Crustaceans

by Andrew Cowan

  I sat on the rim of a litter bin and zipped up my jacket. I tucked my chin under the collar. Once I had watched from this spot as a coffin was lowered. I was eight or nine then. The people had bowed their heads and leaned into each other. The priest’s black cassock had flapped in a breeze. He’d tossed a handful of soil into the grave; and later, as the mourners began to disperse, a woman had stepped forward, holding her hat, and dropped some flowers after it. When the last car had departed – out through the far gates and on to the ring-road – I’d gone down to look. The soil was the colour of sand. The box was a long way below, the flowers obscuring the nameplate, and standing there at the edge I’d thought I was going to fall, tip forward. I’d thought I might jump. My hands were tingling. A green council truck was approaching – rolls of turf on the back, clattering shovels – and for no reason I knew I’d rubbed my eyes and pretended to cry. It wasn’t convincing. The workmen, puzzled at first, had finally told me to scat.

  I wasn’t much good at crying. It wasn’t something I did. If my father hit me now – a sudden sharp blow, his hand to the back of my head – I would remain stubbornly upright, and silent. I wouldn’t be hurt; or wouldn’t allow it to show. At school I was frequently taunted or picked on, and often drawn into fights, always certain of losing, and hardly caring. My motherlessness, it seemed, was a provocation – as was my silence, my stubbornness. I wasn’t interested in games, and said very little in class. I got on with my schoolwork: I saw no other reason for being there. You’re a solemn wee fella, Bridget once told me, lifting my chin with her finger. Show us your smile, she said. But of course I wouldn’t – I refused – though in time, the more often she repeated it, the harder it became to stop myself grinning. Oh no, she’d say then; put it away. Get back in your shell, Paul.

  She was calling me now. I got to my feet and stood where she’d see me. One Friday, a few weeks before, I had come this way with a boy called Peter Kelsey, who’d tagged along as I was walking from school. Unsure what he wanted, or why he was being so friendly, I’d shown him the war memorial, I’d shown him where my mother was buried. And he’d seemed interested. Afterwards we had gathered some conkers, filled up our satchels, and when at last I’d got home, the kitchen steamy with cooking, my father had frowned and pointed across to the clock. Late today, Paul, he’d said. I was with someone, I told him. I couldn’t say friend. I kept that word to myself, clung to it all evening as I threaded my conkers. But the following Monday, in the noise of the playground, I found myself yanked down by my hair. Peter Kelsey walked me round in slow circles. Bent double, one arm raised to cover my face, I twisted my neck and saw a swirl of blazers and ties, the jostling bodies and grins of my classmates. Eventually a teacher had stopped it. Peter Kelsey was breathing hard. I didn’t pretend to cry then, but forced out a laugh, dry and defiant. I hurled myself on to him. That was the first time I was placed on detention. I was with a friend, I told my father that evening.

  All done, Bridget smiled; they can rest in peace now. Her camera poked out through her cagoule. It was starting to drizzle. She pulled up her hood and slipped a hand under my arm. Lead on, she said, and I took her down the long gravelled track that skirted the new graves, the stones dark and glossy, Cellophane wrap on the flowers, handwritten cards. Where the cemetery backed on to my school I knew of a skip, mounded with soil and branches, discarded bouquets and ribbons. It was enclosed by high hedges. I supposed it would make a good photo. Is the film finished now? I asked her. Almost, she replied, and I said nothing more. We met a single-lane road, and a sign pointing to the burial chapel, where Bridget turned left, her hand leaving my arm. Isn’t it this way? she asked me. I want to show you something, I murmured, and gestured towards a border of shrubs and small trees. There were dedication plaques on the benches. My mother was lying a few yards beyond them.

  The grave was tended by my grandparents, and ignored by my father. A plain white block gave her married name and her dates, and like most of the stones in that area it said she had passed away. She was not sleepeth, she was not gone before, and her end was not peace. She wasn’t the devoted wife of the above. Ah, Paul, said Bridget, and motioned a sign of the cross. She tucked her hands under her arms. So this is your mum, she said, and I nodded. The noise of the traffic was louder here, the rain coming harder. I rounded my shoulders. I want a picture, I said. A picture? With the camera, I said. Bridget gave a small smile; she gazed at me softly. I’m not sure, Paul, she said; really I’m not. You took all those others, I said. And sighing, reluctant, Bridget flipped the cap from her lens. I did, she admitted; plenty of those. I crouched by the side of the stone. I reached one arm behind it. You swear you won’t breathe a word to your dad? she said, and I promised I wouldn’t. Then I showed her my smile, my teeth. I held the expression until she was ready, until I heard the doubled click of the shutter. It was the last shot on the film.

  THIRTEEN

  The Union flags on the promenade are ragged, furiously snapping. Gulls coast above them, stark against the grey sky. The snow dwindles, comes in brief flurries, and even today, in this splitting cold, the seafront cafés and giftshops are open. A few teenagers play the machines in the arcades; the noise along the main stretch is constant. Outside Majestic Amusements there’s a mechanical man, his Perspex body full of small toys. He swivels his eyes as I near him. His mouth jolts open, squeaks on its hinges. His name, I remember, is Charlie. Roll up! Roll up! his voice crackles. Roll up for the greatest gifts in town! I hunch my shoulders, stand a few feet away. My image floats on the window behind him. Hey! Can you play guitar? My name is Charlie, what’s yours? Euan! you shouted. I’m Euan!

  Euan. I drop a pound coin in the slot. A plastic flower-head clunks into the tray, and I take it, though you’ve had one before; I can sense your disappointment. The flower is fixed to a coil of thin tubing, a black bulb on its end. It squirts water. The picture on the packet shows a clown, his face not unlike Charlie’s, and as I turn to leave Charlie calls after me, Stop! Stop! Don’t go away! I’ll give you another present today! But there’ll be other days; always at the seaside there are other days. I slip between the parked cars, their windscreens hooded with snow, and hurry over the road. On the beach side it’s quieter, seems darker. A jogger lengthens his stride to avoid me. I hear the rasp of his breath and the soft slap of his trainers. There are bird-claws in the snow, his footprints, and I walk in the direction he’s come from, past the empty themed spaces, shuttered kiosks and stalls. Overlooking the bowling green there’s a red-brick pavilion and a long terrace of benches. In my pocket I have a new lighter, a half-bottle of whisky. I feel for my tobacco, close my fist around it. The benches are too damp to sit on. I shelter in a corner and roll up a cigarette. I break the seal on my bottle and drink to your birthday, and it’s then that I see you; another just like you.

  The boy is two strides away, standing on the wall that encloses the green. He is five, no older than five, and his arms are stretched wide. He tilts himself left and right, places one foot in front of the other. He is talking to himself. Blue mittens hang limp from his cuffs on lengths of elastic. There’s a dark fringe beneath his bobble hat, fat double-knots in his boots. And I am stilled, transfixed. I stand and stare, my bottle in one hand, a fag in the other, and when his mother appears – pushing a smaller child in a buggy – I expect for one moment she’ll smile; she will speak and I’ll answer. But her face is taut with annoyance, confusion. Her eyes search mine and I cannot look away. She yanks the boy down. She leads him hurriedly out to the road, across towards Charlie, and I continue to stare. Perhaps I ought to call out, run after them. I could offer the flower; I could maybe explain. But this isn’t the first time. Like something contagious, I know I’m bad news, best avoided, for even our friends now cross the road to evade me, the telephone no longer rings, and when at last she looks back I shrink into my coat. I swallow from my bottle, and turn, and quickly walk on. The cliffs are there in the distance, our caravan. The flower can take its place in the box by
your bunk.

  FOURTEEN

  I was thirteen when I realised my mother’s suitcase of clothes had gone from the top of the wardrobe. For three days we’d had guests, two women from Germany. Katharina had spoken English, though rarely to me; Eva had said very little at all. They were mime artists or dancers, I wasn’t quite sure. They’d had their own doorkey and brought home their own food. In the evenings they’d performed at a venue in town, in the mornings they’d slept, and the previous day, returning from school, I’d heard them taking a bath, the water lapping and Katharina reading aloud, Eva suddenly laughing. I’d looked into their room then – a smell like milk souring and the bed disarranged, their clothes on the floor. I was curious about them, vaguely troubled, aroused, and now that they’d gone – a brief note in the kitchen, a bottle of wine for my father – I’d come again to their bedroom, searching for something, I didn’t know what. The yellow curtains were closed. In the sandy half-light I peered under the bed. I opened the cupboards and drawers and felt around in the corners. I lifted their pillows and pulled back the blankets. I put my nose to their sheets. All that remained was their smell and I kicked off my shoes and lay face down on the mattress. I had an erection, and when at last I rolled over I saw the empty space near the ceiling.

  My father, I knew, would be working, as he had done all through their visit. He hadn’t known Katharina and Eva before, and he’d made no effort whilst they were with us. A friend had asked him a favour, he’d said – they’d needed a bed and we had one, so why shouldn’t they use it? Because they’re ignorant, I’d told him. They’re just German, he’d shrugged. And thieves, I thought now, hurrying downstairs and out through the kitchen. He was welding. The vast door to his studio was open, a shuddering blue light in the darkness, a cinematic cast on the walls, his flickering shadow. The smell was pungent as fireworks, the noise snapping and crackling. I shielded my eyes. There were masks on a bench in the corner and I grabbed for the nearest. I covered my face. Urgent, impatient, I stood where I wasn’t supposed to. Through my tiny window everything was black but the green point of the weld. The crackling stopped, the light went out. Paul, he said with annoyance, lifting his visor. What is it?

  My voice hadn’t yet broken, and I heard how I sounded, high-pitched, excited. They’ve taken Mum’s case, I told him. Who? Those Germans, they’ve nicked it! Calm down, Paul, he said. A lick of smoke curled from his sculpture. He shook his hands to loosen his gloves, clamped them under his arms to remove them. Which case? he said. Mum’s, I repeated; the one with her clothes in. My father picked up a hammer. Oh, that, he said, and chipped some slag from the weld, carried on with his business; that’s been gone for a long time. Where? I said; when? Charity, he said simply. But you should’ve asked me! I protested; why didn’t ask you me? Asked you what, Paul? he said, not looking up. If I minded, I said; if I wanted to keep something! He stood and faced me then, his eyes narrowing, the faintest of smiles. Your mother’s dresses? he said; I don’t think so, son. There might’ve been something, I insisted. There still is, he replied; there’s things all over the house. Take your pick, Paul, he said, waving his hammer; take whatever you like. But that stuff’s not hers, I objected; it’s just stuff, it belongs to the house. My father sighed. So what do you want, Paul? Because her case isn’t there now, it’s gone. And furious, frustrated, I yelled, I want to know why she died! But you won’t fucking tell me!

  I stepped sharply away, but my father made no motion to hit me. He gave a tired groan and stared for some time at the ceiling. Right, he said finally. Alright, then. He set his mask on the bench and picked up his cigarettes. Come on, he told me, and I followed him, his sagging blue overalls, industrial smell, the worn tread of his boots. He took me into the coach-house. A cat darted past us, carrying something, furtive. Inside the light buzzed and stuttered, flashed on, and for a moment he seemed unsure where to begin, gazed dismally around him, then wheeled a sack-barrow towards the far wall. There was a typist’s swivel chair in his way, a stack of wooden pallets, a row of green lockers. He carried the pallets to the door and rolled the chair after them. One by one he tilted the lockers on to the barrow and clanked them aside, revealing a rack of grey metal shelving, a clutter of art-books and boxes and tins – ICI Belco 300, Paripan Dryfast Enamel, Nitromors, Trimite, Holts … Breathing heavily, he scratched the back of his neck, flipped the cap from his lighter. He lit a cigarette and stretched out an arm, found what he wanted. Here, he exhaled; take it.

  Once, I remembered, my parents’ wedding album had slotted into a box, a white cardboard sleeve. The box was gone now, the binding broken. Their names were embossed on the cover – a silver horseshoe, a posy and ribbons – but the padding had been torn round the edges. It was smeared with grease, and the grease was matted with dust. I needed both hands to hold it. My father cleared some things from his workbench and switched on a spot-lamp. He walked away to the door and sat down on the pallets. Go ahead, he said; take a good look. I laid the album on the bench and I opened it carefully. The end-boards were marbled. Thin sheets of paper divided the leaves, opaque and crinkling. The photos were monochrome and I went through them slowly. My father, suited and smiling, was pictured on the path to the church, my uncle Ron at his shoulder, some children behind them and a row of black railings. My mother, ducking, all fabric and flowers, held out a hand to my grandfather as she climbed from the car, a single white shoe on the running board. In a stained-glass enclosure they bowed their heads to the register, the vicar watchful, one hand guiding my mother, her slim fingers and wedding ring. Before the stone arch of the vestibule they posed with linked arms – the splayed white lace of her gown, his dark buttoned suit – at first on their own and then with her parents, his best man, and successively with others, my relatives, strangers, small children, the line gradually lengthening and the camera receding. There were more pictures. In one, I remembered, they’d be kissing; in another, cutting the cake. I’d seen them before. And I didn’t go on; I didn’t look any further. In every one of the photographs my mother’s face was scratched out, scored through to the backing. It seemed she’d used the point of a knife.

  She was ill, Paul, my father said then; she hated the sight of herself. She didn’t want to be remembered. Do you see what I’m saying? He stood close behind me. I shook my head, and stared down at her, the gouged space where she ought to have been. You should let her rest now, he said; let her go. He reached across me and switched off the lamp. That’s what she wanted, he said; she wanted to be forgotten. I was crying, almost, holding it in. You still haven’t said how she died, I mumbled. No, son, he said; and I won’t. You don’t want to know. I do, I told him; I want to know what was wrong with her. No, Paul, he said, and I felt his hand then on my shoulder; I would feel it long after he’d gone. We’ll tidy up later, he said.

  FIFTEEN

  Yesterday I drove forty miles, came to a town which might have been anywhere. I recognised nothing. Life there wouldn’t know me. It was late afternoon and darkness had fallen. Silvery lights shone from the trees on the high street. The traffic moved slowly and the pavements were crowded; carrier bags flared in the beam of my headlamps, children’s faces, their anoraks. I parked near a church, a crenellated tower of stone, and took a sack of old things from the boot. I cradled it against me, walked in the slush at the side of the road. There was a charity shop near Woolworth’s; inside a smell of worn trousers, lavender soap. Two elderly ladies watched from the till. I didn’t meet their eyes, and said nothing; I deposited my bag and retreated. But there was no escaping their thanks, their cluttering gratitude. I reached too soon for the door, I had to grab twice. It opened inwards. A pack of Christmas cards fell from a rack, and I stooped red-faced to replace it. Sorry, I said. Outside, empty-handed, I ducked into the shoppers, and wanted to run, but the crowds were too dense, too bulky, and I couldn’t make any ground, couldn’t push through them. I gave in, and stood still, jostled by so much purpose and motion. I stared down at my feet. I turned and went back
to the shop. My bag, still tied, lay next to the counter. Sorry, I said; it’s the wrong one. Oh, said the ladies. They stood trimly aside and I made a face of apology, attempted a smile. That one’s my son’s presents, I explained; I got them mixed up. Oh dear, yes, they said; that’s perfectly alright. But the bag was too soft and deflated to contain anything but jumble. I gathered it into my arms and returned to the car. I wedged it against the rear window. It was there in the mirror as I drove home.

  I have filled any number of bags. Restless, most days, I drift through the house, opening drawers and scouring the shelves, touching things, holding them – a bowl perhaps, one of your toys – as if in their substance, their weight, I might discover some clue to what’s missing. Always something is missing, and yet always there are too many things. I debate in my mind the worth of every item I own. How many spoons do I need, how many towels? Every book, picture and tape, every letter and photo: what was its value before, and what now? All the things I saved and collected, and intended one day to give you, are no longer preserved in the attic but scattered all over the house. I pile what remain of your clothes onto your bed and repeatedly sift through them. I do the same with my own. But I can never be sure what to keep and what to discard. I fill the binbags at random. They sit in every room, and I can hardly remember what’s in them.

  When I got home I opened a bottle of whisky and closed all the curtains. In the kitchen I stood by the radiator and tried to unknot the bag. But I was shivering, or shaking, and I couldn’t undo it. I tore at the plastic, wrenched it apart, and tipped the jumble on to the floor. I got down on my knees. There were so few of your things, and so many of mine, but tangled up with my jumpers and shirts was a sleepsuit, and the shock of seeing it again for a moment unhinged me. I held it to my face and searched for your smell. I tried to picture you wearing it. I looked around for some scissors, a knife. On the chest was a patch in the shape of a heart, and the slogan Here Comes Love. I forget now where it came from. It was a hand-me-down; the white cotton was grey from the start. We would never have bought it ourselves – the sentimentality went against what we thought then was our nature – and I never much liked it, only grudgingly used it. It always made me uneasy.