Crustaceans

by Andrew Cowan

  We drank whiskies, and though eventually Ruth reached for my cigarettes, and tipped one from the pack, she did not smoke it, but turned it around in her fingers and quietly said, They remind me of your dad, Paul. And I nodded; I picked up my glass. Don’t you think you should phone him? she said. There’s no point, I exhaled; he won’t be interested, it won’t register. It will, she replied; I think it will, Paul. But I shook my head. I doubt it, I murmured, and stared out to the yard, the beer kegs stacked up by the wall, the dustbins. I finished my drink. Ruth opened her purse and took my glass from me. I’ll get you another, she said, and as she went up to the bar I stubbed out my cigarette, ground it into the ashtray, and thought then of the first time we took you to see him. You were four months old, and he was smoking as we came through the door, his cigarette half hidden behind him, cupped in the palm of his hand. He led us into the living room, a fug of smoke in the air, and I lifted the latch on a window, pushed a chair near it. Ruth sat with you in the draught. She smelled your nappy, and as I slipped your changing bag from my shoulder I heard the snap of his lighter. You’ve just put one out, Dad, I said. What’s that? he asked me. You’ve only just finished one, I told him. No I haven’t, he replied, and watched as Ruth knelt down on the carpet, absorbing every detail, the rise of her hem on her thighs, the dip of her neckline. She laid a fresh nappy beneath you, and suddenly then he started to cough, hacking into his fist, unable to stop. He went from the room and ran the taps in the kitchen. We sat and listened to the noise he was making. We heard it again when we went up to bed; we heard it repeatedly all weekend.

  My other grandpa, you called him, the one who was poorly and lived far away, who couldn’t come to our house. He was not playful like Jim, didn’t tickle or chase you, and of course he never told stories, or listened to yours. He found your presence a nuisance it seemed, your constant activity and chatter, the attention you needed, for it was only ever Ruth that he wanted to talk to, until even that was too much, the exertion beyond him. His illness began I suppose in the year you were born, and steadily worsened each winter. He admitted first on the phone to a cold, and later, much later, to a bout of bronchitis. Finally it became emphysema, though he never would say so, at least not to me. By the time you were four he had smoked his last cigarette, and conceded to Ruth that he should have stopped sooner, but still he insisted on blaming his studio – the damage, he said, was due to his work, the gases and dust in the air, the chemicals he’d had to inhale. And Ruth nodded; she didn’t bother to argue. He hadn’t worked then in three years – his final sculptures abandoned – and I remember the effort he had just to keep breathing, his neck and shoulder muscles bulging, as though slowly shrugging, as if vaguely bewildered by the state he was in. He was sleepy, forgetful, his house as warm as my grandmother’s had been, and like my grandmother he rarely went out, saw very few people. His life, like his lungs, had constricted, and the following year – the last time you saw him – he was barely able to rise from his chair. He couldn’t breathe except through a machine, an oxygen concentrator rigged up in his hallway. Yards of plastic tubing led into his kitchen, his bedroom and living room. Two narrow prongs fed into his nose. His face was bloated, his eyes red and swollen. His chest was distended, and he spoke in a whisper. You said you didn’t want to visit again; you thought he was scary. And I remember Ruth promised we’d see; perhaps next time Daddy could come on his own? She doubted he would live out that year.

  We ought to get going, Ruth said to me now; it’s almost two, and I nodded. I swallowed what remained of our whiskies, and picked up my cigarettes, and slowly we trailed back to the hospital, the sun sharp in our eyes and Ruth’s hand holding mine. We did not speak, and came in by the car-park, the outpatients department, the lifts. We went first to your bedside, and I remember watching your nurses as they worked briskly around us, and the grey-coated auxiliary restocking your shelves, and thinking that soon another child would be lying where you lay, another just like you. Your last tests would be happening at four, and squeezing your leg, I got to my feet. I promised I would come for you later, and stumbled out through the doors, unsteady with drink, and returned to the Parents’ Room. I slumped in an armchair, and Ruth came in behind me. She drew the curtains, and moved your rosette to my pillow. She lay down on the bed. The minutes continued to pass, and I felt myself drowsing, woke with a jolt as my chin touched my chest. Ruth’s eyes were open, looking at me. You were snoring, she said. I ran a hand over my face, smelled the smoke on my fingers. Sorry, I said, and crossed to the washbasin. Ruth sat up on the bed. I wasn’t sleeping, she said. The clock on the wall showed half past three. I dried my hands and sat down. I stared at the curtains. Tiny points of light shone through the fabric; and we waited, alert only to the sounds from the corridor – the footsteps approaching, receding; the voices and laughter – and when at last the door opened it wasn’t one of your nurses, or your consultant, but your grandfather Jim.

  He arrived in a hurry – as if he thought he might save you; perhaps afraid that he’d already missed you – and then abruptly he stopped, a few paces into the room. Someone closed the door softly behind him. His shoulders sloped, his arms hung at his sides, and he started to cry, noiselessly, standing looking at Ruth. I rose from my chair and briefly I held him. I smelled his deodorant, and the air of outdoors released from his jacket. But it was Ruth that he wanted and I watched as they clung to each other, then took my cigarettes from the table, some coins from Ruth’s purse, and quietly I left them. I wandered into the corridor. I breathed and exhaled. There were No Smoking signs everywhere, and I pushed through the doors to the stairwell, and descended six echoing flights – the concrete steps glossy with wear – and came to the lobby that led into the gardens. There was a payphone on the wall, a Perspex hood over it, and lighting a cigarette, I stood for a while in the doorway, looking out to the lawns, the benches and flower-beds, and rehearsed in my mind what I would say to my father. My voice would be steady and factual, sparing no detail. I would describe as much as there was, all I could think of, and though he might not want to know, still I would tell him. I’d remind him too of what he’d neglected, and what we were now losing. I would make him remember. But when at last I picked up the receiver, and punched out his number, I found myself shaking; I could not keep standing. I turned and crouched with my back to the wall. I lit another cigarette, and listened to the tone in my ear – repeatedly ringing – and it was then, for the first time since I was a boy, that I heard myself crying, uselessly saying his name, for he was not going to answer, and I knew I shouldn’t have expected he would.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The wind now has relented, the snow thickly falling. The flakes are luminous, silent. Looking up, I see them skewering towards me, swarming out of the darkness. They settle over my coat, crusting my chest and my shoulders; they melt on my lips. Through the flickering whiteness our neighbours’ caravans appear and recede, their shapes vague, insubstantial. Beneath the soft crush on the ground the grass is brittle and frozen. I stumble on divots and tyre tracks, and find my way by remembering – this far straight ahead, this distance across – until our caravan bulks up before me. There’s a skim of ice on the windows. The roof is matted with snow, and there’s snow on the lumber box, the steps and the tow-bar. Ruth’s car is not here. I tug off my gloves and sweep the box clear with my arm. The padlock is useless, open and frozen. I always meant to replace it; and shivering, impatient, I drop it now to my feet. I lift back the lid. Inside are two gas-bottles, your buckets and spades, our fold-away table and chairs. I connect the supply pipe, release the valve on the gas. I let the lid fall and fumble through my pockets for keys. The lock takes a quarter turn anticlockwise. The handle lifts upwards and the door opens outwards. You never could manage to do this, however often we showed you.

  The caravan rocks as I enter, the ornaments trembling, the cups on their hooks. There’s a smell of damp bedding – the smell of every first day we spent here – and something sharper, more ranc
id. The doors are all closed, the curtains and blinds, and for a while I stand hunched in the darkness, carefully listening. The metal casing is silent, everything still. There’s no sound but my own breath, the pulse in my ears. To my right is the broom-closet, your cabin beside it. The wall of our bedroom is somewhere before me. On my left is the passage, the toilet and shower stall, the kitchen units and stove, and cautiously I edge alongside them, patting the surfaces, feeling for the drainer, the rim of the sink. I reach across to the window. But the roller-blind won’t open – the cord gives a little then locks – and I can’t think now how to work it. I yank hard with both hands, but I seem to have jammed it, and defeated, self-conscious, I stand facing the living room, the end of our caravan. The dark is slowly revolving. I step on to the carpet, one arm extended before me, and grope for the curtains. I bump into the table, take another three paces. My fingers sink into the fabric, my knees touch the bench, and exhaling, relieved, I pull the curtains wide open, drag them out to the corners. The snow shimmers white through the frost on the windows, and I look all around me, surveying the shapes and the shadows, all the low spaces. Everything remains just as it should be, the distances tiny, and I think then how happy you were here, secure in these dimensions. You only had to glance up and you would find us.

  I crouch down by the fire and take out my lighter. The gas pops, a row of guttering flames, and I turn the setting to max. There’s a lamp above to my left, another behind me, two more in the passage. The mantles hiss as they brighten, the sound soft and continuous. The last dark shapes resolve into towels, discarded jumpers and cushions, and there are toys on the floor, one of Ruth’s compacts, the shrivelled peel of a tangerine. I have thrown nothing away here; I have not even tidied. The finger-smudges in the dust may be yours. The mud on the carpet may have come from your sandals. There’s a carton of milk on the drainer, yellowed and sour. The plates are unwashed. Beneath the sink our binbag is full, the sliding doors open, and I shove the carton in the bag, tie a knot in the drawstring. And then shaking, clumsy with drink and the cold, I begin to unbutton my coat, squinting down at my fingers. I flap the snow from my shoulders, watch it drop to the lino. I clear my nose on some kitchen roll. There are doors all around me, cupboards and closets and cabins, and methodically I open each one in turn, scanning the dimness inside, snapping them shut. But your room remains undisturbed. I stand for some moments before it – the pale wood veneer, the alphabet stickers spelling your name – and though I raise a hand to the doorknob, I find I cannot go in there.

  I return instead to the fireplace and kneel down on the carpet. I roll a cigarette and break the seal on my bottle; I empty my pockets. There’s my wallet and cough-sweets and tissues, and your flower from Charlie, a patch in the shape of a heart, a flint shaped like a bird-skull. I lay them out on the hearth, and take a light from the flames. I pick up the hagstone and turn it around in my fingers. On the table behind me is our collection of pebbles with holes in, the dish shallow and wide, the largest I ever managed to throw, but our smaller earthenware bowls – the ones for our periwinkles, our cowries and tellins – sit now on a shelf in your cabin, and soon enough I may have to retrieve them. Ruth could yet be arriving, and perhaps she will be bringing your casket, your ashes, for it was her idea that we should deposit them here, somewhere close to our caravan, on this day, your birthday. We would make a memorial, a small cairn of hagstones and seashells. That was what we agreed in July, in the days after your funeral, and though she may since have forgotten, it does seem to me now that she’ll have been to our house, as she said on the phone that she would. She will have looked to the pinboard, and read the note that I left her. And if she is late, it’s because she has worked. Today, as on every other day, she will have been to her office.

  The heat from the fire is scorching. I pull off my hat and my scarf and lean back on a bench. Cold air descends from the windows, the vent by the ceiling, and I turn up my collar. I lift my gaze to your cabin, your stickers, and as I drink from my bottle I remember again your blank double doors, and our final journey towards them – Jim’s arm around Ruth, one hand supporting her elbow – and the dread I felt then. I was carrying my camera, and wished that I’d left it, but a nurse had encouraged me; it was often a comfort, she’d said. She had squeezed my wrist gently. She stroked my arm as we filed into your room. The other nurse parted to admit us, then carried on with their work – whatever still remained to be done – and I hid the camera behind me. I placed it down on the floor, edged it away with my foot, and I went to stand at your bedside. I could not take your hand, only your fingers, for there was a plastic tap in the way, a thin tube looping over your thumb. A drip fed into your forearm; three sensors were attached to your ribs. The tube in your mouth forced back your lips, exposing the gaps in your teeth. A catheter entered your penis. Another went into your heart and emerged at your neck, the wires from there trailing up to a monitor. But soon all of this would be over. I felt a hand on my shoulder. There were seats for us to sit in, lined up by the wall. The lights were dimmed, and your ventilator switched off, your tube disconnected, and we watched as each wire and needle in turn was removed, the monitors unplugged, the drip-pole pushed back, the beeps and whistles gradually silenced. Your chest became still, deflated. Your last breath had gone, and you with it, but you didn’t look dead, only sleeping, all energy spent, another day forgotten behind you. We came forward. Your cheeks were pink. There was a turquoise vein on your temple and I stroked it with the back of a finger, but my nail was broken; it left a small scratch. I leaned over and kissed it, your clammy forehead, and I smelled the staleness in your hair. Ruth gave me my camera, and I took a single picture, the final shot on that film, but I wanted only to hold you. I lifted you up from the bed, more heavy than I ever imagined. You weren’t sleeping. You were lifeless, Euan; your arms and legs flaccid. Your head lolled and Ruth supported it. And slowly your face became pallid, more grey than white. The medics backed off, everything receded. They left us alone with you, and I held on to you tightly; I rocked you. I whispered into your ear. I lowered you back to the bed, and Ruth bent to embrace you, clutched your face to her breasts. She kissed your cheek, and folded your hands on your belly-button, your umbilicus. She did it carefully, precisely. She would not touch you again.

  Time froze then. I remember the stillness. There was your stillness on the bed, your absolute deadness, but also the stillness that surrounded you, in which you’d taken your place. And until time resumed, until I became conscious again of the machines all around me, and the cold hard press of your bedframe, Ruth at my side and your grandfather hunched in his chair, I was there with you. Reality, awareness, returned in convulsions, racking sobs, reflexive spasms, many seconds or minutes apart, and as we trailed away, none of us touching, every moment and distance seemed longer. One foot in front of the other required concentration, an effort of will. We passed down corridors lined with children’s paintings, hung with their mobiles. There were plastic tables and chairs, and boxes of toys, a rocking horse, piles of comics and books. There were children asleep in the wards. And as we came from that nursery world into the long stone-flagged tunnel that led to the Parents’ Room, it seemed I heard your voice in me clearly – where are you going? – to which I hadn’t an answer, for I was leaving you, Euan, no longer your father, and the velocity of that realisation winded me; it caused me to fall.

  My whisky now is half empty, your hagstone warm in my hand. I crook my arms on the bench and drag myself upright. I place the stone in our bowl, and for a few moments then I stand over it, my weight pressing down on the table, my gaze shifting, unfocused. I am very drunk now, and when at last I step backwards I find I am lurching, tilting out to the passage. I steady myself on the cooker, and blunder ahead to your room. The door slams into the wall – the wooden partition – and of course there is nothing, no sense of you, not even your absence, only your things, your bunk and your boxes, a faint smell of mildew, and the noise of our caravan trembling. The air
is cold on my face, and this is no more than a room. There are orange swirls in the carpet, pink drapes at the window, pale wood veneer on the cabinets. There’s a stain in the curve of the ceiling, a leak in the roof. And then I don’t know. I am turning, sweeping plates and cups from the drainer, knocking things over, whatever there is. I grab for the cushions and hurl them behind me. I swipe at the books on the window-ledge, and our souvenir ornaments, all the kitsch Ruth collected, and then I reach for our bowl. I slide it to the edge of the table, watch it tip as it falls. The pebbles tumble on to the carpet, scatter out to the corners. They cluck into each other, slowly settle in clutches, and soon after that there is silence. The bowl has broken cleanly. There are five or six pieces. I slump back on the bench, and stare down at the mess I have caused, and it seems my whole body is shaking, as if I was sobbing, but I am not crying, Euan; not now. Blankly I look to my hands, the nicotine stains on my fingers, and I reach then for my tobacco, my lighter and papers. I hold the pouch in my left palm, and trembling, I pinch out some more fibres. I draw them down the V of a Rizla.