The Last of the Bowmans

by J. Paul Henderson

  Greg swallowed hard, smiled at his father and then silently nodded his head. Nodding was easier than talking at this moment.

  ‘And thanks for taking care of Billy and Uncle Frank’s problems,’ Lyle continued. ‘At least I can return to wherever it is I’m returning to feeling a little easier about things. Banks, feet – who’d have thought it? What an odd family we are.

  ‘What is it they say: you can choose your friends but not your family? Well, I wouldn’t have traded any of you. I married the best woman in the world and had two of the finest sons. And I got to have Gillian as a daughter and Lyle as a grandson. I’ve been a lucky man, Greg. The only regret I have is that I never had more time with your mother.

  ‘I knew people who travelled the world and took in its wonders, saw things I never saw – but I didn’t envy one of them. As far as I was concerned, there was no greater wonder than coming home from work at night and finding your mother in the house. She always took my breath away.

  ‘When she was thinking of marrying me her friends advised against it. They told her the age difference was too great. They said it wouldn’t matter in the early years of the marriage but that later it would, and that by the time she was fifty I’d be almost seventy and we’d be living in different worlds. I always thanked God she ignored them.

  ‘The funny thing though, is that no one advised me one way or the other. No one said: “Look Lyle, what happens if Mary dies when you’re fifty-four and leaves you to bring up two children on your own?” If they had, I’d have ignored them too and still married your mother. We only had thirteen years together, but they were the best thirteen years of my life. I hope you get to marry a woman like Mary, Greg, settle down and have a couple of kids like you and Billy. There’s no joy to life in growing old alone.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d want a son like me, Dad,’ Greg said. ‘If I did, I’d probably tie him to a chair until it was time for him to leave home. Anyway, I’m not alone. I’ve never been alone.’

  ‘You might have people around you, Greg, but it’s not the same thing as I’m talking about. What do they say about a person being alone in a crowded room, and then there’s that story of the grasshopper and the ant…’

  ‘Jesus, Dad, what have you been doing in the loft? Reading a book of clichés?’

  Lyle smiled. ‘There’s truth in clichés, lad. People underrate them. Anyway, let’s change the subject. I don’t want to argue with you on my last night. What are you going to do with your time before you go back to America?’

  ‘I’m taking Uncle Frank and Billy to the seaside. We’re planning on going to The Gap – you know, where we went for holidays when we were small – and staying overnight in one of the resorts.’

  ‘I don’t know about the resorts, but I think you’ll find The Gap will have changed. The coast there was always unstable, and from what I’ve heard the bungalow we stayed in disappeared over the cliff…’

  Lyle suddenly started to flicker and Greg glanced at the clock. It was eight-fifteen. And then he remembered – that had been the time his father had first appeared to him twenty days ago.

  ‘I’m going, lad. I can feel it,’ Lyle said, slightly panicked. ‘I love you, Greg. Always did. One… one last thing…’

  The flickering intensified and Lyle’s voice grew weaker. Greg sprang to his feet and moved closer to his father.

  ‘What is it, Dad? What are you trying to say?’

  He strained to hear the words.

  ‘Be careful how you cross the roa…’

  And then Lyle was gone. All that remained in the chair was the crumpled dress, the stole and the flat corduroy cap. Greg took the cap in his hand and clenched it, stroked the worn corduroy and started to wail.

  ‘That boy!’ Mrs Turton muttered, the glass to her ear. ‘Thank goodness Barry doesn’t do drugs.’

  For the first time since returning home, Greg woke up in the house alone Saturday morning. He felt sad, indescribably sad, sadder even than the day he’d first heard of his father’s death. It had all happened so quickly. There had been no time to say goodbye. His father had just disappeared. But his father knew – knew that he loved him. He was pleased he’d told him this.

  He made coffee and then went to the garage for the stepladders and a torch. He carried both back to the house and positioned the ladders on the landing underneath the loft hatch. He pushed the square piece of wood upwards, slipped it to the side and then hauled himself into the void. He shone the torch and saw his mother’s dresses folded neatly in a corner. Mindful to keep his weight on the joists, he carefully retrieved them and dropped them to the floor below.

  He then returned to the garage for a can of petrol and took the container and dresses to the bottom of the garden. He put the first of the dresses in the old metal dustbin his father had used for burning twigs, doused it with petrol and struck a match. There was a whoosh as the petrol ignited and the material burst into flames. He waited until the dress burned away and then threw in another, and then another and another until all his mother’s dresses had been consumed by the fire.

  He went back to the house for the mink stole and carried it down the garden. It was soft to the touch, luxuriant and in many ways too good to burn. It had, however, been his father’s wish that the stole be destroyed and Greg was now the dutiful son. It cheered him to know, however, that Jean would never have the pleasure of wearing it.

  He slowly lowered the garment into the dustbin and waited for it to catch fire. Instead of burning, however, the fur only smouldered and thick smoke started to fill the garden. He carefully added more petrol, poked the stole with a stick and then stretched out on the lawn and closed his eyes.

  He fell asleep and dreamt his arm was being shaken by someone calling his name: Mr Bowman, Mr Bowman. He woke up and was astonished to find a policeman doing the exact same thing: ‘Mr Bowman, Mr Bowman.’

  ‘Well I’ll be damned,’ Greg said. ‘I was just dreaming of you.’

  There were two policemen in the garden: one standing over Greg and one peering into the dustbin.

  ‘Are you Gregory Bowman?’ the one standing over him asked.

  ‘Yes, is there a problem? Has something happened?’

  ‘It appears so, Mr Bowman. We’re in receipt of information that leads us to believe you’re illegally burning a dog.’

  Greg turned to Mrs Turton’s house and saw the curtains twitch.

  10

  Journey

  Sunday passed, as Sundays always do: a day of meaning for some, a day of no meaning for others.

  While Barry, Diane and Mrs Turton went to church and congratulated themselves on being Christians, the Collards drove to a country pub and ordered Toad in the Hole.

  While The Reverend Tinkler spoke of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount and the Beatitudes, Uncle Frank listened to Planet Rock and detached a company of soldiers to Indian Territory.

  While Jean and Katy sang hymns and bowed their heads in prayer, Billy – supposedly catching up on a backlog of paperwork – visited DIY stores and compared the prices of paint, brushes and rollers.

  While Betty Halliwell sat in a private hospital room reading verses from the Bible, Syd Butterfield tinkered with the engine of an old Wolsey 680 – fourteenth hand and a collector’s item – in the garage now heated by Lyle’s electric fire.

  And while Gillian Diamanti prepared lunch for the cyclists in her life, Greg Bowman stayed in bed and read the newspaper.

  It was his first day of rest since returning home, a respite that lasted until seven the following morning when the doorbell unexpectedly rang.

  ‘Sorry to wake you up so early,’ Billy apologised, ‘but I had to leave the house at six.’

  ‘Six? Why six?’ Greg asked, slightly disgruntled that Billy had woken him so early. ‘Uncle Frank isn’t expecting us until ten.’

  It was, Billy explained, because Jean wa
s under the impression he was spending the week in Scotland, and whenever he made a business trip to Scotland he always left the house at six in the morning. He was a man of habit and his wife was aware of this; to have changed routine would have aroused suspicion and his situation was already complicated enough without Jean getting wind of it.

  ‘Anyway, go back to bed and I’ll make breakfast. Toast and coffee okay?’

  ‘There’s no bread left,’ Greg said wearily. ‘There’s some cereal in the cupboard, but I’m not sure there’s enough milk for two.’

  ‘I’ve already eaten, Greg. All I want is a cup of coffee and I can drink that black.’

  At 8:30am, Greg was woken for the second time that morning by his brother. He propped himself against a pillow and accepted the bowl of cereal Billy handed him.

  ‘Is it okay if I massage your feet while you eat? I’m seeing Dr Haffenden on Wednesday and I need to get some practice in.’

  Greg nodded, consoling himself that only three more days of this weirdness remained.

  ‘I don’t know how you can eat that stuff,’ Billy commented as he watched Greg spoon the cereal into his mouth.

  ‘I like it. It keeps me regular,’ Greg replied.

  ‘I don’t need anything to keep me regular,’ Billy sighed. ‘Life does that. It makes me nervous.’

  ‘It’ll be different once you get this foot thing sorted out,’ Greg assured him, uncertain if he was telling him the truth or not. ‘Who knows, you might even end up having to order All-Bran by the truck-load.’

  ‘I doubt it. It’s not just the podophobia, Greg: I worry about everything. I always have done. I’m looking forward to getting old and retiring, getting to the stage of life where no one expects anything of me anymore and I can just sit in an armchair and watch television all day. I don’t know how you manage to be so laid-back the whole time. You don’t even seem fazed knowing you have a son.’

  ‘What would be the point? It happened. I can’t do anything about it now. Besides, Dad took care of it.’

  ‘But wouldn’t you like to know Lyle? You know… now that you know he’s your own flesh and blood and everything. If it was me, I’d feel… well… sort of obliged to do that.’

  Greg thought for a moment. ‘No. What would be gained? I think the boy’s happy not knowing who I am – and Gillian certainly is. And, if I’m honest, I’m happy with that situation too. I don’t want to become a father, not yet anyway – maybe never. I’ll make sure he’s okay financially, but that’s where my involvement… ouch! That hurt! I’ve got a blister on that toe.’

  Billy apologised and stared at the blister unflinching. No doubt about it: he was definitely making progress.

  ‘Do you mind if I say something?’ Greg said, not waiting for Billy to reply before saying it. ‘I think you want people to like you too much. You’re always trying to please others instead of yourself. You shouldn’t give a shit what people think of you, whether they like you or not. Worry about yourself and leave others to worry about themselves. The world takes care of itself, Billy. It always has and it always will. Live by those rules and you’ll be constipated in no time. Ha!’

  Billy smiled but said nothing. Somehow he couldn’t imagine living with his brother’s trail of wreckage on his conscience. He wished, however, that he could.

  He finished massaging Greg’s feet and waited downstairs while his brother washed and dressed. He checked the windows to make sure they were latched, tried the handle of the backdoor to make sure it was locked and retied his shoelaces. Eventually Greg appeared carrying a small holdall that had belonged to their father and indicated he was ready to leave. Billy watched to make sure Greg locked the front door properly and then climbed into his car.

  ‘What kind of mood do you think Uncle Frank will be in knowing he’s going on holiday?’ Billy asked.

  ‘His usual one,’ Greg smiled. ‘We could be calling to tell him he’d just won a million pounds on the Premium Bonds and he’d still find something to grumble about. He’d tell us that the money he’d spent on Premium Bonds over the years would have earned him more interest in the bank and that we were short-changing him.’

  Uncle Frank was already waiting for them by the gate when they arrived, a plastic grocery bag in his hand.

  ‘What have you got in the Sainsbury’s bag?’ Billy asked.

  Uncle Frank checked the contents carefully: ‘Pac a Mac, pyjamas, toothbrush, tube of Euthymol.’

  ‘You’re going on holiday and you’re taking your things in a Sainsbury’s bag?’

  ‘Of course I am. You don’t think I’m going to walk into a hotel carrying a plastic bag from the Co-op, do you? First impressions are important, Billy. You should know that: you’re a commercial traveller.’

  ‘I’m a Senior Academic Sales Executive, Uncle Frank,’ Billy corrected him.

  ‘It’s the same thing,’ Uncle Frank rejoined, ‘just fancier words. Anyway, what do you think the receptionist’s going to think if I walk into the hotel holding a bag from the Co-operative Society?’

  Probably the same thing she’ll think when she sees you holding a Sainsbury’s bag, Greg thought, but saw little point in telling his uncle this. Instead, he took the plastic bag from him and put it in the boot of the car alongside his and Billy’s overnight cases.

  ‘What’s in that other plastic bag?’ Uncle Frank asked.

  ‘Dad’s handkerchiefs. You still want them, don’t you?’

  It was as if Christmas had arrived early. Uncle Frank’s eyes lit up and he broke into a broad lopsided smile. ‘You bet I do, Greg. I’ll look through them while we’re driving. It will give me something to do. I presume it’s me that’s sitting in the back?’

  Billy nodded, and Uncle Frank climbed into the back seat muttering something about second-class citizenship.

  Rather than drive through the city and cut across country, Billy decided to make for the motorway and connect with a large arterial road that headed north. It was a more circuitous route but faster, and less demanding on the driver. Uncle Frank opened the plastic bag and took out Lyle’s handkerchiefs: fifteen white, seven blue, four tartan, one bearing a printed map of London on one side, and another twelve that were still in their original boxes and embroidered with the initial L. He carefully counted them, and then recounted them: thirty-nine.

  ‘I’ve got sixty-three handkerchiefs now,’ he announced proudly.

  He replaced them in the bag and shortly closed his eyes. Billy turned up the volume on the radio to drown out his snoring and manoeuvred expertly through the morning traffic. He’d just turned on to the road leading to the coast when his uncle regained consciousness.

  ‘What are you listening to?’ he asked.

  ‘Some dumb phone-in programme,’ Greg said dismissively.

  ‘It’s not dumb: it’s interesting,’ Billy said. ‘I listen to this station all the time when I’m driving. It helps pass the time… they’re asking people about their favourite sandwich, Uncle Frank. The last caller suggested avocado and grape.’

  ‘Avocado and grape? What person in their right mind would put muck like that on their bread? I make sandwiches all the time and I bet no one’s mentioned my favourite sandwich. It’s a right bobby-dazzler.’

  ‘Why don’t you call them, then? You can use my phone, but just make sure you don’t mention my name on the air – Jean listens to this station.’

  Billy handed his mobile to Greg and Greg, though doubting the wisdom of letting their uncle talk live to the nation, punched in the station’s number and handed the phone to Uncle Frank.

  ‘Hello… hello… Frank… how long… well quick as you can then… seventy-nine…

  ‘They’ve got me on hold,’ Uncle Frank whispered. ‘I’m on next.’

  Two minutes later, the presenter of the programme announced that they had Frank, a senior citizen, on line two. ‘Hi, Frank, you’re
through to Pete on the nation’s favourite talk radio station. Good to talk to you, old buddy. Tell me: where are you calling from and what’s your favourite sandwich?’

  ‘I’ve no idea where I’m calling from, Pete: I’ve just woken up. I’m in a car somewhere and I can see some cows… and we’ve just passed a big tree…’

  ‘You haven’t been kidnapped, have you, Frank?’ the presenter chortled. ‘Do I need to call the police?’

  ‘Stop talking daft, Pete. Of course I haven’t been kidnapped. Do you think a kidnapper would let me use his phone and call a radio station? Now, do you want to hear about my sandwich, or not?’

  ‘I’d love to, Frank. I’m sitting here with bated breath and salivating at the very thought. So tell me, old buddy, what is your favourite sandwich?’

  ‘Cheese!’ Uncle Frank said exultantly.

  There was a short silence as the presenter absorbed the import of Frank’s submission. ‘Cheese? Cheese and what, Frank?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘What do you mean cheese and what? You don’t need to put anything with cheese. That’s the whole point of a cheese sandwich – it’s made from cheese!’

  The presenter made some remark about having tapped into a rare vein of imagination in Frank, and then asked his old buddy if he had any other nuggets he’d like to share with the nation.

  The presenter’s sarcasm hadn’t escaped Uncle Frank and the old man bristled: ‘Yes I do, Pete: you’re a bloody pillock and with very little effort you…’

  At this point, Greg grabbed the phone and Billy changed the station.

  ‘I hadn’t finished talking!’ Uncle Frank protested. ‘And I don’t like this music, either. I want to listen to something else.’

  ‘Tough!’ Greg and Billy said in unison.

  They drove through countryside that Greg identified with home: neatly trimmed hawthorn hedges, verdant fields and stands of tall sycamore trees; ancient stone market towns, picturesque villages, castles and duck ponds. His memory was selective, rose-tinted and as accurate as the painting on a chocolate box. He forgot about the chimneys and factories, the rows of back-to-back terraced houses and the littered streets.