The Canal (4 page)

“I have a son.”

“Pardon?”

She inched up the bench so that she was sitting beside me, our thighs nearly touching. A perfectly plucked eyebrow
raised itself above her left eye. Something shot through me, like some sort of charge. I felt like a breakthrough had been made.

“I said I have a son.”

“Oh. I mean wow, that’s great! Isn’t it?”

“A son.”

“What’s his name?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“How old is he?”

“Old enough to know that I’m his mother.”

“So, why are you telling me this?”

“Because I don’t love him?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I wish he didn’t exist, that I didn’t fall pregnant with him, that I didn’t give birth to him … That’s what I mean. Like that lie I told you about. I wish it could all be forgotten about.”

“Why don’t you love him?”

“I don’t know … All I know is that I feel nothing for him.”

She leaned closer to me; she looked me in the eye. Her eyes tightened and wrinkles appeared around them like oyster shells. I noticed a faint mole on her cheek. Her lips were thick.

“You’re the first person I’ve ever told.”

“About you not feeling anything …?”

“Yes.”

“Does he know?”

“That I don’t love him?”

“Yes …”

“I guess so … He’s a bright lad. He’s not stupid. There’s a book out … Have you read it? It deals with …”

“No. I don’t read that many books.”

“Oh.”

“Why are you telling me these things?”

“Because I don’t know you … I find it easier to talk to strangers, real strangers, not some pathetic voice on the end of a phone. Unlike my friends, the few I have, I don’t care what you think about me.”

“Do you feel you’ve got a lot to talk about?”

“No more than everyone else … I don’t know. I just feel like talking.”

“That’s fine by me …”

“I know.”

“
You know
?”

“Yes. I could tell that you would listen. Plus, bored people will listen to just about anything.”

“Right … How do you know I’m bored?”

“You
told
me.”

“Right.”

We both stopped to watch a narrow boat pass us by. It was called
Angel
. It was probably the smallest I had ever seen. I remember thinking that it would be pretty horrid living on it. No space to breath, to move. The man at the steering wheel didn’t notice us. He just sat there, motionless, without a care in the world. He was deep in thought and smoking a pipe. I liked him.

“It was strange …”

“What was?”

“The pregnancy … The
birth
. I’d wanted him so much. I couldn’t wait to hold him in my arms. I couldn’t wait to touch his soft skin, to do all the things a young mother dreams of. And then it happened …”

“It?”

“I gave birth to him. The very moment I held him in my arms I knew I would never love him, that I would never want him …”

“Why? How?”

“I just knew … A gut feeling.”

“But … Surely you could grow to love him?”

“Too late.”

“Why?”

“He’s gone … He doesn’t belong to me.”

“But don’t you ever think of him?”

“Yes, but not much.”

“What about now?”

“
What about now
?”

“Well, you’re thinking about him now …”

“No, I’m not. I’m talking, not thinking. Just talking about him as I would that man on his bike over there. Or that bus on the bridge, or that beautiful tree there. He’s nothing to me.”

“But you gave birth to him. You carried him in your womb for nine months.”

“I know I did.”

“But what about …”

“What?”

“The father?”

“What about him?”

“Well, surely he had something to say about … you know …”

“Him? He couldn’t understand much at the best of times.”

“But, surely he must be angry with you? Just not caring, wanting nothing to do with your … with his son?”

“He didn’t concern me either.”

“Is he the same …”

“…  Man I told you about? The same man I lied about being pregnant to?”

“Yes.”

“No, he’s not. The father of my son is a kind man, a man full of love, a man any woman would be proud of … I just don’t love our son, that’s all.”

“Are you …”

“Still with him?”

“Yes …”

“No. He left me. He took our son with him. See?”

“Yes. See what?”

“I told you he was a nice man.”

We fell silent again. I was hungry. I felt hot. I felt that it might have been her causing it, but it was most probably due to the hunger—but, to be honest, I’ve never felt that way since. It was an odd feeling deep in my stomach. I felt light. I felt like I was floating. I wanted steak. A rare steak. With Roquefort cheese melted on it. Good thick sirloin. Only the best. I wanted to go to Elliot’s Butchers on Essex Road and purchase their finest cut. Or maybe a corn-fed free-range chicken, roasted and stuffed with lemon and garlic. I would have eaten the whole thing. I began to think about roasted squash with whole, unpeeled garlic cloves and roast potatoes, roasted in goose fat. I think I began to salivate in front of her. I’m not too sure. I looked at her. She was staring straight ahead again, looking towards the snazzy flat-screen monitors. She yawned a couple of times, brushed the hair from her face, cowered slightly from the breeze. I tried to see what it was she was looking at—there were only a couple of the office workers left now. They had all gone out for lunch together or something. The man in the shirt and tie who liked to spend his working day walking back and forth from his desk to the other, over and over again, was sitting at his desk with his head in his hands. I couldn’t see enough of him to gauge what colour tie he was wearing. He looked tired, troubled somewhat. But it was hard to tell. For all I knew he could have been asleep; he certainly looked like he was. He definitely had something on his mind. Maybe she was looking at him? She was certainly looking at something.

I didn’t know what to do so I asked her.

“Are you hungry?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Why?”

“Would you like to come for a coffee and a bite to eat with me? … I know a café just up the road from here … The Rheidol Café.”

“No.”

“Oh … Are you sure? You look like you …”

“Yes. I’m sure”

“Okay.”

She didn’t look up at me once. She stared steadfastly ahead towards the flat-screen monitors. I felt stupid. I tried to get up from the bench—but I couldn’t. I was rooted to the spot. I felt small and quite insignificant. She suddenly turned to me.

“But, please, don’t take this personally. I just don’t feel like drinking coffee, or eating, or anything. That’s all. I’d much rather remain here.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you sit here?”

“…”

“I said, why do you come to this bench each day? I told you why I did. You should tell me. It’s only polite.”

“…”

“Are you not going to tell me?”

“…”

“Are you not?”

“…”

She remained silent. I should have gotten up from that bench there and then, maybe walked back to work—but I didn’t. I simply stayed with her. It felt right. Staring straight ahead at nothing in particular. Pretty soon a swan appeared. It was probably the same one I’d noticed
earlier—a magnificent creature. Beautiful in every way: so clean, so poised, stoic and aristocratic in movement. It was easily the biggest swan I had ever seen—not that I’d seen that many in my lifetime. I remember wondering why it had chosen to reside on the canal. Surely there were better places in London? Why hadn’t it found itself an idyll in Kensington? Or in the suburbs? Why this grotty, uncared-for, stinking canal? It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. She seemed not to notice the swan; she seemed in a trance, completely elsewhere. I didn’t want to disturb her but I felt compelled to tell her. I couldn’t help myself. I should have left her alone.

“Have you seen him?”

“Who?”

“The swan … There?”

“How do you know it’s a he?”

“He’s big. It’s got to be a he.”

“Well, he … she … whatever … is beautiful. Truly, truly beautiful.”

We didn’t need to say anything else. The late afternoon sun was beginning to settle. I was aware that it was probably time to go, no matter how much I wanted to stay. I wondered who came here at night. There must have been those that did? The owners of the barges lived on the other side of the canal to the right of the whitewashed office block, beyond the iron bridge. They lived private lives in a secluded enclave of lone barge owners with their own rules and etiquette. They were probably happy. I wondered if she was happy. She didn’t look happy. I wondered where she went at night, whom she slept next to, whom she trusted. Did she feel safe? Did the world smother her? I wanted to know.

It seems that boredom is not really that removed from desire. It seems that they are, in fact, the same urge more or
less: the urge to do something. It seems that the same common denominator underpins them: existence. And existence is essentially prolonged boredom. Desire is boredom. These urges remain with us even when the body begins to deteriorate. When the body is past its best these urges still seem to remain. They remain until the last breath. We are driven by urges we can’t really explain. None of it can be explained. This, it seems to me at least, is the sheer beauty of boredom, and, more importantly, existence: It is all-powerful, more powerful than anything we can imagine.

I can’t remember who got up from the bench first, but it was probably me. We didn’t say goodbye to each other. I don’t even think we looked at each other. We seemed to go, to move away from the bench, the canal, each other. I didn’t like the idea of being on the canal at night. I had a sudden, horrible foreboding that something sinister could happen—and if it was going to happen, then it would probably happen there, when the light starts to fade, by the banks of the canal, as night began to emerge. I remember walking away, through Shepherdess Walk and up through the estate. The streets seemed to be deserted, just the orange hue of the street lamps hanging over my shoulders to guide me. I looked back—I was positive it was her, walking along behind me. It seemed odd, as she usually headed up the canal towpath towards Hackney; she never ventured into the estate. I immediately turned left onto Arlington Street and stopped. I waited for her. I could hear her footfalls as she approached. I stood out of sight, leaning against a gate to a maisonette, waiting for her to pass on the other side of the road. She didn’t see me. It was definitely her. She stopped to cross the road, looking both ways. I waited until she did and then began to follow her. After a minute or so of following her I realised that she must have known I was following her. It was obvious to me that she could sense
my presence. As she got to the corner of Prebend Street she was approached by a group of teenagers. I stopped. It was the same bunch from earlier that day, I’m positive; the same group that had gathered around me on the bench. Even though their hoods were up I knew it was them. It looked like they were asking her for a light. I watched as she threw up her arms, indicating to the gang that she didn’t have the means to light whatever it was they wanted lighting. I hung back. I didn’t want them to see me. That was the last thing I wanted. She began to walk away from them. They started laughing; one of them shouted something to her which caused the rest to fall about laughing even more. I was sure it was the lad with the red hair, but, again, it was hard to distinguish each of them from one another due to their dark clothes and hoods—due to them acting as one homogenous teenage mass. Then they turned and began to walk towards me. I turned on my heels and headed across the estate towards St Peter’s Street and up towards Essex Road. It was a bit out of my way and not the route I necessarily wanted to take but I didn’t want them to see me—surely things would have gotten nasty. They would’ve recognised me, and under the cover of the darkening streets I would have been at their mercy.

It was raining. I momentarily considered not walking to the canal, to my bench, to her. But I did. I couldn’t resist. I had been sitting on my unmade bed all morning, staring out of my window, looking at the multitudinous rooftops of Hackney. I watched the pigeons mostly, as they went about their business only to be distracted by the civil aircraft coasting along up above them. My room sat directly underneath the
flight path to Heathrow Airport. I watched the planes pass by my window, up above, in the rain. The grey cloud was a perfect backdrop. A plane seemed to pass by every two minutes or something. I counted something like fifteen Airbus A350-800s and about five or six Airbus A310s. The planes that crashed into both towers in New York were Boeing 767 200 series, wide-body, aircraft. They were big planes. I’m pretty sure none of the Airbus A350-800s were, in fact, Boeing 767s.

It was a Dan Air Boeing 727. It felt old and out of date even then. I was about seven years of age. It was a small, cramped aircraft, and I distinctly remember liking the food we were provided with. I can’t remember what it was we ate. I especially liked the turbulence as we started our descent and the view from my small window. It was a night flight and everything was lit up below—even when we crossed the sea it was easy to spot the faint light from the lone ships 30,000 feet below. As a surprise my father had arranged a quick visit into the cockpit for me. I was elated. When the stewardess eventually ushered me in I was amazed to find the pilot and co-pilot casually chatting to each other like they were in the pub, or waiting at the bus stop or something. I remember thinking that I had been transported into the future. I remember thinking that everything below us, as I looked out of the cockpit’s windows, was magical, transformed, beyond my ordinary imagination. When the pilot allowed me to sit in his chair, seeing the entire world below me, I remember something seeping into me that I had never felt before: importance. I felt powerful. I felt like I could control the world.

I arrived at the bench around ten a.m. The rain had abated a little. An old man was sitting on it. He was positioned
dead centre and I hesitated momentarily, uncertain about which side to sit upon. I eventually opted for his left, hoping that he would shuffle up along the bench to my right. He didn’t. Our legs were almost touching and I felt extremely uncomfortable. He seemed quite content with my intrusion; he was humming a tune I didn’t recognise. He seemed to be humming the same part of the tune over and over again. It sounded classical; maybe Beethoven’s Ninth, but I wasn’t too sure. Two bags rested on the damp earth by his feet. I noticed that a soggy cigarette end was stuck to his shoe. He had a huge pot belly that hung over almost to his knees. It reminded me of my own grandfather’s when he was alive. It looked rock hard, solid. His face was weathered and wrinkled like folded pasta on a plate. It didn’t take me long to notice that he was missing an arm. His right arm, above the elbow. He stopped humming his tune, and, of course, it didn’t take that long for him to strike up a conversation with me.