‘He hits you, doesn’t he?’ I say in a sudden flash of understanding. ‘All those bruises, they’re not all from you being drunk – some are from Alec. I’m right, aren’t I?’
Banks looks up and down, picks up the last pastry and stuffs it in his mouth. Then he rolls a ciggie. ‘It’s not all simple like you think,’ he says. ‘What else can I do? It’s lonely enough how I live. You don’t wanna be on your own. The old man and Alec… they’re all I have. We look after each other. I owe them. That’s how it is.’
‘I’m your friend,’ I say, and he smiles.
‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘you are. But you’re not there when I’m falling down, are you?’
‘I could be,’ I tell him. ‘I’d like to be.’
‘I used to have lots of decent friends,’ he says. ‘I went to dinner parties in my best suit; talked about politics and all that stuff. I tell you how smart I am? Well, now I’m not smart, so I have Alec, and if he sometimes bashes my face, well… he’s not right in the head, I told you.’
My heart begins to beat faster. I want to ask him about Alec and Sam. I think of the bruises on Banks’ face, and the bruises on my brother’s face that were mentioned on the autopsy report, but I can’t. I have a horrible feeling that if I did, something would change. Something terrible would happen that I’m not ready for.
So much talking has tired Banks out. He slumps forward with his arms resting on his knees. It’s so quiet I can hear the wind make its singing sound as it passes my ears, and even a gull – so distant that it’s no more than a white dot falling in the clouds. Then I hear a woman shrieking. Our old woman…
‘Jesus!’ says Banks, and suddenly he’s got up and the cold slams into me.
The carrier bag is whipped away down the beach, and as I go to grab it, I see the old woman barging down towards us.
Banks is shouting too now, and as I turn round I see to my surprise that his coat is lying on the stones with his shoes, and he’s pulling his jumper off and wading into the sea.
Out in the grey, the old man’s head bobs into view, and a long white arm comes up and goes down again. The old woman and I stand together on the edge of the land. She, normally so solid and silent, whines like a child: ‘Harold! Harold! OhGodHarold!’ with her headscarf flapping and her plastic shoes covered in water. My mouth is hanging open, so I shut it, take a step into the water and then back again. There’s nothing I can do.
Out on the sea, Banks swims with hefty splashes towards the small white head. We can barely see either of them in the bouncing grey waves. For a long moment there’s nothing but the sea, and every flash of white turns out to be foam on the top of the water. Then at last it’s a hand, and the old woman moans ‘Oh! Ohhh!’ and we see Banks’ dark head and the old man’s together, splashing like a pair of hooked fish. I realise I’m sucking my fingers like a baby, and then we lose sight of them again and I turn and start running. The stones give way like sand and I have to fight my way up to the concrete where I take out my phone and flip it up. There are other people now, pointing and shouting. I call the first person I can think of.
‘Dad? Call an ambulance. There’s a man drowning…’
When I look up I see Alec and the old tramp man. The old one cranes his neck seaward, concerned, while the mad one makes little rushes at the staring people, growling like a dog.
When I get back down to the water, our old man is laid out like a corpse. His wife rubs at his face with a towel, crying over him like a little girl. There’s snot on her cheek and her hands are huge and the colour of cut meat. Banks is on his hands and knees, jumperless and coughing up water and most of the pastries he’d enjoyed so much. I’m more worried about him than the old man. I put his coat round his shoulders and he sits down with his legs out in front, breathing hard and shuddering.
The next thing I know, Dad’s there along with an ambulance crew. They wrap the old man up in something like Bacofoil till he looks even more like a plucked turkey. One of the ambulance men asks Banks if he’s okay, and Banks just nods and says to look after the old man. But he looks awful. Not okay at all. I tell Dad how he’ll have to go back to the The Mansion soaked as he is, with nowhere to wash or warm up and dry his clothes. Dad hums and haws, and it’s not until Banks gets up and starts off towards the promenade that he does the amazing thing.
He steps up in front of Banks and I can see they’re talking. Banks drops his head and shakes it, but Dad won’t have it. He steers Banks over to his car, which is parked half on the pavement, half off. He opens a door and Banks gets in.
30.
Thought Diary: ‘Expect a miracle, every day.’ Once a year will do me.
It’s warm here in our kitchen. My cheeks are aflame with it. There’s a rich smell coming from the oven and the windows are steamed up. Dad and I stand like two storks waiting for a zookeeper to come with food. Neither of us speaks, and overhead we can hear Mum’s voice hum, and the splash of water. Banks is having another bath in our house, only this time Mum’s running it. My heart lurches around in my chest as if it might stop at any moment, and Dad is pale as an uncooked pie. His fingers drum on the work surface: dubbada-dubbada-dubbada.
I have no idea why he did this. It would have been easy to let Banks go his own way. As we sat together in the car I could see Dad’s eyes in the rear view mirror, peeking at Banks, seeing him for what he was: an alcoholic tramp, hero or not.
Banks’ dip in the sea had made him look dirtier and even more unkempt than before. His face was so cold and pale that the grime round his jaw showed up like spilled oil on sand. The hair dangling round his face was seaweed, his fingers were bleached driftwood and the shuddering of his shaky breath was like the wind around pier legs. He stank of salt and long encouraged sweat, and the alcohol smell seemed sharper, closed in as we were. Dad’s silence and the stiff set of his hands and shoulders as we’d driven home had made me wonder if he was angry, but then I remembered that Dad’s seen it all before. His eyes darted from the rear view mirror back to the road again like an expert. I wonder how many other people would have done what he did.
As Mum runs the bath, we make tea in a big pot, with milk in a jug and brown sugar cubes. There’s also a chicken pie with thick gravy and peas. It’s all put together anyhow because Mum was halfway through it when we came crowding in. She didn’t make a sound, just looked surprised for a moment as if we were playing a sort of trick. Dad put on his ‘speaking face’ that said ‘Please, just do it and we’ll talk later,’ and just like that, she turned to Banks with a smile and took him off to have a bath.
Dad and I retreated to the kitchen and whispered as if we had a nun in the house, or the Queen had popped in unexpectedly. Then we sat and listened to the noises overhead while we drank our tea.
The rest of the evening is spooky. We devour the pie and tea in silence, save for the cutlery clashing on the china plates like bells clanging, and the oven timer buzzing bee-like in the background. Banks keeps his eyes on the food, glancing up only twice to meet my gaze. If it wasn’t for what had happened I know I’d laugh out loud – on and on without being able to stop.
After we’ve finished eating, Banks helps to clean up. He folds the plates into the curves of the dishwasher rack as if they were babies, and mum whisks up the table mats and squirrels them away. I go upstairs and stand at a window, listening to Banks’ voice from the garden below, where he’s talking to Dad. Dad says, ‘Don’t think about it now, not when you’re tired. What’s needed is a good night’s sleep and maybe the doctor in the morning.’
Later, I lie in bed with my thoughts whirling. Banks is here. He’s staying! I’m sure now that everything will change. I listen to the house, worried suddenly that they’ve put him in Sam’s room, but in the end I drift off as if I’m floating on the sea. Images crowd my head and my heart slows, folded round a little knot of fear that’s centred in my stomach. The afternoon is still with me, lying around in pieces like the stuff left stranded when the tide recedes. I hear voices on the
floor below – Mum talking about blankets and then a door closing. I lie there imagining Banks standing somewhere in my house, or lying between our clean sheets, and I wonder what he’s thinking.
The next day I wake late with a jolt. When I look at the clock it’s almost eleven and I’m terrified they might have packed Banks off while I was safely unconscious.
I scramble into jeans and a T-shirt and go downstairs. The bedroom doors are open and the house is silent. There’s no one in the sitting room or the bathroom, and downstairs the shop is open, but Mum’s not there. I find her in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a cup of tea. Through the open back door comes a cool draught and voices. Mum looks up as I go in and gives a small smile. I follow the sounds to the back door, and there is Banks. He stands beneath the spiky tree in the courtyard garden, helping Dad to put up the wooden awning. Dad’s in his overalls and Banks is in a white vest and jeans. He’s holding one of the heavy wooden posts, while Dad shifts the bottom of it into its footing. Two empty cups and plates sit on the table and it’s clear they’ve been at it for a while. Mum comes to my side and we both look out.
‘He asked what all the wood was,’ she says. ‘And when your dad told him, he said, why not put it up.’
I nod. There doesn’t seem much to say.
‘I’m sure he’ll know if it’s too much for him,’ Mum goes on. ‘You know, after yesterday. It seems to be going all right so far.’
The shop bell burrs behind us and Mum disappears. I make myself toast and stand at the window to eat, not sure what’s going on out there, or why. Is Banks staying? Mum and Dad must find it weird – this alcoholic man in our house, putting up the awning. I have a sudden vision of us all with Banks as a sort of adopted brother and son. We’d get him off the drink like we couldn’t do with Sam and slowly he’d lose the tired dirtiness and start to look young again. One day he might go out in a suit and tie to work. Perhaps he might even go back to his wife and baby. They might one day be sitting round this very table having dinner.
I shake my head. As fantasies go, it’s a good one, but fantasies are all things normally remain. Outside, work has stopped. Banks is sitting on the steps, rolling a cigarette while Dad watches, mopping his head and staring up at the wooden framework in wonder. I turn away and see the oven glowing in the corner of the kitchen, and knives and forks waiting by the sink. It’s such a cosy, normal scene that I can’t quite believe it. I clear the papers off the table and set out the knives and forks as quietly as I can, as though I might break the spell if anyone notices I’m here.
‘Ah, good!’ It’s Mum. She bustles in from the shop with flushed cheeks and does a little twirl in the centre of the floor. ‘I just sold that lacquered cabinet,’ she grins. ‘Things are looking up!’
31.
Thought Diary: ‘The purpose of a chess game is to achieve “checkmate” or “check”. To best achieve this, you need a move that attacks the enemy king while preventing any countermove that allows escape. If you checkmate your opponent, the game is over.’ Chess glossary.
It takes most of the next day to finish the awning. Dad refuses to let Banks paint it with wood stuff; he says he needs to rest and not overdo it. In the afternoon our doctor makes a house call, taking Banks into the sitting room to give him the once over. He leaves a prescription and tells us Banks has a chest infection and needs to put on some weight. Banks and I watch TV in an awkward silence until I unearth Dad’s old chess set from one of the cupboards. We play until it starts to get dark and the little pieces – mostly mine – have been captured and lie in the gloom like a pile of tiny corpses. When Mum comes to the door she pauses a moment before switching the light on and asking if we want to eat. I wonder what it is she sees as she watches us.
On Sunday, Banks helps Dad finish the awning and then shifts stuff around in the shop for Mum. I stay at a distance, as if he’s their friend and not mine. There’s a sort of visitor quietness about the place, like when Aunty Janet came over from Canada and no one quite knew whether to carry on normal life or entertain her all the time. Also like Aunty Janet, Banks has conversations with Mum and Dad that I’m not part of. I see them from the window and catch them when I come downstairs. It feels like I’ve lost him; like they’re the adults and I’m just some kid who isn’t involved. I pretend I don’t care. Instead I call Joe and tell him what Banks did. I tell him he’s a hero, but Joe doesn’t say much and soon tells me he has to go.
On Monday, something happens. Just as we are finishing breakfast, the phone rings and Dad comes into the kitchen with a strange expression on his face.
‘It’s the local paper,’ he says. ‘Your friend Joe gave them our number. They want to speak to Stuart about what happened. It seems he’s the Local Hero.’
‘Stuart?’ I say. Then I realise. Stuart is Banks! Banks is called Stuart. I run upstairs and find the computer screen flashing a message:
JoeSteen says: Coo? You there? Turn yr fone on!
JoeSteen says: Gave reporter your No. Says Banks is a hero.
JoeSteen says: Hello?
The messages are half an hour old. I sit down on the bed. Maybe he’s right. Being a hero might help. They can’t put someone’s picture in the news and then just let them go back on the street the next day, surely?
I sit on the bed and wonder what the story will look like, what it will say. Everything seems to have happened at once and I’m not sure what I think about it.
In the end, I don’t get to see the reporter. The new term has come along and I have to go to school. I can’t put it off any longer. It’s only three days since Banks came, but it seems like for ever.
I come down in my uniform and ask Mum if she thinks he’ll be staying, but she says don’t be silly. ‘He’s not a stray dog or a child,’ she laughs. ‘He’s just getting his strength back. When your dad starts back to work, he can’t realistically stay here, can he?’ Her eyes can’t seem to meet mine, but I know she’s right.
‘There’s also that business with the ring,’ she says, and flushes.
We don’t talk about it again. I sit across the breakfast table from Banks and drink tea, and he stares at me out of his green eyes.
I leave soon after, when Joe knocks for me. I feel like a kid going off and leaving the adults to it. I’m not in the mood for school, or for people. I feel like crying and don’t know why. I want to be somewhere else, not sitting here simplifying fractions or talking about TV programmes in the canteen. At lunch, Raven pulls me away to a table on our own and I pour it all out. I tell her I want him to stay, that I want Mum and Dad to ask him; that I fear they won’t.
‘He’s not Sam,’ she says, and I don’t get that. Of course he’s not Sam! I don’t want Sam. I want Banks. I want him to be all right. Raven must see it in my face because she shakes her head – mouth full of crumbs – and pats my hand. ‘Forget it,’ she says. ‘It’s just that sometimes we don’t notice what’s right in front of us, because it’s too close to see.’
She must be right, because I don’t see it at all. My mind is whizzing round and I just want to go home. It’s only Joe who stops me from leaving after lunch. ‘You can’t,’ he says. ‘You have to think ahead. If you keep walking away you’ll never get back.’
He’s gelled his hair and looks even less like a schoolboy than ever. You can tell by looking at him that he’s been doing things the others haven’t. That’s what we share, that being apart from normal things. After school we wander into town, but everything seems changed. There’s been some subtle shift, like one of those party games where someone hides things under a cloth and takes one away. You can’t tell what it is; you just know something has altered. I’m almost glad when Joe bumps into some lad he knows. I say goodbye and head home, but I know before I get there that Banks is gone.
Mum and Dad are outside, shifting plant pots round the legs of the awning. They stop and look at me, reading my face.
‘The paper came and did the interview,’ Mum says. ‘They were very nice, took some
pictures and so on. They wanted Stuart to go with them down to where it happened. I think it will do him good, don’t you?’
‘Is he coming back?’ I ask. ‘I didn’t say goodbye.’
Dad stands and sighs. ‘No, Corinne,’ he says. ‘We did what we could, but he wanted to leave; going with the reporter was a good time to do it. We sent him off with some money and warm clothes; it’s probably for the best. The paper will put him in touch with people who can help. We’re not equipped for that.’
I can’t believe it. Banks has gone without waiting for me.
‘What did he say?’ I demand. ‘He must have said something.’
Dad pushes past Mum, wiping his hands down the side of his trousers.
‘If you must know,’ he says, throwing down his gardening gloves, ‘he said he needed a drink.’
32.
Thought Diary: ‘There is probably more folklore concerning the raven than any other bird in Britain. While some of this is somewhat sinister, the more we get to know this playful and intelligent bird, the more respect we might realise it deserves.’ Dan Puplett, ‘Mythology and Folklore of the Raven’.
Joe says what did I expect? He’s looking at me sideways while we admire the pictures in a piercings shop. I hate that he seems not to care about Banks at all, about where he is or what might happen to him.
‘If he could just have stayed—’ I start again for about the tenth time.
‘If nothing!’ Joe interrupts. He gives the catalogue back to the man behind the counter and marches out without waiting.
‘For God’s sake,’ he says when I catch him up. ‘Can’t you talk about anything else? You didn’t seriously think it was going to be any different? When will you get it through your head – he’s an alkie! He doesn’t want to move in and play Happy bloody Families – he wants a skinful of lighter fuel and a pot to piss in and that’s it.’
Stones Page 14
