Men from the Boys

by Tony Parsons

  ‘It’s all fine apart from the time,’ he said. ‘Could we make – ?’

  ‘No, we couldn’t,’ I said. I looked at Joni’s Wendy House. The door had swung open in the night and some dead leaves had blown inside. I began kicking them out. ‘You called me, remember?’ I told the guy, the Peter guy. ‘Can you do it or not?’

  A beat of silence.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will see you there.’

  ‘And come unarmed and alone,’ I said. ‘Or your girlfriend will never see you again.’ More silence. ‘Just kidding,’ I said, and I hung up on the creep.

  Then I went back inside the house, where my wife was waiting for me with the mail.

  Pat was standing at the bus stop on the Tottenham Court Road.

  There were other kids there, but none of them were wearing the uniform of Ramsay Mac. It was quite a hike he had to do every morning.

  ‘Hey,’ I said, reaching across to open the passenger door. He slid inside, the rucksack between his long, coltish legs. He got those from his mother. He half-smiled and dipped his head. I stuck the car in gear and laughed.

  ‘I was just passing,’ I said.

  ‘Just passing?’ he said. He looked as though he hadn’t combed his hair. I felt like hugging him, but instead I just pointed the car north and turned on the radio.

  ‘Yeah, I had a breakfast meeting. It went very well. Marty and I have a lot of projects we’re excited about. These people – the people we saw for breakfast – they seemed pretty interested.’

  He touched the wrist where a watch should have gone.

  ‘It must have been a very early breakfast,’ he said, seeing right through me.

  I glanced at him. ‘What’s this?’ I said. ‘The Lateral Thinking Club in action? It was coffee more than breakfast, smart arse. Aren’t you happy to have your old dad drive you to school?’

  ‘Sure,’ he said, and he smiled, leaning back with a sigh. It was a drag catching that bus every day. He was way outside the catchment area.

  The traffic was very light. I was driving against the big commute to the city. And still early. We passed the Abbey Road Studio in St John’s Wood and there were no tourists walking across the zebra crossing, pretending to be John, Paul, George and Ringo. That’s how early it was.

  ‘So how’s it going?’ I said, one of those meaningless parental questions that usually provoke a non-committal grunt. But Pat’s slow, shy smile began spreading across his beautiful face. And he was still beautiful. Even now, with a lone spot on his forehead and a few white whiskers on his upper lip. He was still my beautiful boy.

  ‘I made the team,’ he said. ‘The Ramsay Mac football team.’

  I began pounding my steering wheel with joy. I whooped. I slapped his thigh. He shouted out in protest, but he was laughing too.

  ‘I knew you would,’ I said. ‘I knew you could.’

  And then he was off – telling me how the usual first team goalkeeper tore a cruciate ligament on a skiing trip, and that had given Pat the chance that he had been waiting for. And I nodded enthusiastically, asking him the odd question – the date of the next fixture, if he was all right for boots and gloves, all that stuff – but mostly just letting him talk. And that lasted all the way to the gates of Ramsay Mac.

  ‘Thanks for the ride,’ he said, and I got out of the car with him. We stood facing each other and the blue blazers swirled around us. I knew I was not allowed to embrace him. I wasn’t that stupid. But I loved him so much.

  ‘I’m proud of you, kiddo,’ I said. ‘You made it in the end.’

  He shrugged, the hair tumbling over his eyes. But he pushed it back with a grin. ‘Just one game,’ he said. ‘There’s someone else the coach is looking at.’

  A couple of big lads brushed by. One of them caught Pat with his shoulder and knocked him sideways. My boy was tall but a strong wind could blow him away.

  ‘Hey,’ said the big lad, and I saw it was William Fly. He had a six o’clock shadow at eight thirty in the morning. ‘Watch where you’re going, Sick Note,’ he said.

  Sick Note? Is that what they called him? Because he had been sick? They gave him that name? I stared at William Fly, but I knew I was not allowed to say anything. The other lad – it was Spud Face – was chuckling away as though Fly was a comic genius. And I saw now that they were not both big lads. Only William Fly. Spud Face was the kind of little weasel who becomes big by association.

  And I sized up this William Fly. Despite his freakish bulk, and the bluebeard stain on his chops, he was nothing special. There was one just like him in every school in the country. And hanging around every strip of shops, and in every playground, and in every park. They all had their William Fly.

  We watched them go. Maybe ten seconds had passed. But it felt like the world had changed. Pat brushed at his blazer and did not look at me. And my rage knew no bounds. I was even angry with him.

  ‘Stand up for yourself,’ I said. ‘Can’t you do that?’

  He shook his head. ‘Stand up for myself?’ he said, and he laughed, but the sound of the laughter was different now.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘When they call you names. When they bang into you. Just stand up to them.’

  Pat picked up his rucksack and swung it on his back. ‘What do you expect me to do?’ he said. ‘Beat them up?’

  I took a step closer to him. I didn’t want to make a scene. Kids were looking at us. But this mattered to me. I found that this mattered to me more than anything.

  ‘Just stand up for yourself,’ I said.

  ‘But I’m not a tough guy,’ my son said, and the bell began to ring. ‘That’s Granddad. That’s Clint Eastwood. It might even be you. But it’s not me, and it never will be.’

  He walked away. I watched him go. I was still standing there when I saw the tears come and the boy making every effort to fight them back. Angry with me and angry with the wicked world. But angry with the tears most of all.

  ‘And I don’t need a lift in the morning,’ he said. ‘I can get the bus, thank you very much.’

  Thank you very much.

  It was the thank-you-very-much that killed me.

  I spotted him as soon as he came through the door.

  He was tall, and looked like he worked out, but the glasses softened the effect. He was dressed for the office, suited and booted under a winter coat, but not wearing a tie. He looked like he probably had one in his pocket.

  Peter.

  For a few seconds I did nothing, just watched him, tempted to leave without talking to him. But then he was looking at me, sitting by myself at a table in the back, and raising his paper in acknowledgement. He came across and I stood up as we shook hands.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said, but then we had to pause as a waitress appeared. He ordered his complicated coffee and then held his hand out to me, as if he was an attentive host. I shook my head and sipped my tea. The waiter went away and Peter laid the palms of his hands on the table. He was ready to call the meeting to order. I grinned stupidly at him, wondering what would happen if I flung my English Breakfast Tea in his face.

  ‘It has not been easy for Gina,’ he said. ‘Having her son – having Pat – move in. Attempting to establish a relationship.’ He looked at me meaningfully. ‘Not easy.’

  I laughed. ‘Gina’s not my problem,’ I said. ‘Not any more. I just care about my boy.’

  Peter looked as though he was seeing me for the first time. ‘But you care about Gina? Presumably. You want her to be happy…’

  I thought about it. Do we want our old loves to be happy? Do we really?

  ‘I guess so,’ I said, and then I smiled. ‘But not too happy, of course.’

  He wasn’t smiling. This wasn’t going how he had planned. ‘She told me about you,’ he said.

  I nodded. ‘I bet she did.’

  ‘She struggled for years to find happiness after your marriage broke up,’ he said. ‘Obviously I only hear her side of events. But as I understand it, you were the one who wa
s unfaithful in that relationship. She was never anything less than a loyal, loving wife.’

  He had wiped the smile off my face. Good for you, I thought, and then came the first flash of real anger. Who was this guy anyway?

  ‘I don’t want to be rude,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’ he said.

  ‘But what do you want?’ I said.

  ‘Just to talk,’ he said, holding up his hands. ‘Just to have a quick word, mate.’

  I laughed at that. ‘I’m not your mate.’

  He shook his head. ‘Why are you so hostile to me? Because I have a relationship with your ex-wife? Because she has introduced me to your son?’

  I had an image of him strolling around the kitchen in the morning, all bleary-eyed from Gina’s bed, and my son packing his rucksack for school.

  ‘I think you’re a prince,’ I said. ‘A fucking prince, all right?’

  He leaned forward. I sipped my tea. It was tepid now. I drank it anyway. But I preferred it when it was so hot that it scalded my throat.

  ‘I just want you to please try to be a little more understanding,’ he said. ‘Gina has so many issues she is working through.’

  ‘Issues? What are you? Her shrink?’

  ‘Do you have something against therapy?’ he snapped. ‘Because I think it would be a very good idea for Gina.’ The waitress brought his complicated coffee. He did not say thank you. He did not even look at her. I hate it when people treat waitresses like that. ‘And Pat, too,’ he added.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with my son,’ I said, and he chuckled, and I felt like breaking his neck.

  ‘Both Gina and Pat have serious abandonment issues,’ he said.

  ‘Then she shouldn’t have abandoned him, should she? She shouldn’t have wasted so many years trying to find fulfilment – or whatever the crap expression is this week.’ He waited. I went on. A bit more slow and measured now. Harry Silver – the voice of reason. ‘After the marriage came apart – and, yes, I carry the can for that – there was always something more important than our little boy. Japan. Career. The latest guy. Some guy who looked a lot like you.’

  I must have raised my voice towards the end there, because people were starting to stare at us.

  ‘Can we be polite?’ Peter asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Can we? You call me at home and ask me to meet you, and then you sit there talking in your soft, reasonable voice about Gina and Pat as if you know them better than I ever will. Can we be polite, Peter? I don’t think so.’

  ‘I just want you to understand what Gina is going through,’ he said. ‘I would appreciate it if you could be a bit more understanding. I know how much it upsets her when you argue.’

  ‘Poor thing.’

  ‘Yes,’ he hissed, and I saw that I had got to him. Somewhere deep inside – beyond the sensitive specs and the business suit – there was a temper wanting to get out. ‘You’re right. Poor thing. Abandoned by her father when she was a little girl. And then her husband cheats on her because he is having some pathetic, premature mid-life crisis.’

  I grinned at him. ‘Keep going. You’re doing good.’

  He pushed his coffee cup aside. ‘Look, I don’t actually care about you. Or your son.’

  I nodded. I put down my teacup. ‘Okay,’ I said.

  ‘But I love Gina and I want her to be happy. Your son is clearly a very troubled boy – ’

  That’s when I reached across the table and grabbed him by the collar of his open-necked shirt. A tie would have made it easier. But I got a good fistful of blue-and-white striped cotton from Paul Smith. There was a crash as something hit the floor. A milk jug. We were both on our feet, our chairs scraping back and everybody staring now. I didn’t let go.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘All right now.’

  I could feel my anger for him closing my throat. The feeling was a black, bitter chunk that made speech impossible. I wanted to tell him so much but I couldn’t get the words out. So I let him go. Then I picked up the sugar bowl and hurled it as hard as I could at the wall behind his head. It exploded and he cowered beneath the shrapnel of sugar lumps.

  ‘Watch your mouth,’ I said, and I did not recognise my voice. I pulled some notes out of my pocket and threw them on the table. ‘Say what you like about my ex-wife. And say what you like about me. But when you talk about my son, you just watch your fucking mouth.’

  When I got home the street where I lived looked strange to me. The years spent toiling at the coal face of TV and radio meant that I was used to seeing it at all hours of the day and night. But I was accustomed to seeing it from the perspective of someone in work. The street in the middle of a mid-week morning, with no work that day, or the next day – it was like another planet.

  Or perhaps that was just because Jim Mason was parked outside our house. Sitting astride his bike, the engine throbbing between his legs. Did he ever get off that thing?

  He was part-man, part-Harley.

  Cyd was with him. Her arms folded across her chest. Longlimbed and coatless, the laces of her trainers undone. I loved the dimensions of her. Just the way she was – the heavenly engineering of her body. It knocked me out. Still.

  They did not see me. Jim’s bike was pointing in the opposite direction and they both had their backs to me. And so I stopped, conscious that I was interrupting something. This is the way to do it, I thought. When love has flown but you have a child together, this is how you do it. Not like me and Gina, who had happily danced across the thin cliché separating love from hate. You do it like this, I thought, and then I may have gasped as Cyd reached out and touched his face.

  He did nothing, just let her hand stray across his lovable stubble for a few moments before it withdrew. And then he kicked his bike into roaring life and was gone, and she watched him for a moment and went back inside the house.

  When I came through the door seven minutes later she was reading the newspaper. She looked up at me and smiled.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I said.

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

  I nodded and looked away.

  You touched his face, I thought.

  Pat came round for dinner.

  We were celebrating his birthday late. We had missed it because Gina had suddenly whisked him off to some ski resort in the dying days of the Christmas break.

  I did not want it to be a major production. I mean, I wanted us all to give the kid a great birthday dinner, but I didn’t want anyone holding their breath and afraid to speak. The best thing would have been if Pat could have just come round for dinner and everything be normal. I really missed normal. Pat having dinner with us – it should not have been a big deal. But it was a big deal.

  His sisters were waiting for him in the hall with their presents when the mini-cab dropped him off.

  ‘Pat!’ cried Joni.

  ‘Hello, gorgeous,’ said Peggy.

  ‘Hello, ugly,’ said Pat, and then he picked up Joni and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Hello, you.’

  She squirmed from his arms, averting her face, kissing still being gross.

  Cyd came out of the kitchen and the three of them held him. Joni hugging him around the thighs. Peggy with her arms wrapped around his neck, and crying a bit. And Cyd laughing with her arms thrown around the whole scrum.

  I hung back, feeling wound up and weird.

  My son was coming round for dinner.

  That’s all.

  He unwrapped his presents as we all slowly trailed into the living room, Joni holding on to his leg and Peggy with one hand resting lightly on his shoulder, Cyd and I bringing up the rear. She slipped her arm in mine and smiled at me.

  ‘What have we got here?’ Pat said, opening up Joni’s tatty, falling-to-bits, self-wrapped package. His eyes widened at the sight of a Pussycat Dolls CD. ‘Wow, Doll Domination,’ he read, impressed.

  ‘I know you maybe don’t like the Pussycat Dolls, but they’re really great,’ Joni said quickly. She pointed at a girl on
the cover. ‘I like that one. She’s very pretty.’

  ‘I might keep it here,’ Pat said. He looked down at his sister. ‘Will you look after it for me?’

  She snatched the Pussycat Dolls from his hand and ran off.

  ‘I’ll keep it in my room,’ she shouted. ‘You can listen to it whenever you want.’

  Pat began to unwrap Peggy’s immaculately wrapped present. It even had a ribbon and a bow.

  ‘I didn’t know you could ski,’ she said.

  ‘I can’t,’ he laughed, not looking at her. But then he smiled as he unwrapped a DVD of the first Star Wars film.

  Peggy looked embarrassed.

  ‘It’s the enhanced version of A New Hope,’ she said, looking sideways at it. ‘And it’s got, er, the theatrical version on there too – but you’ve probably got it already.’

  ‘No, I haven’t got it,’ he said, studying the cover like a wine expert sniffing a rare Margaux. Then he looked her in the eye. ‘It’s great, Peg,’ he said quietly. ‘Thank you.’

  He was a very gracious kid. He made a polite fuss of all our presents. Cyd and I gave him a watch – one of those watches that look like they will tell you the time at the bottom of the ocean, and he put it on and admired it, even though I knew he had never worn a watch in his life, and might not start now.

  Cyd slapped the pair of us on the back.

  ‘Eat,’ she commanded.

  Cyd was cooking chicken curry – Pat’s favourite, and I felt a real stab of gratitude as the smells filled the house. Turmeric and peppers and ginger and garlic and onions and coriander. It would have been no different if he was our own child. She could not have loved him more.

  Dinner was fine. Dinner was good. Cyd made a killer curry and Pat ate like a horse. We all laughed about his appetite, the way we always used to.