Last Train to Gloryhole (57 page)

‘I thought it was called ‘
The Dow Jones
,’ I did,’ an elderly lady in a wheel-chair who was wearing a thick, grey mud-pack informed them. ‘Although I know they do speak funny down in Cardiff, don’t they?’

‘Care-diff,’ said Evy.

‘No - Karr-diff, said the lady.’

‘No, it’s Keir-diff,’ said Sharon.

‘There’s a lovely dressing-gown you’re wearing, Angharad,’ said Anne, feeling compelled to intervene, and striding away from the window to push the woman through the open doorway and in the direction of the common-room. But by her action she was just as determined to put a halt to the endless tirade, that occurred at least twice every week these days, regarding the nation’s capital city, and which, to her mind, whether innocently expressed or otherwise, cast an undeserved aspersion on her husband, who most folk in the care-home knew full well hailed from there. ‘A very nice robe indeed, sweetheart, if you don’t mind me saying. Though yellow is a colour that rarely works on most women, I find. In my case I feel it makes me look jaundiced. And as for the push-up brassiere your daughter bought you.’

‘I know what you’re all thinking, you know,’ Angharad replied without turning. ‘Listen - I believe my body is my temple. And right now my temple needs redecoratng, O.K.?’

Seeking to avoid further confrontation, Anne accelerated Angharad’s rubber-rimmed vehicle down the corridor, and right the way round to the day-lounge where Gareth presently was. He was just about the only person in the place Anne felt she could have a serious conversation with these days, and she always found that the afternoon was the most suitable time for that.

‘I’ll never manage to finish this crossword, Gareth, however many times you urge me to attempt it,’ an old man was saying. ‘Like Tom Cruise in a foot-spa, I feel totally out of my depth.’

‘Nice one, Bernard,’ said an old man nearer the piano.

‘Shall I start it for you?’ asked Gareth, sitting himself down in the next seat to Bernard’s, and studying the book carefully. ‘What’s that you wrote down for ‘condition of a cancer - six letters?’

‘Malign,’
said Bernard. ‘It’s definitely right because my old lady died from one of them, see.’

‘Mm. Well, I think it might have been
‘benign,’
Gareth told him, smiling.

‘No, no, I remember it well,’ Bernard told him. ‘She only got diagnosed in the Autumn and - bugger me - the girl was gone by Christmas.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Gareth told him. ‘O.K., so do you want to write down
‘malign
’ then? Do you?’

‘How do you mean? No. I want to get it right,’ replied Bernard. ‘Otherwise I’m going to bugger it up good and proper, then, aren’t I?’

‘You know you seem to love that particular six-letter word, Bernard,’ Anne told him, settling Angharad into her new location near the window.

‘
Benign
, do you mean?’ asked Bernard.

Not
benign,
no - another B-word completely, I’m talking about,’ Anne told him, shaking her head. ‘But you’re not going to get me to say it this time, you crafty old thing, after I went and fell for that far more disgusting one you made me write down for you in your puzzle last week, right?’

‘Hey? What was that, love?’ asked Bernard, grinning innocently.

‘You know right well what it was,’ said Anne, making as stern a face as she could compose, and waiting until he had finally seen it before relaxing her face-muscles once again.

‘Erection!
’ called out Angharad from across the way.

‘Aye, it was, Angharad,’ said Anne, turning round and shaking her head at the old woman’s candour. ‘But the right eight-letter answer happened to be
building
, as it goes. But don’t go encouraging him now, will you, there’s a good girl.’

‘Encourage Bernard! Fat chance of me doing that,’ she exclaimed, chuckling wickedly. ‘How on earth can you encourage someone who never has a full - a full - what-do-you-call-it?’

‘Breakfast,’ said Gareth helpfully.

Anne stared at him, admiring of his clever ruse. ‘That’s right, Gareth,’ she said, smiling. ‘I find I can barely do any work myself without a full breakfast, let alone -’

‘Fuck!’ the two old folk chimed in together. They stared at each other and chuckled heartily at their sudden, unexpected harmony.

‘Right - that’s it!’ exclaimed Anne. ‘Poker is banned this evening. If I’ve told you two once, then I must have told you a thousand times.’

‘Oh, don’t be like that, Anne,’ Bernard pleaded, looking from one to the other. ‘Gareth - please. I promise I’ll even let you win tonight.’

But Gareth was standing firm, and, to show his solidarity with the colleague he secretly adored, he took Anne’s hand in his and squeezed it. Recalling the last time this had happened, and the embrace in the medical-room that soon followed, Anne squeezed Gareth’s hand just as tightly, taking care not to let the two old folk see what they were doing.

‘Christ, Anne!’ exclaimed Angharad, tossing the pack of playing-cards into the tray where the multi-coloured chips lay loose, and scattering most of them across the floor, then glaring up at her from her mobile chair. ‘You know, sometimes I reckon you’re bloody worse than my mother.’

Her Uncle Gary shuffled his way across to where Carla was sitting on the garden-bench in the sun, stroked a few times his fast-reddening, bald-pate, then covered it smartly with his cream- coloured, straw hat, and sat down beside her. He smiled at her serenely, and then handed her the tumbler of orange-juice she had requested he brought her, with an additional chocolate- biscuit which was his own idea. ‘You know, in a way your dad was right in what he said to you, Carla,’ Gary told her. ‘When I was younger I certainly attended more rugby internationals in Cardiff than he did, and, in all probability, more than almost any Welsh fan ever managed to.’

‘Oh, you mean that that was true what he said then,’ she told him. ‘And I thought Dad was joking, because I wasn’t even aware you liked sport, Uncle.’

‘No - that’s right. I don’t as it goes,’ he replied oddly. ‘You see, I never once ventured inside.’

‘You never went inside the stadium!’ stammered Carla, her brows raised. ‘But how on earth -’

‘No - each time I went - which was every single home-game as it goes - I stood just outside the ground, bible in hand, preaching The Word to everyone who passed me as they exited, whether they happened to be joyous at that moment or despondent, having won or having lost. And more often than not I stayed there until the very last spectator was making his way home.’

‘God - Uncle Gary. Even I got to go inside there one time,’ said Carla, ‘although it was to sing the anthem on the pitch with the brass-band. I had no intention of watching the game, of course, which I could easily have done if I’d wanted, although I’m sure I saw the highlights back at the hotel later on that night. You know, I can’t even remember who we were playing, to be honest.’

‘Well I certainly remember that day, Carla.’ Reverend Gary told his niece, smiling. ‘It was France if you recall. And we were all incredibly proud of you. You know, I’m sure I’ve still got the video-tape at home somewhere.’

Carla sipped her juice and sat back in the sun’s warm, healing rays, and closed her eyes. ‘You know, Uncle Gary,’ she began, ‘although I’m sure I can appreciate why rugby means so much to us Welsh people, the sheer physicality involved, and the passion, and the bright-red, scarlet jersey are all, in my eyes, reminiscent of a torrid, bloody battle fought out in some grassy field somewhere. But, like you, I can’t say the game of rugby itself means an awful lot to me.’

‘Well, you’re a girl, for a start,’ he told her.

‘No, it’s not that, Uncle Gary,’ responded Carla.

‘Rugby football simply isn’t your passion, is it, sweetheart?’ he told her. ‘I can remember that from a young age your interests were always of the artistic kind, you know.’

‘Yes, I guess that’s true,’ she replied, nodding.

‘Why should you need to know anything about scrums and mauls, eh? Music was always your game.’

Carla smiled across at him. ‘You know, as a young Welsh girl, and I’m a tad embarrassed to admit this, Uncle, but I always thought a prop was something that held up the washing-line.’

‘It is,’ chimed back Gary. ‘And you know there’s a great big one leaning against the wall over there,’ he told her, smiling. ‘I see there’s even a line out today. Ha, ha.’

‘Well, I can see that,’ Carla told him, not even close to getting his joke. ‘And as for rucks. Well, I’ve seen a fair few of those in my time, I’m afraid, most notably outside a host of different clubs in London I once used to frequent. And sadly, even at one or two of my concerts, too. And, you know, very often they needed the police to sort them out, with their pepper-sprays, and their truncheons, and their tazers even.’

‘Well, in rugby union it’s the referee that gets to do all that, and with just his little whistle to help him,’ Gary told her. ‘Though he can, just occasionally, get himself knocked over in the process. Accidentally, mind, and without any malice intended.’

In the bright sky above them the sun passed behind a cloud temporarily.

‘Uncle Gary - would you tell me something?’ Carla asked him. ‘How is it that you became a religious man, while your only brother - my father - remained relatively agnostic for most of his life, and apparently, you tell us, seemed to revel in all things secular?’

‘But that’s where you’re wrong, you see, Carla,’ the old man responded. ‘I agree that you’re dad was never an overtly religious man, but, in my opinion, he was always deeply spiritual.’

‘Hey! Do you really mean that?’ she asked him, glancing into his bulging eyes over the top of her sunglasses.

‘I certainly do,’ Gary told her, leaning forward. ‘And you know Carla, I’m sure that you - being a chip off the old block, so to speak - are most definitely a spiritual soul too.’

‘But I bet you’re just saying that because of the - the expressive element in many of my songs,’ she replied.

‘Well, there’s that, too, of course, my dear,’ Gary told her. ‘But, to my mind, it’s quite apparent in your nature, too, and in the things you do, often at times when you aren’t even thinking about it.’ Gary placed his hand on her arm. ‘In fact, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you left Oxford largely because your soul took action.’

‘Because my soul took action!’ exclaimed Carla. ‘Uncle Gary - are you being serious?’

‘Of course I am. One hundred per cent, in fact,’ he told her. ‘For you, I believe that Oxford was really a sort of lay-by for your talents on the main road to London. Look - talent like yours, my love, couldn’t ever have seen the light of day in academia, could it? Oxbridge has never produced someone of your ilk, Carla, nor ever will. Or an Amy Winehouse, or an Adele, or a Kate Bush, even. An English or Music degree does absolutely nothing for someone’s - for someone’s creative ability, does it? It might prepare the groundwork for somebody to become a - a teacher, or a political lobbyist, or a research student, or a civil servant, or a newsreader, or a -’

‘Or a journalist,’ said Carla.

‘Quite. And perhaps even a journalist in a respected music magazine who, one day, if they’re really lucky, gets to meet and write a piece about a real, bona fide musical genius, whose soul at one time led her to reject academia -’

‘Uncle Gary,’ said Carla, smiling at his sly, unexpected compliment.

‘ - along with its cold mediocrity, and its barren, outdated trappings and traditions, in order to set the whole world alight from the most unlikely of settings, namely a damp, poky little one-bedroom flat in Hammersmith.’

‘Fulham,’ cut in Carla. ‘And it was just a little bed-sit to begin with, remember.’

‘Sorry - Fulham,’ Gary announced, happily corrected. ‘From a bed-sit in a very strangely-painted house in a little terraced-street very close to the river, that she could barely afford, and where, hour after hour, and day after day, she sat alone with her acoustic guitar and her second-hand, upright-piano, and composed the unforgettable
‘Candice Farm,’
and - and -’

‘Purple Home,’
she reminded him, beaming out her most adorable smile .

‘Purple Home -
yes, of course
.
How on earth could I have forgotten that third album of yours, dear?’ He squeezed her round the shoulders. ‘And so realised her lifetime’s ambition to perform music, and sell records, and top the charts, and tour the world, and show everyone what an ordinary, humble young girl from a bog-standard comprehensive school in a tin-pot, Welsh-valley town can achieve when she is as infused with music as you are, and really puts her mind to it.’

Carla found she wasn’t able to contain her laughter any longer, and so flopped her lolling head onto her roly-poly uncle’s barrel-chest, and, punctuated with sundry bouts of coughing and spluttering, split her sides uncontrollably for a minute or more, until an agonised cry suddenly rang out from upstairs. Getting up and leaving her uncle’s side, Carla hurried inside, only to find, when she arrived at her father’s room, that, thankfully, it was just another problem with a bed-pan. Just minutes later the girl reappeared in the garden, and, sitting down once more across from her uncle, found that she needed to ask him if he remembered what the cause of her earlier merriment happened to have been. Modest as ever, Gary responded that he didn’t.

The two uniformed policemen approached with care the gnarled, knotted door of the square, wooden shed that sat ungainly on the lip of the steep slope which ran down to the river. Their much heavier companion, who followed behind them, tried his best to keep up, but found this well nigh impossible on account of the considerable burden that his two brawny arms, held out quivering before him, were carrying.

‘What’s a hot spot not?’ the sergeant suddenly asked the bleach-blond constable who was walking alongside him with his black, yellow-striped tazer ready for action, poised as it was in the young man’s right hand.

‘Well, I guess I might have known the answer to that when I once watched that infernal TV show on ‘
Dave
,’ ’ the blond bobby replied, ‘but I very much doubt I can remember it now.’