The Last of the Bowmans

by J. Paul Henderson

  ‘I completely agree with you there, Mrs Turton,’ Betty Halliwell said. ‘I get too depressed for words when I drive through the city now – paper blowing all over the place and broken bottles and cans on the pavements and in the gutters. It’s like visiting a Third World country. I’m just glad Henry isn’t here to see it.’

  ‘Barry says we’re not even a Third World country these days. He says that when the asylum seekers came to this city, the average standard of living actually went up.’

  Betty Halliwell shook her head in despair.

  The Reverend Tinkler now regretted starting this conversation too. How, he wondered, had a simple question about bamboo coffins led to this?

  ‘Was Henry your husband?’ he asked Betty, determined to steer the conversation into less troubled waters.

  ‘He was,’ Betty Halliwell replied. ‘And if you ever had anything wrong with your feet, then Henry was the man to go to. He was the best chiropodist for miles around.’

  Billy squirmed uneasily, moved his feet from under the table to under his chair and wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead.

  ‘Are you alright, Daddy?’ Katy asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine thanks, love. I’m just missing your granddad.’

  ‘I can’t believe there were so few people at the funeral,’ Betty Halliwell said. ‘When we buried Henry there were well over 150 in the church. Didn’t your father have many friends?’

  ‘Not many,’ Billy replied. ‘He was never much of a socialiser – especially after my mother died – and most of his friends are already dead. To tell you the truth, I don’t think he ever expected more than six people at his funeral, so I think he’d have been happy with eleven.’

  ‘Actually there were twelve people,’ The Reverend Tinkler said. ‘A young woman came into the chapel during the singing of the first hymn and slipped out just after the blessing.’

  ‘I wonder who that was,’ Billy said.

  ‘Well, for most of the time, Billy, there were only eleven of us,’ Jean said. ‘Your brother only made it in time for the final hymn and the committal. You’d have thought he might have made more of an effort – and at least worn a suit!’

  ‘I’ve already explained this to you, Jean. Greg had problems with his flights and his suitcase has gone missing. He didn’t turn up late on purpose.’

  Jean looked unconvinced, but said no more.

  A waitress gathered the empty soup bowls and told the mourners to help themselves to the cold buffet.

  Mrs Turton noticed the Collards standing at the buffet table, no doubt in her mind they were filling their plates with all the prawn mayonnaise sandwiches and leaving the cheese and hams for everyone else. She leaned across to Betty Halliwell and whispered that the Collards were common people who would no doubt take all the chocolate biscuits as well.

  Betty, too, was holding back from visiting the table: Uncle Frank was loitering there and she had no desire to be dragged into conversation with him. When, eventually, she saw him leave, his plate piled high with sandwiches, she raised herself from the chair and took her own plate to the buffet. She’d only just started making her selection when Uncle Frank – having forgotten to take any sausage rolls – suddenly reappeared.

  ‘Hello, Betty,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Frank,’ she replied cautiously.

  There was then a prolonged silence while Uncle Frank thought of a follow-up question.

  ‘What did you have for your tea yesterday?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘I don’t have tea, Frank. I eat dinner,’ she said somewhat curtly.

  Uncle Frank was unsurprised by her condescension, but it still annoyed him. ‘Well what did you eat for your dinner then – tripe?’

  He knew this jibe would sting. Betty hated to be reminded of her past; hated the fact that it had been the sale of entrails that had allowed her to attend boarding school and mix with the class of person she now did.

  ‘I had lamb chops if you must know, with some broccoli and dauphinoise potatoes,’ she said, resolved to stay calm.

  ‘Very tasty,’ Uncle Frank said, smacking his lips. ‘Not bad for a girl who grew up eating offal.’

  Cypress

  Coffee was served in the lounge.

  Mrs Turton waited while the others filed from the dining room and then placed the last of the custard creams in her coat pocket. If anyone saw her, she would tell them she was sending them to India. It was well known in church circles that she knitted scarves for the orphans of that country, so she had no doubts that her story would be accepted at face value. She was, however, coming to the belief that charity should start closer to home these days.

  Greg was sitting with Uncle Frank when Katy approached him.

  ‘If you’re my uncle, why haven’t I seen you before?’ she asked.

  ‘I live in another country, Katy,’ Greg said. ‘America.’

  ‘Do you know any film stars?’

  ‘Fortunately not,’ Greg replied. ‘I teach in a university and we don’t get many film stars turning up for class.’

  ‘I’m going to be a film star when I grow up,’ Katy said. ‘I’m going to be famous and earn lots of money.’

  ‘Good for you! If you do become rich, I might well ask you for a loan. Is that okay?’

  ‘Do you want some money now, Uncle Greg?’ Katy asked, opening her purse and making a brief study of its contents. ‘I can lend you three pounds, but I’ll want it back before you leave.’

  Greg laughed out loud and Jean looked in their direction.

  ‘Katy darling, I need to see you for a minute,’ she said. ‘Can you come here, please?’ There was no need, there was no minute: Jean was simply reluctant for her daughter to form any sort of connection with Greg.

  ‘You and me, Greg, we’ll die of disease and old age,’ Uncle Frank said to his nephew after Katy left. ‘That little girl is going to die of encouragement – you mark my words.’

  A waitress placed coffee on the table, but Uncle Frank waved his cup away and said he was going to have a whisky instead – it wasn’t every day he said goodbye to his brother.

  The import of Lyle’s death had yet to take effect on the old man. It would come, he knew, in the weeks ahead, the months that followed and stay with him for the rest of his days. His brother had been his only friend, the one person in life to have ever looked out for him. There was no one to rely on now but himself, and from experience, Uncle Frank knew how hit-or-miss an affair this could be.

  ‘I’m the last one standing, Greg,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘First Eric, then Irene and now Lyle. It’s me that’s in the firing line now. Mine will be the next funeral you go to.’

  ‘You’ve a few good years left in you yet, Uncle Frank.’

  ‘To tell you the truth, Greg, I always thought I’d die before your dad. I’m four years younger than him, but I’ve always looked older. Hell, the last time he came with me for a hospital appointment the nurses thought he was my son. That tickled him, that did.’

  ‘Let me get you that whisky, Uncle Frank,’ Greg said.

  ‘I’ll get it myself,’ Uncle Frank said. ‘I’m not completely useless yet.’

  Greg poured himself a coffee and Billy joined him.

  ‘I think it’s gone well, don’t you?’ Billy asked.

  ‘Yes I do, and thanks for organising everything. I’m afraid I haven’t been much use so far, but I’ll stay and help get the house sorted.’

  ‘That would be great, Greg, and needless to say you’ll stay with us while you’re here. Jean’s already made up the spare room.’

  ‘You’re sure that’s no trouble – Jean’s okay with it?’

  ‘Jean’s fine about it,’ Billy lied. ‘It’s about time we caught up with each other. I still can’t believe we fell out over something so stupid.’

  Greg nodded. ‘What the hell were we
thinking?’

  Billy didn’t answer the question – which struck him as being rhetorical anyway – and started to explain the arrangements for getting people home. ‘Syd’s going to give Mrs Turton a lift back; the Collards and The Reverend Tinkler came in their own cars, so they’re okay; and I’ll take our family. Can you drop Uncle Frank off and then drive out to our house?’

  ‘Sure,’ Greg said, ‘but remind me again how I get there, will you? I know I turn right at the crossroads and drive over the bridge, but then what?’

  ‘Keep going straight until you get to the T-junction. Turn right there and go to the top of the hill. Our house is the last one on the left. You can phone if you have any problems.’

  ‘My mobile’s in the suitcase but I should be able to find it all right. Everything comes back eventually.’

  ‘How true that statement was,’ Billy thought, but instead said: ‘I’ll just go and settle up with the manager.’

  The Reverend Tinkler had wandered away from the others and was staring at a painting on the wall at the far end of the room. It was a portrait of a woman and he was struck by its similarity to his ex-wife Joan. For an instant, he wished she was there with him; there to support and guide him through the pitfalls of conversation. He heard someone call his name and turned to see Uncle Frank fast approaching.

  An approach by Frank Bowman was never for the faint-hearted. The man’s enigmatic smile and determined step made it difficult for a person to know if it was his intention to engage in polite conversation or a fistfight. It was understandable why Betty Halliwell referred to him as a goblin, the Reverend Tinkler contemplated – even if her description was a tad on the harsh side. Frank Bowman, he decided, was more reminiscent of Mr Punch, as in Punch and Judy. Or was that Richard and Judy?

  ‘Bill, I’m glad I’ve caught you. Ever since the government turned off my television set I’ve been reading the Bible, and this story about Noah’s Ark has been bothering me. Before we get into it though, what the hell’s gopher wood when it’s at home?’

  ‘The wood they built the Ark from?’

  Frank nodded.

  ‘No one’s too sure, Frank. It’s only ever mentioned in the Bible once, but the common presumption is that it’s cypress.’

  ‘That clears that up then, but there’s a lot more that isn’t clear. Let me give you the basics.

  ‘By my calculation it starts raining on 17 May and doesn’t stop for five months. The Ark comes to rest on Mount Ararat on 17 October, but it isn’t until 27 May of the following year that the flood completely disappears. So, from beginning to end, we’re talking about a year.’

  The Reverend Tinkler nodded in agreement. So far, so good. He was on firm ground when it came to discussions of The Bible. He knew from recent experience, however, that firm ground around Frank Bowman could easily turn to quicksand.

  ‘I can appreciate the length of the flood, Bill, but it’s the size of the Ark that bothers me – I don’t think it was big enough. I converted the cubits into imperial measurements and its proportions were approximately 440’ long, 73’ wide and 44’ high. It had three decks, but the most floor space it could have had – and this is being generous – is 10,000 square yards, and that’s little more than the size of a rugby league pitch. And into that space you’ve got to cram seven pairs of every clean animal, one pair of every unclean animal and seven pairs of every bird. And you couldn’t have had all these animals wandering about on the decks willy-nilly or there’d have been all kinds of mayhem. You’d have had to separate them, corral them somehow, and that would have reduced the space even further. And on top of that, you’d have had to use some of the space to store a year’s worth of food for the animals – and that’s presuming none of them were meat eaters.

  ‘The logistics just don’t stack up, Bill. These animals would have been taking a dump every day of their lives, and you’ve only got eight people to clean up the mess and throw it overboard before the Ark starts to sink. That would be a full time job for ten times their number. Noah and his boys must have been worn to a frazzle by the time they got off the boat – and another thing. How did they manage to clean out all the cages without being attacked by some of the animals?

  ‘And it’s not so much what was mentioned, as what wasn’t mentioned.’

  The Reverend Tinkler swallowed hard and again placed his finger between the dog collar and his neck.

  ‘First of all, there’s no mention of insects,’ Uncle Frank continued. ‘How did insects manage to survive if they weren’t allowed onboard? Spiders can’t swim and neither can worms and butterflies. By rights, they should have been wiped out.

  ‘Secondly, what about kangaroos and elephants and animals like that which didn’t even live in the Holy Land? How did they survive?

  ‘And thirdly, how did three men and their wives manage to populate the world after they climbed out of the Ark knackered as fish. I know Noah was 600 when the rains started and that people lived longer in those days, but even so, it’s a lot to ask of three men, isn’t it – and even more to ask of their wives.

  ‘So what’s the situation, Bill? Is the Bible lying to us or what? I thought the Bible was supposed to tell the truth.’

  ‘Oh my goodness!’ The Reverend Tinkler said looking at his watch. ‘I was supposed to make a hospital visit ten minutes ago. Let me think about this and get back to you, Frank. I’m pretty sure we should look upon the story as an allegory rather than a gospel truth, but let’s discuss this at a later time. Poor Mrs Hodges will be wondering where I’ve got to.’

  The Reverend Tinkler made a hurried retreat, said his goodbyes to Billy, Greg and the other mourners and stepped out into the rain. How refreshing a summer’s downpour could be after a conversation with Frank Bowman!

  He shouldn’t, however, have lied about visiting Mrs Hodges in the hospital. She’d died two years ago and, from memory, had warranted nine index cards.

  2

  Plastic

  Greg stopped the car by the gate to Uncle Frank’s house and cut the engine. The garden, he noticed, was as immaculate as ever: bushes neatly trimmed, flowerbeds meticulously weeded and the lawn mown short and edged with precision.

  ‘Are you coming in?’ his uncle asked.

  ‘I’d better not, Uncle Frank. Billy and Jean are expecting me.’

  ‘How are things with you and Billy?’

  ‘We’ve broken the ice, I suppose, swept the past under the carpet like we’ve always done, but there’s still a hill to climb. We’ll get there eventually.’

  ‘You should have got there while your Dad was alive.’

  ‘We know that, Uncle Frank. It’s the first thing we said to each other. Anyway, we’re talking now and that’s the main thing. I don’t think Jean’s talking to me, though.’

  ‘That’s because she doesn’t like you. Just like that mother of hers doesn’t like me. I wish to God it was her funeral we’d been to and not your dad’s.’

  Greg laughed. ‘I’ll tell Betty that if I get stuck for conversation.’

  ‘You can tell her what you damn well like. It’s no skin off my nose.’

  Uncle Frank paused for a moment, and when he spoke again his voice was more plaintive: ‘You’ll come and see me while you’re here, won’t you, lad?’

  ‘Of course I will. Once I get settled, I’ll give you a call. We can drive out into the country, if you like.’

  ‘As long as it’s not to The Dales,’ Uncle Frank replied. ‘I’m sick to bloody death of The Dales.’

  He then took Greg’s hand and pressed it gently. ‘I’m sorry about your dad, Greg. I know he meant a lot to you.’

  Without further ado, the old man climbed out of the car and walked to the side door. Greg waited while his uncle stepped inside the house, and then made a careful U-turn.

  He drove slowly at first, looking from one side of the road to the other for the
familiar landmarks of his youth. He was pleased to see the Brown Cow still there, but the cobbler’s and bank were gone – as was the barber’s shop where a man called Cyril had simultaneously cut hair and dropped cigarette ash on the heads of his customers. The dental practice, however, where Mr Blum had extracted most of his father’s teeth, and the Methodist chapel attended by Mrs Turton and Barry were still in business.

  About two miles from the city centre the landscape changed dramatically and Greg found himself driving through an area of blight he no longer recognised: abandoned mills and run-down businesses; rows of unloved terraced houses and burnt-out buildings; boarded-up pubs and second-hand shops; take-away restaurants and pawn shops; and churches now repurposed as warehouses selling cheap carpet and vinyl flooring.

  He stopped at a crossroads near the old Plaza cinema – now a ramshackle DIY store – and then carried on down the hill and past the city’s sprawling university. The central road layout had changed since he’d last driven there and for a time he lost his bearings, first heading one way and then another before catching sight of the signs he was looking for.

  As the worst of the city disappeared into his rear-view mirror and the sky cleared, Greg’s nascent depression lifted and he began to feel better about life – until, that is, he remembered he was driving to Billy’s house, and then it returned.

  It was at Spinney Cottage that the two brothers had fallen out.

  On the day of the argument Billy had been painting the outside of the house. He had, in fact, just applied the final coat of black gloss when Greg arrived, and was standing at the back of the garden admiring his handiwork. (Greg was home from America and had arranged to go for a drink with Billy that evening, as much to escape his father’s company as to enjoy his brother’s.)

  Greg walked to where Billy was standing, glanced cursorily at the paintwork, and then asked what the drainpipes had done to piss him off.