I’ve written something wholly different for New Year. It came out a writing exercise I started yesterday and I managed to blaze through this in a couple of hours. I’m actually quite pleased with the results and I’d really love some feedback (incidentally, I’d love feedback on all of these).
He did alright
He did alright, our kid, didn’t he. He did alright, our kid. He’s my kid, not our kid. He was my kid when your kid raced past him in a reception class egg and spoon race. What grace your kid Graham had. It’s only an egg and spoon race mate. He’ll be an athlete like his dad, a centre-forward, fast on his feet for goals and glory but he won’t be no wuss, my boy Graham. He wasn’t our kid, he was your son.
How’s your son?
Yeah he’s doing ok.
Good in school ain’t he?
Yeah, dunno where he gets it, probably his mother.
Our Graham, don’t mean to brag but you know, proud pops, juniors already into the starting 11, scored a few just like his dad. Two academy players come from his team already and he’s scoring faster than any of them.
We drinking to your boy then?
Yeah, cheers.
He did alright our kid. Not many from round here do that. Is Darrel in? Gone for a shit. Well… such a shame about old Graham. Shame? He was a little scrote and his old man don’t help. Come on now that’s harsh. Gave it all up for a cigarette that’s what I think. Scrapes, trouble with the law. What does he even do now? Sold weed as far as I know. Now shh before he comes back out.
He’s not your kid. He’s not. None of you were holding that boy, crumpled like a used up piece of fumbled origami, so tiny, so wee, head light as a pea, rocking him under your arms, trying to understand what the nurses said before they took him to the incubator, taking big breaths putting on the brave face that Helen knew was not a brave face, but THE brave face, the set jaw and sunken eyes of things that you had to stand up to. He’s not your kid. Brittle bones, pushed by bullies and he’d be snapped like a twig. A little stick insect, no rush, no joyful moments sought after that made the toil worth it. Fob on the office door, push through yawning and moaning, feeling the back click and short sharpness in the knees that will soon mature, however ergonomic the chair into a biting pain. The, “No, no, I understand that. I agree that as an organisation we should row back from our position…” Why don’t you fuck off you utter toad, you snivelling, miserable coward. Of course you want to row back you’re not the one who has to fucking say it, you’re not the one who has to fucking prostate themselves in front of the smarmiest cunts to walk this planet. All worth it of course, all worth it for that Saturday morning, dewy grass at the wetlands, surrounded by soppy dogs frolicking and good natured stampers shouting ruddy-cheeked good mornings. You and he, you find a quiet spot. Him in his puffy yellow jacket so large it makes him look like a hand-puppet, sat astride his bike determined and confident. Bending down to pull away the stabiliser. I can’t do it Dad. Yes you can, course you can. Don’t worry I’ll hold on the whole time. Just don’t look back. OK. You push, you push and then you stand and wait and of course, he looks back. They all look back, that’s what the older dads said because they know they’re free, and they’ll give you that smile. None of that. He did good, our kid. He’s not your kid. Your kids did that on the bike. Mine watched from the windows like a territorial housecat all the other boys boisterous and charging just as you had. Just as I wished I had. We need to send him to special school. We can’t afford it. He’s going to get beaten up. He’ll get hurt. What if they break his arms again and again. He’ll grow out of it, the doctor said – What the fuck do you know about it?
“You alright Steve?”
Little finger, drumming a slow rhythm on the beer mat. One pint, three sips in on the bar. Kronenburg. Pub’s a gastro now, fancy fuckers. All about families now. It’s the Fox and Hunter now: scrubbed up sign with Tudor Font, smoothed down mahogany surfaces, fruities out and retro arcade in, cans from a foundation year portfolio and trestle tables full of kiddies and mums. The old lushes still stick at the bar like a sud-soaked Alamo. The old boy Darrel Holmes, couple of new chins since the divorce, but a little cologne poking its head out over the fag stink, probably the missus’ influence is back.
“Yeah.”
“We was just saying he did alright are kid.” He’s not your kid. Picture of him on the wall now there, just below the shelf with the blends and rums.
“Yeah, he did.”
“Remember you tellin us you was going to the graduation. Thought Sandra wouldn’t let you.”
You’ve done nothing for him why the fuck would I want you there. Steve invited me, he wants his dad there. He doesn’t know what he wants, or if he does it’s because he wants to show off. Show what you weren’t in.
“Did alright out of shares, fucking mad when I rang up our IFA and he told us, keep things in your fund but I got a little tip for the SIPP if you want it and it was your boy’s company.”
Huge success. You don’t want to listen to those boys, you’re good at school, you’re going to go do big things. Maybe a doctor. Imagine that.
He isn’t going to do that Sandra. He’s fucked. People who do well in business they’ve got some balls, they can stand up for themselves.
Why can’t you stop talking down your own son. Why can’t you just be proud of the boy you have. You can’t even stand up to him in front of all the old lushes you drink with.
They don’t say anything.
But their sons bully him. They all do. They all push him about. You’ve been to bloody hospital because of his arm snapping again.
What’s any of them got to do with it.
They’re their sons. You’re ashamed.
“You must be really proud, of all of us. You must be proud.”
I am. I am proud. I made it. He doesn’t ring or text or whatever, but that’s what men are. Sandra, she’s got her little family watsapp with him, his sister and the rest where they send their little messages and check in but me and Steve, that was never us.
He’s not your kid.
Scraping bar stools, rising to meet him. Instant backslaps and tight, hammy hadshakes. His face obscured by fat backs in mid-range polo shirts which part a little and I catch it. Same nub of chin and angular jawline. He looks tired. We all look tired but ours is lumpen, drooping from stools, colour drained from our faces, even our speaking has acquired a dismal heaviness. His is a ruddy exhaustion, satisfied and complete. He is smiling at these boys who’s own boys he bested.
“Remember when you was a kid and me and your dad was at the Hammers and – “
Nodding and smiling. Yes, he remembered. Exhaling cheeks and more vigorous handshakes.
“We’d offer a round but I think you can get ‘em in eh.”
“Who knew you could get all that off computers. Should have taught my boy more”
The tuition incident. Just two weeks after the divorce, existing in another man’s house like an unpleasant smell in a refrigerator, the wrinkled nose of his wife and quiet admonishments that maybe, just maybe you could talk to him, just how long exactly is he thinking of staying? I don’t know, he’s looking for a place. I said until he could find somewhere, get on his feet. Yes, but how long would that be? You don’t think do you. He might not be looking at all. It’s 930 already. He will. I don’t want him here in the house Chris, I want him gone. Where’s he going to go? I don’t care. Buzzing on the phone. What the hell does she want? We agreed, talk via a solicitor. “This is serious.” “What’s happened…” “He’s stolen the computer.” “What.” “Chris’s son. He’s stolen it.” “What, after tutoring?” “Yes.” “I’m at Chris’ right now.” “Well you have to ask about it.” He said he didn’t do it. “You are fucking joking.” “I don’t have anywhere to go, you threw me out of the house.” “Stay in a hotel then. Go to your parents. You know other people. You can’t even defend your son. I’m going to tell him you coward.” “No, don’t” “Why shouldn’t I – we’re talking custody next Thursday”
He’s not your kid. “Our kid eh, all the way to New York. What are the birds like, bet you do alright eh, your dad used to, or so he fucking says, probably lies.”
He’s probably gay. So what if he is, nothing wrong with it. I’m not saying there isn’t one. I’m saying – Saying what. I’m not saying. Oh you’d love it if he was shagging all the time wouldn’t you. Not like you were all over it when you were his age. I did alright. Oh come on. Don’t give me this, you just wanna live vicariously through your kid because you didn’t do anything back then and you’re not getting any now and you can’t bare any more humiliation from all those old boys and lushes if he was gay- Alright, yes. I don’t want a gay son. I don’t want one. What about him do you want. I don’t. I don’t want him. No, hang on, I didn’t know you was there. I didn’t mean that -
He’s not your kid. Hours and hours squirreled away in front of that screen. Don’t understand any of it. Ever birthday and Christmas something new though, a processor he asked for, a graphics card. Each year more and more extravagant. On his nineteenth a whole rig, paid for on credit and extra shifts all sent up to his university all the way over there in America. Thousands of pounds, more than a car. Thank you cards, getting shorter but without his mother asking him to it’s not really a boy thing. Soon the thanks stop, and the requests for presents stop after that too.
Computers, never a feature for years all over the flat, not physically but in photos cut from magazines, printed into collage tapestries, inexpertly slotted into frames over the cheap old coffee table, sprinkled with dust on the billy book case and scattered near the bed. You must be so proud.
I am, but…
“Bet you do alright, your dad’s always telling us.”
“Hang on, is that a wedding ring? Shit your dad never told us.”
Our hands spin the mats in the same way. The flock of old drinkers and lushes gathered back together on the bar like jackdaws on a branch. In the corner together, same nose and jaw like a dusty funhouse mirror.
“What’s her name?”
“Julia.”
“American?”
“Yes.”
“You should have told me, I could have sent something.”
“No need Dad, but I wanted you to know.”
His wallet opens, it smells of wealth. Inside, a perfect little family photograph – a smiling woman, shock of blonde hair and a baby so wrapped up and toothlessly ecstatic I can hear its gurgle from this side of the Atlantic.
“Her name’s Lucinda.”
My eyes are pushed together to barricade the tears, though I want to open them just to look for longer.
“Can I meet her?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Not now. Maybe some day.”
“I can call you at least.”
He puts a business card, crisp and pointed on the table.
“You can email my secretary. She will arrange a time. Don’t lose it huh – I know how you are.”
At the bar, heavy hands on my back. “He’s turned out alright hasn’t he, our kid.”
“He has.”
A snicker, “No thanks to you.”
“No.”
His picture on the bar. Imaginary discourse about a posh cocktail party at his huge gaff in San Fran. He’s not theirs. He’s as much theirs as his is mine.
THANKS FOR READING AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!
Just a reminder about my other creative outlet, my podcast Desert Island Dictator which you can subscribe to on iTunes, Spotify, Podbean, anywhere you like really.
Have a safe evening, and a cracking 2021.