I’m aware of Dad tensing beside me. Neither of us says anything. We’re both staring at the feather.
Dad puts his foot down on the accelerator.
Wind whips at the feather, but it won’t budge.
Dad presses a button on the dashboard. Water sprays over the windscreen. The feather begins to slide across the glass. Dad presses another button. The windscreen wipers come on.
The feather moves, but still remains stuck.
More water. More speed.
Then, suddenly, the feather disappears.
I take a deep breath.
I hear Dad sigh beside me.
The car slows down.
Dad says, ‘In China, years ago, they used to bind women’s feet when they were still children. It didn’t stop the feet from actually growing, of course. They’d grow deformed. There’s not a moment when the women weren’t in agony. I’ve seen one of the shoes they used to wear. It was three inches big. Imagine that.’
I open a window. It’s getting dark now and much colder.
Dad asks, ‘Did you really kill the bird?’
‘Yes,’ I say. Then ask, ‘Did you used to hit Mum?’
‘No,’ he replies. ‘Never.’
THE FEAR OF HYACINTHS
The smell of hyacinths used to make my mother cry.
I park the car in a layby. It overlooks the beach. The sun is rising. There’s a slight mist so it’s hard to tell where the sky stops and the sea starts. There are a lot of seagulls. I remember Dad telling me that seagulls are the souls of sailors drowned at sea. ‘Listen to their cry!’ he said. ‘It sounds like “Help! . . . Help!”’
‘Something must have happened to you,’ I said to Mum once. ‘When you were young. Something to do with hyacinths.’
‘Like what?’ she said.
‘I don’t know. Something sad.’
‘Oh, it’s not sadness I feel.’
‘But Mum . . . you start crying.’
‘Because I feel terrified. That’s why!’
I look at the car seat beside me. It’s covered with the remains of last night’s takeaway. I only eat junk food when Gena’s not around these days. Ever since Gena got pregnant she’s been obsessed with health food.
‘In biblical times,’ Gena said, just after the pregnancy was confirmed, ‘life expectancy was two hundred and fifty years. You know why?’
‘Why?’
‘Fibre!’
I get out of the car to stretch my legs. I’m tempted to wash myself in the sea and rinse away the smell of Kentucky Fried Chicken. But it’s far too cold. I’ve got a large bottle of aftershave in the glove compartment. I’ll use that. It’s very expensive and smells like lemons. It’s a present from Gena. She very generous when it comes to spending my money.
Throughout her pregnancy Gena maintained a diet of brown bread, steamed vegetables, oily fish, fresh fruit and Evian.
She had planned the birth itself to the very last detail: it would be at home, in a room we’d had specially designed to be overstuffed with serenity. There’d be some Bach playing – a solo cello piece I don’t know the name of, and don’t much like – and Gena would be surrounded by her friends from the Society. That’s the local Birthing Pool Society.
Gena said, ‘The Society says the pain of childbirth is the most intense experience any human being can have. It’s on the very cusp of bearable.’
‘You can always take painkillers.’
‘The Society advises against that. Pain is how a mother bonds with her baby. Pain is vital.’
I get out of the car to stretch my legs. My feet crunch against pebbles and shells. I take a few deep breaths, then cough into a tissue. The mucus is dark, black almost. Why’s it that colour? I thought only miners hawked up black gunk. Or people who’d been in a burning building or something. I throw the tissue onto the shingle.
Immediately I hear Gena saying, ‘We pollute everything. What kind of a world are we bringing our child into?’
I should have kept the tissue and disposed of it when I got to Elm Fork. That’s the name of the cottage I’m heading for. So called because the road that leads to it (from the nearby village of Mulbarton), divides in two. The left fork was – and still is – surrounded by meadows, and is called, unsurprisingly, Meadow Fork. The right fork was (and only was) lined with elm trees (felled during the Dutch Elm disease outbreak in 1967) and is called – again, unsurprisingly – Elm Fork. When I was growing up, Greg’s address – ‘Elm Fork at the bottom of Elm Fork’ – sounded like something from a medieval fantasy. Or Tolkien. Not that I know any medieval fantasies. Or read any Tolkien. Or any novels come to that.
I say Elm Fork is Greg’s address, but that’s not strictly true. Not anymore. Someone I’ve never met lives there now. I’ve driven through the night to meet a stranger.
Gena went into labour earlier than expected. We’d gone to Harrods – Gena’s favourite place to shop – to look at an exclusive ‘limited edition’ chandelier designed by Luca Foscolo, primarily known for making a glass sculpture of Princess Diana. Gena thinks that she – Gena – resembles Princess Diana, and dresses so that she’ll look even more like her. But she doesn’t, and she doesn’t. Except for the hair. Sort of.
We were on the third floor of Harrods – in Lighting & Electricals – staring up at an explosion of coloured glass held together with curly chrome, when an alarm went off and a voice said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please leave the store as quickly as possible.’
‘Bomb scare!’ I said.
‘Come on,’ Gena said, pulling my hand.
We made our way to the escalators.
No one was panicking (IRA bomb threats had become a regular event over the past year or so) but there was a lot of jostling.
Gena’s waters broke on the second floor.
‘Here we go!’ she said.
‘Not now?!’ I said.
‘Don’t worry. It’s fine.’ She wobbled a bit. ‘Let’s wait till there’s less of a crowd.’
We disentangled ourselves from the crush and went into Lounge Furnishings and Accessories.
A store assistant rushed over.
‘Sir! Madam! You have to leave!’
I said, ‘My wife’s having a baby.’
Gena said, ‘Not quite yet.’ She smiled at the assistant. ‘Could you possibly call a mini cab for me?’
‘You mean an ambulance, madam.’
‘No, no. I need to get home.’
‘We’ve got a birthing pool,’ I said.
Gena said to the assistant, ‘It’s too jam-packed to use the stairs now anyway. By the time you’ve called we’ll be able to get out much easier. No time will be lost.’
The assistant said, ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’
‘One more thing!’
‘Madam?’
Gena pointed at a vase. ‘How much is that?’
I get back in the car. The smell of stale junk food takes my breath away. I pick it all up and – not wanting to pollute the planet more – throw it in the boot. Then I drench it – and myself – with aftershave. I must smell, as my dad would say, like a ‘tart’s boudoir’. But better that than stale chicken nuggets.
The sun’s a bit higher now. The mist is clearing. I can see patches of blue. It’s already starting to feel hot. Spring has been a scorcher so far, and today doesn’t look like being any different.
I check the map. Mulbarton village isn’t too far away. Once I’m there I’ll know my way to Greg’s place. That’s not Greg’s anymore. It’s Pat’s.
I told Pat I should be there by about nine.
She said, ‘I’ll cook us some breakfast.’
‘Please don’t go to any trouble,’ I said.
I heard her gasp.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.
‘You sounded exactly like him just then. The same inflections and everything. “Please don’t go to any trouble”. It could’ve been Greg.’
The phone call from Pat came last night.
‘I
’m Gregory’s wife,’ a voice said.
‘Gregory?’
‘Gregory Rowe.’
‘Oh! Greg. Yes.’
‘I should have phoned you sooner – months ago – but I’ve only just found your number. It was in one of Greg’s old address books.’
‘You didn’t find this number?’
‘No, no. Your parents’.’
The line crackled.
‘Your dad . . . he said you and Greg were good friends.’
‘Years ago, yes,’ I said.
‘You . . . you don’t mind me ringing?’
‘No.’
Crackle, crackle.
‘I’m . . . I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news,’ she said.
Crackle.
I said, ‘It’s Greg. He’s dead, isn’t he.’
Every August Mum and Dad used to visit Elm Fork in Norfolk. It was where Mum had been evacuated during the Second World War.
‘I was lucky,’ Mum used to say. ‘Some children got absolute monsters taking them in. But Fran – “Aunt” Fran, as I called her – oh, she was a saint. I became part of the family. Me and Rene were like sisters.’
Rene was Aunt Fran’s daughter.
After the war, Mum returned to London, went back to school for a few years, then met my dad and married him. But she kept in contact with Aunt Fran and – more especially – Rene. There were letters, Christmas cards, phone calls, and – every year – Mum would visit for a day (every 5th August – Aunt Fran’s birthday – or as near as Mum and Dad could make it).
Rene got married the year after Mum and, because Aunt Fran was ‘afraid of being alone’, both Rene and her new husband, Bert, lived at the cottage with her. Bert got a job working on one of the local farms. They had a child. My parents went to the christening and gave the baby a silver egg-cup with his name engraved on it, Gregory. Mum was pregnant with me at the time and said, ‘You must all come to London when our baby is christened.’
Aunt Fran, who was showing early signs of Alzheimer’s, thought the war was still on and said, ‘If you go to London you’ll all get blown up. Just like my Wallace.’ (Wallace, her husband, had been killed at Dunkirk).
‘The war’s over, Mum,’ Rene said.
‘Oh, don’t talk rubbish,’ Fran said. ‘The war will never be over.’
Five months later I was born. Dad, intoxicated with joy, phoned everyone he could think of, including Rene.
‘It’s a boy,’ he said.
Rene didn’t say anything.
‘Rene?’ Dad said. ‘You still there?’
‘Yes, yes. I . . . I’m so happy for you both but . . . but . . .’
‘But what, Rene?’
‘Oh, I feel so bad spoiling your day . . .’
‘What’s happened? Tell me!’
‘Mum died this morning.’
I’m approaching Mulbarton village. Not much has changed since the last time I was here. The biggest surprise is the blossom on the trees. I’ve never been here at this time of year before. I wonder if they’re cherry trees. Or more likely apple. If Greg was with me I’d ask him. He knew everything about the countryside. He knew the names of all the birds. He could catch fish with his hands. He found a wounded hedgehog once and nursed it back to health. I haven’t thought about any of this for years. But now, driving through the village, everything I’m looking at – the Junior School, the Co-op, the village pond – reminds me of him.
The shop assistant at Harrods said, ‘A taxi can’t get here, I’m afraid. The police have cordoned off the entire area. And we do really have to get out of the store. Now!’
‘But . . . what are we going to do?’ I said. ‘My wife . . . she can’t walk around looking for a – ’
‘It’s okay,’ Gena said. ‘The cordoned area can’t be that big. Let’s go!’
We headed for the escalators.
Gena said, ‘I think we should buy them.’
‘What?’
‘The Foscolo chandelier and the vase.’
One August day at Elm Fork, when I was thirteen, I was having such a good time with Greg that I didn’t want it to end. Nor did Greg.
Rene said to Mum, ‘Why don’t you let him stay here for a few days.’
Mum had a million reasons. I didn’t have any clothes. I didn’t have any toiletries. I’d be too much trouble. How would I get home, for goodness’ sake!?
Rene said, ‘Well, he can wear Greg’s clothes. And we’ve got a spare toothbrush. And Bert can drive him to the station. It’s a direct line back. You can meet him at the other end. Oh, come on. We’d love to have him stay. Wouldn’t we, Greg?’
‘We would!’ Greg said. ‘We would!’
‘Oh, please, Mum,’ I said. ‘Please, please, please!’
Mum relented, saying to me, ‘Don’t make a nuisance of yourself!’
The next day, Rene said to Greg, ‘Why don’t you take our guest to see the old army barracks.’
‘Army barracks?’ I said. ‘What army barracks?’
‘The ones they built for the Yanks. During the war. Surely your mum’s mentioned them.’
‘I . . . I don’t think so.’
Rene sighed dreamily. ‘Oh, those American boys were so glamorous. They had such white teeth. And such good manners. They used to give all us children little gifts. Stuff we couldn’t get because of rationing. One day your mum visited them and she came back with chocolate and silk stockings and . . . oh, a pineapple! It was like Christmas in the middle of May!’
I managed to get Gena out of Harrods. A policeman said he’d call an ambulance and helped us get to the spot, near the Albert Hall, where it would pick us up.
After twenty minutes, no ambulance had arrived.
I called out to another policeman, ‘My wife’s in labour! She’s waiting for an ambulance!’
The policeman called back, ‘Traffic’s at a standstill, sir! Just be patient!’
Gena said, ‘All these months of meticulous planning, and I’m going to end up giving birth in the gutter.’
‘What can I do?’ I said. ‘I . . . I don’t know what to do.’
‘Do nothing!’ she said. ‘That’s what you do best!’
Greg said we’d ‘make a day of it’ at the barracks, so Rene made us a packed lunch (cheese and pickle sandwiches, apples, and a big bottle of homemade lemonade).
Greg took me across a field and through some woodland. He told me about a ‘very rare’ bird he’d spotted a few weeks ago. It came from the Canaries. Its tail feathers were orange. He pointed at a tree he liked to climb.
‘You can see the coast from the top!’ he said. ‘Want to climb it?’
I said I’d rather not.
‘You’re such a city boy,’ he said.
‘Well, I am a city boy. I can’t help that. And you asking me to climb a tree is like me asking you to climb a tower block. How would you like to do that?’
‘I’d love it!’ he said.
By the time the ambulance arrived, Gena was surrounded by a small group of ‘do-gooders’. Gena – typically – knew all their names (and life stories) – by the time she was put on a stretcher.
I said, ‘I don’t know how you can just talk to people like that.’
‘Like what?’ she said. ‘Oh! You mean talk to people like they’re people.’
The army barracks were two rows of wooden huts – three in one, two in another – all of them damaged in some way.
I said to Greg, ‘I thought there’d be more.’
‘There used to be,’ he said. ‘Some huts got burnt down. You can still see their outlines on the ground. There! . . . And there!’
Grass and wildflowers had grown up around the huts and, in some (roofless) cases, inside too. The air buzzed with insects. There were lots of butterflies.
We looked at each hut in turn.
I was expecting to see remnants from the war – old propaganda posters, calendars, perhaps a gas mask – but, of course, all that had long since gone, replaced with Coke cans and McDonald�
��s packaging. There were some messages carved into the wood, though, presumably where the soldiers’ bunks had once been: ‘T.J. FROM IDAHO, 1943’, ‘DRINK AND SMOKE AND WAVE GOODBYE’, and ‘ENGLISH GIRLS ARE CANDY’.
‘You hungry?’ Greg asked.
‘Yeah!’
We settled outside and ate the sandwiches.
Greg said, ‘Sometimes I think I can see them.’
‘Who?’
‘The soldiers. Running from hut to hut. Training. Playing baseball or whatever.’ He looked at me. ‘Squint your eyes a bit. Look at that meadow over there. Can’t you see them?’
I tried – I tried very hard – but I couldn’t.
The ambulance took us to King’s Cross hospital. Gena was rushed down corridor after corridor and, finally, into what looked like an operating room. Were they going to do a Caesarean? Gena wouldn’t like that.
There was a lot of noise and everything was very bright. I was aware that I was just standing there and staring. I could feel one of my headaches coming on. And sweat was trickling down my face and neck. I thought the best thing to do was to get out of everyone’s way. To get out altogether. To leave the hospital. Leave as fast as I could. To run out in fact.
So that’s what I did.
Mum and Dad met me at the station when I got back from Elm Fork.
Dad shook my hand and Mum smoothed my hair.
Dad asked, ‘Did you have a good time?’
‘It was brilliant!’ I said. ‘Me and Greg went to the beach. We took bicycles there. I used the one you used to ride, Mum! The tires were flat and it was a bit stiff, but Greg got it working again. And – oh, yeah! – Greg took me to see the old army barracks. For the yanks. We stayed there all day. We made out we were soldiers and – ’
‘Well, if you liked it there so much perhaps you should have stayed!’ Mum said. ‘It must be a real disappointment coming back to us after so much excitement.’
Later, Dad took me to one side and said, ‘I think, in future, just say how much you missed your mum.’
I caught a bus outside the hospital. I went back to my apartment in Canary Wharf. The building itself used to be an old warehouse, but it had been converted into ‘luxury accommodation’. I bought a penthouse. It has incredible views across the whole city. I can see St Paul’s. And Tower Bridge. The property cost a fortune when I bought it – two years ago – and has trebled in value since then.
Flamingoes in Orbit Page 9
