Life In Parks

by P R Johnson

  Chapter 5

  Seven days after the cremation of his grandmother, Matthew continued to sleep on the sofa. The old lady’s scant belongings, and the brown leather case in which they had been contained, had already been removed from his bedroom. Even the musty aroma of perfume had dissipated, overwhelmed by the smell of Matthew’s own life. Nevertheless, he refused to spend his nights in that room.

  ‘It’s just that I don’t fancy sleeping in a bed where someone has died,’ he explained to his father.

  ‘So, what are we supposed to do with your bed? We can’t just throw it out. It’s a perfectly decent bed.’

  ‘We could try selling it.’

  ‘Who to? I mean, the bed’s fine, without question, but it’s over fifteen years old. I’m pretty sure no-one would buy it.’ He paused before changing tack. ‘If you’re so convinced you need a new bed, why not buy one yourself? Maybe use some of the money the old girl left you.’

  ‘Why should I pay for it?’

  ‘Because it’d be your bed.’

  ‘In your house. When I leave home, the bed will stay behind.’

  ‘Are you planning on leaving home soon, then?’ His father’s eyes widened. ‘Can I think about letting your bedroom?’

  ‘If I go to university, I’ll be leaving. And I doubt I’ll take my bed with me.’

  ‘Which brings us back to the point. If there’s a chance you’ll be here only one more year, why waste money on a new bed?’

  Matthew shrugged in defiance. ‘Dad, until you get me a new one, I’m going to carry on sleeping on the sofa.’

  The next day, his father came home from work later than usual with news that he had been to a furniture store and bought a new bed. The bed arrived the following Friday, and before the delivery men could carry it to Matthew’s room, they first had to shift the old one to their lorry. It was not until Matthew had seen his bed stripped of its bedclothes, complete with its tatty, stained mattress, that it dawned on him that he was about to lose the only bed he had possessed since he had outgrown his infant cot.

  ‘What’s going to happen to my old bed?’ he asked one of the workmen as they manoeuvred it down the stairs.

  ‘It’ll probably end up in the incinerator.’

  Matthew nodded, pondering the fates of that old piece of furniture and the person who had used it last.

  With the new bed installed and a new set of bedclothes purchased, Matthew realised that he had no justification for continuing to sleep on the sofa.

  That same evening, a bottle of sparkling wine was opened to accompany the family meal; a celebration, Matthew assumed, of the imminent return to normal sleeping arrangements. Although the two glasses of wine settled comfortably in his stomach, they quickly rose to his head. His light-headedness was not unwelcome, however, as it served to distract from possible trials ahead, trials his father also seemed to recognise.

  ‘I wonder if the spirit of your grandmother is still hanging around the house. This was the place she died, after all.’

  Matthew shrugged defiantly. ‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ His father offered a cheeky grin. ‘But I wouldn’t worry; even if the old girl is still lingering, I’m sure the last person she would want to haunt is her precious grandson.’

  Although his words failed to rile Matthew initially, the more the alcohol wore off, the more they played on his mind.

  After dinner, while his mother washed the dishes, Matthew followed his father to the lounge, where they sat watching a television documentary about a lost jungle tribe. Soon his gaze began drifting, first towards the painting of the steam train that hung above the mantelpiece and then to the photograph of his parents on their wedding day.

  ‘One thing I’ve been meaning to ask: she did attend your wedding, didn’t she?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My grandmother.’

  ‘Yes, she was there. Why?’

  ‘It’s just I’ve never seen her in any of the photos.’

  His dad also eyed the photograph. ‘I can assure you she was there. From what I can gather, she didn’t like having her picture taken. She was a bit strange like that.’

  Visualising his grandmother from the black and white photo that he had been shown the other day, Matthew wondered if it was the only photographic evidence that she had existed.

  ‘I suppose you know we talked the other day, mum and me.’

  ‘She did mention it.’

  ‘So, go on, what did you really think about her? Was my grandmother as bad as mum makes out?’

  His father’s eyes again drifted from the screen. ‘That’s difficult to say. I mean, I don’t doubt that your mum had a difficult time growing up. But I personally held no grudge against your grandmother. She never did me any harm. In fact, if anything I feel in her debt. She gave us her house. That was a pretty generous wedding present, by any standards.’

  ‘The cottage back in Forest Wake? Yes, mum told me. And you knew from the start what she did for a living?’

  ‘What, the fortune-telling?’

  ‘And the prostitution.’

  ‘We lived in a village. Everybody knew everything about everyone.’

  Matthew hesitated, and when he spoke again, a hint of reproach sharpened his tone. ‘To be honest, dad, I’m a bit gutted that you never told me the truth.’

  ‘We never lied to you, son. Although, in hindsight, it’s true that we could have been more up front. But look at it from our point of view: what is the right age to tell someone that their grandmother is a hooker?’

  Offering a shrug, Matthew absolved his father. ‘I realise it was more mum’s idea to keep me in the dark.’

  ‘It was a decision we took together.’

  The subject was dropped the moment his mother entered the room, and for the rest of the evening the family sat before the television in their customary muted fashion. At around eleven o’clock Matthew’s parents went to bed, seemingly assured that he would christen his new bed.

  ‘I hope the mattress is comfortable,’ his mother said on departing.

  ‘I’ll soon find out.’

  Matthew stayed up until one o’clock, fighting fatigue and delaying the inevitable.

  When he eventually went upstairs to his bedroom, the air was cold and the net curtains wafted serenely on the breeze. Once he had closed the window, however, the curtains stopped moving and the temperature inside lost its cool edge. Leaving the bedroom door ajar for peace of mind, he undressed and climbed into the new bed. He turned off the bedside lamp, wrapped himself in the virgin duvet and closed his eyes to the numerous shadows that were cast.

  And sleep came easier than expected.

  The following morning he woke with a clouded head, unable to remember any of his night-time dreams. He sat upright and felt neither relief nor exultation; just a disconnection from himself.

  Much to his surprise, the pattern set by that first night in his bedroom continued in the days that followed. His fears were quickly allayed, and the new mattress proved so comfortable that sleep became once more the pleasurable experience it had been throughout his life. Nevertheless, the spectre of his grandmother persisted somewhere in his thoughts.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you a question?’ he said to his mother one afternoon.

  ‘What’s on your mind, sweetheart?’

  ‘It’s about my grandmother.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Do you think she knew she was going to die?’

  His mother looked at him earnestly and shrugged. ‘Nobody lives forever. And you didn’t need to spend seven years in medical-school to see that she wasn’t in the best of health.’

  ‘Yes, but do you think that she knew exactly when she was going to die, almost as if she chose the moment herself?’

  ‘Very few people have the luxury of choosing when they die – unless, of course, they take a long walk off a short pier.’ She sighed. ‘But you’re right, son, your grandmother was aware that
she didn’t have long to live. And that’s the only reason I let her stay. I’m pretty sure she had no intention of dying in your bed, though, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘So why did she give me all her money? Dad told me it emptied her account. How was she going to live afterwards?’

  Again, a sombre expression dominated his mother’s features. ‘I’m sure she had a plan. Who knows, maybe she did intend to throw herself off a cliff – only nature beat her to it? By the way, you realise that she was using the money as a bribe.’

  ‘A bribe. For what?’

  ‘To ensure that she would not be forgotten. After playing such a small part in your life, she probably felt she needed to buy a place in your memories.’

  For a while, Matthew was unsettled by this interpretation. He was convinced that if the old lady had indeed been trying to purchase a place in his thoughts, her money had been unnecessary: the scale of events alone should have been impossible to forget. Surprisingly, however, this proved not to be the case.

  Prior to depositing the bank cheque, he fantasised for hours about how he would spend the money. Nevertheless, after an initial splurge in which he bought fifteen compact discs and two pairs of trainers, he left the money largely untouched. Once the excitement of his windfall had died down, although he could not forget that the money existed, it proved far easier to ignore from where it had come.

  A further reason why his thoughts did not linger on the summer gone was the imminent return to school and his pursuit of Carla North.

  In what remained of the school holidays, he resisted the temptation of visiting the tea room where she worked. Nor did he walk down Park Avenue on the off chance of seeing her.

  The morning arrived for the start of the new term and the knot in his stomach was palpable. It tightened when he saw her and the tinge of redness to her skin, which was caused, no doubt, by over-exposure to the summer sun. Despite an initial feeling of rapture, his hope was severely punctured before the day was out.

  ‘She’s got a boyfriend,’ he told his friend Warren on the telephone that evening. ‘Carla’s got a sodding boyfriend.’

  ‘Who? Someone from school?’

  ‘Adam Barnes.’

  ‘Adam Barnes? Well, that’s not a total surprise. He was chasing her most of last year. But I wouldn’t worry: He never keeps a girlfriend for more than a month; it goes against his religion. He thinks he’s too much of a player.’

  ‘A player? He’s a knob-end, plain and simple. Why the hell’s she with someone like him?’ Despite his anger and frustration, Matthew sought comfort in his friend’s words. ‘But you really don’t think it’ll last?’

  ‘’Course it won’t, mate. Once he’s banged her a couple of times, he’ll dump her like the rest.’

  Matthew’s fist clenched tightly round the telephone receiver, fighting the urge to hurl it against the wall.

  ‘Why don’t you tell her about your little inheritance?’ Warren suggested. ‘Girls love a man with money.’

  ‘Come on, Warren, I’m not exactly a millionaire. I’ve got about enough to buy a car; big deal. Anyway, what am I supposed to do? Go up to her and say, “Hey, Carla, I’ve got a couple of grand in the bank. You should be with me.” That’s really going to work.’ As his temper cooled, he recognised the extent to which he had been dominating the conversation. ‘What about you? How’s life beside the seaside?’

  ‘You know: The school is pretty shit. But there are plenty of girls down here. You should come and check them out.’

  ‘If Carla and that prick don’t break up soon, I’ll be there like a shot.’

  During the weeks that followed, school became a paradox of emotions. On the one hand he had the opportunity to see Carla and be near her in the classes they shared. At these times his longing festered and his hopes were illuminated. Then there were the times outside of class when he would see her with her boyfriend. These were the moments he could not bear, the times when his blood would boil at the injustices of life.

  What made things worse was that they were forever holding hands, kissing, or displaying affection in some other brazen way. He was left with the impression that they did it just to rub salt into his wounds. Deep down, however, he realised that this was absurd, as the only person to know his true feelings was Warren. The other person to have read his emotions was his grandmother that afternoon in the tea room, but she was no longer around.

  By the middle of October the situation had not improved. Carla was still with her boyfriend and their relationship showed no sign of wavering. If Matthew’s despondency was not deep enough, his mood descended further when Warren telephoned him one Sunday night.

  ‘I think I’ve cracked it,’ sounded the excited voice.

  ‘Sounds painful. Have you seen a doctor?’

  ‘I told you that the coast is the place to be. I think it’s got something to do with the sea air.’

  ‘Come on, spit it out.’

  ‘I’ve started seeing a girl.’

  Matthew’s heart sank.

  ‘Her name is Emily,’ said Warren, ‘and she’s in my Geography class at school. She’s really smart, and her dad’s some sort of property-developer. They’re minted.’

  ‘Does that mean she’s ugly?’

  ‘Not at all. She’s proper fit. Blonde hair, blue eyes, nice rack.’

  ‘I see. And how far have you got with her?’

  ‘Just a bit of a fumble, so far. But I think we could go all the way. I’ve already bought some party hats from the chemist; you know, just in case. I really think it could happen.’

  ‘I’m pleased for you, mate. Really, I am.’ He took a deep breath.

  ‘What about you? How are you getting on with the big CN?’

  ‘Nothing’s changed.’

  ‘Is she still with Adam?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘Shame. But you’d better get a move on, Matt, if you want to keep up with the big boys.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, it’s not a race,’ Matthew blurted. ‘Anyway, it’s not about when you lose it, but who you lose it to that matters.’

  ‘Bullshit. You want it as badly as I do.’

  ‘Maybe. But you just worry about yourself. I know I’ll get there in the end. Carla and me will happen one day. It’s just a question of time.’

  In part to take his mind off Carla, Matthew enrolled in a learner-driver’s school at the beginning of November. While his weekly practical lesson did indeed distract from longing, the lessons brought their own tribulations. After just a few weeks of learning, the anxiety he suffered during each lesson made him realise how much he hated cars. The instructor was a kindly gentleman with plenty of patience; yet Matthew found the mechanics of driving difficult and suffered palpitations whenever he encountered large vehicles passing in the opposite direction. He would rather have given up altogether had he not been pressurised to continue.

  ‘What’s the big issue?’ his father asked him after one particularly fraught lesson. ‘Even chimpanzees can learn how to drive.’

  ‘Really? How many chimpanzees have you seen on the roads?’

  ‘You see plenty of chumps. Tell me what the problem is, exactly?’

  ‘It just doesn’t feel right being in control of a ton of moulded metal. Touch the wrong pedal at the wrong time and suddenly you’re wrapped around a lamp-post.’

  ‘Come on, son. Don’t be such an old woman.’

  Against his better judgement, Matthew continued with the lessons, and while he soon began to master control over the vehicle, he would finish every lesson unnerved. At school, meanwhile, even though Carla continued to date her boyfriend, he was presented in mid-November with a situation that lifted his spirits. In the Literature class they attended together, the teacher paired them in a group to perform occasional scenes from a play they were studying, a project that would be filmed on the school’s camcorder. They were given two weeks to prepare their scenes, to learn their lines and practise, and final
marks were to be awarded for style, accuracy and presentation.

  The play they were to perform was entitled Trans-Ocean Express and was a parody of a seafaring tragedy, in which a love-triangle develops on board a ship sailing the treacherous Northern Seas. Matthew was inwardly disappointed when he was designated the role of ship’s captain, whose job it was to control the ship and the tensions onboard. He had longed to be the leading man opposite Carla’s inevitable leading lady. He even thought he would have preferred the part of love-rival, wondering whether his performance would be so convincing as to show Carla his true sentiments.

  Over the following two weeks, lines were learned and scenes were rehearsed, and Matthew felt a tranquillity returning to his system that helped overcome his deep-rooted jealousies. The day arrived when they were to don the appropriate attire and act their parts in front of the camera. Matthew managed the task adequately and believed that he was convincing enough in his role of old sea-dog to warrant a pass-mark for the exercise.

  A week after filming, the teacher allowed the class to watch the video of their exploits. Matthew laughed along with his classmates, accepting the ridicule of both the acting and the costumes they had been obliged to wear. His face turned crimson at his first appearance onscreen, and more so in the scenes he shared with Carla. Casting aside his embarrassment, the section he liked most was the scene in which he acted with Carla alone. He did not avert his gaze from the television as Carla’s character unburdened the dilemma of the love-triangle.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said. ‘I love them both so much it hurts.’

  ‘In case you’d forgotten,’ responded Matthew’s sea-dog captain, ‘we’re sailing dangerous seas. There are mountains of packed ice waiting over every horizon. So you’d better make up your mind pretty damned sharp, little missy.’

  ‘But how do I choose?’ She wiped her brow to increase the dramatic effect. ‘And why must someone always lose out?’

  Matthew’s captain took a firm hold on the large, wooden steering-wheel prop. ‘Those icebergs ain’t goin nowhere.’

  As soon as their shared televised scene was over, he peered at Carla, who was sitting just a few yards behind. She nodded at him and smiled, bringing a grin to his lips that remained throughout the day.

  After that light-hearted exercise in acting, the rest of the school term was filled with mock examinations, preparations for the actual exams in May. Even though Matthew did not over-exert himself, the pressure of revising and the controlled conditions under which the mock exams were held were enough to set nerves jangling. Indeed, coupled with the anxiety of his continued driving lessons, he seemed in a regular state of perturbation. For most of December he experienced a knot in his stomach and suffered increasing bouts of indigestion and flatulence after mealtimes. As a consequence, his appetite diminished, an issue his mother raised one day when he scarcely touched a plate of ravioli.

  ‘What’s up with the food today? In fact, you’ve not been eating much at all lately.’

  ‘I don’t like ravioli, that’s all.’

  ‘Since when have you not liked ravioli? When you were younger, you couldn’t get enough of the stuff.’

  ‘That must have been a long time ago, because I can’t stand it now. It tastes like cardboard dipped in tomato soup. And seeing as I don’t like cardboard, and I don’t like tomato soup, it’s pretty much a non-starter.’

  ‘We have ravioli every month. You’ve never told me you didn’t like it before.’

  ‘I guess I didn’t want to make a fuss.’

  ‘So, what’s changed now?’

  ‘I just don’t think I can eat it anymore.’

  As Matthew set down his cutlery, his father reached over and seized the plate.

  ‘I’ll have it if you don’t want it. There’s no point throwing it away.’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  Even though he was unsure what was causing the discomfort in his stomach, Matthew was happy to believe that it was a symptom of his longing. His frustrations were as strong as ever, with Carla and her boyfriend appearing as solid as they had been since the term began. Nevertheless, having waited for Carla’s love for more years than he could remember, and having endured the many boyfriends she had dated during that time, he felt he was growing accustomed to a perpetual lovelorn state.

  School broke for Christmas with Matthew saddened to be spending two weeks away from her. Although he welcomed the respite from education, he was largely underwhelmed by the festive season. In previous years, Christmas had been filled with the joys of eating unhealthy food, of opening presents and watching endless movies on television. This year he had struggled to think what presents to ask for and had wasted much thought over what he could buy for others. Nor had he found the appetite for the excesses of food that he would feel obliged to eat. All in all he had decided that Christmas was not worth the bother.

  On Christmas Day he dragged himself from bed at two o’clock in the afternoon, and his mother immediately admonished him for his laziness. His father was about to head to The Red Pheasant public house with a couple of neighbours for their customary pre-Christmas-dinner drink, and so the family agreed to delay the opening of their presents until evening. His father came home at a quarter to four, his face reddened by the cold outside and the alcohol within, and dinner was served half an hour later than planned.

  Matthew drank two glasses of wine with his meal and the alcohol briefly enlivened his spirits. Afterwards, once his mother had loaded the recently acquired dishwasher, they all went to the lounge and began opening presents, keeping half an eye on the Christmas comedy extravaganza that played on the television.

  From his parents, Matthew received some compact discs, a couple of computer games and a jumper that was a size too small and would have to be exchanged. He, in turn, gave his father a pair of gloves, and a bottle of perfume to his mother. His father accepted the gift with his usual good-humoured disinterest. When his mother opened her gift, however, Matthew was quick to note the insincerity of her tone.

  ‘Thank you, sweetheart. That’s wonderful.’ She planted a kiss on the side of his face. ‘Just out of curiosity, what made you choose this one? Didn’t you remember the perfume I usually wear?’

  ‘I thought you might like something different. I spent ages smelling all the different bottles and that’s the one I liked most. I can swap it if you want. I’ve still got the receipt.’

  ‘No, I’m sure I’ll grow to like it.’ She tentatively sniffed the bottle, before slipping it back into its packaging.

  The next day, Matthew’s paternal grandparents arrived for their annual Christmas visit, bringing with them a carrier-bag full of presents. Matthew had not seen them since Easter, and he was pleased that their arrival interrupted a Christmas that had already turned flat. For dinner they ate left-over turkey from the day before, and the conversation soon turned to the events of the summer.

  ‘I’m sorry that we couldn’t make it down for your mother’s funeral,’ Matthew’s grandmother said. ‘You know how it is, we couldn’t easily get away.’

  ‘That’s all right. It wasn’t much of a do.’

  ‘And how are you, my dear? It must have been a difficult time.’

  ‘We coped.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’ As if recognising the delicacy of the subject, she quickly turned to Matthew. ‘And you, young man, one of these days you’re going to have to pay us a visit. Forest Wake’s not a million miles away, you know.’

  ‘I’d like to.’ He cast a nervous glance towards his mother, who gave a delicate smile in return.

  ‘Maybe in summer,’ she said. ‘After your exams are finished.’

  ‘We live in a lovely part of the country. It’s a shame that neither of you visit, especially considering you were both born there. Wouldn’t you agree, Albert?’

  Matthew’s grandfather stirred from his mildly drunken stupor. ‘I certainly would, my dear.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ his mother r
eplied forlornly.

  As his grandparents did not relish the prospect of driving home at such a late hour, Matthew slept on the sofa, allowing them use of his bedroom for the night. It was approaching eleven o’clock and everybody had gone to bed when the telephone rang. He answered it quickly, not wanting to disturb those who might already be asleep, and was greeted by the sound of Warren singing a Christmas carol. After completion of the chorus, his friend was quick to admit that he was currently drinking champagne, but declared that he had cause to celebrate.

  ‘The deed is done and dusted.’

  ‘Really? And what deed is that?’

  ‘The dirty, dirty deed. I am officially no longer a virgin.’

  ‘I see.’ Matthew remained solemn. ‘And how was it?’

  ‘Oh, you know.’ For a moment his friend sounded nonchalant. And then the phone-line crackled with exuberance. ‘It was fucking amazing, Matt. Fucking awesome.’

  Matthew listened, anxiety building in his stomach, as his friend described in detail the manner in which his virginity had been lost. Warren explained that his parents had gone away Christmas night with his two younger sisters, leaving the house empty. He spoke of the candles he had lit in his bedroom for the sake of his girlfriend. He told of the fondling and slow removal of clothing, and of the earth-shattering moment their bodies entwined.

  When they finally hung up, Matthew was overwhelmed with melancholy, unable to share the joy of his friend’s accomplishment as all it did was fill him with the hopelessness of his own situation. While his friend had experienced the ultimate act of intimacy, Matthew was reminded how distant the goal was for him. For the first time in all the years that he had wanted Carla North, the thought occurred that perhaps they would never be together. As he reclined on the sofa, languishing in a pit of despondency, his thoughts flashed to the craziness of the recent summer.

  He focused on that woman, his grandmother, who had burst into his life without warning. He remembered back to that afternoon on the brow of Orchid Hill when she had told him Carla would never be his, when those words had jabbed him like a dagger. He recalled with perfect clarity the talk of towns without souls – a notion that he had failed to comprehend but which had choked him nonetheless. She had also said he would find love, however. She had definitely spoken those words: he would find love before he became a man.

  With eyelids flitting, the memory of his grandmother faded and darkness encompassed him.