If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things (11 page)

In the kitchen his wife slaps the hand of the older twin as
it reaches up to where she is pressing out pink coconut sweets. No no no! she snaps, and it is her voice which makes him shrink away more than the passing pain of her hand. She turns and throws her frustration at the backs of her retreating sons, keep out of my way now she says, her voice loud and quick, don’t you come back in here until I’m ready for you and they disappear squealing into the front room and immediately she feels bad for her sharp words. She rubs her hand where it made contact with her son, as if trying to ease any pain he might have. She makes one of the sweets bigger than the rest, and kisses the sugar-pink taste of it before putting them in the fridge to set.

As soon as the boys bundle into the front room their father starts shaking his head and saying no no not in here, not now, your daddy is watching something okay and they press down on his legs, whining boredom and trying to spark life into him, one on either side like a pair of woodpecking bookends, going daddy daddy we’re bored there’s nothing to do there’s nothing to do.

He sighs heavily, a rumbling gust coming from somewhere far down in the roundness of his stomach, and he says boys I said not now, please, go outside and find something to do. It is a big world he says, you can never be bored in this big world he says and he looks each of them in the eye. They stand away from him and sidle out of the door.

Cricket! he calls after them as they disappear, why don’t you play cricket? and he settles back in the settee as Jamie welcomes the next guest back to the studio.

His daughter is still balancing on one foot at the other end of the street, and she sees her brothers leaping out of their front door, the older one wielding a cricket bat, the younger one swinging his arms like a dual-action spin
bowler. She turns away, keeping her flamingo concentration, and she looks at the ground and she thinks about wings.

In the bathroom of number sixteen, the man with the young daughter looks at his hands, he holds them over the sink and looks at them.

They are better than they were.

The skin does not peel so much, and the colour is gradually returning. But still they are in a bad way. The scarring is hard and shiny and new-looking, swirling across his palms like smoke trapped under glass, damaged skin layered across damaged skin. He turns them over, his ruined hands, holding each side of them under the light as though admiring carved wooden artefacts. But he is not admiring. He looks for the small unharmed areas of skin, on the backs of his hands, towards the wrists, he holds them closer to his eyes, looks at the lines and the pores and the few hairs springing out. He examines the buckles and twists of the damaged skin across his palms, the deep split running diagonally across the left palm. He peers at each of his fingertips in turn, at the marbled smoothness of them, each round tip polished and anonymous.

He stands in his bathroom with the door locked, holding his hands over the sink, looking at his hands. The hot tap is running, the water careering into the basin, steam is billowing up around his face, and he is not crying.

There is a knock at the door, a quiet knocking low on the panelled wood, and his daughter’s voice saying daddy I’m hungry now daddy can I have something? Soon okay please the man says, his voice heavy and slow, please ten minutes and I will get food okay? He waits, and he hears that she has not gone away. Please lovey he says, ten minutes okay? and he hears small steps taking her back to her room, and he
closes his eyes for a moment but he does not cry. He turns off the tap and watches the water swirl and still, watches the steam skidding across the surface. He hears boys playing in the street, he hears a mother call a child’s name. He takes a bottle from the open cabinet above the sink and drips iodine into the water, the drops falling like bombs beneath the surface, the inky stings spreading and staining the water, and then he lowers his cupped hands, holding his breath, pushing them beneath the surface, like the sinking of two upturned boats. And the sharp hurt of it makes him clench his teeth, curl his toes, it makes the breath from his nose hiss like the stutters from a steam-engine pressure valve but he keeps his hands there. He keeps his hands there until the clawing pain settles to a throb and he can breathe again and unclench his teeth again and he can begin to stroke the skin of his left hand with the fingers of his right, the skin of his right hand with the fingers of his left.

Outside, the sound of a tennis ball bouncing in the road, a cricket bat banging against the tarmac, boys shouting, music passing in a car with a heartbeat thump.

He follows the contours of each scar under the water, pressing lightly, pressing as hard as he can bear, trying to soften and ease the skin, trying to massage the flesh back into shape. He watches the colour changing as the heat of the water soaks through, flushing and fading under the pressure of his printless fingers, the blood struggling to follow his touch.

He lifts his hands up into the air, the inky water dripping off them into the sink, and his hands are clean but they are not healed. They are still ruined and useless. He pats them against a towel, careful not to rub the roughness against his skin, waves them through the air until they are dry, reaches up to put the bottle of iodine back into the cabinet. As he closes the cabinet door, a mirror swings into sight and flings
him an unwanted glimpse of his face, the sagging mask of it, the familiar wrinkles and twists which mark the face that is not his face. And he looks away, and he opens the bathroom door, and his daughter stands there looking at him.

She says daddy does it hurt?

He says yes my love, it does hurt but it is okay, and he smiles, a small hard crack of a smile, and his voice is thick with it. He touches her on the head, carefully, and he says some food now okay? and she says yay and clatters down the stairs ahead of him.

In the bathroom sink the water sits undrained, cooling, ripples echoing and fading across the surface. A trickle of water weaves its way down the hanging towel, falling away from broken blue handprints, falling softly to the floor.

It was at my grandmother’s funeral.

She’d been ill for a long time, and so when she died I wasn’t much upset and I wasn’t worried about going up for the service.

I took the time off work, I bought a black dress and I booked the train up to Aberdeen.

And on the way up I wasn’t thinking about my grandmother, about sadness or loss or any of those things, I was wondering about what would happen, who might be there, what my first funeral would be like.

I was interested to meet all these people my mother had kept us clear of, to perhaps find out more about the whole Scottish side of the family.

I thought I might find out why my mother had chosen to move so far away and stay there.

It was a long long journey, and I spent most of the time staring out of the window, watching the scenery change as we got further north, buildings and roads giving way to empty swathes of heather and sheep.

The rain began to close in the other side of Edinburgh, the wind lifting the water from the sea and flinging it against the side of the train, the landscape shrouded in a grey veil.

By the time we pulled into Aberdeen it was constant, and I was wishing I’d brought an umbrella.

I met my dad at the station, he touched his hands to my shoulders and said hello, and he drove me to the house of one of the many Scottish relatives I’d never met.

My mother wasn’t there, and nobody seemed to want to mention the fact, she’d said she felt unable to face the journey and that seemed to be all there was to it.

I didn’t even hear anyone asking my father how she was.

It was a small house, and it was soon crammed full of loudvoiced relatives, squeezing into the front room the same way the men were squeezed into their dark suits.

I was disappointed that none of them were wearing kilts.

I perched on the arm of a sofa, sipping the sugary tea someone had poured for me and watching the conversation ebb and flow.

They seemed almost foreign, all bright blue eyes and flushed red cheeks, skin beaten smooth by bitter winds and I couldn’t imagine being related to them.

Someone said and what about you hen, what is it you do, and I had to tell them briefly about the office and the work I did there.

There was a pause, and then a silver-haired man piped up with something about football and the room was loud and full again.

In Scotland the men of the family put the body in the ground.

I hadn’t known this, I wasn’t expecting it, and it touched a place inside me to see it.

Eight of them are chosen, the brothers and cousins and sons, the friends accepted as honorary family, the relations by marriage.

My father was included, and I don’t think he was expecting it either.

I saw him wiping his hands on his trousers and loosening his tie.

They are chosen, and given a number corresponding to a position around the coffin, and given this number on a piece of card which they turn over in their pockets throughout the service, checking it occasionally, putting it back, wiping a pair of fingers across a nervous forehead.

They get called by the undertaker, one at a time, and they move away from their women to the graveside.

I spoke to him about it in the evening, the boy, and he said it was like being called to your place in the way of things.

I knew then that I was going to go to bed with him, when he rolled his soft voice around that phrase, in the way of things.

I watched them that day, the eight of them standing around the grave, legs slightly apart, heads slightly bowed, freshly shined shoes pressing into freshly dug earth.

The coffin was hoisted into position by the bearers and held there for a moment.

Suspended over the open grave.

Poised in the outside world.

And then the men lowered it, slowly, each of them gripping their tasselled rope and letting it pass through their hands until the coffin came to rest.

There was a soft muzzle of rain falling, there was a breathless silence in the air, and it was in that moment that I started thinking about it all over again.

About that last day of summer, three years before, the last day in that house.

The child, at the end of the day, and that moment of shocking inevitability.

The ropes were dropped into the grave, and the men returned to their places, and I tried to catch my father’s eye but he wouldn’t look at me.

It’s called taking the cord he said, the boy, when I asked him about it later.

It’s a real honour he said, a duty, and but it’s a shock as well though.

He said it’s a shock because a coffin with a body loaded inside, it’s a heavy thing you know?

Because even with the eight of you stood around that hole in the ground it’s a real effort to control the descent like it’s not just a symbolic thing he said, and I listened and he had a lovely voice.

And see this he said, see it takes a long time for the coffin to get to the bottom, and you suddenly realise how much of a weight of earth is going to press down upon it, upon this person you’re laying down you know?

He said, and then it really hits you, they’re in a box, they’re being buried and they’ll stay gone, like snug in this press of thick wet earth, and I nodded and found myself saying aye and he laughed and said you going native already?

He said when I put my granda in the ground, it felt like I left a part of me there, and brought a part of it away with me.

He said like the smell of the earth, like the burn of the rope against my hands, like the minister’s voice saying the things.

I said do you want to go for a walk?

I met him after the service, at the wake, in the lounge bar of a local hotel.

He was working there, serving out the food, and later on I got talking to him.

I was sat at a table on my own and he came over to empty an ashtray, and he said you alright there then?

I’d already noticed him, he had blond hair and big shoulders and a very still way of moving around the room.

I’d already smiled at him.

He sat down and said are you a relly then, I said granddaughter and he said oh, sorry, and I said no it’s okay.

I said aren’t you supposed to be working and he said ah
they’ll be alright and he looked me in the eye while I lit his cigarette.

We talked about each other without really listening, I told him about my journey up, he told me about what he did when he wasn’t working there.

Quietly, when no one was looking, we left together.

He took me walking through his city.

We walked up past the railway station and the football ground, up past empty factories and rows of houses built from grey stone, up to where we could look at the city lights coming on and sit and talk.

I wanted him.

It was as simple as that, it was shocking and embarrassing and exciting.

I wonder if I could tell my mother that, if that would be an explanation for her, to say, mum, he was there, I wanted him, that’s all it was.

I’m not sure if that would be enough for her, if she’d understand.

We sat on a wet bench and we didn’t hold hands, and I wanted to feel the rough of his face on my skin.

There was nothing very emotional about it, we weren’t bonding at a deep level; I was looking at his shirt and imagining the buttons scattered to the floor like fallen pennies.

He said shouldn’t you be getting back and I said I’m sure I’ll think of an excuse.

And we went to his house, and we went to his bed, and we spent a long time doing the things.

He teased me about my accent, and I stood on his chest and hit him with a pillow.

He tried to twist my hair into bunches, and I undid the buttons of his shirt.

He kissed my ankles, and my calves, and he lifted up my dress and kissed my thighs and I took down his trousers.

And then suddenly a seriousness came over what we were doing, and I thought about laying my little-known grandmother in the ground, and I thought about that last day of summer, and almost at once we were making love.