by Neil Rowland
Constance looks between us with helpless horror. But this argument is something for the boys to settle. She checks off the time, but there’s still no sign of her granddaughter. I shall have to abandon that idea soon.
“When you came home after your operation, it was nothing short of a miracle. Wasn’t it, Mum.”
“I’ll soon get my colour back,” I insist.
“Weak hearts run in our family,” Constance recites. “You have to look after yourself too, Oswald.”
“What’s going to happen to your kids?” he wonders.
“Sure, I think about them too,” I say.
“Especially after that Lizzie went off and left you like that,” he reminds me.
“I don’t plan to burn out yet,” I say. “I intend to keep rocking and rolling for many years to come. But I hope our kids will be tough enough to cope. They’ve had to get used to the idea of Liz and I being divorced. This isn’t going to be easy for any of us.”
“Bloody ‘ell, Noah!”
“I don’t understand children today,” Mum says. “What are they looking for?”
“You let that Lizzie get off too easily,” my brother tells me.
“How do you mean? You expect me to drag her back?” I wonder.
“For a start, you should have gone an’ punched that bloke’s face in.”
“Which bloke? Do you mean Frank?”
“Who else?”
“In fact I did drive around to their place one evening. But they were out,” I explain.
“Why didn’t you call back?” he asks, amazed.
“Why do you think, Ossie? I’d cooled down. I’d thought better about it.” Not to mention more obvious physical factors.
“Noah’s been married to that lovely girl for over twenty years. Don’t speak badly about her,” Constance tells him.
“Well he’s not married to her any more, is he.”
“Try to be more considerate, Oswald.”
“She divided this family from the start. You must know what she’s really like.”
“Don’t talk about Lizzie in that nasty way,” Mum rebukes.
“Go ahead and speak your mind,” I say.
“Nobody forced her to walk out on you, did they. Always full of her own importance. Poking fun. Trying to cut our balls off,” he recalls, bitterly. “But if she was much better than us, she should have proved it.”
“She was such a happy go lucky person,” Mum remembers.
Elizabeth is happier after finding her individual path in life. My own ideas about happiness have become more abstract. She and I used to enjoy looking up at the night sky. We’d stare towards the moon and the stars, as a newly married couple. But what do the moon and stars know about human feelings?
In an effort to get out of this negative groove I ask Ossie about his own family. He’s recently become a grandfather, after the eldest daughter had a son. The infant resembled him from the beginning of life. His youngest girl, Martha, intends to go on to university. Oswald doesn’t like the idea of further education, but as Martha is a girl, he reasons, she may as well study, because she will not be following him into the business. The poor girl’s too weak to shift a bag of cement.
“My boy Mitchell’s a chip off the old block,” he assures me.
I can’t quite keep the jealousy off my face. Man, he’s delighted to notice.
“Where is Angela? Didn’t you say she was visiting me?” Constance says.
“I expect she’s caught up at work,” I reply. “Always busy there, she is. Loves it.” I shift my seating arrangement.
“My boy’s doing a proper day’s work in the building trade now,” Ossie adds. Sheer & Son. Cock a hoop.
Oswald luxuriates in his own pool of ultraviolet light. To be so comfortable with life. So certain of circumstances. He expects his future to be as predictable. How can I hold this against him? Growing old has become much more attractive. I could envy old people. They possess a secret knowledge, which makes them fortunate and mysterious. When I notice them these days I look at them sadly.
No doubt Constance will be upset when I check out. But she’ll have no need to reproach herself, as she’s already given me a mother’s love and a large part of a father’s. I’m a big boy now. She already has grandchildren to think about. There’s a great grandchild too. Human beings come along like tennis balls.
Admittedly her heart has become a bit leathery over the years. She’s too familiar with tragedy. When you lose your husband, at so early an age, this has the power to dwarf any further tragedies. My own demise will remind her of my father. She’ll spend some of her savings on a wreath. She’s always been fond of flowers.
“Leaving us already, Noah?” she notices.
“Yes, sorry Mum. I should go and see what’s happened to her. You know where I am,” I say. “You only have to telephone.”
“I want to see my grandchildren,” she complains. “I don’t want to speak to them on the telephone.”
“I understand that. I feel the same way.”
I wish my brother good health as he jumps to his feet. “You’ve got to stick around little bro’,” he tells me. “Do you hear what I say? We can’t have you goin’ off and leavin’ us. We’d miss you!”
“Thanks, Ossie. Appreciate that,” I nod.
He observes me with beer bruised brotherly eyes. “Why don’t you come down and see me on the boat one evening? Drop down to the quayside when there’s a big match on the box. You still enjoy the football, don’t you?” he enquires.
“Right. You bet.”
“Well then, bring Luke with you, if you’d like.”
“Thanks, Ossie.”
I hover awkwardly, until I stick out my hand to grasp his for a few seconds. Didn’t expect this warmth or sympathy from him. I can take his bluff attitude towards my heart condition; in fact it is welcome after the evasions of Wickham. Concrete dust coagulates between our damp palms. We both know that I will never venture down to his boat. But we both wish to believe this. Another thing is that we both support different teams, and he can’t forgive me for that either.
“So it’s really true that you might kick the bucket,” he says.
I experience a powerful desire to get away. If something bad happens to me soon, then his kids will get their grandmother back. They’ll move her back into the old house or one nearby. There’s no reason for me to worry about this. I have a more detached attitude towards politics now.
Leaving Mum’s building, turning back into the street, I think about never seeing my brother again, along with everyone else. I experience this sadness about him, regardless of our deep cosmic differences. I’d wish to find the sympathetic all-too-human aspect that he keeps hidden; that he’s spent all his life trying to beat, to destroy even. Like unscrewing mirrors from your house because you find them too revealing. Enlightenment has never been part of his life journey. It’s too late for him to begin searching now, in the troubled contemporary era.
I hesitate agonisingly on the pavement, thinking whether I should go back to talk to him; to ensure that we part on better terms, face the end of our journey in a more positive aspect. Why don’t I invite him and the family back to Big Pink one weekend? He might accept under the circumstances. Ossie and I could wander into the garage to tinker about on my old car, which has always fascinated him; if only as Frankenstein has always fascinated the reader.
We’re brothers after all. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do? Hadn’t we better arrange to have a heart to heart, while there’s still a chance?
The answer to this logical problem doesn’t come. Sadly I decide to continue the route back home with more determined strides. Maybe I will take up his invitation one evening. After all it wouldn’t kill me.
Chapter 23
In our cable swea
ters Bob and I hook up to dig jazz at the Old Duke pub, which is a place down on the cobbled quayside, dedicated to this music. Dylan’s tastes and mine go their own way here, as he would trash jazz as earnest elitist doodlings from a chin rubbing older generation.
I tried to make a date with Corrina, except she turned down my invitation. No good anyway if she just stood about glumly, being held prisoner next to me, openly sharing - for once - Dylan’s (first) views on the early American music. At least her boyfriend didn’t pick up my call enquiring, in an indifferent post coital daze, about who I was: although Corrina reached for her excuses and rapidly hung up. Man, she can get out of a telephone conversation faster than a motorway gridlock. But I’m glad to be here with Bob H, as he can appreciate the music, even if he prefers the British blues revival scene.
The Old Duke is full to the rafters this evening. The place is buzzing with bonhomie and conversation from a chin-rubbing, yet cosmopolitan and multi-generational audience. A New Orleans style band is getting into full swing, in homage to the early greats. If you want to hang out with a hep crowd and get hopped up the Old Duke is your joint. It’s a great help to my state of mind in these modern times.
Bob H and I prefer to listen to modern jazz at home, post-bop and contemporary, but early jazz is more sociable. Experimental music demands complete attention and, for me, that encourages darker thoughts. I tend to avoid darker thoughts. They don’t need any encouragement. Dark thoughts gnaw like woodworm.
I haven’t seen Bob H since his annual hoot and he’s telling me what an outstanding success it all was. Like the routine set from an MOR stadium band.
“We really enjoyed ourselves, man,” Bob says.
“You did?” I shout above the polyphonic cacophony.
“Everyone left happy.” He leans in with his stout strong body. “The crowd always enjoys coming around our place for our big celebration.”
Didn’t he notice Corrina leaving early, with a trail of smoke, from burnt fuel and me?
“Right. Everybody’s still talking. We can look forward to next year, I guess.”
“That’s if we are still in the country, Noah,” he explains.
This puts a jolt through me. “You two have more travel plans?”
“Sue and I have some travel adventures in mind. We want to offer the boys experience of different cultures...and there are good schools abroad, if that’s a consideration.”
“That’s not travel, Bob, that’s joining the armed services. Besides we’ve got plenty of different cultures here in Bristol. Why do you want to travel overseas?” I press.
He’s grinning appreciatively at me. “Man, you must really enjoy our hoots. If we travel again we shan’t be leaving forever. We can’t predict what might turn up.”
Bob is enjoying his post-party glow. He has delusions of being a master of ceremonies or a type of rock raconteur or promoter: Harvey Goldsmith style.
“Sue and I were so pleased that you came. You were on the roustabout, just like the old days!”
“You can’t keep me down,” I parley.
I remember Susan’s shocked anxiety when she first set eyes on my new visage. I don’t like to remind him how he was hiding in the kitchen, guarding his empties. When all the guests have safely left the couple’s property they become as magnetic as Mick and Marianne again.
“You mentioned a complication to your health,” he says. “Are you sure you’re allowed to caper about as normal?”
“Doctor’s advice is like a bad hand in poker,” I insist.
“An evening out can’t do you much harm, I suppose.”
“This is the equivalent of a Sunday morning kickabout,” I argue.
“Consider your complete health system,” Bob tells me, getting closer. “Rather than focusing on one organ, relieve pressure at the vital points,” he explains, “to help the healing process.”
“Which points?” I ask.
“You can heal yourself by restoring balance to your life as a whole.”
“Hey Bob, d’you remember that poor guy at university with blue lips.”
Huntingdon scratches his coarse, greying dark locks, thinking back. “Blue lips? Why do you bring this up?”
“You know, the poor guy with a heart condition. That’s why.”
“The blue lips are a sign of bad circulation. Your body isn’t getting enough oxygen.”
“But we laughed at the guy,” I remind him. “We made fun of him, didn’t we?”
“Youth can be cruel when it comes to bad health. We don’t want to believe in death.”
“That’s too right, man!”
“What was his name?” he wonders, still scratching himself.
“We don’t even remember his name,” I comment.
“He was always on his own. He had to wear a hearing aid as well. It must have been so humiliating for him. To feel so different.”
“So mortal.”
“Nothing seemed to go right for that guy,” he remembers, saddening.
“We didn’t make his existence any easier, Bob.”
“No, we didn’t treat the guy fairly,” he admits.
“We were all bullies. That’s what we were,” I conclude.
“I suppose we were very young and thought we’d live forever.”
“Lately we know otherwise.”
We both muse on these shameful memories, dropping into our drinks. Somehow the immersive, raucous music is closed off to our brains.
“You know Bob, I’m going to clean out my total health system. Just as you say. I’m going to climb on to the wagon after tonight. One last pull on the ale, then I’m going to concentrate on my yoga class.”
“Really, Noah? You serious about the yoga?”
“Maybe I’ll meet a lovely divorced lady there, at the leisure centre, on a Monday evening...and finally settle down again for good.”
“We wish you the best, Noah.”
“I’m making a new life resolution,” I insist. I’d probably shoot some video footage as well.
“It’s never too late to find your life direction,” Bob encourages. He swivels on the sawdust to raise his tankard of bitter.
“Enlightenment, spiritual balance, peaceful contemplation,” I say.
“Susan and I think you’re an amazingly brave guy.”
A brave face anyway, I’m thinking. “There’s a plastic valve in my heart that could break apart at any moment,” I remind him. “I have the San Andreas fault line running across my chest.”
Bob H is knocked back on his heels. “You’re sure this is life threatening? That what you’re telling us?” he challenges.
“It might have ‘catastrophic consequences’. This broken valve in my heart artery may... to quote the specialist who saw me,” I report. Finally I get this thing off my chest - the information that is.
“Oh, this comes as a shock,” he admits. “We’re grateful to have you around, Noah. Don’t blow out just yet.”
“I don’t know if I’m coming or going!”
Bob raises his arms and squeezes my shoulders, as if he wants to dance. But arguably we’ve already had The Last Waltz.
“My nerves are strung out these days,” I admit. “Don’t think I am so courageous about this. I feel like the Telecom Tower struck by lightning. Believe me. It’s all the drugs they foist on me. The legal drugs. I’m terrified to shave in the mornings,” I say. “I’m reluctant to walk around town and bump into old school or university friends. I’m one gulp short of aspirin poisoning at any time of night and day.”
“You’re a survivor, Noah.”
“At least I screwed up enough courage to meet people again and went to your annual hoot.”
“We’re grateful for that.”
“I don’t always want to leave the house. I
feel like a ghoul.”
“Don’t worry about appearances. We’re all past our best. Our generation. We have the best of us inside,” he tells me.
“I can’t tell if I’m losing weight or gaining it. The scales tell me I am losing, but then I have to look over my belly to see. I don’t remember when I last had a healthy colour. I’d have to raid Corrina’s blusher to achieve the effect. That poor guy with blue lips had a healthier complexion than I do.”
My friend stares at me with intense concern. “It’s the real man or woman inside that counts. Don’t you believe that? Didn’t we always?”
“You talking about the soul?” I reply.
“Where’s the best part of a fruit found?” he suggests. “When I’m selecting pears from my trees I’m not examining them for their skins. I’m not climbing up into the branches looking for blemishes. Checking them out for blotches, bumps or impairments. Do you get me?”
“I get the analogy, Bob.” I can’t help thinking how unappetising I’ve become.
Huntingdon is pleased with my concession and allows space. Sagely he gazes away and takes fresh notice of the busy pub, nodding vigorously to the melancholy high spirits of the jazz band.
“What’s your Angie up to lately?” Bob returns.
“I haven’t seen her all weekend,” I admit.
“I hear stories about the kids she’s hanging out with.”
“Don’t blame them,” I tell him. “What did you hear?”
“But don’t let her get too far out,” he warns.
“I think I’m out of touch,” I say. “I’m no longer where it’s at.”
“We haven’t been ‘where it’s at’ for decades,” Bob argues.
I ponder that. “How do you always keep so tight with Susan, as a couple? All these years together, so close, no tremors. I have to admire you guys.”
“Wish I could put that into a bottle,” he replies. “I guess it’s about recognising when you are wrong. Knowing when you have to back down. Not sticking to your guns and trying to shoot each other’s head off,” he says.
“Difficult,” I laugh. “I’d no business going off on holiday with Corrina,” I admit. “The kids needed me at home then. I was lucky I wasn’t in the bloody newspapers.”
