Afterwards (6 page)

– She says he didn’t want to be with her either. She’s probably right. After I was born she sent him a letter. To say I was a girl and what I was called, and he never wrote back.

Alice shrugged and Joseph waited for her to go on, watching her while she held the inner tube under the water, looking for the leak. Her fingers were dripping when she pulled the tube out, so he grabbed a tea towel from the back of the kitchen door for her.

– It’ll get filthy.

– Doesn’t matter.

He didn’t want to go off looking for a rag and hold up the conversation. Looked like it was hard enough for her to say all this without interruptions. Alice dried her hands and then the tube and chose a patch from the kit. Still nothing.

– He never got in touch? Your Dad.

She shook her head. She didn’t look at him, just at what she was doing.

– He never got curious enough. That’s how it seemed to me anyway. I spent years going on about it with my Mum. She wanted to keep me, and she said it was her decision, pretty much. Took it out of his hands. But then,
he let that happen, didn’t he? Never made contact. So I thought he didn’t want anything to do with me.

Alice spread glue onto the patch, frowning concentration, then she put it to one side and looked up at him.

– It was probably just a relief. For my Dad, I mean. He was nineteen and he wasn’t in love. No one was pushing him or asking him to take responsibility. I don’t know.

– You can’t blame him for turning his back?

Alice looked up at him, like that was a harsh way to put it, but then she smiled. Self-conscious.

– Yeah well, maybe. If it wasn’t me he was turning his back on.

She picked up the tyre again and Joseph thought about his own mum and dad, both of them teenage parents. But they’d wanted to be: got engaged, saved up, so it didn’t compare. Still, listening to Alice, it was hard not to think of his dad and what he did for them. Years of night shifts, and he’d wanted to be a cabinet maker, like his grandad was, only the apprenticeship was a long one and you couldn’t keep kids on apprenticeship money. That’s what he’d said when Joseph asked him about it. Like it was something you didn’t have to think about, just obvious: no point moaning, just get on with it. Alice was still watching him, as if she was thinking, and then she said:

– I had a hard time understanding my Mum. Always so bloody fair when she talked about him. My Dad never helped her look after me, or supported us financially. But Mum said she had all the help she needed, from
Gran and Grandad. I suppose she did. I think Mum always wanted me to get in touch with him, basically. She didn’t want me to be angry with him on her account. Didn’t want that to stop me.

Joseph had thought maybe Alice wrote her dad a letter: the first time they’d talked about this, he’d thought that was what she was going to tell him, but then she’d stopped. She was quiet again now, looking for the mark she’d made on the tube, so he said:

– He doesn’t still live in that squat, does he?

Alice looked over at him and laughed.

– No. He doesn’t.

Then she held out the patched tube for him to hold while she wiped the splashes off the floor and poured away the water. Joseph pressed his thumb down onto the sticky rubber and listened to Alice describing her dad while she worked, things he’d told her in his letters. He was a doctor, a GP. Had a surgery in Bristol, same place he went to university. He was an astronomer too, amateur, had a telescope in his garden.

– I don’t know. I just really liked the sound of him.

She didn’t always like reading his letters. He never said sorry or why he hadn’t got in touch, but he’d wanted to know about her: his first letter came three days after she’d sent hers, and it was a long one, nearly four pages. He asked lots of questions, and when she did the same, he wrote a lot about himself in return.

– I thought that was more important, you know? Finding out about each other. I didn’t want anything to get in the way of that, not so soon in any case.

Alice sat down by her bike again, opposite Joseph. Said they wrote to each other about work, because they had that in common: debating the NHS cuts and squeezes, the good and the bad in policy changes. She was retraining at the time, for post-operative, and enjoying it.

– Much more interesting than where I was before, in antenatal. You see people more often and for longer too, over weeks. Get to talk to them about more than just what hurts and what doesn’t.

Her gran had been the one she usually talked to about work, but her dad was better, his knowledge was that much more up-to-date, so Alice wrote to him about hip replacements and her spinal patients.

– I told him I like walking, so he wrote to me about good places he knew. I drove out to the Mendips after I got that letter. Borrowed Martha’s car. Middle of the week, so he wasn’t likely to be out there. I wasn’t even sure he was a walker, but any middle-aged man I came across in hiking boots had me thinking about turning and running. We hadn’t talked about meeting up yet. I mean, I wanted to bump into him but I didn’t want to look like a stalker, did I?

Alice smiled a bit, and then she said the address he gave her was his surgery. They’d been writing for months by then, letters going back and forth every few weeks, but she still didn’t know where he lived. She found out she’d
been writing to his work because he never gave a phone number, and she’d called directory inquiries.

– Makes me sound so desperate.

She shook her head.

– Maybe I was. I had to wait weeks between letters sometimes. I know it took me a while to reply too. Wasn’t always easy to write, but waiting was worse. I never knew for certain I’d get more.

It wasn’t residential anyway, the address, so Alice told the woman to check under business instead.

– I couldn’t not ask him, could I? Why he didn’t want me writing to him at home.

Alice picked bits of glue off the ends of her fingers. Joseph watched her pulling the words together.

– So that was all I wrote in the end. Just that question. He’s married. They don’t have kids. Maybe they couldn’t, I think that’s what he meant. His wife doesn’t know about me, anyway. He wrote back and said he wasn’t sure how to tell her yet. I thought that meant he was going to, but I don’t know now.

Joseph held the wheel steady while Alice fitted the tyre again. When that was done she said:

– I brought you a picture anyway.

– Of your Dad?

– Yeah, well. You were asking, so I thought you might like to see him.

She went over to her bag and dug it out for him. Joseph thought he was getting a doctor in a shirt and tie, but it was an old picture, in a little plastic pocket. There were a few of them on the photo, her mum’s friends at university. All of them with the same hair, long and in need of washing, the blokes too. Sat with their backs up against a wall, the steps of someone’s back door, Joseph thought it was the squat maybe. Bare feet in the long grass in front of them, a couple of wine bottles open, leant up against their knees. Alice pointed to him, one along from her mum.

– I’ve always wondered if I look like him. People say I’m like my Gran, but I’m not really. Same hair, same colour eyes, but that’s as far as it goes. And I don’t look a bit like my Mum.

Joseph looked at her mother’s face in the picture and thought Alice was right: her mum was all dark and round. He looked at her dad, and Alice laughed.

– No, you can’t tell from that.

He was a student, all scraggy beard and glasses, so much on his face you couldn’t get past it. He did look young, but Joseph didn’t want to say that, in case it sounded like he was making excuses for him. The same age his parents were when they had him. It wasn’t getting her mum pregnant that Alice was upset about anyway, as far as he could tell. The guy wasn’t too young to be her dad now: that was the problem.

– I sent him a photo of me. Should have waited before I did that, probably, but I wanted to push him, you know?
I thought he might send me one back, but he never wrote again after that.

Alice put the picture away in her bag again.

– When did you send it?

– A year ago, a bit more than. It was after Gran got ill.

She was trying not to sound too sad, and Joseph couldn’t understand that. He thought she should have been angry, like she was before she started writing, and he kept waiting, couldn’t believe she wasn’t going to say any more about it. Wasn’t expecting her to shout or cry exactly, but something. Thought if she asked him, he would have to say her dad was a coward. The way Alice talked, made it sound like it was her fault the letters stopped coming, and it didn’t make sense to him. He didn’t want to upset his wife, Joseph could see that part: first you have to say you’ve got a daughter, then you have to explain why you’ve never told her. But her dad never even sent Alice a picture, he couldn’t even get it together to do that much for her.

Alice didn’t ask Joseph what he thought, she just said:

– I’ve never told anyone that before.

He could remember standing next to her in the hallway and how she spun the wheel of her bike a few times, like she was checking if it was on straight, even though she’d done that already. He’d been angry about her dad, but she just looked relieved. Glad to have said all that to someone, maybe. And Joseph thought it was better not to have said anything about her father, not then anyway, because that would have spoilt it for her.

Friday night, he went to his parents’, didn’t tell them he was coming. Drove there straight from work, bought a bottle of wine on the way, some cans for his father, and some flowers for his mum. From a garage, so they weren’t up to much, but it was the only place he found open. Eve had got their mum used to much better over the years, but she laughed when he apologised for them.

– I’m always happy to get flowers, Joey. Especially when my son comes with them.

His dad was in the kitchen, peeling potatoes, and he grumbled about having to do a couple extra for Joseph, but he was smiling. Joseph took them out for a drink after dinner. There was a quiz night on in the bar at the snooker club, and they were talked into staying. Phil, one of his dad’s old workmates, was doing the questions, and half of them were about the cars they used to assemble and the union they belonged to. Most of the regulars at the snooker club worked at the plant or used to, but there was a younger crowd in too, and after a while they started whistling and heckling. Phil threw in a couple of telly questions to keep them happy, but then his mates started in on him, and there was more banter than quiz until he threatened to hold over the prize pot until next weekend. It made Joseph laugh, seeing how much his dad enjoyed it, all the kidding, and how much about his old job he still remembered. They came second, won a set of glasses, it got late and Joseph had had too many to be driving, so his mum made up the bed in his old room upstairs.

The mattress was narrow, and Joseph knew that Ben
slept there now, if Eve and Arthur stayed over. He couldn’t get to sleep for a long time: had to be up early, but he’d had too much to drink, and so he spent too much time thinking about what it was like when he and Eve still lived here. The estate was out in one of those dog-end bits of London, always felt nearer the coast than the centre. Not great, but not so bad either. Rows of brick-and-tile semis built after the war, roads laid out in crescents with endless pavements, their kerb stones dipping for the countless driveways. Shops on one side, primary school on the other, and beyond that came the industrial units and the railway siding. Their house was in the middle, where the gardens backed onto each other. They were mostly kept neat these days, but Joseph remembered long grass and low fences when he was younger, all sagging and ignored by the kids, their games played across and through them.

Hadn’t thought about any of this in years. He’d maybe caught it off being with Alice so much, listening to her, and telling her about himself. Joseph wasn’t used to it. Lying in his old bed, he couldn’t stop it all coming, and there were plenty of good things to remember too. Kids’ things mostly, wouldn’t mean much to anyone else, probably, but he enjoyed thinking about it all again. Walking to school the long way by the canal, after his paper round, football and cigarettes at the rec, Sunday dinners with everyone at his nana’s house. Auntie Jean, who wasn’t really his auntie but lived next door, her kids grown up and gone. She looked out for him and Eve after school when his mum was working, took the fence down between their bits of back lawn. His mum and Jean used to sit together on the back step, smoking in the evenings after his dad left for work, and Joseph liked to listen, not to what they were saying so much as the
sound of their talking. Lying on the rug in the front room with the gas fire on; cool air and warm cigarette smell from the open kitchen door; half-listening to his mum laughing, half-watching the telly.

None of that was what Joseph expected to be remembering. He knew something was on its way back to him: it was like he’d been waiting all week, getting ready, but then all this stuff from when he was a kid surprised him. He lay in his old bed and thought this wasn’t such a bad way to be feeling, they were happy enough memories and he should be glad of them. Usually it was different. Days ahead he could predict it, and he’d felt it happening this week too: going home, not answering the phone, avoiding Alice. He’d been crawling into himself, and that meant he had to be careful.

Saturday and early, but there were kids out already on the estate, playing, standing at the street corners when Joseph was driving away from his mum and dad’s place. It was quick, the memory, when it came, and he was ready for it.

Up in Portrush, two days on R and R, halfway through his tour, end of the summer. Four of them in a taxi, going back to the hotel: civilian vehicle, civilian clothes. Three small boys at the side of the road, couldn’t have been more than six years old: hard little faces, spitting, giving them the finger as they were passing.

Joseph drove off the estate. Been a while since he’d remembered anything like that too, but it was more the kind of memory he was used to. Stones thrown, people staring, mums shielding their babies from you, like you were infected or dirty. Didn’t matter if you weren’t in
uniform, there was no getting away: even on leave, everyone knew who you were, even the kids. Was a time he’d have had to stop the van, hands useless, feet shaking on the pedals. Not today, though. It was just that feeling that stayed with him: years gone by and still no escaping.