The Last of the Bowmans

by J. Paul Henderson

  ‘I won’t, thank you, Billy. Alan Titchmarsh is interviewing Joan Collins this afternoon and I’m hoping she’s going to share her beauty secrets with him.’

  ‘She wears wigs, Granny,’ Katy said.

  ‘I’m sure you’re wrong, dear,’ Betty replied. ‘And I don’t for a moment believe those people who say she’s had plastic surgery, either. I think she’s just one of those rare women who’ve been gifted with good bone structure.’

  ‘I’m getting plastic surgery when I grow up, aren’t I, Mummy?’

  ‘It’s just an option to bear in mind, dear,’ Jean smiled.

  Billy turned to look at his wife despairingly. ‘What on earth are you doing putting ideas like that in her head, Jean? She’s seven, for goodness sake. Give her a chance to grow up!’

  Jean was just about to say something in defence of her long-term strategy for Katy’s future success when Betty butted in. ‘Billy’s right, Jean. Katy’s beautiful as she is, and she’ll grow up to be a beautiful young woman without any need for surgery. It’s not as if she looks like Uncle Frank, is it?’

  A beautiful little girl, yes, Jean thought. And no, fortunately for her she didn’t look anything like Uncle Frank. But – and this is what worried her – Katy already had the makings of Auntie Irene’s hair. (Auntie Irene was the late sister of Uncle Frank. Although God had given her the body of an athlete, He appeared to have lost interest in her creation by the time He got to her hair and had left it looking frail and lacking in confidence.)

  ‘What time are you expecting me tonight?’ Betty asked.

  ‘Come for seven and we’ll eat at eight, Mummy. I’ve made a lasagne.’

  ‘You’re not killing the fatted calf for the prodigal son, then?’ Betty asked.

  ‘No, mince meat will do for Greg,’ Jean replied. ‘Come on, Katy. Let’s get you out of those clothes.’

  ‘I’ll get some wine from the cellar,’ Billy said.

  Billy made his way to the top of the garden and walked down a short flight of stone steps to the door of a wine cellar dug into the hillside by workmen employed by Henry Halliwell more than thirty years ago. It was the ideal storage place: the temperature was steady, the room dark and the wine safe from vibration. He pulled a selection of bottles from the racks and placed them in a wooden box, and then carried the box to a nearby shed.

  The shed was Billy’s refuge from the world, from Jean and from his daughter’s incessant tap dancing. It was a place where he could be alone with his thoughts and, if lucky, smoke a furtive cigarette without being caught.

  Billy had only recently started smoking and no-one knew anything of this except him and the newsagent who sold him the odd packet of ten. His secret, he knew, was safe with Mr Brownlow, as the shopkeeper lived in a town some seven miles distant and had no idea who Billy was.

  The game of stealth was new to Billy, and he was still unsure of its rules and uncomfortable with deception. Indeed, the fact that he now smoked cigarettes was a consequence of his failure to master the game’s finer points in the first place, and this was another thing he kept from Jean.

  Billy retrieved the packet from behind a false log and lit a cigarette. He breathed the smoke deep into his lungs and exhaled slowly. His father, he knew, would have been disappointed to know he was smoking. He wondered if Greg still smoked and, if so, whether the tobacco he rolled these days was legal or illegal.

  The impending arrival of his brother made him anxious. He often thought it was easier to meet a stranger than it was a family member, a person you weren’t expected to have feelings for rather than someone you were. Billy didn’t doubt that he loved his brother, but did wonder why there was such a distance between them. It wasn’t so much the coolness, however, as the occasional feeling of unexplained bitterness he felt towards Greg that concerned him most, and so far the therapist he’d been ordered to see hadn’t come up with anything to explain this. (That Billy was seeing a therapist was also something he kept from Jean.)

  He was about to light another cigarette when he heard the sound of a car making its way up the drive. He quickly replaced the cigarette in its packet, made a mental note of the number remaining and sprayed his mouth with breath freshener. He locked the shed door behind him, picked up the box of wine bottles and walked down to the house.

  ‘You got here all right, then,’ Billy called out to Greg, when he saw his brother climb out of the car. ‘Do you need a hand with anything?’

  ‘This is the sum total of my belongings,’ Greg replied, holding up a small plastic bag containing a miniature tube of toothpaste and toothbrush the airline had given him, and a bottle of duty-free whisky he’d bought at the airport. ‘I know this is asking a lot, Billy, but do you have any clothes I can wear until my suitcase arrives?’

  ‘Sure I do. Let me take this wine into the kitchen and then I’ll show you to your room and sort something out.’

  Greg held the door open for Billy and then followed him into the house.

  ‘You got plenty of white wine, didn’t you?’ Jean asked. ‘Not just red?’

  ‘Three bottles,’ Billy replied. ‘That’s more than enough for you and your mother.’ He then turned to Greg a little uncertainly. ‘It is red wine you drink, isn’t it?’

  Greg nodded.

  ‘I don’t drink red wine,’ Jean said, turning to face Greg. ‘The enamel on my teeth’s porous, so if I drink red wine my teeth turn purple. You might not believe this, Greg, but someone once accused me of being a vampire. It’s all a bit hazy now, but I think I was in church at the time getting married to your brother. Anyway, because some people think there’s no smoke without fire, I have to avoid drinking anything that might give the impression I’ve been sucking blood from a person’s neck. It’s a pity really, because I used to really like red wine.’

  How long, Greg wondered, was Jean going to hold this grudge? How many times was he supposed to apologise and not have his apology accepted? If it had been just the two of them in the kitchen and he didn’t have to stay in the house overnight, he would have simply laughed it off or told Jean to go fuck herself. Instead, he mumbled his usual excuses for one more time, despaired of his youthful craziness yet again, and then – for the first time – mentioned the name of a new toothpaste intended to protect teeth from acid erosion.

  As far as he was concerned, this new information now settled his debt.

  Judging from the smile on his face, Billy appeared to have enjoyed the exchange between his wife and brother. The smile, however, quickly disappeared when Katy came cart-wheeling into the room barefooted.

  ‘Katy! How many times have I told you not to do that in the house? And where are your shoes?’ Billy added, his voice becoming slightly desperate in tone. ‘How many times have I told you not to walk around the house barefoot? Go and put your socks and slippers on, will you? Now!’ he shouted, when he saw Katy preparing to do another side flip.

  ‘Don’t have a cow, Daddy,’ Katy said. ‘Uncle Greg hasn’t seen me do a cartwheel before, and I can’t do them wearing slippers.’

  ‘Your Uncle Greg didn’t come all this way just to see you do cartwheels, Katy,’ Billy said. ‘He came to say goodbye to his father – your granddad. On a day like this, you should be showing more respect. Now, for the last time – go and put some shoes on!’

  Katy pulled a face and left the room. Jean told Billy there’d been no cause for him to talk to Katy like that, and even Greg looked discomforted by Billy’s outburst. Exhausted, Billy slumped into a chair. His breathing was laboured and small beads of perspiration formed on his top lip.

  ‘You okay?’ Greg asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s just the day: you know, saying goodbye to Dad and everything. I’ll go and apologise to Katy once I’ve shown you to your room and got you some clothes. Let’s do that now, shall we?’

  Greg picked up his small plastic bag and made to follow Billy. Before h
e left the kitchen, he turned to Jean and thanked her for letting him stay with them.

  ‘Don’t thank me, Greg – thank your brother. He’s the only reason you’re staying with us. When will you be leaving, by the way?’

  ‘In a day or two – no more than that,’ Greg replied. ‘I’ll move into Dad’s house once my suitcase arrives.’

  The evening meal passed without event, but for the most part conversation was polite and uninspiring. It was left to Betty Halliwell to inject the only controversy of the evening, and wisely, the debate she introduced revolved around the lives of others rather than their own.

  She complained that Joan Collins’ appearance on The Alan Titchmarsh Show that afternoon had been a complete waste of time, and wondered what a gardener was doing interviewing famous people in the first place.

  ‘Poor Joan,’ Betty said. ‘She travels all this way to share her thoughts with us and ends up being interviewed by a gardener. It’s like Dame Judi Dench going to America and being interviewed by a pool attendant!

  ‘“I’ve got rid of the moss and dead leaves, Ms Collins,” Betty mimicked. “I wonder if you could tell me about your film career before I start planting the turnips”.’

  ‘Honestly, I ask you! How disrespectful is that? And they had her sharing a couch with a cake decorator and a plate spinner of all people. Why on earth would they think she had anything in common with them?’

  (Katy made a mental note never to be interviewed by Alan Titchmarsh when she was famous, and then asked for another bowl of ice-cream.)

  ‘They should have had Michael Parkinson talking to her,’ Betty continued. ‘At least he’s trained as a journalist, and it’s not as if he has anything better to do with himself these days. The only time I see him on television now is when he’s advertising insurance policies for the over fifties. You’d think he’d have more self-respect, wouldn’t you? He can’t have any need for the money, and why on earth would he expect anybody to take out a policy just because they get a free Parker pen?

  ‘I’ll give Michael one thing, though: at least he faces the camera when he talks to you and looks you in the eyes. I hate those advertisements where people look off to one side and try to hoodwink you into thinking they’re real people instead of actors. I don’t know where those television people get their ideas from, or how stupid they think we are… you’re not putting Katy forward for any adverts, are you, Jean? You’d look well if she got typecast as the face of some pet food or a toilet roll.’

  ‘I haven’t done so yet, Mummy, but we’re keeping our options open. I think we have to… no, Katy, no more! You’ve had enough ice-cream, and it’s time you were getting ready for bed. Anyone like a coffee – it’s only instant, I’m afraid.’

  No one did. Greg and Billy said they’d stick to wine, and Betty said there was a detective show she wanted to watch on television: one about a Scandinavian policeman who developed a different medical condition every episode.

  ‘They’re all life-threatening, too,’ she said. ‘Every blessed one of them. I’ll be surprised if he’s not dead by the end of the series, and if he isn’t, then someone should tell him to cheer up a bit. It’s not as if we don’t get rain and snow in this country!’

  Betty kissed Jean, Katy and Billy goodnight and then made a point of shaking Greg’s hand. ‘It’s not as if we’re close or anything, is it, Greg?’ she said, by way of explanation.

  ‘To say they’re regular churchgoers, Jean and her mother don’t go in much for forgiveness, do they?’ Greg said to Billy, once they were alone in the kitchen.

  ‘Betty’s too old to change her ways, Greg, but I’ve got a lot of time for her. She’d never accept the comparison, but I think she’s the Halliwell equivalent of Uncle Frank. And Jean will come round eventually. To tell you the truth, I think she’s secretly pleased you’re staying with us.’

  ‘You reckon?’ Greg said. ‘She gave me the impression she wasn’t. Anyway, how about a whisky? We can toast Dad while we’re waiting for Jean.’

  ‘That’s a champion idea,’ Billy said, and then turned thoughtful. ‘I wish Dad could have been with us tonight, don’t you? The three of us sitting round the table again. He’d have liked that. And Jean would have let him sit at the head of the table. That’s where he always sat when he came for meals.’

  ‘Jean used to give him pride of place?’ Greg asked, surprised by the idea. ‘It doesn’t sound like her.’

  ‘Well, no, it’s not, really. It’s just that she didn’t like looking at his teeth when she was eating.’

  Greg smiled. ‘His teeth were the talking point when he came to visit me in Texas. Everyone liked Dad, but they couldn’t get over the state of his teeth. His choppers confirmed every prejudiced idea they had about British dentistry. I tried telling them that Dad’s teeth weren’t the norm for the country, but they didn’t want to listen. I bet they’re still talking about him.’

  ‘You know the story of his teeth, don’t you?’ Billy asked.

  ‘I didn’t know there was a story. I just presumed they were a victim of all the junk he used to eat.’

  ‘There’s much more to it than that, Greg. It was his first dentist who caused the problems. He didn’t believe in anaesthetic and used an old treadle drill; hollowed out Dad’s teeth so much when he was filling them that he weakened their walls. That’s why they started to crumble when he got older. And then the dentist committed suicide…

  ‘He was Scottish,’ Billy added – as if somehow this piece of information made the man’s action more understandable.

  ‘Anyway, after that, Dad developed an aversion to dentists, and it was years before he started seeing Mr Blum. The damage had been done by then though, and all Mr Blum could do was extract any problem teeth. What Dad should have done was get dentures, but he wouldn’t brook the idea. He thought false teeth were for cissies.’

  ‘How much did you see of Dad?’ Greg asked. ‘Did he come to Spinney Cottage much?’

  ‘He did before the accident, but after he stopped driving I’d have to go over and collect him and then drive him back again after the meal. It got a bit much, really. I wanted him to stay over the nights he came, but he always refused; always said he preferred sleeping in his own bed at night.

  ‘We took him out for drives, of course, and visited him with Katy, but Jean never liked going to his house. She always thought there was too much dust there and was never too sure how clean the cups were. I used to call in by myself though, every week if possible and usually on my way home from work. I’d do odd jobs he needed doing and go through any correspondence he couldn’t read because the print was too small. I liked those visits the best, just the two of us spending time together, drinking coffee and putting the world to rights. It’s odd to think I won’t see him again – that neither of us will. It must be worse for you… not having seen him for so long. I’m sorry you didn’t get to spend more time with him, Greg.’

  ‘We talked on the phone a lot,’ Greg said. ‘Well, once a week anyway, and always on a Sunday. I can’t say we ever had much to say to each other though. Not that I don’t miss Dad, but I think you had a lot more in common with him than I did… anyway, how about that toast?’

  ‘Yes, let’s do that. Why don’t you go through to the lounge and pour us a couple of glasses, and once I’ve finished rinsing the plates and stacking the dishwasher I’ll join you there.’

  When Jean came into the lounge, Billy was showing Greg the awards he’d been presented for either hitting target or being voted salesperson of the year: small pieces of glass in the shape of globes, pyramids and books. None had his name engraved on them, only Award Winner and the year the bauble was presented. Despite the lack of any personal touch to indicate the award hadn’t been stolen from another person – ‘it’s a multinational company,’ Billy explained – they had, nevertheless, been given pride of place on the mantelpiece and stood either side of a car
riage clock – a wedding present from the firm of accountants Billy no longer worked for.

  It had been his father’s idea that he apply for a position in accountancy after the woollen manufacturing firm he’d worked for had closed down. The world, his father had argued, would always need accountants, and a professional qualification would shield him from the insecurities of economic life and allow him to pick and choose jobs. At least, that was the theory.

  In practice, Billy’s career as an accountant never left the runway, forever grounded there by his inability to understand more than one of the six ways to provide for depreciation. He took the first stage examinations three times, and each time failed. It became obvious to both him and the firm – though not to Jean – that he would be better off looking for another profession. Eventually he alighted on the idea of a career in sales, and went to work for a publishing company.

  Jean had been unable to hide her disappointment at Billy’s choice of vocation, and had in fact gone out of her way to tell him just how disappointed she was. She’d married him, she said, on the firm understanding that he was going to be an accountant – a professional man like her father – and not a common salesman, or commercial traveller as she sometimes referred to his position.

  ‘I’m sure Greg doesn’t want to see those,’ Jean said dismissively. ‘I’m surprised you even want them on display.’

  ‘Jean believes that selling is a base occupation and that I should be doing something else,’ Billy said. ‘Personally I quite enjoy it.’

  ‘Your own grandparents sold things for a living, didn’t they?’ Greg asked, careful to omit any mention of the word tripe.

  ‘People came to them to buy things,’ Jean said, equally careful not to mention the word tripe. ‘There’s a difference. They didn’t knock on someone’s door and hawk their wares.’

  Billy poured Jean a glass of wine while Greg decided to try another tack which, if successful, might prompt Jean to question her assumption that selling was a tawdry occupation.