The Last of the Bowmans

by J. Paul Henderson

  ‘He seems happy enough with her,’ Lyle replied without much enthusiasm.

  ‘I’m not so sure he is, Dad. He’s lying to her. He told her – and me, for that matter – that he’s in Denmark this week, but Uncle Frank saw him in the village we went to for lunch this afternoon. I think you’re right about something being wrong.’

  ‘I figured as much,’ Lyle said. ‘When are you seeing him again?’

  ‘Hopefully this weekend, but I doubt he’ll come straight out and tell me what’s wrong. I’ll have to win his confidence first – and that might take time.’

  ‘Well, don’t take too long about it. I’m a dead person on a deadline, remember.’

  Greg smiled at his father’s joke – if indeed it had been a joke.

  ‘Anyway, how did it go with Frank today? Did you find out why he’s been acting strange?’

  ‘I did,’ Greg crowed. ‘He’s planning to rob a bank.’

  ‘Oh my giddy aunt!’ Lyle exclaimed. ‘I think I’d better sit down to hear this.’

  While his father made himself comfortable in the armchair, Greg went into the kitchen for the bottle of wine he’d bought at Sainsbury’s.

  ‘You don’t mind if I pour myself a glass of wine, do you, Dad?’ he shouted from the kitchen.

  ‘No, but hurry up, will you. I’m sitting here on tenterhooks.’

  Greg unscrewed the cap and returned to the dining room with a large glass of red wine. He took a small sip of the Shiraz and then sat down carefully.

  ‘We’d just finished eating lunch and I told him there was something we needed to talk about…’

  ‘Hang on a minute, lad. I need a Jimmy Riddle.’

  ‘Can’t it wait, Uncle Frank?’

  ‘Not when you get to my age, it can’t. I’ll be back in a jiffy. That’s about as long as it takes these days.’

  Once his uncle had returned from the lavatory and again taken his seat, Greg got to the point.

  ‘Why do you keep handing yourself into the police and confessing to crimes you haven’t committed?’

  Uncle Frank eyed him suspiciously. ‘What makes you think I do?’

  ‘Dad told me.’

  ‘Lyle told you?’

  ‘He’s the only Dad I’ve got.’

  ‘Well I’ll be damned!’ Uncle Frank said. ‘He promised me he wouldn’t breathe a word of it to anyone. When did he tell you this?’

  ‘About three weeks ago.’

  ‘Three weeks ago? He was knocked down by a bus three weeks ago. How could he have told you then?’

  Greg kicked himself for getting the time frame wrong. ‘I mean three weeks before he was knocked down. Now are you going to tell me or what?’

  Uncle Frank shook his head. ‘I can’t believe he broke his promise. I trusted your Dad, Greg, and it hurts that he betrayed me.’

  ‘He didn’t tell me to hurt you, Uncle Frank. He told me because he cares – I mean cared about you. Some promises have to be broken.’

  ‘And did he tell you I was losing the plot, because if he did he’s wrong – I’m not! I’m as sane as the next man.’

  ‘No, he didn’t say that. He thought there was a method to your madness, but he didn’t know what the madness was. But that’s what he called it – madness.’

  ‘It’s not madness, it’s a plan!’

  Uncle Frank paused and drained his glass. ‘Get me another half and I’ll tell you about it. On second thoughts, make it a pint.’

  Greg went to the bar and returned with a pint of bitter for his uncle and a pint of lager for himself. He waited while Dickie Bird and his friends walked past the table and again pressed his uncle.

  ‘Okay, you say it’s a plan and not madness. What’s the plan?’

  ‘I’m going to become a cowboy,’ Uncle Frank replied, ‘and the only way I can afford to do that is by robbing a bank.’

  Handing himself into the police on a regular basis had been the corner-stone of Uncle Frank’s stratagem. He’d wanted them to believe he was a harmless old crank so that when he did actually commit a robbery and confess to it, they’d simply dismiss his claims and automatically rule him out of their enquiries. He’d be the last person they’d be looking for then, and he’d be free to make a leisurely escape to America and buy a ranch in Montana.

  Greg stared at his uncle open-mouthed, trying to digest what he’d just heard. Rob a bank. Become a cowboy. Live in Montana. What the fucking hell!

  ‘Don’t you think there are a few loose ends to this plan of yours?’ Greg asked eventually. ‘It’s a bit light on details, isn’t it?’

  Uncle Frank admitted that there were a few gaps to be filled, but was confident that the plan would come together.

  ‘How are you going to rob a bank by yourself?’ Greg asked. ‘You don’t even drive. What are you going to do, just walk out of the bank and wait for a bus?’

  ‘I’m not going to rob it alone. I’m going to form a posse,’ his uncle replied.

  ‘I think you mean gang, don’t you? It’s the posse that will be chasing you.’

  ‘Okay, gang then, if you want to be pedantic.’

  ‘And who’s going to be in this gang? I hate to say it, Uncle Frank, but you don’t have any friends.’

  ‘I’m thinking of asking Syd Butterfield to be the wheelsman,’ Uncle Frank said. ‘He’s got a big car and, from what your Dad says, he drives like the Furies are after him. I’m also toying with the idea of asking Bill to join us.’

  ‘Bill? You mean The Reverend Tinkler?’ Greg asked incredulously.

  ‘Yes,’ Uncle Frank replied, as if The Reverend Tinkler was the most obvious of choices. ‘He’s not a happy man, Greg, and my bet is that he’d break any law in the land if it got him his wife back. Money always helps love – you’ve only got to look at Bernie Ecclestone’s wife to know that. And I’m planning to whittle away his beliefs too, make him realise that he won’t have any God to answer to for his actions. I started at your Dad’s funeral, cast doubt on the story of Noah’s Ark, and I’ve got lots more ammunition like that up my sleeve. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff there is in the Bible.’

  ‘Jesus, Uncle Frank! That’s the longest shot in history! But just supposing Syd and The Reverend Tinkler do lose their minds and decide to throw in their lot with you, how are three old men with no criminal expertise going to pull off a bank job without having heart attacks or being picked up by CCTV cameras?’

  ‘I can’t see a children’s television station being there to film us,’ Uncle Frank replied, puzzled by the idea.

  ‘You’ve completely lost me there, Uncle Frank,’ Greg said. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m talking about surveillance cameras. You can’t walk ten yards in this country without being picked up by one. They’re all over the place! And how are you going to evade the bank’s own security systems? It’s not the Wild West anymore. You can’t just walk into a bank and then ride off into the sunset.’

  Uncle Frank started to look crestfallen. He’d had no idea that the world had got so complicated – so nosey.

  ‘I’ll… I’ll think of something,’ he said without much certitude.

  ‘Look Uncle, even if you did think of something, how are you going to get a visa to live in the United States? I grant you they’ve allowed people with money to enter the country in the past, but they’re as paranoid as hell these days. Everyone they admit has to prove they’ve come by their wealth legally, and you wouldn’t be able to do that.

  ‘And if, say, you did manage to slip into the country illegally – which you wouldn’t be able to do – and you deposited thousands of dollars in a bank, by law the bank would have to report you to the authorities. Large sums of money always attract attention, and my guess is they’d assume you were a drug dealer and put you in prison. Nothing adds up, Uncle Frank. Nothing! You’d never get away with
it. And why, all of a sudden, do you want to go to Montana? You’ve had all your life to go there. You could have gone there years ago.’

  ‘I’ve never had the money, lad. I’ve got the house and my pension, but that’s about it. I’m not a rich man. I just want a change. Can’t you understand that?’

  ‘Since when have you liked change? For God’s sake, Uncle Frank, you went on holiday to Llandudno for twenty-seven years running!’

  ‘That was change,’ Uncle Frank countered. ‘Llandudno’s in a different country and it’s on the coast, too. I can’t remember the last time I saw the sea. Anyway, I’ve had enough of this country. The people here don’t like me and neither does the government. I want to go to a country where people will leave me alone and I can watch television in peace. I want to go to the country where General Custer made his Last Stand. That’s the country I want to end my days in.’

  Greg saw the look of dejection on his uncle’s face and felt wretched, despised himself for being the person to prick the man’s one remaining bubble of hope. There was no going back, though. Whether he liked it or not, he had to extinguish his uncle’s crazy dream once and for all – for his sake.

  ‘I’m hoping that what I’ve said has given you reason to change your mind, Uncle Frank, but if it hasn’t, and you’re still determined to go through with this madness,’ he said, a nervousness creeping into his voice for the first time, ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to go to the police and tell them what you’re planning to do. I’m not having my favourite uncle locked up in jail for the rest of his life. I owe it to you, and I owe it to my father.’

  Greg held his uncle’s stare for as long as he could, but had to turn away. He hated himself at that moment. Was this the burden of responsibility people talked about? No wonder he’d avoided it his whole life.

  ‘What am I going to do now then?’ Uncle Frank asked, his voice quiet and forlorn.

  ‘You’re going to go to Montana, Uncle Frank.’

  ‘You promised him what?’ Lyle asked.

  ‘I told him I’d take him on holiday to Montana. I’m more than happy to do this, Dad. It’s always been his dream to see the Wild West.’

  Aware that his uncle had just swallowed the bitterest of pills, Greg had also promised him other things: they’d drive to the coast and stay overnight in a swanky hotel overlooking the sea; go shopping for a DVD player that would play the classic westerns they’d buy; and Billy would take a look at his television that picked up only static and his upstairs radio that picked up everything but Planet Rock. His life, he promised him, would change: it would get better.

  Greg had also given him some advice: ‘Roll with the punches, Uncle Frank. Once down, stay down: don’t climb back on your feet just to get knocked down again. And try being nice to people. You don’t have to like them; just let them think you do. It avoids conflict, and life runs all the smoother for it. Try it out on Betty. See if I’m not right.’

  ‘And he’s definitely shelved his plans to rob a bank?’ Lyle asked.

  Greg nodded.

  ‘The crazy old coot,’ Lyle said sadly. ‘I knew he was lonely – most people are when they get to our age – but maybe Frank’s lonelier than most. He’ll never admit to it though, and he’ll never tell you he misses having friends, either. He’ll lead you to believe he’s fine, but he’s not fine. He regrets not having people around him.

  ‘They always say that growing old isn’t for the faint-hearted, and it isn’t – especially when you live alone. It’s hard to adjust to nothingness. I know it as well as anyone. Some days I used to look at the clock on the mantelpiece and feel disappointed when I saw that the hands had hardly moved since the last time I’d looked. Time ticks away too slowly when the days have nothing to offer.

  ‘You bump into furniture and apologise out loud to it, and you do the same thing when you drop a plate or break a glass. It’s a sorry state of affairs when objects become your day-to-day friends, but that’s what happens, and talking to them gives you an excuse to hear a voice, even if it is only your own. All you have to look forward to is food and a good night’s sleep, and sleep doesn’t come easy for most old people. Frank’s been waking up at 5:30am for years now.’

  ‘I know. Just in time for Bells on Sunday, on a Sunday,’ Greg said. ‘He’s posted a letter to the BBC complaining about it.’

  Lyle laughed. ‘I’ll give Frank his due. He’s always been prepared to take the world on. He’d do better banging his head against a brick wall for all the good it does him, but at least he gives it a shot. That’s more than I ever did. You’ll look after him, won’t you, Greg? Make sure he’s okay? And ask Billy to do the same. He lives closer to Frank than you do.’

  ‘Of course I will, Dad. You know I love him.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Do you mind if I ask you something? Something about your father?’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Did you love him?’

  The question surprised Lyle and he took his time replying.

  ‘It was my duty to love him, Greg, but I didn’t like him – if that’s what you mean. I never wanted to grow up and be him. None of us did. He was a stern parent, believed in discipline rather than love. He was always generous with the strap, but he was miserly when it came to showing affection. He never once kissed me or gave me a hug. He was the same with Eric, worse with Frank. Irene was the exception. She got off light when she was young, but she paid dearly for it later. His selfishness – and my mother’s too – robbed her of a life.

  ‘Eric left as soon as he could. I don’t think you ever met my older brother, but he was the one with the smarts. He abandoned ship and never came back, ended up living in Surrey. I can understand why he cut his ties to my parents, but not why he cut them with Irene, Frank and me. We’d done nothing to him.

  ‘Your mother didn’t like my father either. The first time she met him, he more or less told her she was a gold-digger out for my money. He always looked upon himself as middle class, largely I suspect because we had a barometer on the wall – we were lower-middle class at best – and he resented the fact that Mary was from a working class family. He thought she was trying to better herself through me, believe it or not.’

  ‘What was Mum’s dad like?’ Greg asked.

  ‘He was the salt of the earth, Greg. My guess is that he had more goodness in his little finger than my father had in his entire body.’

  He fell silent, remembering times gone by, and then asked Greg a question.

  ‘I’m not about to ask you if you love me, Greg, but why did you ask me if I loved him?’

  ‘I’m not really sure, Dad. I thought about him for the first time in years when I was waiting for Uncle Frank to get ready this morning. I barely remember him, but some stories Mum told me came back.’

  ‘This is your Mum’s stole, by the way. I bet you’ve never seen it before, have you?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. Where did you find it?’

  ‘It was in a box under the wardrobe. It was the most expensive thing I ever bought her. I got a good deal on it though. We used to buy the fur we put on coat collars from a man called Joe Swerling and he got it for me. He’d spend six months of the year travelling around Russia buying furs and the other six months selling them to customers like us. We were one of his biggest and every Christmas he gave me a box of Cuban cigars.

  ‘The damnedest thing though was that about a month after I gave it to your mother the anti-fur campaign started up and she stopped wearing it. She was afraid someone would throw paint on her. The places we went dancing that was unlikely, but she prized it too much to take the chance and so she hid it under the wardrobe.’

  ‘What do you want me and Billy to do with Mum’s clothes when you’re gone, Dad? Give them to a charity?’

  ‘No, I think I’d like you to burn them, Greg. I wouldn’t want anyone else wearing them.’

  ‘What about y
ours?’

  ‘You can take mine to the dump. I only had one good suit and we both know what happened to that.’

  They sat and chatted for a while, and Greg told his father about the village he’d taken Uncle Frank to that day, the cheese and onion pies they’d eaten for lunch and the journey back to the car.

  Uncle Frank hadn’t been up for the steep climb back and Greg had been forced to give the old man a piggyback ride. They’d only gone about ten yards when his uncle announced that he had to go to the toilet again. Greg had bent down; Uncle Frank had slid to the ground and emptied his bladder on a tussock of matgrass and then remounted. The sun by now had broken through the clouds and Greg started to sweat as he continued the sharp climb. Uncle Frank had nattered on about rabbits and moles for a time and then fallen asleep; snoring gently in Greg’s left ear and drooling saliva on to his collar.

  ‘I’d been hoping to wear this shirt for another day,’ Greg complained to his father. ‘I’m running out of clean clothes and I don’t know how to use the washing machine. I don’t suppose you could show me how it works, could you?’

  Lyle led his son into the kitchen and explained the machine’s simple mechanism. ‘Go easy on the powder though. The water’s soft here and if you’re not careful you’ll end up with suds all over the place.’

  His father then told him he was going to turn in. ‘Don’t forget to lock the door, Greg. There was a burglary two doors down the other month, and I doubt it was your Uncle Frank on a practice run.’

  ‘You know that question you said you wouldn’t ask me, Dad?’ Lyle nodded. ‘The answer’s yes. I do love you.’

  Lyle smiled. ‘I know you do, son. See you tomorrow.’

  Love

  That night was the first time Greg had told his father he loved him. He wondered why, wondered in fact why he never told anyone this. It was a word that discomfited him, a word that evoked feelings of obligation and committal, and a word he avoided using if at all possible. It was true he’d expressed love to several of his girlfriends over the years, but it was an insincere form of love and usually a means to an end, and in no way equated to their own understanding of the word.