Faithless (25 page)

As he watched the scen
es on TV, John felt emotions he could not contain and tears ran down his face.

Later, the girls still asleep, he went through to the bedroom where Karen lay still watching TV. She didn't look up.

"You ok, hen?" he said.

"Sure."

"You don't look it."

"I'm t
ired."

"I know. They're asleep now."

"First time they've slept today. Must be daddy's touch."

"Come through. We're lonely without you."

She didn't say anything.

"I'll make you a cup of tea."

"She laughed. "You think everything is fixed with tea?"

"Not eve
rything. Just the serious things."

She laughed again
– longer this time.

"Fancy a hug?" he said.

She smiled. "I could be persuaded."

"C'mon." he held out his hand, which she took. He led her through to the living room.

"It's too warm in here. It's been hot today and you've still got the fire on."

"I know. For the babies."

"You'll give them febrile convulsions. Turn it off."

He did. "I'll go make that tea. Dr Who's on in a minute. Repeat though."

"You're too old to be watching Dr Who."

"It's just because it'
s escapist."

"You want to escape?"

"Not from you." He gestured to the twins, "and not from them."

She sat down and said "Tea please."

He laughed. "I was thinking of popping up to Edinburgh. Maybe I could take a day or two off work. We could see your ma and pa."

"It's a long way."

"I'll drive. You just relax."

She shrugged. "Ok. The parents aren't much use with them though you know."

"But they'd love to see them."

"Aye, they would."

He slept fitfully and dreamt of his father. When he woke up the next morning, he was still tired. With a strange sense of calm, he took the Tube down to East Finchley - Mrs Thatcher's Constituency -  and walked around the shops looking at the cards in the windows of the newsagents. Eventually he selected a shop that was off the main road and probably did less custom than those on the high streets. He felt furtive as he stood outside looking in the window, and then, as if on impulse darted inside. There was no one in but a Sikh man in a turban he presumed to be the owner. He looked at the rack of magazines - motoring magazines, steam enthusiast magazines, fishing magazines, wargame magazines and of course on the top row the magazines with pictures of smiling topless girls. He guessed the owner thought he was about to buy some pornography.  Instead, he grabbed the closest magazine. It was called Carp Monthly and had a picture of a huge carp in the arms of a well satisfied angler on the cover. He went over the to the owner who took the money and offered him the change. Then John said, "I wonder if you could help me out?"

             
The Sikh man looked bemused and  suspicious. "I will try sir," he said.

             
"I wonder would you accept a letter on my behalf?"

             
The man shook his head. "I am sorry, I do not understand what you mean. Accept a letter?"

             
"I'm expecting a letter but I don't want it to come home. Can I give your address so it comes here and you keep it until I fetch it?"

             
The Sikh man smiled and winked. "Ah yes sir. Is it from a lady?" Then he corrected himself. "I am sorry. That is none of my business."

             
John said, "It's from a lady."

             
"You need tell me no more sir."

             
"I'll pay you."

             
"Of course sir." He said it as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

             
"Is £20 enough?"

             
"Of course sir. Most generous. When will it arrive?"

             
"I'm not sure. It may never arrive."

             
"How will I contact you to let you know if it has?"

             
"You needn't contact me. I will call in every now and again."

June 1984, Edinburgh:
They took the long drive up to Edinburgh with the babies in their car seats in the back and John driving. Karen fed him Malteasers and read out snippets from the Guardian as they went up the A1. Eventually, they pulled up in front of the terraced house in Dalkeith and his mother came out to meet them. Shortly after his step-father William followed, unwilling but dutiful. His mother made a fuss of Karen and went delightedly to the babies as they were unstrapped and handed one to John and one to his mother while Karen got the luggage out of the back of the car.

             
Karen and John were staying in the small second  bedroom with the babies in cots at the foot of the double bed. His mother had insisted on buying pretty little cots, though their trips to Scotland were rare and they would soon outgrow them,

             
They sat down in the living room with its wooden mantelpiece and armies of china ornaments. Little pictures of guardsmen flanked the modern coal effect gas fire.

             
"Is this a new suite Elizabeth?" said Karen as she sat with Morag on her knee. John's mother was sitting in her armchair cuddling Eilidh, her knitting put aside. "Yes, do you like it?"

             
"It's lovely. Very comfortable."

             
"I'll make the tea," said John. "Not that I know where anything is."

             
"Your father will show you."

William Gilroy looked as uncomfortable as John as they walked through to the kitchen. William looked like his life had drained out from him.  He went to the Labour Club on a Sunday night for a drink with his cronies and read the racing pages
on Sunday.  "The tea's in the cupboard," his step father pointed. John got out some mugs and the milk from the fridge.

             
"Did you have a good run up?" asked William.

             
"Not too bad. Not much traffic."

             
"Car running well?"

             
"Yes."

             
"I hear the 1.5l is underpowered."

             
"It does ok on the long roads. Not good at overtaking, especially when you have a full load."

             
"No."

             
"But it's ok on the A1"

             
"Dual carriageway most of the way now."

             
"I wish they'd dual it all."

             
"Yes."

             
Then they stood in silence until the kettle boiled. John made the tea in a teapot. He noticed that the Samovar he had brought back from Russia still stood proudly in a corner of the kitchen – still never used, but fondly thought of. "Our John brought that back from Russia you know," he had heard his mother telling visitors. "Didn't you John?" and then he would have to explain to Mrs McKenzie or Mrs Dimmock why he had been in Russia while they feigned an interest and his mother beamed.

             
When the tea was drunk and his father had gone back to his book about British sea power, John left Elizabeth and Karen to talk about babies. He went upstairs and climbed the ladder into the loft. There were boxes full of his old stuff. He found a couple of Michael Moorcock novels and thumbed their yellowed pages for a second before going into the cupboard under the eaves and pulling out his University Trunk - the one he'd taken to Russia. There were lots of old letters in there from friends – several from Frankton, a couple from Joe in Canada; lots from Karen, some with a  Sedgefield postmark from her time in the mental hospital. There was also some old photostatted course material from his degree and there, faded, was the note from Yelena giving her address. He took it out, folded it and put it in his trouser pocket.

             
He went downstairs and Karen said, "Where did you disappear to?"

             
He shrugged, "I just went upstairs to look through my old stuff."

             
His mother smiled. "He's so sentimental Karen. He'll be looking through old love letters from you."

             
"I've not brought enough nappies," said Karen.

             
"In my day it was the old terry nappies. You have it a lot easier these days. No rows of buckets and pegs and lines of drying nappies. All disposables. I wonder where they'll put them all eventually? Bury them I suppose," said his mother.

             
Karen said, "Would you nip to the chemist's and get me some? They come in packs of 24 or 36."

             
"Aye sure. Is the chemist where it used to be?"

             
"There's a Boots on the High Street," said his mother.

             
"Nae bother. I'll be right back."

He didn't need his coat as it was warm. He walked along the road to the shops were in Dalkeith. He bought the nappies from Boots and then went into W H Smith's where he bought a black pen, some writing paper and envelopes. Then he went and got a coffee in
the greasy formica table café he'd known since he was a boy. It still had squeezy tomato containers for ketchup on every table alongside the vinegar bottle and the salt pot.  John sat and wrote a letter to Yelena, to her parent's address in Lyubertsty. At the top he wrote the address of the Asian Newsagent's in Finchley without any explanation. He wrote several pages, reminiscing about his time in Moscow and saying a little bit about his life in London – mentioning that he worked for the Government in Whitehall. He hesitated but told her about his daughters and that he was still with Karen. And at the end he enquired about Bebur Gelashvili, wondering whether he were still with the Soviet Foreign Ministry and asking him to get in touch. When he finished the letter he left the café and went to the Post Office. There he asked for a stamp for Russia which caused  consternation. The girl at the counter had to look up the price as she couldn't remember anyone ever writing a letter to the Soviet Union. He let her put the stamp on the envelope and post it for him. Then he went outside and put the remaining paper and envelopes in a public rubbish bin on the street. He kept the pen. 

On his way back to his parents house, the nappies tucked under his arm, he was deep in
thought. He hardly noticed the man coming towards him who stopped and stared. John looked up but was still baffled. Then the man said, "John Gilroy? Don't you recognise me?"

             
John looked harder. "Graeme!"

             
"Aye, your old footballin' friend. Remember the days back in the park?"

             
John reached out with his free hand and shook Graeme's  hand.

             
"How are you doing?"

             
Graeme pulled a face. "Since when did you talk English?"

             
John laughed. "I'm living in London. It must have rubbed off."

             
"You big sell out. How ye daein' anyroad Johnnie boy? Long time no see. Ye still wi sexy wee Karen?"

             
"Aye, just had two wee girls. Twins."

             
"You've left it late man. Mine are teenagers now."

             
"Aye, we had a spot of trouble."

             
"Were ye no daein' it reit?"

             
They both laughed.

             
"What are you up to now Graeme?" said John

             
"Ah'm still doon the pit – Monkton Hall. Officially anyway but on strike of course. Still clingin' on by oor fingernails. "

             
"Do you think Monkton's under threat?"

             
"They all are. We don't have long left. She'll shut it - Thatcher will."

             
"Then what'll folk dae?"

             
"Naethin'. There's no much roond here. Ah guess we'll a' be on the dole."

             
"Things must be tough."

             
"They are. Ah probably wouldn't have gone on strike mysel', ken? But ye have tae show solidarity. Ah never thought we'd win. She wants to break us and she will. Hopefully it'll be over soon. What about yersel Johnnie boy? Ye're lookin' sleeker than when we last met. London must be suiting you fine. Lots of money down there. What ye daein' - a City banker or suchlike?"