Part 11 (1/2)

'You didn't tell me that . . .'

'Didn't I?'

'No, I'm sure you didn't.' She reaches across, puts her hand on my arm. 'Brian, I am so sorry.'

'Oh, it's alright, it was six, no, seven years ago now, when I was twelve.'

'What happened?'

'Heart attack.'

'Oh G.o.d, how old was he?'

'Forty-one.'

'That must have been awful.'

'Oh, well, you know.'

And she's leaning forward now, eyes wide and she's holding my hand and squeezing it, and with the other hand she takes the wax encrusted bottle, and puts it to one side so that she can see me properly.

'Do you mind talking about it?'

'No, not at all,' I say, and I start talking.

121.

15.

QUESTION: Lee J. Cobb, Frederick March and Dustm Hoffman have all played the unfortunate w.i.l.l.y Loman in which Arthur Miller play of 1949?

ANSWER Death of a Salesman.

'Dad was a double-glazing salesman, which is a funny job really, because it's one of those jobs that people think it's okay to laugh at, like traffic warden or tax inspector or sewage worker. I suppose it's because, at the end of the day, no one loves double-glazing. Dad certainly didn't, not after ten years of it, anyway. He was in the army before that, where he'd met Mum and had me. He'd done his National Service, one of the last people to do it, and sort of liked it, and hadn't known what else to do, so he stayed on. I do remember worrying, whenever there was a war somewhere on the news, tension with Russia, or when Northern Ireland was flaring up or something, worrying that he'd be called up, stuck into uniform, given a gun. But I don't think he was that kind of soldier really, I think he was more on the clerical side. Anyway, when they had me Mum put her foot down and said he had to leave the army because she was fed up with moving round all the time, and she hated West Germany, where I was born, so he came back to Southend, and he got the double-glazing thing and that was it really.'

'Did he enjoy it?'

'G.o.d, no. I mean, he must have at first, I suppose, but I think he really grew to despise it. It's long hours, you see, because 122.

you have to catch people when they're in, which means early mornings, evenings and nighttime, so it was usually dark when he got home, even in summer. And I think there was a bit of door-to-door involved; ”Excuse me madam, but are you aware of the huge difference double-glazing could make to your heating bill,” that kind of thing. And I know it was paid mainly on commission, which meant that there was this constant worry about money. Whatever job I end up doing, I never, ever want to be paid on commission. I know it's meant to be an incentive, but it's just an incentive to f.u.c.k up your life, it's working with a gun to your head. It's really evil, I think. Anyway. Sorry. Boring.

'Anyway, he hated it. He never told me he did of course, because why would you, to a little kid, but he must have because he was angry whenever he got home from work; not shouting or punching or anything, but just this silent, clenched, white-knuckled, red-faced rage at the tiniest thing, like toys left out or wasted food. You want your memories of your parents to be about picnics or being carried round on their shoulders, or pooh sticks, or something, but no one's childhood is perfect and all I mainly remember is him arguing in the kitchen with Mum about money or work or whatever, his face all red, clenching and unclenching his fists.'

'That's terrible.'

'Is it? Well, I'm probably exaggerating a little bit. Mostly I remember watching telly with him, if I was allowed to stay up until he got home. Sitting on the floor between his legs. Quiz shows. He loved quiz shows, and nature doc.u.mentaries, David Attenborough, educational stuff, he was always going on about how important an education was, I suppose because he thought that was the key to a good life, to not being miserable, to a job you didn't despise.'

'So, how did he, you know . . . ?'

'Well, I'm not sure exactly. I don't like to ask Mum about it, because it sets her off, but apparently he was out at work, in 123.

some strangers' house, trying to convince them of the benefits of double-glazing or whatever, and he just. . . fell over. Right there, in their living room. I'd got back from school and was watching telly while Mum was cooking tea, and there was a knock at the front door, and some talking in the hall, I went out to see what had happened, and there were two policewomen and Mum was curled up in a ball on the carpet. To begin with I thought maybe Dad had been arrested or something, but this policewoman said he'd been taken poorly, and then they rushed Mum off to the hospital while I stayed with the next-door neighbours, and he died shortly after she got there. Oh, look. No more wine. D'you want some more? Another bottle? I stayed over at the neighbours, and they told me the next morning. Another bottle of Lambrusco please, no, we've not decided about desserts yet, can we have five minutes?

'Anyway. Looking back, I'm not surprised, even though he was only forty-one, because he was just like this . . . knot, all the time. And he did drink, I mean a lot, pub at lunchtime and after work, you could always smell the beer on him. And he smoked about sixty a day. I used to buy him f.a.gs as a Christmas present for f.u.c.k's sake. I don't think I've got a single memory of him where he isn't puffing away on a f.a.g. There's even a photo of him and Mum with me in the maternity ward, and he's got a f.a.g lit up. In a hospital, with the ashtray and a bottle of beer balanced on top of my cot. The silly sod.'

'And how did you react?'

'To him dying? Um. Not sure. Weirdly, I think. I mean I cried and everything, but they wanted to keep me off school, which worried me because I didn't like missing lessons, so that should give you some idea of the kind of swotty, cold little freak I was. I was more upset by Mum to be honest, because Mum really loved Dad, and she was only, what, thirty-three at the time, and he was the only man she'd ever slept with, before or since, as far as I know, and she did take it really, really badly. Oh, she was okay as long as there were people 124.

around, and of course for the first two weeks the house was absolutely crammed - a.s.sorted vicars, and mates of Dad's, and neighbours, and my gran, and aunts and uncles - so there wasn't time for Mum to get too upset really, because she was always busy making sandwiches and pots of tea, and making up camp-beds for these strange cousins from Ireland, who we'd never seen before or since. But then after a couple of weeks they all started to drift off and it was just me and Mum. And that was the worst time, when things had calmed down and people left us alone. Quite a weird combination, a teenage boy and his mum. I mean, you're very aware that there's someone . . . missing.

'And I suppose, looking back, I could have been better with Mum, sat with her and stuff. But I used to hate sitting in that living room every night, watching her watch Dallas or whatever and then suddenly bursting into tears. When you're that age, that kind of thing, grief, well it's . . . just embarra.s.sing. What are you meant to do? Put your arms around her? Say something? What are you supposed to say, a twelve-year-old boy? So in a strange, terrible way I started to resent it. I used to avoid her. I'd just go from school to the public library and from the library to my room to do my homework; there was never enough homework as far as I was concerned. G.o.d, what a creep.'

'How were they at school?'

'Oh, it was alright. Compa.s.sion doesn't come very easily to twelve-year-old boys, not at my school anyway, and why should it really? Some of them tried, but you could tell they were putting it on. Also - and this is really shameful - at the time it wasn't so much about the person who'd actually, you know, died, my dad, just dropping dead at the age of forty-one, or how it was for Mum even, I just thought how it was going to be for me. What's that word? Solipsism or solecism or something? Solecism.

'I suppose it got me noticed though, in a terrible way; 125.

this awful, maudlin kudos, the dead-dad-boy, you know, lots of girls who've never talked to you before, coming up and offering you a finger of their Kit-Kat and rubbing your back. And there was a bit of bullying of course, and a couple of kids took the p.i.s.s, calling me Barnardo-boy, that kind of thing, which isn't even witty, because it's not like I didn't have Mum. But I had one mate, Spencer, who decided to look after me for some reason, and that helped. People were scared of Spencer. Quite right too, because he's a hard b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Spencer . . .'

'Do you have a picture of him?'

'Spencer? Oh, Dad. No, not in my wallet. Why, d'you think I should?'

'Not at all.'

'Back at home I do. If you come back to mine. Not tonight necessarily, but, you know, whenever . . .'

'And you think about him?'

'Oh, yeah, of course. All the time. But it's hard because we never really knew each other. Not as two adults anyway.'

'I'm sure he'd have loved you.'

'D'you think so?'

'Of course. Don't you?'

'Not sure. I think he'd have thought I was a bit weird, to be honest.'

'He'd have been proud.'

'Why?'

'Lots of reasons. University. Star of the quiz team, going on telly and everything . . .'

'Maybe. The only thing I do still think, and I don't know why, because it's not rational, and it's not even technically their fault, but I'd love to meet the people who employed him, the people who made all the money from making him work like that, because I think they're c.u.n.ts. Sorry - bad word. I don't really know their names or where they are now, probably in some big f.u.c.k-off villa in the Algarve or something, and I don't know what I'd say to them even if I 126.

met them, because they weren't doing anything wrong, they were just running a business, just making a profit, and Dad could always have left if he hated it so much, got on his bike and looked for something else, and he would have probably, you know, gone early at some point anyway, even if he was a florist or a primary school teacher or something, it's not like it was criminal negligence, or a mining accident or a fis.h.i.+ng boat or something, he was just a salesman, but it's not right for anyone to hate their job that much, and I think the people who made him work like that, well, I do think they're c.u.n.ts and I hate them, every day, whoever they are, for taking . . . anyway. Anyway, will you excuse me a minute? I've just got to go to the loo.'