by Tim Lott
He reached over and put a cassette on the 8-track. It was something from the early sixties – ‘Surfin’ Bird’ by The Trashmen.
I did something I hadn’t done for years. I let out a whoop. Henry began to join in the chorus.
‘Papa ooma mow mow, papa ooma mow mow . . .’
I couldn’t help but join in. Together we made a ragged harmony.
I saw a pigeon in the road in front of us. It stared at us insolently. As we closed in, it didn’t move. It was too late to brake. I was certain I was going to hit it. Panicked, I swung and crashed into a small, shallow ditch at the side of the road.
Henry and I rocked forward and back again with the impact. Neither of us was wearing a seatbelt, but the ditch I had deposited the Karmann Ghia in was soft and grassy, cushioning the impact. ‘Surfin’ Bird’ continued jauntily, if unsteadily. Henry remained silent. The motor had cut. I waited for the inevitable explosion of anger.
‘Sorry,’ I muttered. ‘The pigeon. I didn’t see it in time.’
I had heard glass smashing as we made impact; and some other sound, harsh, grating, had seemed to suggest that metal had been bent and paint had been scraped.
Henry still didn’t say anything. Instead, he indicated for me to move over. I climbed awkwardly out of the car – the door was obstructed by the wall of the ditch – and he took my place. He started the motor. It seemed to be running smoothly. He put the gearbox into reverse and eased the car back on to the soft shoulder of the road. From where I stood, I could see that a headlight had been shattered and bent out of shape, and the chrome bumper was contorted into almost a right-angle at the end where it had struck the verge.
Henry, leaving the car idling, moved back into the passenger seat. Then he nodded to me to resume my place behind the steering wheel.
I got back into the driving seat and looked once at Henry, who nodded. Amazed at his insouciance, I started the car moving again. A new track had begun, ‘Louie Louie’ by The Kingsmen. The sun and wind once more in my face, I could see Lexham approaching in the distance.
‘Nice of you to be so concerned about the pigeon,’ said Henry. It was the first time he had spoken since the car had veered off the road. It sounded not, as I expected, that he was controlling his temper, but that he was utterly unconcerned by the damage I had done to his beautiful car.
‘Aren’t you angry?’ I turned towards him briefly.
‘Keep your eyes on the road.’
‘But . . .’
‘I have no right to be angry. It’s my responsibility, not yours. Why should you know how to drive? You didn’t ask me, I asked you.’
‘But I messed your car up.’
‘That’s the past. Nothing I can do about it now.’
I considered this. What he said made a lot of sense. But it was hard to imagine my father, for instance, taking a similarly philosophical point of view had I pranged his Anglia.
‘So you find it pretty boring down here,’ said Henry.
‘Sometimes,’ I admitted.
‘If you’re sufficiently bored, I’ve got a thing on Saturday. In Bristol. You might want to come.’
‘What sort of “thing”?’
‘It’s called the Mind, Heart, Body and Spirit Fayre. They’ve held it for the last five years. I usually put in an appearance. Mostly rubbish and nutcases, but there’s space for some serious stuff. I like to think of myself in that category. I’ll have a stall. It’s relatively painless. You could help. I’d pay you.’
‘What would I have to do?’
‘Nothing much. Keep me company. Hold the stall while I go for a cup of coffee. Help me load and unload. You might meet some interesting people. Don’t worry if you don’t want to do it. I can manage by myself.’
I felt the weight of duty on me, a weight I had experienced every day at Buthelezi House. I said nothing.
‘Strawberry will probably show up. She likes you. She told me so. She does a bit of singing. Picks up a few coins. And she reads palms. Badly, so far as I can ascertain. But it’s all simple fun.’
Still I said nothing.
‘I don’t want you to do it for me. Honestly. I don’t care. But I was rather hoping Strawberry and you might find something in common. I think she’s lonely, though she would never admit it.’
‘She only lives a few hundred yards away.’
‘She’s proud. Likes to believe she’s self-sufficient. Nobody’s self-sufficient, though, are they? Anyway, it’s no big deal. Forget about it.’
He seemed genuinely unconcerned and I could tell he wouldn’t hold it against me if I decided not to come.
‘Can I think about it?’
‘Certainly. You might even find it interesting. Sometimes I think you are capable of finding things interesting. Other than yourself, that is.’
The sting of the implied criticism must have shown in my face, because Henry held his hand up, palm towards me.
‘I don’t mean to put you down. I still find myself the most fascinating thing in the world. There’s nothing wrong with self-absorption. It’s the only first-hand experience we have of what people are like. But I like to make room for other matters too. Only because it pleases me, you understand. Not out of politeness, or duty.’
Nine
We were reaching the outskirts of Lexham and a few cars were spotting the roads. The crash had left me nervous and uncertain, but Henry’s confident, untroubled face reassured me. I knew there was a free car park 200 yards along on the left – it was just beyond the bench I’d stopped to sleep on the last time I visited. Closing down the final stretch, I pulled into the car park, stopped the car and turned off the engine. The exhaust gave a cough, then a bang, then expired. Henry reached up and began to turn the handle to close the roof.
‘I’ll pay for the damage,’ I said suddenly, not knowing how or where I would get the money, whether my father’s cash would cover it.
Henry shrugged. ‘It’s not necessary.’
He pulled himself out of the car, carrying a plain hemp shopping bag. He strolled round to my side and opened the door for me. I got out and handed him the keys. Without bothering to lock the car, he started walking towards the newsagent that I had shopped in before.
My shoelaces were undone. As I bent down to retie them, my face close to the lace holes, the smell of canvas in my nostrils, a thought struck me.
‘I wonder if should call my father?’
‘That’s a good idea, Adam. I’m sure Raymond would appreciate it.’
Henry gestured towards a phone box directly across the road.
I made my way to the box, then realized I had no change. I managed to catch Henry’s eye. I rubbed my fingers and thumb together to indicate the need for cash. He crossed the road to join me. He took out a few coins from his pocket and handed them to me.
I shut myself in while Henry waited outside. I dialled the number of the shoe shop.
The phone rang three times, and then I heard my father’s voice at the other end. It was his shop voice – slightly more pinched than his home voice, and perhaps a shade up the social scale.
‘Dolcis, Yiewsley.’
‘Hello, Dad. It’s Adam.’
‘Who?’
‘It’s your son. The apple of your eye.’
‘Adam?’
‘Yes. Adam.’
‘Oh. Right. Just a minute . . .’
He shouted something to someone in the shop. There was a few seconds’ pause, then he spoke again into the receiver.
‘Adam.’
‘How are you, Dad?’
‘I’m very glad you’ve called. Only . . . only I’m very busy. The shop is busy.’
I could hear no noise at all in the background, and yet the phone, I knew, was located right on the shop counter.
‘I just wanted to know . . . to see . . . that you were . . .’
I ran out of words.
‘Adam. I can’t . . . This line is bad. Are you . . .’
The line at my end was perfectly clear.
‘It’s OK, Dad. It’s OK if you’re busy. I’ll call again later.’
‘Look. Are you all right? Is everything OK? Do you need anything?’
I felt something give way inside myself. Without saying goodbye, I put the receiver back on the cradle. I stood there staring at it until I felt the door of the box open and Henry’s hand fall on my shoulder.
‘It’s all right,’ said Henry.
He put his other hand on my other shoulder. I twisted out of his grasp and turned to face him.
‘Get off! I’m not a kid!’
I turned back to the telephone, hoping Henry would leave me alone. I wiped my cheek with the back of my sleeve. When I turned again, Henry was still there.
‘There’s no need to explain.’
I followed him, grateful now, a step behind. I was a little embarrassed by his outfit, but no one took any notice. Plainly the locals were used to Henry’s eccentricities. So I took up position next to him and we walked, our strides matching, until we reached the store.
Henry bought some paper, five pens, some files, paper cups, a typewriter ribbon and carbon paper. Then we went to the greengrocer. Celery, carrots, lettuce, apples, a pomegranate.
‘The pomegranate is very important. At least Strawberry thinks so. Protects against some juju or other. I ordered it from the owner specially,’ said Henry.
Tomatoes, lemons and cucumbers went into a second, plastic shopping bag. I didn’t offer to carry it, but Henry held it out to me anyway. I took it reluctantly. An only child, I had been spoiled by Evie and was unused to making any effort when an adult was around to do the work for me.
‘That’s a lot’ I said, feeling the weight of the bag.
‘Strawberry gets through this stuff at an alarming rate. She eats it, drinks it, purées it, juices it, crushes it. She probably sleeps with it.’
I risked a joke. ‘No strawberries?’
‘She hates them. Says the seeds are like fruit acne.’
‘Is the rest of this stuff for her?
‘Most of it. Although she is somewhat suspicious of the sugar in fruit.’
Next we visited a grocery and bought baked beans, cornflakes, ham, tinned peaches, a loaf of brown bread, butter, sugar, tea and a bottle of R.White’s cream soda for me.
‘I only buy staples here,’ said Henry. ‘Most of the fresh food is of such dismal quality. The British have no respect whatsoever for what they put in their mouths and bodies. Much the same as the Americans. Of course, Strawberry’s taken it too far, but there’s some sense in her stance. Processed this, frozen that, canned the other. There’s a delicatessen in Bristol, and a good butcher, which we can do much better at, and it’s reasonably priced as such places go.’
His voice was louder than most of the voices around us. It seemed that he was untroubled by self-consciousness. Two women – who comprised the rest of the queue – exchanged glances, partly amused, faintly hostile.
We left the shop, passing the church, St Jude’s, and a ‘public notices’ board. I glanced at the cards and posters pinned there. One stood out from the rest.
VIBRATIONS, POLARITIES AND THE SECRET UNITY OF OPPOSITES
Eastern Wisdom in Everyday Life Dr Henry Templeton DPhil (Cantab) talks on the mysteries of Chinese, Japanese and Indian thought and how they can teach us about understanding and acceptance
Come one, come all.
Leave your prejudices at the door
Doors open 7 p.m. at the Ho Koji,
Eastern Reach, Lexham
Voluntary contribution of £1
Drinks and refreshments will be served
Then there was a map, showing the way to the boat and the date. It was happening the Saturday after next.
‘This is the thing you mentioned, the event?’
‘It is the thing, yes. I’m surprised the poster is still up there. Usually some local yokel tears it down.’
‘Looks OK.’ Though in fact I thought it looked pretty boring. Marketing clearly wasn’t Henry’s strong point.
‘Thank you.’
‘Are you looking forward to it?’
‘I don’t really look forward to things,’ he said. ‘It’s as foolish an emotion as regret.’
‘You can’t help how you feel.’
‘Oh, you can. Absolutely.’
Henry found a bench, sat on it, took out a Lucky and offered me one. I accepted it and sat next to him. I opened the cream soda, which frothed violently out of the bottle.
As I raised it to drink, a torrent of bubbles still erupting out of the neck and running down my chin, I felt the touch of a hand on my back. I didn’t react but continued drinking. This was a lesson I was trying to learn from Henry. Act as if nothing has happened. That was how you got to be cool. I harboured this ambition more than anything else, but it had always seemed a remote possibility. People from Yiewsley simply weren’t.
‘Hello, Ashley,’ said Henry, without looking round. ‘How’s Jesus’s little sunbeam?’
I felt her hand lift. She moved from behind us and into view. She had had her hair cut. It now sprang in a tight curly bob, stopping short of her neck. The split ends had gone. Her hair was auburn, rather than the simple brown I had earlier registered, with tones of red. The new cut suited her, making all her features, which were generous in the first place, seem lusher, larger, more inviting. Her eyelids were painted with pale blue eyeshadow. She smiled, showing a gap in her teeth. I remembered that when I studied Chaucer’s Wife of Bath for A level, this was meant to suggest a propensity for lewdness.
‘No wonder people have difficulty with you, Henry,’ said Ash.
‘I was only making a polite enquiry.’
‘My father’s the vicar, not me.’
‘I would have thought you and the reverend were pretty closely aligned.’
‘We have very different beliefs about the way things go, actually.’
Without asking permission, Ash sat down between us. I could feel the slightest touch of her thigh against mine.
‘Lovely day,’ she said. ‘Again. I’m getting tired of lovely days. Sometimes I just want a good thunderstorm. Or some snow.’
‘That’s quite a remote meteorological possibility,’ replied Henry. ‘Last time I looked the thermometer was pushing ninety.’
I got the impression he wanted to get away from Ash, that he found her presence oppressive. I, on the other hand, was impressed by her self-confidence and her readiness to verbally tangle with Henry.
‘How’s your nephew?’
She didn’t look at me as she said this.
‘He just smashed up my car,’ said Henry. ‘The little tyke.’
‘You didn’t.’
Ash turned to me now. Her eyes had widened slightly. They were no colour I had ever seen before, some colour without a name. Sea green, blue, brown and purple all mixed together. Like some sort of imaginary coral.
I nodded and stared at the ground. I couldn’t think of a thing to say. It occurred to me how much women frightened me. The intimation of sex imbued them with a near supernatural power.
‘It was my fault,’ said Henry. ‘He can’t drive. I talked him into it.’
‘I can’t believe you could be that irresponsible, Henry,’ said Ash, apparently seriously. ‘Someone could have been killed. Actually, come to think of it, I can believe you might be that reckless. It’s all “anything goes” with you.’
‘Better that than “nothing is allowed”. Except what the Good Book tells them. Anyway, it could have been me who was killed. That would have suited a lot of people, I suppose.’
‘What are you getting at?’ said Ash.
‘How are things at the church?’ said Henry.
‘Why don’t you come down and find out? My father was asking about you the other day. He thinks you’re an interesting case.’
‘Wesley claims to think everyone is an interesting case. He’s just extraordinarily interested in people, isn’t he? What they get up to. What they should and shouldn�
�t be doing.’
‘He says he’d like to talk to you again.’
‘I would only offend him again. Anyway, we talked only yesterday.’
‘I doubt you’d offend him. He’s forgiven you your little trick.’
‘We disagree on a number of fundamental issues. Not only theological.’
‘Disagreement’s normal.’
‘He’s hounding me.’
‘He’s trying to reflect the views of the community.’
‘The community can be extraordinarily tiresome.’
I had finally thought of something to say.
‘What did you do,’ I asked Henry, ‘that was so offensive?’
‘He set fire to a bible. In my father’s church,’ said Ash quickly, before Henry had a chance to answer.
‘You make it sound like an act of terrorism. I was just trying to demonstrate a point. It was a misjudgement. I didn’t mean to upset anybody. I put it out right away.’
‘Yes,’ she said, bone dry. ‘You were very placatory.’
‘You set fire to a bible?’ I said.
‘On my father’s pulpit,’ said Ash, her eyes widening again. I thought of muscles loosening and contracting.
‘Wesley had asked me to make a guest appearance, so to speak – in the spirit of ecumenicalism. He knew I had a doctorate in Divinity, so he invited me to make a brief address on “alternative approaches to Christianity”.’
‘I always thought you were some kind of Buddhist.’
‘Not at all. In fact I am a supporter of the central message of Christianity. I just don’t much like the way the Church presents it. Diktats from the Big Boss and his tiresome son.’
‘Half the congregation walked out. Half of that number haven’t come back again,’ said Ash.
‘What were you trying to prove?’ I asked.
‘That it’s not the words that matter. It’s the spirit.’
‘You’re a show-off. You liked the dramatic effect,’ said Ash.
The atmosphere was tightening. Henry, usually impec cably calm, seemed to be very slightly irritated. His body had tensed up. I decided it was time to try and shift the focus of the conversation.
