Always the Sun

by Neil Cross

  In the evenings, when their waking moments intersected, Sam and Diane prepared a meal and sat together, watching television while Justine gibbered and dribbled and shrieked in her wheelchair. Weekday mornings, they prepared Jamie for school and tried hard to pretend this was normal life. On Friday afternoons, Diane took sole responsibility for Justine. Sam spent those few hours in a curious blank. He sat in empty cinemas and watched films whose plot he was unable to follow.

  Privately, each of them dreamt of an ultimate flicker of clarity. Justine would fall silent. An expression of saintly peace would settle her wracked features. She would whisper: Sam, or Mum, or Jamie: I love you.

  But no such moment came, and the disease that devoured Justine eventually vanquished Sam and Diane too. One day, Jamie came home from school to find his mother gone. Diane and Sam had worked hard to prepare a speech for him. Sam would tell him that Mummy was in hospital, where properly trained nurses would look after her, keeping her safe and comfortable. And although she was very, very ill, she was still his mum and she loved him very much. He could visit her any time he wanted.

  Jamie took one long, acute look at his exhausted, baggy-eyed father and grandmother. Then he dumped his schoolbag in the middle of the floor and went to make himself a crisp sandwich.

  Diane stayed another week. She and Sam went through Justine’s effects with an efficiency that resembled malice.

  The evening that Diane returned to Bath, Jamie cooked the supper. He’d learnt in Food Science how to do lasagne. It took a long time and the result was nearly inedible, but Sam ate three portions, nevertheless, and a green-leaf salad whose dressing Jamie made himself, adding vinegar to olive oil and flourishing the bottle like a cocktail shaker.

  Jamie never saw his mother again. Soon after entering the hospice, Justine contracted the viral pneumonia from which she did not recover.

  Sam didn’t have to break the news. On his way home from school, Jamie saw Diane’s Volvo parked outside the flat and guessed. From politeness, he hugged Diane and assured her that yes, he would be a brave boy.

  Jamie didn’t go to the funeral. That was the worst argument he and Sam ever had, except only Sam was arguing. Jamie’s detachment bordered on the autistic. He looked at his ranting, weeping father with gentle but utter lack of comprehension, as if Sam might be rehearsing a play in Latin. He sat there and absorbed without recoil everything Sam pitched at him, including threats of violence. When Sam’s ire was exhausted, Jamie returned his attention to the GameBoy.

  Sam recalled the infuriating, circular trilling of the game’s melody. He thought the meaningless sound might drive him insane. Jamie’s lack of response was dreamlike and claustrophobic.

  Sam walked out of the flat, slamming the door behind him.

  It was late winter, and he didn’t stop to pick up his jacket. The air was cold and filthy, a particulate miasma. He wanted to punch someone, but the hordes of Hackney flowed by, without anyone meeting his eye. He went into a brightly-lit corner shop and bought a pack of Marlboro Lights. He bitterly enjoyed the absurdity that, after everything, it should take an argument with a child to drive him back to cigarettes.

  Shivering in his shirtsleeves, he sat on a much-vandalized municipal park bench. He watched the traffic and the buses and the people. He chainsmoked half the pack of Marlboro, then walked home.

  He found Jamie on the sofa, watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The GameBoy was discarded on the cushion alongside him. Neither he nor Sam mentioned the argument, and Jamie got his way: on the morning of the funeral, he was collected by Diane’s neighbours, who’d driven all the way especially, and taken for a day out.

  Sam barely knew the neighbours. They’d been guests at the wedding, and over the years they’d exchanged pleasantries at various Christmas parties and midsummer barbecues. But they’d known Justine since she was four years old and Sam was touched by the quiet modesty of their desire to help.

  They had mapped a full day’s itinerary. Jamie would not be allowed an instant in which to become bored or reflective. Sam watched from the window as they drove him away. He could see him, tiny and regally serene, perched on the back seat of the Astra estate.

  Sam didn’t know how to get through the day without him.

  He barely remembered the funeral. At the wake, he was officiously anxious for everybody’s comfort. For the first time since Jamie’s christening, he hugged Diane. She hugged him back, and that was the moment when he thought he might break, crazing into pieces like a cheap vase. He allowed Justine’s sister to sob on his shoulder. He said ‘There, there.’ He smiled tightly at her husband, whom he knew to have had a number of extramarital affairs, and whom he very much disliked.

  By the time Jamie came home, everybody had gone. Sam was alone among the paper plates and uneaten sausage rolls. He was lying on the sofa. The new shoes had worn his black socks translucent at the heel.

  Jamie was wearing his Walkman. Sam could hear the rapid, tinny sibilance of sequenced hi-hats. Jamie stomped through to the kitchen and began opening and closing cupboards. He returned with a plate of chocolate HobNobs and a can of Dr Pepper.

  He swept Sam’s feet from the sofa and sat.

  He looked at the TV.

  He said, ‘Are you watching this?’

  Sam wiped his eyes.

  ‘Not really.’

  Jamie flicked over to Sky 1. They watched The Simpsons. Terrified and exhilarated, Homer sailed over Springfield canyon on Bart’s skateboard. He almost made it to the other side. But he fell at the last, as Homer always did.

  ‘Can I watch Die Hard 2?’

  Sam sat up. Jamie was shaking his shoulder. He had fallen asleep. He wiped his lips. Ran a hand through his tangled hair.

  ‘Of course you can. Go on.’

  At the end, they both cheered.

  A week after the funeral, Sam woke to find Jamie asleep on the floor at the foot of his bed.

  He knew he should return him to his own room. Instead, he lifted Jamie and laid him in the bed, on Justine’s side. The presence of his sleeping, delicate son filled him with a tenderness that blunted the jagged edge of his grief. Sometimes Jamie whimpered in his sleep and thrashed his limbs. Twice he wet the bed: Sam was woken by a warm jet of urine on his lower back and thighs. Jamie, still sleeping, turned his back and curled foetally at the cool, dry edge of the mattress. Sam chuckled, quietly and fondly, and never mentioned it.

  The further Justine’s death receded, the harder it grew to mention it. In those strange days, Sam and Jamie wandered like spectres within decreasing boundaries. London lost all meaning. The edges of their territory drew together like a drawstring purse, until it was defined by a few Hackney streets and convenience stores. The flat was no longer the place where they’d once been happy. It was simply a place where terrible things had happened, long ago and to other people. It had a dusty, museum feel. It became dirty as well as disordered. They stopped washing up. They ate off paper plates. The curtains were seldom opened. There were mice, and a urinous cockroach stink in the kitchen. At night, wrapped tight in a greying white duvet, Sam imagined the skittering of tiny claws. He dreamt of a tangled rat-king hidden among the decaying mementoes of their dear, dead days.

  Early in March, Diane arrived to visit them. Pointedly, she opened all the windows, letting in the winter cold. Sam remembered that he’d not washed the sheets for many weeks, not even after Jamie had pissed on them. He supposed they smelt like a zoo, two helpless mooncalves locked away with the windows and curtains forever drawn on the world. Sometimes Sam forgot how old Jamie was. Sometimes he seemed as flawless and innocent as a toddler; at others, as clumsy, angular and raw-boned as an adolescent.

  He told Diane that he’d resigned his job.

  Her mouth pursed, lipstick-bled at the edges.

  She said, ‘It’s too late to fall to pieces now, Sam. You got through the hard part. Now look at you.
Has Jamie been going to school?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Have you been doing the laundry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How often?’

  ‘Diane, I don’t know. But I’ve been doing it.’

  She wrinkled her nose. Once, it might have been endearing, even sexy.

  ‘Sam,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry to say it. But you smell, darling.’

  Surreptitiously, he sniffed at his armpits. He smelt sour and yellow, vaguely feline. He ran his hands through his hair.

  He said, ‘Oh Christ, Diane. Please.’

  ‘Don’t please me,’ she said. ‘You’re not a student. You have responsibilities to that child.’

  ‘Di, he’s fine.’

  ‘Living in this?’

  He looked around him.

  ‘Who makes his breakfast?’ she said.

  ‘He’s nearly a teenager, for Christ’s sake. He needs some independence.’

  ‘He’s a child, and he needs supervision. Do you make his breakfast?’

  ‘He made his own this morning.’

  ‘What did he have?’

  ‘I don’t know. Cereal. Eggs or something.’

  ‘And do you have fresh milk and eggs? A loaf of bread?’

  He closed his eyes, massaged his forehead.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said vaguely. ‘We went—I did the shopping. A few days ago.’

  She crossed her arms.

  ‘Gather your things.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Throw some clothes in a suitcase. And some of Jamie’s. You’re coming back to spend some time with me.’

  ‘I can’t. He’s got school.’

  ‘It’s practically half-term. A few days off won’t hurt him.’ She looked eloquently around herself. ‘Quite the contrary.’

  By the time Jamie came home, his shirt untucked and one lace trailing, Diane had cleaned the kitchen and the bathroom and made inroads into the sitting room. According to her instruction, Sam had shifted as many of the boxes and crates as possible into Jamie’s room.

  ‘Hello, Grandma,’ said Jamie.

  ‘Hello, darling.’ In rubber gloves and pinafore, she gave him a quick hug.

  ‘All right, Dad?’

  ‘All right, mate.’

  Jamie dumped his weight on to the sofa and dug the GameBoy from his bag.

  Sam looked at him. His blazer was too small. The shirt was yellowish, missing a couple of buttons. His trousers were nearly through at the knees and one of his trainers was split along the insole. His hair needed cutting.

  Sam lit a cigarette.

  ‘We’re going to spend a few days at Grandma’s,’ he said.

  Jamie looked up. ‘Cool,’ he said, without inflection, and returned to his game.

  Diane’s house, white and well-appointed, backed on to farmland.

  Sam woke to the sound of sheep and cattle. He was in a clean room, in crisp bedding. It had been Justine’s childhood bedroom, the room they stayed in when they came to visit. They’d had sex there, on the single bed, many times before Jamie was born. He endured a desolate erection at the memory.

  It was a guest bedroom now. He lay for a while, enjoying the spring sunshine through the curtains. His skin was still faintly scented with last night’s shower. Just inside the bedroom door was a plastic laundry basket, full of freshly washed and pressed clothing. Diane had probably been up since before dawn.

  He pulled on a fragrant, white dressing-gown and padded downstairs. In the big, bright kitchen, Jamie sat in football shorts and T-shirt, reading the comic section of the previous week’s Sunday Times. Diane was in the garden, hanging out more washing. Sam looked without embarrassment at his underwear swinging on the line.

  He put the kettle on, made himself a cup of tea and Diane an instant coffee, the way she liked it: half-water, half-milk, cooked in the microwave.

  She came in and wished him a brisk, busy good morning. The microwave pinged before he could answer; he took out the hot mug and handed it to her. She thanked him graciously and offered him a biscuit. He said no thank you.

  ‘Diane,’ he said, ‘I’ve had an idea. Tell me what you think.’

  She set the coffee down and crossed her arms.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘I’m thinking of leaving London.’

  He waited for a response.

  ‘What do you think?’ he said.

  ‘I think it’s an excellent idea. Where will you go?’

  ‘Home.’

  She knew he didn’t mean Bath, and he was surprised to see that, on some level, this hurt her. She masked it well. She took a small, scalding sip from the coffee.

  ‘It’ll do you both the world of good,’ she said.

  After buying the house on Balaarat Street, Sam and Jamie returned to Hackney. Sam carried a single, borrowed suitcase full of clean clothing. Neither of them was pleased to be back in London. They found it difficult to believe they’d become accustomed to negotiating teetering piles of dusty boxes in the half-lit hallway. The disorganization in the living room had become intolerable, boxes piled on crates piled on more boxes. As the leaving day approached, there was no tug of nostalgia. Moving would be like leaving prison; like drawing a breath of clean, country air.

  A few days before they left for their new house in a new town, Sam phoned out for Chinese food. They watched a video and ate Chicken Chow Mein. Shadowy henges of cardboard loomed behind them and in the edges of their vision; seemed to lean into their conversation.

  Sam offered to throw Jamie a leaving party.

  Jamie lowered his head and shovelled Chow Mein into his mouth.

  ‘Nah,’ he said.

  ‘Why not? Don’t you want to say goodbye to everyone?’

  ‘Done it.’

  ‘What? All of them?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘When?’

  Another shrug. Another mouthful of Chow Mein.

  ‘You know.’

  ‘What? Even Danny?’

  ‘Danny’s in California. With his dad. Disneyworld or something.’

  Jamie made a face.

  ‘Oh,’ said Sam. ‘Right. What about that Nicola?’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Jamie.

  ‘Who’s being stupid? I thought you were friends.’

  ‘No way. I hate her.’

  ‘You didn’t used to hate her.’

  ‘Dad. Grow up.’

  Sam hid his smile with a forkful of Chow Mein.

  They loaded the hire van on a scorched, suffocating London morning. Jamie insisted on shifting a number of boxes that were too heavy for him, accepting no offer of assistance. He tugged and levered them precariously downstairs, one corner at a time, bracing himself against the wall. He dragged them down the communal hallway.

  By the time Sam nosed the van into the London traffic, Jamie’s eyes were heavy and drooping. He was asleep when they reached the North Circular. At the lights, Sam fiddled with the radio, tuning from Radio 1 to Radio 4.

  He’d never driven a high-sided van before. He wasn’t comfortable taking it on the motorway, particularly since its bodywork bore the disheartening dents and scars of previous collisions. Instead, he took an indirect route of B-roads and dual carriageways, which extended their journey by a third. They arrived at the house on Balaarat Street late in the afternoon. By now, Jamie was awake and eating a bag of wine gums, three at a time. Sam parked carefully. He didn’t want to prang any of his new neighbours’ cars. He noticed that a yellow mini-skip was still standing on the corner with Magpie Avenue. He clicked his tongue against his palate, irritably.

  After racing each other from the van, they saw that Mel was waiting for them. She sat on the concrete doorstep, smoking a cigarette and re
ading a Daily Mirror, three of whose corners she’d weighed down with a disposable lighter, a pack of Silk Cut and a small pebble. The fourth corner flapped occasionally, like a dying bird. Mel looked up, shielded her eyes with her hand. She smiled and waved.

  Sam thought of a photograph, as if this moment were already a memory of lost times.

  He rolled his head on tired shoulders, then he jingled the van keys in his palm and walked through the green gate. It was no longer rusty, but it still squeaked. He made a mental note to buy some WD4O. The front lawn had yet to be laid; the turned black earth was laced with glistening slug-trails.

  Mel stood to greet him. They hugged. Sensitive to the fact that Jamie might not wish to be embraced by his auntie in public, Mel batted the crown of his head twice with the rolled-up newspaper, then whacked him on the bony arse with it.

  She linked an arm through Sam’s. With the other, she reached out and pushed open the front door.

  She said, ‘Welcome home.’

  The house smelt of sawdust and varnish: new smells. The floorboards had been stripped and sealed, the walls painted. The banister had been replaced and the stairs repaired. Mel walked to the kitchen: the same, echoing footfalls, full of potential: a space waiting to be filled. She put the kettle on to boil, brought along from her own kitchen that morning.

  The kitchen was newly fitted—pearwood and porcelain, brushed aluminium and slate. There was a breakfast bar, faced with four high stools. Looking at it, Sam was saddened to think of the remnants of their previous life, still packed in the van: their cheap, tarnished cutlery, the tea stains, the dried yolk set fast between misaligned tines.

  ‘Well,’ said Mel. ‘What do you think?’

  He was surprised to find that Mel’s pride for a job well done touched him. He gave her another hug, longer this time. She smelt of grapefruit soap and hair conditioner and washing powder and cigarettes: unchanging and comforting.

  She disengaged from the hug.

  ‘Cheer up,’ she said, and nodded stealthily in Jamie’s direction.

  Jamie was opening and closing empty cupboards. With the pointy tip of his tongue, he tasted the trace of sawdust that adhered to the whorl of fingerprint. He opened the fridge and looked inside. It was empty and spotless. He put his head in and said, ‘Hello hello hello.’