Red Shift

by Alan Garner

  “You’re a snob.”

  “Inverted,” said Tom. “I made my father a regimental gnome when I was ten: spent weeks of Free Expression on it at school.”

  “What happened?”

  “It melted in the rain. But he was chuffed at the time.”

  “Will you be able to work in the caravan?”

  “Not as well as I can here, but I’ll manage. Anybody can pass exams.”

  “You’re spooking me. You’re too quiet.”

  He put his head on the stone. “I’m not very quiet inside. Come on. Let’s go. Forget the house. It’s only a waiting room now.”

  The men had stopped their hammering.

  It was dark in the birch wood among the caravans. People moved along the cinder roads, carrying buckets. On every screen, the same wrestler bounced off the same ropes into the same forearm smash.

  “It was recorded last week,” said Tom.

  They reached Tom’s caravan. His father’s topiary, privet grown in ammunition boxes, stood along the front, the rope handles stiff with white gloss paint.

  Tom and Jan kicked off their shoes as they entered. Now the crowd could be heard, and the bell for the fifth round.

  “Leave your boots in the vestibule,” Tom’s mother called from the lounge.

  “Have done. What’s the score?”

  “One each. A folding press and a back-breaker submission.”

  “I’ve worked it out,” he said to Jan. “We’ll be all right. Tell you later.”

  They went into the kitchen. His father had laid the table, and was tossing lettuce in a dressing.

  “Smells good,” said Jan. “What is it?”

  “Wine vinegar and dill.”

  “I always drop the salad on the floor,” said Jan.

  “The secret’s in the bowl. Use one a lot bigger than you think you need: give yourself plenty of room.”

  “I estimate that salad has proportionately more space allocated to it than I have,” said Tom. “Permission to be a lettuce, sir, please.”

  “Permission refused,” said his father.

  “Carry on, sergeant-major,” said Tom, and went to lie on his bunk.

  Through the partition wall he could hear the television commentary, and a few feet away Jan and his father were discussing salad. “Boston Crab and Cold Lobster do not mix,” he wrote in his Physics notebook.

  He took from behind the pillow a pair of army headphones which he had padded with rubber. He clipped the cans over his head, and was private again. Jan and his father made the rest of the salad, and he watched them as if they were in an aquarium. On the caravan wall, framed, were his great-grandfather’s war medals, and beneath them his grandfather’s. His father’s uniform hung, ready for duty, the one ribbon, for Long Service and Good Conduct, clean, new, crimson and silver.

  He felt his mother pass by from the lounge and saw her go into the kitchen to fry herself some bacon. The smell came through the silence. Then Jan was with him, smiling, reaching out her hand. He took off the cans and entered the aquarium.

  “Single-leg Boston in the last round,” his mother said. “After two Public Warnings.”

  “So long as the damage is done, warnings don’t count,” said his father.

  The lobster lay dismembered in a bed of lettuce. “Seems a pity to spoil it,” said Jan.

  “Ask the lobster,” said Tom, and filled his plate.

  Tom’s mother cut off the bacon rind and ate it. “The nights are drawing in.”

  “As Thomas à Becket said to the actress.”

  Jan spluttered.

  “You what?” said his mother.

  “How’s the dressing?” said Tom’s father.

  “Delicious,” said Jan.

  “Let’s see how you do with the wine, then. I’ve a poser for you this week.”

  “You wily warrant-officer,” said Tom. “You’ve decanted it.”

  “All’s fair in love and war. Couldn’t have you seeing the bottle, could we?”

  He poured the green-white wine for Tom and Jan. Tom’s mother put the kettle on the stove to make herself some tea. “Never stake money on a bet with this man,” said Tom. “He waited till we’d had the dressing.”

  “That’s your manky palate, lad. The dressing and the wine have to balance. There’s the art.”

  “It’s a Moselle,” said Jan. “Very fresh. Last year’s, I think.”

  Tom’s father stared. “How did you know? Come off it: that wasn’t a guess.”

  “I was au pair for a grower at Easter,” said Jan. “Moselle.”

  “Ay, you can’t win ’em all. Lovely wine, though, isn’t it? The only good thing to come out of Germany.”

  “What about the iron crosses hanging with the medals?” said Tom.

  “They weren’t from walking-wounded, I can tell you.”

  “Swapped for a packet of fags?”

  “Hand to hand. Them or us. That’s our mob.”

  Tom turned to Jan. “We don’t count that. You’d been there— What’s the matter?”

  Jan stumbled from the chair, her handkerchief at her mouth.

  “Not the bog!” Tom shouted after her. “I’ve not emptied it this week!”

  Jan threw the door open and was sick into the bracken.

  “So much for your fancy teas,” said Tom’s mother. “Well, it had to show sooner or later.”

  Jan came back into the caravan. “Sorry,” she said. “Do you think I could have a glass of water?”

  “Sit down,” said Tom’s father. “I’ll get it.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Here you are.”

  “Do you mind if I take it outside? I want to rinse my mouth.”

  “Not before time,” said Tom’s mother.

  Tom followed Jan out to the steps and put his anorak round her. She was shivering. He went down the steps and turned the leaf mould over with a spade.

  “One of the benefits of the rural life,” he said. He came back to her. “What’s up, apart from the lobster?”

  “Sea food gets me sometimes.”

  “Indeed.”

  She shrugged. “I’m fine now.”

  “At least you’re human. I thought you weren’t bothered by next week.”

  “I’m bothered, all right.”

  Tom’s father was finishing the meal, but his mother had taken her tea through to the lounge.

  “Better?”

  “Thanks. It sometimes gets me.”

  “You should’ve said. Can I make you anything?”

  “A piece of bread will do fine.”

  “Moselle?”

  “I’d rather not. Sorry. It was a lovely meal.”

  “Moselle’s good for an upset stomach.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Your colour’s back.”

  “I’ll finish your wine,” said Tom.

  “Show it a little respect,” said his father. “It’s not lemonade.”

  “To the glorious dead German grape.” Tom raised his glass.

  “Cider’s the worst,” said his father.

  Tom and Jan cleared the table.

  “You feel it in your bones next day. Soon as you drink anything—tea, milk, water—you’re as stoned as when you began. Wicked.”

  “Courting time,” said Jan. “All ancients into the lounge.”

  “Ay, well,” said Tom’s father. “Think on.” He closed the kitchen door after him.

  Tom poured the last of the wine. He hid his face in Jan’s hair. She stepped away.

  “What’s wrong now?”

  “I don’t like the smell of drink,” she said.

  “Have some, then you won’t notice.” She shook her head. “Your loss.” He emptied the glass.

  “Let’s wash up.” Jan pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and ran hot water into the sink. Tom picked up a towel.

  “There’s something bothering your father. He wasn’t himself.”

  “Wasn’t he? Look, I’ve worked it all out. On your pay, and what I can scro
unge, we should just about be able to meet, say, every month. Crewe.”

  “Why not come here? It’s not that much further.”

  “Crewe’s quicker, and we shan’t waste time we could spend together. No privacy here. We couldn’t talk. If you make it Saturdays, the shops’ll be open, and it’ll be warm.”

  “I’ve never felt romantic in Crewe.”

  “You will. It’ll be the most fabulous town on earth.”

  Jan gave him a plate to dry. “Fantastic,” she said.

  The kitchen door opened, and Tom’s father appeared.

  “Er.”

  “Yes?” said Tom.

  “My glasses.”

  “By the telly?” said Jan.

  “Oh. Feeling better?”

  “Right as rain.”

  “Good.” He went out.

  “There’s definitely something wrong,” said Jan. “He’s embarrassed. And listen: they’re arguing.”

  “When aren’t they? I’m sorry I panicked at the motorway. We’ll be OK.—I wonder why rain is always right.”

  “Didn’t you see him?”

  “No. We’ll be OK in Crewe. You can get a cheap day-return.”

  “Listen!” She held his shoulders. Warmth seeped through and bubbles rainbowed his shirt.

  “You’re wonderful,” he said. “Your eyes are like poached eggs.”

  “Tom, listen. Something’s wrong— What did you say?”

  “Poached eggs. Round and meaningful. I cherish them.”

  Jan laughed and wept onto his chest, hugging him. “You lovely bloody idiot. What am I going to do?”

  “Don’t swear. It demeans you. Poached isn’t the same as hard-boiled. I love your face.”

  “I love you.”

  The kitchen door opened. Tom’s mother stood with uninterrupted vision. His father was with her.

  “Is there no privacy in this camp coffin?” said Tom.

  “Your mother and I would like a word with you. Both of you.”

  “Why?”

  “In the lounge.”

  “It’s Sunday, sergeant-major. We have the kitchen, and you have the lounge.”

  Jan led the way to the other end of the caravan. Tom’s father turned off the volume control on the television.

  “It must be serious,” said Tom.

  “Shut up,” said Jan.

  “Sit down: will you—please? On the divan.”

  They sat. Tom’s father went to the window and peered out, half facing the room, his hands behind his back. “Stand easy,” said Tom. His mother lodged one buttock on the arm of a chair, swinging her foot.

  “I want to ask—”

  “What?”

  “I want to ask you and Jan—”

  “What?”

  “It’s written all over you,” said his mother.

  “Your mother and I—would like to know whether you’ve anything to tell us.”

  “What’s your problem?” Tom reached out his hand for Jan. She took it.

  “We think—”

  “Both of you?”

  “Don’t,” said Jan.

  “I’m trying to be useful,” said Tom.

  “Like hell.”

  “Watch that tongue of yours!” said Tom’s mother.

  “She’d look pretty silly if she did.”

  “Stop arsing around,” Jan whispered.

  “I heard that!”

  “Let’s try again,” his father said.

  Tom opened his mouth, but Jan kicked him.

  “Your mother and I. We wondered if you’d had any occasion to do anything to make us ashamed of you.”

  Tom stared at the muted commercials on the television screen. I’m wearing my cans. Please, I’m wearing my cans.

  “Well?”

  “Would you care to rephrase the question in English?”

  “You heard me.” His father was shouting: he could see him.

  “Yes. We have.”

  “What did I tell you?” said his mother.

  “What did she?”

  A silent boy poured cornflakes silently into a bowl of light, and smiled.

  “When?” said Tom’s father. “When did you?”

  “When did we what? Look, sergeant-major, I’ve a pile of work to get through tonight—”

  “When did you have occasion—”

  “—to make you ashamed of us? Last Saturday.”

  “What?”

  “We went by bus to Sandbach without paying.”

  “What’s eating them?” Jan said to Tom in Russian.

  Tom stood up. He was shaking. There were no cans. He spoke clearly.

  “My parents are trying to articulate—or, more accurately, my prurient mother is forcing my weak father to discover on her behalf, where, when, and preferably how, we, that is, you and I, have expressed ourselves through sexual intercourse, one with the other. Am I not right? Daddy?”

  His father grasped the side seams of his trousers, rocked as if he would fall.

  “What did I tell you?”

  “Yes, what did she tell you?”

  His father steadied himself. “We’ve had complaints.”

  “Complaints?”

  “Reports.”

  “Reports?”

  “Yes.”

  “From whom?”

  “Neighbours.”

  “May we know their names?”

  “Never mind who,” said his mother. “We’ve heard and seen. You two: always walking wrapped round each other: kissing and that.”

  “Kissing and what?”

  “And—that.”

  Cans.

  “And the time you spend in that house alone. Do her parents know?”

  “Of course,” said Jan.

  “Then they ought to know better.”

  “Than what?”

  “Than to let you get up to things in their own home.”

  “It’s the only,” screamed Tom, “place I could ever work without your clattering: drivelling: the weather! The only—keep books clean! Jan first ever,” his eyes were shut, “see anything. anything in me. worth. anything.” He rammed the backs of his fists into his face, dragging his eyes open.

  “I do not propose to discuss our relationship, or matters appertaining to it, beyond that statement. I will be private, sergeant-major. I will be private sergeant-major—” He meant to laugh, but the trembling reached his throat. He stood, his father’s size, broken.

  “You great wet Nelly,” said his father. “You’re as much use as a chocolate teapot.”

  “Is Tom right?” said Jan. “Is that why you’ve done it?”

  “What can’t speak can’t lie,” said his mother. “I can read that one like a book.”

  “You cow. You think we’ve been having it off together, don’t you?”

  “I’ve told you to watch your filthy tongue, young woman.”

  “You’re afraid,” said Jan. “Afraid we’re doing what you did when you had the chance. And what if we have? Who are you to preach? I bet you’ve flattened some grass in your time.”

  Tom ran from the room.

  “That’s no way to speak.”

  “Sorry, sergeant-major. Will you excuse me? I must see how Tom is after your achievement.”

  “I knew what you were the moment I set eyes on you,” said Tom’s mother. “I felt a shiver right down my spine. And our boy. See what you’ve done to him. Standing there, crying his heart out. Couldn’t look his own mother in the face. Couldn’t deny it: not even his fancy words could get round that one.”

  “Oh, piss off, you,” said Jan, and slammed the door.

  She found Tom leaning across the sink, his head on his arms against the window glass. The sobbing came from his stomach, shook the caravan. His sleeve had dragged a clean line through the condensation, and his giant shadow was on the wood outside, like a hole in space among the white birches.

  Jan put her arms round him, stroked, kissed, “It’s all right, it’s all right,” but the spasms of his weeping shook her, wou
ld not be subdued.

  “How dare they—?”

  “Hush, love, it’s all right.” Both taps of the sink had been twisted out of shape, but Tom’s hands were not marked. “It’s all right; I’m here.”

  “How dare they try—how dare they—how dare they try to—?” He pressed his open palms against the window gently, relentlessly, so that it broke without shattering, and the glass collapsed only when he moved his hands.

  “Tom!”

  He held the fragments like crushed ice. Shallow, pale lines crazed his skin. He felt nothing.

  The hard, smooth terror was in him. He saw the birches carved, bent to shapes that were not trees but men, animals, and the hardness and the terror were blue and silver on the edge of vision. He opened his cloak, and Logan saw him strike at the guard with something smooth held between his hands. The guard fell, and Macey jumped from the road to the ditch.

  “Follow the kid!” shouted Logan. “Move!”

  They drove for the wood. Logan snatched the rein of a pack mule. The air thrummed and hissed arrows. The mule’s baggage was a shield, but Logan stumbled over men on the open ground.

  Macey was behind a birch, wiping his hands on rags, wrapping, thrusting the rags under his cloak.

  “Come on, kid!”

  “No,” said Macey. “Stop. And the others.”

  “Move!”

  “No.”

  The guards were still on the road. They had not followed.

  Macey went to the edge of the trees. “This,” he called across the ditch, “for all men, in the name of the keeper of the place.”

  “Don’t push it,” said Logan.

  “They won’t touch sanctuary,” said Buzzard.

  Logan looked about him at the worked trees. “Where are we?”

  “Rudheath.”

  “It’s a Cats’ sanctuary,” said Face.

  “And Cats is allies,” said Magoo.

  “The country’s federation ground hereabouts,” said Buzzard.

  “Federation ballocks,” said Magoo. “Cats is Cats.”

  “I don’t trust nobody past Crewe,” said Logan. “Get further into the wood.”

  They retreated until the guards and the road were lost.

  “How good’s this sanctuary?” said Logan.

  “Depends how the Cats rate it,” said Face, “and what they figure the army’ll pay to get us back.”

  “The road must’ve clipped the sanctuary,” said Buzzard. “Reckon the army won’t be too popular.”

  “We need hardware,” said Magoo. “Ain’t nothing on the mule.”