Fiction
The Good Son
The ambulance won’t be long Mother …
The Good Son
Father was a straight talker, wasn’t he mother? Look what he wrote on the back of this photo.
‘Aden — what a shit hole’ and then the date, February 1952. This photo was taken the year I was born and the ink hasn’t faded. It’s a snap of the port, shot from the deck of HMS Glory.
Father took his camera everywhere. I missed him when he was away. When he left home for that posting, the year was as fresh as the young queen’s face.
Do you remember mother? He always came home with gifts; a souvenir for me, a bottle of Chanel No 5 for you. I thought it made you smell cheap, but you loved it. Father was full of stories about the people he’d met and the countries he’d visited, wasn’t he? I looked forward to seeing his photos of far-away places. I remember the times I spent with him in his dark-room in the basement. He called me his assistant. “Good boy, Arthur,” he’d say, as I pegged the wet photos onto a string as they came out of the trays. I can smell the vinegary odour of the stop-bath now, it clung to our clothes for hours.
He and I would sit at the dining table and I listened to father’s stories as we stuck the images into this album — he bought in Japan. See, it’s the one with the lacquered bamboo cover and intricate gold leaf design. He wrote a note, in white pencil, under each photo, a reminder of when and where it had been taken. The album’s so old now it smells of damp, with a whiff of camphor from being stored in the old wardrobe.
I can tell you now, but couldn’t back then — he said, “Don’t tell your mother Arthur, but the light from the red bulb in the dark-room reminds me of pretty girls and drunken nights in Hong Kong.” I wonder what would you’d have thought of that, mother, if you’d known?
Father soon grew restless at home, didn’t he? Always eager for his next adventure. He thought England dull. Do you remember, mother? When he was posted away, we came up here and waved him goodbye. He left the house by the front door, the only time it was used. He walked to the bus stop around the corner, his canvas seabag on his back.
He crossed over the street so we could see him right to the end of the road. Every few steps, he looked back and waved. Do you remember, mother? You said: There goes your father, handsome in his uniform. Say, bye-bye daddy. Wave bye-bye. When he got to the corner, father turned around, stood to attention, saluted, blew us a kiss, and then he was gone.
Father hated it up here in the attic. He said the view from the third-floor was mediocre at best. Do you see this crack in the frame? That was made when he banged a large nail in to stop the window being opened, he was worried I’d climb out. And this air bubble in the glass? Both are older than me. I remember them always being here, like the bed, the table, the dresser…I’ve watched myself grow old in this mirror. Look at me now, mother. I’m getting balder, greyer — bags under my eyes…
I love this window, mother. I’ve looked out of it, for some part of the day, for each of my 71 years. No-one else can see what I can from my perch in this eyrie. On a fine day, the odd flicker of sunlight startles through the glass. This window has framed my life. I’ve stood here and watched while you and father tended the garden. You’d wave to me as father cut the grass, and carefully made a scallop-edge to the lawn. You planted colourful borders of gladioli, pansies and roses. I can’t remember the last time the grass was cut. Such a shame, the plants have been suffocated by a tangle of brambles and nettles. I suppose it gives the neighbours something to tut about, doesn’t it?
Do you remember when I was little? You climbed the three flights of stairs up here to the nursery. You stood at this window, holding me in your arms, while Nurse had her tea. You sang to me, whispered your secrets into my ear, and pointed out the characters who populated your world. You’d point your long red nails and say: there’s Dr Lewis at No 9, hello Dr Lewis, wave to Dr Lewis. He’s long dead now mother.
He was a lovely man…you always said he was a lovely man. And, mother, there’s no Mrs Billings at number two now, they moved away in the 80’s, not that you’d remember. She had a temper to match her colouring. She was twice the size of her husband. Do you remember him, mother? He was our bin man. He always had a fag hanging out of his mouth.
You never liked the Baker brood at number eight, did you? You thought their manners vulgar. You said they deserved a good hiding. Good children are seen and not heard…one thing you and Nurse agreed on. They’ve all grown up and moved on. Nothing much has changed, except for the people. Just strangers on the street now, mother. Nameless nosy-parkers, complaining about this and that, always interested in other people’s business.
I’ve watched the world come and go through this window, mother. Waited for hours hoping to see father turn the corner. When father was away, Uncle Colin called on you, didn’t he? Do you remember? I stood here and watched him roar up the street on his Triumph Thunderbird. He swept into the house with his cheery, “Hello, Arthur, my boy. Hello, Hilda my lovely girl.” I hated his visits. I hated them even more when it was the weekend and he stayed over. You didn’t allow me downstairs when Uncle Colin stayed over, did you mother?
Who was Uncle Colin, mother? Where did he come from? How did you know him? Was he really an uncle, or one of father’s friends? I’ve never worked out how he knew when father was away. “Our little secret,” you said of his visits. “No need to tell your daddy.” One day, Uncle Colin came, went, then he was never seen again, was he? We’ve never spoken about that, have we mother? You were never the same after Uncle Colin disappeared. And then…father died.
The year father died, you and I were here at the window, as usual. I remember waving him off. We didn’t know it’d be the last time we’d see him. He never saw England again, did he? A car accident, in Aden of all places. A shit hole he said. They buried him out there, somewhere, such irony.
You cried for Uncle Colin, didn’t you mother? You cried even more after father died. In fact, you’ve cried into your wine glass every day for the last forty years. You needed a man, you said. You needed to be looked after. You said: You won’t leave me Arty, will you? Of course not, mother, I said. And here I am. Still here.
Look mother, help is on its way. A first-response ambulance car has pulled up outside the house. Its blue light is luring the neighbours from their homes. They’re gathered on the opposite side of the road, whispering, nodding towards the house. A paramedic is taking something out of the boot. She knows it’s an emergency and to let herself in.
She won’t be long mother, you see I did ring 999. I said I would. I explained what happened to the operator, a well spoken lady she was…calm, efficient. I explained I’d made you your favourite sandwich for tea. I told her you looked at me and said, “You’re a good son to me Arty, you look after your old mother so well.” I said you took a bite or two of the sandwich, but it went down the wrong way, and you began to choke. I told her you coughed and spluttered, you thrashed around a bit, knocked your tea-cup over and the tea went everywhere. I said you couldn’t breathe. What I didn’t tell her — and I know I should have — was, that I’d waited half an hour before I rang 999. Just in case, you know. I wanted to be sure. It was such a relief when you gave up trying, and stopped breathing. I felt the weight lift from my shoulders. You did enjoy your egg and cress sandwiches though, didn’t you mother?
