Muscles Came Easy

by Aled Islwyn

  I know I wind him up, which doesn’t help, but he’s such an easy match to light, I can’t resist!

  What are you doing sleeping round Mam’s house, any road? I said. Can’t you provide a house of your own for your family?

  Very compassionate, Joel, he retorts, except he can’t really do sarcasm. He has to scream it at me, thereby missing the advantage of the higher moral ground which had subtly been his for his taking if only he’d played his cards right.

  You boys fighting again? You’ll be the death of me!

  Mam could be heard almost physically wrestling the receiver from Dean’s hand as she talked. Her voice was full of sniffing. More tears. I sighed and start to feel depressed.

  It seems that she hasn’t had the test results yet. I tried to interrupt the moist flow of pessimism by looking on the bright side, but she was having none of it. Easier to wallow in anticipation of the worse scenario than hanging on to hope, it seems.

  I was glad to get off the phone.

  So much for ‘The old town looks the same….’ It doesn’t.

  They’ve knocked half of it down. And the other half’s boarded up.

  I’ll be next, said Mam. Already feel as though I’ve been knocked down by a bus. And I’ll soon be boarded up. Eight nails in the lid should do it nicely… with some lily of the valleys from you and Joanne resting on top just to set it all off!

  She chokes me when she speaks like that.

  Don’t go wasting your money on me now, mind, she continued. So long as you keep it dignified, that’s all I ask. I don’t want anything tacky. And make sure your father doesn’t put in an appearance at the last moment. Don’t want him ruining my big day. He ruined the last one I had in that chapel.

  Mam, don’t talk like that, I said.

  Well, the bastard turned up, didn’t he? Her loud voice brings high camp comedy to the cancer ward. And don’t think I’m the only woman who’s ever wished her husband had jilted her at the altar with the benefit of hindsight. The world is full of us.

  And if you hadn’t married him, I wouldn’t be here now, would I? Have you thought of that? I said.

  She’s only trying to be cheerful, she answered, expecting me to laugh along. But of course, I don’t. I didn’t. And I can’t. Can’t cry either. Won’t allow myself. I never can. Ended up just sitting there, telling her not to be so daft.

  Had a long chat with the doctor a little later.

  He’d no office to take me to. We stood out in the corridor out of earshot, keeping our voices down and shifting sideways whenever anyone walked past. The staff use that corridor as a short cut to the car park when they go for their illicit fags. It sees a lot of traffic. Our whispers had to blend in furtively with a sea of uniforms, camouflaged by smiles and the slight whiff of smoke.

  She’s been slightly overly pessimistic, apparently. That’s what he told me. It turns out he’s more worried by her mental state than by the cancer. Well, not more, maybe, but as much.

  You’re going to be OK, I tried to reassure her when I finally returned to the ward to sit with her a little while longer.

  The doctor had just told me her depression manifested itself in laughter, so my heart sank as she roared hysterically in response. She lunged at me sitting in my chair, before throwing her arms around my neck and all but falling out of bed.

  It’s back, my boy, she howled. It’s back. And so are you.

  Listen to the darkness.

  You can’t, of course. That bloody clock won’t let you. Like it won’t let me sleep. Five nights I’ve been back home and five nights I’ve just been lying here contemplating how much I hate that clock. I’ve always hated it. When it chimed away in Nanna’s house, I hated it. And now I hate it here.

  To put it in boxing terms, it seems to punch above its weight. Stands there in the corner. Looking petit. A wallflower with time on its hands. Delicate casing and a poofy face. Calls itself a grandmother clock. The only thing of any value I ever got from my mother, Mam says. It may be old, but I doubt it’s worth much. Just a clock with attitude. A wedding present to my grandparents, in the days when even the cheap pressies outlived the marriage.

  Hear that tick-tock measuring the emptiness; its tenacity audible above all the other anxieties throbbing in my brain. Like a bantam fighter, it just keeps coming at you. Wearing you down. Numbing your pain. Making you oblivious to the killer punch that’s about to get you on the blind side.

  Curiously, Mam asked about it tonight. The clock. She wants everything to be in full working order if she’s allowed home tomorrow. Had I wound it up?

  No, but it’s winding me up plenty! I replied.

  She laughed that exaggerated laugh the doctor seemed to find so worrying.

  I’ve thought about it. That chat I had with him yesterday. She’s not suppressing depression. More like celebrating her inherent over-optimism.

  Mam will always laugh. She always has. It’s what pulls her through.

  I’ve made her bed up. Ready for tomorrow. Hoovered round a little. Even wound up that bloody clock for her. Well! It’s what she wanted.

  It hasn’t happened, has it? Mam isn’t home tonight, as planned. I’m still here on my own. Just me and the clock.

  More tests are needed, apparently. They want to be absolutely certain. Of what, I’m not too sure. But it seems they can’t decide what to do. The consultant has been consulted and the specialist has had his say. And the doubts that are mostly left unsaid are deafening.

  I could tell she was down, bless her. And when I rang Mike earlier, he said I sounded down myself.

  I can feel the despondency in your voice, he said. How profound is that?

  Well, is it any bloody wonder? I bellowed back.

  He always has to use big words to deal with any gut feeling anyone may ever have. It’s his defence against any genuine raw emotion. Yes, I was pleased to hear the exhibition continues to be a great success… and no, he doesn’t really care a damn about what I’m going through here. I could tell by his voice. He never has cared. That’s the truth. Not about me, where I come from, or my family.

  The trouble is, I don’t really miss him. It’s been ten days and I’ve only made contact with him twice. Both times, what I really needed to find out was how everyone was doing; Raul and the gang, etcetera. Things in the flat. Not Mike.

  Dan Llywellyn turned up a lot tonight. Not in the flesh, of course – what’s left of it! In conversation. A verbal resurrection from Mam.

  I’ve know he’s there, of course. Same hospital, different wards. He’s in a lot worse state than her. She kept repeating that. Never mentioned dying, but I knew that’s what she meant.

  He’d love to see you. Why don’t you pop along and have a chat?

  She needn’t have bothered naming the ward. I’ve known which one it is since I first went to visit Mam. It’s where the terminally ill are kept. ‘God’s waiting room’ the staff call it on the sly. It’s out on a limb. The ground-floor ward nearest the gardens.

  One of the cleaners I got talking to the other day told me it was to enable the earth’s gravity to make their journey easier at the end. Dust to dust, earth to earth, ashes to ashes… she could quote the lot.

  By the sound of her, she’d caught religion and I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was probably more to do with the fact that they built the mortuary round the back.

  I wound that clock in vain last night. And now I wish I hadn’t. Really only did it for her. And she’s not here.

  A torture for my own insomnia. Should have left it to its own devices. Do unto time as time does unto all of us.

  When I next see that cleaner, I’ll tell her that. She looked easily impressed.

  It’s alright for you, Joel, he said. You’re one of the lucky ones. You got out. Looked after yourself. Made something of yourself.

  I told him to go to hell.

  I know you don’t mean that, he said, eyeballing me like a pneumatic drill as he spoke.

  Then he went straight
into this sob story about Darren Howley.

  That was his name apparently; this gawping, chubby geek I’d noticed in Spar this afternoon. Looked around forty. A beer-bellied no-hoper. The valley’s full of them. Except this one had a real talent for staring. I wasn’t flattered. I wasn’t angry. I just wanted Mam to recover quickly so I could catch the first plane back to Barcelona.

  Well! It seems he was once a promising football player. Went to Dan Llywellyn for coaching. Ended up on drugs and off the rails.

  A life blighted, Gavin called it.

  It seems this Darren called him on his mobile after stalking me round Spar.

  I keep in touch with many of those boys, Gavin explained. Or at least I allow them to keep in touch with me. Feel protective towards them, you see. Seen so many lives destroyed.

  Mine’s not destroyed, I started to protest.

  No, quite, he interjects. Like I said, you’re one of the lucky ones.

  Made things happen for myself, I said. No luck about it. Stuck at it in school. Went to college. Learnt Spanish. I’m a self-made man. Made things happen for myself.

  The trouble is, the Darren Howleys of this world are wondering why the hell you didn’t make things happen for them as well, Joel, Gavin continues. Or stopped things happening to them, is more to the point. Do you know what I mean?

  I knew by now that he was intent on saying his piece, so I stood there with my back to the wall and my hands deep in my tracky bottoms.

  They know your see. They know what you went through. The verbal assault continued. I held my ground in silence. And they can’t for the life of them work out why you didn’t put a stop to it. Back then, they didn’t have your balls, Joel. They didn’t have your brains. They were dependent on a bright lad like you to speak up and save them further misery. Speak up and break Dan Llywellyn’s vicious circle. But you didn’t, did you, Joel? Why is that, Joel?

  I still don’t know what you’re talking about, I said. No one ever messed with me I didn’t want to mess with me.

  I know you, Joel. I just know.

  You don’t, mate! You don’t know me at all…

  And I’ll get it all out of you too, one day – the hard way if I have to. But it will out. You listen to me good… he paused a moment while a distraught-looking relative went scuttling passed in pursuit of a member of the medical staff. His half-turned eyes judged when she’d be out of earshot and, before continuing, his voice lowered an octave, just to be on the safe side. One day, I’ll have you there in front of me, just like you are now. Only it won’t be a fuckin’ hospital corridor. And you won’t be looking so smug. You’ll be crying your fuckin’ eyes out, Joel. Just like all those other sad bastards I’ve met on this investigation. You’ll be so relieved to have all that shit of years ago out of your system, you won’t know whether they’re tears of joy or anguish sobbing down your cheeks and nostrils. You’ll just know that you’ve wrenched out a gutful of pus that’s been there hiding inside you all those years, Joel. And I’ll be the one you’ll be grateful to for giving you the best feeling of relief you’ll ever know in your life.

  Dream on, sunshine, I said. And he sort of smiled. Knowing it wasn’t the place or the time to pursue it further.

  The worried lady was making her way back from the smokers’ den, the nurse she’d managed to collar barely hiding her annoyance at having her fag curtailed.

  Can’t pretend it’s not good to see you again, he chips in casually as the two women made their way back towards the wards.

  Really? Gee, thanks!

  How’s your mother?

  As if you cared! I retorted sharply.

  Well, I sort of do, really, Joel, he replied. He’d moved from menace mode to vague benevolence with barely a facial distortion, only the subtle shifting of the balance of his body weight conveying his new-found mood of conviviality. How is she?

  If the mood had changed, the persistence hadn’t.

  You’re only here ’cos Darren what’s-his-name’s call reminded you that I’m still in town, I said. Equally calm. Equally polite. I put a jokey lilt in my voice to neutralise the tension. You knew I’d be up here at visiting time.

  So how is she?

  Coming out day after tomorrow, I replied. It was like giving in, really. Telling him that which I’d only just heard myself from Mam. But what could I do?

  So you have tomorrow to yourself then?

  Found myself agreeing that I did, without thinking through any implications.

  Come play a game of squash with me tomorrow afternoon, he says. At my club. I’ll sign you in.

  Played a little at college, but not really a game I ever got into. I’m built for bulk sports, not speed. Had to say yes though, didn’t I?

  The trouble is, these old routines of mine don’t work here. This view’s all wrong. This brandy doesn’t even work the same. Not like it does when I unwind in the early hours at home in Barcelona.

  Mam’s lean-to isn’t quite the same as our balcony. No warm night breeze. No sound of a city still throbbing somewhere in the distance. Just Welsh rain on the windows, so lacking in force or purpose, you can see how it leaves the bird-shit untouched.

  Passed Mam’s ramshackle excuse for a garden, I can glimpse the dawn creeping its way up the mountain. Typical of life here – all routine and no passion.

  Except old Gavin’s left me knackered tonight. So I guess the passion’s always there, if you know where to look for it.

  He thrashed me at squash, of course. No surprises there. I could barely remember the rules. Not that that mattered much. When you play with Gavin there are no rules, it seems.

  Almost five when I got in. Coming out of his car, I could see some lights just going on in other houses. People getting up for work, I suppose. Routines.

  As we drove back from Cardiff, I told him all that heavy stuff he tried the other day in the hospital wouldn’t work with me.

  He laughed with condescending candour and said, No, I know, as though none of it mattered after all.

  God, his wife must be a tolerant woman, I told him.

  He didn’t say a word to that. Didn’t even smile. Just drove.

  You never said nothing.

  The police had apparently told him of my reluctance to testify against him. And that was the most he had to say to me. Almost all he had to say to me. An anticlimax in the end. It was bound to be.

  I knew it had to be today or never. Mam came home this afternoon. And no way am I going back to that place just to visit Dan Llywellyn… even a dying Dan Llywellyn.

  I don’t know why you don’t do the decent thing and go see him. Mam’s been nagging ever since I came home to see her. After all he did for you….

  Sat her down in that foyer place. The concourse they call it. Large waste of space designed to delude you into thinking you’re entering or leaving a grand hotel. Placed her bag by her side and told her I wouldn’t be long.

  The taxi was already late.

  The bus would have done me, of course, she proceeds to tell anyone within earshot daft enough to listen. But our Joel wouldn’t have it. He’s very good to me. Come all the way from Spain to look after me, he ’ave.

  I tell her to wait. Though God knows where I thought she was going to go without me.

  Such a sensitive boy. He loves poetry and all that stuff, you know. Won prizes for all sorts of things at school. Don’t be fooled by all that brawn… he’s a sensitive boy.

  Mercifully, her voice drifts to nothing as I disappear down the corridor. The relief I feel is short-lived, as I see Mrs Llewellyn coming towards me. On her way to sneak a fag, apparently. After years of chocolates and the telly, she’s succumbed to the joy of a new source of brain death, it seems. A packet of twenty and a gaudy-looking lighter were clutched in her fat hand.

  Oh! What a good boy you are! She oozed all over me. The sentence that followed the most she’s ever said to me. Your mam said you’d go to come see ’im before he goes. I know you’ll do him no end of good. In there, sixt
h door along.

  All those visits to her house! Out the back with Dan. Upstairs with Dan. Picking up some piece of kit I’ll left there. Dropping off some piece of sports equipment I’d borrowed to work on at home. He and me in our man’s world. Her, silent and redundant.

  She shuffled down the corridor towards the smokers’ yard.

  Won’t be here long, are the first words I say to him. Could have kicked myself, of course. But take comfort in the fact that he never has had much sense of humour. (‘Getting to be perfect is no laughing matter,’ he’d say to me as a boy whenever I started messing around during any sort of training.) So the irony, like so much else, is lost.

  He didn’t really seem to be suffering. I felt a little cheated. But he’s gone to nothing. That much is true. Just a sad shadow staring at me from the pillow.

  You didn’t squeal. He made his voice as loud as he could muster. You never told ’em any of our little secrets.

  It’s a long time ago now, butt! I said.

  He struggled to move his right hand from where it lay on top of the bed, finally lunging for what he thought would be the safety of my forearm. When I pulled my arm away in rejection, it fell back on the blanket again without a murmur.

  His face remained unmoved. No sign of disappointment touched those dark sunken eyes. He’d managed to sense my meaning without as much as a lilt of the head. All shows of remorse were held in reserve, ready for the big one.

  You moved far away, didn’t you? Spain, is it? They told me you were far away… and wouldn’t talk….

  Each little verbal outburst came shrouded in a silence with which he seemed ill at ease. Like memories of a life once fully lived. Once vibrant and clandestine. Now, dribbled onto pale pillows. Like small deaths.

  They kept me there. Transfixed by curiosity. Those little words of nothing.