Man at the Helm (21 page)

And eventually my sister threw a beaker of water through the hatch and he leapt up.

‘I couldn’t hear you,’ he said with a stammer, ‘I had my eyes closed.’

And when our mother was in Diggory’s Kitchen Cave the following week, replacing the egg pan and looking at pretty glassware that she suddenly couldn’t afford to buy (clear goblets with coloured stems), the new seriousness of Jack’s claims suddenly dawned and we dashed out of Diggory’s to consult Dr Kaufmann by phone (as it turned out).

We drove home with my sister doing hearing experiments on Little Jack and trying to catch him out. The thing was, though, with Jack you had to admit it seemed as though he was always right. And, more importantly, he didn’t make stuff up.

We weren’t going to be allowed to come to Dr Kaufmann’s for this unusual consultation unless we swore to be quiet and good, because laboratory conditions might be needed in order to test him. In the end, though, we were only there a minute as Dr Kaufmann simply referred Jack for a hearing test at Leicester Royal Infirmary. He actually telephoned the unit and got an appointment there and then for the following week.

When Melody Longlady came back to school after
the USA trip, she’d prepared a little talk for the class entitled ‘My Trip to the USA’. She hadn’t prepared the talk in order to show off, but because Mrs Clarke had said she must after having a fortnight off school gadding about in America while the rest of us had ‘done test after test and endured the mundane’. Mrs Clarke was our teacher for the new school year and she was as lovely as Miss Thorne had been mean. Full of enthusiasm, but a stickler for hard work too.

I was glad to have Melody back, us being secret friends and her being very handy for the walk home. And the whole class was agog to hear the USA talk. Not because we were that interested in someone else’s dream holiday, but it was always interesting when some poor person had to stand in front of the class and give a talk and you felt that mix of intense sympathy and fascination.

When it came to giving the talk, Melody was quite shy and just read out a stream of things that none of us could take in, or even hear properly, about Boston and New York being on the east coast of the United States of America and having such and such population. At the end, Mrs Clarke thanked Melody for the factual account and suggested we follow on with a question-and-answer session in order to get a more personal response. It was clever and thoughtful of Mrs Clarke to suggest the Q&A because it suited Melody and she really got into her stride and told us some interesting things.

I can still remember the first question and answer because it made such an impact on me.

Mrs Clarke: So, Melody, what most impressed you about America?

Melody: The friendliness of the American people.

Melody expanded on this theme and told the class that at the start of the trip the Longlady family had felt rather anxious about all the smiling and friendliness and people saying hello to
them and asking how they were doing. Unused to such warmth, for the first few days they really hadn’t known what to make of it, and had worried more than once that someone was about to shoot them dead.

There had only been one person on the entire trip who’d acted disgruntled and that had been a small man who’d said a nasty thing about Northern Ireland and Melody’s mother had come back at him with Vietnam and then they’d had to hurry along to avoid a deterioration. They soon got used to the immense kindness and niceness and started to enjoy it and then, arriving back in Britain, they’d found everyone utterly cold and rude by comparison.

‘Has anyone else got a question for Melody about America?’ asked Mrs Clarke.

I put my hand up.

‘Yes, Lizzie.’

‘Was the food nice?’ I asked.

Melody seemed thrilled that I’d asked that and launched into a list of amazing food experiences they had had. Starting with Day One, when they’d arrived at the hotel and been exhausted – or to use the American, ‘pooped’ – but not particularly hungry, and decided to ring down for room service rather than go out for a proper dinner. They ordered beef sandwiches and tea to have in front of
Abbott and Costello
, which was on permanently.

They’d been expecting a few dry triangles with a dish of mustard and maybe some lettuce. But what arrived was half a cow’s worth (each) of succulent roast beef slices, a basket of salted crisps, exotic leaves, tiny tomatoes, avocado slices and melted cheese, all on a silver tray with a variety of mayonnaises and mustards. And the tea wasn’t just a simple cup of tea, but pint glasses of a sweet orange liquid over crushed ice, mint leaves and lemon slices. The description reminded me of our mother’s pre-split dinners.

The class gasped at the idea of half a cow each and Melody continued with further tales of American food items being bigger and nicer than they expected.

I walked home with Melody after school. I asked (out of politeness) after the dying aunt they’d visited in Boston – whether she’d died or was still hanging on – and it turned out they’d not seen the aunt because she’d gone on a water-colour painting course that coincided with their trip.

I told Melody how much I’d love to emigrate to New York, for the food and the friendliness and the general excitement.

‘I wish my family could go and live in America,’ I said.

‘I don’t think your family would work out over there,’ said Melody.

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘You have to be absolutely normal and you can’t act strange or unusual, they don’t like it. You might get shot,’ she said.

So I dropped the fantasy of emigrating and went off Melody a bit too.

Little Jack had, some months before, entered a national competition to win a bicycle. He’d answered a few questions about bicycle safety with ease, saying how you had to be aware of the brakes and use hand signals for turning and so on, but had struggled a bit with the tie-breaking slogan as slogans weren’t his thing, so he asked our mother. And she came up with this:

She just said it without even having to think about it. But Jack didn’t like it. ‘It’s too long, it’s a poem. They only want a slogan.’

And then Jack himself came up with ‘The Co-op – your fresh friend’.

It was good, but he’d never have come up with it had our mother not mentioned freshness in her poem.

Anyway, we’d forgotten all about the competition but it turned out that freshness was indeed the key, and we found out that week (the week of the accountancy realizations) that Little Jack had won a prize. Jack couldn’t go himself to receive the prize because you had to be over eighteen to enter the competition, so our mother had to attend the ceremony and be publicly awarded one of three possible prizes (a bike or one of two hampers, one with assorted cheeses and pale ales and one with chutneys, jams and preserves).

The people who turned up to witness the grand giving away of the prizes by a local councillor seemed upset when our mother was awarded the bicycle and her slogan was praised for its simplicity and for mentioning freshness. One old lady actually shouted out, ‘That woman’s got a nerve entering a competition to win a bicycle – she could afford ten of them.’

And no one clapped as she wheeled it past. A man from the
Herald
and a woman from the
Mercury
took a few pictures of her scurrying away and I felt a bit sick. The faces of the little crowd ranged from bored to disgusted. And when we got to the safety of our back garden our mother dropped the Raleigh Superbe, put her fluttering hands up to her face and stood a moment like that. We all stood still as if to respect her. Then, just as she was recovering, Mr Longlady called round to ask how things were going, accounts-wise. Our mother put the coffee on and they sat at the kitchen table.

‘Well, Little Jack won a bicycle,’ she told him, ‘so it’s not all hardship.’

And then the door buzzer sounded again. It was Mrs Longlady this time and, hearing her voice, Mr Longlady slipped into the utility room.

‘Congratulations on your luck,’ said Mrs Longlady,

‘It wasn’t luck – it wasn’t a raffle,’ said my sister. ‘It was a competition.’

‘Well, congratulations on your skill,’ said Mrs Longlady.

We waited a while for Mrs Longlady to speak. But she didn’t and for a while neither of them did. Our mother understood the power of silence and knew that the desperation to fill a gap with words could put one at a disadvantage. Anyway, Mrs Longlady must also have known about the power of silence and was on that occasion stronger and annoyingly our mother cracked first. To be fair, she had just gone through the humiliation of winning
a bike that no one wanted her to win and wheeling it away from a hundred scowls.

‘So, how can we help you, Mrs Longlady?’ said our mother reluctantly and putting herself at a disadvantage.

‘I was wondering what you planned to do with the Raleigh Superbe,’ said Mrs Longlady with a satisfied sniff.

‘In what respect?’ asked our mother.

‘Well, I assume you won’t keep it, and thought you might want to find a charitable solution,’ said Mrs Longlady.

‘No, I plan to keep it for the time being,’ said our mother.

‘I am surprised,’ said Mrs Longlady. ‘I’d have thought you’d want to give it to someone needy.’

‘Yes, I might give it away,’ said our mother.

‘May I ask to whom?’ said Mrs Longlady.

‘To my son Jack,’ she said, and gestured to Little Jack.

‘But I meant for charity,’ said Mrs Longlady. ‘You know the village thinks it bad form you entering the competition at all.’

‘Does it?’ said our mother. ‘Why?’

‘Because you have so much and it was a chance for someone else to win something.’

‘Well, thanks for calling,’ said our mother. And she ushered Mrs Longlady to the door and closed it behind her with a slam.

Mr Longlady came out of the utility room, red in the face.

A different man might have taken our mother in his arms and kissed her on the mouth. But Mr Longlady’s hands were as shaky as our mother’s had been earlier and he looked as if he might be sick.

The day of Little Jack’s hearing test at the Royal Infirmary came round. Our mother shuddered at the thought of Leicester Royal Infirmary because of all the babies – dead and alive – she’d either had or not had in that place, and all she could think of was
either holding a baby or not and being desperate for a cigarette and wanting to phone someone but not knowing who and realizing there was no one to phone. And the memories and the prospect mingled and she was good for nothing but writing a play. Which she did, called
The Navy Nurse
, about a senior nurse who wears a navy dress.

My sister said, ‘I’ll take Jack to the hospital, Mum.’ And I said, ‘And me.’

And the three of us went into town on the bus, all through the little villages and lanes, and we sat at the back and ate a bag of kali fishes that we’d got at Miss Woods’s, with cash, before the bus came.

It seemed a waste of time just to test out Little Jack’s loopy hearing/eyesight mix-up, and it was an utterly boring day except for the bit where Jack had to wear enormous headphones and press buttons if he heard a buzz. My sister and I couldn’t stop laughing at his serious little face and his slight starts every time the headphones buzzed and his eagerness to do the thing properly. The audiologist asked us to wait outside. Afterwards, she came out and said she’d write to our mother with the results. She seemed a bit cross with us. I hated being thought badly of, so I said, ‘I’m eleven and my sister is twelve. We didn’t mean to be nasty, we’re just making the best of things.’

‘I don’t care if you’re six and seven, your brother was undergoing a serious testing procedure and you were laughing at him.’ And she strode away down the corridor. I was momentarily distraught and considered running after her, but didn’t.

Some days after, the results came through saying Jack had perfect hearing, and though we weren’t surprised, we were relieved. Then our mother asked if he’d closed his eyes during the test and he stupidly said he hadn’t.

Our mother rang Dr Kaufmann and reminded him that Jack’s hearing was only a problem if he had his eyes closed and could he please make another referral for Jack with that in mind. And a few days later an appointment came through for Little Jack to see a paediatric counsellor. Our mother rang the consultant’s number and demanded an explanation. ‘Why, though?’ she kept asking, and ‘But what is it you’re looking for?’

And our mother and my sister went to Dr Kaufmann and asked for an explanation from him. He was quite direct, apparently, and said something along the lines of Little Jack might
think
he can’t hear with his eyes closed and he might think it so strongly that he’s making it seem as if it’s happening by cutting himself off aurally.

‘So what if he does?’ asked our mother deeply concerned.

‘It might mean Jack is anxious about something,’ the doctor said.

‘Could it be
The Hobbit
?’ my sister asked.

‘It could be a number of things making him feel anxious,’ said the doctor, ‘and it might help Jack if we knew what it was. If anything.’

Our mother reluctantly agreed to see the counsellor but didn’t in the end. She told Jack to keep his fucking eyes open and told us to go and shake him in case of fire. And we went to the Copper Kettle for a new egg pan. Which was twice the price of Diggory’s but closer and had ample parking.

Then Charlie turned up like a bad penny. He asked to borrow money. Our mother said she didn’t have any; she said it wearily and with a sadness in her voice. Not so much sad at not having it as sad that he was here again asking.

I’m weary writing about it, I think, because her weariness comes back to me. Charlie asked imploringly and with much
energy. She said she really didn’t think she could help, she was waiting for a little money to clear in the bank for tax and rates that were overdue. She even repeated some of the stuff Mr Longlady had explained.

Charlie came up with possible ways and means of releasing money but she said no, she really couldn’t help, and told him she was in dire financial straits. She told him that a man from the council had called at the house about the arrears on the rates. And about Miss Woods from the shop and the bill and how it had been all ham and rolling tobacco.

She said, emphatically albeit calmly, that she couldn’t get any more money because our father’s business was going broke bit by bit, and that although she’d only ever known being rich, she now had to start being poor. This was all said with such an air of finality and authority that my sister and I could hardly believe our ears when Charlie continued asking and saying that if she could just find a way to help him, he’d be able to wriggle free of Mrs Bates and be with her, properly and for ever. He took her two hands in his and said, ‘Please, love, please.’

Our mother still said no, she couldn’t help. Eventually she raised her voice. ‘Look, Charlie, you’ve had all I’ve got, and Little Jack’s going deaf with the worry of it. Now, please go.’

He left, slamming the door, and she was upset. We crowded round her and didn’t even pretend we hadn’t been listening.

A day or so later he phoned from a phone box and whatever he told her, it sent her into a spin.

‘I can’t get that amount in one go, there’s a daily maximum,’ she said, ‘but I’ll be there with what I can get today … I’ll get more tomorrow … OK, where are you?’

We all had to get into the car straight away. She drove like a mad thing into town, parked on Horsefair Street, where no one
else would dream of parking, and launched herself at a man closing the outer doors of the Midland Bank. She begged him to let her in. And he did.

She returned to the car moments later and she drove fast, heading south out of town, until we got stuck behind someone in a pink car driving extremely slowly. The pink car kept slowing down as if the driver might be looking for a house number or something. It was an unusual colour for a car and my sister wondered if it might be a prostitute’s car and her slowing down to flash her naked body at pedestrians. Our mother became so impatient she roared round the pink car, overtaking on the wrong side, driving over a few front gardens and through some small shrubs.

My sister screamed, ‘God, Mum!’ or something, and our mother explained that she’d had no option and that the driver of the pink car had just proved the well-known fact that driving too slowly was far more dangerous than driving too fast.

‘Where are we going?’ my sister asked.

‘Wharf Way,’ said our mother.

Wharf Way was an industrial area on the edge of town where you might go for a new exhaust pipe or to chuck something unwanted into the canal.

‘Why there?’ asked my sister.

‘Because Charlie’s in danger, they’re going to hurt him if he doesn’t pay his debts,’ said our mother, dissolving, and my sister knew to leave it there.

We got there and she parked overlooking the canal, and we sat quietly for some time while she rifled through her bag. The still, dark water made me feel cold. It turned out that we’d arrived very early for whatever we were there for.

‘Hell, we’re early,’ she said.

Cigarette smoke was building up in the car and no one would agree to have a window open.

‘It’s cold,’ said Jack.

‘But I can’t breathe,’ I said.

‘Oh, shut up, can’t you,’ said our mother. She looked at her watch. Then she smoothed out a scribbled note.

‘Oh God, I think we’re in the wrong place.’ She gazed out of the window and then at her note and then her watch. ‘Nevis, Nevis, Nevis,’ she chanted – and then looked at the note again. I got out of the car and leant on the bonnet. It was so cold and windy, I was about to get back into the car when my sister got out.

‘This is insane,’ she said, and the wind blew so hard we leant into it and laughed.

‘Get in,’ our mother shouted at us.

‘No, it’s too smoky,’ my sister shouted back.

‘Get in, I want to be ready to go,’ our mother shouted from the car window.

‘Go where, though?’ shouted my sister. ‘What are we doing here?’

We carried on leaning into the wind and in the distance I saw the word ‘Nevis’ emblazoned on the side of a building and was about to point it out to our mother when she drove off, leaving us standing there. My sister and I looked at each other for a moment in disbelief. It was a dreadful place to be left, the awful water behind us and the wind wrapping our hair round our faces, and I felt quite panicked. I pointed and we ran, battling the wind, towards the Nevis building.

Things take an unpleasant turn here, I must warn you.

We got to Nevis and walked around it. A temporary giant For Sale sign had blown down and was careering around the empty car park and then a metal bin rolled towards us and I felt under attack. It seemed sensible to go into the building through the little open door.

We entered an enormous open space. The vastness and the sudden calm were difficult to adjust to. It was empty except for a few boxes and quite a lot of litter in the corners. On the steeply vaulted ceiling, which was at least twenty foot high, were lines and lines of tubular lights but only one line was illuminated. And except for the noise of the debris being blown about outside there was just a faint electric hum. I investigated a small flight of stairs and found myself on a mezzanine ledge. My sister followed and, seeing shadows, we stopped.

Fifty yards ahead, behind a low partition, stood Charlie Bates in a sort of kitchenette and Mr Lomax, pouring water from a kettle into a mug. We quickly bobbed down behind a tower of boxes. We were about to see a fight in a kitchen. Another fight in another kitchen. This one, in the Nevis warehouse kitchenette, was going to make the egg-water throwing skirmish of 1970 seem almost quaint.