonly these days, but reasons didn’t help. He felt like going over there and saying his piece, he felt like he could really say something to those slobs.

  ‘There you go, Dad…’ Karl placed two cups on the table, slightly spilling the contents of one. He gave his father the full cup and made sure that it was within easy reach. He took his seat and gazed across at this old man, this stranger. He searched, he took in every line and feature, trying to find some point of resemblance, then lowered his eyes down to the cup. ‘I have no right to call you dad or father or…’

  ‘No. I haven’t been a father to you.’ The old man, Mr Malcolm Taylor, looked down. His fingers had a slight tremble to them when they groped out slightly for the cup; the cup shaking as it was raised to the lips.

  The son, Karl, looked at the motion, looked at the face again. His social worker had shewn him a picture of Mr Malcolm Taylor. Mr Malcolm Taylor had sent a photograph for Karl when he had been contacted, along with an address and telephone number. Karl had said to Gene, as he waved the photo-booth Polaroid under her nose, how much he looked like his father. Gene hadn’t said anything. Her arm, though, had looped around his waist; she had pulled him gently towards her, then rested her head on his shoulder. He’d liked that. Karl wished his wife was here, had been ‘allowed’ to attend the meeting.

  Karl brought his cup of tea to his lips and sipped. There was silence. Even in that place of quick service and fast meals, amidst the clatter of cutlery, the banging of cups, chatter and occasional laughter there was some small silence, polite as unvoiced prayer, taking up room at that table by the window. It hadn’t long. The tea was drunk. The older man made no secret of looking at his watch. The younger man bit his fingers, getting in the way of words for a time. But, words, words had to be spoken. Mr Malcolm Taylor had travelled a long way. He, for one, did not want to dally. ‘So, Karl, I was contacted. Not that I minded. I had always let it be known that if I was ever needed in this capacity that I was willing to do the necessary. So, young man, don’t mind my manner, but I have always been something of a blunt speaker. How may I help?’

  A small bit of friable nail came away. Karl chewed. He’d lost those words, those eager words waiting, all queued, th
ey’d melted away, leaving him a slither of a nail to disseminate and pick over. Fighting for time, hoping that his words would come to him, he reached for the pictures. In his head he tried to find that question list he and Gene had made, those practised parcels of speech. Maybe they would come to him after all, as he searched through his jacket for the photographs, but when he found them, when it came to laying them down on the table, the only words that came were the obvious, the perfunctory, words that scarcely counted.

  ‘That’s Gene, my wife, well common-law wife that is really, but we’re hoping to get married after Christmas, more like Easter, if we can afford it. Meaning to do it for years, somehow we never seemed to get round to it, or couldn’t afford it.’ He was rambling slightly and knew it. He battled on, the words would come, he knew that if he could just keep talking. ‘We’ll let you know when…This is the boys, Martin and Joe. Martin is really Gene’s son from an earlier marriage, but I’ve known him since he was two – and his own father never bothers with him…’ Karl coloured up, badly. His hands trembled, trembled so that he didn’t turn his last photograph over. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t have to apologise.’ Mr Malcolm Taylor looked surprised. What was there to apologise over?

  ‘Joe though is mine, mine and Gene’s, eight next and a right handful already. You know what they are like at that age…I mean, in general, the way youngsters are these days.’