Crustaceans (13 page)

But slowly Ruth thawed, or seemed to. She resigned herself to him, his place in your life, and though she wouldn't invite him to stay overnight, she accepted his lengthening visits, his presence at mealtimes. She came home early from work to meet him. She curled up on our sofa, a whisky glass in her hand, and listened to his stories, asked questions, and drew from him far more about Liz than I could ever tell her. Then one day, as she bent down to lift you, her top buttons undone, Jim glanced at her and said, How big are you now, Ruth? Your bra size? And frowning, she tutted. I'm not telling you, she said. Jim showed us his car-keys, and said he'd be back, and reappeared five minutes later with a box of white knickers and bras. They were seconds, he said, and wouldn't be missed; he also had some in black. Ruth rummaged through them, glanced at the labels. There's a lot of synthetics, she said, and Jim nodded; he waited. They give me a rash, she told him. Her father was sitting on the far side of the room, his hands on his knees. He splayed out his fingers, gazed down at them. He pursed his lips and looked up. And? he said then. They're no good to me, she replied, and closed the flaps on the box, pushed it aside, discarded this gift as she had so many others. I see, said her father.

He said nothing more, and departed soon after, and as his car pulled away Ruth turned towards me and said, Don't bother, Paul; I don't want to hear it. But I wouldn't be silent; for half an hour then we argued, in the hallway, the kitchen, upstairs as I prepared you for bed. So he left your mum, I shouted; who fucking wouldn't? He left
me!
Ruth yelled; he walked out on
me.
He didn't, I told her; he's still around, Ruth; he always has been. He's a millstone, she said; he's pathetic. He's not, I said quietly. He's the only real grandparent Euan's got. And he loves you, I said. Ruth pouted. She sat down on your mattress. You were busying around us, moving your toys from one place to another, and she held out her arms, murmured your name. She tried to lift you on to her lap, but you tugged at her hair, didn't want to be held, and sighing, she let you climb down. She glared for a moment at me. Alright, then! she shouted, and grabbed for a pillow, threw it into the wall. Alright then, she said, and started to cry.

It was two months before we saw your grandfather again, and he said he couldn't stop long, but brought in from his car another selection of knickers and bras. He set the box down at Ruth's feet. One hundred per cent cotton, he said. Or perhaps you'd like silk? There's silk if you want it. Ruth shook her head. No, she said; these'll be fine. Then, Thank you, she said, and looked out to the street, his car parked next to ours. The boot was still open, his suit in the window. Jim said there wouldn't be any more. His company was folding and he'd have to find a new job. He wouldn't be able to visit so often. Ruth nodded. Euan'll miss you, she said. Then turning to face him, she said, But maybe we could visit you, Dad? Which we did, three or four times a year, and when at last we decided to get married – to make our finances simpler, Ruth told him – Jim and Liz were our witnesses, the only guests we invited.

TWENTY-THREE

My own father was always your
other grandpa,
the one who sent money but never came to our house, who lived far away and was poorly. He's got a bad chest, I told you; he's not very well, and it seemed he required no more explanation than that. On the phone I would hear his labouring breath and the sharp pluck of air as he drew on his cigarettes. Should you still be smoking those? I'd ask him, but of course he wouldn't reply; he wouldn't discuss it. Instead he might ask after Ruth, or change the subject to you. How's the boy doing? he'd say, for it was always
the boy,
and each time I would have to remind him. He's called
Euan,
Dad. Yes, Euan, how's he doing? He's fine, I would tell him, and then describe as much as there was, all I could think of, never quite sure if he was listening, if it was worth going on. Once he confused your birthday with mine, and once he forgot it entirely, but the money was constant, several times every year, and usually cash. We opened a bank account in your name, and sent photos to thank him, later your drawings. We travelled to see him each year in the spring. Yet still he remained as vague about you as you were about him.

Our visits were short – a couple of days at the most – and it was rare even then that he showed much interest in you. He might notice you'd grown, and he always said you were
lively.
But it was only ever Ruth that he wanted to talk to, who held his attention – and of course you couldn't help interrupting, being yourself, until finally I would have to take you outside, sensing Ruth's discomfort, my father's impatience. In the sprawl of his courtyard we would find things to climb on, and places to hide. We'd watch the martins come and go from their nests in the coach-house, and listen for mice, and look for frogs by the river. You would sit behind the wheel of his forklift and pretend you were driving. I'd let you clamber all over his sculptures. But though you often pestered to be allowed inside his studio, the doors would always be padlocked, and it wasn't until our last visit – my father drowsing by the fire, too ill then to object – that I took his keys from the kitchen and said I would show you.

Ruth wandered down with us, hugging herself in the cold. The doors were heavy and loud, as tall as the barn, and wary of waking him, I dragged them just open. I slipped inside and switched on the lights. Everything remained much as it had been, the gas cylinders chained up in pairs, coils of rubber tubing slung from the walls, heaps of scrap-metal piled in the corners. A few bits of sculpture lay around on the concrete, half finished, abandoned, and the benches were cluttered with tools, off-cuts and tins, goggles and earphones. I found a welding mask and tightened the headband. I showed you how the visor flipped up and down. You put it on and tried to walk about in the dark. Be careful, Ruth warned you, and gripped the back of your jumper. You were giggling, pulling away, and for a while I watched you, then sat in my father's old chair, his army-surplus fold-out. On the floor at my side was his bowl, the one he had used as an ashtray, and as I gazed around at his ladders and gantries, the chain-blocks and shelving racks, I remembered how he would smoke as he worked, angling towards his constructions as if hoping to surprise them, a cigarette couched in the palm of his hand, pinched between his forefinger and thumb. Contemplative, he would stand very still, one hand supporting his elbow, the cigarette an inch from his lips. When he was grinding or cutting he would clamp the butt in the side of his mouth. Welding, he'd let it burn out in his bowl. And when at last a piece was completed he would barrel his chest on each inhalation, broadening his shoulders, and smoke each one back to the filter, savouring the last tarry breaths, and slowly exhaling. He'd seem happy enough then to have me around, sitting in his chair, or standing with my back to the vast sliding doors. More often than not he found my presence a nuisance; at least until I was older, until finally I could make myself useful.

He was never ill in my childhood, and it was his smoking, he used to insist, that killed off the germs that gave others their flu, their sniffles. And of course I often had sniffles. At sixteen I would wear a woollen hat in the house to annoy him, sometimes also a scarf. Slouched in front of the television I would lift the neck of my jumper to cover my mouth. I tugged at my sleeves to lengthen them and bunched the cuffs in my fists. I made a point of coughing each time he lit up. And whatever the weather, however warm it became, I rarely left the house without a coat of some kind. I dressed myself from charity shops, the kind of clothes my grandfather would wear – baggy trousers and brown-checked shirts, heavy sweaters and suits, gabardine rain-macs. Susan helped me to choose them; she thought I looked interesting. My father said I looked like one of his students, and it wasn't a compliment, for he was always scornful about the people he taught, even those he used as assistants. He'd find fault with whatever they did; and often they wouldn't return.

It was a few days after I had been to see my aunt Rene that he first asked me to help him. I hadn't yet mentioned my visit, and didn't know how I could, for he was constantly busy it seemed, absorbed in his work, and rarely coming out from his studio. But that afternoon he climbed the stairs to my bedroom and knocked on my door. He said he could use me; it wouldn't take twenty minutes. And I nodded. I was sitting by my radiator, hunched over a book, and with a show of reluctance I got to my feet; I picked up my scarf. Okay, I shrugged, and as I followed him down, my hands thrust into my pockets, I began to rehearse in my mind what I thought I should say to him. He glanced over his shoulder as we came through the doors. He shook his head at my hat. You won't be needing the tea-cosy, he said, and pointed to a pile of clothes on his chair, the ones he kept for his students. When you're ready, he said, and lit a fresh cigarette. He had wheeled a lifting gantry over his sculpture, and positioned a ladder. His welding gear was prepared, and as I got myself dressed – taking my time – he slowly prowled round his studio, touching things, moving things, restlessly smoking.

His work at that time was enormous, as large as it would ever become. Where once the constructions had appeared self-supporting, the welds just sufficient to prevent them from collapsing, now each separate element – too heavy to be lifted by hand – seemed to float on the last, rising almost as high as the fluorescent strips beneath the rafters. There was as much empty space as there was metal, and the next piece to be welded that day was a ball socket, a few hundredweight of rust-coated steel. A short length of chain was looped through it, the end-links secured to a hook, and from the hook a much longer chain rose through a pulley attached to the gantry. The ball was already suspended ten feet from the ground, and he needed me to hold it steady as he made the first weld, my arms stretched over my head, my face averted from the glare and the sparks. He had made a platform of pallets for me to stand on, and I wore a pair of thick gauntlets – the texture like suede, still moist inside – and some boots with steel toecaps, a hard hat and overalls, my own clothes underneath. How are you doing? he called. And though the pallets were shaky, and my shoulders were aching, I said I was fine.

But my cold that day was genuine, and it was awkward, sweaty work, a confederacy of effort. Afterwards, feverish, I tugged off my scarf and let it fall to the concrete. I sat down, and slowly unbuttoned the overalls, and as my father descended his ladder, breathing heavily, his cheeks and neck flushed, I cleared my throat and cautiously said, I went across to Aunt Rene's last week, Dad. He moved his ladder out of the way, and came to stand by my side, gazing back at his sculpture. For some time he said nothing. Finally he patted my back. It's coming together, he said then; I think it's a good one, Paul. He took out his cigarettes and placed one in his mouth, his lips tight and smiling, then held the pack towards me. I stared at the cigarettes, the clean white ends of the filters. I lifted my chin. His gaze was steady, unflinching, and it seemed clear to me then that he'd already spoken to Rene; obvious too that he wasn't going to discuss it. I don't smoke, I said stiffly, and stepped from the overalls. But you can kill yourself if you want to, I said. I laced up my trainers, and pulled on my wool hat. You're off then, he said. I'm going to Susan's, I told him, and as I began to walk away he tossed my scarf after me. Well don't forget your muffler, he said, and gave his sculpture a firm pat, the noise reverberating like an oil drum.

That same sculpture was still in the yard, the texture of the rust and the welds smoothed away, all the surfaces even. He had painted it yellow – the first time he'd used colour – and though he said he'd had offers, he claimed he couldn't allow it to go. It marked a change; it was important to him. But the base now was encircled by weeds, the paint beginning to flake, and it was the one you most liked to play on. I got up from his chair and went across to the doorway. You came to stand with me, and as I looked out at the sculpture I remembered once taking your photo as you attempted to climb it. I'd asked Ruth to hold you, then noticed my father gazing down from the kitchen. And you, Dad, I'd called, but he'd continued to stare, then shaken his head and retreated indoors. He hadn't approved, and so I'd taken several more, and sent him the duplicates. He kept them in a drawer in the living room, and of all the photos and drawings he'd received the only one on display was a picture of Ruth, her hand on his shoulder. Are we ready? she said to me now, and nodding, I touched her arm and led her across to his bowl. What do you think? I said; I was thinking I might keep it. She pursed her lips and said nothing. In the caravan? I said; or my studio. Don't you think you should wait, Paul? she replied. No, I said; not really. I scattered the ashes and butts in a corner, and looked around for a rag, something to clean it. You've no need of an ashtray anyway, she said. Neither has he, I told her, and wiped it with the leg of some overalls. I took his keys from my pocket and turned off the lights. And this isn't an ashtray, I said; not any more.

TWENTY-FOUR

The sea scared and thrilled you. With my jeans rolled to my knees and my shoes round my neck, I once held your hand at the shore-line. The sand underfoot was smooth and compact, or seemed so. The sun was slowly descending. We watched the waves rolling in, breaking then seeping, thinning towards us. You squealed as the surf licked your toes, danced backwards, and I tightened my grip on your hand; I coaxed you into the water. There was nothing to fear. We submerged ourselves to the ankle. But as the sea pulled away so did the ground, it melted beneath us. We curled our toes, tried to anchor ourselves, but we were tilting, losing our purchase. The glinting backwash raced past us. Your hand slipped from mine as you fell. I tried to help you but you wouldn't allow me. Furious and bawling, you stalked off towards Ruth, the wet seat of your underpants sagging. She widened her arms to embrace you, and as the sea lapped again I started to shiver; I heard the noise you were making, and watched as she led you away.