The Boy Who Could Keep a Swan in His Head

by John Hunt

  /se-kum/ verb

  The question was, did the white lily staring straight at him also have a secret spiral to it like the nautilus shell? If you cut it down the middle would it reveal a curve on a plane that winds around a fixed centre at a continuously increasing or decreasing distance from a point? It seemed highly likely. It had a conical shape, wide at one end then tapering towards its long, green stem. If that stem was hollow you could blow through it like a musical instrument. They were called calla lilies but “trumpet” or “spiral” would’ve been a better name. There was a large pile of them on the gleaming lid. One, however, had broken away from the arrangement and continued to peer at Phen.

  He was thankful for the attention. The throat of the lily carried the gentlest hint of yellow, like an early sunrise. Or sunset? If it did contain a spiral he had no idea which way it was going. He was helped to his feet and pushed to his knees. He had his own prayer book yet his mother insisted he share with her. He couldn’t see over her hand but pretended to read anyway. They sang hymn four hundred and fifty. Evidently everyone was going to meet at the fountain when they reached glory-land. It was bright and fair there. The only fountain he could conjure up was the drinking one at Nugget Hill Park. They’d have to be careful. If you turned the tap on too much the water shot out straight up your nose.

  Mr Lansdown was there with his aftershave. He’d tried but couldn’t get any closer to his mother. Uncle Edward had spread his legs wide, taking up two seats of the narrow pew. Phen wasn’t sure if being his mother’s boss qualified Mr Lansdown for the long bench reserved for family and close friends. They were a little short of relatives so he’d obviously thought he could fill the gap. He’d attempted to push past Ed’s splayed knees but the barriers had stayed firm. Instead, Phen’s uncle had shuffled his body to the right, allowing Mr Lansdown to sit next to Mairead rather than the widow. Mr Lansdown gave a strange cough at this thoughtfulness and studied the simple cross above the altar without blinking.

  Phen didn’t like being in the front row, nor did he understand why a straight back was necessary. There was no Leb or fat lady to hide behind. He could feel a thousand pairs of eyes staring at the back of his head. In front, the Reverend Clayburn kept solemnly looking at him over his white collar. He was trapped on both sides and furious because he’d had to wear his school blazer. Uncle Ed had volunteered to buy him a “proper jacket” but they’d run out of time. It didn’t match his longs but was still better than his mother’s suggestion to wear short pants. Mairead turned to the back of the church and said she was amazed at such a good turnout. She was her usual mountain of black. The white tissue on her lap dazzled in unseemly brightness and was quickly tucked into her sleeve. She apologised twice to Mr Lansdown for having to wedge her handbag against his thigh. He said it was no trouble at all.

  The reverend knelt and dipped his chin onto his chest in a private prayer. It looked like he was sticking his head out of a ship’s porthole. Having established an open line to his god, he thoughtfully made his way up to the lectern. If he was waiting for some holy light to burst through the window, it never arrived. Eventually he explained that the Lord was his shepherd. As he read Psalm 23, Phen tried to lie down in its green pastures but found himself stretched out at the park next to Heb. The sun was gone, the clouds were black and the wind whipped the felt hat off the tangled mass of hair and across the lawn. It cartwheeled into the children’s pool and slowly sank. He couldn’t see why goodness and mercy would surely follow him all the days of his life. The lily still lay open and fluted. It invited him in and he didn’t have the strength to resist.

  It was pleasant to have sounds so far away. Words blurred like distant figures you chose to keep out of focus. The light was different too, more diffused and soft. Gentle curves protected you from the brittle edges of good intentions. Handshakes too firm, smiles too sincere, squeezes on the shoulder that hurt or were too light. And always the rubbish that time would heal all. What if time just gave you more space to remember? Why didn’t they just say the body that had been Dennis Baxter wasn’t working any more? The stuttering and spluttering through blocked arteries and faulty valves had finally ceased. His father would not be coming back. The wound might close, the scar would remain. He’d already been told hair and teeth and bone and skin didn’t last forever – he just wanted to know what did. Was a memory enough or should he expect more?

  His mother tugged at his blazer and pulled him down. He and Mairead’s handbag were the only two still sitting on the bench. He was out of sync again. Everyone else had slid forward onto their knees and politely closed their eyes. The reverend grinned at him, waiting to say the closing prayers. It worried Phen that sickness and death caused so many smiles. The blast of the organ rattled him back to reality as did the “amen” sung three times with mounting gusto. The last one was clearly designed to float upwards and deliver a sense of finality. Like hosts who’d already waved goodbye at the front door and at the car and now really wanted the guests to know it was time to go.

  For a while thereafter absolutely nothing happened. This was because neither he nor his mother realised they had to leave first so everyone could follow behind them. The deadlock was only broken when Ed stood up like an usher and showed them the way. Phen wasn’t sure how to lead the procession. He started off too fast and had to wait for his mother to catch up. She gently placed an arm around his shoulder as they looked forward, and slowly walked towards the light of the open door. He expected bells and maybe white doves, but there were neither. One slightly dishevelled pigeon sat on the outside notice board, staring at them. Phen noted that Tuesday evening’s choir practice would now take place on Thursday. Those involved were asked to please be punctual. It was his first funeral and he’d presumed something more dramatic would happen to say it was all over. Amen, however often it was repeated, didn’t seem enough.

  He couldn’t believe you just walked into the little garden and stopped. Even worse, the people that were behind now surrounded you and said the same thing they’d said before. Phen was astounded by the stupidity of it all. Plus the grass was full of confetti; how could they allow the remains of someone’s happiness to carpet their sorrow? Mrs Kaplan was the only one who seemed to understand. She didn’t smile, chat or pat. She just looked at him and threw her hands in the air. Although death was final, its ceremony sauntered on. He shrugged back at her. His mother interpreted it as him not wanting her arm on his shoulder. She lifted her hand and asked Ed to fetch the car.

  Earlier that morning Phen had promised himself he would not cry and it appeared as if he had achieved that goal. Any rope that had tied him to some sense of calm and control had long been cut. He just didn’t want to embarrass himself or his mother. If he wasn’t the man of the house he didn’t have to be the wailing little child either. This was put to the test with the unexpected appearance of the coffin coming out of the side door. As the men from the funeral parlour battled down the uneven stairs, he thought he heard something roll inside. It was the first time he fully understood his father was crated within the box. He was being transported the same way a removal company would take away an awkward piece of furniture. The casket was clearly too big. Did they not know how much he’d shrunk? Were there blankets in there, or shredded paper, Styrofoam chips and bubble wrap to ensure he was kept steady and secure? As he moved towards them, Mrs Kaplan appeared from behind the rose bush and cut him off.

  “He is not there,” was all she said.

  They danced a little as she followed him first to the left and then to the right. By the time Phen could look past her, the coffin was being pushed into the back of a black station wagon by a man too round for his waistcoat. The last button could not be fastened, and split his stomach in two. He tried to close the tailgate gently but couldn’t get the latch to lock. He ended up having to slam it shut and hold it in place with his knee. His assistant came to see if everything was okay and offered him a cigarette. He undid another two buttons and let his stomach fre
e. They both lit up. White smoke drifted above the hedge and towards the steeple, following the last amen.

  Mairead advanced with confetti on the soles of her shoes to say Ed had brought the car around. She acted as a battering ram to ensure their escape was unhindered. At the car, Mr Lansdown had finally found Phen’s mother and was comforting her. They leaned against the passenger door and spoke in low tones. Trapped behind the steering wheel, Uncle Ed fumed. By the time everyone was ready to go, the car was a heady mix of emotions. Mairead worried about the cake she’d left in the oven, Ed was silent, the effect of the tranquilliser his mother had taken was beginning to wane, and Phen couldn’t stop thinking about his father. He was concerned about the corners and the roundabouts. He kept seeing his father’s body tilt onto its side, his face squashing against the hard wood, before flopping onto his back again. Would they check at the crematorium if his tie was still straight and lapels unruffled?

  The Church of England in South Africa in Hillbrow was forced into a gentle triangle by Clarendon and Twist streets. Caroline Street creates the base of the triangle yet, for reasons that only town planners understand, was made a one-way. While Mr Lansdown was offering every condolence, a more watchful Ed would have noticed the hearse trying to do a four-point turn in his rear-view mirror. The length of their vehicle, the cars parked on both sides of the road and the impossibly tight corner up Edith Cavell made an exit via Twist Street the only way out.

  It was difficult to tell who was the more surprised when the hearse drew level with Ed’s car. The parlour man gave a sheepish smile and a very quick wave. In a show of diffidence he rolled the window down and flicked his cigarette out. The light had just turned red; there was nowhere for anyone to go. In an attempt to release the tension he moved forward. This brought the coffin directly opposite the Wolseley. The two cars were barely an inch apart. Phen had never been this close to the elongated box before. Without the lilies resting on the lid, it looked merely functional. The ornate silver handles appeared silly, like something added on later as a joke. The curtains on the hearse’s windows and the grey wall-to-wall carpeting turned the back of the station wagon into a home. It was impossible not to peer in on your neighbour.

  Uncle Edward was the first to go. He apologised in advance, placed his chin on the steering wheel and began to sob. Lil patted him reassuringly on the knee, called him Eddie and then likewise broke down. Mairead found the tissue up her sleeve, studied the cream interior of the Wolseley’s roof and started to shudder. Phen tried to hold on. He tried to distract himself with detail. The carpet was badly worn where the coffins would first land, scrape then roll into the back. The left curtain in the second window was not tied back like the rest. It had slipped its gold clasp and swayed cheekily even though the car wasn’t moving. Its fringed edge trailed a single thread similar in colour and length to the one he’d found on the cover of Dylan Thomas’s Selected Poems. Huge scratch marks above the rear mudguard bore testimony to a miscalculated corner. Inside, the world howled; outside it was as it always had been.

  He could’ve coped. By putting big events into small compartments he might’ve managed. With enough individual storage facilities you can give the appearance of taming the unmanageable and the incomprehensible. You take what you cannot understand, put it in a number of tiny spaces, lock the door and feign control. By worrying about the roadworthiness of the hearse Phen didn’t have to think of his father about to be set on fire and turned to ash. The same thing had happened to the Leb’s grandfather. “A braaivleis,” he’d said, trying to prove how tough he was.

  He could’ve got through if the two vehicles hadn’t started moving. Suddenly there was nothing to cling to, to focus on. With everything else in transition it was cruelly unfair to make the two cars do likewise. He just needed something to be static, stationary and tangible. Speed was the enemy; he couldn’t keep up. Whatever the game was, the rules kept on being broken. No one waited for your feelings to catch up. And it didn’t matter where you left them, no one was going back with you to find them.

  When the hearse turned right up Twist Street and Ed turned left to go down, the metaphor was complete. Phen buried his face in the crook of his arm and disappeared. He had been leaning against the door and now collapsed into his own lap. Later on he saw how wet his sleeve was, so he must’ve cried, yet that was not what he remembered. It was as if his earlier request to press the Pause button had finally come through. Everything stopped. Everything returned to its place. It wasn’t a dream. He hadn’t placed himself there. He was filled with a great stillness. Whatever had been had fallen in on itself. He was part of this and also on the other side of it. He’d been folded into a safe place.

  It wasn’t quite over yet, though. Mourning, he learned to his surprise, had an appetite. It had to continue back at Duchess Court over snacks and tea. He was put in charge of sausage rolls and wandered from group to group with two outstretched arms. He was still in a dazed state and didn’t mind the job too much. His mother said she’d had to shake him three times to wake him up in the car, although he kept telling her he was never asleep. Zelda was the most popular mourner. She had to break out of a circle to accept his sausage-roll offering. Phen hadn’t noticed her at the church; however, her demure black dress, tasteful but tight, had ensured everyone else had. Mr Trentbridge pulled him to one side and made him put the plates down. “That’s life, Boyo,” he said. “That’s life.” Then he explained how his father had died when he was only eight. Phen offered his condolences. It was quite a relief to hear the words going the other way.

  Even with all the cakes and shortbread being homemade there’s only so much stuffing a funeral can take. From her high command in the kitchen, Mairead noted that even her raspberry oatmeal meringue could not induce thirds. Someone had the temerity to ask if there was anything stronger than tea. She curtly explained it was not a wake, nor were they Irish. As Phen sausage-rolled the crowd he heard again and again that “Dennis had left a little early”. Like a bus or train that had surprised everyone by its unscheduled departure. He wanted to say that in his last days his father was the oldest man he’d ever met. That pain and a clogged-up heart and arms full of purple bruises and punctured veins ran the clock forward at a demented speed.

  With a dishcloth wrapped around her left fist, Mairead told Aunt Aida that Dennis had succumbed in his sleep. She made this sound slightly cowardly, as if he’d taken the easy way out. A number of people said his father was “in a better place” but could add no detail, verification or geography. He also heard Dennis had “popped his clogs” from someone in Zelda’s group, although he couldn’t trace the exact source.

  Uncle Ed was the head waiter. He took orders from Mairead and passed them on. He was also the carrier of trays filled with rows of cups that wobbled as the parquet flooring bobbled. He demanded to be seen and be invisible at the same time. The delivery would be made with some ceremony, only for him to immediately melt away. Phen noticed that death was a very earnest business. It wore black and offered lots of advice. This only changed a little when the caretaker arrived and explained he couldn’t make the funeral because of a burst pipe on the second floor. Still wearing his grey overalls, he offered a jar of pickled beetroot to express his sorrow. This shift in atmosphere was compounded by the surprise late appearance of Romeo Rossi. In exchange for a sausage roll he said, “Rest in pizz,” and went to join the entourage around Zelda.

  Phen looked across the room at his mother. Both widow and hostess, she accepted their sympathy and simultaneously offered more Swiss roll. She beckoned that he come join her. He held up his two plates to indicate there was still work to be done. She pulled an exaggerated sad face. Like Zelda, she also had her admirers. Phen wasn’t jealous, although, right now, he didn’t want to be just one of them. He was happy to orbit the room. He knew it was a mindless spiral but, for once, he could deliver on the obligations it placed on him.

  “Ahem.”

  Phen turned around to find Mrs Kaplan rig
ht at his back.

  “Death doesn’t need a waiter forever.”

  Phen looked blank. She pretended to burp. Death had clearly eaten too much.

  “I’m old. I walk with a stick.” She bent over double to illustrate the point. “My hips don’t move and my joints are stickier than my farfel kugel, which your grandmother still refuses to serve.” She pointed to the kitchen.

  He offered her a sausage roll. She waved the plate away.

  “Don’t you think it would be good manners for a young man like you to escort an old woman like me back up to my flat? And while you’re doing that you can bring your dog along. And after you’ve got me to the fourth floor, isn’t it time you took him for a walk to the park? I’ll tell your mother while you fetch the lead.”

  Mr Otis behaved relatively well. As they were yanked upwards, Mrs Kaplan readied herself by leaning forward on her stick and bracing herself for the stop. Unlike his father’s wooden walking stick, hers multiplied as it reached the bottom. Three fat metal fingers suddenly sprouted and clawed the ground with their rubber stoppers. Although he opened the grill gate for her, she needed no help with the six-inch step-up and seemed puzzled that Phen had walked her to her apartment. She placed the key in the door but would not open it until he left. She lifted her stick, aimed three muzzles at him and waited for him to go.

  “Tough day?” Heb only half turned towards him as he approached.

  Phen nodded.

  “The Great Inevitable always presented as the Great Surprise.”

  “Wasn’t sure you’d still be here.”

  “Why?”

  “Just ’cause.”

  He’d found Heb in his normal place on the bench next to the willow tree. Heb had put the cat-eye sunglasses on as Phen and Pal arrived, although there was no sun to speak of. He was still wearing the psychedelic shirt with his suit pants and had added a bedspread, which he wore across his shoulders like a shawl. It was light and cottony. It bunched up behind his neck and pushed his hat forward. Phen hesitated before sitting down. He searched his memory for a picture of a tired angel and couldn’t find one. The sunburned face was a little pale; the normally outstretched arms hugged a slightly stooped frame. Heb seemed spent, like a man who’d run a marathon and needed time to recover.