Noah's Heart

by Neil Rowland

  “That isn’t relevant,” I reply. “Don’t talk about Corrina like that, please.”

  “In fact she’s got more ‘n one bike, doesn’t she. She must have three of them.”

  “Ask me again when you turn eighteen,” I comment.

  Next thing I know Luke will be hammering through the city centre too, like Corrina Farlane on acid.

  Smarting from our conflict, I take his straggling laundry into the wash room. I take another look at those soiled trousers. If these oil stains didn’t come from my classic car, there has to be another explanation. Most likely he’s got an old motorbike stashed away somewhere - in the garage of a mate - or he has a friend with a machine. I need eyes in the back of my head, but I’m just Cyclops with a squint.

  Why is Luke so angry that I care? The idea’s that we become closer friends in the current perilous epoch. We have to make up for lost future time. If I suggest running a movie in the evening - an action film that we can both take an interest in - he always turns me down. Suddenly he’s lacking any concentration beyond the computer screen and is fixated on owning a motorbike. Elizabeth has made the same observation. This type of behaviour isn’t just confined to Big Pink.

  When I make it back to our kitchen Luke is at the table, shovelling cornflakes. Like a visual gag he’s missing his mouth. There’s no point cracking open a fresh argument. I try to ignore his hit or miss style of eating. I studiedly pour myself another cup of tea, to keep him company.

  Coughing and spluttering, swinging his bag, knocking over the coat stand, throwing aside the front door, Luke is ready to confront another school day.

  This is as close to a traditional family breakfast as we get.

  Angela appears downstairs finally, sporting her blue café uniform. I’m happy that she chooses to join me, as I continue to hang out in the kitchen. She’s prepared for work, even if her skirt is crumpled and too short, while a sweater is twisted around her torso like a stocking. There’s another ring of black under her eyes, I notice, which she hopes will evaporate by lunchtime. Doesn’t she realise that there’s a point in life where these marks begin to stay. You get to a stage when the body’s ability to repair itself slows down.

  She has an enviable ability to recover from her late night revels and chemical excesses. The nonchalance of youth that doesn’t have to make an effort. Whereas in these contemporary times I have to scramble up an extended step ladder.

  “You’d better get your skates on,” I suggest. At least she’s prepared to sit at the table with me and take in some fresh coffee and toast. Maybe she should have left home already, but I’m in no hurry to get rid of her. Not only this morning, I am talking about, but generally to begin her own life. Liz insists that I should be there for her, because they have a volatile relationship. I find that a gratifying observation, but nobody’s saying it’s easy.

  “I’m not in the mood to argue with you,” she warns, pushing streams of smoke into the space between us.

  “Will you blow that pollution over your shoulder?” I say.

  “What’s the problem? You smoked once,” she replies.

  “I gave up. Are you suggesting I should start again?” I object, rocking on the back legs of my chair.

  “If we’re going to have another pointless argument,” she comments.

  I swear that I’m taking over my mother’s role at the tea urn; or coffee percolator in Angie’s case. Then if your father dies at a young age, how do you know if you’re turning into him?

  “What sort of condition is that, to be going into work like?” I state.

  Brandishing the cigarette emphatically, she dismisses my question.

  “You’ve got some difficult life choices to sort out.”

  “Oh shit, Dad, let them wait.”

  “What’s on your mind?” I watch her nibble on the crust of dry toast. Calories are banned from her body before lunchtime.

  “Did you really throw all my friends out?”

  “I asked them to leave, at a certain point,” I admit.

  She funnels smoke back over her collarbone. She runs fingers through that spiralling tangle of dark hair. Screws up her small dark features for a moment, as if feeling the pinch of a hangover or a memory flash about my bad behaviour. “I don’t believe that you really chucked them out,” she moans.

  “Don’t you remember anything about that night?” I object.

  “I thought I was dreaming that part,” she explains, “when you got into a strop and pointed them to the door.”

  “They couldn’t all shack up at Big Pink,” I point out.

  “So are you going to apologise to them?”

  “Why should I do that?”

  The focus of her glistening dark eyes sharpens. The hell raiser is coming back to the surface.

  “Who was that flash bloke you were with?” I ask.

  “Who are you talking about? Do you mean Adam Jakes?”

  “That would be him,” I recall.

  “Adam’s a bit of all right, wouldn’t you say?” she grins.

  “He’s a bit of something, all right. I don’t trust that guy as far as I could hop skip and bloody jump,” I tell her.

  “That’s bloody open-minded of you, Dad, isn’t it. You hardly know ‘em.”

  “How well do you know him, Angie?”

  “The guy isn’t my boyfriend, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  It’s my turn to be surprised. “Are you sure?”

  “Don’t be fooled by the flashy exterior. You have to get to know somebody before you can make a judgement, don’t you,” she says.

  “Are you saying that Adam and I should get to know each other? Maybe we can buy each other some drugs one evening.”

  “That’s up to you, Dad, isn’ it.”

  “Did he buy you that gold bracelet, by the way? Is he trading in precious metals as well?”

  “Ha, bloody, ha, Dad. I bought this entirely with my own money, if you wanna know. Haven’t you ever seen me cutting up the cake, for a living?”

  “That would depend on the cake,” I say. “But generally café work wouldn’t purchase such an expensive item.”

  “You think you’re a jeweller now, do you?” she laughs, moving the bracelet protectively around her delicate tanned wrist.

  “Must have made a big dent in your savings,” I suggest.

  “Mum gave me some money. When we last met. She can afford it.”

  “Is that right?” I reply. Certainly I will put that theory to the test, next time I drop by at the Noggins’ lair.

  Angela ignores my investigation, takes another draw on her cancer stick and stares at the brick wall opposite between brass pots and pans.

  “You had your arm around that creep. You tell me he’s not your boyfriend? You’re not involved with him?” I pursue.

  “Our mate Jack’s motor got stuck in the middle of nowhere, right? I don’t know what was wrong with it. Anyway, it stalled and it wouldn’t shift. Then Adam found us in his motor and offered to give us a lift back into the city. That’s what he can be like, he’s an angel,” she eulogises.

  She is the angel, I think, and nobody else - particularly that drug adulating scum - is going to borrow her wings.

  “I wasn’t impressed with that boy, Angela, to be straight with you.”

  “You wanted him to leave us stranded in the middle of nowhere.”

  “These days you don’t have to be stranded anywhere. Hasn’t this Jack lad heard about motoring organisations?” I remark.

  Angela sluices black coffee around the bottom of her white cup. “I can’t believe how you judge my friends,” she objects. She peers at me through a dishevelled curtain of dark hair, trying to steady her internal compass against gravity. All her queasy feelings, so stubbornly suppressed, now interfere
with her powers of reason.

  “Some people can’t be tolerated,” I explain. In this case I’m not thinking about myself.

  “Adam Jakes saved us from dying of exposure or hypothermia or something. Don’t you realise I could have been lying in a ditch somewhere?” Angie protests, colouring.

  “Not for the first time in your life,” I remind her. “But I still don’t like Jakes.”

  “Adam is well sound. He’s solid, Dad. You can’t censor the blokes I want to see. We’ll go on seeing ‘em anyway, just the same. D’you hear me?”

  “I hear you, but this guy is involved in some dirty business. Your Mum would agree with me on this. You know that she would. You wouldn’t dare to introduce him to her. I’ve got enough to worry about, to try to get off to sleep at night, without thinking of you with that drugs pusher.”

  “That isn’t your business,” she says bluntly.

  I stare back unhappily.

  “Look, Dad...” Angie struggles for the right expression or excuse. “Adam’s already married with kids.”

  Suddenly I’m wide awake and don’t need any stimulants.

  “But he’s not playing around, or anything like that. It’s really positive that an older guy like Adam keeps in touch with what’s happening. He understands the music scene and young people,” she argues. “He doesn’t look or feel out of place. Not to us.”

  “How can this guy understand you?” I wonder. This idea really hurts. Even though our daughter is already twenty-something, Elizabeth would still ‘ground’ her, there’s no question. My former partner would have no qualms about the resulting conflict; she would face up to any drama of kicking, screaming, or outrage. But in my present delicate state, I am less fortified against family controversy. I have no strength to confront Angela in any such emotional battle or siege.

  “At least Adam listens to me,” she says. “He respects me as a free individual.”

  I continue to stare at her, stunned, as she pretends to be distracted. I can’t believe that this prince charming is a better listener than me. Angela knows all my anxiety buttons and she’s playing on them like the cathedral organist.

  “The guy could be dangerous. He gave every impression of being a thug, with the breaking point of an old pencil,” I argue.

  She isn’t impressed. “That depends on how you treat people. On the way you talk to them, don’t you think?”

  “You’d have to be an animal trainer to talk to that guy,” I comment.

  “Adam has a little boy. He’s a father. He’s got to earn a living. That’s why he’s involved with the indie music scene around here,” she explains. Angie vigorously rubs her eyes, in an attempt to rouse herself.

  “You’re cool with that?” I retort.

  “Why shouldn’t I be cool with that?” she answers.

  “This creep’s taking advantage of you.”

  She considers the idea; shades of emotion fluctuating across the too bright surface of her deep eyes. “Do me a favour, Dad.”

  “This is way over your head,” I say.

  She forces a dry ironic laugh that turns into a cough. “I know what I am doing,” she finally forces out.

  “Is that right? I’ve seen people get involved with drug dealers before,” I say, with distaste. “A best friend of your mother and me got caught up with some heavy handed guys. They have some charm at first. But then they get you snared. Then they end up trying to break your neck. That’s what happened to a close friend of ours.”

  Angela no more believes what I am saying that she agrees with it. Her stubbed fag end makes a hiss in the saucer. “You can’t restrict my life. You’re just freaked out over something you don’t understand,” she insists, neck sinews tightening.

  I try to relax into a more appealing posture. “You reject our experience?” I say. “Don’t want to hear the wisdom of your parents, such as it is?”

  “I’m old enough to look after myself,” she tells me.

  “That isn’t our impression.” Yet it sounds strange to be talking as a couple again.

  “You looked wasted yourself the other evening,” she points out.

  “I just went to the pub with Bob Huntingdon. We went down to the Old Duke by the quayside. I told you. I didn’t expect to come home and find the children of the Grateful Dead in my front room.”

  “You’re not looking so great,” she informs me. “Shouldn’t you be getting better now? Didn’t you go to the hospital, to have an operation? I thought they’d done the bypass and you should be on the mend.”

  “Just look after yourself, Angela,” I reply.

  “So when’s your old self coming back?” she suggests.

  “You tell me. Apparently he’s not allowed to go to the pub.”

  “It’s like everything Luke and I do and say has become, like, this big problem to you.”

  “I still have a few health issues to resolve,” I admit, mysteriously. I dare to look across at the smooth young face of my daughter, as she questioningly attempts to hold my gaze.

  “So you’re still worried about your heart then?” she pursues.

  “I’m not rubbing my hands together with excitement,” I declare.

  “You told Luke and me that you was feeling as good as new,” she recalls.

  “I was.”

  “So why aren’t you getting back to your old self? Why do you look so pale and drawn, Dad, and getting so stressed out about, you know, what your kids are doing and stuff?”

  “It’s taking me longer than expected to get better,” I inform her. Then why not tell her the whole precise truth?

  “It must be harder to recover without Mum.”

  This shocks and puzzles me. “Where did you get that idea from?”

  “I couldn’t forgive her either, if I was in your shoes,” Angie argues, gaining heat. “I’d have thrown her out immediately, knowing what was going on between her and that...”

  “All right, Angie. No need to revive the old news stories. I’ve heard enough about that.”

  “I haven’t got any time for the woman, to be honest with you,” she argues.

  “She’s your mother,” I remind her.

  “Yes, all right, but I take your side in all this,” she assures me.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes!”

  “But you’re still her daughter.”

  “How couldn’t I be?”

  “So there you are, your mother still cares about you. What happens to you,” I add.

  “But when I see the kind of a mess divorce creates. Puts me off the whole idea of getting married. What a terrible idea. Best to just muck in with guys you like... who you like being around. Don’t get attached, thinking it’s gonna be forever. Do you get me?”

  “That would depend.”

  “I wouldn’t want to live under the same roof as that person,” she says indignantly.

  “Well, she isn’t expecting you back any time soon.”

  No, they’re not making extra space for her, in the technologically well-appointed Jurassic cave.

  Chapter 26

  Whatever the troubles at home, there’s always a chance to escape to work. Most mornings I look forward to pulling on a pair of worn jeans and a Dylan tour shirt. The idea of turning back into that reckless young guy appeals to me. In those days I had a dream in my back pocket, and didn’t have to keep searching for my pulse - or for my wallet.

  Our factory is based around the ground floor of a huge red-brick Victorian construction. Those guys in stove-pipe hats knew how to work on an ambitious scale. The buildings were used as warehouses or factories. In modern times they’ve been left mouldering and derelict. Recently they’ve undergone renovation and rental space remains cheap. You don’t need to be an academician architect to recognise an eyesore
. Visible from the top rear windows of my house it’s a suture across the city. These angry scars swell against the perspective, as you look out at them, as the sun’s going down.

  I’m addicted to the smells and sounds of our manufacturing process. We pass most of our days in this space; this gutted relic of ‘pandemonium’; of the great industrial age, or is it outrage? But all that coal and iron, manufacture and empire, has passed away into the cosmic scrap-yard of memory. It’s a postmodern trope in a Pynchon novel. Instead we make a modest profit from wind power - that original idea of humanity - as we flutter pocket-handkerchiefs in the air. Who knows about the future? We could be getting aboard giant balloons to commute between cities, as cars lock horns on motorways and trains get glued to the tracks. Man, you have to stay positive, although I can’t read tarot cards, tea leaves or crystal balls, unlike my former wife.

  My business was shooting up for years, so to speak, until we hit these turbulent times. My diversions around divorce courts and operating theatres didn’t help growth. All those bright lights and pointed questions were not helpful to running a company. Character assassination and physical dismemberment eventually drags you down. This coincided with difficult trading conditions, competition and an economic downturn. Man, you’ve got to keep a weather eye.

  I started the business with my close university friend, Stuart Maybridge. Stuart and I hooked up after a Pink Floyd gig. Syd Barrett was still in the group then. Stuart had his psychedelic period, although mathematics helped to clear his mind. I frequently drove Stuart and Lizzie crazy with my aeronautic passions. During the first two years they assumed that my interest in kites was merely a quaint hobby. He wondered if it was a pretentious, faddish hobby, meant to get the attention of the chicks. He doubted if my obsession was going to be successful on either count.

  One weekend we were up in London together on a demo. Students were trying to force Wilson not to give any blessing to napalm. This was the day that Stuart and Elizabeth began to take my dream seriously. We were pressed into Hyde Park waiting to march towards Trafalgar Square. We listened in pained silence to garbled, tedious speeches from a far-off platform. Boredom wasn’t the point - it was more burning bodies. During this wait I reeled a kite up into the London drizzle. I waxed enthusiastic about eastern spiritualism and pacifism. My best mate and girlfriend soon concentrated on how to raise some finance.