The Tightrope Walkers (23 page)

Took a pen from my pocket. Looked into Heaven again. Found an empty space, edged with a pair of angels, not too far from God. I drew my mother there: a clumsy drawing on the uneven rock, but as beautiful as those Jack Law had drawn. She stood straight, and she looked down towards me, smiling. I breathed easily. I lay and smiled back at her. I was with her, inside some vast and comforting open space inside this little slab of rock. Began to disappear, perhaps began to sleep.

And then I felt the touch upon my cheek.

And opened my eyes.

And Jack Law was there.

He lay looking in through the opening, his hand stretched out to me. His eyes so gentle, as was his touch.

“Jack,” I breathed.

He moved his lips in reply, and though no sound came out I felt his breath on me.

“I drew her,” I said. “I put her in here, in your Heaven.”

I pointed to the rock.

“Look. There she is.”

He looked. He nodded. He touched me again, upon my cheek. His face relaxed, almost a smile.

“Can you speak?” I whispered.

He just looked back at me.

“Can you?” I said. “Can you understand me?”

He tenderly touched my lips. Then pointed to his own. He touched his lips with his index finger, a row of three touches along his top lip, a row of three touches upon the bottom lip. Then pursed his lips together and made a little grunting sound, and relaxed them again. And then I saw the ancient marks at the edge of his beard, and I think I understood.

The marks were stitch marks, three tiny marks on his top lip visible through his beard, three tiny marks on the bottom lip.

“Oh, Jack,” I whispered.

I imagined black thread tying the marks together.

“Who stitched you, Jack?” I said.

He sighed. Did he understand the question? Did he understand anything?

“A teacher?” I said. “A priest? Your parents?”

His mouth opened, closed.

“Did it happen in the war?”

A groan escaped from him.

“Tell me, Jack,” I whispered. “Can you say anything?”

He spoke two syllables. Two vowels.

“E — U.”

“Again,” I breathed.

“E — U.”

It could have been “Hello.” It could have been “Heaven.” It could have been meaningless. Just a sound, just a grunt. No way to tell.

“E — U,” I whispered in reply.

His face softened, he smiled.

I didn’t ask him to try again.

We gazed at each other through the narrow opening in the rock, two shy creatures encountering each other for the very first time, and recognizing each other.

I pointed to Mam, there in the heavenly rock.

“She’s there,” I said.

He smiled. We looked at her together, in the space that seemed to have been prepared for her.

And he opened his mouth and he sang, a single pure, wordless high-pitched note. He paused, took a breath, and sang the same long note again. And touched my cheek again.

And then he stopped. There were no words. Just “E — U. E — U.”

“E — U, Jack Law,” I breathed.

A knock at the door and Bill Stroud was there, a white cloth folded across his arm, carnation in his buttonhole, and a great smile on his face.

“Greetings,
mes amis
!” he said. “We should like to invite you to a celebration.”

“What celebration?” said Dad.

“A celebration to mark the great achievements of these two fine
enfants
of ours.”

I laughed.

“For the O-level results,” I said.

I’d passed them all, as Holly had. Dad and I had celebrated in a way: cans of beer on the sofa, a couple of cream cakes, tears for Mam. He’d fallen asleep on the sofa. I had to shake him awake, tell him to go to bed, it would soon be time for him to get up.

He was in his vest. He had a cigarette burning between his fingers.

“I’m not dressed for it,” he said.

“It is an informal gathering, Francis. A little
pique-nique
. Come as you are!”

Dad shrugged, was about to step out.

“Put a shirt on, Dad,” I said.

“We’ll be two minutes,” I said to Bill.

“We shall be ready for you. Red or white?”

We both hesitated.

“Wine,” said Bill. “White or red? Could I recommend the Côtes du Rhône?”

“Aye,” said Dad. “That.”

“What kind of bliddy crap is this?” he said as Bill walked back.

“A party,” I said.

“The kind of thing Mam would have put on to celebrate,” I said.

“Shove off,” he said.

He put a shirt on. He put a packet of Embassy and some Swan Vestas into its pocket.

“Fuckin wine,” he said as we walked across.

Holly kissed me twice on the cheek, as she said the French would have done. There was a long French stick, a bottle of sparkling water, black olives, a box of Camembert, slices of ham, tomatoes from Bill’s allotment.

Bill poured the Côtes du Rhône. He held up his glass to the sky to show the beauty of it.

“To our
enfants magnifiques
!” he announced.

We clinked our glasses and we drank.

“To our
funambules
!” he said, and we drank again.

He was already tipsy.

“That means tightrope walkers,” he said to Dad. “For these children,
absolument
anything is possible! To the
ciel
! Now drink it down,
mes amis
. There’s plenty more where that came from. We have made a very successful visit this very
matin
to Fenwicks’
merveilleux
delicatessen. Aven’t we,
ma petite
?”

“We ’ave,
mon papa
!” said Holly.

He wiped his lips with the white cloth, topped up Dad’s glass.

“A bit different from Federation Ale, eh, Francis?” he said. “Now ’ave one of these cigarettes.”

They were Gitanes. Dad slid one out. He sniffed it before letting Bill light it. He cursed as he drew in the smoke. He coughed and cursed again.

“Ah,
oui
,” said Bill. “They like their cigarettes to have a kick, those funny French! Some
fromage
, Francis! Some ham and bread! We bring the Mediterranean to the pebbledash. We bring sunshine to the North!
Mangez! Buvez!
Hoy it doon!
Relaxez-vous! Enjoyez-vous!
”

Holly cut the Camembert into triangles, cut the bread into sections.

“This is
la vie
!” said Bill.

Dad threw the Gitane away and lit an Embassy. He sliced open some bread and put a slice of ham into it. He ate, he swigged more wine. Bill brought another bottle.

I slooshed Côtes du Rhône around my mouth. I tried a Gitane and found it unsmokably harsh. Bill laughed. I leaned back in my chair, leaned against the pebbledash, and its tiny points pressed into my back.

Soon Mrs. Stroud upstairs started singing Edith Piaf.

“Ah, she’s in
l’esprit
of it all!” said Bill.

“Chantez, ma chérie!”
he called.

A distant dog started howling, as if to sing along.

“Hell’s bliddy teeth!” said Dad.

We ate, we drank, all of us got tipsy.

We went home soon afterwards.

When I got there he groaned.

“What kind of world we livin in?”

“A lovely one,” I slurred.

“Lovely! Mebbe you should move across the street and live with them bliddy nutcases!”

We cleaned the house. We ate fruit and vegetables. Dad strengthened, but he said I was turning into the father and he was turning into the child and how could that be right? What kind of man was a man like that?

“A good man,” I said.

“Not till I pull meself up from the pit.”

It was a northern spring. We had the fire blazing. He cupped my chin in his hand and regarded me.

“I don’t know you, my own son,” he said. “How can that be right?”

“I don’t know you,” I said.

“There’s nowt to know. A miserable caulker. But you, you’re different, and you’ll be grown and gone afore I know.”

He stared from the window. Sleet splashed down onto the pebbledash outside.

“And this is hardly a place that’ll draw you back,” he said.

That Sunday all the sleet was gone. The sun began its peaceful relentless archway through a clear sky. It was a northern spring. The air was warm in the light. We walked together out of the estate and then downhill towards our little railway station. We took a train through Gateshead and Newcastle and along the Tyne Valley. He wanted to take me to the country, to a special place.

I remember the sparkle of the river as we crossed it at Newcastle, the sooty stone of the buildings, the astounding green arch of the town’s main bridge, the cranes and warehouses, the boats and the seagulls swooping over them. I remember the nap of the red railway seats and the shiny patches where it had worn away. I remember how long my hair was, how short was his, how he had slicked it back with Brylcreem. He wore a white collar spread out over the lapels of his black jacket. I wore scrubbed-pale Levi’s jeans, striped cheesecloth shirt, Levi’s jacket and Kicker shoes. I remember the reflection of his face against the outside in the glass, how the window framed him within the places that we passed through.

I said nothing today about his smoking, his wheezing, about my fears that he’d be taken from me, too.

As we rattled alongside the river, he gently sang an ancient song, the song of lovers separated by the Tyne.

“ ‘I cannot get tae my love if I would dee

For the waters of Tyne run between her and me . . .’”

I told him that it was lovely, that I hadn’t heard him sing since I was a little boy.

“There’s some would say that that’s a blessin. Now it’s you.”

“Eh?”

“I do one, you do one. That’s how it was in the good owld bad owld days.”

I shrugged and watched the water flowing. I had a notebook with me — words of mine, words of others.

“ ‘Sweet Tyne,’” I read. “Run softly till I end my song.

“ ‘Sweet Tyne, run softly, cos I speak not loud nor long
.

But at me back in a blast I hear

The din of caulkers and the skylark’s song.’”

“What’s that?” he said.

“Poetry, Dad,” I answered.

“Ha! See me meanin? How’d you end up doin bliddy poetry?”

“It’s mebbe not so different from your songs,” I said.

I watched the water.

“Mebbe it was your songs that got me started on it.”

“Aye? Then here’s another.”

And he set off on “Felton Lonnen,” closing his eyes as he breathed the beautiful song of hope and loss.

“ ‘He’s always oot roamin the lang summer’s day through
,

He’s always oot roamin away from the farm
.

Through hedges and ditches and valleys and hillsides
,

Aa hope that me hinny will come to nae harm.’”

We were sunlit, suddenly brilliant in the gaps between fast-flickering shadows. We glanced easily at each other. I took in his scars and blemishes, the sadness in his eyes. I kept pushing my hair back, thinking of ways to express the fact of sitting here with him, being carried through the world with him, and thinking ahead to the time when I must leave him.

“Used to come out this way when we were courtin,” he said.