Last Train to Gloryhole (55 page)

‘
Assisted Suicide
couldn’t possibly be permissible to the Christian Church, could it?’ Carla recalled she had asked herself. After all, largely due to her Uncle Gary’s staunch efforts, her father had certainly seemed to have undertaken a belated, but wholly creditable, conversion, that meant that he fully embraced the Christian faith these days. I wonder if my uncle even knows what his brother has written in there, she pondered, and in the holy book of all places. Well, if he doesn’t know yet, then the next time I see Gary I must remember to tell him.

‘Carla!’ her father’s voice called out again. ‘I can’t seem to lift myself out of the rocker at all now. Can you come in and help, do you think?’ Yes, she could forgive her father for his innocent thoughts and his idle jottings, but, having not long since lost her mother, she certainly felt in no mood to contemplate aiding and abetting him in the direction of euthenasia, she told herself.

‘Tell me - what poem were you reading, Dad?’ Carla asked him a few minutes later.

Tom looked down at the weighty black tome so as to refresh his memory. ‘The Sea-Nymph’s Farting,’ by Landor,’ he told her, without a single slither of humour, not even a smile.

Carla moved closer to his chair, tilted her head to one side, then lifted up the large, leather, hard-back book so as to read it for herself. ‘Parting, Dad,’ she told him. ‘Parting.’

‘That’s what I said, didn’t I?’ he replied, looking up with a startlingly innocent, childlike pose.

‘No, you said - well, you said something else completely,’ she told him.

‘Eh? What are you talking about, silly? I’m not losing my marbles just yet, you know,’ he replied.

‘No, I know that, Dad,’ mumbled Carla, suddenly biting her lip with tangible emotion.

‘But when I do, girl, then you’ll have to be very, very careful round here,’ he told her.

‘Oh? Why’s that?’ she asked.

‘Well, isn’t it obvious?’ he shot back. ‘Because they’ll be rolling about all over the floor, won’t they? Like - like marbles they will.’ His hollow face made a silent laugh at her. ‘That’s if there are any in there to begin with,’ he added, pointing at his temple and simulating a doltish pose.

‘Oh, Dad,’ said Carla, welling up suddenly, and turning away so as not to show him her tears. ‘Whatever are we going to do?’

It was Saturday afternoon, and Chris was seated alone in the first-floor of
Merthyr Library
doing some last-minute revision for his first examination of the summer. He tried to concentrate while the two girls at the adjacent table to his own chatted away merrily. Chris knew that the one with the fair, curly hair, who was currently speaking, was called Wendy Rees, and that she was a year below him, and in Rhiannon’s Art class, and, in his opinion, was almost as pretty, but the other, a tall, dark-haired girl, he didn’t think he knew at all.

‘Bloody exams!’ Wendy announced loudly, then sipping her carton of juice through a straw. ‘You know, I wish I was still in the first-year, Avril. Don’t you? School was a lot more fun back then, don’t you think?’

‘Tell me about it,’ responded Avril, turning the page of her text-book and reading on.

‘Teachers weren’t as predictable and boring for a start. Hey - do you remember that student-teacher we once had in Science,’ Wendy continued. ‘I mean the one who switched on the DVD-player on his classroom white-board and over thirty of us saw him having sex with his retriever?’

‘God! How could I forget?’ Avril shot back, giggling. ‘I was sat right in the front.’

‘Everyone was totally shocked, weren’t they? You know, Av, I never even knew he was gay, I swear.

‘What? Gay!’ said Avril. ‘But he wasn’t - stupid.’

‘He wasn’t!’ exclaimed Wendy, scrunching up her nose.

‘Course not,’ her friend replied, smiling. ‘You see, his dog was a bitch.’

Wendy slurped loudly with surprise. ‘The dog was….Oh, I see. Well, how could I tell that?’ she asked. ‘I was sat at the back in the corner. And I was never much good at Science, was I?

‘Well, that’s true at least,’ said Avril.

Wendy continued. ‘Do you remember that time in Year-Seven when I sucked in a lung-full from that helium balloon you brought in on your birthday and just passed out on the floor? The ambulance-driver said I’d had a narrow escape, but I still remember he could barely stop laughing.’ She slurped the last dregs out. ‘Say - whatever happened to him, do you reckon?’

‘The ambulance driver?’ asked Avril.

‘No, no. That teacher, I mean.’

‘Oh - the teacher! Mister Jarvis? What a twat, eh?’ observed Avril, placing her book down and regarding her friend. ‘Well, I heard he’s a Deputy-Head these days.’

‘Really?’ exclaimed Wendy. She crushed up the carton in her fist and threw it straight into the waste-paper bin in the corner of the room.

‘Yeah - down the Vale of Glamorgan somewhere, so I was told,’ said Avril.

‘Never?’ said Wendy, open-mouthed, eyes wide. ‘God - he did well for himself, then, didn’t he?

‘Didn’t he just,’ her friend concurred.

Wendy looked over in Chris’s direction and spoke quietly. ‘Then you know I’m glad we never shopped him for it, eh? For that dog thing - that bitch thing, I mean,’ she said. ‘I used to really like his Science lessons, I really did. Except for
that one
, of course. And he always dressed fit, didn’t he? Even out of school. You know, Av, my eldest brother wears the same pair of pyjamas that he’s got.’

‘How do you -? Oh, I see,’ said Avril, grinning. ‘Is that right?’

‘Yeah. Candy-stripe pink - I think it’s called. Mind you, he
is
gay, of course.’

‘Your brother? Yeah, I know - you told me,’ said Avril. ‘You know, I’m sure that if he ever went on ‘
Big Brother’
-’

‘ - then I bet you he’d win it,’ cut in Wendy, excitedly.

‘I bet he would. He would, I’m telling you,’ Avril repeated, smiling. ‘The boy’s rude enough for a start. And you say he’s got piercings in unmentionable places too. And you certainly need them.’

‘Yeah. And I’d make sure he packed those pyjamas too. If only to have some sweet boy rip them off him in the bedroom on
live-feed
.’ The two girls suddenly began hooting with laughter.

Hands over his head, Chris decided that he couldn’t take any more, so he promptly got to his feet, pushed all of his books and files deep into his shoulder-bag, attached it securely, and made for the stairs. It would be a lot busier downstairs, of course, he thought, what with the
‘Celtic History Exhibition’
that was taking place in the side-room, but surely it couldn’t be any noisier than this; or, even if it was, then certainly not half as infuriating.

Once on the ground-floor Chris spun round and marched straight into the lending-library, and soon found a small, wooden desk with its own seat, neatly tucked in between two enormous book-shelves, where, although the light was limited, he at least found he had space enough to resume his work. Yet no sooner had he settled down once again but his happy sense of splendid isolation was severely compromised by the arrival of a tiny, middle-aged woman at the complementary desk-and-chair set directly opposite him. She suddenly smiled sweetly at him, and it was then that he realised that the new arrival was none other than Rhiannon’s mother, Gwen, whom he was always careful to address formally on the rare occasions when they met.

‘Mrs. Cook!’ exclaimed a stupefied Chris. ‘How - how nice to see you.’

‘You, likewise, young man,’ the little woman retorted. ‘Hey, there’s no need to look so shocked, you know, Chris, because I swear I’m not following you around or anything.’

‘I never thought -’ Chris stammered, squirming slightly, and beginning to feel uncomfortable, while flushing up accordingly.

‘You see, I work in here these days,’ she told him, proudly holding up the red, rectangular badge that hung suspended round her neck on a gold-coloured chain. ‘Part-time, anyway.’

‘Oh, that must be nice,’ Chris told her, not knowing what else to say that might make her think he was calm, and responsible, and possibly a charming young man, who couldn’t possibly have been taking outrageous liberties with her sweet, angelic daughter. But, irrespective of what he chose to say or do, Chris could already tell, by Gwen’s attitude and posture, that she wasn’t intending to get up any time soon and leave him to get on with his school-work. What was the dotty old biddy planning on doing? he asked himself. Well, within a minute or two he got the answer he was seeking, and it wasn’t at all what he was expecting.

Gwen suddenly leaned forward towards him, her shoulders and chin almost touching the surface of her desk, and smiled at him disarmingly, and told him the last thing he really wanted to hear at that moment.

‘You know your father is holding court in the next room,’ said Gwen, grinning. ‘Say - do you want to see him?’

‘Eh? I thought he was at home,’ Chris replied, puzzled. ‘Oh, then he must be working on the exhibition. I know he was here with some kids yesterday, mounting some of the paintings they’d been working on in his lessons.’ But Gwen grinned on. ‘Holding court, did you say? Yeah, I guess he just loves all the attention he gets, don’t you think? He is a teacher, after all.’

‘Your dad!’ exclaimed Gwen, wide-eyed. ‘But he’s not a teacher.’

‘Oh, he is, you know,’ Chris told her. ‘He teaches Art. I – I thought you knew. He teaches Rhiannon.’

‘Your father has a multitude of talents, young man, but I don’t think teaching Art is one of them,’ announced Gwen in a calm, reassuring tone, and with a perky smile on her wizened face.

‘He’s even got the name for it,’ Chris added with a smile.

‘Arthur?’ exclaimed Gwen.

‘No - Drew. Arthur! Who’s Arthur?’ asked Chris, wrinkling up his face with puzzlement.

‘But Drew is not your real dad, Chris,’ Gwen told him. ‘You did know that, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, yes, I know that,’ the boy replied, beginning now to flush up warmly.

‘He’s your step-father.’

‘Yes, I know. My mother told me years ago.’

‘Chris - listen to me,’ Gwen continued. ‘Your father - your real dad - is
my Arthur
.’

‘What do you mean -
your Arthur?
’ ejaculated Chris. ‘I thought Rhiannon’s dad was -’

‘It’s true, you know. Cross my heart.’ Gwen paused to minimise the likely effect of her next comment. ‘You and my Rhiannon -’

‘No. Please don’t tell me - please don’t say that we’re siblings,’ shot back a troubled Chris.

‘Why not?’ asked Gwen.

‘Just don’t, please. I just can’t get my head round Rhiannon and me being brother and sister.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Gwen. She smiled benignly at him. ‘But you’re not, Chris.’

‘We’re not!’ exclaimed Chris. ‘Did you say that we’re not? What? Wow! Well, thank God for -’

‘No - you’re
half
brother and sister.’

‘We’re what?’ ejaculated Chris, thinking fast. ‘Yes, I see what you’re -’

‘You’re half siblings,’ Gwen told him. ‘You share the same father, you see. And that man, happens to be my Arthur. And, as if by magic, Chris, he happens to be in the next room.’ Gwen paused again as Chris turned his head to stare at the book-case beside him, in an attempt to piece together all the mystifying stuff that he was hearing. ‘I know!’ said Gwen excitedly. ‘Let me take you to see him, Chris. Yes? Please. Don’t go being afraid. I’m sure you’re old enough to deal with it all now, aren’t you?
And
it makes good sense, don’t you think?’

‘What? Now?’ said Chris re-focusing, and staring back at her.

‘Yes. Why not?’ Gwen replied. ‘Say - what’s wrong, Chris? You know I do believe you’re trembling with fear. Look - I know people say Arthur has a fierce temper, but you don’t need to be -’

‘Does he? Does he really?’ asked Chris.

‘Well, yes, he does, actually,’ the little woman responded swiftly.

‘No - I mean - tell me, Mrs. Cook - does he know about me and Rhiannon?’ Chris enquired.

‘Well, of course,’ the woman replied, smiling again. ‘Arthur has a right to know everything.’

‘But I mean about us - you know, about us being -’

‘Half siblings, yes,’ said Gwen, misunderstanding his concern. ‘And he knows an awful lot more than that, too, I can tell you.’ She suddenly hurried round to the side of the book-shelf that Chris was on, and, crouching down, took him firmly by the arm. ‘Look - come with me, Chris. Come on! You needn’t be so scared, you know. Big lad like you. You know, I believe it’s high time you faced up to the facts, young man - faced up to your - your heritage.’

‘Is it? Do you think so?’ Chris asked her. ‘Well, all right, then. It’s now or never, I suppose.’

The two boys at the door of the side-room jingled their tins at Chris for an entry-donation of sorts, but, though he dipped a hand in his pocket, he found himself being pulled right past them by Gwen, and at an almost uncontrollable speed. The little woman dragged him along past countless figures and faces, both young and old, and then past long trestle-tables that were filled with artefacts, jewelled merchandise, and books and maps, both large and small. She then dragged him past a massive painted sign on a pole proclaiming ‘
The Welsh - the indigenous people of Britain,’
until they reached the furthest wall of the great room, on which was pinned an enormous portrait-painting that Chris had last seen during the previous week, lying horizontally, in four separated sections, on the large central table in Drew’s Art Room. The vigorous, rather frightening, representation of the renowned British chieftain - his Celtic sword of judgement grasped firmly in his right hand, the cross of Christ, with which to terrify the heathen Saxon invader, emblazoned on his shield - which the colossal mural before them forcefully depicted for all who chose to admire it, at last seemed to begin to make a modicum of sense to him.

Newly released, Chris edged forward, then spun round to observe what had become of the dotty old woman whose short, powerful arms had quite easily managed to drag him all the way there. He saw Gwen Cook standing in the middle of the room, alone, trembling, and grasping her chubby, tanned, left hand tightly inside her right. It seemed to him that she might also be crying. Chris watched her intently as she repeatedly, remorselessly even, turned her gold wedding-band round and round between her thumb and forefinger, while gazing admiringly, seemingly entranced, at the life-size image portrayed on the wall before her, that was surrounded by a dramatically curved, gold pennant bearing the italic, barely legible, inscription, ‘
Hammer of the Saxons.’