Beatlebone (5 page)

I think you should go on, John.

Really?

What harm in it?

Well…

It might take you out of yourself, John.

I suppose it might.

Night drags itself across the hills like a weary neighbour, acheful and slowly, one drugged foot at a time, and he takes—himself wilting—to the dead father's room. It is a room hushed with odd feeling and the boards creak beneath his monkey feet. As he settles between the ice-cold sheets, there are streaks of grey light still in webs across the Maytime. He drags a curtain against the world and sky. The ocean is out there, too, and moving—he can hear it as he puts his head down, and he wishes again for love and home. He falls at once to a heavy, troubled sleep.

Why should I run the way that I run?

He wakes to an unknown darkness. He is unsettled by a dream. Its shapes hold for a moment but fade as quick. He comes up to himself slowly, as though through dark water. He is in the dead father's room. Okay. There is a wardrobe full of old suits. It sits there like an accusation. All burly-shouldered and dour, this wardrobe. Now this was a life here once, as though to say. The arms and the legs of it. He feels that meek in its presence. He sits up in the bed. The wind rises and moves through the house again. He gets up from the bed and parts the curtain and looks on down the night. It is so clear and all the stars are out. He looks on down the sky, the way it falls away from the mountain, the night-blue and gasses, which is tremendous to a man in his T-shirt and shorts at four in the morning. Oh but that fucking wardrobe. The wardrobe is a presence in the room.

Don't be scared, John.

He goes to the wardrobe. He runs his hand through the suits in there. It gives a shivery feeling. He takes one out. It is very old and heavy. A word appears in his mouth—worsted. An old-fashioned word—two slow farmer syllables.
Wor-sted.
West Country farmer. Pebbles in the mouth.
Wooor-sted.
The material is a silvery blue in the night. The suit looks as if it would be a fit or just about.

Death be good to him, he says, and he slips an arm into a sleeve. He shucks the other in—it's perfect. He tries the trousers and they go on just right, too. He tries out the voice in a whisper then—

Well?

He is up the hills. He has a black collie with a patch eye. He has a great knobbly blackthorn stick. The dog runs the edges of the field that fall down to the stone walls and sea. He whistles for the dog. He can hear him come back through the long wet grass. He can hear his panting and the parting of the grass. The bay beneath is so placid. He pulls back the wardrobe door for the mirror inside, for the dark-stained silver, and he stands before it, and cries—

Darkie! C'mere, Darkie!

Cornelius appears in the doorway and is pale himself as the risen dead.

John?

Yes, Cornelius?

How did you know the dog's name?

Look. There is nothing for it, John. It's half past midnight and the clock doesn't lie. Sleep is shot and sleep is done for. You have the whole house woke. We'll have to go out for a while. There is nothing else for it. We'll go and have a few drinks and try relax ourselves.

At half past twelve?

They'll only be getting going above in the Highwood, John.

Above in the fucking where?

There is a show tonight in the Highwood, John. There will be all sorts of people to play music there. We must go tonight to the Highwood, John. We'll breathe in the music and the cold-starred air.

And Cornelius has taken down the moon—hasn't he?—with gleam-of-eye and giddying snout and his touch on the wheel is delicate as the spring, here a soft tip, there a glanced tap for each swerve of the road as it runs the country and turns.

Oh this is the knack of it—John can see clearly now—the carefree life, and he envies him the spring.

And before we know it, John? The summer proper will be in on top of us and the woods will be whispering.

Fuck the whispering woods, Cornelius. Just get me to my fucking island.

But he is snagged again; he turns helplessly.

How'd you mean, about woods?

Cornelius beams—

There are things we can't describe, he says.

Go on?

What we see around us is only at the ten per cent level, John.

Of?

The reality.

And what's the leftover?

Unseen.

How'd you mean?

Well, he says. The way sometimes you'd walk across a field and a sense of elation would come over you. Are you with me?

Okay…

You're half risen from the skin. The feet are not touching the stones. The little heart is about to hop out of your chest from sheer fucken joy. And the strange thing about it?

Go on.

That patch of happiness could be floating around the field for the last ten years. Or for the last three hundred and fifty years. Out of love that was had there or a child that was playing or an old friend that was found again after a long time lost. Whatever it was, it caused a great happy feeling and it was left there in the field. You're after walking into it. And for half a minute you're lifted and soaring but then you're out the far side again and back into your own poor stride and woes.

You'd find a sadness just the same?

Or an evil, John. Or a blackness. Or terror, John, or fucken terror, because there's plenty of terror in the world. Always was and has been.

A soft whisper—

I mean take a look out the window.

A sweep of the arm for the greys and sea-greens of the moonfull hills, the pale night as they pass by—

I mean why'd you think I've the fucken foot down, John?

In the darkness of a sudden valley the van is brought to a halt. Its engine ceases apologetically. Cornelius raises delicate business—

The suit is fine. I'll say again I'm inclined against the running shoes. But here…

He presents a tub of hair cream:

A pawful of this gentleman, John.

He greases back his hair. He checks his look in the rearview. He arranges a fag in the corner of the gob for a spiv's face, a nylon-dealer's—he has a Second War face.

Take the spectacles off, John. Thank you. Now try these boys for me?

Bloody hell.

My poor dead father's prescription-issue. The misfortunate man couldn't see his own hand half the time nor the plate in front of him.

The lenses are so thick the world comes down to just blurs and vague shapes. Everything is abstracted. He climbs out of the van. He is close to moving water. It is a warm night in the Maytime. The dark water laps. He looks over the tops of the glasses and examines his reflection in the van's window. Cornelius climbs down for an inspection also and at once chokes back a sob.

John?

Yes, Cornelius?

You're the fucken bulb off him.

Your name is Kenneth.

Kenneth?

You're home from England. You're the first cousin on my father's side. You don't talk much.

Oh?

On account of a brutal speech impediment.

And what does K-K-Kenneth do in England?

He works in a car factory in Coventry and is married to Monica and does the pools of a Saturday.

Look. We are all terrified, John. There is no mystery to it. If you weren't terrified, there would be something wrong with you. The world is a hugely uncertain fucken place. Things can go either way and at any time. Step out of the bed in the morning and there is no guarantee you will step back into it the same night. The whole of your life is up in the wind and it might take off in any direction. We are all terrified at least half the fucken time. So what matters? For a finish? If we are all terrified and if it all ends in hell and misery and roaring fucken death anyhow? I'll tell you what matters. How you hold yourself is what fucken matters. How you walk through the world is what fucken matters. The set that you have of the shoulders. That's what matters. Is the chin held up in the air and proud or is it sunk down on the chest like a frightened little pup? That fucken matters, John. It's all a gamble. We have no control. We have no hope. We haven't a prayer against any of it. So throw back the shoulders. Comb the hair. Polish the shoes. Never let a plain girl pass by without compliment. Keep the eyes straight and sober-looking in the sockets of your head. Look out at the world hard and face the fucker down. And listen at all times, John. Do listen to what's around you.

Cornelius?

Yes, John?

When was it you adopted me?

The shyness of the smile; the fondness in the eyes—

I'm not sure when it was exactly.

The van is parked by the roadside. John is all angles in the phonebox. He is getting an earful. Cornelius passes into the phonebox the 5p pieces and the 10p pieces—John feeds them to the phone like prayer tokens.

Across the ocean the signals travel and their voices.

At length Cornelius shakes his head and makes the sign of a slit across the throat.

Because sometimes, John, a man has to attend to matters he has been called to.

The ground beneath them feels hollowed out and deep.

And the season is at its cusp, as if this is the night precisely that spring will give way to summer, as if it is all arranged in advance, at celestial council, and the world soon will throw back its doors and open out its moments.

It becomes for him a sedative night. The world moves slowly on its chains. Car lamps range their lights all over the mountain—the lights are thrown slowly and move. A breath of wind moves the trees as softly and the hedges. There are people aiming for the Highwood from just about everywhere. They tunnel into the dark by their lamps.

The sky above is starless and discreet behind clouds, and along the flank of the mountain the van moves quickly and climbs. Cornelius slaps down a cassette for mood—a heartbroke voice picks sentiment from the air and yodels it dreadfully.

Cornelius?

Ray Lynam, John. That's what I'd call a fucken singer. The way he holds the note and wouldn't be caught looking for it? Superb.

They leave the heavy airs of the sea behind. They are headed for the Highwood. It is lost somewhere in the hills.

The worst thing you can have, John, is an empty night in front of you. You're as well to fill up the nights always.

He unscrews the lid from a bottle of Powers whiskey and passes it.

Tip the glanced wheel, the road is turned; John takes a beady sip.

Now, Cornelius says; the wheel is tapped.

And the lamps bring up the graven rocks and the gaps in the hills and the great ferns that blur in the light wind, and the wind this high holds a thousand voices, trapped.

What's the feeling you'd get hereabouts?

Better not to ask, John.

Bleakish?

It would incline you to open your wrists in a running bath.

Oh?

There was never anyone who was right around this stretch.

It's not just me then.

The van moves quickly and climbs.

There's one of us as badly off as the next always, John. That's the great happy thing to remember in life.

Empathy—oh send me just the one song.

They come at last to the Highwood. It is by the edges of a lake. It is set on a plateau. It is patrolled by skinhead crows grey-booted and stern. It is encircled by great pines. It is attended by ghosts but they are his own and not sombre. There are a few habitations strung out and about like misplaced teeth but they invite no questions. There is a long, low-sized pub that wears no signage. Strings of coloured lights spill gaudily from the pub. Cars in grievous repair are not so much parked as abandoned around the edges of the pub. The van is set down to keep company with them. There is a squall of dreadful music from inside the pub.

At quarter past one?

It'll be filling up soon enough, John.

The music from the pub is made of jangled strings, mania and a flute.

A throng of drinkers spills also from the pub. They have the look of difficult people. They are all elbows and accusation. Cornelius with satisfaction kills the engine and sighs.

Keep yourself to yourself, John, and you'll find this is a very discreet house.

The drinkers appear to be related or at least of a tribe. There is commonly a ranginess and a long-limbed look. There are eyes dark, deep-set and impenetrable. Feet have the tendency to be planted quite widely, as of gunslingers, or sheep shearers.

These are decent people, John. These are lovely, warm-hearted, respectable people. They'd have no more interest than the wall in poor apes out of bands.

They pass through the lake's air and time. They approach the evil pub. They dip for a low entry. They enter a groan of voices in the dim—

I see you have a nice little throat on you, Kenneth? When you get going at all?

He drinks some whiskey and laughs and he drinks some more. He takes a pint of stout in his hand. He has a nip of brandy. The world is just blurs and vague shapes. Mouths talk at him. Eyes come close. Night colours fill the hoods of eyes. He talks to a young man who looks like an old man and says he's a doctor.

Doctor Carl O'Connor, he says, rather grandly, and presents a firm, clean shake.

Our problem here, he whispers, and I speak from harsh experience, Kenneth, is the lip. I mean take the continental. The continental will enjoy a glass of wine with his supper and some pleasant conversation and then very happily go home for the evening. But the Irishman is familiar always with the concept of the lip. Are you with me?

I think I am.

The Irishman will have a glass of wine with his supper and it will be lovely but then he will say, oh fuck me now anyhow! Oh Jesus Christ almighty! I have the fucken lip on me now! And that'll be it for the night, Kenneth. He is gone.

You mean there's no “off” button?

Precisely so.

The night fractures and folds in.

There is a hefty chap with a voice that sounds like gravel in a bean can, and he has only the one ear.

What's happened your other?

A badger got it, Ken.

Oh?

I was put out of my own mother's house on account of drink and the false accusation that I had masturbated into the fireplace after she had gone to bed one night. I had nowhere left to live. This went on for five months. May to September.

Like a romance.

It was no romance, Ken. I was sleeping in sheds. I was sleeping in the car park of the Regional Hospital. I got rickets and a bleeding ulcer out of it. I could keep down nothing stronger than milk.

You're not doing so bad now.

Well. Wait till I tell you. It was the way the ear went on me that turned my entire life around like a miraculous transformation. You might think there was drink involved but there was no drink involved. What was involved was buck fucken madness. On the night of the badger.

They move in shadows, don't they?

Well this is it, Ken. But if I hadn't come through that dark night in that field I wouldn't be stood here talking to you now.

Bodies move; the night shifts.

Someone sings a bit from the Beach Boys for half a minute—

Well it's been building up inside of me

for oh, I don't know how long.

Which is all he fucking needs, and for a moment the pressure of his sadness is vast on the note that holds.

Are you not so great in yourself, Kenny?

No, I'm not so great.

I thought as much.

He sits tightly in a corner and keeps his eyes down. The measure of the note that holds is brokenheartedness. Bodies sway; teeth sing. Smiles twist on gappy mouths. Heavy scowl lines show by the grimace and the grin. He watches a mandolin player collapse into himself and get carried out sideways.

Argument goes through the musicians like fire.

The burly landlord says—

Right. Be done with ye. A pack o' cunts.

And he turns on the radio instead.

Kate Bush is away on her wiley fucking moors still.

He calls to the landlord—

What's the station?

Luxy.

They like their K-K-Kate Bush.

Cornelius passes by and bites a woman's neck as he passes and she squeals and slaps.

Now, Cornelius says. Aren't you delighted?

The night fractures; it folds in.

There is wild talk that the singer Ray Lynam might show—he is known to be in the vicinity.

An older lady sits and clings to him for a while, auntishly. She carries a waft of marmalade and brandy. She tells him that she is out with the sister—her bird-like fingers claw at his forearm—that she hasn't talked to the sister in nine years, a nine years that is now lost to them—her nails dig into his skin—and there is no sign of a thaw—none whatsoever—and what it all goes back to is that she came down pregnant, the sister, and I said a stupid thing. Sometimes, Ken, a stupid thing can be a true thing but even so you shouldn't say it. I said is the child his? Referring to Ronnie. Well. Six months later didn't the yellow-faced child step out from her. And there was no prizes for guessing where that came from. Out of him from the fish farm. Out of him out of Belfast. Out of him in the denim the yellow child was spawned. Out of him with the big ignorant mouth on him and the same buck not knee-high to a fucken midget. And of course Missy hasn't spoke to me since. But what harm? Is there call, when you think about it, Kenny, for us all to be mouthing away at each other like fucken goats, morning, noon and night? Would it not be better for us all to shut up for a while and ease off on ourselves? Hah?