The Last of the Bowmans

by J. Paul Henderson

  ‘Some people say that Jesus Christ was the greatest salesman to have ever lived. How do you feel about that, Jean?’ he asked.

  ‘Am I missing something here, Greg, or is this just one of your stupid comments? Are you trying to tell me that Billy’s the Son of God or something because, if you are, it’s a detail that appears to have slipped his mind? Certainly he’s never mentioned it to me.’

  ‘There were times growing up when I thought he was the Son of God,’ Greg laughed.

  ‘Well he’s not! And he’s been selling books for more than three years!’

  Billy glanced at Greg, as if to warn him not to push things further. Greg, however, either didn’t notice or chose to ignore his brother’s warning.

  ‘The point I’m trying to make, Jean, is this: what purpose would Jesus’ death have served if no one had bothered to sell Christianity to the world? In fact, what would be the point of anyone making anything if no one’s prepared to sell it? Do you think your father just set up practice and waited for someone to hobble through his door – that he didn’t sell his service?’

  Jean poured more wine into her glass and glared at Billy.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with selling,’ Greg continued. ‘And there’s certainly nothing unseemly about what Billy does for a living. Publishers’ reps visit me all the time and I know how difficult their job is. They have to know the basics of every academic discipline they publish in, the details of every book they promote and the details of every competing book. They have to know who teaches what, who recommends what and what changes are taking place in the curriculum. And, if that isn’t enough, they have to stand in front of entire departments and demonstrate how their textbooks can be delivered online.’

  Billy listened carefully as Greg explained his job to Jean. Worryingly, his brother appeared to know more about academic calling than he did – he didn’t do half the things Greg said he did.

  Greg topped up his glass and pressed on: ‘Higher Education’s in a state of flux, Jean. Everything about it’s changing. Hell, I work in the sector and even I don’t know what’s going on. Billy probably knows more than I do. What I’m saying is that Billy’s job isn’t nearly as straightforward as you might think it is. It’s a lot more complicated than taking care of someone’s feet. Feet don’t change – they’ve been the same for thousands of years – and once a chiropodist’s learned the basics and got his certificate, all he has to do for the rest of his life is join fucking dots together.’

  Billy noticed the growing number of red blotches on Jean’s neck – never a good sign – and was about to change the subject when Greg mentioned the dreaded ‘T’ word.

  ‘And another thing, Jean,’ Greg smiled, ‘Billy’s doing a lot more with his life than just standing around in a shop memorising the only two facts known to mankind about tripe.’

  A starting pistol sounded in Billy’s head. ‘That reminds me, Jean,’ he interjected. ‘I have to go to Denmark on Monday.’

  Cake

  By the time Greg made it down for breakfast the next day, it was well after two in the afternoon. He’d slept well, remarkably well considering the jetlag and amount of whisky he’d drunk the previous evening. He found Katy and Billy sitting at the dining room table, Katy drawing in a sketchpad and Billy making notes in a Filofax. Jean had gone shopping with a friend.

  ‘Hi, Uncle Greg,’ Katy said. ‘Mummy said you and Daddy got drunk last night and made fools of yourselves. She’s mad with you, isn’t she, Daddy?’

  ‘No more than usual,’ Billy smiled. ‘And besides, your uncle and I didn’t get drunk. We drank a toast to Granddad, but we didn’t get drunk.’

  ‘Shall I sing the song I sang for Granddad again?’ Katy asked. ‘Uncle Greg didn’t hear it.’

  ‘Not for the moment, sweetheart,’ Billy replied. ‘I have a headache, and I suspect your Uncle Greg might have the same one.’

  ‘Maybe you could sing it to me when I get back,’ Greg said. ‘I was thinking of taking a walk into town and clearing the cobwebs. Get some money while I’m at it.’

  ‘I’ll go with you,’ Katy said. ‘I can sing the song while we’re walking. That’s okay, isn’t it, Daddy?’

  ‘It’s okay with me if it’s okay with your uncle.’

  It was.

  ‘I’d go with you myself,’ Billy said, ‘but I have some work to do here.’

  ‘Denmark?’ Greg asked.

  ‘Denmark?’ Billy puzzled before the penny dropped. ‘Oh yes, of course, Denmark.’

  Spinney Cottage was situated at the top of a steep wooded hill about a mile from the town’s centre. Summer had returned to the valley and the day’s skies were bright and the sun warm. Katy skipped down the drive singing her Britney Spears song and Greg whistled along in accompaniment.

  ‘You’re sure that was my Dad’s favourite song? It seems a bit modern for him. He used to hate my music. Every album, every CD I bought, he told me I was wasting my money.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ Katy said. ‘I only sang it for him once, but he said it was the nicest song he’d ever heard.’ (Fortunately for Katy, Syd Butterfield wasn’t on hand to disagree.)

  Cars were parked on either side of the road by the bridge, and here Katy took hold of Greg’s hand. The town had always been a default setting for anyone wanting to go to the country and not get mud on their shoes, and over recent years it had become increasingly popular with tourists.

  They stopped for a while at the centre of the bridge and looked down at the fast moving, iron-coloured river.

  ‘Does water get hurt when it hits rocks and drops down waterfalls and gets smashed into little pieces?’ Katy asked.

  Greg had to think for a moment. ‘No, it’s a fluid. We’d get hurt because we’re a solid, but water just rolls with the punches. It doesn’t feel a thing.’

  Satisfied with the answer, Katy decided to ask her uncle another question. ‘There’s a sign on the moors that says there are slow sheep on the road. Why do they put slow sheep on the road and not fast ones?’

  Greg thought for a longer moment. ‘There aren’t any fast sheep,’ he said eventually. ‘I think the sign’s just warning people to drive slowly because there are sheep in the area. They should have put a comma or an exclamation mark after the word slow, like: Slow! Sheep on the Road.’

  He decided to introduce some conversation of his own: it was easier talking with a hangover than answering questions with one. ‘I used to come here when I was small. Your Daddy and I used to ride out here with our parents on a red bus. We’d sit down there on the bank and have picnics – eat homemade sandwiches and cakes my mother made.’

  ‘Mummy says you’re a wanker,’ Katy said, interrupting Greg. ‘What’s a wanker?’

  ‘It’s someone you care about deeply,’ Greg fabricated, somewhat taken aback by the comment. ‘Someone who’s polite and helpful.’

  He paused for a moment and then asked Katy if Jean had made this comment to her.

  ‘No, I heard her telling Daddy.’

  ‘And what did your Daddy say?’

  ‘Keep your voice down, Jean: he might hear you,’ Katy said, in an imitation of a loud whispering voice.

  Greg laughed.

  ‘Are those cobwebs still in your head, Uncle Greg?’ Katy asked.

  ‘They’ve just about gone thanks, but I could do with some coffee. How about we drop by The Tearoom?’

  Katy screamed with delight, clapped her hands together excitedly and started to recite the names of The Tearoom’s famous delicacies: curd tarts, fat rascals, vanilla slices, fruit meringues, cream hearts, coffee and walnut cakes.

  They strolled from the bridge to the parish church, crossed the road and headed up the wide main street to a cash machine where Greg withdrew money. With Katy tugging at his hand, they quickened their pace and walked towards a Victorian parade of shops on an adjoining street.<
br />
  There was a small queue inside The Tearoom and a wait of some ten minutes before Greg and Katy were eventually shown to a small window table overlooking the rear car park. Greg glanced around the room and noticed that the ambience had changed little since his first visit there more than twenty years ago. The piano was gone, but otherwise everything was the same: the cane chairs and leather banquettes, the marquetry and mirrors, and the eclectic array of teapots that lined the walls.

  A young girl wearing a Victorian server’s uniform of white blouse, black skirt and long white apron brought menus and introduced herself as Emily. Greg ordered a glass of lemonade for Katy and a large cafetiere of Nepal Snow River coffee for himself. He toyed with the idea of eating an all-day breakfast but decided against it, and watched with amusement as Katy asked the waitress to tell her, and then retell her, the names of every cake and pastry on the three-tiered trolley. After much oohing and aahing, his niece chose a small Genoese sponge cake covered in red marzipan.

  ‘Are you married, Uncle Greg?’ Katy asked, after she’d finished the cake. ‘Do you have any children or pets?’

  ‘No,’ Greg replied. ‘I have a girlfriend. Her name’s Cyndi and she has two children – a boy and a girl.’

  ‘Sindy like the doll?’

  ‘No, it’s spelt differently. It starts with a C rather than an S, and the i and the y are swapped around.’

  Katy looked at him confused, and Greg wondered why he’d made the explanation so complicated.

  ‘She was hoping to come with me but the doctor advised her against it,’ he added.

  ‘Doesn’t the doctor like you?’

  Now it was Greg’s turn to look puzzled. ‘I’m not sure he’s even met me,’ he said.

  ‘What’s wrong with her then?’ Katy persisted. ‘Is she sick or something?’

  ‘No, it’s nothing like that,’ Greg reassured her. ‘She’s just had some surgery and the doctor thought it would be best if the stitches healed before she flew anywhere.’

  ‘Where are the stitches?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Greg lied.

  ‘Are you going to marry her?’

  Greg shrugged.

  ‘Do you love her?’

  ‘I guess,’ Greg said, motioning for the waitress to bring the bill and allow him to escape Katy’s interrogation.

  There was a time when he’d have been able to answer Katy’s question with an immediate and definite yes. But now he wasn’t sure, and he knew from experience that this lack of certainty meant that he no longer did. It was the story of all his relationships. He’d fall in love and then, just as easily, fall out of love, leaving behind him a series of bewildered girlfriends in differing states of emotional disrepair. Although his intention was never to hurt these partners, Greg’s farewells were so matter-of-fact and lacking in feeling that it was impossible for them not to be wounded.

  The last time it happened had been in a lift. When he’d walked into the elevator on the fifty-third floor of the building, he’d been in love with Vicky Hughes; but by the time they’d descended to the ground floor, he no longer was. Rather than postpone the inevitable, he’d simply told her their relationship was over.

  ‘It’s not working,’ he’d said. (It was the most any girlfriend got by way of explanation.)

  Vicky had stared at him open mouthed. ‘You mean you’re dumping me?’ she’d asked incredulously.

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Well fuck you, then’ Vicky had replied. She’d then punched him hard in the face and ridden the elevator back to her apartment.

  It was no surprise that Greg and his exes never kept in touch or remained friends after such break-ups, and when they did meet it was by accident and rarely pleasant. One disgruntled ex had even thrown an empty wine bottle at him during a faculty party – accidentally hitting the Head of the Electrical Engineering Department – while another had tried to stab him with a ballpoint pen when she’d seen him walking on Sixth Street.

  The beginning of the end for Greg always happened after the girlfriend of the moment started to talk about the next step or taking things to a different level. Unfailingly, Greg would decide he was happier remaining in the shallow end of their relationship, where commitment was purely physical and responsibility only notional; the idea of settling down with one person for the rest of his life still filled him with disquiet, and he certainly had no intention of becoming a father.

  Yet this was what Cyndi was now signalling, and it dawned on him, while he was waiting for the waitress to return with the bill, that he would be ending their relationship when he returned to America.

  When news of his father’s death reached him, Cyndi had just had a breast augmentation. Although she’d never actually met Lyle, she’d been thinking of him as a future father-in-law for some time and saw it as her ‘wifely’ duty to be with Greg during his time of tribulation. After the doctor had told her it would be unwise to travel by plane so soon after the procedure, she’d suggested to Greg that they fly Lyle’s body to Austin and have the funeral there.

  It had been the charm of her vapidity, as well as her undoubted beauty, that had attracted him to Cyndi in the first place, and dating an ex-cheerleader of the Dallas Cowboys had been a welcome antidote to listening to the intellectual pretensions of his colleagues in the History Department. He didn’t, however, want either her support or her concern and viewed both as unwelcome intrusions – indications that she wanted to take things to the fateful next level. Had the tables been turned and it had been Cyndi’s father who’d been knocked down by a bus, Greg was in no doubt that he wouldn’t have accompanied her to North Dakota for the funeral.

  Greg gave an involuntary sigh, which coincided with the waitress placing the bill in front of him.

  ‘You’ve got enough money, haven’t you?’ Katy asked worriedly. ‘I didn’t bring mine with me.’

  ‘Sure I have,’ Greg said. ‘I was sighing about something else.’

  ‘The waitress was nice, wasn’t she?’ Katy said. ‘Shall we give her a big tip?’

  ‘Yes, let’s do that,’ Greg said. ‘Do you want to give it to her?’

  Katy nodded.

  Greg walked slowly out of the restaurant area while Katy went to the waitress and gave her a five pound note. He increased his speed immediately, however, when he heard Katy’s voice.

  ‘Thank you very much, Emily. You’re a wanker.’

  3

  Crack

  It was now Sunday morning, and Greg and Billy were standing at the back of their father’s house looking up at a long horizontal crack. It started just below the bathroom window and ended three feet into the adjoining property owned by Mrs Turton. The fissure in the rendering was approximately twenty feet long and at its widest point about two inches. The concrete sill of the bedroom window appeared to have exploded.

  ‘How long’s that been there?’ Greg asked.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Billy replied. ‘I can’t remember the last time I was even in the back garden.’

  Greg raised an eyebrow.

  ‘The lock on the back door’s been broken for years and I’ve always entered and left the house through the front,’ Billy explained. ‘Dad had a gardener, so there was never any need for me to come here. I just fixed things inside the house.’

  ‘What do you think’s caused it – subsidence?’ Greg asked.

  ‘I hope not or we’ll never sell it,’ Billy replied, scratching his head. ‘I don’t understand it. The house has been here for over seventy years. Why would it start sliding down the hill now? There aren’t any mines in the area, I know that for a fact, but the soil here is clay so I suppose there could have been some ground movement – especially when you consider the dry summers we’ve been having. I think we should get a structural engineer to take a look.’

  ‘I can arrange that,’ Greg said. ‘I’ll look through the Yel
low Pages and get someone out this week. Should I mention the crack to Mrs Turton? Maybe she could split the cost.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother,’ Billy said. ‘She signed the house over to Barry in case she has to go into a nursing home, and he’d let the house fall down before putting his hand in his pocket. Have you seen their window frames? They’ve been rotten for years and he still won’t do anything about them. You’d think someone who complained about litter all the time would be a bit more house-proud, wouldn’t you?’

  Billy looked at his watch. ‘I’d best be going, Greg. I have to pick up Jean and Katy from church, and if I don’t leave now I’m going to be late.’

  The two brothers walked to the front of the property. The flagstones were uneven, some had sunk and others wobbled; and the metal drainpipes they passed were rusting, and the grates full of debris. The middle of the three steps leading to the front door and veranda also rocked, and the paint on the bay window was peeling and some of the wood rotten.

  ‘You’re sure you won’t change your mind and stay at Spinney Cottage?’ Billy asked.

  ‘Thanks, but I think it’s easier if I stay here. I can spend more time working on the house if I do that and, if I’m honest, I think I’d find it a bit awkward being there alone with Jean.’

  ‘Okay, but if you need anything just give a shout. I’ll be back on Friday night.’

  ‘What are you doing in Denmark? I’d have thought the universities would be deserted in the summer.’

  ‘Oh, just bits and pieces,’ Billy said, keeping things vague.

  He handed a set of keys to Greg – one key for the front door, one for the cellar and another for the garage – and then shook hands with his brother. Greg watched as Billy drove out of the quiet cul-de-sac and up the Grove, and then turned to the house. He saw Mrs Turton standing in her window and waved. Mrs Turton smiled and waved back.

  The last time Greg had been in the house was seven years ago; the last time he’d actually lived there nearer twenty. The redolence of family life had all but disappeared and the house now smelled of an old man: an old man who had lived by himself and never opened windows.