The Breezes (18 page)

‘I'm fifty-six years old. It's finished. It's the end of the road.' He pulled the bedspread over his cheek.

‘What are you talking about?' I said. ‘You've got a lot to offer. Why don't you join one of those executive job clubs? Or sign up with a head-hunter?'

Pa suddenly twisted around and looked directly at me.
‘Head-hunter
?
Where do you think we are, Borneo?' He laughed sourly. ‘You look for a job, if you want to,' he said, falling back on to the mattress. ‘As a matter of fact, it's about time you did. I've given it some thought. The days of subsidizing your activities are over. The money simply isn't there any more.' He rolled further over, showing more of his back to me. ‘You're on your own now, Johnny. I'm through with working my guts out just so that you and your sister can live for free. You're going to have to stop feeling sorry for yourself and go to work like everybody else.'

‘I know that,' I said.

He continued as though he hadn't heard me. ‘You sit there moping around all day waiting for I don't know what, inspiration, as though some angel is going to come down and make those chairs for you. Doing nothing, that's what it comes down to. Meanwhile, I'm bankrolling you.'

‘I told you,' I said. ‘I know, and I'm going to look for work. I'm going to pack in the chairs. There's no need for you to pay anything.'

‘Oh, no? What about the flat? Who's going to pay for that? You think I've forgotten that you're supposed to be paying rent for that?'

I said nothing.

‘Johnny, all I'm saying is, time's up. Welcome to the real world.'

‘OK, OK,' I said irritably, rising from the bed. ‘And what about you? What are you going to do?'

‘I've finished with the whole racket. The whole thing can go on without me.'

‘For God's sake, Pa,' I said.

‘For
God's
sake?' He hurled back the bedcover and sprang out of bed in his underwear, the straps of his vest loose on his shoulders. ‘What do you mean, for
God's
sake?' He pointed furiously at the ceiling. ‘You think He's interested in any of this? You think He gives one single damn?'

Suddenly self-conscious, he flattened his hair with his hand and pulled up a vest strap.

‘I've got to go,' I said, as he started to speak.

I went on my own to a bar by the quays and drank beer and
angrily and fearfully thought about Angela, trying, as one drink followed another, to think of a way through all that had happened, to conceive of a turn of events by which the present mess would be left behind and she and I would emerge together, in a different and hopeful place, united. I couldn't.

I also thought about my father. His problem was simple. He was suffering from overexposure to truth.

I thought, Join the club, Pa.

I was drunk by the time I got home. Rosie and Steve were in bed. I walked through the wreckage of the sitting-room to switch on the television; on top of it was a large manila envelope franked by the Devonshire Gallery. I ripped it open. A glossy brochure fell out.

It was entitled
‘THE FALLEN
– Five chairs by John Breeze'. On the left page were two brightly lit photographs of my chairs lying on their sides and casting a dramatic amalgam of shadows. On the right page was a text.

Common, in these oblique – some would say bleak – times, are creations the chief, indeed sole, purpose of which is purportedly to illustrate or exemplify an ideology or thought, no trace of which, alas, is discoverable in the work itself. Thus the vehicle of art, hitherto harnessed to truth and beauty, is hijacked by charlatans, attention-seekers and fraudsters of numberless variety and steered to destruction. This banditry is most harmful in its obscuration of that handful of artists who, unlike the aforesaid impostors, infuse their work with a genuine intellectual and moral content. From time to time, however, there arrives a talent so distinctive and so self-evident that no bogus overshadowing is possible. Such is John Breeze.

These five fallen stools are, first and foremost, beautiful. The graceful steel legs, evocative, perhaps, of the animal world, and the perfect maple seats, individual yet familial, are harmonious and apt. But it is the dimension of veracity which makes these objects other, and more, than furniture. For, while exhibiting every appearance of balance – the tripod is the most ancient and trusty of stands – the chairs cannot remain upright. Raise them up and time and again they tumble to the ground. The result is both true art and art that is true. The fallen, futile stools, pathetic and dysfunctional, at once flawed and possessed
of perfection, are the interrogative, unmistakable icons of our very selves.

S.D.

I pocketed the brochure in my jacket. In the middle of the night I awoke on the sofa, drank cold water from the kitchen tap for thirty seconds, and hauled myself to bed.

I was awoken on Thursday morning by Rosie's loud voice. ‘Come on,' she was saying. ‘Get dressed, we're going.'

‘What? What time is it?'

She pulled open the curtain. ‘Time to get up.'

‘What do you think you're doing?'

Rosie pulled a face. ‘God, it smells in here.' She opened the window. ‘We're going to cheer up Pa,' she said, ‘by treating him to brunch. I've done all the shopping.'

I said, ‘Close the window, will you, you'll let in the flies.'

I pulled on some clothes, lit a cigarette and went barefooted into the living-room.

There had been a transformation. The carpet was clean, the sofa cushions had been plumped, a fresh bunch of daffodils stood pertly in a transparent vase. Even the jam-stains on the wall had been washed down to a pale raspberry shadow.

‘Bloody hell,' I said.

‘Steve did it,' Rosie said. ‘He got up early and did it all by himself.'

Steve was standing at the door of the kitchen, bashfully scratching his neck. ‘Well, this is great,' I said. ‘I'd forgotten how nice this place can look.'

‘Get some shoes on,' Rosie said, picking up a full carrier bag and handing it to Steve. ‘The cab's here.'

Rosie paid the fare. ‘Pa, it's us,' she shouted as she opened the front door. She went into the kitchen. ‘This place is disgusting. Look at the cooker, look how greasy it is.' She removed the gas rings and began to wipe the surface. ‘Now leave, all of you. Steve, go mow the lawn. John, you go get Pa. Tell him brunch will be served in ten minutes. And set the table. Use the silver.'

I found my father by the window in his towelling dressing-gown, looking down at the garden. I went to stand next to him, and shoulder to shoulder we watched Steve bringing the old mower on to the lawn, the blue-painted blades splashed with
rust. Even though the grass was long, in Steve's hands the mower travelled fluently over the ground, each noisy forward drive rhythmically giving forth a full spurt of cuttings, each drawing-back making the same high wheeze. He turned around at the holly tree and, accompanied by the machine's rich summery rattle, in one continuous movement swooped towards the house over the path he had just cut.

Pa sighed. ‘I'll be there in a minute,' he said, still looking out.

Downstairs, I unflapped the white tablecloth, decking it out with the silver cutlery which had come down from my mother's parents as a wedding present. Rosie entered with small purple flowers and put them in a vase on the table. ‘Not like that,' she said, adjusting the position of the knives and forks. ‘Like this.'

By the time Pa descended, now wearing stripy pyjamas under his dressing-gown, the table was crammed with pots of marmalade and strawberry and blueberry jams, with cartons of orange juice and grapefruit juice, croissants,
pains au chocolat
, a pot of coffee, boxes of branflakes and cornflakes, a jug of milk, a full toastrack and white plates festooned with strips of smoked salmon. A crazy, excessive spread. ‘Sit down, Pa,' Rosie said, unfolding his napkin and inserting it into the neck of his pyjama shirt.

‘I'm not really hungry,' Pa said as she left for the kitchen. ‘I'm never going to be able to eat this.'

Rosie returned with a panful of scrambled eggs which she heaped on to Pa's plate, then ours. Then she served up sausages and bacon.

‘Now,' she said, ‘let's tuck in.'

Our father looked with dismay at his plate, then began picking weakly at the soft rubble of his eggs. Rosie poured him a glass of grapefruit juice. ‘Drink this,' she told him.

He took a mouthful.

Rosie said to Steve, who was wolfing down an entire piece of buttered toast, ‘Stop making that noise.' She looked at me. ‘What are you waiting for? Start eating.'

We all ate.

We needed something to talk about. I rose from the table and brought back the Devonshire brochure, which was still in the
pocket of my jacket. ‘Here,' I said to Rosie. ‘Something to make you laugh.'

‘What's this?' she said, beginning to read, and then a smile appeared on her face. She started to chuckle, then coughed on her food. She swallowed and shouted, ‘I don't believe it. I just do not believe it.' She was laughing uncontrollably. ‘Pa, look at what your brilliant son has done.'

Pa read. He tapped the paper when he had finished. ‘Is this it? Is this what your exhibition is?'

I said, ‘This wasn't my idea, Pa. It was Simon Devonshire's. I had nothing to do with it.'

Pa said, ‘Do you believe this stuff? Do you really think' – he paused to quote – ‘that we're ‘pathetic and dysfunctional”?'

Rosie said, ‘Johnny, I never knew you were so deep.' Her elbows banged against the table as she toppled forward with laughter. ‘And there I was thinking you were just a nerdy little brother making crappy furniture.'

Pa was sitting there with an expression of bafflement. I said, ‘Pa, you can't take this stuff seriously. It's just something which has been dreamed up by the gallery.'

Steve, who meanwhile had been reading the brochure, said, 'This is so depressing.'

Rosie said, ‘Steve, we'd all appreciate it if you refrained from being stupid for about one hour. OK? After that you can go back to being dumb.'

‘No,' Pa suddenly asserted. ‘Steve's right. It is depressing. It's depressing because it's true.'

I said to Pa, ‘I told you, it's all bullshit. It's– '

‘It's bullshit, all right,' Pa said, ‘but it's true. Bullshit is the truth.'

‘What are you talking about?' I said. ‘I tried to make those chairs properly. I didn't mean to make them like that.'

‘Forget about the chairs, will you?' Pa shouted. ‘I'm telling you, bullshit is right. Bullshit is what it comes down to. This is bullshit,' he said, gesturing at his gathered family. ‘This breakfast is bullshit.' He was standing up now, tightening the belt of his dressing-gown, swaying slightly. ‘Shut up, Rosie,' he said, as she opened her mouth to speak. ‘You don't give a damn for months, then you come here and make a few sandwiches and a
cup of coffee and everything is supposed to be fine. Jesus.' He pulled his napkin from his throat and threw it on to his food. ‘I can't breathe. I need some air.'

He went to the french windows and, face aflame, struggled with the sliding door. It gave way with a loud crack.

The musical sound of the garden filled the room.

Rosie said, ‘You've broken the window, Pa.'

Pa said, ‘I want you all to go, please. Now.'

Rosie said tremulously, ‘Right, we're leaving,' knocking her chair to the ground as she rose. ‘Steve.'

I said, ‘Come on, Pa, let's not fight like this. It's us.'

‘
Us
?' He swivelled into a brawler's stance, legs apart and fists clenched. ‘What's that supposed to mean? Who the hell is
us
?'

Rosie looked at me, frightened.

Pa said, ‘Well? Well, Johnny? You're so smart, you're the one with all the hotshot ideas, what's the answer to that one?'

‘I …' I said. ‘Pa …'

Steve said, ‘Look.' He was pointing into the garden.

It was the dog.

‘Trusty!' Rosie shrieked, running out on to the lawn. She hugged the animal ecstatically and led her into the house. ‘Steve, get a bowl of water, she must be parched.'

Claws clicking, tongue tipped out of the slack folds of her mouth, Trusty ran towards Pa, who had dropped into a chair, and jumped on to his lap.

He pushed her away roughly and she fell squarely on to her side with a yelp.

‘How can you be so horrible?' Rosie shouted. ‘Come here, Trusty, my darling.'

Pa said, ‘If she's got pups inside her I'm putting them down. I mean it. I'm putting them down.'

‘Here, Trusty,' Rosie said, putting a plate of sausages and eggs on the floor, ‘here, my darling.'

‘Don't do that,' Pa said. ‘If you reward her now she'll just run away again.'

I saw an opportunity to laugh. ‘Pa, not even Trusty would be so stupid as to run away for a week just for a plate of bacon and eggs. She gets that anyway, just by staying here.'

‘Not for long she won't.'

‘What do you mean?'

He sighed and closed his eyes. ‘I'm thinking of selling up.'

‘Selling up?'

‘Selling this place, selling the flat. Selling up. Leaving.'

I hesitated. ‘Where to?'

He sighed again. ‘I don't know, son. Just leaving.' He opened his eyes. ‘I need a change. I need …' He took a deep breath and said hoarsely, ‘I don't think I can take it here much longer. Every time I see the garden, see those flowers, see that tree over there, that hedge even – I see your mother. Or I don't see her. That's the thing, you see,' he said, looking down. ‘I don't see her. I just see a garden.' He snorted suddenly and put a hand over his face. ‘I just see a garden …'

My sister ran over to Pa and held him. ‘Pa,' she said, ‘Ma hasn't gone, she's here, she's right here in all of us.'

He was sobbing now, both hands over his face.

Rosie looked at me furiously. Desperately, I said, ‘Rosie's right. Ma … Ma's right here,' I said. ‘With us.'

Pa was shaking his head. ‘She's gone,' he said.

Rosie said, ‘Pa, Pa,' and she kissed his pale head as his violent, liquid inhalations reported through the room.

We stayed that way for minutes: my father in tears, my sister hugging him, Steve and I just standing there miserably in the awful company of grief.

Eventually, there was an exhausted quiet.

Rosie passed him her handkerchief. ‘Here, take this.'

He accepted it and covered his face with it, patches appearing on the cloth. ‘I'm sorry, kids,' he said, wiping his eyes. ‘I'm just tired. I've really been through the wringer this week. I'm sorry.' He blew his nose, then blew it again. He patted Trusty, who had finished eating. ‘Good girl,' he said. ‘Good girl.'

‘I'll run you a bath,' Rosie said gently. ‘Don't worry about breakfast, I'll clear it all up.'

‘Thank you, my love,' he said. He gulped up mucus. ‘I'm sorry for snapping at you like that. I don't know what's come over me.' He shuffled his feet into his slippers and got up.
‘Thank you for mowing the lawn,' he said to Steve. ‘You've done a great job.'

When he came down from his bath, shaven and dressed in his old track suit, he said, ‘I'm taking the dog for a walk on the beach.' He picked up the leash and clipped it to the dog's collar. ‘I'll see you all later. Thanks for the breakfast.'

The front door made a slam.

Rosie said, ‘Poor Pa.'

I threw her a cigarette and lit one myself. We smoked together for a while without speaking. Then I came out with the news about Angela's role in Pa's sacking. I did not have the strength to withhold the information any longer.

She breathed in her cigarette in silence, regarding the elegant plumes of fumes that flowed from her mouth. Her short hair had been lightened by the sunshine of the last week. She said, ‘You didn't know she was doing this? You really didn't know?'

I shook my head.

Instead of flying into a rage, she looked at me with curiosity and said, ‘It's over between the two of you, isn't it?'

I shrugged weakly. ‘I don't know. I don't know what's going to happen.'

‘Well, think about it. How is she going to be able to deal with us? I mean, what does she expect us to do? Carry on being nice to her as though nothing had happened?'

‘I don't know,' I said. I looked down at my shoes. The soles were splitting away from the leather.

She said softly, ‘I can tell you one thing. I'm not speaking to that woman again.'

There was a thick gasp of blades snagging in grass: Steve had resumed his mowing.

Rosie stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Cheer up, John. The two of you weren't going anywhere, anyway, if you want to know the truth. Water finds its own level.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

‘You're a miserable overgrown teenager, she's a successful businesswoman. That's what that means.' She began scraping the food left on the plates on to a serving dish.

I controlled my temper. ‘You and Steve are hardly the ideal couple either,' I said.

She laughed and turned to look into the garden, where her boyfriend was disentangling grass from the machine. ‘Look at him, the poor darling. Look at that frown on his face. He's not used to concentrating that hard.'

‘He's a total idiot, that's why,' I said.

Rosie, who was holding a pile of plates, stiffened.

‘Look, I'm sorry,' I said. ‘But if you're going to start talking about my life like that, I can do the same about yours. Tit for tat, Rosie. I can't see why you should be the only one to speak your mind. Besides, it's the truth. It's not my fault that Steve's a waste of space.'

She turned to me with glistening red eyes, hugging the dishes to her chest, and said hoarsely, ‘You think I don't know that? You think you need to remind me of that?'

I blushed. ‘I– '

‘What do you think, that I wouldn't get someone else if I could? That I'm turning down offers to stay with Steve? You think that I'm happy with the way things are?'

I kept blushing. ‘I'm sorry,' I said.

She wiped her mouth with her sleeve and went into the kitchen before joining Steve in the garden. She held open a plastic bin-liner while he, wearing my father's old gardening gloves, filled it with handfuls of grass. When the bag was filled they set about weeding together, pulling nettles and other long-rooted intruders from the soil of the flowerbeds, clearing the garden of all blemishes.

I left them to wait for my father. He would be on the beach now, throwing sticks into the grey surf for Trusty to chase, or examining the stranded blue gunk of the jellyfish, or stepping along the black-rocked breakwaters that ran out into the water flanked by red triangular signs warning swimmers of dangerous currents. He would reach the tip of the breakwater and count the ships queuing on the horizon for entry to the port, marvelling, as usual, at the relentless forces of international trade, the thousands of smooth-running charter parties that gave birth to this traffic jam on the sea, and then he would turn around and look at the beach, where ramshackle bars on short
stilts had sprung up for the summer. He would tramp the long way home, a mile over the cardboard-coloured edge of the land, then back through the wooded dunes, keeping an eye out for wildlife behind the barbed-wire fences – pheasants, rabbits, magpies, foxes. The dunes. I used to dig huts and erect tree-houses in those hills with my friends, secret camouflaged retreats where we kept comics and soccer magazines and, in case of emergencies, flashlights and bars of chocolate. They were our hideaways: a cool bolt-hole scooped out in the sand, or a construction up on a bough twenty feet in the air where you would sit with a branch in each hand for balance. Below, the Bird's District, with its neat red roofs and fat perfect trees, would be reduced to a toytown and Rockport itself to a tranquil gathering of towers and spires; above, as you lay horizontal and looked up, the blue, giddying sky. You'd feel like a stone at the bottom of the sea.