She won’t be coming back here again. He sits in his car, parked outside her house, thinking; remembering. The weight of years bows his shoulders. A snapshot of a memory appears behind his closed eyes. She is sitting at the dining table in the front room, the one just beyond those windows he now opens his eyes to see; the room which now has her double bed where the table ought to be.
Taking his courage and his keys in his hands, he gets out of the car, unlatches the gate and walks up the path to the front door. Bees hum in the dahlias. He hesitates and then puts his key in the lock. Expecting the slightly stale smell of old cigarette smoke and neglect, he is disconcerted by a distinctly different aroma. He thinks it is a Fray Bentos pie cooking. He can’t remember the last time he ate one of those.
Stepping into the small square of hallway, the stairs directly ahead, he feels an unusual constraint at his ankles. Looking down at oddly skinny legs in grey school trousers, he sees bicycle clips. For a moment he clutches the banister, dizzy. He takes the key, just the one, from the door with hands that tremble slightly. Young, hairless hands with bitten nails, an ink stain on the right index finger. He sinks down on the stairs, bewildered. Feels thick head of hair and wonders; wishes for a mirror.
‘Are you coming in, Terry? Dinner’s almost ready!’ she calls. ‘Not like you to dither!’
‘No help for it!’ he thinks, standing up and pushing at the front room door. And there she is, sitting at the table, fag in hand; hair prematurely white. The war and all the worry did that, she says. His brother Nigel is there, looking seven, maybe eight years old. His front teeth have grown in but he has gaps at the sides. Funny to think of him now, middle-aged spread and rampant beard superimposed on that smooth-faced, skinny boy.
He sits down in his old place at the table. He is suddenly, surprisingly hungry. His dad, who always did the cooking even then, comes in from the kitchen, plates in hands.
‘Nice day, son?’ he asks.
Not trusting himself to speak, he nods and smiles, looking eagerly at the pie. He thinks his piece looks quite small. He had forgotten how they shared a pie between the four of them and almost laughs at the absurdity of being thirteen and thinking with distaste of future, affluent, complacent greed.
Eating, he wonders if there was something particular about this day that he finds himself in, but he doesn’t think so. It isn’t even his birthday. It just seems to be a day that could be any day at that time in his life. A carefree day: school and bike rides and dinner cooked and waiting for you; not having much but somehow being much more content with less, than now with too much. He realises a lightness, like a release in his body. He had forgotten this energy, this vital optimism. He knows he doesn’t have any homework this evening. He can do what he likes. He decides to go upstairs to his room.
This action goes unremarked. His mother has lit up again. His brother and his dad are washing up. He takes the stairs in leaps and bounds and now he does laugh. Does he get to have it all again? Is that what this is all about? Is that what he has longed for, locked up somewhere deep inside?
His evening passes uneventfully. He feels relaxed like he hasn’t felt in years. He sleeps, blissful. When he wakes, is still thirteen; wonders if he dreamed his later years. He goes down to breakfast. The coal fire blazes. He savours buttered toast. It must be Saturday. His mother is still in bed. He puts his plate in the sink and sees his dad and brother digging the vegetable garden. Waving to them from the kitchen window, he heads out to join them.
‘Lovely day isn’t it?’ he says, wondering afterwards if it is quite the right thing for a thirteen year old to say.
‘Pick some mint would you?’ his dad replies unemotionally, and for a minute he is glad for the abruptness, for a reason to turn away. Surprising him, his eyes have filled with tears at the sight of his dad so young and fit, after all these years of suppressing the grief of missing him. He blinks, embarrassed, and hurries over to the shed and the bed of herbs behind it.
The smell of the mint makes his mouth water in anticipation of the roast lamb they will eat the following day. All of his life it has been lamb or chicken on a Sunday. The lamb rather fatty, the chicken carcass an excuse for his dad to spend a quiet hour in the kitchen picking the bones, chewing on the gristly bits that no one else would contemplate putting in their mouths. For the first time in years he remembers watching him perform this task, almost mesmerised, occasionally receiving small pieces like a baby bird opening its beak to be fed. And so the morning passes in a slow, peaceful way, without hurry. He can’t remember the last time he spent a Saturday morning so lacking in urgency. He feels almost drunk with the relaxed pleasure of it.
At lunch time his mother appears, lights up, puts the black and white television on and they eat their main meal to its background noise. He remembers the lack of conversation gratefully, not wanting to give himself away. He spends the afternoon completing an Air-Fix kit at the table, his younger brother offering to help and seeming unsurprised by his patience. He acknowledges regret that they didn’t maintain this pleasant relationship into adulthood, thinks he really must try to reconnect with his brother, especially now, with their mother deteriorating so fast. He had forgotten how Nigel used to look up to him and what a sense of importance that had given him.
Tea consists of thin white bread and a variety of spreads that he no longer uses: paste, triangles of cream cheese, sandwich spread; lemon curd. He mixes them up randomly and enjoys the fact that he doesn’t suffer from indigestion. He spends the evening lying on his bed reading, goes down to watch a favourite programme on television, then lies in bed wondering how long this strange enchantment is going to last.
On Sunday morning, after a second night of the sort of blissful sleep that he hasn’t experienced in years, he goes downstairs to find his dad preparing the vegetables and getting the Sunday roast ready. His mum is still asleep.
‘Where’s Nigel?’ he asks, helping himself to toast.
‘Out the front,’ his dad replies.
Going back into the front room he lifts the discoloured net curtain to one side and sees his brother riding his bike up and down the street. He sits in front of the coal fire, lulled by the forgotten familiarity.
Eventually his mother appears. She always sits in an upright chair at the table, never on an armchair. Her cigarettes and lighter and a cup of water are there waiting for her. He wonders at what point it was that the smell of smoke became a problem for him and assumes it was when he moved out. Certainly today there is something almost comforting about it. ‘I expect you’ll be out on your bike this afternoon,’ she comments and he remembers that he used to cycle along the seafront to Rottingdean if the weather was good. As he enjoys his dinner he realises that it would seem strange if he didn’t do that today, so once he has finished his turn at washing up he gets himself ready.
Outside, he sees a familiar looking car, hears keys jangling in his hand; suddenly feels achy and decidedly overweight. He sighs and gets back in the car. Whatever it was he came to do, he certainly can’t face it now. He wants to remember that person he once was, that life he once had; hold that picture tightly for a while. He closes his eyes. The weight of years bows his shoulders. He thinks of his mother and wonders if she remembers those days. He wishes for a key to unlock her locked up mind. He sits a while, in his car, parked outside her house.
Precious Stones 