Patrick Parker's Progress

by Mavis Cheek

  'Oh no you won't, young lady,' said a voice from the other end of the counter, "That'd take all blessed night.'

  The woman wore a loose fawn cardigan over a faded print dress and would have melted into the background of the shop perfectly, except that she had very yellow hair, pinned back with dark grips, and a brilliant, brilliant red mouth. Audrey gazed at the mouth with great envy as it moved its lips and called to someone in the back. It called, 'Won't be a minute Alf, just got some kids to serve.' Through the two glass panels of the door behind the woman, they saw Alf in the room beyond. He was sitting in an upright chair, awkwardly, and he was as thin and pale and white as a ghost. 'Now be quick,' said the woman. 'I've got to get his tea.'

  While she weighed out the lemon drops chosen by Patrick, Audrey said, 'Your mum would kill us if she knew where we were ... What are you going to say?'

  Patrick thought. 'Don't know,' he mused. 'Might say we went to see Dad at the station. Check he's got our train tickets for tomorrow.'

  'Ooh, Patrick,' she said. "That's a good idea. We'll go to the station and see Uncle George. Then your mother won't know any different.'

  The woman with the red mouth made a little noise and clattered the lemon drops on to the counter. They looked up. She was staring at Patrick very hard, still holding the large jar at an angle to the scales. He felt uncomfortable.

  'My mum doesn't like me eating too many sweets,' he said, very nicely. 'But it's OK. I clean my teeth. Can I have two ounces of the toffees after that?'

  The woman continued to stare. Then, very slowly, she put down the jar and leaned across the counter and looked at his face in such a way that he wanted to run. 'It's all right,' he said. 'We won't tell her where we got them.'

  The woman with the red mouth looked amused, or excited. 'That might be a very good idea, young man,' she said sardonically. 'Now tell me. What's your name?'

  'David,' said Patrick.

  Audrey laughed. 'Oh go on,' she said. 'It's Patrick, Patrick Parker, and his Mum's a real -'

  The woman put up her hand. It had red nails, to match the red mouth, and they were slightly chipped. 'Is your dad George Parker?' she asked.

  Patrick nodded.

  'How is he?' she said in a soft voice, looking over her shoulder at the closed door. Ts he all right?'

  'He's very well thank you,' said Patrick. 'Do you know him?'

  There was a pause and the woman said, even more softly, 'In a way. I used to play with him when I was a girl.' She took a step back and looked at him with her head on one side. 'You look like him,' she said. "The dead spit.'

  'My mum says I look like her side of the family. Nothing of my dad at all.'

  'She would,' said the woman sharply. And screwed the cap back onto the jar as if she was killing it.

  They stood staring at each other across the counter. Audrey eventually said could they please have the sweets, in a hesitant voice, as if she knew something out of the ordinary was taking place but didn't know what.

  'Clarnico toffees?' asked the woman, suddenly matter-of-fact again. She turned and picked the jar off the shelf. 'What are your favourites, Patrick?'

  "The nut ones,' he said.

  She turned back and smiled at him. 'Your dad used to like those best, too.'

  'Don't think my dad likes anything much nowadays,' said Patrick.

  'Well, he used to,' said the woman, with spirit. 'He used to like a lot of things when I knew him.' She stopped herself. And more gently she said. 'And what do you want to be when you grow up, Patrick?'

  ‘I like building things,' he said.

  'He'd be proud of that. He was good with his hands, too,' said the woman, and she winked. 'In all sorts of ways.'

  'My mum says he's useless,' said Patrick, putting a gobstopper into his mouth.

  The woman with the jar flashed him such a look that he quickly said, 'But nobody's useless, are they? Not even girls.' Audrey squealed and slapped his hand which eased the moment.

  And the woman clamped her red lips tight shut. She poured the lemon drops into a bag, scooped up the spilled ones from the counter and put those into the bag as well, and handed it to Patrick with a smile. 'For old times' sake,' she said. Patrick, aware that something was not altogether right about this, said uncertainly, 'Shall I tell him?'

  'No,' said the woman, slinging the last little bag around to twist it closed. 'He'll have forgotten ... But he's well, though?'

  Patrick shrugged. 'He gets lumbago and he doesn't do much.'

  'Poor George,' she said. 'Poor, poor George.'

  When all the purchases were completed and before they had paid, the woman brightened. 'Wait a moment’ she said, 'I want you to give something to your dad. A message. A bit of a secret. Will you?'

  Patrick nodded. She went to the end of the counter and wrote something in a pencil which she licked from time to time. Then she put it in a brown envelope, taken from the shelf at the back, took one toffee out of the jar, popped it into the envelope with the bit of paper, sealed it with much lick and lipstick, and wrote George Parker on the front. She handed it to Patrick. 'Make sure you do give it to him, now’ she said. 'And you can have the sweets free.'

  He smiled at her. 'OK’ he said enthusiastically, and put it into his blazer top pocket.

  Just as they were leaving the woman winked and said to Audrey, 'Are you his girlfriend?'

  Audrey blushed.

  They both did.

  'No’ said Patrick, confused.

  'Oh I see’ she said, smiling at Audrey. 'It's like that is it?' She stabbed her finger in Patrick's direction. 'Never trust a chap who doesn't stick up for you,' she said.

  Audrey giggled.

  Patrick couldn't wait to get out of the place and rattled the door until it opened.

  The woman called after them, cheerily now, 'It's a good idea to marry the right person, young man. You remember that. Marry the right one. Or repent at leisure. And that goes for you, too, young lady ...'

  The door closed behind them with a bang.

  'Cripes’ he said to Audrey. 'I'm glad to get out of there.'

  'What's in the letter?' she asked breathlessly. Her heart was beating at the very thought of marrying Patrick, it was such a dream.

  'A toffee’ he said.

  'You know what I mean. The note.'

  'Who knows?' He put a sherbet lemon into his mouth as if that closed the matter. 'I got hundreds more than I asked for.' He patted his lower pockets that were crammed with the assorted bagfuls. But even as he rustled them to illustrate the beauty of the feast his hand went up to his breast pocket and the note crackled. He could feel the lump of that lone toffee and something told him that the sweets he had been given were not - really and truly - free at all.

  'I wonder what she wrote’ said Audrey, and before he could do anything about it she pulled the envelope from his breast pocket. She smoothed it and fingered it and held it up to the light. 'And I wonder what it was all about. It was mysterious, didn't you think? Maybe she loved him once. Maybe she loved him and never dared to tell him...' She said all this quite hopefully. 'Or maybe they loved each other but they could not tell the world ...?'

  Patrick did not want to think about any of it. He grabbed the note and stuffed it into his saddlebag where it settled down to moulder among all the other detritus. 'Who cares?' he said. 'Come on, I'll race you.'

  'To the station?' she called. 'No’ he said. 'Home.'

  5

  Towards the Pantheon of the Gods.

  O'Connell Bridge was once Carlisle Bridge, 'populace applauds as queen victoria passes over Carlisle bridge': but the Irish Times mischief-makers changed the 'a' in 'passes' to 'i'.

  It took ten years to build Carlisle Bridge and its scaffolding was used as gallows to hang renegade soldiers, with their coats turned inside out.'

  Frank Delaney, James Joyce's Odyssey: A Guide to the Dublin of Ulysses

  Next morning, as they all waited at the station, Florence saw the light in Little Audrey's eye (she re
fused to drop the Little, mostly to do with the fact that Audrey, very definitely, was not Little any more) and it did not please her at all. It was much the same as the light in Patrick's eye when he beheld some engineering marvel in one of his eternal books. But at least Florence could take comfort. Her son was not interested in that sort of thing even if Little Audrey was . . . Looking at the girl she saw how she had grown. Dark hair pulled back in a band, shiny freckled skin and big, clear brown eyes. Given to heaviness, though, Florence was pleased to see, so not all was perfect. And her son liked perfection. Patrick was a little heavy himself, but that was puppy fat, and his fair hair and blue eyes and flushed cheeks made him so beautiful that she could weep. Sandy, sitting behind them both on the station bench, playing with his cycle pedal, was like a little weasel in comparison. Most boys were. But she was very glad, weasel or not, that he was there.

  She went over to him. 'Sandy,' she said cajolingly, 'those two think they are very grown up but you know they are not - and so do I. Will you keep a good look-out for them?' She reached over and tentatively patted his head. Sandy nodded, pleased with the importance of it all. 'Don't let them out of your sight for a minute,' she said. 'And in the Youth Hostel you stick close to Patrick at night. All right, lovey?' He nodded. She had only confirmed what Sandy knew. That so-called older boys and girls were too full of themselves by half. Florence slipped him a halfcrown.

  Of course Audrey knew what she wanted from this trip. She had packed a lipstick, surreptitiously purchased from Woolworth's, for the purpose of... whatever, exactly, the purpose was (she was a little vague about it) - but she was also bright and interested in the world around her (as her school report said, nicely) and a bridge was as good as any other place to visit. If it pleased Patrick, it would please her. She had dreamed about being with him like this, without parents to bother them, without Florence to crack the whip. Patrick was clever, he was funny sometimes, and he was handsome. When she spoke to him on the phone her heart went a little faster. She was fairly sure she was In Love, and she had every intention of finding out. Pity about Sandy but you couldn't have everything.

  In the train Audrey said what she had been thinking on the matter of Patrick's interests. 'We've got a lot of bridges in London. You've got no bridges in Coventry to speak of,' she said. 'So it stands to reason you're interested in them. Everyone wants what they can't have - don't they?' She smiled, hoping it was iiwitingly. Sandy asked her if she had stomach ache. She kicked him - not very hard - and said, 'Hmm, Patrick?'

  But he shook his head. 'Oh, those are mostly boring ones,' he said. 'I like bridges that amaze you, excite you .. . Most of those London ones just get you from A to B.'

  'Nothing wrong with that is there?' said Audrey sharply. "That's what bridges do, isn't it?' She regretted this immediately. She had planned to be nice to him.

  Patrick sighed as if she had said that two and two make five. 'No, it is not all they do,' he said. 'Not Great Bridges. Great Bridges like the ones we are going to see are important for themselves. Grand Designs. Historical. Huge. They made their builders into -' He searched for the right words.

  Audrey helped him: 'You mean household names?'

  'That sort of thing,' he agreed, only it sounded a bit lame.

  'Like Edmund Hillary?' offered Sandy.

  'Exactly’ breathed Patrick with relief. 'Just like him.'

  'Grand’ said Audrey, giving him her smile of confidence again. 'Tell me some more about bridges’ she added.

  Sandy yawned.

  As the train sped towards Birmingham (where, thanks to Audrey's direction, they managed to retrieve their bicycles and change platforms without mishap) and out of it towards Shifnal, he explained what they were doing and why.

  First they would go to Coalbrookdale to see Darby's Ironbridge - seventeen-seventy-nine and the first true bridge of the industrial age - prefabricated. Audrey nodded wondering what prefabricated meant exactly. She immediately thought of all those little boxy temporary houses that went up after the war. Her aunt and uncle still lived in one in Wandsworth. She turned her fully absorbed gaze to Patrick's face. He was lovely when he got going. Sandy fell asleep.

  After the Ironbridge they would go to Bristol and see Isambard Kingdom Brunel's amazing suspension bridge at Clifton. Audrey was confused and kept quiet - she thought of stockings and suspenders and did not dare ask what suspenders might have to do with bridges. If Sandy had been awake she would have done what teachers did when they didn't know the answer to something: turn to Sandy and say, 'Do you know what suspension is in bridges, Sandy?' And he would say no, and she could roll her eyes at Patrick and say wearily, 'You explain ...' All she could do in the somewhat hazy circumstances was to nod encouragingly again.

  He described it in great detail. The abutment that stands as a memorial to Telford's cowardice because he would not believe Brunel's original design with a longer span was possible (what contempt Patrick showed for such caution) - the glory of using Egyptian references (the golden age of building) - the catenaries, the links, the sheer bravery of it all. He paused for breath and noticed the sleeping boy. He looked disgusting with his lolling head, his small wet mouth hanging open and his adenoidal rasp.

  'Sandy’ said Patrick sternly. 'Wake up and pay attention.' He poked him in the chest. Sandy awoke and might have cried but Patrick was looking too fierce for that.

  'I'm looking forward to seeing that bridge,' Audrey said quickly, noticing the rise of colour in her brother's cheeks. She gave Sandy a soothing pat on the arm. 'It's your favourite, isn't it, Patrick? The Bristol one. And he's your hero? The man who built it? Listen to this, Sandy’ she added. 'It's very interesting.'

  Patrick nodded. 'I now know’ he said, in a voice that Audrey had great difficulty in taking seriously. "That one day I will build bridges and be the new Isambard Kingdom Brunel.'

  'Ooh,' said Audrey.

  'Coo,' said Sandy. 'Well, so do I.'

  'What?' asked Patrick, fearing for a moment he had a rival.

  'Know what I want to be. I want to be like Stanley Matthews ...'

  Audrey gave him a clip round the ear and told Patrick, very sweetly, to go on.

  'No, Sandy’ he said. 'I do not want to be like anybody. I want to be better, or the best. There was Abraham Darby and Ironbridge, and after him Isambard Kingdom Brunel - who is the greatest so far - and after him . . . there will be me. Patrick Parker.' He said it with such supreme confidence that Audrey nearly clapped.

  'I'll build another great bridge. Here in England. The best bridge. The bridge of the century’ he said.

  'I'll bet you will,' she said, fervently. The fervour was genuine.

  To know what you wanted to do for the rest of your life, and to be capable of it, struck her as both exciting and a relief. So far all she'd got were dreams of being an air hostess, advice that she should concentrate on her sewing skills, and the comfort of her mother's words which were that she would get married one day and have children and that was more than enough for any girl to deal with. It didn't quite ring true to her after seeing the Queen being crowned because, after all, she was married, with a husband (obviously) and two children - yet she was Ruler of the World - Malaya and Africa and everywhere. When Audrey pointed this out to her mother, her mother told her not to be so silly, that the Queen of England had blue blood which made the difference. As Audrey knew very well that her blood was only red she accepted this explanation. Patrick's blood was red the same as hers. But it was different for boys.

  'Do you remember when we went to see the Coronation decorations?' asked Audrey. 'And you looked up at those Coronation Arches and said they were too small?'

  He nodded. 'And my dad explained about the stresses and the strains of them and how their proportions were perfect. Any bigger, he said, and they'd out-do Queen Elizabeth.'

  ‘I thought they were lovely’ she said. 'But you didn't think they were big or grand enough?'

  'Well, they weren't’ he said.

  'Well, ma
ybe they were for a queen but not for a king?' She was thinking that at home they had just bought two new fireside chairs and the one for her father was bigger than the one for her mother (though her mother's bottom, if she thought about it, was considerably bigger than her dad's) so it seemed logical.

  'When I build my bridge it won't just be for the Queen - or a king for that matter. It will be for posterity.'

  'What's that? 'asked Sandy drowsily.

  'Eternal fame’ said Patrick.

  'Like Greta Garbo’ said Audrey dreamily.

  'Not like Greta Garbo’ he said, but he gave up. What did she or Sandy or any of them know?

  Audrey gazed out of the window with longing as they sped past fields and cows and sweet little tucked-away cottages. She would like to live in one of them. With somebody clever like Patrick. They were what her mother called Little Palaces. Patrick stared out of the window too, half listening, also half dreaming. 'Trouble with that’ he said, 'is that she won't be crowned again. They only do it once.'