Trumpet (21 page)

He drifts off to the strange sleep of trains. Half of him is sleeping and dreaming about Scotland and the other half is shouting,
Shut the fuck up!
to some screaming kid who keeps saying over and over, ‘But I want that one there.’ And the mother’s voice saying again and again, ‘Ewan, I’m not going to tell you again.’ A man’s voice behind him says, ‘I’m telling you. If it wisnae fir me the place wid have been ransacked. They didnae know I wis there.’ And a woman somewhere down the train talks into a mobile phone, or rather shouts into a mobile phone. Mobile phone voice, ‘Hello, hello, I’m all on my ownio. Hello? Hello hello hello.’ Shut the fuck up, Colman says to himself, trying to get his dream to drown it all out. He is there at the very back of himself, bare knees, long shorts, running across some field, a big hay field on a farm.

The dream has slipped away completely. He checks for his father’s letter in his holdall, in the side pocket. He still hasn’t given it to Sophie Stones. He keeps pretending to have forgotten it. He looks at it again. ‘To be opened after my death.’ He wonders if he should open it now. If now is the moment. But he can’t. He puts it back in the zipped side pocket. At least two or three times a day, he checks to see that the letter is still there.

The black man is carrying two cups of tea and is swaying from side to side. Graceful. He doesn’t bang into anyone or trip over any foot. Colman watches him come
along the corridor when suddenly he sees that it is his father. He starts to sweat. The coat is the same dark coat. The shirt. The shirt’s the same. He’s coming towards him. He’s smiling. Christ almighty, he’s smiling. Staring straight at Colman, swaying with the cups of tea from one side to another, coming towards him. Walking down the train with such dignity, such fine balance, his back straight, his eyes staring straight ahead, with neither kindness nor cruelty in them. Walking down the train as if that is all he does with his day, walk up and down the infinite train in this way, as if that is all he has been doing his whole life. Colman stares at the man in disbelief. The man passes him. Colman turns round to see where he is going. The man keeps walking.

Colman gets up to find the guy. He walks down the aisle, stumbling. He trips over some asshole’s foot and nearly goes flying. He can’t find the guy. Where’s he gone? He can’t see him. Maybe he’s in the john. It says occupied. Maybe he’s gone to hose off. Colman waits outside. But the one further down says occupied as well. Maybe he’s in that one. Just as Colman is about to go back to his seat, the man comes out the john. It is not his father. Of course it is not his fucking father. Now he’s up close, he doesn’t even look similar. Colman goes back to his seat. Walks right past it, turns, walks back again and finds it. Losing it, he says to himself. Spinning out. This is out of order. He gets out the puzzle book and finds D
OUBLETAKE
right away. Circles it. That’s better.

This morning Colman phoned Sammy. He wanted someone to keep an eye on his flat, but more than that he
wanted to tell somebody he was going away. He always liked to tell somebody when he was going away. Sammy was surprised to hear his voice. ‘Cole, where are you at?’ Sammy said. Colman was not sure if it was his imagination or not, but Sammy sounded embarrassed, awkward. He told Sammy he was going to Scotland to do a book.

‘What kind of book?’

‘You’ll see. I’ll give you a signed copy when it’s done.’

‘Don’t do anything you won’t like in five years,’ Sammy said.

He gets his holdall down from the top quickly. Zips up his black anorak and gets off the train. Tells the taxi the name of the hotel and sits back staring at Glasgow to see if he remembers anything. But he doesn’t see anything he recognizes. Nothing. The buildings look the wrong colour. Sammy’s sentence rings in his ears: ‘Don’t do anything you won’t like in five years.’

I always liked Sundays with Joss. Sundays with Joss at home, not travelling with the band. Sundays at home with me. We wake and fall back into sleep together several times before we get up. Each time we wake we smile kindly at each other, full of sleepy love. Our faces have the lines of dreams on them. Joss’s pillow is damp from dribbling in his sleep and this tiny pool of dampness makes me feel tender towards him. Sometimes I wake alone for a bit and lie watching him sleep. I love watching him sleep. His face often looks quite moody when he’s sleeping and it makes me laugh. He lies on his side facing me, one arm thrown back over his head, the other hand possessive on my hip. In his sleep he strokes my hip, the dip of it is his favourite place, the dip where my hip meets my waist. In his sleep he loves me terribly; he remembers me, whether he is conscious or not. He knows every part of my body. If I was sad, he would wake and ask me what the matter is. I drift off with him, back to sleep, another ten minutes, just another ten minutes.

I wake to Joss kissing me, lightly on my cheeks. His lips just brush my cheeks, patiently over and over again. His hands move up my body and across my chest. I stare
at him. He has that look on his face. His eyes are very serious, intense, dark. He wants me. I know he wants me. He wants me so badly he will sulk if he doesn’t have me. I pretend I am not interested. It is late. We’ve slept for so long. We need to get up. Get up and get on with our day. We want to go for a long walk. Remember. A long walk. His breathing has changed. His breathing is fast. His breathing excites me. Come on, he’s saying. Come on. He’s pulling open my legs and moving down me. His fingers move first slowly then faster and harder deep, deep to the back of me. I feel myself being taken away. Transported to another time. Another place entirely. I am barely conscious any more of what is happening to me. I can hear my own noises through the blur. I don’t know if they are loud or soft noises. I can feel my mouth open to make them. I feel myself being turned around. He straddles me. Pushes himself into me. He pulls me back round again and kisses me, kisses me everywhere, muttering things to himself. He touches me firmly, getting faster and faster till I’m shaking with desire with the need to let go, to climb really high, right to the very very top and let go. I feel myself falling down, exhausted, tearful, exhilarated. I curl myself into him and he holds me, rocking me back and forth, telling me he loves me again and again. He is smiling. Full of himself. I am weak. I am totally and utterly loved.

I like Sundays. First the lovemaking, then the newspapers. Sometimes there’s an interview with Joss in one of the supplements; or a review of one of his gigs or new releases; or some gossip about the trio. I usually laugh
heartily at whatever is written. Joss often gets bad-tempered about it, or too sensitive, or too conceited. But I go easy on him about this sort of thing on a Sunday, especially if he has just taken me to our other world. Our secret world that is just his and mine. Nobody else’s, just his and mine.

We get up and Joss makes the breakfast. He is good at breakfasts, talented. We have perfectly scrambled eggs, not too hard and not too soft, creamy and yellow, toast, bacon, grilled tomatoes, black pudding (What’s a breakfast without some sheep’s blood? Joss says to make Colman squirm). Freshly ground coffee. Joss loves coffee. Loves the smell of coffee shops and choosing his own beans. Moroccan, Kenyan, medium roast, dark. Loves the description of the beans in the shop. Like personalities, he says and laughs. Comes home and grinds them in his newly bought grinder, that is his current favourite toy. Fresh coffee, hot milk, which he heats in the pan and then whisks till it is good and frothy. Freshly squeezed orange juice. More newspapers.

We never miss Sunday brunch if we are at home. ‘Sunday brunch!’ Joss always announces it, as if we were in a restaurant and he was shouting out the menu for his customers. ‘Joss Moody’s Sunday Brunch.’ Colman is rarely impressed. Joss sings to us as he puts each plate down on the table with a flourish. Da da da dah da da da dee da didi bum bum bum brup brup brup baaaaade dup dup. Scatting. Making it all up. If Colman is irritable he will shout, Stop it, Daddy, or latterly, Shut up, and Joss will start singing louder and louder, stamping his feet and
moving the plates in time to his rhythm dancing across the kitchen floor. Just give me my breakfast, Colman will say. And I’ll look at Colman reprovingly. Why do you have to spoil everything? I’ll ask him. Your dad’s just having fun. What is the problem? Be nice.

I am being nice, Colman will say. I just want my breakfast. So we will sit down to eat. Joss completely unbothered by Colman’s bad humour, and me trying to rise above it and be pleasant but all the time feeling this terrible rage inside me, that these days springs from nowhere. I have never felt angry towards anyone in my whole life like the anger I can feel towards my son. It scares me. Right, let’s have a nice breakfast, I say in my bully’s pleasant voice. In other words, I’ll want to punish him in some timely way if he doesn’t manage to bring out the best of himself.

You know I don’t like scrambled eggs, Colman will say. He is, what? Nine, ten? Anyway, whatever he is, he has been eating scrambled eggs happily for years. I get up and yank him from the table, pulling him along to his room. I throw him into the room and say stay there until you do like scrambled eggs. I know as I am doing it that this is not quite fair; but neither is he fair and I am sick of him trying to ruin my weekends. Sick to the back teeth of his sulky ways. I hear him throw something in his room. I resist the temptation to open the door and have a piece of him. The table is still perfectly laid. The bright yellow tablecloth and the bowl of fruit and the coffee pot are all unchanged. The sun is coming through the window and making light of the apples.

Joss looks up from his paper. ‘There’s no need for that. You make him worse when you do that,’ he says. ‘Come back when you
do
like scrambled eggs?!! Are you out of your mind?’ I laugh and stand behind him. I kiss the back of his neck. ‘You’ve hurt me,’ I whisper in his ear and he smiles, shamefaced. I bend over him and kiss him on his soft lips. ‘You go and get him,’ I say and sit down to my Sunday brunch.

When Colman is back with us at the table, eating his eggs and trying really hard, I feel all guilty again. My lovely boy. He looks beautiful. He is a good eater, really, I say to myself. Why was I so hard on him? He’s only a boy. (Show me the boy and I’ll show you the man.) Why do I let him annoy me so much? I’ll need to try to be better. Try to be a better mummy. That’s a nice boy, I say to him and smile. His eyes look all loving and hurt Like a tiny pitiful Oedipus.

We get in the car and drive to the Heath. We like a long walk on a Sunday on the Heath. It is the only place in London that makes us feel that we are not in London. The trees are shyly blooming and the May sun shines through the leaves towards our faces. Joss and Colman walk and run hand in hand. We play games as we walk. Make up stories. I spy. Catch you out if you say No. Make up a song with a car in it. Make up a song with the word San Francisco in it. Make up a song with the word bitter in it. We can never catch Joss out. No matter how unusual the word. I even tried Shakespeare on him and he got a song. Brush up your Shakespeare, he started singing, pretending he was sweeping the Heath with a big broom.

Sundays. Perfect, ordinary Sundays. Today is Sunday. I have missed five Sundays now without Joss. Five. He died on a Sunday. I wish he had died on a different day. The last few Sundays before he died were not like our Sundays at all. He was so ill and we both knew he was dying. We didn’t know when it would be.

I remember things each day about the Sunday Joss died. Things I don’t want to remember. It was a while before I called anyone. I just sat with him, waiting for his soul to travel. I have never believed in such things until the moment that Joss died. But I do now. Because in our room as Joss was dying, I could feel two of him there. One was the ill person, lying on his bed, constantly making clacking sounds with his dry mouth, opening and closing it, trying to make it moist. The other did not have a body, but was more like a spirit in the room. A spirit that had miraculously managed to get out of his body early and comfort me, tell me to let go, tell me everything was going to be all right, only I needed to let go so that he could too. For some moments I wrestled with the voice of this spirit. I didn’t want to let go. Right up until the last minute, I believed in miracles; I believed he might pull through, get better. You hear of people all the time that are at death’s door and turn back to life. I was waiting, wanting more than I’ve wanted anything in the world for Joss to turn back to life, just get better. I prayed. I clasped my hands together like a child; I went down on my knees and prayed. I am not religious, but I prayed. I prayed. So help me God. I didn’t want to let Joss go. I held on to the sick person’s hand. I felt sick
myself. Weak from lack of sleep and pure terror. A kind of terror I have never ever felt. A kind of terror that is so pure, so powerful, it goes into your body and claims it. Your temples sing the terror. Your sweat smells of it. Your mouth tastes of it, metallic, poisonous. Your hands shake with it. Your voice, even though you try to sound soothing, comforting, reassuring, your voice shakes and is not your own voice any more. It is the voice of pure terror and you know it; you know it when you try to speak with your old voice and this new voice comes out. This new voice that is saying please to itself, please please please. Not now. Don’t go.

Until I realized that this was agony for him. That the first Joss and the second Joss both wanted to go. That the spirit was kind but it was also at the end of its tether. The vehicle was ready and waiting, it couldn’t wait any longer if it was going to take Joss to where Joss needed to go. So I kissed his hand and took some initiative. I said, it’s all right now, darling. You can go now. You can go now. It is all right. You can go now. I kept stroking his hand, stroking it smoothly in the one direction. Feeling the ghost of a pulse still beating. I left the room. I went to the toilet. When I came back his pulse had gone. His hand had fallen out of the sheets and was hanging over the bed. I tucked it in. He was lying half-covered in a white sheet. He had on a pair of cream linen pyjamas. His hair was still damp, his skin was still clammy. His hands were still his hands. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He looked different. I’ve heard of people who pull a sheet
over the dead person to cover the face. But I couldn’t do that to Joss.