Love within the family had always been unspoken and taken for granted, and expressions of such feeling would have been interpreted as an indication that something was wrong, that something bad was about to happen. His mother used the word occasionally, but his father never. It was as if the word didn’t exist.
He recalled the time he’d left home for America to study at the University of Arizona. It was one o’clock in the morning and his father had driven him to the bus station to catch the overnight coach to London. He’d parked the car in a nearby street and walked with Greg to the station, and stayed with him until the coach arrived.
Both had been apprehensive, Greg wondering if his decision to study in Arizona was the right one, and his father silently debating what kinds of trouble his son would likely get into over there. Conversation between them had been intermittent and largely occasioned by his father asking him at different times if he’d packed his socks, handkerchiefs and underwear.
He remembered the bus drawing up and taking his father’s hand, and his father telling him to take good care of himself. And then, unexpectedly, Greg had kissed him on the cheek. It was difficult to know who had been the more surprised. For a moment they’d stared disbelievingly at each other and then looked away embarrassed.
Greg had lined up with the other passengers, handed his ticket to the driver and found a window seat. His father had then walked to the outside of the window and stood there, seemingly undecided whether to fold his arms or put his hands in his pockets. They smiled awkwardly at each other until the bus pulled away and then waved farewell.
As the coach was about to turn the corner and disappear from sight, Greg glanced back and saw his father still standing there, still waving.
This was Bowman love, Greg surmised: silent, embarrassed, but always there.
He wondered if he should tell Uncle Frank and Billy that he loved them. He accepted that such news would puzzle them and no doubt leave them thinking he was about to die, but what the hell. Someone had to start the ball rolling. The family needed to change, needed to be more open with each other.
He looked at the clock on the bedside table and saw that it was time to get up. He wouldn’t break the news to Uncle Frank and Billy today, he decided, or even tomorrow for that matter, but sometime before he returned to Texas and the moment felt right, he’d tell them both that he loved them.
He also decided that he’d give Jean a miss.
Greg spent the day preparing the downstairs rooms for painting: filling in cracks and then sanding them down. He’d never done work like this before and it proved more difficult than he’d expected, certainly more difficult than the directions on the tub of filler had led him to believe. Despite his hours of effort, the cracks – although now filled – stood proud on walls that were no longer flush, and a thin coat of white dust covered the furniture and carpets. After Billy had phoned to tell him he’d be there with Jean in the morning, he’d had no choice but to vacuum and dust the rooms all over again.
He ate his evening meal at the Brown Cow and wondered why Billy was bringing Jean with him tomorrow. He couldn’t believe she’d be there to help, and her presence would only delay the conversation they needed to have. He reported this to his father that evening, who reminded him – as if he didn’t already know – that he only had fourteen days of his furlough left. ‘You’ve got to engineer some time alone with him, Greg. Get him to talk to you.’
Easier said than done, Greg thought over breakfast the following morning, sipping coffee and staring at the uneven walls. He realised he was more concerned about his brother’s reaction to his handiwork at this moment than he was about the state of his brother’s well-being. Why on earth was he bothered by what Billy might think? It had never troubled him before.
He supposed it was because he didn’t like being judged – by anyone. And this is what concerned him most about his father’s strange reappearance – the possibility of being brought to account and judged after he was dead. Greg wasn’t sure if he’d ever believed in God. Certainly he’d never thought of shaking his fist at the heavens on the day his mother died, and neither had he accepted the notion that she was now in a better place and that her disappearance was no more sinister than a rowing boat being called back to shore: ‘Come in Boat Number Three, your time is up!’
All he knew was that her death had left him in a worse place.
He’d never wasted time considering divine plans or mysterious ways, the purpose of life or existential exploration. The world was as it was; a place without rhyme or reason where good things happened and bad things happened. He was content to live with the way things were and happy to believe in oblivion.
The reappearance of his father, however, had indicated that there was life after death – even if only in the form of golf balls and pigeonholes. His father had admitted that he had no idea what awaited him once he passed through the transit camp, but what if there was a God? Was he to be called to account for his ways and given another carpeting? His father had certainly given him a mouthful.
His reverie was disturbed by a knock on the door and Billy calling his name.
‘I’m in the back room, Billy. Come on through.’
Katy came bounding into the room first. ‘Hi, Uncle Greg,’ she said, giving him a big noisy kiss on the cheek. ‘What’re you doing?’
‘I’m sitting here being kissed by you,’ Greg smiled. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m talking to you, silly! Honestly, Uncle Greg, sometimes I wonder if you’re stupid.’
‘You’re not the first person to wonder that,’ Jean said. ‘What in God’s name have you done to the walls, Greg? They’re all… wobbly.’
‘Come on, Jean, they’re not that bad,’ Billy said, stepping to his brother’s defence. ‘The cracks are all filled in, and that’s the fiddly bit. All they need is a good sanding down, and that’s not easy if you don’t have an electric sander.’
‘Why don’t woodpeckers get brain damage, Uncle Greg?’ Katy asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Greg said. ‘Why don’t woodpeckers get brain damage?’
‘It’s not a joke, Uncle Greg, it’s a proper question! We’ve got a woodpecker in the garden and it’s always banging its head against a tree. Mummy says that if I did that I’d never be able to walk again, let alone dance.’
‘You and your questions,’ Jean sighed.
‘Can I make you coffee?’ Greg asked. ‘There’s a coke in the fridge if Katy would like that.’
‘Maybe another time, Greg,’ Billy said. ‘This is a flying visit I’m afraid. Jean just wants to look over the furniture and ornaments and see if there’s anything she’d like for the house.’
‘Billy says your mother used to have a mink stole, Greg. You don’t know where your father used to keep it, do you?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ Greg said.
‘Come on, Katy, we’ll make a start upstairs and leave your Daddy and Uncle to talk.’
They left the room, and Billy took out a small notebook and wrote down the word ‘sander’.
‘How was Denmark?’
‘Same old same old,’ Billy replied. ‘Bacon and herrings.’
‘When did you get back?’
‘Yesterday – just before I called you. The flight was a bit delayed, I’m afraid.’
It appeared that Billy was determined to tough out the conversation. He made notes while he talked and looked around the room, described the universities of Aalborg and Aarhus in too much detail and named the imaginary professors he’d met.
‘What was the weather like?’ Greg asked.
‘The weather? I’d say it was fair to middling. Mostly sun, some rain. The usual.’
He knows, Billy thought. He knows I wasn’t there. But if I keep pretending I was, I’ll be okay. All I have to do is tough it out and stare him down. He can’t prove anything. It’s my wo
rd against Uncle Frank’s. If only I could look him in the eyes. Thank goodness I brought my notebook. He’ll think I’m busy writing notes and that’s why I can’t look at him. He won’t know I’m filling pages with the word ‘sander’. It’s the same thing I do when I talk to professors. I can fool anybody.
‘Is it okay if Uncle Frank has Dad’s handkerchiefs?’ Greg asked.
‘Yes. He’s already asked…’ Oh flipping heck! Now I’ve gone and done it!
He looked up and saw Greg smiling at him, not the triumphant smile he’d been expecting but a sympathetic smile, a smile that surprisingly showed no pleasure.
‘We don’t have to talk about this now do we – with Jean and Katy in the house?’
‘Of course we don’t – and sorry for tricking you like that. It’s just that Dad’s been worried about you. Tell me in your own time. I’m here to help and not point the finger – if you can believe that.’
They were interrupted by Katy.
‘Daddy, Mummy wants to talk to you upstairs about something.’
Billy left the room and Katy sat down in the chair he’d vacated. ‘Can I have that coke, Uncle Greg?’ she whispered. ‘And if my parents come back into the room and I haven’t finished it, can you pretend it’s yours? I’m not supposed to drink coca-cola.’
Greg brought the can and opened it for her.
‘Thanks, Uncle Greg. Do you want to know a secret?’
‘Sure.’
‘Mummy thinks the house should go to Daddy and not you. That’s what she’s talking to him about now. She says that Daddy was the one who changed Grandpa’s light bulbs and unscrewed his marmalade lids and sorted his pills into containers. She said that he was always doing odd jobs for him around the house and reading small print for him. She says that you didn’t do a thing except make his life a living hell and make him lose his hair. Is that true, Uncle Greg? Did you really do those things?’
‘I hope I didn’t. I think your Mum’s exaggerating a bit, Katy. I couldn’t do the things your Dad did for him because I lived too far away. But if I’d lived closer I’d have done them. I never abandoned your Grandpa, you know. We used to talk on the phone every week, and he used to tell me all about you.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That you were a bright girl and very pretty. He was very proud of you, Katy. Glad you were his granddaughter.’
‘Quick, Uncle Greg: they’re coming! Take the can, will you? And don’t tell them anything about what I said. It’s a secret, remember.’
When Jean and Billy came into the room, it was clear they’d had some kind of argument. Billy stared out of the window, while Jean opened and closed drawers in the sideboard and then moved to the lounge.
‘The only thing I want is the mink stole, Billy,’ she finally announced. ‘The rest of it’s junk. Come on, we need to go. I still have some ironing to do.’
Jean had arranged to spend the next few days with a friend in the Lake District and was taking Katy with her. She’d given Billy permission to stay with Greg and help decorate the house in her absence, on the understanding that the sooner the house was sold the sooner she’d get her new bathroom suite.
‘It’s all arranged then, Greg. I’ll be back tomorrow morning about ten. Kiss your Uncle goodbye, Katy,’ Billy said.
This time Katy kissed Greg on both cheeks.
‘There’s no need to overdo things, Katy,’ Jean said, who walked past Greg without so much as touching him.
Greg walked them to the gate and returned to the house smiling. He’d had qualms about burning his mother’s clothes but now looked forward to the day, and imagined the conversation he’d have with Jean. ‘Jean, you know that mink stole you wanted? Yes, that’s the one. Well guess what? I found it. Perfect condition. I’m afraid not. Why? I burned it! Ha!’
Confession
Mrs Turton was standing under her veranda when Billy drew up outside the house. She was wearing her Sunday best and waiting for Barry to collect her in his state-of-the-art Skoda – ‘German engineering at half the price!’ he’d told his mother.
She called out and beckoned him. ‘Have you got a minute, Billy?’ she asked.
Billy put down his tools and joined her under the veranda. ‘Hello, Mrs Turton. You’re looking very smart. Off to church?’
‘Thank you, Billy. Yes, I’m expecting Barry any moment now. Did you get my card?’
‘Yes and thank you. It was very considerate.’
‘It was a nice cross on the front, wasn’t it? I liked the way the roses curled around it.’
‘Yes it was,’ Billy agreed. (He’d received a lot of cards with crosses on the front and couldn’t immediately recall Mrs Turton’s.)
‘I don’t want to worry you, Billy – and you know I’m not one for interfering – but I think Gregory’s taking drugs again. I invited him round for coffee the other day and he burst out laughing and couldn’t stop. I’ve seen programmes on television about drug takers and that’s what addicts do – they stare at their feet and laugh all the time. And Gregory was saying some very strange things. If only I could remember what they were…’
‘I’m sure he isn’t, Mrs Turton. I think he’s just got a different sense of humour to us. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever understood his jokes.’
‘It’s not just the laughter, Billy,’ Mrs Turton continued. ‘He’s started talking to himself at night. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but if I put a glass to the wall I can hear his voice as plain as day. That’s not normal behaviour, is it?’
‘Putting a glass to the wall?’
‘No, talking to yourself!’
‘You’re sure it’s not the radio?’
‘Unless he’s got a job as a presenter on Radio 4, Billy, I’m certain of it! I know your father always worried about him, and it’s only because of your father that I’m mentioning this to you now. Mr Bowman was a good friend to me and it’s out of respect for him that I’m telling you this. Most people would look the other way, but as a Christian I can’t do that.’
‘Well thank you, Mrs Turton. I think you’re worrying unnecessarily, but I’ll certainly have a word with him.’
‘Don’t tell him it was me who told you!’ Mrs Turton said, panicked by the idea. ‘I don’t want him coming round here when he’s high on drugs. I live alone, remember, and I haven’t got an alarm, and – oh, here’s Barry. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting, Billy, so I’d better be going. It’s communion Sunday today and Barry wants to get there early and box Diane into one of the back pews before they bring out the wafers. That girl! I quake to think how much toast she’s had for breakfast.’
Billy waited while Mrs Turton climbed into Barry’s car and then picked up his toolbox and entered his father’s house. ‘Greg!’ he called out. ‘Mrs Turton thinks you’re on drugs again and talking to yourself at night. You’re not, are you?’
‘Of course I’m not,’ Greg called out from the top of the stairs. ‘But if I lived next door to Mrs Turton for any length of time I probably would be. It wouldn’t surprise me if Dad didn’t throw himself under that bus just to get away from her.’
Billy laughed guiltily. ‘You shouldn’t say things like that about Dad when he’s dead.’
‘I’m pretty sure he won’t mind. Now, where do you want to start?’
They covered the furniture and floors of the dining room and lounge with old bed sheets, and Billy plugged in his electric sander. ‘This thing makes a lot of noise, so I’ll sand down the walls while Mrs Turton’s at church. We don’t want her calling the police and telling them we’re disturbing her Day of Rest.’
Greg watched as Billy put a paper mask over his mouth and nose and started to smooth down the walls. He worked confidently and efficiently, and moved quickly from one filled crack to the next. By the time Mrs Turton returned from church the walls were ready for painting.<
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Billy showed Greg how to use the roller and then broke off from his own painting to change the lock on the back door. When, eventually, they’d knocked off for the day, the walls and ceiling of the dining room were covered in fresh magnolia and the room transformed.
‘It should only take us a morning to do the hallway,’ Billy said, ‘and then we’ll start on the woodwork. We should be able to get away with one coat, but we’ll have to be careful not to leave any runs. There’s nothing worse than a door that looks like it burst into tears.’
Billy brought his suitcase into the house and took it to Greg’s old bedroom – the small one. ‘I see you’ve got my room at long last,’ Billy smiled.
‘I did, and you’re not having it back,’ Greg said. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do though: as a quid pro quo, I’ll treat you to a meal in the Brown Cow tonight. I can’t say fairer than that.’
The pub was about half full when they arrived. They ordered from the menu and stood at the bar until one of the alcoves became free. ‘Quick. Get the table over there before someone beats us to it, Billy, and I’ll tell the barmaid where we’ve gone.’
The alcoves were private spaces intended more for lovers than brothers, but were ideal for tête-à-têtes. They’d worked well together that day and Greg hoped that with a few pints inside him, his brother would open up and explain his situation. (He didn’t look forward to meeting his father that night and again telling him there was nothing to report. ‘I only have twelve days left, Greg!’ his father would no doubt point out.)
Greg waited until they’d finished eating and fresh pints were on the table before engaging his brother in more serious conversation.
‘I’m afraid I haven’t been much of a brother to you over the years, Billy, and I’m sorry for that.’
Billy looked at him surprised.
‘There was something you once said to me, something that stuck with me. It’s looped around in my mind for years, but it’s only since I’ve been back here that it’s started to make any sense.’
‘What did I say?’ Billy asked, amazed that something he’d said had stuck in anyone’s mind.
The Last of the Bowmans Page 19
