Stories We Could Tell (18 page)

Home was always there. All through the night, the trains carried milk and papers and the last of the drunken commuters out to the endless suburbs. You could always get back, no matter how late it was and no matter how pissed you were, you could always get home even if it was only on a train that stopped at every half-baked hamlet on the line.

Ray knew that they had once called this place Metroland – a salesman’s term, a marketing brand name from the first half of the century when the areas north-west of London in Middlesex, Hertfordshire and Buckinghamshire had first been sold to the public as some kind of suburban dream. Ray’s father had bought the dream. The rest of them had to live in it.

The train pulled into a gloomy station surrounded by scrubby fields and an almost empty car park and an estate of box-shaped houses. Ray was the only passenger to get off.

He walked through streets of pebble-dashed semis where everyone was tucked up and dreaming, and paused at the gateway of a house that looked just like all the rest. No lights were on. Good. He wouldn’t have to see his father.

But before he had let himself inside he was aware of a man’s voice coming from the living room. The television? No, it was past midnight, the telly had finished hours ago.

‘The resolution of the British people is unconquerable,’
rumbled the voice.
‘Neither sudden nor violent shocks, nor long, cold, provoking, tiring strains can or will alter our course.’

It was an album. One of his father’s records. Winston Churchill. His dad’s favourite recording artist.

Ray trod lightly down the hallway. The living-room door was slightly ajar. He peeked through the crack and took in the familiar scene in a moment. He saw his father comatose in his favourite chair, the one that faced the TV, an empty glass at his slippered feet. The smell of tobacco and home brew. The LP still turning on the Dansette.

‘No country made more strenuous efforts to avoid being drawn into this war,’
Churchill said.
‘But I dare say we shall be found ready and anxious to prosecute it when some of those who provoked it are talking vehemently of peace. It has been rather like that in old times. I am often asked to say – how are we going to win this war?’

Ray’s father had always listened to this stuff. Even when they were in their flat in Hong Kong, before they lost John and it all went so wrong, Ray could remember having to play quietly at the weekends because his father was listening to Churchill’s speeches, eyes glistening with emotion. But since John’s death, it had got worse. Now the old man was mixing home brew with the speeches. Ray headed down the hall, the God-like voice rolling through the house, wondering how his family could ever be happy again.

‘I
remember being asked that last time,’
said Churchill,
‘very
frequently, and not being able to give a very precise or conclusive answer.’

Ray went up the narrow staircase, his footsteps creaking on the worn Cyril Lord carpet, and he crept past his parents’ bedroom, hearing the sound of his mother’s breathing, and her muttering in her sleep, despite the pills the doctor was dishing out like Smarties, and then past John’s old room, untouched since the day he died, and finally to the room at the end of the hall that Ray shared with Robbie.

He eased himself inside, silently closing the door behind him, and was immediately frightened by the stillness of his brother’s body. Ray knelt by the bed, the palm of his hand in front of Robbie’s mouth, smiling to himself when he felt warm breath on his skin. Then suddenly Robbie was sitting up in bed, gasping with shock.

‘Shut up, dummy,’ Ray hissed. ‘It’s only me.’ Robbie rubbed his eyes. ‘I thought you was a ghost.
Dummy.’
‘Ghosts don’t exist. I told you. And don’t call me dummy. Go back to sleep.’

But Robbie was awake now. ‘Dummy, dummy, dummy,’ he hissed, keeping his voice low. Then he yawned. ‘Why did you wake me up?’

‘I was just checking on you.’

Ray went over to his side of the room, for Ray and Robbie’s bedroom was as segregated as East and West Berlin. Ray’s walls were tastefully decorated with a few select images of the Beatles – a
Yellow Submarine
poster, a
Magical Mystery Tour
flyer and the four big glossy pictures that were given away inside the gatefold sleeve of
Let It Be
, the boys looking beardy and wise. Even Ringo. The posters were fraying around the edges now because Ray was really too old for all that kid stuff. The real John Lennon was waiting for him. Somewhere.

Robbie’s walls were plastered with any rubbish he could get his
grubby hands on, mostly posters given away with the one-shot magazines he somehow persuaded their mother to buy. Bands he probably hadn’t even heard. But mostly pictures of the Jam. Robbie came across the room and squatted by his brother as he flipped through his record collection, looking for his Doctor Who lunchbox.

‘You haven’t touched these records, have you?’ Ray said. ‘No way, José.’

‘Can you stop saying that? Nobody says
No way, José
any more.’

‘What did you do tonight?’ Robbie said. Ray could smell his brother’s clean breath. Colgate Dental Fresh. ‘Did you meet Paul Weiler yet?’

‘I told you. They’re not going to send me to interview Paul Weiler. They’ll get Terry to do that.’ He kept flicking through the records. ‘I was at the office. Then I was in a club with my friends.’ Ray looked at his little brother. ‘And now I’m here with you.’

‘It’s all right for some,’ Robbie said. Sometimes he talked like an old woman. And he was only a kid. Their mum still washed his face with a flannel.

‘What did you do tonight, Rob?’

Robbie shrugged. ‘Watched telly. Did my homework. Counted my pubic hairs.’

‘Yeah? How’s that going?’

‘Thirteen. One fell out. I think I must be moulting.’ Then he almost squealed with excitement. ‘If you meet Paul Weiler – ’ ‘I won’t, okay?’

‘But if you do meet him, get him to sign something for me, will you?’

Ray smiled at his brother in the darkness, and patted him on the shoulder of his pyjamas.

‘Maybe I’ll get Terry to do it. How’s that?’

Robbie rocked with delight, hugging his knees. ‘Wait till Kevin Wallace sees my brother knows Paul Weiler!’

Ray pulled out a fistful of albums topped with
Exile on Main Street
, reached through the gap in the record collection until he felt the leatherette of his old abandoned school satchel. He fished out a scratched Doctor Who lunchbox, flipped it open and pulled out a short, stubby, slightly squashed hand-rolled cigarette. His emergency joint. Robbie’s eyes were wide.

‘I know what that is,’ he said. ‘That’s drugs, that is.’

‘You’re a genius, aren’t you?’

‘Dad will
kill
you.’

‘Then I’ll be dead.’

Then they were both silent, thinking about the room down the hall that no one was allowed to touch, that no one was allowed to enter, and the brother who you were not allowed to mention in this house. The brother you couldn’t even fucking
mention
. Ray thought of those unseen, untouchable walls, dedicated to the glory of Led Zeppelin and Muhammad Ali and Charlie George, and his brother’s strength and kindness, and that country road near the border in Northern Ireland. Ray heard Robbie starting to snivel, and put his arm around his shoulder.

‘It’s okay, Rob.’

‘I miss him, that’s all.’

‘We all miss John. Come on.’

Ray went over to their window and gently pulled it open. Cool air rushed in, the smell of newly cut grass after rain, that summer softness. He could hear Robbie by his shoulder, sucking up snot, drying his eyes. His little brother, being brave.

Ray stuck his head out of the window and lit up, took a long drag and held it. His brother giggled as Ray exhaled.

‘Dad will marmalise you,’ Robbie said.

But Ray already felt better. Seeing his brother, holding the joint. He let the jangled nerve endings relax, felt his breathing slow down, and the anxiety seep away. Finding John Lennon – how hard could it be? He had hours to go before dawn. He took another
hit, narrowing his eyes at all the patches of garden below with their sheds, their flowerbeds, and the occasional bomb shelter.

‘Let me have a go then,’ whispered Robbie. ‘Go on. Don’t be a spoilsport. I won’t tell anyone.’

Ray shook his head. ‘No way, José.’

‘Go on then,’ Robbie said, lunging for the joint. ‘Let me have a go. I’m only here for the beer.’

Robbie had this annoying habit of quoting commercials. Ray held the joint away from him. ‘You’re too young.’

‘I’m almost thirteen!’

Ray laughed. ‘Exactly’

‘It’s okay,’ Robbie said. He fanned the air towards his face. ‘Because I can get high just standing next to you.’ He closed his eyes. ‘I can feel it…I’m stoned…I’m freaking out…’

Ray felt the smouldering roach in his mouth, stubbed out what was left on the window sill and flicked the charred remains into the garden of Auntie Gert and Uncle Bert next door, who were no relation whatsoever. Then he put his Doctor Who lunchbox inside his satchel, shoved it under his bed and headed for the door.

‘You’re not going out again, are you?’ Robbie said.

‘I’m going to interview John Lennon.’

Robbie was impressed. ‘The bloke that was in the Beatles? Paul Weiler likes the Beatles. But they were not as good as the Who – any dummy knows that.’

‘Go back to sleep, okay?’ Ray said. ‘I’ll be back tonight.’

‘Promise?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay.’

Ray waited until his brother had got back down under the sheets, and then let himself out of the bedroom. His mother was standing on the landing, her hair in curlers, clutching a pink polyester dressing gown at the neck.

‘Thought it was a burglar,’ she whispered.

We have spent a lifetime keeping our voices down, thought Ray. Because of him. Because of the old man.

‘It’s only me, Mum. Sorry I disturbed you.’ She was always anticipating disaster. He kissed her on the forehead, her skin as parched and white as old paper, although she wasn’t even fifty yet, and he saw that she was trembling. My nerves, she always said, as if that explained everything. Her nerves had been fine until John died and the quack started filling her up with pills and Dad got into the home brew.

‘You’re not going back out again, are you?’ she said, as if he was planning to climb Everest rather than catch a train back to the city. ‘Do you know what time it is?’

She peered at her gold Timex, but couldn’t read the face without her reading glasses. She held the watch at arm’s length, squinting, but it was still no good. ‘It’s flipping late,’ she said.

‘Got to go to work, Mum.’ He hugged her, felt the frail body. All skin and bone, she would have called it. ‘Please go back to bed. Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I’m always fine.’

He started down the stairs while his mother fretted to herself about the lateness of the hour, and the danger of the world. In the living room Churchill growled on.

Ray reached the bottom of the stairs and then the door of the front room flew open and his father was standing there.

‘We did our duty,’
said Churchill.

‘Where the bloody hell are you going?’ said the old man. Fuming at nothing. As always. ‘You treat this place – ’

‘Like a bloody hotel,’ Ray muttered. A mistake he immediately regretted.

His father’s face reddened. ‘Your lip now, is it? Do you think you’re too big and too ugly for a good hiding?’

His mother had a kind of strait-laced decency, a sense of propriety. But his father had never seemed far from violence, even before his eldest son had been lost. Beyond the net curtains of
their little semi, his father still carried the bite and bile of the South London slum where he had grown up. The old man frightened Ray. Especially when he could smell the home brew on him.

‘I’m going to work,’ Ray said. ‘I’m going to interview John Lennon.’

His mother’s voice called from the top of the stairs. There’s no more Northern Line. I told him. It’s the mainline or nothing.’

The old man shot her a withering look. His contempt, that was what you noticed most about him, Ray thought. He acted as if he despised the people who shared his life. Then he looked back at Ray.

‘John Lennon? That weirdo? That bender?’ Pushing Ray now, starting to enjoy himself a bit. The long-haired beatnik with the mad Chinese bird?’

Ray tried to get past him, but the old man blocked his path. Ray felt weak in his father’s presence. He didn’t want to fight. But his father always wanted to fight.

‘Now we have to do it all over again,’
Churchill said.
‘We have to face once more a long struggle, the cruel sacrifices, and not be daunted or deterred by feelings of vexation.’

That drug addict?’ said the old man.

Ray flared up. ‘Don’t worry, Dad. You can’t teach John Lennon anything about getting out of his head.’

Then the old man had Ray by the lapels of his denim jacket and was swinging him around, banging him hard against the wall, clipping the table that was home to the telephone and some cherished souvenirs, rattling the ornaments that Auntie Gert and Uncle Bert had brought back from Benidorm, the plastic bull and the set of maracas, before he held his son close to his face, screaming at him. ‘And what does that mean? What does that mean?’

‘Nothing!’ Ray shouted, as his mother sat down halfway down the stairs, moaning that her nerves couldn’t take any more, and
Robbie sat beside her and started to grizzle, burying his face in his mother’s pink dressing gown.

‘Tell me what it means!’ Ray’s father bawled.

‘It means you getting stoned every night on your crappy homemade beer,’ Ray shouted back, and felt the palm of his father’s hand crack across the side of his mouth, his bottom lip splitting on his two front teeth, and then everyone was crying, apart from the old man, who released Ray with a snort of scorn.

I’m not fighting you, Dad,’ Ray said, shrinking into himself, leaning against the wall. There was a fleck of blood on the floral wallpaper.

‘Of course you’re fucking not,’ said the old man, and he went back to the living room, settling himself in his favourite chair and pouring himself a glass. The record was still playing.