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Peter Bromley's winning portfolio There are three short stories in this portfolio:
I peered through the crack between the door
and the door-frame. I could see my naked father; he was standing in front of my
mother, next to the bed. I swayed gently from side to side to see more. Through
the narrow view into their private world I could see the dark crude hairs on his
back nearly reaching his pale buttocks. His skin hung loosely on his arms and
thighs. Rays of early morning sunlight were picking out dust in the air. * * * My father is upstairs alone in that bed now.
He is old and ill. Each tiny stroke drives him down further. He will not recover
from this long slow slide into nothingness. From the kitchen, I hear him banging
with his walking stick on the floorboards above my head. I let a few moments pass
before I respond, shouting that I will soon be there, but I wait for another few
minutes before I go up. "I'm only telling you." "What do you want?" He is silent, as he often is having got me upstairs. Eventually, I leave the room, after opening the small window. I do not want an argument now. But I have barely reached the top of the stairs before he starts calling me in his thin breathy voice. "What is it?" I return to the room. "I want the window closed." I look out of the window as I pull-it shut. Down in the street, quiet now in mid-morning, there are few people around. Our neighbour is out on the road as usual, washing his old red car. The only people are two women from a couple of doors down walking to the bus stop to do their weekly shop. I watch them disappear round the corner before turning back to him. "Is there anything else?" I ask before I go. Back down in the kitchen, I turn on the radio. I sit with a mug of tea, cupped between my hands. On the draining board, the washing up from breakfast is still stacked. A single pan, a cup and one plate. Through the window, a small breeze shakes the tree out on the street. It is beginning to rain. * * * On one trip years ago, months after I had seen them naked, I held their hands tightly as we dashed through the rain up the steps at the front of the museum. We ran blustering into the front foyer and the attendant smiled as we shook our coats and my mother folded her umbrella. We entered the main hall where tall metal pillars pulled my eyes up into the roof. It was as big as a temple. Black balconies of painted wrought iron ran at various levels around the hall with doorways leading off into dark rooms full of wonder. We asked the man for the room with the ancient Egyptian collection. He pointed towards the stairs, gave us a gallery number then touched his cap to my mother and smiled again. On the next level and through several doors, I finally stood at the first of the rooms which I was looking for. The small plaque said "Ancient Egypt". It was tip-toe quiet. In the first two rooms there were pieces of pottery and brooches. This was not what I wanted. In the third room, though, there were huge displays looming large and powerful under the bright spot-lights. There were big stone coffins behind ropes that were strung out to stop people getting too close. Paintings on the walls depicted pyramids and gangs of people pulling blocks of stone. Around the room wooden casks stood as big as my mother's wardrobe and there, in the middle of the room, was the biggest cask of all painted in gold, and black and blue. This was what I wanted to see. My parents followed on behind me, my mother's small feet tapping through the silence. She stood next to me in this room; my room, surrounded by the enormity of the ancient dead. I walked round the cask and imagined the king's world ending in the tight confines of that wooden box. Did they really bury them alive, I asked. And where did they get the stone for the pyramids? And did they pull their brains out through their noses before they buried them? Were they really only four feet high? I asked so many questions that my parents could not answer…. * * * "Shall I close the curtains?" I ask my father. I am in his room again. "Yes…..no….." he pauses. "So that you can sleep?" There is no response. Even our silences are now coiled tight with the tension of what can no longer be said between us. I wait for him to speak, but instead he closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep. He uses the silences as the only power he has, and as I look down at him, frustrated by the game he is playing, I try hard not to despise his weak body, his bones jutting-out like coat hangers beneath the covers. I get up to close the curtains anyway, then lean over him to re-arrange the pillows so he looks more comfortable. As I let his head slowly back down he moans slightly; there is a small stain of food at the corner of his mouth and the veins on his cheeks are broken, like frost on a window. "I am going back down." There is silence. "Is there anything else?" Again, silence. "I'll be downstairs." Instead of answering, he starts to move and tries to swing his feet out of the bed. I watch him struggle for a few seconds before speaking. "What are you doing?" "I need to go to the toilet." "Why didn't you say." "I didn't want to bother you" I move in front of him, and let his frail hands wrap around my fingers, then I watch as he swings his legs out from under the covers. Sticking out from his pyjama trousers, they are thin and hairless. He gets into an upright position and we shuffle towards the bathroom with me facing him as I move backwards. Like this, we cannot avoid each others' eyes and this is the most uncomfortable part. When we have got to the bathroom, I leave him and return to his room to wait for him sitting on his bed. It smells of sweat, of his ointment and of a weakening life. His dressing table surface is now full of bottles of pills, bottles of mineral water and cream for his bedsores and chapped skin. Once, it gleamed with my mother's perfume and jewellery; her mirror-backed hair brush sitting on a lace doily. Now it is dusty and covered in the trappings of illness. As I wait for my father, I stare back at myself in the mirror and bounce gently on the bed remembering the evening after we had returned form the museum. I took the sheet off my parents' big double bed and wrapped it around me pretending to be an Egyptian king. I jumped on to their bed then walked backwards and forwards, watching myself in the mirror, imagining myself as the king, with enormous pyramids being built for me. A hero; an epic leader of the whole world. my time as a hero. Then, my imaginings were brought to an abrupt end by my mother's gentle chiding telling me to get ready for bed. Now, when the headboard bangs slightly on the wall behind as I bounce, it is my father's voice from the bathroom that stops me. "What are you doing?". "Nothing." "I'm ready now." "I'm coming." We shuffle back to his room, him with his head bowed and me looking emptily ahead trying again not to make eye contact. When he is back in bed, he lies him down and I leave him to go downstairs to wait for his health visitor. She is a young woman who steps into the house with a bright smile and the smell of perfume. She looks like she has just stepped out of a shower, she is so fresh and eager. I stand awkwardly with her in the entrance before taking her coat and hanging it up. As I do so, I look at my reflection in the hall mirror; my hair is a mess and I have on an old washed-out shirt with a worn collar. "How are things?" she asks as I lead her upstairs. "The usual." And I laugh in a forced way, conscious of the inadequate reply. "You know, we get through." In my father's room, she goes straight to the window to open the curtains then she sits him upright and chats to him. I stand un-needed in the background, trying to listen to what she is telling him; watching my father come to life with her chirping conversation. Before she starts to examine him, she goes to wash her hands. While she is in the bathroom he struggles to sit more comfortably and as I help he motions towards the corridor with his eyes. "She's a cracker, eh?" "She's pretty." "You should make a move on her. Ask her out." "Don't be daft." It is when he is like this that I think we could still be friends and have some fun in our lives, but it is all too late; the sickness has removed that hope. He is only animated now because she is here. I can no longer coax the fun from him like the nurse. So I end up washing him and taking him to the toilet and feeding him in between going to work; he can't ask me to be his friend as well, can he? What does my love add up to, anyway, but simply looking after him? "She's coming back. Now's your chance," he says. "I was just telling our Simon that a pretty girl like you wouldn't mind being asked out," he says to the nurse as she comes in. "Maybe when you feel a bit better," she jokes, smiling at him. Then turning to me she adds, "I'll be here a while. Why don't you go and get a breath of fresh air. You must have things to do." Her face is momentarily serious. "Probably," I say. I tell them I am going to have a shower before I go out to get a paper. I briefly listen to them laughing along the corridor before I let the water flow over me until the sensation and the noise drown out their voices and there is a kind of silence. * * * The bed, too, has been part of my life. One of my girlfriends wore long dark cheese-cloth dresses and Doc Martins. Her hair was dyed with henna and she wore patchouli oil. She even got me to wear it. She was as near as I came to rebelling. "What's that smell?" my mother asked when my girlfriend was round once. "Patchouli oil." "Smells like something died." "I like it." "You would." Eventually, my girlfriend avoided my parents and came round when they were not there. On one occasion, she began to look round the house, leaving me alone in the sitting room watching television. After a while, she shouted for me to come upstairs. I looked for her and eventually found her in my parents' room, lying on the bed. "Let's have sex here." she said. "What are you doing? They'll kill me." "Come on. They'll never know." "You're sick. This is my parents' bed." "Come on Simon. Let's shag." She sensed my discomfort and leaned heavily on the words. "Come on. Let's shag." As I moved closer to her, she pulled me down, and started to kiss me. For a moment, in the deep musky folds of the patchouli oil, I felt myself drifting towards making love on their bed. She started to unbutton my shirt, but I pulled back. "No. Let's go to my room." "It's too small" So we got up, and I straightened the eiderdown. Although we didn't make love, she still left the smell of excitement and danger in my life and in my parents' room. The room that now smells of ointment and staleness and the minutiae of my father's slow death. * * * Before I leave I go in to say goodbye to the nurse and my father and ask if there is anything that they want. The nurse turns to smile and say no thanks "You look tired." "I'll be OK." "Your father's great company today," she says. "Take your time." I walk down our street. It is now early afternoon, there is a slight drizzle in the air, but I like that; the rain is cool and sharp after the stuffiness of the house. Round the corner, I hear for the first time the dull rumble of traffic on the high street; cars, people, lives being lead in all their precious detail. In the newsagents, the owner and one of the customers ask after my father and say that they have not seen him for a while; how is his health, how does he manage for company? They know about his illness, but do not dwell on it; they know how serious it is. They say they must get round to see him more, but I know that they wont. One tells me about the people at church who are praying for my father, too. They have candles lit for him in the side chapel and a photograph of him on the notice board with a simple message saying "In our prayers". He is sorely missed by everyone, she tells me, and while they hope for the best they fear the worst. I buy a newspaper and I go round to a nearby bar and sit down to read it with a pint. The landlord comes and sits next to me and he too asks after my father. It seems most of the people in our part of town know him. When he goes I get round to the paper. There are stories of a car bomb in Baghdad, an assassination in the Lebanon, fear of a pandemic in Asia. Somewhere a model has had her breasts enlarged. I close the newspaper and finish my pint. As I leave, the barman reminds me to say hello to my father and I nod in return. The streets on the way home are empty, poised for the return of school children and those who are out to work. The man is now vacuuming the inside of his car. As soon as I enter the house, I hear their voices from upstairs. The nurse is still laughing. I go up and, from the landing, I see them through the crack between the door and the frame. I see the nurse's back and his face, watching her. I do not stay there for long. As I move, the floorboard creaks. He is still sitting up in bed and she is talking to him. She turns to smile as I enter the room and behind her my father nods towards her, picking up his innuendo where he left it. I sit at the foot of the bed opposite her to watch my father talking to the young nurse. When she gets up to leave, I get up with her. She lays her hand on my father's forehead then pats him on the hand and tells him to be good. I follow her out of the room, telling my father I will be back in a moment. As I go down the stairs behind her I get a feint smell of her perfume; I watch her bright hands on the old worn banister. In the kitchen she gets straight to her question. "Did you go?" "I couldn't." "Oh, Simon." She looks sad rather than angry. It is the look I remember my mother having when she tried to tell me off. "You have to do it at some point." "I just can't." "You need to talk it through with your father before you do anything." "I know." After I left the bar, I had an appointment
to see my father's doctor, arranged through the hospital; I was to set up an examination
for my father in advance of planning for him to go into care. But, when I got
to the clinic and faced the receptionist, once again I had lied and told her I
could not make the appointment; something important had come up. She looked at
me over her glasses as she scored my name out on the list and handed me another
appointment card. "Why not?" "My father never put my mother in to care." "Do you want me to set something up?" "Possibly." "We all deserve a break, you know?" "I'll ring you." "Make sure you do. This is not good for either of you." I see her to the door and she smiles once more as she leaves. As soon as the door clicks shut the banging from upstairs starts again. I go up and sit on his bed, half way along. As I lower myself on to the mattress I feel the aging springs sag weakly. My father is lying on his back with his mouth slightly open and his arms straight down by his side on top of the eiderdown. The feint scent of the nurse's perfume lingers in the room briefly making it smell alive. "What were you talking about?" he asks. "Nothing." "You were a long time talking about nothing." "It was nothing." "This house needs a woman." "Look, we both miss mum, you know. What else do you want?" He is silent again. I shouldn't have said that It always makes him go quiet. It is the thought he will never express, but which sits, unspoken, in the silences between everything we say. I look at him lying in the bed, thinking that there must come a point when we cross a threshold and accept that we want someone to die and that they too want it. But that time is not yet. * * * I too have been ill in that bed. It started as a cold but got much worse until I spent several days in a dream-world brought on by the fever. Just before it started my father carried me out of my room and through to their bed. On the first day, the doctor took my temperature and as he read the scale on the glass tube he turned and looked at my mother. She wiped her hands on her apron and held her palm against my forehead. After that, the fever began to take over and I spent the next days moving between reality and images and dreams. And all through it she sat by my side and gave me drinks and food too when she thought I could swallow it. Between these times she descended into a motionless silence, at that level where there was nothing but my pathetic little needs. She sat there day and night, trying to sleep in the chair, at a point where the only thing that existed for her was me. When I began to recover she allowed herself to sleep in my bed, but she still came when I called in the night and spent the days sitting by me. Only when I was back in my own bed many days later did she relent and leave me alone for any time. My father was banished to sleep in the tiny spare-room amongst the unused suitcases and boxes. When I was recovering from being ill, but was still allowed to sleep in their bed, my father came in to see me at the end of each day after he had finished work. From lunch-time I began to look forward to his arrival. The music on the radio changed, preparing for the early evening audience. The DJ's took on a more serious tone and news came more frequently. Eventually, as the light outside began to fade, I would become excited about my father's return. Each day he brought me a small present that he had bought; a comic or some sweets. But I was keenest just to see him and eager for him to read to me. He started to read Treasure Island and, when he was at work, I carried on reading, so that each night he would ask: "Right, big man, where are we up to?" And I would explain what had happened in the book since he last read to me. Then later, when it was nearly time for me to go to sleep, he would pick up from that point. He read out the voices and tried to put on accents. But as I tired, his voice would become calmer and softer so that, as I gradually fell asleep, the line between the story and my sleep became blurred and intangible. On
the day we finished Treasure Island I was beginning to fall asleep as he came
to the end. He lay the book on my chest and, crossing my arms over it, he picked
me up. I clutched the book like a bible. Then he carried me back into my room;
I was only just aware of that last gentle journey as he laid me in my own bed.
Slipping between the cool covers, I remember feeling like I was coming home. * * * I look down at my father again and assume that he is asleep. I think about touching his outstretched arm, but instead my hand hovers momentarily before I withdraw it. I leave him and go back to the kitchen. Outside it is now dark. I am just filling the kettle when, from upstairs, comes the banging on the floor. At the foot of the stairs, I shout up that I will be there soon and, to my surprise, the noise stops. There is then a quietness on the house that is always there, behind his banging and our arguments. Our own tip-toeing, silence. It is here, in this house and in millions like it, that the real stories of the world are played out, step by step only vaguely knowing what the end might look like. If he does go into care, I will need to think about what happens to the house; it is tired and needs new life in it. Where they now remain shut, doors should be opened wide to let the air sweep through the house. When the time comes, all the boxes and rubbish and flotsam of our lives here will need clearing out. The broken furniture, the chipped ornaments, the faded curtains, the peeling wallpaper. Those awful pictures in the sitting room. They will all need to go. And that cooker, this table…... our bed.
He liked to arrive early at the swimming pool when only a few people were there. Or, better still, like today, he loved being first when it was empty and the bright water billowed gently like a cloth-of-light underneath the skylights above his head. He curled
his feet round the cool tiles on the pool-side; he felt their smoothness fit comfortingly
under his toes before he breathed deeply and dived in to the empty pool. He stayed
under the water for as long as he could, but with the years since his retirement
he could not hold his breath After his set of lengths, he rested and watched as a young woman and her daughter came in to the pool. The woman carefully dropped into the water and stood waiting for the turbulence to subside before gently coaxing her small daughter to slide in. When the girl was in the water, he set off again for his next ten lengths, moving away from the woman to allow her more room. * * * The pool never got busy. From the outside, its old Victorian exterior was off-putting and austere. The front steps made access difficult while inside the wrought iron roof supports, which may once have been beautiful and confident, were beginning to rust. The changing cubicles around the pool edge could still be used, but most people preferred to get changed in the temporary buildings stuck onto the back of the main hall. The building was like a decaying seaside town that had known greatness, but was now aware of its own mortality. It just needed a bit of tender loving care, he thought, but then maybe it was already too late. Old things cannot always be changed. When he had finished his second set of lengths he again stood up with his back to the pool-side and watched the woman and her child. The three of them still had the pool to themselves. He recognised most of the people who came into the baths in the mornings; retired people and young mothers mostly, but he did not know her. It was possibly because she was so calm and quiet that he had not noticed her before. She had gently slipped into the pool and unassumingly got on with teaching her child. On his way out of the baths he saw the small hand-written note on the window of the pay-booth. It stated very simply that the baths would be closing at the end of summer for refurbishment. The note had appeared without any warning several weeks ago and since then he had spent much of the time thinking where else he could go to swim; he had no idea where the next nearest swimming pool was. Besides, it was bound to be busy and have slides and god-forbid a wave machine. He didn't like change anymore; he wasn't good at it, not since his wife died. He hadn't noticed how difficult it was making decisions without her until she was gone. But she would have known what to do, or at least convince him that he knew already; yet without her he had fretted ever since the notice went up. He should probably speak to one of the other pool users. * * * The next morning he left early to go to the baths; there was no-one on duty when he got there so he just walked straight in. The staff had almost given up already. He was first there so after he had dived in, he tried to swim a length under water. He once more fell short, but carried on into his usual ten lengths and got into his rhythm. He loved the routine; the predictability of it. He alternated one length free-style and one length breast-stroke then stopped after ten lengths. As he swam, a few other people came in. The men dived in with a lot of noise and splashing and, like him, set off on a set of lengths. The women, though, invariably dropped smoothly into the water and set off very quietly. And the quietest of them all was the young mother and her daughter. As he finished his tenth length, he saw her slip into the water and, having waited for the young girl to steady herself, coax her in to the pool. After the girl slid in, the woman lifted her out onto the pool side and stood her on the edge and got her to put her arms down by her side. Then her mother gently coaxed her to jump in to the pool and after he had watched the girl make this first hesitant leap from the pool side, he set off to do more lengths. As he was leaving the building after getting changed, he saw the woman with her daughter standing on the steps outside. He still hadn't talked to anyone about the sign so he approached her. "The pool is closing," he said. "I saw the sign, yes." "Where will you go?" "We'll find somewhere. There's always something else." "Perhaps we could start a petition." "I'm sure it won't help." "Your little girl is coming on well, though." "We'll get there in the end, won't we poppet," she said looking down at the girl. The woman said that they needed to catch a bus, and turned to walk off along the street holding her daughter's hand. The girl looked round to wave good -bye to him, then trotted alongside her mother, happy in the sunshine. * * * Over the next weeks, fewer and fewer people came to the pool in the mornings and it grew more depressing inside. The cubicles, once brightly painted in blue with red and white striped canvas curtains, were taped off so no-one could use them. On one morning, one of the tiles came off as he dived in, but he did not report it in case they simply shut the pool. But still, on most days, when he was part way through his first ten lengths, the woman arrived with the girl and with each day he watched the girl practice tumbling in and he watched too the patience of the woman. It became clear she was teaching her daughter how to dive. The first part had been to get her to jump in, now she was getting her to tip into the water from a sitting position. Next she would get her to crouch and finally stand. He began to look forward to this almost as much as his swim. In some ways, he looked forward to it more. After all, she was progressing, wasn't she? He'd seen her start with that first noisy flop into the water and here she was, kneeling on one knee, pointing her arms in to the air…. that's it, poppet, that's it, point them all the way up to the ceiling, as if you are trying to push through the high windows into the blue sky..….. pointing her arms into the air and pushing off into a brief arc before she sank beneath the water to come up spluttering and smiling with her small leap into something new. "She's getting there," he said to the woman on the way out. "She's doing brilliantly" "What's her name?" "Sarita." "You can nearly dive, Sarita," he said crouching down to her level. "I can nearly do lots of things." * * * He didn't see them for a couple of days and the next time they appeared he had already finished his first set of lengths and was sitting on the pool side when they arrived. The woman smiled briefly at him, then got on with her teaching. He remained sitting on the pool side watching the delicate choreography between the mother and the child. As Sarita bent down on one knee, preparing to dive, her mother moved forward in the water to give her confidence then, when the girl looked settled, she moved slightly backwards to give her more space; a slight nod of the head told Sarita when it was time to make the kneeling-dive. As she hit the water, her mother again stepped forward and held out her arm to act as a support, but only just long enough to make sure she went off again on her own. "See if you can swim a width for me," she said, and Sarita set off across the pool while her mother watched her. The woman's movements could easily have been missed, but they were signs of deep understanding. This is what he missed most from his wife; the silences and small gestures that could have been misunderstood or taken for indifference. Watching Sarita's mother, he remembered when his own daughter had got married and the car had pulled away after the reception taking her on the honeymoon. He had played the happy fool all day; at least that's one off my hands, he said, someone else can worry about her now, don't mind if I do…. a small malt whisky would be lovely. Great swathes of smoke hung around him from the cigarettes and there was much hand shaking and arm slapping. But when the car moved off with his daughter, the realisation she had left swept over him like an ocean yet, without noticing her arrival, his wife was there by his side, linking her arm into his. "I'm cold," she said so he took his jacket off and put it round her shoulders. And back inside she was right when she took a full glass of whisky off him because he'd probably had enough. Just as she was right a week later when she suggested he stop smoking; so he stopped after thirty years. When Sarita finished her width, her mother lifted her up and put her on the side of the pool again so that she could try another kneeling dive. He set off on his next set of ten lengths, the cool water clearing his head. As he swam, he saw out of the corner of his eye, Sarita repeatedly crouching on one knee and diving in. At the end of his second set of lengths he went over to the couple. "Have you decided where you are going to go when this place shuts?" he asked the woman. "Not yet…and you?" "No idea." "It's fine just now, though. Nice and quiet to practice our diving. You've got to take the opportunity, haven't you.?" He looked down at Sarita and asked her how she was today. She pointed to a plaster on her knee. "I cut myself, but the man put a plaster on me." The woman explained that one of the tiles in the changing room had come off and the sharp edge had cut her while she got ready. "I'm going to dive properly next week," Sarita added. "Then you can teach me to dive-in," he said. "I like your goggles" she said. He smiled and left them to get on with their swimming while he returned to his routine. His wife had bought him the goggles, just as it was her who had first coaxed him into swimming. She had suggested that he exercise again as he approached his retirement and then, each week, she asked him how far he had got with his swimming. Without asking, she had gently urged him to progress. The first time he came back and said that he had done ten lengths without stopping, she took him out for lunch to celebrate. When he did twenty lengths, she bought him a pair of swimming goggles with black lenses. "I can't wear those," he had said. "Of course you can. They'll make you look professional." "I'll look stupid." "You'll look sexy." Their own delicate choreography, he thought as he wrapped his trunks and the goggles into his damp towel and left the pool alone. * * * The following week, he arrived first nearly every day so as not to miss Sarita and her mother, but they did not turn up. On the Thursday, he dived in and held his breath as he swam and struggled, but after all these months of trying he managed to reach the other end. As he touched the wall, he came up spluttering and gasping, but he had finally swum a length under water. He wondered what kind of a fuss his wife would have made over that. As he got his breath back, Sarita and her mother came in; there was no-one else in the pool. He kept an eye on them as he swam and when Sarita finally stood on the pool side preparing to dive properly for the first time, he stopped his swimming and stood in the shallow end, watching Sarita's mother whispered something to the girl then withdrew to the centre of the pool. The girl raised her arms; she was on her own now. She shuffled uneasily on the tiles, then lowered her arms. Her mother smiled at her and pointed to the ceiling and Sarita raised her arms again. And this was it, he thought. She bent her legs slightly and, after a vague nod from her mother, pushed herself off into a high arc. He saw a few drops of water fall from her body as she curved into the brightness of the skylights before disappearing into the water. When she came up, her mother was already at her side, kissing and hugging her and he too started to clap and shout, well done, Sarita, well done. By the time he had finished his last length, she was confidently diving in, again and again. He waited for them outside in the sunshine. When they emerged, he went straight to Sarita. He took out his goggles with the black lenses and, bending down to her level, handed them to her. "These are for you. To say well done for learning to dive-in." The girl took them saying thank-you three or four times. As he rose, her mother said; "That is such a nice thing to do. Thank you." As she spoke, she put out her hand and held lightly onto his bare arm. It was a gesture which, he thought later, she must do all the time, but its intimacy awakened him. He felt the smooth skin of her fingers softly raising the hairs on the back of his hand; her thumb rested faintly under his wrist near his pulse point. He looked at the woman's face properly; he had not looked at anyone's face in such detail for a long time. He was conscious of her wet hair dripping onto her bare shoulders, the small trails of water running down to the straps of her deep red dress; he saw small dark patches beginning to appear in the material where the water was soaking through. He looked down to make sure her hand was still there; the touch of it on his arm was so light it was almost imperceptible. He felt a slight breeze pass them in the sunshine and he saw that it raised goose-bumps on her skin. Her touch relaxed even more; a hand was hovering ghost-like above his own skin. What it was to have forgotten such gentleness, such closeness. He looked up at the woman's smiling face again. "It was nothing," he said, She removed her hand, took hold of Sarita's and said good-bye. They turned away and Sarita skipped alongside her mother, twirling the goggles on her finger as she walked. When they reached the corner of the street they both turned and waved to him and he returned the wave before they went out of sight. * * * Over the weekend, he did not go swimming, but he felt a new enthusiasm for organising his life. He made a list of new pools that he might go to when the old one closed. He thought about taking it to show Sarita and her mother, so they could start at the new pool together. He also cleaned his small house, taking care to polish the photographs of his wife. On Sunday, he rang his daughter. On the Monday morning he got up early and, instead of putting on his usual old clothes, he wore some of his newer ones. He even put on a jacket, something he hadn't done for many months, but today it felt right as he was even thinking of asking Sarita and her mother if they fancied a cup of tea in the café opposite after their swim. He looked out of his window before leaving; it was raining and a breeze blew the rain in sheets along the street. Nonetheless, he set-off early for the pool, thinking that he might try forty lengths today. But as he got off the bus and looked along the street, he saw a group of people standing in front of the baths. When he got nearer he saw that they were Council officials putting up a notice to say that the pool was closed. One was running yellow and red tape through the bright brass door-handles and round the stone pillars at the top of the steps. "The roof's leaking," said one of the men. "It's got to close now." When
they had put up their signs and tied off the tape, they went, leaving him alone
on the pavement staring at the building. He stood for half an hour under the eaves,
then waited in the café across the road, but when work-men arrived to board-up
the pool, he knew he finally had to move on. He set off, now feeling ridiculous
in his new jacket. By the time he got on the bus Sarita and her mother had still
not appeared and he knew they were not going to come. After
that, he passed the boarded-up pool each time he went into town on the bus. He
watched as the fly posters for DJs and concerts began to appear on the walls,
and then began to fade after the summer. The windows got smashed and the boarding
was pulled away by people trying to get in; rubbish and fly-tipping accumulated
in deepening drifts around the site. In preparation for the building's demolition,
a metal fence arose around it so the site looked like a military base. When the
bull-dozers moved in, the site was cleared until only the void of the pool was
left, partly filled with rubble and the timber from the fallen cubicles. Then,
each time he passed, the rubble slowly disappeared until finally the site was
cleared and eventually the building was only in his memory, as were the ghost-like
touch on his skin and the image of Sarita diving in to the bright pool.
Afterwards, as he stared
in to the bareness of his empty wardrobe with the metal hangers echoing sparsely
on the rail, he rubbed his hand which still throbbed from the blow. He had already
packed his bag. Later, he sat in the waiting-room at Central Station, still rubbing his hand. At his feet was the small bag with his clothes in it. George West stood up and moved over to the window of the waiting-room to look out onto the darkening station. Dull lights on each platform only lapped at the edges of the gloom. All of the kiosks were closed and boarded with metal shutters. He could not see anyone else around; the tannoy was silent. He went out and looked at the overhead monitor on the platform that gave departure times. His train, the one taking him to his sister's house left at nine-thirty; twenty minutes. Checking again along the platform to see if there was anyone else around, he returned to sit down in the waiting-room. He tried to go over what had happened. His daughter had said: And what the fuck do you know, anyway? It was then that he raised his hand and hit his own daughter. He had watched Julie's face turn from the impact and her long brown pony-tail flare out behind her head. He had seen the blood appear at the corner of his daughter's mouth and he had heard the intake of Julie's breath as she began to cry. His own daughter had called him a bastard and said: And what the fuck do you know, anyway? And in that instant - it had probably been no more than a second, possibly less - many thoughts had crossed his mind, but the one that he acted on was that he decided to hit her; on such choices the world turns. They
had both stood in shock as her screams subsided and it was in that silent moment
George West had truly decided he had to go. When a young couple came into the waiting-room he was startled because he had seen no-one around. When they bustled in to the room, they carried on talking as if they were alone. Surely they must have seen him, or perhaps he had become invisible as well. "You can't smoke in here, Carl," said the young woman. She was wearing very tight jeans tucked into boots and a tee shirt like George West's daughter might wear. She had blonde hair extensions. He too wore denims, a checked shirt and some Adidas trainers. They were about twenty, he guessed. He was carrying a large hold-all, but all she had was a small handbag. She wobbled slightly on her high heeled boots. "Well I don't want to smoke," said the man. As he spoke he turned around and stopped right in front of the girl's face, nodding his head violently from side to side to emphasise each word. "You are always fucking going on about things, you. Aren't you?" The young woman stepped around him, eyes down, and sat on the other side of the waiting room from George West; the man sat down, but did not take the seat next to her, sitting instead a few seats away. "There's always fucking something, isn't there?" he said as he sat, as if remembering something new and important to say. He ran his hand over his shaved head and George West saw that he had the word "love" tattooed across his knuckles. The air around him bristled. He leaned forward and stared ahead turning his mobile phone around in his hands while the girl looked at him across the empty seats. "What now?" he said looking up to catch her watching him. "I just thought you might like a smoke, that's all." "Jesus fucking Christ, give it a rest." He looked at his hands as he spoke, continuing to turn his phone over and over. George West saw the word hate tattooed on the other hand. At that moment, the young woman's mobile began to ring. It was a tune George West recognised from his daughter's radio. The woman flicked open the phone. "Hiya," she said, then turning to the man, said "It's our Lynette…..I'm just telling Carl it's you." The man stood up and told the girl he was going out to look at the train times. "He's just going to look at the train times. Yeah, we're at the station. No, it's not here yet. How's it going? Will you meet us? .…Yeah….Yeah.…Right. No, he's not back yet. I'll call you on the train." And she flicked the phone closed. For the first time since they arrived, the young woman acknowledged George West's presence. "It's my sister," she said, waving her phone. "She's getting married. We're going to visit her." "I see," said George West "Carl's just checking the train times." "Right." "Where
are you going?" "No way. Isn't that weird?" The man came back in to the waiting room; he had a cigarette in his hand and exhaled smoke as he entered. "The train's on time, babe," he said. His air of menace had dissolved for the moment. "This man's going to see his sister, too." "Is that right?" The man sat down next to the young woman and put his arm around her waist and kissed her on the side of the head. She wriggled away from him, embarrassed. She mouthed something to him that George West thought must have been about him watching them, but the man lifted the hem of her tee shirt and put his hand on her bare stomach. He began to move it up towards her breasts as he winked and then stared hard at George West. The young woman laughed and moved his hand away, so he leaned back, still looking at George West. "Where does your sister live, then?" he asked across the room, taking a pull on his cigarette. A hand, the one saying love, reached down to rest on his groin, his legs spread as he lounged back in the hard plastic chair. "Liverpool." "That's where your Lynette lives, isn't it babe?" "God, yeah. We're both seeing our sisters in Liverpool. That's so weird. Do you believe in fate? I do. I think everything's planned out, me." They
all let the thought hang in the air unanswered. The man tapped his trainers on
the ground and the young woman looked at the front of her mobile phone as if willing
it to ring. George West stared across the room at them. After several minutes
of the silence, broken only by the tapping of the man's feet, the young woman
with the cropped tee-shirt stood up and straightened her clothes with a couple
of brushes of her hand. She stumbled to one side as she rose. George West reckoned
that they had both been drinking. "I just looked, babe," said the man, stopping the tapping of his feet. "Well, I'm bored." Her boots clacked across the floor of the waiting room and echoed around the bare walls. As the door clicked shut behind her the strip light in the waiting room flickered. After a short silence, the man spoke across the room again. "Her sister is mad," he said. "Is she?" said George West. "Too right. Barking. She wants to marry this bloke who's twice her age." "Perhaps she loves him. Some people do love each other." "Loves his money more like. Some things are just not right, don't you think? And him. He just wants to get his leg over with some young bit of fluff. Would you like it if it was your daughter. No….me neither. Some things just shouldn't happen……don't you think babe? Some things are just not right?" The young woman had come back into the waiting room. "I was just saying that some things are not right." "I don't know what you're on about." The young woman stood at the door. "Your sister marrying that bloke." "That's up to her…them." She looked over at George West as she walked towards her seat "That's up to her isn't it?" "I imagine it is." "Whatever, the train's on time," said the young woman as she sat down next to the man. "I could have told you that, babe." "I was just telling him," she said pointing at George West. The man leaned forward, threw his cigarette on the floor and rubbed it out with his foot. "Well don't expect me to go to the fucking wedding, that's all," he said, arms resting on his knees. George West stood up and walked towards the door wanting to get away from them. "I
need some air," he said as he opened the door feeling, that he ought to explain
himself before he left. He put them on and saw that some of her fingers poked out from the ends of the gloves where the wool had worn away. He would buy a new pair when he got to his sister's house. He took the rest of the contents out of his pocket. There was his wallet, with its few notes and coins, photographs of the family, his house keys, the train tickets and a receipt from his last trip to the chemist for anti-depressants; the happy-pills he now remembered leaving on the bedside table when he crept out that evening. That was probably a good thing, he was sure they made him worse. George West returned the things to his coat pocket. Walking slowly up and down the platform, he passed the waiting room, looking in at the couple each time. First they were sitting down, the woman talking at the man whilst he stared ahead. The next time, he was standing staring out of the window smoking another cigarette while she read a magazine behind him. With each pass, their positions changed like photographs. The room looked warm, but George West did not want to go back in. He liked the clear sharp night air; he had found the smokiness and edginess of the couple constricting. He couldn't breathe. He needed the fresh air to think. What the fuck did he know, anyway? He could have listed many things for his daughter. He'd had a life too you know, one which didn't involve work, or families or trying to keep the peace at home; one which remained invisible to his children. But what could he say he knew? He had experienced many things: pain, frustration, the sheer bloody magic of seeing your children being born, and what it feels like to fail them. Happy, sad. He'd seen it all. But what George West knew now was that there were choices in this world, weren't there? And no, it wasn't all planned out for us and choice was always there, under the surface, flowing like water under ice. Husbands hit their wives, men hit children, and yes women hit-out too. And now he had broken something that could never be repaired and it was he that had to go. That's what the fuck he knew. * * * His train arrived. As it passed, he looked into each carriage and constructed small cosy lives around the people in the windows. Couples going home from visiting friends, people going out for the evening, women finishing a day's shopping. Girly days out, blokes' nights on the drink. The whole world, in all its beautiful normality, was passing him by. How he envied it . When the brakes screeched, took hold and the train slowed, he looked at his own image in the windows. He saw a tired person - an older one than he remembered - wearing a dull overcoat and faded trousers. His thinning hair hung apologetically around his face. He tried to imagine what the people on the train would think about him as they saw him standing on the platform with his small holdall. Did he look as if he had just rushed out of the house? Did he look ill or as if he had been crying? Why was a middle-aged man travelling alone so late in the evening with only a few belongings? George West closed his eyes rather than look at his own image any longer. When the train did stop, he moved to the nearest carriage door and pressed the button for it to open. It hissed and slid back as the couple emerged from the waiting room. The man ran with the bag over his shoulder and the young woman ran as best she could in her high heels. "Come on, babe," he shouted. "Don't let it go without me, Carl." George West got on quickly and sat at a table-seat where a woman and what he assumed was her grand-daughter were already sitting; he did not want the young couple to join him. The woman and the girl were both in the window seats, so he sat next to the little girl, who did not turn round from looking outside. The woman was reading a newspaper and George West saw her eyes flicker briefly over the top of the paper as she looked to see who was sitting down at their table. The carriage smelled of damp clothes. The train did not move. As they waited George West heard a woman's voice from further down the carriage ask what the hold up was for. "I don't fucking know do I, babe?" came the man's voice. "Well, we needn't have rushed." The woman at the table tutted and the young girl next to George West turned to look at who was speaking, then kneeled on the seat and leaned to put her face against the window again. She pressed her nose even closer to the window to look past the platform to the street lights and the houses beyond. "Look at all those Christmas trees in those flats," she said happily to her grandmother, "Don't shout," said her grandmother without looking up from the newspaper. "I'm not shouting." "You were." "But look at them all." "Why don't you count them." Again the woman did not look up. The girl began to count them out loud. "Do it in your head," snapped her grandmother, "People don't want to hear your voice. There's too much shouting as it is." This time she looked along the carriage then briefly made eye contact with George West. The little girl started to count the Christmas Trees again, pointing at them with her finger as if she didn't want to miss any of them. The window glistened with small drops of rain and reflected some of the dull station-lights on to the little girl's face. And as he watched her count the trees, George West felt the girl was becoming part of the brightness outside the window; sparkling like the lights she was counting. He remembered similar bright pin-pricks of joy in his own daughter when she was younger; at a time when George West imagined they would grow up to be friends. When the train finally began to move,
the girl was jolted by the motion and fell against George West who, without thinking,
held out his hand to stop the girl falling further. The grandmother looked up
and he quickly removed his hand. The little girl did not look to see who was supporting
her, but leaned back and pressed her face against the glass to see the tower-block
for as long as she could. George West watched her lips move as she continued to
count the bright flecks of light in her head. The little girl sat down and looked across the table at her grandmother, her face full of expectation, wanting the woman to ask her how many there were; how many shiny trees had she seen in the dark block of flats? And what were all the boys and girls getting for Christmas, did she think? But the woman was silent. And as he looked at the little girl, then back at the building outside, George West recognised again the deep loneliness that is to be found in families. Then
as the train picked up speed, he watched the tower-block receding; getting smaller
and smaller. Disappearing to nothing but a few specks of light as they moved further
and further into the evening.
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