The Breezes (14 page)

‘It isn't right, Johnny. I should have a
say
in what happens to me, I've earned it with my own sweat. I've given nearly half my life to the Network.'

I said nothing. Pa said, ‘And they're telling me it's redundancy. Johnny, there's no way that my job is redundant. What are they trying to say, that there's no need for a Network manager? That there's nowhere else they can fit me in? I'm a railway man through and through, John, I worked my way up from the bottom, there isn't a job in that organization that I can't do.'

‘Take them to court, Pa,' I said proudly. ‘Show them that they can't treat you like this.'

‘It's these outsiders that Paddy Browne brought in. Corporate advisers, or whatever they are. Browne's trying to palm the responsibility off on to them. The Network's merely following their recommendations, he says. Here,' Pa said, handing over the letter of dismissal. ‘But what I say, Johnny, is that these people have to work with the information they're given. And who was giving them the information? Browne. Browne was. Whereas me, I didn't even get to meet these people. I don't even know who they are. I wasn't consulted,' Pa said again. ‘I wasn't consulted once.'

I looked at the letter. Pressing business needs, it said, necessitated a radical restructuring of the Network. An independent external report recommended severe cost-cutting. Unfortunately, this unavoidably entailed a degree of decruitment …

Pa gave me another piece of paper. It was headed, in his writing,
PLAN OF ACTION.
‘You see, I've got a battle plan. I'm not going to rush into anything without first having thought it through. If you're going to take on an outfit like the Network, you've got to have a strategy. It's no good just charging in head-first; you've got to do it step by step.' He rolled his sleeves down and began to button them at the wrist. ‘They're going to find out, with a nasty shock, exactly who it is they're dealing with here.' He said, ‘If they think that I'm just some pushover who'll gratefully pocket his severance money and go away, they're sorely mistaken.'

I studied the plan.

GOALS? REINSTATEMENT. STRATEGY? UNFAIR DISMISSAL PROCEEDINGS/NEGOTIATED SETTLEMENT THEREOF. COST-EFFICIENCY? GOOD. TIME-EFFICIENCY? ADEQUATE. DOWNSIDE? TIME, MODERATE EXPENDITURE. ALTERNATIVE? COMPENSATION. TIMETABLE? 1. SEE LAWYER. 2. ISSUE PROCEEDINGS. 3. CO-ORDINATE WITH UNION ACTION. 4. ENCOURAGE OTHERS TO SUE.

So this was Pa's quick response to the problem. Mark Q. Fincham would have been proud of him.

I saw him waiting for a reaction. ‘This is great,' I said. ‘But do you really want to be reinstated? Don't you just want to take the money and run?'

‘No,' Pa said emphatically. ‘I'm not interested in the money; I'm interested in my job.'

Hiding my doubt, I said nothing to this.

‘You wait and see,' he said. ‘I'm going to make them take me back.'

I changed the subject. ‘No sign of the dog, I suppose?' I said.

‘Nope,' Pa said, checking the sliding door he had fixed. ‘But she'll be back. She knows her way home. You can drop a dog a hundred miles away and still it'll make it back.' He pushed at the sliding door and bent at the knees. ‘Don't you worry about Trusty, she'll be fine.' He caught my eye and slowly straightened, groaning cheerfully. ‘I tell you what. If you're concerned about it, why don't the two of us go down to the dogs' home tomorrow, to see if she's turned up there? OK? Meet me here at ten.'

‘OK,' I said.

‘You're looking a bit down in the mouth,' Pa said. ‘Is everything all right?'

‘Everything's fine,' I said. ‘I'm just a little …' I shrugged.

‘What's the matter? Is it Rosie? Is something wrong at home?'

I shook my head. ‘Nothing's wrong. Everything's fine.'

‘Are you sure? Johnny?'

‘Sure I'm sure,' I said, laughing. ‘I'm just tired, that's all.'

‘Just as long as you're not worrying about me,' Pa said, as he resumed his work on the door. ‘You just think about yourself.
At your stage of life you've got to look out for number one. Concentrate on your chairs. You finished them yet?' I nodded without enthusiasm. ‘That's great,' my father said. ‘Did you know that I've got about twenty of the guys coming to the exhibition? Now that half of them have been laid off, they won't have any excuse not to come. And with their golden handshakes, they may even be able to buy something. No cloud without a silver lining, eh, Johnny?'

I could just see it: twenty awkward, brown-suited ex-middle-managers turning up at Devonshire's with my father at their head, all searching for a nonexistent exhibition. ‘I've got to go,' I said. ‘I'll see you tomorrow.'

‘Why don't you come around tonight for a bite to eat?' Pa said. ‘Bring Rosie, too. She can bring Steve if she wants. I'll cook some steaks.'

‘I don't think I can, Pa,' I said untruthfully. ‘I'm seeing Angela.'

‘Well, tell her to come, too. She's always welcome, you know that. Besides, I haven't seen her for ages. How is she?'

I said, Good. Pa said, ‘I'll leave it up to you. If you two want to come by, come by. If not, that's fine too.'

I did not go straight back to the flat. It was a hot day and I had nothing to do, so I decided instead to stroll around the neighbourhood in case there was any sign of Trusty. I did not share Pa's faith in her homing instinct. I knew that dog. She didn't know her ass from her elbow.

So I walked around the blocks that embodied the Rockportian dream of order, an undilapidated world of immaculate gardens, freshly painted frontages, upkeep and more upkeep, and kept a look-out. It was clear, from posters newly displayed on the windows of houses, that I was not the only one being vigilant. The posters, depicting a large eye peeled open against an orange backdrop, were the sign of the neighbourhood watch scheme and, judging by the number of eyes that stared unblinkingly down on the street, the whole community was on red alert, as though wild beasts and not harmless pets roamed abroad and these flawless, peaceful streets were sinister as jungles.

There was no sign of Trusty anywhere, of those black and
brown ears dangling in front of the sturdy, stumpy little body with the raised white-tipped tail, whippy as a car aerial, the sad, red-rimmed, sagging eyes, the neatly tailored rows of nipples. I tried the gardens, I tried the streets, I tried the field where she had been jumped on that first time by that police dog and where I had played my first games of football. There were still youngsters out on that grass today, still using jerseys as goalposts and still arguing furiously, as I had at their age, about the height of the nonexistent crossbar which connected the nonexistent uprights.

For no apparent reason, the train has stopped in some cutting in the middle of nowhere. All that is visible is a steep, grassy upslope topped by the blue slat of the sky.

The old lady says, ‘We're not there already, are we?'

‘No, madam, we're not,' the man says. ‘The non-stop express,' he says, ‘has stopped.' He stands up, opens the window and fruitlessly cranes his head outside. ‘The very least they could do is tell us what the problem is. But of course they don't. They just leave us here to rot in ignorance in their stinking carriages. I mean, just look at the state of this seat, look at all this dirt. When was the last time they washed these things?'

The carriage door opens. It's the conductor.

My fellow traveller does not miss his chance. ‘Excuse me,' he says loudly, ‘what's the reason for this delay? How long are we going to be sitting here for?'

The conductor shrugs. ‘I don't know,' he says. ‘We've got a red light, that's all I can tell you. It could be anything.' He takes my ticket, a weekend return to Waterville, and stamps it.

‘Well, why don't you find out? Or is that asking too much?'

The conductor looks the man in the eye. ‘Listen, pal, I've told you what I know, all right? There's going to be an announcement soon, OK?' He turns and walks away.

I get up before the man can speak to me again and leave for the smoking compartment. I light a cigarette, blowing the smoke through a window.

When I got back to the trashed flat from Pa's on Monday afternoon, the answering machine was waiting for me with five red winks, one wink for every message. The first message was from Steve. ‘Uh, hello, it's me. I'm down at the police station. I'll be here for a bit yet. I …' Steve stopped talking evidently because he was being spoken to. ‘OK,' I heard him say. Then he said, ‘Hello? I–' and was cut off. He had run
out of coins. Typical. He couldn't even make a telephone call without screwing up.

Then I thought, Police station? Steve had been
arrested
?

I became aware that Simon Devonshire's voice was speaking. ‘John, I'm ringing about the chairs, which I received this afternoon. I think we've got a problem. Could you get back to me straight away?' The next message was his, too, as was the next. ‘John, get back to me on this, urgently,' Devonshire repeated abruptly. ‘I mean it.'

The last message was from Angela. ‘John, this is me. Sorry about last night, I couldn't … I'll explain later.' She paused, allowing in background noise; she was ringing from a callbox. ‘We need to talk.' Again there was a commotion. ‘I'll ring you. Bye.'

For a second I felt a strong relief: she was fine, thank God. Then there was anxiety. Why had she sounded so shifty? Since when did we need to talk?

I called her at work. This time I got through.

‘Where the hell have you been?'

‘I've been working, Johnny. It's been awful.'

‘Well, why didn't you call me? I waited for you all of last night.'

‘I couldn't,' Angela said. ‘I was in a meeting the whole time. I'm sorry, Johnny'

I said flatly, ‘I don't understand it, Angela. I don't understand why you couldn't make one simple call. It just doesn't make sense.' I waited for her to respond. She didn't. I said, ‘What the hell is this job, anyway, that you're working on it for the whole of a Sunday night?'

She was silent. She began to say something then stopped.

I felt a pang of nausea. She was hiding something from me. I loved her and she was lying to me.

I said, ‘What did you mean when you said in your message that we needed to talk?'

She hesitated. ‘Well, we haven't been seeing much of each other recently and I thought that, well, you know, we should meet.'

‘Well, I've been ready to meet for the last month. You've just never been around.'

Angela sighed. ‘I know, I know, it's my fault.'

There was a pause. I said, ‘Look, never mind. Why don't I meet you at your place tonight? I'll cook some pasta and maybe you could get a bottle of wine. We'll have an evening in, just the two of us.'

‘Darling, I can't make it tonight. I'm going to some thing with clients. And then from tomorrow I'm away for three days.'

I was too hurt to say anything.

Angela said, ‘My darling, I'm so sorry. I was thinking that we might see each other on Monday.'

‘What, next week? That's seven days away, for Christ's sake. Are you saying that you can't fit me in in the next seven days? Is that what you're saying? Angela, what the hell is going on? Are you seeing somebody? Is that it?'

‘Don't be like that, Johnny,' she said. ‘Look, I've got an idea: why don't we meet tomorrow lunchtime. I've got half an hour. We'll have a sandwich at the gym. OK? Meet me there at one o'clock. OK? Johnny?'

‘Yes,' I said, and I hung up abruptly. I waited for her to call back, but she didn't.

Devonshire did, though, and as soon as I heard his voice I hung up.

I picked up my cigarettes and went out. I didn't want to be around when he rang back again.

I decided to go to the police station, which was only a five-minute walk from the flat, to see what kind of a mess Steve had got himself into now. A worrying thought had occurred to me. Maybe it was Steve, finally pushed over the edge, who had smashed up the flat. Maybe Steve had hurt Rosie.

I spoke to the officer at the reception desk. ‘I'm looking for Stephen Manus,' I said. ‘The name is Breeze. I live with him. He rang me from here.'

The policeman looked at his paper and scratched his goatee thoughtfully. ‘I'll check,' he said finally.

I waited standing up. Moments later a door opened and a group of bedraggled men emerged. They were, I saw, Rockport United supporters, almost certainly the ones who had rioted after the game. Judging by their sheepish demeanour,
red eyes and dirty T-shirts, these men had spent a night and a day in the cells and their indocility was well and truly exhausted. I moved aside from the reception window as they obediently scribbled forms, their signatures ornate and unintelligible, like the signatures of children.

The receptionist returned. ‘We've tracked Mr. Manus down, sir,' he said. ‘He's helping us with our enquiries at the moment. You'll have to wait a few minutes until his interview is over.' He looked at the United fans, who had remained uncertainly in the lobby. ‘All right, lads, you can go home now.' They trailed out. ‘What a bunch of losers,' he said.

I sat down on a hard bench and lit a cigarette. Helping the police with their enquiries. Shit. Everybody knew what that meant.

‘Johnny.'

I looked up. From a door to my left, Steve had come in. A brown stitched-up gash ran diagonally from his eyebrow to his hairline.

‘Jesus, Steve, what's happened? Are you all right?'

He took a cigarette from me. ‘I'm fine.'

‘Why are you here? What have you done?'

‘I haven't done anything. I'm a witness,' he said, pronouncing the word with solemn emphasis. Seeing my confusion, he began to speak quickly, grinning in his excitement. ‘I went out on Sunday evening to get some milk, right? So, anyway, I'm coming back and about twenty yards from home I see this bloke running out of one of the houses on the street, number 6 I think it was, and he's carrying a hi-fi or something. I don't know why, but I can tell immediately that he's a burglar, so I approach him and, well, I jump on him just as he tries to get into his car.' Steve tapped his cigarette. ‘I thought, you know, that I might, you know – make a citizen's arrest.'

‘A citizen's arrest?'

‘That's right,' Steve said. ‘Anyway, he hit me and I fell and knocked my head.' Steve pointed at his head. ‘Then he legs it down the road and then, I don't know why, I run after him.'

‘You
ran
?' I couldn't imagine it.

‘Yes,' Steve said. ‘So, I catch up with the guy – don't forget, he's carrying his gear – and then' – here he hooped his arms –
‘then I sort of tackle him.' He took a drag of his cigarette. ‘So the two of us go down, and this bloke lands face-first on the hi-fi he's carrying, and suddenly it's like he's really bleeding and lying there moaning.' Meanwhile, I'm bleeding as well, and so there's blood everywhere. Then before we can move, this police car arrives and picks him up.'

I shook my head. ‘Steve, what can I say? That's amazing. To be honest, well, I never thought that …' I abandoned the remark. ‘Fantastic,' I said. ‘Well done. So, last night you were …'

‘In hospital. Because of this,' he said, pointing at his scar. ‘Sixteen stitches. I should have rung, I know, but …' He made an apologetic movement. ‘I suppose Rosie must have been worried?'

‘You could say that,' I said, thinking of the flat.

At this point, a woman in a track suit who had been loitering within earshot for some time approached Steve and said, ‘I'm sorry, but I couldn't help overhearing what you were saying. I'm from the
Rockport Crier.
Would you mind if I asked you some questions?'

‘Well,' Steve said, smiling coyly, ‘I'm not sure you'll find it very interesting.'

The woman laughed. ‘Don't worry, we'll make it interesting,' she said. She extracted a portable telephone from her handbag. ‘Do you mind if I call our photographer?'

Steve raised his eyebrows in excitement. ‘Wow,' he said, ‘no.'

The reporter brought out a pocket tape-recorder and the man in my sister's life told his story again. Shortly afterwards, the photographer arrived, and after a short conversation with the reporter it was decided to wrap a bandage around Steve's head for dramatic effect. Steve did not mind. They lined him up outside the police station and photographed him standing there like a war hero.

That is how, the next day, a photograph of a smiling Steve, a tussock of hair sprouting above the head bandage, appeared in the
Crier.
There was an accompanying caption.

MAN OF THE MONTH
. Have-a-go hero Steve Manus, 29, who on Sunday single-handedly grabbed a dangerous burglar in north
Redrock. ‘It was nothing,' Steve said last night from hospital. ‘Anyone else would have done the same.' The Crier disagrees. Jobless Steve showed the kind of gallantry this city badly needs. That's why we're making him our Man of the Month. Well done, Steve!

The headline read,
TO CATCH A THIEF
.

The train groans and moves forward a few feet before stopping again. I throw my cigarette stub out of the window.

Headlines.

Here's another one for the scrapbook:
FREAK LIGHTNING KILLS WOMAN
, 34.

She was wearing a pink track suit. She was running across the town square on the way to the gym. There was not so much as a drop falling from the sky.

I light up another cigarette. The train still isn't going anywhere.

I read the piece about Steve on Tuesday morning, on my way to meeting Pa to accompany him to the municipal kennels. When I rang the doorbell of the house there was no response at all. I went around the house into the back garden and saw that, up on the first floor, the curtains of his bedroom were still drawn. He was in, it seemed, but for some reason he was not answering. I went in through the back door, using the key he hides under the third flowerpot in the shed.

I found him in the near-darkness of his room, lying as usual on his side of the bed, my mother's vacant half still topped off by two separate unwrinkled pillows. Although his eyes were closed, I could tell he wasn't sleeping.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Pa,' I said softly. ‘Pa. The kennels. We're supposed to be going to the kennels. To look for Trusty.' There was no response. He remained completely motionless, his eyes bunched shut into purple knots, like blackberries.

Eventually, I said, ‘I'm going to go down and make us tea, OK? Pa? Then we're going to go. OK?'

He didn't answer.

I went down and made two cups of tea and a couple of slices of toast just the way he liked them, with thick-cut marmalade.

‘OK, come and get it,' I shouted up. ‘Breakfast.' But he did
not come and get it; there was no heavy, flat-footed descent of the stairs and no subsequent slurping of tea, no annoying clinking of the spoon in the cup.

I went up with the breakfast on a tray.

‘Have some of this,' I said. I touched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Come on.' I started to drink my own tea to encourage him. ‘Have some toast, it's getting cold.'

But again, he just lay there. On the wall over his bed were the yellow Post-it stickers upon which he had scribbled down the brainwaves which had occurred to him in the nights, rough jottings which in the light of day never did justice to the flickering and boundless notions they sought to capture. All the same, my father has persisted with them, these mistranslations of his dreams, hopeful that one morning he will awake and simply peel from the wall the solution to his conundrums.

‘Pa?' No answer.

So this was it, his first day of unemployment. The fighting spirit he had shown the day before was revealed for what it was, the short-lived euphoria which a misfortune of special purity can occasion. It had finally happened: the punishment had taken its toll and at last he was out for the count. I looked at him, a shapeless bulge under the bedclothes. When, watching Muhammad Ali fighting Joe Frazier as a kid, I had said to him, ‘Pa, you could beat them, couldn't you? Couldn't you, Pa?' he had replied without hesitation, ‘Of course I could. Your old dad could lick those guys, no problem.'

‘Look, you just take it easy,' I said to him. ‘I'll go to the kennels on my own.' I fished the car keys out of his jacket. ‘I'll be back later. All right?' There was no reply, and so I got up to leave.