Noah's Heart

by Neil Rowland

  “You don’t believe him, do you?” Jakes is speaking into her ear. “Noah’s trying a last gamble. He’s trying to get back your loyalty. He’s a crafty old bastard your Dad.”

  Silence ravels with the air across empty space: it sings through the rigging and riffles the fabric of my balloon.

  “The medics can’t just abandon you, Dad. Why can’t they operate on you again, or give you some better drugs?”

  “There’s nothing more.”

  “Why can’t it be done?” she demands.

  “Everything gets to a finite, I guess.”

  There’s a glint in the corner of her eye, or so I imagine. Do we understand each other at last, my daughter and I? Or is the final report on my health just another stern paternal demand? Can we get the view of my ex-wife’s solicitor? The legal one, that is.

  Angela drops into silence, under a sliver of moon like a scalpel’s edge. I can’t offer her much for the future, but she’s pulling for me.

  “I find you hard to work out,” she says.

  “Don’t listen to that hypocritical old bastard,” Jakes argues.

  “Are you looking for our sympathy?” she wonders.

  “If you’re offering,” I reply.

  There’s an abrupt laugh that concludes as suddenly.

  I burn upwards again, ignoring the risks. I hope to catch her expression by the flare. The searing light reaches out in an arc across the fields and woodland. The fleeting intense light turns her face blank as an ancient masque.

  The burner unit peters out again. The illumination falls back, so that the night looks darker, and the stars and moon weaker. I get the idea that Angela is lost to me. As lost as Lizzie.

  Chapter 38

  “You didn’t get an approach to sell your shares? Did you Angela?”

  “Shares? What are you talking about, Dad?”

  “You know, the shares in our company, that I gave you? You wouldn’t be tempted, would you? If someone offered a higher price?”

  “That would depend on what they offered,” she says. “I haven’t given much thought to it. Haven’t needed to.”

  “So you haven’t had anyone approach? Recently?”

  “Into your company?” She is considering hard.

  “Yes, that’s it. You haven’t broken into that stock already?”

  “I know what the company means to you,” she insists.

  “Right, dead on. So you didn’t get any phone calls from Corrina Farlane?” I come out and say. Best to level with her on the issue.

  “Who is she? Never heard of her.”

  “You did. She’s a girlfriend of mine.” Sort of.

  “Do you mean the bumptious one on a motorbike?” Angela wonders.

  “She owns a couple of bikes, yes,” I admit. “Bumptious?”

  “How did she get her hooks into you anyway?” she remarks.

  “Angie, my taste in women isn’t the issue.” At least she didn’t drug me up; if only because it wasn’t necessary.

  “I wouldn’t speak to that bitch anyway,” she tells me.

  “That’s encouraging to hear,” I crow. I can overlook the insult to Corrina as long as the company’s safe.

  “What’s going to happen to your company anyway, if...”

  She cares more about my health than even her own prospects. There’s nobody else in the family who so readily puts themselves last. This was touching, but it’s a form of self-harm. She could evaporate like a rock of crack. Her misjudged love affair has only encouraged the girl to be even more self-effacing.

  “So have you told my brother about this? You know, the stuff about your heart valve? That your health isn’t good?”

  “Not a word. But he surely guesses something. Tim went with Mum and me to the hospital. He must have a good idea, even if he’s the tiddler of the family. He’s a very perceptive kid that one,” I say.

  “Good job Tim’s not in our house, isn’t it,” she says jokingly. Her silhouette shuffles before me. Then she hits a more serious vibe. “How about our mother?”

  “Not in so many words,” I admit. After divorce emotions turn into volatile compounds. What’s the problem you have to deal with? You have to maintain a front of strong health, just to cope with your divorce conditions. The relationship - what was your love affair and your marriage - has suddenly gone under laboratory conditions. It would be advisable to put on a full space suit, if that was feasible.

  “Mum will know that something is up,” Angela says.

  “Well, she already has a good idea, don’t worry.”

  “This is hardly commonplace, is it. You had these operations and you didn’t get better. Your secret will come out in the end,” she warns.

  “You’re right,” I tell her. “She’ll piece it all together eventually.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us? Doesn’t your family deserve to know?” she challenges me. “What is it, that stops you from trusting Mum and us?”

  “I was trying to protect you,” I bleat.

  “Were you thinking of giving Mum a good shock?” she wonders.

  I deny ever having had that intention. Anyway she stopped being shocked years ago. Or so she told me.

  “Then why did you keep the truth to yourself?” she wonders.

  “Right, Angie, but we’re sharing now. You’ve always been our priority,” I remind her.

  “Too much, sometimes,” she retorts.

  “Your future,” I stammer. So the old guilt leaks out again, thick as blood.

  “Nobody’s telling you to get into a sweat over me,” she says.

  “Somebody has to.”

  “Why’s that? I’m not going to be pushed around by you.”

  “You let Jakes push you around, because he’s got a handsome face and a wad of notes. Is that it?”

  “Mum and you can’t dictate what I do with my life. Even if it’s the only thing you can ever agree on, it seems to me. I make my own decisions, when I get up in the morning.”

  “About when you get up, yes,” I comment.

  “Times change,” she ripostes.

  “Mum and I gave you those opportunities,” I argue.

  “Like my brothers and I owe you a big favour?” she replies.

  I take a draft of the cooling evening air to consider this. “We took a chance to make something of ourselves.” Now she’s making more than me.

  “Your generation’s running the world now. So what are you doing with it?” she shoots. “Grandma would never agree with you.”

  “Let’s leave Grandma out of this.” That would be far too complicated. “I can only answer for myself.” And Lizzie.

  “It’s my right too, that’s why they call it my life.”

  I stiffen in my picnic basket. “How can you be so indifferent to your future? When Mum was your age she was excited about going to Uni. Every bright girl then aspired to get a university education and a professional career.”

  “You stopped being a rebel?” she says. “I don’t want to go to Uni.” Angie’s tightening her small fists and pointed jaw against me.

  “Is this for real? I can’t believe my ears!” I protest.

  “I’ve no wish to join that club whatsoever!”

  “What kind of club?” Night clubs?

  I’d guess that her boyfriend has a stake in many of the glitzy new establishments around the waterfront.

  I tighten my grip on the rigging; holding on for dear life.

  “Look, Angie, university is to do with sharing ideas, expanding your mind, networking and, yes, there’s nothing wrong with this girl, enjoying the parties and the clubbing.”

  “I’ve heard this one before,” she complains. “The way you talk about yourself at Uni, it sounds like it was Prince was taking that
degree,” she remarks.

  “Which prince?” I say. “Since when do I consider myself like that!”

  “Oh god, Dad.”

  This reaction is puzzling to me. “You meet all kinds of interesting, hip dudes from all walks of life.”

  “I already have interesting friends.”

  “Oh right, yes, I met some of them!”

  “If you’re so broadminded and up for it, Dad!”

  I’m disillusioned. “You’ve spent too much time out, Angela. You’ve lost the learning bug.” Did she ever have it? “You talked about a gap year...then it expanded into another gap year...now it’s turning into a PhD of indolence. How much longer is this going to continue? Your Mum’s worried that you work in that café. When we talk about culture, we didn’t mean café culture,” I say.

  “Better to learn the hard way. It’s a high tip place. What’s Mum complaining about now? That’s what I enjoy.”

  “I can imagine the sort of tips you pick up there.”

  “I read what I like, watch what I like, meet the people I get a kick out of. Do you understand?” she appeals. “You shouldn’t force your ideas on me.”

  “You have to relate to society. Nobody should exist in a vacuum, do you agree? You need to consider contemporary issues and struggles. Put yourself into a wider context and understand your place in life.”

  “All right, Dad. You told me to make a careful decision about university. Well, I’m letting you know...that I’ve decided not to go. The PhD has finished,” she remarks.

  “This is really going to cheer your mother up,” I tell her.

  “No need to begin sulking, Dad. You’re not going to force me to study. I’m sorry if Mum is going to be disappointed. I didn’t set out to hurt her.”

  Where did I hear that one before?

  “I’m embracing life...I’m excited about that,” our daughter informs me.

  “I know all about your life now, girl. I’ve been introduced to your exciting friends in the university of life... sometimes at the end of a shotgun.”

  Of course it wasn’t the first shotgun that had appeared in my life.

  My girl’s a true rebel. This isn’t related to clothes, hairstyle or even jewellery, as so often rebellion is linked to identity politics, fashion statements or even a haircut. No, we have really produced the genuine article. Angela was born into adverse circumstances, although loved. She was very much loved: By youthful parents not expecting responsibility or commitment. Now she is prepared to risk everything. She’s shunning the safety of convention. I fear for her but I can’t help admiring her. She has guts. Maybe the guts that Lizzie showed.

  “Right, Angie, can I ask about your plans for the future?”

  “Dad, I really hate that kind of question. What do you expect? Become a secretary? A lion tamer? A pole dancer? That just shows such a numb attitude,” she argues.

  “I already dismissed those ideas, Angie,” I tell her.

  Does she have any plans or even dreams about her future? At this moment her life stretches ahead like a desolate beach, or even a flooded trench in the park. Man, there may not be anyone out looking for her.

  She’s restless, our daughter, Angela Constance Sheer. Hankering to escape the eternal mother and father.

  “I’m out on my own now, Dad.” As if she gets my thoughts and wishes to underline them.

  “Should we abandon you?” I ask.

  “You have to let me go.”

  “Maybe in the future you’ll find the perfect pill, to make all your problems and issues disappear,” I complain.

  She probably sighs and makes a face. “You always talk about life, but what about living?” she returns.

  “Is that your philosophy? No thought about a career...what you’re going to work at?”

  “I have to get back to the festival soon,” she warns. “My friends are going to worry. I have my friends, you see.” But she faces awkward questions, that she clears out of the way. “I don’t have any job or career in mind at present. I’m happy where I am. I’ll get in as much great music as I can this weekend,” she offers.

  Not exactly music to my own ears. She’s Leaving Home - we’ve been on the side of the unfortunate parents for years now. But what’s the point in generating bad radiation? Her mother and I are consulting about her future while the Dino lives off commission.

  “Maybe I’ll find something where I’m in charge,” Angela comments.

  “Is that right?” She’s going to be the second female Prime Minister? Or the first feminist one, even better?

  “Where I can see results? Something tangible. Something interesting and surprising. God know’s what that’s going to be,” she admits. “Let me know.”

  “We’ve just got to put our heads together, Angela.”

  “I don’t know, Dad, maybe something in business. I’ve been saving up some money. I’d be good at that...making deals, negotiating and stuff.”

  “Really? That sounds cool. But if you’re going to succeed in business you’ve got to be focussed and hard working...around the clock...like Branson and me.”

  “But let’s talk about it later. I’ve got to find my mates. They’re gonna be out of their heads by now.” With worry, she means.

  “Right, I don’t want to keep you,” I say.

  The balloon has begun to sag, after all this filial chatter. The skin of the envelope has lost tension and energy. I risk being grounded if we continue this conversation. I burn again to avoid such a miserable fate. Sometimes, even as an experienced pilot, I suffer sensations of vertigo. Everything spins. I allow another burn, another long tongue of flame reaching into the vault; another hiss of fiery pain. The bottom of the basket lifts from the rough grass. Air currents draw me up into the atmosphere, as if Adonis has gripped me.

  “Away you go, Dad. Have a safe flight. Enjoy yourself!”

  “This is your last chance to join me,” I tell her.

  “No, I’m staying over.”

  “So you should take care of yourself, Angela. Do you understand?”

  “No need to worry.”

  “You’re not running back to Jakes?”

  “Only as a friend,” she tells me.

  “Excellent news.” This is the best melody I’ve heard in years. I compromise on the idea of friendship.

  At this point the machine is going up and there’s no means to hold back. I feel a corresponding uplifting wave pass through my heart. The ascent has always gladdened me.

  Angie has presence of mind to loosen off the guide rope. I gesture for her to throw it up to me. I successfully gather. Internal pressure and temperature builds. The machine continues to rise. Angie’s wide hat resembles a flying saucer: her fingers grip the brim. The faint oval of her face turns up, as she follows my progress from below.

  “See you Monday, Dad!”

  “Monday morning?”

  “In the café. Why not? Have some breakfast. Before you go to work.”

  “You have a date!”

  “See you then!”

  “Great.”

  Their menu isn’t ideal for my cardiac waistline, or cholesterol level. But you shouldn’t avoid a little of what you fancy.

  “Keep out of trouble!” I shout down.

  “Don’t worry about me!”

  I’ve the powerful mystique of fire in my hands. The awesome lantern glides up, the world eases away in a hugely impressive silence. Angie offers a double-armed wave by way of send-off. She acquired this traditional gesture from a very early age.

  “Keep away from that gun toting loony!”

  “Bon voyage!”

  I notice Angie backing away from the site, as I peer over the rim of the craft. For a short while she leans back to follow the balloon’s lift. Take off is a magnific
ent spectacle. Although, after the sun has set, the craft must only be noticed as a barely perceptible shape, against a slightly lighter sky.

  Finally I see my daughter bounding away across the field. I distinguish the pantomime hippie hat, moon-dust flickers of arms and legs - until she vanishes. Our angel. Back to her friends, the free festival, a night of getting cheerfully stoned; and what else? With a certain exuberance of new-found freedom, I suspect.

  Chapter 39

  I drift at unfelt speed, at a hundred feet in altitude, tugged by a ten-knot breeze: Aiming at the coordinates agreed with Nairn and to our rendezvous spot.

  Leaning over the basket, the bonfires, the stage lighting, the patchwork of illumination from the temporary settlement, slowly diminish to sight. Until everything approaches vanishing point and is sucked back into darkness.

  How did I put myself into this risky flying position? Having a metaphorical shave with a slashing open razor? Why try to find a particular mistake in my life that caused this? I’ve never consciously attempted to look backwards. Try to stay mellow with experience. I’m the sum of all the mistakes or misdirection that ever occurred during my life. You can either see life as a collection of greatest hits or misses, or as a Blonde on Blonde. I’m not the guy I originally set out to be and paid insurance to become. Man, there’s no use giving a reverse peace sign to the whole shebang.

  I know that it isn’t only fear of death that pushes us towards religion. It’s losing everything that we love. Even if I did have religious convictions I’d keep quiet about them. So that would make a change, you might argue.

  Always plenty of time up here to think.

  The Robins are playing away this Saturday. Tim and I could take in the rugby this weekend. It’s good to have him around Big Pink sometimes. Just like the old times. I really miss those fatherly satisfactions. Often I hear Elizabeth’s voice about the old haunted house, as I explained. Like a groove cut into my psyche. You get used to the sound of a woman’s voice. Man, it’s hard to train yourself out of this.

  As usual I have to go into the dinosaur lair on Sunday; this time to retrieve Luke, assuming he’s going to return and hasn’t been interviewed by that oily solicitor creep. There will be tough decisions to be made at work on Monday. There are figures to torture, letters to compose, faxes to send and maybe doors to hammer. This has urgency as Corrina is trying to buy up all my ordinary shares. That girl’s never had the reputation of being a slouch. Her idea of hanging around is a paraglider. I’d like to forget about Corrina at this point of history. Recent romantic memories - or are they merely erotic? - aggravate old wounds. From the other point of view, total romantic amnesia is difficult. Her beauty often comes back to haunt me. You could say that.