The neighbours probably had a whip-round. They should have saved themselves the bother and chucked his body down the mine. The man deserved no more respect in death than he’d merited in life.
Childhood memories were flooding back now.
Thomas Pike knew he didn’t have to do anything bad to earn a beating. The best thing was to stay out of his father’s way for as long as he could. Occasionally he’d get off if there was a visitor or if his father was so incapacitated by drink he could do no more than collapse, unconscious and still fully clothed, onto his bed. This routine violence had two effects on him. One was a curious carelessness of pain. In a playground brawl, punches could rain on him and still he’d keep coming, never giving in, as fearless and dogged as a bull terrier. Despite his short stature, the other kids soon learned to respect him. That gave him a certain confidence, which attracted a coterie of the less desirable kind. This was an incendiary ingredient when mixed with the second effect, which was a growing realization that if he was being punished he might as well do something to deserve it. Delinquency came naturally to young Thomas. It was a way of asserting his leadership, and a deliberate rebellion against his father. Playground bullying led to extortion; shop-lifting and petty thievery led to burglary and muggings. Between times there would be some routine vandalism: bricks through windows, keys run down the sides of cars, plants ripped out of gardens. In school he cheated systematically and with great ingenuity to obtain high marks. He was smart, though, and neither he nor his cronies were ever caught.
Somehow none of this was enough. He had a burning desire to prove, if only to himself, that he was spitting in the face of his father and the whole community. In a gesture of pure bravado he started to record everything in a diary. In its pages he could enjoy the satisfaction of reviewing his past exploits and the anticipation of planning new ones. He didn’t dare keep the diary in his room in case his father came snooping around, but he had a superb hiding place. There was a loose brick at the side of the house, he recalled, with a small cavity behind it; he kept the diary in there. He’d take it out when he wanted it, and replace the brick after the diary went back in.
With adolescence his behaviour was dictated increasingly by his hormones. He took advantage of girls at every opportunity, fumbling inside their dresses or under their skirts, and on one lucky occasion seducing a fourteen-year-old after he’d managed to get her sufficiently drunk. Each was a landmark; each went into the diary.
He was not much taller but he was filling out, his chest becoming broader and his limbs stronger. The changes were not lost on his father, and the beatings became less frequent. The arguments did not. They would invariably end in the taunt: “All right, clever clogs, I’ve ’ad quite enough of your lip! This is my ’ouse and if you don’t like it you can bloody well clear out!” At times like these, Tom would mutter under his breath: “As soon as I can, I bloody well will, and I won’t be coming back. And I hope your bloody house comes down around your ears.”
The picture of his despised father pinned helplessly under the rubble of his own house had a strong appeal for the sixteen-year-old Tom. It gave him a warm feeling of satisfaction and he’d return to it again and again. He’d lie on his bed, daydreaming about how to make it happen. In one favourite scenario, he enlisted in the Royal Air Force and trained as a pilot, flying fighter-bombers. One day there was a ground attack exercise…
The valley tilts at a crazy angle as the Tornado hurtles down it in a vertical bank, the twin Turbo-union engines ripping the still air, leaving a trail of thunder in their wake. Flight Lieutenant Tom Pike levels off as the valley opens up onto the plain. The countryside unwinds rapidly below him.
The voice of his navigator crackles in his headset. “Tom, you’re off course. The target’s further north.”
“It’s okay, Rich. I’m just going to buzz a place I know.”
The slag heap from the old colliery comes into view on the horizon, then races towards him.
Rich’s voice again: “Tom, there’s a town up ahead – Bodlington. You’re below five hundred feet, man. It’s against regulations.”
“I know, I know. It’s okay, Rich.”
A slight course correction, across the A-road. He flicks the arming switch. The school playing fields to the left… Station Terrace dead ahead… in the sights. His thumb closes on the button. Bombs away! Kerboom! Kerboom! He turns the craft on one wingtip and races back. The street has disappeared under a rising pall of smoke and dust. Here and there small fires flicker in the ruins.
“Tom! What the hell’s the matter with you? What have you done?”
“What I always wanted to do, Rich. What I always wanted to do…”
He didn’t join the RAF. He went to university on a Coal Board Scholarship, one reserved for the sons of miners, and read Politics and Philosophy. In this nurturing environment, and with his past now firmly behind him, he found (to his mild surprise) that he was not just equal to the challenge of academic work but even rather good at it. He graduated and in due course became T. Stafford Pike, adopting his mother’s maiden name as his first, because it better fitted the image he now wished to cultivate.
He was already a Member of Parliament when one of the neighbours contacted him with the news that his father had died. He felt neither pain nor pleasure, only intense disappointment that the man had cheated the fate he’d so carefully ordained for him. But the plan was not abandoned – far from it. He’d found a better way now. That – and not any misplaced sense of social justice – had been the driving force behind his policy of urban renewal, and to this point his every waking hour had been occupied with making it work. Now his time had come. He had descended like the grim reaper and, oh, what a scythe he would swing! It was just a shame his father wouldn’t be there to see it.
They were entering Bodlington. Guided by the car’s GPS system, the chauffeur, Patrick, negotiated a maze of streets and finally braked to a halt at the end of a narrow street that had been closed with chain-link fencing. A reception committee came forward to meet them. Vincent was out of the passenger door quickly, scanning for possible trouble. Patrick sighed, took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
“Get a move on, Patrick,” Pike snapped.
“Yes, sir.” Patrick got out and opened the rear door for him.
Pike emerged, smiling beneficently, and appeared attentive as he was introduced to councillors and local party functionaries. Actually he was looking for the television crew. He spotted them, by a white van parked over on the left, hastily crushing out cigarette ends and gathering up cameras and sound equipment. By the side of the van was a hoist, and one of the cameramen now got into it, preparing to record events from a high angle. Beyond that, a low barrier kept back a curious gaggle of onlookers. Pike thought he glimpsed some of the old men who’d lobbied him: Byrne certainly, maybe Seaton, too. He also noticed with approval that there were plenty of police around, probably more than the town had ever seen at one time.
The chairman of the welcoming committee was saying, “...but first would you like to take a last look at the street?”
“I think I’d better have a quick word with the Press first, don’t you?”
The reporters were already upon him, thrusting microphones in his face.
“Minister, how important are today’s events?”
“Very important. They represent the culmination of months of work, months of planning. And they mark the inauguration of a new chapter in the built environment of this country.”
He launched into his usual pitch about urban renewal, skilfully twisting each question so as to pull out the key points of his policy.
“Minister, you grew up in this street, didn’t you? What does it feel like to be destroying the place where you once lived?”
How the hell did you find that out?
Pike was forced to think quickly.
“I know better than most the decrepit nature of this housing. It’s probably no better
and no worse than you’d find in many deprived industrial areas throughout the country. We have to start somewhere, and we are starting here in Bodlington, not because it is bad, but because the people here deserve better. Now, if you’ll excuse me...”
He moved off with the chairman, the other questions falling behind him. They were joined by one of the councillors and a Chief Superintendent of Police, who was evidently in charge of the security operation. Together they walked over to the chain-link fence, a section of which was held aside for them by a police constable. Pike addressed the Chief Superintendent as they walked down the deserted street.
“Chief Super, are you sure there’s no one in these houses? We don’t want any nasty accidents.” He cast an anxious glance back at the television crews.
“Absolutely certain, sir. We put up the fence and then went through every house. We’ve had men on duty all the time in case someone tried to get in after that.”
“Very good. Have you had any trouble? Some of the older generation weren’t taking it too well. I thought they might put up some opposition.”
“You know about that, sir, do you? Yes, there were a few, wanted to sit down in front of their houses to stop us proceeding. We moved them on. I told them I’d bang ‘em up in cells if they gave us any more trouble.”
“Good. We can’t have small groups of disaffected individuals influencing the course of events with unruly behaviour. This is a democracy, after all. They’ve had their opportunity to make their views known, and it’s all been taken into account. Councillor, I assume every house has been prepared for demolition, both sides of the street?”
“Oh yes, Minister. We brought in demolition experts as you instructed, and they’ve laid the charges in strategic places. Quite honestly, sir, it won’t take much to knock this lot down.”
“Yes, I know, but we want to make a reasonable show of it, don’t we? The Press boys will be disappointed otherwise.” He laughed, a little too loudly, and the others dutifully joined in. “Now, if it’s all right with you, I’d just like to walk on ahead on my own for a bit.”
He left the others behind and walked past a succession of closed front doors. Most of them, he saw, had had a lick of brightly coloured paint. Probably a delaying tactic, a last-ditch attempt to make these hovels look cared-for under their blanket of soot, grime and coal dust. He knew without looking that he was approaching number 32 from the way his stomach contracted.
No happy memories here. This was a street full of snotty-nosed kids, pushing each other around, hawking and spitting the way they’d seen their fathers do. With one difference: when their fathers’ phlegm hit the pavement it was streaked with black and, as often as not, crimson. And they were the healthy ones. The older men were indoors with an oxygen mask for company, trying to suck enough of the gas into their ruined lungs to stay alive another day. Outside, in the street, he’d been one of those snotty-nosed kids, yelling, playing, fighting and bullying, always keeping an eye out for the dreaded sight of his father lurching and weaving up the road towards them…
His mobile phone rang. He listened, then spoke into it in a low voice. He replaced the phone and returned to the rest of the party, who were waiting patiently for him.
“We’d better get on with it, gentlemen. I’ve just had an urgent message from The Chief Whip. He wants me back by tomorrow morning – there’s going to be an important division. We’ll do the necessary and then I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave.”
The Chairman’s face fell. “But... the reception, Minister?”
“I’m sorry. I won’t be able to stay for that now. You’ll have to go ahead without me. Do give my apologies.”
They walked briskly back, and the Minister mounted the podium.
The chairman indicated the button. The Minister looked around at the television crew.
“You people ready?”
“Yes, thank you, Minister. Whenever you like.”
“Very well, then.”
In a single grand gesture he brought his finger down on the button. Simultaneously there was a sequence of loud percussions. They started at the far end of the street and marched towards the onlookers on both sides, each explosion like a punch in the stomach. This was followed by a great rumbling as bricks and mortar collapsed into the street. Fragments of tile and glass clattered and tinkled as they bounced on the rubble. Finally a great cloud of dust detached itself, billowed into the air, and hung there, obliterating everything from view. The whole thing was over in seconds. A ragged cheer went up from the small crowd, mingled with something that sounded like a collective moan.
The Minister shook hands with everyone again, congratulated them all on the excellent arrangements, and marched briskly to the car, where Patrick was already holding the door open for him. Vincent took a last look around before he got into the passenger seat, and the Jaguar moved off.
*
T. Stafford Pike settled back into his seat. He was vaguely discontented. He’d expected to be filled with elation. Now that it was over, all he was left with was a feeling of anti-climax. It was, after all, just another grubby little street. They’d have to bring down a few more and then the bulldozers would move in, and construction would begin on the estate. He’d have to tempt industry into the area, otherwise the new houses would never sell. The old boys were right about that part: they certainly wouldn’t be able to afford them. His mind wandered to the following day’s vote.
*
The officials, the television crews and the police had gone. A gang of workmen started to remove the fencing and dismantle the podium. Along what had once been Station Terrace, dust still hung like a November mist, but it was beginning to settle. As it thinned, half a dozen shadowy figures appeared, moving like ghosts among the rubble. Byrne, Seaton and the others picked their way disconsolately over all that remained of their former homes.
Something caught Stan Byrne’s eye and he stooped to get a better look. It was a small notebook, lying among the bricks. As he picked it up he saw that it was a diary. He opened it and squinted at the signature on the fly leaf. Then he turned the pages and began to read. A crafty smile spread slowly across his face.
“Jack!” he called out.
Jack Seaton looked up at him. “Yes?”
“Where did that television crew say they were spending the night?”
Fishing with Padraic
The hotel had been recommended to me by Nick, a friend of mine at work. He said it was one of the best fishing hotels in the south-west of Ireland. And indeed there was nothing wrong with the hotel. It was characterful and comfortable. The staff were friendly. The food was delicious and there was plenty of it. No, it was entirely my fault that I had booked at such a busy time.
Towards the end of April the spring salmon begin to return from the sea. Driven by powerful ancient instincts they surge into the flooded rivers, leap the falls, flapping and flashing in the sun, and when they take your fly they are one of the world’s greatest fighting fish. They tell me. Personally I wouldn’t know, as I’ve only ever fished the fly for trout. But with my one-handed reservoir rod, I was there to find out. Unfortunately so were ten other fishermen.
The situation became clear almost as soon as I checked in. I asked the receptionist about the arrangements for fishing and she went and got Colom. Colom was what I suppose you might call a Hotel Manager but, as I soon found out, he played many roles, not all of them visible. I know he served behind the bar, he performed the services of a wine waiter, he helped with taking orders for dinner, and he supervised the kitchen. He also looked after the fishing. Of course, at that stage it seemed like he was only responsible for the fishing, especially as he didn’t seem unduly pressured by other demands on his time.
‘Now!’ he said, opening a large ledger book. ‘Let me see. The river is fully booked for tomorrow, Tuesday, and Thursday so I have you pencilled in for the lough. You can fish the river Wednesday, and Friday, and…when is it you’re leaving?’
‘I lea
ve Saturday.’
‘Ah well, that’ll be it, then. Will that do you, now? Would you like a ghillie with you on the river and the lough?’
‘Oh yes, I think it makes sense. I’m not familiar with either water.’
‘Right. Well, now, I’m going to do the best for you I can. I have two or three gentlemen normally ghillie for us, but there’s four parties here already, and then there’s your good self. But don’t worry, I’m on to that right now. I’ll have something organized for you by tomorrow. Just leave it to me. You’ll be wanting a packed lunch tomorrow, then, for yourself and the ghillie?’
‘Yes, please, if you can organise it. How’s the river fishing at the moment?’
‘Well, now, it could be better at the moment, I will say that. Needs a bit more water, get a fresh run of fish through. There’s fish in the lough all right, came through with the last flood. Mr Robbins had a nice spring fish from the lough last week, ten and a half pounds. There is rain on the way, they say. Things should get better in the next day or so. You could be taking home a salmon or two, now.’
On the way to my room I noticed some brochures about touring Ireland on a table at the foot of the staircase. Out of curiosity I leafed through one to see if this establishment was listed and it was, with a red block arrow announcing ‘NEW’ at the top of the page. I turned back to the front cover: it was called ‘The Secret Ireland’. It seemed a wonderful self-contradiction.
I went downstairs at seven o’clock, bent on having a drink before dinner. Colom was behind the bar and there was a lot of loud conversation at one of the tables. I stood at the bar to order my drink and one of the party came over to order another round. We nodded at each other in the way total strangers do when forced into unavoidable proximity.
‘Just arrived?’ he enquired.
‘Yes, this afternoon,’ I replied.
The Tomb and Other Stories Page 23
