Should We Fall Behind, page 24
At the age of twelve, he asked his brother about Frank.
‘What was he like, you know, before Jenny arrived?’
It was before school, Ant was sat cross legged on the bed opposite, picking at an old guitar which seemed to have been around the house forever although, as far as they knew, neither of their parents had ever played.
‘I was young too, Jimbo. I don’t remember,’ Ant said.
‘You were bigger than me. You must remember something. You remember Mam. I don’t. Not really, only from photographs and the stories Nan tells us. I wish I could really remember her.’
‘Sometimes it’s better not to.’
‘Go on, Ant, tell me. What was it like then? You’re the only one who knows.’
‘Nan knows. And him. He knows.’
Jimmy sat up in bed, shifted his pillow to the wall and sat with his back against it. He pulled the covers over his knees, up to his chest and said, ‘You know I can’t ask him.’
‘You were a chubby little bastard,’ Ant said eventually. He twanged a guitar string as he spoke. ‘You stole my thunder, Jimbo. It was all about me before you came along.’
He knew his brother was joking. They were in it together; from the beginning it was the two of them, him and Ant always, despite the years which separated them. He followed his brother about like a shadow and if he got too far behind, Ant would be there, waiting for him to catch up.
Ant stared into the space above Jimmy’s head, at the poster of Steven Gerrard on the wall. It was next to an old framed picture of Kevin Keegan, which had probably hung there since Frank was half the age Jimmy was then.
‘He used to make us dens under the dinner table, with blankets and cushions. You loved them. You begged for him to make a den.’
Jimmy couldn’t remember. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘What else?’
‘Shut up now, Jim, will you?’ Ant said.
There was never a right time to ask Nan about it. To talk about Frank would be to talk about Mam and Jimmy knew she didn’t like to do that in front of Jenny.
‘It’d be cruel to the poor child. At least you boys knew her. At least you got to feel her love for you. Poor wee Jenny.’
‘I never did really, Nan. I was just a baby myself,’ Jimmy said once.
‘Aw, shush now. You were three, almost four years old. They’re the most important years, so they are. They form you, those years. You were surrounded by love then, Jimmy.’
When he tried to disagree again, she changed the subject. She was set in her ways; no different from Frank really. In actuality, she was less different in age to Frank than her own daughter who’d married him. Sometimes Jimmy wondered if everyone of their generation was like that or whether it was just his family. Nan closed down the conversation abruptly.
‘One day I’ll tell her everything, mind, when she’s old enough. Not yet, so don’t be asking any more questions and prying about things you can’t understand, son.’
Almost two years passed by before he was able to broach the subject again.
‘Why is he so sour all the time, Nan?’ he asked.
He was on a sick day from school but he was up and dressed and sipping the instant coffee Ant had made him by the time Nan appeared at the door at eight o’clock sharp. From the top of the stairs, he listened to her talking to Ant in the hallway.
‘I’m not happy about him being on his own all day when he’s feeling down as he is, Anthony,’ she said.
Ant was trying to push past her. ‘I’ve got to go, Nan,’ he said. ‘It’s only the first week of the apprenticeship still and I don’t want to be late. I’ve got to get all the way over to the blue bridge by eight-thirty. I can’t stop here chatting about our Jimmy.’
‘Let’s just hope it’s not the same as your father’s sickness. You’re old enough to know about these things. It’s in the blood, Anthony, so we have to make sure none of you children let it get a grip on you. It’s not good to be in all day, alone in the house, not at his age.’
‘I’ll miss the bus, Nan.’
‘Okay, Anthony. You get off and I’ll make myself busy about the place.’
She stepped out of the way and as Ant disappeared through the door, he said, ‘Jimmy’s a big boy now, Nan. He’ll be fine. He’ll have to learn to be. We can’t be here to look after him forever.‘
Later that morning, Jimmy sat on the rim of the bath and watched as Nan brushed bleach around the toilet bowl.
‘Why is he always such a grim bastard, Nan?’
‘Language please, James.’
‘But why? It’s not fair on us to be around it all the time.’
‘He’s had a lot of sadness to contend with.’
‘There’s plenty of sad people in the world. Most of them don’t take it out on their kids.’
‘He isn’t taking it out on you, Jimmy. He’s just not doing the opposite either. He pays the bills. He does the shopping. He makes your dinners when he can. Or at least he makes sure there’s things in the house you can cook for yourselves. He does all that, doesn’t he?’
‘He grunts at us. It’s as good as taking it out on us. It’s not our fault she died. It’s not even Jenny’s fault, even though she thinks it is.’
‘I certainly hope she does not,’ Nan said sternly. ‘She must never think such a thing. I’ve made it clear to your father. Poor wee girl.’
‘Jimmy banged his foot against the side of the bath beating out a rhythm – thud, thud, thud-thud thud-thud.
‘Stop now, Jimmy,’ Nan said. ‘It’s so irritating. Why don’t you go off to your room and do something useful; you must have some homework to be getting on with. Or tell you what, why don’t you make the two of us a nice cup of tea?’
‘I will, Nan, but first tell me something about him. No-one tells us anything. It’s some big bloody secret you all keep from us. It’s like all the heaviness he carries around him isn’t any of our business but we still have to live with it. We have to look at his miserable face and wonder why he doesn’t love us like other dads love their kids.’
Nan rested the toilet brush in the pan, allowing the bristles to soak in the bleachy water. She sat on the edge of the bath next to him, pulled off one of her rubber gloves and put her arm around his shoulder.
‘Listen here,’ she said. ‘Even before your mam died, he was sad. People who knew him before they met say she brought happiness to him, and any he already had in him he projected onto her. There’s none left for anyone else.’
‘But we’re part of her.’
‘I think that’s the problem, Jimmy my love.’
‘I don’t understand, Nan. Our Jen is just a kid. It’s not fair for him to hate us.’
‘Love is a funny thing, Jimmy. It doesn’t always come in the form we expect it to. He doesn’t hate you. He loves you. Perhaps he loves you a little too much, like he loved your mam.’
‘What? So much it feels as if he hates us.’
‘He is a man of few words, Jimmy and even though he keeps the curtains drawn when the sunlight should be streaming in, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to open them, or that he won’t be able to one day. Don’t forget he is your father.’
‘I think those chemicals are getting to your brain, Nan.’ Jimmy said, scratching his head. He left the bathroom for the bedroom he shared with Ant, closed the door and switched on the CD player. The Arctic Monkeys boomed out around him.
The day Jimmy left his town was the day of Ant’s funeral. Frank stood alone in the untidy living room, glancing from wall clock to window as the air loaded up with unspoken things. Jimmy watched his father from the threshold for a moment before walking out of the front door and down the road with music blasting in his ears. Ant’s old sleeping bag was tied to his rucksack and bounced against the small of his back, annoying him. When he reached the corner, he saw the hearse approaching. He crossed the road quickly before he could see the coffin.
At the end of his MegaBus journey almost six hours later, he stepped from the dim station forecourt into a glare of artificial light: back-lit shop signs, theatre displays, bus headlights, Belisha Beacons, illuminated office windows and the flashing lights of ambulances. Towering above the buildings were red beams atop two gigantic cranes, throwing parallel lines across the dark sky. When his eyes adjusted, he felt for his phone and scrolled for the number of Big Bob, an old school friend of Ant’s who’d left for the city years earlier with an open invitation attached. He rang the number and strained to hear the voice on the other end with the din of the city around him.
Big Bob said, ‘Nah mate, don’t recall a fella of that name. Nope, not the school I went to. I think you’re mistaking yourself. You’ll have to find somewhere else to stay. I can’t just let any stranger kip in my gaff.’
‘But Bob you were in the team with our Ant. You were in the same class. Your sister worked with him at the record shop.’
The phone went dead. Jimmy rang back; straight to voicemail Robert Braithwaite here, the same accent as his own but clipped around the edges. It was Big Bob.
He searched out the nearest YMCA and spent the bulk of his few quid on a couple of nights in a room with five other men he didn’t know, none of them in the mood to make conversation. He used the days to seek out paid work. He asked in pubs and restaurants but there was nothing going so he moved on to building sites where there seemed to be a bit of activity. Workers directed him to foremen who looked him up and down and then told him there was nothing available there either. A man on a market stall gave him forty quid to stand behind a great mound of potatoes for eight hours but the man didn’t speak much recognisable English and when Jimmy turned up bright-eyed, ready for a second day of work, the man and his stall had disappeared. Cash started to run out so the YMCA was swapped for a park bench. After the first night sleeping outside, Jimmy phoned Nan.
‘I’m alright, Nan. How’s our Jen?’
‘Same, Jimmy. Doesn’t speak much. Comes out for her dinner. Always on her phone. God knows what she’s looking at. She won’t even come to church although I know it would do her good. It’d do her good to see you too; it would do us all good, Jimmy. Why don’t you come round?’’
‘No Nan, I can’t.’
‘I know you’ve been hiding away. And I know it’s probably what you need to do so I haven’t bothered with you but you can’t stay locked away in your room forever. You could come for your tea one day soon at least, Jimmy?’
‘I’m not there anymore, Nan.’
‘Not where? What do you mean, son?
‘I’ve left, Nan. I’m away. Down south.’
‘Oh no, Jimmy. Your father didn’t say owt. I asked how you were at the church, you know, for Anthony. I assumed you just couldn’t face it all; it’s a wonder any of us could. He didn’t say anything, just walked away, quiet like he always is. Oh no, Jimmy. Oh poor Frank.’
‘I just wanted you to know I’m okay, Nan. Tell our kid I’m alright if she asks. Will you, Nan?’
‘Where are you, son? Come home. You can have my room. I’ll go in with Jenny. Don’t be on your own Jimmy. Being alone isn’t the answer to anything. You can’t know anyone down there, Jimmy. Oh it’s such a big place to be on your own. It’ll eat you up, son. Can’t you just come home, now?’
‘I can’t come back, Nan.’
He held the phone away from his ear. Her voice faded away but her words lingered.
‘I’ll say a prayer for you, Jimmy. For all of you. I’ll pray for you to come home.’
He cut the call without saying goodbye. That night, as he slept with his rucksack under his head, both his phone and his wallet disappeared. He didn’t know Nan’s number off by heart. He didn’t know any numbers off by heart except the landline in the railway cottage which was once his home.
He’d told Betwa he never knew a dad or a daddy, and he could hardly bring himself to say father, just as Frank never called either him or Ant ‘son’. In the days after Ant died, alone in a squalid bedsit on a damp mattress with a syringe by his side, Frank took to chain-smoking in a tumble-down shed at the bottom of their small backyard. He stood out there for hours blowing smoke towards the sky, whatever the weather, leaving Jimmy alone with the ghosts in the empty house. When he told Betwa all this, she pressed her mouth against his cold hands and held him in her arms until sleep blotted out the day.
30. RAYYA
Rayya woke to a thunderstorm. It came crashing through the sky, strobe lights illuminating ethereal ghosts. Her first thought was of the little girl next door, lying rigid in her bed as the world shook around them, but the little girl had a mother who would be there to scoop her up, hold her close in the dark. Her next thought was of the boy in the car, exposed. He always seemed to be shivering, his bones rattling, She gasped when she realised that in all the commotion around the little girl, she’d forgotten to cook dinner for him, instead falling asleep with Mr Biswas open on her lap. She felt sick with guilt. She had not gone hungry. She’d been distracted by Daban who’d knocked on the door to check how she was after all the stress of the missing child.
‘I’m okay. Thank you for asking me,’ she’d said, touched by his concern. She didn’t want him to leave, not straight away. ‘Come and have tea with me, Daban.’ It was the least she could do after he’d shown such kindness.
‘Actually, go on then,’ he said. ‘Have you got biscuits? Shall I nip across the road for some?’
‘Oh no,’ she replied, and quickly added, ‘But I have bread. We shall have tea and toast like the English people we are.’
Daban laughed and, for the first time in as long as she could remember, she laughed too.
While Daban made tea and buttered hot toast, she wiped down the table in the dining room and opened the French doors to allow a strong breeze to clear the stale air. And, while they ate, he chatted to her as though her life was normal. They talked about his driving jobs across the city, to places which only existed on maps and local news reports for her, even though they were on the doorstep. Then he talked of his boss, Mr Makrides, the nephew and godson of gentle Kostas, who’d been like a brother to her. She didn’t mention how well she’d once known Nikos: how they’d shared wine on his birthdays and celebrated his engagement with a glorious cake baked by his uncle, decorated in hand-piped pink rose-buds; how she’d drunk tea with Nikos’ wife as little Dimitri Makrides crawled around their ankles and pulled at his mother’s skirts; how Nikos and Ourania, like other couples she knew, drifted away soon after babies arrived; and how she now found it hard to recall exchanging more than a single word with him these last few months, possibly even years. Daban made gentle fun of Mr Makrides, the way he fumbled around customers, presenting outdated pieces of furniture as though they were top of the range designs from the unaffordable ‘lifestyle’ stores up town. He told her about the mother of the little girl, how he liked her but he didn’t think she wanted to be liked so it was a difficult job to get to know her. He stayed for over an hour until the evening carers arrived, and while he was there Rayya ate two whole pieces of toast with jam; it was the most she’d eaten in one sitting in such a long time. It was no wonder she’d forgotten about Jimmy. When the thunder woke her, she lay in bed and listened to the storm, thinking about these two men, young enough to be her children, possibly her grandchildren. Great slants of rain bashed against the windows and somewhere, not too far away, a car alarm sounded – its wail cutting through yet another squally night. It was only then Satish popped into her head. He was an afterthought and she was horrified. She checked the baby monitor; it was working fine; the soft whirr of machines down the landing could be heard clearly, even against the storm. She stretched stiff limbs and reached around the bed for her dressing gown.
For well over sixty years, Satish had been Rayya’s first and last waking thought. To begin with, he was an imaginary friend, someone she talked to late at night with bed sheets pulled over her head so her family, who all slept in the same room, couldn’t hear her whispering. Then, when he led her home on the day she got lost as a child, she couldn’t stop chatting and it was if they’d always been friends. She told him how far she’d run and the things she’d seen on the way: the rickshaw wallah who stole oranges from the juice-wallah as he turned his back to fetch clean glasses; the huddle of old ladies outside the temple who shouted at her when she stuck out her tongue. Years later, when he blew kisses to her as she sprinted past, he occupied all her thoughts, awake and asleep and, when she developed small mounds beneath her tunics and hair grew in unexpected places, thoughts of him careered through her body as well as her mind. In the days before their wedding, it was as if she held a coiled firework within her, sizzling but tempered, and it wasn’t until a week into their marriage, she found it could explode without destroying either herself or him. She began to take control in the night, gently steering him, guiding his shy hands across her body, growing in confidence as she moved across his. But as months became years, their lovemaking became charged with a different kind of expectation, one which only ever ended in disappointment, manifested every four or five weeks by vermilion trickling into the pan. As they got older, her body still longed for him despite the fruitlessness of the act. Sometimes she reached in the dark and placed her hand on his belly, waiting for the beat within him to quicken. Visits to Doctor Razak and the spiral of appointments tired him out more than the early days of his illness and, as time went by, instead of placing her hand on his belly at night, she put her arm around his shoulders so he could lay his head on her breast. She stroked his hair and kissed the top of his head while he sobbed silently, dampening the cotton of her nightclothes with his tears.
