Furnace

by Wayne Price

  Leyden opened his mouth but said nothing. Why was she provoking him like this? Every time she opened her mouth, another trial, another challenge. Some kind of displacement, maybe. Anger at Matthew. Yes. It had to be that.

  But you don’t know, do you? Just because you dont believe doesnt mean there isnt anything to believe. Maybe there is a saviour.

  Maybe, then, he said at last, losing all patience. I don’t know. But even if there is, he spat, his voice rising helplessly, what the hell would he know? What the hell would Matthew know about it? He twisted to stare her down.

  She shrank back into her corner but forced an angry smile. That’s a terrible thing to say, she said quietly. And don’t shout at me.

  He breathed a miserable, embarrassed laugh and a gust of wind swept the car park, quivering the van. He waited a minute or so, letting his head clear. Sorry, he said, and started the engine. Turning to her, he saw she was close to tears.

  Matty said you were a bully. And a coward. Her voice was strangled but she swallowed hard and carried on. I always thought that was a mean thing to say. But now I think he was right.

  Leyden frowned. I don’t care what he thinks, he said firmly. I don’t even know what he means. Listen, he said, he’s thrown all kinds of shit at me over the years and it doesn’t stick any more. He paused for a while, staring out at the car park. The skinhead in his white van was still there a few rows ahead of them. He hadn’t even started his engine. What was he waiting for? Leyden turned to face her. And it doesn’t matter to me what you think, he finished.

  Her eyes narrowed a fraction and a flicker of gratification passed through Leyden like a current. Well it’s obvious what you think. Its obvious you think Im stupid because Im too young to know any better. But maybe youre the stupid one because youre too old.

  Too old for what? Despite himself he began to laugh.

  To listen to anybody else! It was her turn to play fierce now, he realised, and his laugh set into a grim smile.

  I don’t know. Whatever, he said. Then, studying her again, and curious suddenly, how old are you, anyway? he asked.

  She took an old, wadded tissue from her jeans pocket and blew her nose wetly. Sixteen, she said through cupped hands.

  What?

  Nearly seventeen.

  Leyden blinked as if shaking off sleep, a sharp thrill of alarm twisting his stomach. Christ! he said.

  So? she challenged, but without confidence.

  I didn’t know that. He breathed in and out once, slowly. If I’d known that I’d never have let you move in with him. Sixteen! Christ! he said again.

  She snorted but shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

  How can you be at university? I thought you met Matthew there?

  I never said I was. I said I was a student. I’m doing my Highers at Telford.

  Highers! He shook his head, a tight, angry grin locking the muscles of his face.

  It doesn’t matter.

  It matters to me!

  It’s none of your business.

  None of my business? He shook his head, a strange, excited outrage uncoiling inside him. You lived under my roof like a married woman, all these months, he said, hearing his voice rise in pitch again, and you’re just a kid… just a wee schoolgirl for Christs sakes.

  I’m not a child! And you can let me out if all you can do is shout at me again. She braced herself against the door, but made no attempt to open it.

  He took a deep breath, trembling, shocked at his own arousal. Now that the first hot flare of prurience was dying away he had a sudden sensation of absolute clarity. Everything she’d said that day, every absurd statement, every gesture and inflection seemed to replay in an instant behind his eyes. Just a kid. Of course. All the bizarre mystical arrogance – just precociousness. Just childishness after all. A kind of helplessness really, he thought, and felt a sharp pang of superiority and pity towards the frail, cornered creature at his side. An acute consciousness of his male, adult bulk swelled within him, a sense of his heavy flesh and bone, full grown; all its stolid, controlling power. Well, he said, and looked her in the eye. Do your parents know? What do they think about it? He opened his mouth to question her again but stopped himself, not trusting his voice to conceal his triumphalism now.

  There’s only my father, she said flatly.

  Oh, he said, and paused. So what does he think?

  She leaned her head against the window and didn’t answer.

  I know what I’d think, he breathed, and shook his head.

  By the time they rejoined the motorway she was sobbing freely and as he listened to each long, shuddering release it occurred to Leyden that in the wake of his new mastery over her, what he felt wasn’t anger or disapproval, nor just simple pity for the way he’d made her feel now, but something more like foreboding; like dread. What were these passions she’d stirred up in him? How had she known how to do it? And why do it, anyway? He understood women very poorly, he knew. How long had it been since hed even spoken to a woman in anything other than a professional or indifferent way? Apart from a few half-hearted flirtations at work, and one awful, drunken humiliation more years than he cared to number. Five or six, maybe. Nowadays, he rarely bothered making the effort to go out for anything other than his chess club and occasional concerts. Jesus, what was wrong with him? But was he lonely? Was he frustrated? No. Never. And what the hell was wrong with self-sufficiency, anyway? What was wrong with some quiet, adult dignity, in circumstances like his? What had caused this whole scene now, if it wasnt his own damned sons overheated, adolescent fever for every kind of intimacy?

  An overwhelming impulse to remonstrate with the girl, to justify his chosen life – chosen, dammit! was building like a blockage in his throat. He fought it back, unclenching his jaw, knowing the need was misplaced. She wouldnt have any idea what he was talking about. The very thought was grotesque; chaotic. But it was there: the urge.

  And what had she meant by calling him a bully and a coward? What had Matthew meant by it? Years of learning to harden his heart against all that kind of blame and bitterness from the boy; why was it cutting into him now? Why a coward? A bully? He’d never hit the boy. Not once. Even through all the worst times when by Christ he would have been justified. More than justified! Who had he ever bullied in fact? One child, maybe. A cheeky, backward young boy he had lost all patience with in his probationary year of teaching. Just as the marriage was starting to fall apart, of course. No coincidence there, and he was green then, too, in his dealings with kids. Years of bank work had done nothing to prepare him for a classroom rustling with sniggers and whispers. He hadn’t struck the brat, but kept him back and hurt him, yes, one day after class. Took hold of his collar hard and shook him off his feet like a pup, or a rat. Sheer luck it never came to light. But Matthew, no. Matthew he’d never hurt – Matthew who’d so often deserved it.

  With an effort he woke himself from his trance. He was speeding and could remember nothing of the last few miles of road. Slowing the van he tried to relax his bunched, aching shoulders. It was sadness, not violence inside him, he thought, not danger. Dull, lumpen misery, and guilt for things he hadn’t meant and things he couldn’t change, like a great tumour on his heart. And who except Matthew would damn him for that? He opened his window and for a while let the cold sodden air rush into the cabin. Greedily he breathed it in, smelling the soaked earth, the open, indifferent land outside, letting his self-pity subside. Then he remembered her thin, bare arms and closed the glass again.

  Sorry, he said, but there was no answer.

  An early, raw twilight was closing in on the narrow roads as they made the last stretch of the journey along the coast. After crying bitterly but briefly Emma had turned the radio on then slept for a long while, or at least pretended to. On waking she seemed calm again, even friendly, much to Leyden’s surprise. She seemed content to chat to him, all provocation gone from her voice, pointing out the ways to ancient standing stones, the road to a fishing village abandoned sinc
e the war. Leyden made an effort to seem attentive, grateful for the changed atmosphere, but it was difficult to concentrate on her words or even his own thoughts. Now that she was speaking again the overwhelming gloom he’d felt earlier had returned, had found him out and taken hold of him like a tide around a tired swimmer, though he couldn’t say why. Each time the great, grey shifting slabs of the North Sea hove into view he felt his heart lurch and chill as if his road ended out there amongst them.

  Just inside Kettick he paused at traffic lights. At the crossing a small girl, oblivious to the rain, was swinging an empty plastic carrier bag out in front of her to catch and be pulled by the gusting wind. He could hear her shrieks each time she was yanked forwards. Other than the child the street ahead seemed empty.

  You need to take the next left, Emma said. She was watching the girl too, but without expression. We’re nearly there now, she added.

  Soon they entered an ugly, unkempt cul-de-sac where the sandstone Victorian buildings of the High Street gave way to a cluster of modern, concrete-clad flats. There, she said, and pointed to one of the doorways. You can park right up close. My dad’s too old to help with the unloading, she warned.

  That’s fine, Leyden muttered. He bumped the van up onto the pavement near the entrance then killed the engine.

  She smoothed a hand over her hair. I’ll go up and tell him we’re here. Then I’ll come and help.

  Okay.

  She hesitated a moment. He’ll want you to stay for a while, to meet you.

  Leyden stared at her, dismayed. I’d rather head back. Once everything’s in.

  He’ll think you’re rude if you don’t. She opened her door and swung out before he could answer.

  The radio was playing but had lost its signal somewhere along the coast. He hadn’t noticed while they were talking, what with the noise of the engine and the rain. Now, alone and with the engine dead he listened to it crackling softly, unearthly in the gloom. He switched it off and lowered himself stiff-limbed from the cabin. He unlocked and dragged back with a long, low rumble the heavy side-door of the van. For a moment he paused, leaning against the cold wet panel, then started hauling her belongings out onto a narrow, sheltered porch. Finally Emma appeared, propping the door open with a box before stepping out to help.

  He was sleeping, she said. He does want to meet you, though. You’re to come up for some tea before you drive back.

  Leyden puffed his cheeks. I don’t know. It’s getting late.

  I’ve already wet the tea, she said. She crouched to lift a couple of boxes then started for the concrete stairs.

  He grunted as he took the weight of a pair of suitcases, then followed her in.

  The flat was on the second floor. The hall was badly lit and smelled strongly of pipe smoke. The aroma was pleasant but somehow saddening and a sudden qualm of regret and loss swept through Leyden. Almost overwhelmed, he paused for a moment, as if to catch his breath, waiting for the strange, powerful feeling to pass. There was no sign of the father. She signalled to him to take the luggage into an empty bedroom to his left. He carried the cases in, wondering if the room had been hers before she’d left home. There were no pictures on the plain-papered walls or books on the shelves and the mattress on the narrow bed was covered by just a taut white cotton sheet. He slid the cases against a wall and was glad to get back out of the flat and into the cold bright space of the concrete stairwell.

  By the time they’d finished Leyden was clammy with sweat and impatient to be gone, though with a sense of guilty responsibility he allowed the girl to lead him along the hall into a narrow, low-ceilinged living room. Like the hall, the atmosphere was loaded with pungent, sweetish pipe smoke, obscurely familiar.

  An old man began pushing himself out of his deep armchair as they entered the room. Here you are then, he said. Though heavily built, and obviously old enough to be the girl’s grandfather, he moved easily to where the two of them stood. He held out a broad, doughy hand for Leyden to shake. Sit yourself down, he wheezed. He rattled out a quick, loose cough, his jowls quivering.

  Leyden moved in the big man’s wake to a low couch. Sinking into it he felt its broken softness draw him down and back. The father peered at him with a mild, sleepily satisfied expression, then followed Emma through a door into what seemed to be the kitchen. A big, boxy old TV in the corner was showing a football match, the volume turned down to a murmur. Directly in front of him an old-fashioned gas fire was burning fitfully, sputtering and hissing almost as loudly as the ghostly cheering and chanting from the game. The waves of heat from it were pleasant on his feet and legs. He yawned and sank back deeper into the spongy cushions, allowing his eyes to close. Jesus, he thought, I could black out forever. With an effort he opened his eyes and forced himself to concentrate on the football. Soon the father was back again, handing Leyden a mug of strong sweet tea. Well now, he said thickly, and lowered himself, grunting, onto the couch. There was no sign of the girl.

  To begin with Leyden felt revived by the hot tea, but after the first few mouthfuls its heat and sweetness seemed to bloom inside him with the same narcotic force as the fire. He listened as if through a thick curtain of sleep, as the low, moist, unhurried voice of the girl’s father asked him simple questions about the drive up, the weather, life in the city. With difficulty, Leyden answered him, hardly conscious of some of his replies. He was aware of the scrape of a match and the sharp brief stink of its sulphur, then the cloying fragrance of the old man’s tobacco rolled across him like incense. Again he felt the pang of some hidden, childhood loss. Some long dead, forgotten figure, at the farthest edge of memory – not his father, surely, who had never smoked, or taken pleasure in any such thing, as far as Leyden could remember – but who, then?

  See this, now, the old man said quietly, nodding towards the TV.

  With an effort, Leyden lifted his slumped head and watched as the old man cycled through channels with a remote control. Satellite, ken? he confided. He stopped at a channel and gestured for Leyden to pay attention to it. It was pornography, but just a series of teasers for films showing later that night. The clips were so brief and close-up that Leyden found himself struggling to make sense of the glimpsed flesh and hard, concentrated faces.

  Satellite, he heard the father intone again, soft and sly. Special viewing card. Fae Europe, so it’s double-dutch, ken? The old man chuckled, coughed wetly, then raced back through the channels to the football.

  Letting his head drop back down, Leyden closed his eyes. He had to leave soon, he knew. If he let himself get any drowsier he’d have to find somewhere to spend the night. With each mouthful of tea prickles of sweat were rising across his forehead. Hazily, he wondered if he was not just tired but sick; fevered, maybe.

  So then, ye’ve kent ma quine a whiley now? The question was friendly but there was something measured, a hint of cunning in the tone that made Leyden straighten himself and concentrate on his answer.

  Six months, he agreed. Since November. He cleared his throat a little nervously. Was this the beginning of the rebuke, father to father? he wondered. He had already decided not to defend himself, or his son. He would listen passively, accept every judgement. Maybe he would stay completely silent through it all, rise calmly at the end and go. He didn’t know. It was complicated somehow by her father being so much older than he’d expected. Battling against the warm fog in his mind he opened his mouth to speak, then halted, saying nothing.

  Another match flared up to his right as the old man re-lit his pipe. And fit is it ye dae then?

  I teach, he said.

  Oho, a teacher, he said, and half chuckled, half coughed, rattling a thick chain of phlegm deep in his chest. So is that how ye met then, aye?

  Leyden stared at the fire, his understanding slowed by its lapping heat and the billows of thick sweet tobacco smoke. He shook his head at last. No, no. It’s not like that, he mumbled. We’re not…

  The father held up his broad, white hand and shook his head benevolently. />
  In Leyden’s mind an image of his son formed, but it was featureless, like an effigy worn smooth. He had to speak about the boy, of course. But why did his own son’s name catch in his throat now? And where was the girl for Christ’s sake, to set the old man right? He felt his eyelids closing and forced them back open. Dimly, he was aware of the father saying something about tiredness, about staying the night. Leyden shook his head, but the old man was already up from the couch, was moving away towards the kitchen.

  What was happening to him? He was caught here, absurdly, like some accidental prodigal. With a new sense of urgency he struggled from the clasp of the soft cushions to stand upright, queasy and unsteady. Behind a pair of heavy drape curtains near the TV he found a tall sash window and battled to open it, finally forcing it up a few inches. Outside, the rain was falling straight, washing onto the van below, onto the street and onto the grey blocks of flats all around like the beginning of an endless, final flood. It was impossible to imagine the road home – when he tried, all he saw in his mind’s eye was the rain, falling in swathes as if the journey lay not over roads and mapped land but a wilderness of water.

  Sensing movement at his back, Leyden turned to find the father at his elbow. He was staring impassively past him, out into the rainswept dark. The old man nodded. There now, mannie, see that, he said, his voice a low, complacent drone. There’s nae call to journey in that.

  The kitchen door opened and Emma stepped through, pausing there to watch the two men. She had changed into a plain white cotton shift that fell almost to her bare feet and her hair was bound up in a white towel. Like a kelpie, eh? Leyden heard the old man mumble admiringly. Like a kelpie fae the sea. She smiled distractedly and turned back into the kitchen again. As if obeying some hidden signal, the old man left Leyden and followed her out of sight. An image of the empty bedroom he’d carried her luggage into flashed through Leyden’s mind and he shivered as if chilled. He saw the bare narrow bed again; the empty walls. He moved back to the couch and sat forward on it, hungry for the heat of the fire. Finally he sank back and allowed sleep to overtake him.