‘You told me that I always had to know best, always had to take things a step too far. And you were right. I behaved like an asshole when I was a kid, lorded it over you like a real shit. You shouldn’t have taken it, Billy. You should have punched me in the face or stuck my head down the toilet. That’s what I’d have done to you.
‘You never did though, did you? You just kept offering me your friendship, and every time you did I just slapped it away. I once told you I was embarrassed to have you as a brother. Remember that? It was a lie. You never embarrassed me. It was me that was the embarrassment.’
Billy was slightly off-balanced by Greg’s remarks but generous in his response. ‘You weren’t that bad a brother, Greg,’ he said. ‘We – that’s Dad and me – just thought you were more affected by Mum’s death and so we made allowances.’
‘She was your mother too, Billy. You didn’t go off the rails. But one thing I never did understand is why you and Dad never cried at her funeral. Apart from the day we got the news I don’t remember you or Dad ever crying.’
‘We cried all right, Greg – just not around you. Dad thought it would only make things harder for you if you saw us crying. He told me I was the elder brother and had to stay strong for your sake. That’s the only reason I didn’t cry at the funeral. Lord knows I wanted to. I almost bit my lip off that day. I still miss Mum and I always will… but why are you telling me this now?’
‘Because Dad’s dead and I never got the chance to tell him the things I always meant to. I led him a right dance when I was growing up. I’d get into scrapes, he’d get me out of them, and I never once thanked him. I just took everything for granted. And I got to thinking, what if I was killed or you were killed and we’d never made up. I don’t want that to happen, do you? I guess what I’m trying to say, Billy, is that I love you. You need to know that.’
‘There’s nothing wrong, is there, Greg? I mean you’re alright, aren’t you. Nothing you want to talk about?’
Greg smiled. ‘No, there’s nothing wrong, Billy. I just wanted to make sure you knew.’
‘Well, I, I love you too, Greg,’ Billy said, peeling the top layer off his beer mat. ‘I hope no one can hear us,’ he whispered. ‘Men telling each other they love each other. It’s a bit weird, isn’t it? What if people think we’re gay?’
Greg burst out laughing. ‘Well, if they do, they’ll be thinking you’re punching a bit above your weight. I’m far too good-looking for you.’
‘I’m not that bad looking,’ Billy said. ‘And I married Jean too. She thinks you’ve always been jealous of me for beating you to her.’
‘She thinks what? Jesus Christ, Billy, you’re welcome to Jean! Don’t get me wrong, she’s a good-looking woman, but there’s no way I’d want to marry her. We’d end up killing each other. I can’t believe she said that!’
‘Well, don’t tell her I told you.’
‘Of course I won’t. Another pint?’
‘Why not? It’s not as if I have work tomorrow – apart from painting.’
‘You’re pretty good at DIY, aren’t you?’ Greg said, back at the table.
‘I think I am,’ Billy replied. ‘I wouldn’t mind doing it for a living if I’m honest, but Jean says she’d never be able to show her face in public if I became a tradesman. She thinks that would be worse than sales.’
‘How come you ended up in sales, anyway?’
‘The mills closed down and I was no good at accountancy. The only qualification they asked for was a degree and, as I’d always liked reading, I thought publishing would be fun. The books we publish though are unintelligible. I haven’t read one of them.’
He took another drink from his glass and picked up another beer mat.
‘In an ideal world I’d still be working in the textile industry,’ he continued. ‘That’s what my degree and training were in. Sometimes I feel like one of those actors who’s gone to RADA and spent years touring the provincial theatres in the hope that one day he’ll be playing Hamlet in Stratford-upon-Avon, and then finds himself working as an extra in a Steven Seagal film. That’s what I feel about my job in publishing – I feel like I’m playing an extra in a bad film that I wouldn’t pay money to see. Don’t get me wrong, Greg, I don’t hate my job, but I think I’d prefer to be a painter and decorator or someone who makes their living by doing odd jobs for people.’
‘Why don’t you do that then? Do something that makes you happy. Life’s too short to fuck around.’ Greg said.
‘I might well have to,’ Billy said gloomily. ‘I think I’m about to be fired.’
He then found himself telling his younger brother everything: his abiding fear of feet, his infatuation with Polly, his suspension from work and his visits to Dr Haffenden. ‘And Jean knows nothing about this, Greg. She thinks I’m still working, still going to the office and going on business trips. I have to lie to her and hide away from her, and that’s the hardest part. I’m no good at deception. It makes me nervous at the best of times and when I saw Uncle Frank sitting in the tearoom I nearly had a heart attack! Don’t tell Jean any of this, will you? Please, you have to promise me.’
‘Of course I’m not going to tell her.’
Billy’s story had been stranger than Uncle Frank’s. Frightened of feet. Falling in love with a woman with no feet. Suspended from work. Seeing a therapist. What the fucking hell!
Greg had bitten the inside of his cheek when Billy first mentioned his fear of feet. He wanted to laugh out loud, but in the circumstances couldn’t. He had to look concerned, empathise with his brother and put himself in his shoes – so to speak.
‘So does this doctor of yours think he’ll be able to cure you?’
‘Yes, and he says I’m making good progress. You don’t know what a relief it’s going to be when I’m free of this phobia. I’ll be able to lead a normal life again. And he thinks my obsession with Polly is just a symptom of the underlying cause, so that once I’m no longer afraid of feet I won’t be infatuated with her either. And it’s working. I’ve already stopped dreaming about her.’
‘So once you’re okay, you’ll be able to go back to work for the company?’
‘In theory, but the more I think about it, the less I want to. It would be too demeaning. HR is supposed to keep matters like this confidential but news always gets out, and I’d be surprised if the whole office doesn’t know about it by now. If I went back, people would be looking at me and talking about me behind my back. Probably laughing. I don’t think I could take that.’
‘How long have you got before the six months is up?’
‘About another two, I think. What would you do if you were me?’
‘I wouldn’t go back. I’d angle for some kind of settlement and use the money to start up a business.’
‘But what about Jean? Jean’s not going to like that one bit.’
‘Fuck Jean! And whatever you do, don’t tell her about Polly. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t sleep with her because Jean’s always going to think that you did. There’s no point getting divorced over this.’
The bell rang for last orders. ‘One for the road?’ Greg asked.
‘No, not for me thanks,’ Billy said. ‘But when we get back to the house, is it alright if I touch your feet? Dr Haffenden said I had to practise.’
‘I heard that as well!’ a man’s voice called out from the adjacent booth. ‘If you want my opinion, there’s something wrong with you two!’
Greg and Billy decided to give the Brown Cow a miss after that.
8
Freeview
Lyle watched as Billy climbed into bed and closed his eyes. His lips were pursed and deep creases furrowed his brow. Even at rest his elder son looked worried. He yearned to talk to him, ask the boy the cause of his disquiet, but couldn’t. He could only find this out by talking to his younger son.
He moved downstairs and
found Greg sitting in the dining room, his socks neatly folded and placed next to his shoes.
‘Why are you barefooted, lad? I know it’s summer, but it’s not that warm.’
Greg told him.
‘Well I’ll be,’ Lyle said, after his son finished the story. ‘Why did he never tell me this? Why did he keep it a secret? It must have eaten the poor boy up.’
‘I think he was ashamed, Dad. I think he thought he was the only person in the world suffering from podophobia. If it’s any consolation, he never told me either.’
‘It’s not,’ Lyle said. ‘You’d have been the last person he’d have confided in.’
‘Hmm, you’re probably right there,’ Greg admitted. ‘I’ve apologised for the way I treated him when we were growing up, though. Your words weren’t wasted on me.’
‘I’m glad to hear that, Greg. And you’re doing what you can to help him through this?’
‘Yes, and it’s weirding me out, if you want the truth. He played with my feet for forty minutes tonight – and he wants to do the same tomorrow!’
Greg told him how Billy had removed his shoes and hesitantly clasped his socked feet that evening; how he’d gently squeezed and caressed them and then paused, closed his eyes and taken a series of deep breaths. He described how his brother had pulled the socks from his feet, cautiously taken hold of his right foot and then traced the bones connecting the talus to his toes: the cuboids, naviculars, cuneiforms and metatarsals.
‘He was clinical, Dad, almost detached – a bit like a pathologist performing an autopsy and recording his findings into a microphone. He remarked on the grain of the shoe leather and the craftsmanship of the stitching; the fine weave of my cotton socks and their colour. He told me I had twenty-six bones in each foot, thirty-three joints and over a hundred muscles. He talked like a zombie.’
‘A zombie?’ Lyle mused. ‘I wonder if that’s what I am now. Do I talk like a zombie?’
‘No. Apart from an American accent you talk the same way you always did,’ Greg reassured him, and then continued.
‘When he started to massage my bare feet his manner changed and he got a bit too involved for my liking. He began talking to them as if they were long lost friends or something. Told them he respected them and meant them no harm. Hoped they respected him too and meant him no harm either. Said how they needed to see more of each other and learn to understand one another better. Maybe it’s just his way of getting through all this, Dad, but it was creepy. I half expected him to give them a goodnight kiss.’
‘What happened then?’ Lyle asked. ‘Was Billy okay?’
‘I’m not sure, Dad. He just crumpled. Sat cross-legged on the floor and hung his head. It was obvious the ordeal had exhausted him, but when he looked up he was smiling. He looked almost happy. He said he couldn’t believe he’d done it; couldn’t believe he was making such good progress. And he told me he couldn’t have done it without me – and he couldn’t when you think about it, because it was my feet he’d been fondling. And he ended by saying he was glad you were dead, because your death had brought the two of us together again.’
‘He said what! He really said he was glad I was dead?’
‘No, I was just joking when I said that,’ Greg laughed. ‘But he did say that bit about togetherness.’
Lyle looked at his son and then smiled grudgingly.
‘And once this doctor of his has cured him, he’ll be able to go back to work?’
‘That’s the theory, but Billy’s toying with the idea of setting up his own business and becoming a painter and decorator.’
Lyle mulled the idea over. ‘Good,’ he said eventually. ‘He’ll be happy doing that. I’ve always admired his DIY – and good tradesmen are hard to find these days.’
Greg was in bed reading a paperback he’d bought at the airport when his father appeared the following night.
‘You’ve left the windows open downstairs.’
‘I know. We’re trying to get rid of the paint fumes.’
‘What if someone breaks in?’ Lyle said. ‘I never left windows open when I was alive.’
‘You never opened windows period, Dad. And unless there’s a marauding band of midgets in the area, I can’t see anyone climbing through them. Besides we left them on their latches.’
Lyle shook his head. ‘You can never be too careful, Greg. The neighbourhood’s changed since you lived here. At one time I knew everyone who lived on the Grove and we all used to look out for each other. It’s different now. I’d be hard pressed to name any of the neighbours apart from Mrs Turton and the Collards. There are too many renters for my liking.’
‘Why are you so late tonight?’ Greg asked. ‘I waited downstairs for long enough and then gave up. I thought you weren’t coming.’
‘I think I must have slept in, son – or something like that. I like it in the loft. It’s easy to forget about your troubles up there. I don’t know why I never thought of living up there when I was alive.’
Unlike previous evenings, there was little of interest to tell his father. He and Billy had finished painting the house that day, eaten fish and chips for dinner and made a start on sifting through the papers in their father’s cardboard file. Tomorrow morning they were planning to visit Uncle Frank and in the afternoon the Probate Office. On Wednesday, Billy would drive down to London to meet with Dr Haffenden, and return to the house on Thursday.
‘Where did you get your fish and chips from?’ Lyle asked.
‘The chip shop opposite the Brown Cow.’
‘You should have gone to the one on the top road, Greg. They give you scraps there without having to ask for them – and they’re cheaper.’
‘I’ll remember that for next time,’ Greg said. He paused for a moment. ‘I don’t suppose you left a will, did you, Dad? We couldn’t find one in the file.’
‘There’s a letter in the front room bureau,’ Lyle said. ‘It says that everything’s to be divided equally between you and Billy and that Katy is to get £1,000. And make sure you tell Billy that it’s not for dancing lessons.’
Greg couldn’t remember if he’d fallen asleep during the conversation or after his father had disappeared, but he awoke the next morning to find Billy kneeling at the foot of his bed massaging his feet.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ he asked, more sharply than he intended.
‘I’m practising. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘No… No… It’s just that you caught me by surprise. How long is this going to take?’
‘About ten minutes,’ Billy replied. ‘By the way, I know why Mrs Turton thinks you talk to yourself.’ Greg looked at him for an explanation. ‘You talk in your sleep. I heard you last night.’
‘Really? Come to think of it, a girlfriend once told me the same thing,’ Greg lied. ‘Do you think I need to see Dr Haffenden?’
‘He just takes the big cases,’ Billy smiled. ‘Sleep talking would be too run-of-the-mill for him.’
Billy finished kneading his brother’s feet and after washing his hands thoroughly went downstairs to prepare breakfast. Greg joined him ten minutes later, and once the plates were cleared called Uncle Frank.
The phone rang and rang and then his uncle answered.
‘If you’re calling from India you can forget it because I’m not interested!’ Uncle Frank bellowed into the phone. ‘And if you think you fool anyone by calling yourself Thomas or Simon you’re mistaken because no one bloody-well believes you! Hello… Hello?’
‘It’s me, Uncle Frank – Greg. I’m bringing Billy to look at your television. Is it okay if we come in about twenty minutes?’
‘Sorry, lad, I thought you were one of those salesmen who tell you they’re not trying to sell you anything. They’re about the only calls I get these days, and nine times out of ten there’s no bugger at the other end of the line when I pick the phone
up. Bloody nuisance! I’ll leave the side door open. Just knock and come in… Hello… Hello?’
‘Okay, Uncle Frank. We’ll be there soon.’
Billy looked through his toolbox and picked out two small screwdrivers and a wire cutter. Being an irregular visitor to Uncle Frank’s house, he’d been completely unaware that his uncle’s television wasn’t working, but he was confident that the problem would be a simple one, and one he could fix easily.
They drove to Uncle Frank’s house, knocked on the door and walked in. The radio was turned up loud and, as usual, tuned to Planet Rock.
‘This is the station he can’t get on his upstairs radio,’ Greg explained, turning down the volume.
‘I didn’t know Uncle Frank liked rock music,’ Billy said. ‘There again, I didn’t know he was planning to rob a bank, either.’
Determined that the family now be open with each other, Greg had confided Uncle Frank’s intention to Billy on the strict understanding that he didn’t tell Jean or Betty. It was also his way of letting Billy know that there were other people in the world with problems as strange as his own.
‘Where is he?’ Billy asked.
‘Probably upstairs. I’ll give him a call.’
Greg went to the bottom of the stairs and called up: ‘Uncle Frank! Uncle Frank!’
‘I’m having a shit, Greg!’ his uncle shouted through the bathroom door. ‘Make us a cup of coffee, will you?’
Greg boiled the kettle and put coffee powder in three mugs. He was taking the cups through to the back room when Uncle Frank appeared in the hallway.
‘Remind me to get some haemorrhoid cream, will you, Greg? My piles are playing up something rotten.’
‘Hello, Uncle Frank,’ Billy said. ‘It’s good to see you again.’
‘You didn’t seem too pleased to see me the other day,’ Uncle Frank tackled him. ‘You bolted right out of the tearoom.’
‘That was you?’
‘Of course it was me – who did you think it was? Santa Claus? And why did you run off like that?’
The Last of the Bowmans Page 20
