4. Last
Wednesday
“What a mess. What have you two been eating? Here, let me clean you up.”
Cassidy looked at Amelia and recognized goodness personified. She was kind, caring and, yes, needy. She’d simply made the decision that she didn’t need Cassidy. Fair enough. Her choice.
Her loss. He watched from a dutiful distance as she dabbed away with a damp cloth and whispered kindness into her boys.
“Who are you to be so strong?
That you can leave it all behind
Laughing in your sleep
And trusting in the kindness of the world”
Joe Henry. He loved Joe Henry.
“You best be going Peter. Last tube. Bill will be home soon from his squash night.”
Bill had haunted Cassidy’s life for over a year now and he was yet to set eyes on him. He only knew that he existed for sure because the boys put flesh on his bones: “Uncle Bill this. Uncle Bill that.” Not that they’d been given the opportunity to meet; this was the first time he’d ever got past the front door and into Bill’s lair. It was raining so hard that Amelia had dragged the three of them in off the doorstep, sopping wet, and made them all cup of ‘Oxo’.
As a
mid-week treat Cassidy had taken the boys to see their first Premiership
football match; a wealthy parent had offered free tickets for an evening match
at Stamford Bridge; a ‘hot ticket’ too; the London derby; Chelsea and Arsenal.
Perfect, as while Thomas was lukewarm Chelsea, Archie was red hot for Arsenal.
Cassidy frankly didn’t give a shit either way but knew that Archie would be ‘well chuffed’, a saying that he
confessed to picking up from his Uncle Bill. The promise of seats in the
Director’s Box never materialized. Cassidy had hoped for air-conditioned
warmth, some of those fabled prawn sandwiches and perhaps a glass of chilled
Chablis. What he got instead were two hours of ‘April Showers’, a gristly pie
and a polystyrene cupful of ‘Oxo’. Beef stock, for Christ’s sake. What was all
that about? They sat sodden, huddled close, surrounded by Neanderthals who
looked like they should’ve been ringing the bells of Notre Dame. What was all
that inane chanting about? Tuneless dirges, much macho pointing and
gesticulating at opposing fans, strange hand signals that mystified both he and
the boys.
“Ah,
the sweet smell of the testosterone”, sighed Cassidy.
The
man directly in front of them turned around and glared. Christ, a fucking Troll, thought Cassidy.
“What did you say?” demanded Troll
menacingly.
“I,
ah, I said that we’re not having much luck in goal. We’re lacking in the, erm,
goal department…” Cassidy smiled weakly and scrutinised the ads in his match
programme.
Troll
scowled at Archie’s Arsenal shirt and grunted “Facking Gooners”. The crowd
roared, Troll muttered “twat’ and
turned back towards the pitch, refocusing his bile on a skinny bald guy in
black, frantically waving a flag. Waving? Most probably drowning; April
frickin’ showers.
“Offsidemyarseyouwankingarsewipe”
‘Wanking
arsewipe?’ Cassidy saw that one register with Archie; knew it was destined to
become another breakfast time question.
The
game was frenzied with much slipping and sliding. Even a bewildered and
disinterested Cassidy recognized that it was a wash out, a damp squib; two
teams desperate not to lose, two defenses so brutishly efficient that any
offensive creativity was thuggishly stamped out. Literally. And there was too
much posturing and petulance for Cassidy’s taste. Chelsea’s number 9 was
particularly annoying. He arched his back theatrically whenever a yellow shirt got
within spitting distance, rolling around in agony until he realized that no one
was watching him. Then he was back onto his feet, straightening his hair band,
and waving his arms about. And then it seemed like he was asking the referee
for something to eat. When nothing was offered he threw his head back in
pantomime laughter and waved his albatross arms again.
“If
that big African flaps any harder he’ll take off”, said Cassidy to his cold
pie. “Role models my ass.”
Troll
turned and glowered again; Cassidy buried his nose deep into his cold cup of
Oxo. Troll had taken his shirt off, revealing an artless tattoo that spanned his
shivering shoulders. ‘Blue is the Colour’. Bloody right if it gets any colder
thought Cassidy.
Number
Nine swan dived spectacularly in front of goal and was dutifully admonished by
the referee with more theatrical semaphore.
“Stickonpenalty.
Wotyoravingafackinglarfrefyatossertwat”
‘Tossertwat’?
Cassidy
thought of his father’s boating buddies who fished off the Eastern Arm of Cape
Cod; how they loved their weekend clambakes on the beaches of the South Shore;
how they cursed with humour and eloquence as they pitched their Sunday
horseshoes, while clams and mussels and lobsters cooked in a pit over heated
stones. Those boys could curse; the perfect words pitched perfectly, just the
right side of an inviolable line. There’d be no offence taken as non was
intended, for their sacrosanct oaths were laced with kindness and affection.
There was no warmth from these cruel fuckers, no blue collared beauty, no
‘sing-song’, no irony; just ugliness and discord as they strung
expletives together without syntax or meaning. Witless… twats.
He’d had enough. Cassidy grabbed the boys roughly by their collars and pushed them towards an exit.
“There’s twenty minutes left Dad”
“You’ve got school tomorrow Archie”
“But we might miss a goal Dad”
“Move it kiddo”
As they made their way along the Kings Road towards the tube station the stadium erupted.
“Goal” Archie scowled, kicked at a can and drifted ahead of his father.
“Go and walk with your brother Daniel.” Misery loves company thought Cassidy eyeing Archie’s pigeon toed gait. Both he and Amelia had worried that he might need ‘special’ shoes. They had seen a
podiatrist who assured them that they had nothing to worry about, then tried to
sell them two hundred pounds worth of prosthetic insteps. Nothing to worry about? Cassidy couldn’t remember when he’d last
had nothing to worry about. The specialist was right in Archie’s case. He’d
developed into a much-prized ‘leftie’,
a southpaw so ahead of the pack in his ‘Sunday Soccer’ class that Coach Johnny
had to hobble him. “Right foot only for you Archie” he’d shout from the
sidelines, then joke with Cassidy about Daniel’s two left feet. “Shame that
he’s a ‘righty’.”
As
they approached Fulham Road tube station they passed a Greek kebab house and
Cassidy offered an olive branch. The boys always talked in hushed tones about
their classmates’ revered post match ritual of Donner Kebabs and Red Bull.
They’d pass on the Red Bull but, why not a kebab? What Amelia didn’t see
wouldn’t harm them.
Cassidy
winced as the boys swamped slices of pressed lamb with sweet chilli sauce, more
greasy gristle. At least there was salad involved with this particular culinary
delight.
“Just
don’t tell your mum.”
And
now here he was, in Bayswater Bill’s kitchen, all high design and fine line. No
sign yet of Amelia’s homely hand he noted with silent satisfaction.
“What
have you been feeding them Peter?”
Daniel
stood pristine but the evidence was everywhere on Archie, his face plastered
with red sauce, dried tomato emblazoning his chest. Christ there was even a
salad leaf stuck to the back of his neck. The boys glanced towards him, then
back at their mother before bowing their heads. Amelia puckered her brow and
closed one eye, as if sighting Cassidy down the barrel of a gun.
“Right,
I’m off. Don’t want to miss that last tube.”
He
missed the last tube but that was no biggie, it had stopped raining and the
evening was now calm and balmy. As he strolled towards the nearest bus stop
Cassidy thought about the ugliness at the football match. He really had to put
a check on his… utterances. They were going to land him in trouble. But then
some things needed to be articulated.
Maybe he had a ‘special need’ but surely there were other folk who felt the
same way, acted the same way. There was a term for the perennial weepers of the
world: ‘for crying out loud’, so why not one for overactive thinkers. ‘For
thinking out loud’ didn’t sound quite right but…. it wasn’t as if he had
Tourettes for Christ’s sake, it was
just that sometimes he needed to hear
his thoughts, needed to give them substance. The same reasoning caused him to
catch his reflection; in shop windows; strangers’ spectacles; the back of
spoons; in the windows of this red double decker as it pulled up in front of
him. No vanity, just the need to check that he
was still there.
Cassidy
sat on the top deck in a front seat from where he could monitor his journey
home. The bus was empty except for a couple to his left in the adjacent front
seat, nursing a baby. Cassidy watched them in the reflection of the bus window;
she a pretty sparrow, hand in next-door’s pocket, a stranger looking bird. They
wore matching black quilted anoraks, she clutched the little bundle to her
breast, his hood was up, arms folded tightly across his chest. He wore
thick-rimmed spectacles that magnified his eyes. He blinked erratically and
seemed agitated; kept tapping at his mouth with his fingers. The girl took his
arm. “I love you with all my heart sweetheart, love you like my baby.” She
nuzzled the infant’s brow. “You’re my first and second accidents you are” she
chuckled, “I’m still waiting for the third. Good things come in threes”, she
added absently, leaning her head against the man’s shoulder. He chewed his
cheek and whispered something about Alaska. Cassidy narrowed his eyes and leant
towards their reflection.
“I
need the coast, the taste of the ocean”, the man continued. “In Alaska you can
sit and count your emotions, get to understand your emotional… geometry. It’s
wild and cruel, but a wonderful place…” he looked towards Cassidy and lowered
his voice “Of course you need to be prepared;
need to take care. You can never
really trust nature, but it’ll never
let you down.” The man put a clenched fist into his open mouth and ground his
shaking knuckles into his teeth, a peculiar tic. Cassidy could see that, although
he spoke like a sage, he was really no more than a boy, nineteen or twenty. The
girl seemed older, maybe in her late twenties. She pulled his twitching hand
towards her chest to calm his agitation; placing it tenderly on the back of the
baby’s hooded head. She cooed and gently rocked, holding them both close,
smelling their skin. She smiled towards Cassidy’s frozen reflection and he
noticed that she had a hair lip.
“Investment
is for fools”, continued the boy “and praying is for martyrs. And money… money
is for spending. I say leave nothing behind.” The boy’s speech seemed archaic,
tautly rehearsed, reminding Cassidy of an old time preacher. He sat upright
abruptly, pushed the hood back off his head and ruffled his thick greasy hair
with both hands. “You’ve got to live your dreams or you watch them die. You
bend or you break with that simple truth.” He leant towards the baby,
whispering now. “You know I didn’t want this. It was a shock to me, seeing how
careful we were with contraception and all but…” he put his fist to his mouth
again, and, again, the girl soothed him.
“I‘m
glad that we didn’t… get rid… that salt and water method your mother swore by.”
His trembling voice was almost inaudible now. “I watch her when she sleeps. I
do. I breathe for her, listen to her little heart beat.” Cassidy could feel his
own heart beating as he watched this strange little unit fussing over their
child. Was it time for changing? Was it time to feed? This little bundle was
probably all that they could ever hope for; maybe all they’d ever need. They
fell into seeming sleep and there was silence, an almost biblical quality to
the scene, until the boy broke the spell with another one of those odd
convulsions.
“This
is us sweetheart”, the girl sang out moments later, and they rose to leave. She
stooped to pick up her bag, leaning so close to Cassidy that he could smell
talcum powder.
He
looked into her cradling arms.
Nylon
hair, perfect plastic toes.
The
couple shuffled past him apologetically.
Cassidy
could barely breathe.
