Shtum (13 page)

Something about today has lifted me. I have achieved something. It’s not perfect, but with the money raised and Johnny’s help I feel a part of the solution, rather than the problem. I can manage this situation until Emma pays me back. I feel I’m finally helping Jonah and I don’t need Dad’s money.

I arrive home elated, but it shrinks away as I see the front door – there is a blue balloon tied to the brass knocker with string.
Oh, no, May 11
. More balloons are bouncing around the hallway and gruff, poker-school voices are battling for supremacy. They are in the lounge.

‘Head like a sieve,’ Dad says.

A marble cake adorned with eleven garish candles sits proudly on the coffee table, one half of it mangled.

‘He couldn’t wait.’

He’s sitting on the sofa, crumb-spattered, twiddling a length of shiny gold ribbon with a green crepe crown atop his head. I go to kiss him but he turns away.

‘How did you know?’

‘He’s my grandson, why wouldn’t I know?’

‘Really?’

‘Also, Emma’s here.’

‘Here?’

‘No, Maurice’s. Of course here.’

‘You let her in?’

‘Why not? A mother shouldn’t see her son on his birthday? Besides, you have enough anger for both of us. She’s in the kitchen.’

She has her back to me, dropping tea bags into mugs. ‘So, you thought you’d just turn up?’

‘It’s Jonah’s birthday, Ben. Please, let’s not do this now.’

‘So when? When you decide to take my phone calls? When are you going to tell me the truth?’

She turns to face me. ‘Ben, please. Please just let me spend a little time with Jonah on his birthday. I miss him.’

‘No one’s stopping you from seeing him, Emma. You’re the one who—’

‘Leave her alone!’

‘Stay out of this, Dad.’

‘No. You will leave her alone, Ben.’

‘Georg, maybe I—’

‘No, no, you should see JJ.’

I stumble out into the hallway and lean against the wall, breathing hard. From the kitchen I hear soft tears and low talk, but the words are unclear. Minutes later, she’s passed me and is in the lounge, then she runs to the front door and is gone. I try to compose myself and wander back into the lounge.

Dad’s poker buddies, Harvey and Sammy, are trying to attract Jonah’s attention, holding badly wrapped bundles under his nose, but he’s glued to the television screen. I have nothing to give him.

‘Open them for him, Sammy, he won’t do it himself,’ Harvey says.

Sammy rips the paper off the parcel. Inside is a blue velvet bag the size of a folded newspaper, with gold-embroidered Hebrew characters. He unzips it and takes out a blue and white silk
tallas –
a prayer shawl – and a blue suede
kipah
with the Tottenham Hotspur crest on it.

‘Is this some kind of joke?’ I ask.

‘A Jewish boy shouldn’t have a
tallas
?’ says Sammy. ‘What should I buy him, an apple?’

‘He doesn’t need any of this, he doesn’t know any of this. He’ll never be bar mitzvah or married, he’ll never go to a synagogue. Whose stupid idea was this anyway?’

‘Mine,’ says Dad.

I look to him. ‘Yours? The atheist.’

‘Yes, mine.’

We both turn to Jonah, whose face is engulfed in silk. On each end of the
tallas
are a multitude of threaded silk fringes. Jonah’s fingers are all over them.

‘For the twiddling, not because he is going to be a rabbi.’

I look to Sammy’s hurt face. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

‘So what have you bought him?’ Dad’s eyes are blazing.

‘I left it in the boot, just go and get it.’

I sit in the car with the air-conditioning up full blast, but my blood is still on the boil. Rage and shame are difficult to chill. She wasn’t as I imagined she’d be. She was less than I remembered, her confidence withered. No rejoinder, no argument, no stoicism and now I feel like a piece of shit.

The only place to buy a toy now is the 24-hour Tesco. I drive like a lunatic down the North Circular, believing somehow that my forty-five-minute absence will not be noticed. I swing on to the slip road with a screech and immediately my dashboard is awash with disco lights – red and blue, red and blue.

I pull over, concocting:
it’s my son’s birthday, he’s autistic, my wife’s left me, I’m really a good person
. A torch beam blinds me, then moves around the inside of the car like a descending UFO. The window is rapped, hard. I press the down button.

‘Can I help you, officer?’

‘Do you normally exit a dual carriageway on two wheels?’

‘No, officer, I’m a very careful driver.’

‘Could you please step out of the car, sir.’

Standing with my back against the bodywork, I run through the day’s drinking. Impending incarceration is attacking my knees and I stumble. The policeman looks at me ruefully and turns to his colleague, who heads to the rear of my car.

‘Have you been drinking tonight, sir?’

‘No, officer.’ Which is true, because I haven’t had a chance yet.

‘I’m going to have you breathe into a breathalyser.’ He removes a plastic-sealed tube from his pocket, just as his colleague opens the near-side rear door. The sound of a xylophone pierces the traffic noise.

‘Gavin, I think you ought to see this.’

PC Gavin guides me by the elbow round the back of the car and stands me facing the open door.

‘What’s this?’

‘Empty bottles, officer.’

‘Don’t be clever, sir. What are they doing falling out of your car?’

‘I was taking them to the bottle bank behind the store.’ Which is feasible.

‘Really? Never heard of plastic bags?’

‘Bad for the environment.’

‘So are drunk drivers. Breathe into this tube, sir, but don’t take a deep breath, just breathe until you think you’re going to faint.’

I feel like fainting already, but I comply. Standing up in the dock is something I’ve managed to avoid, but given my recent luck … He takes the tube from the black box and puts it back in plastic and then we both stare at the three coloured diodes. Never have I willed a traffic light to go green with such force. The three lights flash like a fruit machine: green, amber, red, green, amber, red. It hesitates on red and finally settles on amber. I don’t know what this means.

‘You’re lucky. You see that light? It means you’re currently a fraction under the limit. I want you to put the bottles in the boot, get back in your car and drive carefully home before it goes red.’

‘But I need to go shopping.’

‘Tomorrow, sir. We’ll see you off, goodnight.’

They follow me for the first five hundred yards and when they peel away, I pull into the first pub.

Jonah is in bed snoring with his
tallas
still gripped in his hand. I kiss him on the forehead and, when I gently remove the prayer shawl from him, Emma’s perfume catches in my throat like ammonia. It makes my eyes water. I escaped from one prison tonight, I think, but could it be any worse than the one I’m already in?

All the joy I thought I’d feel at the demise of the business hasn’t arrived. This wasn’t the way I dreamt it would be, the perfect scenario, the phone call out of the blue from a giant marketing agency telling me – while I sob with relief – that they’ve seen some old copy of mine and just had to employ me. The walk away with pride, the resurrection.

No, it can’t end like this. I’ll just have to keep it ticking over – with or without Valentine. There are staff agencies, I can get a driver, washer-uppers, I’ll phone them tomorrow, I decide, as I also pledge to park up in a side street tomorrow and drink myself stupid.

Cow

Lomax and Partners

Solicitors at Law

132 Furnival Street

London EC4 2JR

30 May 2011

Dear Mr Jewell

Re: Petition for dissolution of marriage on behalf of Mrs Emma Jewell

I am writing on behalf of my client Emma Jewell, to petition you for a divorce.

I understand from Emma that you have been officially separated for approaching four months and that you have, between you, decided that you be assigned temporary custody of Jonah as Mrs Jewell currently works full time and, between yourself, your father and social services, Jonah is currently well cared for. We reserve the right to review this when circumstances allow for joint custody. This, of course, makes everything a lot simpler as it negates the need to go to family court to resolve such a dispute.

I also understand from Emma that the former family home in Wynchgate is in her name alone, which again removes a great deal of negotiation and confrontation.

Emma has asked me to assure you that she wishes no enmity to arise from the proceeding and would implore you to sign the enclosed documents so that we can get the ball rolling. You will notice that she has specified the marriage breakdown due to ‘irreconcilable differences’ and hopes you will not contest this.

I am conscious that you are currently investigating the possibility of an Educational Tribunal for your son, Jonah, and Mrs Jewell wishes to reiterate that she will contribute half the cost, when she has funds available.

Mrs Jewell will, of course, be covering this firm’s costs. But if you choose to contest, I would advise you to find a solicitor to represent you.

Yours sincerely
Phillipa Lomax LLB
Partner, Lomax and Partners

I screw up the letter and shoot it basketball-style into the black bin liner hanging from the cupboard door. What is there to contest? What is there to split? By rights, I suppose, she could pay me maintenance and child support now that the business has gone tits-up and I have no income, but I won’t ask for it. Don’t want to upset her, it’s not over yet.

Dad’s too weak from all the treatment to bath Jonah – or to bollock about opening my post – and so social services have been sending care workers round to help with Jonah in the evenings. On the whole they’re pretty good and I can’t complain, but at the same time, they represent the harbingers of doom to me. He isn’t going to get stronger, Dad, when I thought he would go on for ever.

I find Dad asleep in his armchair with his hands resting on a half-finished
Guardian
crossword. The blanket has slipped so I pull it back over him and make my way wearily up the stairs.

A young woman – it’s never the same one twice – has Jonah in the bath, but I see that the water level’s too low and the water’s too cold. She smiles at me as I enter. Jonah ignores me.

‘It’s okay, I’ll take it from here.’

‘Are you sure, I’m booked for another hour?’

‘No, it’s fine, you get yourself off.’

‘Well, if you’re sure?’

‘Go,’ I say, with a smile.

I wait for the sound of the front door closing then turn on the taps and squeeze in the bubbles.

‘Come on, dude, let’s do this properly.’

He places his left big toe under the tap and giggles as the falling water tickles him. I swoosh my hand around the bath to raise the bubbles and start the ritual again.

I lie back on the bathroom floor and rest my head in my hands, while he splashes and babbles.

‘Is this strange for you, Jonah? One minute you’re in your own bed and Mum and Dad are with you, then next Mum’s not there and you’re in a strange house with just Dad and Papa?

‘Well, it’s strange for me. We’re not that dissimilar, you and I. I know we look nothing alike, but that’s not what I’m talking about. Neither of us likes change, do we? And I know it upsets you and I’m sorry. I’m upset too. Yes, really. We just show it in different ways. You get angry and frustrated and I’m just fucking horrible to everyone and get pissed. Whatever you do, even when you’re old enough, stay off the booze. It doesn’t change anything and just makes you more miserable. You stick to water. And for God’s sake avoid cigarettes. I know you’ll do what you want, just like I did, but look at me, I’m no great example, am I? Don’t answer that.

‘There are so many people that love you, Jonah. Mum loves you, even if she has a strange way of showing it, and Papa loves you more than he loves me …’

‘No I do not!’

I pull myself into a sitting position.

‘Didn’t hear you come up.’

‘What makes you think I love Jonah more than I love you?’

‘It just seems obvious by the way you …’

‘Never make that assumption again. Do you hear me, Ben?’

‘Yes, Dad.’

‘You are both of my flesh.’

‘I know.’

He pats my shoulder. ‘I’ll be in my bedroom.’ I watch him as he leaves, the floorboard creaking on the off-beat, in time with his failing balance. His movements, once marching band, have slipped into the unpredictable, edgy disharmony of jazz. The whistling from his chest leaves him breathless and me unable to breathe.

Jonah is in bed. Dad’s in bed. I am lying on the sofa with a tumbler of Scotch resting on my chest. I haven’t the energy to watch TV or read, so the radio is on, but just for company, just a warming soundtrack. I’ve succumbed to Radio 4 and it’s ‘Book at Bedtime’. I have no idea what the story is about and it doesn’t matter, because the female narrator has an Irish accent, Southern and soft. I love the sound – all stories should be read in this lilting tone. I sip at the Scotch. It’s warming my insides while my Irish companion relaxes my overloaded synapses. I don’t want to go to bed in case my mood alters. If I could stay just like this, with all the needles pointing at neutral, I would. For ever, I promise. Then the padding footsteps. Jonah. Before the cancer, I’d have ignored it, but Dad needs his sleep desperately now, so I reluctantly rise to investigate.

I take the steps barefoot and slowly. If I maintain calm both in demeanour and sound then there’s a chance I can coax him back to his own room without waking Dad. I check Jonah’s room first; the duvet is lying on the floor and multi-coloured fish are swimming the walls and ceiling.

Dad’s door is open, so I creep in.

‘I’m awake, don’t worry.’ His voice has dropped an octave through the therapy and cancer and is hoarse.

‘I’ll take him back, Dad,’ I whisper. ‘Come on, Jonah.’

‘It’s okay, let him stay. I like his warmth, I like to listen to him breathe. He likes my stories, don’t you, JJ?’

My dad winks at him, conspiratorially. I can’t argue, I know the feeling and I don’t feel jealous about it any more. It’s not personal, nothing about Jonah’s behaviour is personal. He has bias and preferences but they’re not based on enmity. I think of my ‘Book at Bedtime’ narrator, how her voice soothes me but may grate on somebody else’s ears. We are all individuals. It may just be that Dad’s cadence, the tone of his voice, the syntax of his sentences and that strange, almost imperceptible wisp of Hungarian soothes him like my Irish lady soothes me. And then again he may just prefer his smell. Either way, it’s all right by me. For now, let Dad tell Jonah his life story if it makes him feel easier with himself. I will ask him about it all, sooner rather than later.