Homecoming Part 1

‘Alright, son.’
‘Heh, Dad.’
I sat down on the threadbare sofa, eyes scanning the room briefly; Marilyn Monroe wallpaper, Beatles commemorative plates, a Star Trek cup on the coffee table.
All make believe.
No family.
Nothing real in sight.
‘How’ve you been?’
It was the same introductory question every time. What the hell else was I supposed to ask?
‘Alright.’
I waited a breath or four.
‘Just alright? You gonna help me out at all?’
A touch more feisty than usual. Normally, I would allow for his apathy but, for whatever reason, today I was in no mood.
‘’Elp you out?’
He appeared genuinely baffled.
‘Yeah. A bit more communication might be nice.’
He made a noise then, not really a word, more an utterance of annoyance.
‘Have I pissed you off already?’
Again, silence was all, only the sound of Chris Tarrant’s voice breaking the tension.
‘You can use a lifeline if you want,’ I suggested.
‘A lifeline?’
‘Yeah. You can phone a friend. Let them do the talking. That way, we don’t have to sit here in this crushingly awkward fucking silence.’
He shook his head.
The audacity of it.
‘What’s got into you?’
Yeah, that’s right I was the one with the problem. A 20 mile journey on public transport to see him. The certain knowledge it would be an afternoon fraught with disappointment and tension.
And I was the one in the wrong?
At least it was only twenty miles. Until last month I’d been a whole three counties away. Not that he’d know. He never paid a visit.
‘I’ve come to see you, Dad. Can’t you turn the TV off?’
His expression told me all I needed to know. Somewhere between quizzical and angry.
‘But I always watch this,’ he said.
‘So fucking record it,’ I barked.
He didn’t react at all to that. I may as well have been snapping at the cat that patrolled the room like something imprisoned.
I sat back in my seat, allowing my eyes to drift to the screen. It was a celebrity edition, Tarrant clearly enjoying himself goading, cajoling, teasing the contestants.
‘Do you know them?’ I asked, for want of anything better to say. Curious, too. I couldn’t have named them for all the money in Switzerland.
‘Er’s from a cookery programme. ‘E’s a rugby player.’
‘A match made in heaven.’
No response. Sure, it was hardly Oscar Wilde, but politeness should dictate some form of retort.
‘You want me to go?’ I asked, more forward then I had ever been before. Absence makes the heart grow fonder they say but, in my case, it appeared to have toughened me up.
‘Why doh you goo see your Nan?’ he suggested, apparently oblivious to my displeasure.
‘Yeah, I’ll do that.’
I left him to wallow in his own juices.

She only lived across the road.
It wasn’t quite a cul-de-sac, more a bend in the road. A wide, arcing dog-leg. Fraught with danger on an icy day, more than once a car had skidded out of control, speed misjudged, the driver’s eyes bulging with panic as they pondered the slippery descent down The Forge, a gravelly track that led steeply to the industrial estate behind the houses.
Today, though, the weather was clear and warm, so no fear of such a mishap. Still, I ensured nothing was coming before traversing the broad expanse of tarmac.
‘Afternoon,’ Mr Putney called as I was halfway across, on his way back from walking the dog.
‘Hi.’
‘Here to see your Dad?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Good luck,’ he said amiably.
At least I wasn’t alone, I thought.
I hit the opposite pavement, approached number 29, and knocked sharply.
Nothing happened for a little while, but that was normal, so I waited patiently. Eventually, a curtain twitched back, a skeletal face squinted at me through the window. I waved, just to make sure the daft old bat actually noticed I was there, a combination of cheap sherry and third year onset cataracts rendering her vision suspect by this time in the afternoon. With Nan still at the window, the front door swung open and, for one ghastly moment, I considered the possibility that she had actually died, that what stood at the window was her spectre and that long, tremulous arms, dripping with ectoplasm, eked the door open, waiting to greet me, to welcome me into the ranks of the deceased.
Instead, Grandad peered out, squinting also, though not because of the brightness of the outside world, more to try to focus his eyes, and it was a miracle he could see anything at all through the thick, tinted lenses he had worn ever since I could remember. Like a balding, pale skinned Stevie Wonder, he ushered me into the house, though clearly he still had no idea who I was.
“How you doing, Grandad?” I asked, finally revealing my identity.
“Our Terry?” he asked, a slight smile quivering at the corner of his mouth.
“You got it.”
“Oooh. Eh, our Terry’s ‘ere,” he called into the living room at ear-shredding volume, despite the fact his wife was no more than four paces away.
I touched his shoulder gently, as close to affection as he would ever permit, squeezed slightly, then let go, not wishing to embarrass him further.
“Go on, then, go through.”
I did as he told me, stepping through the doorway into the living room, almost knocked off my feet by the blistering heat within. By now, Nan had made her way back to her seat directly beside the fire – not in front, but to the left, as if she only needed one side of her body to be kept warm - perched right on the edge, as always, as if she expected to be called into action at any second. A cigarette was clamped between her lips which, I now noticed, trembled slightly; a new development since last time I visited.
‘It’s our Terry,’ Grandad said again as he followed me into the room. ‘Take a seat, lad, I’ll get you a cuppa.’
I smiled myself, now. I didn’t really want a cup of tea, but I would accept it graciously just to keep him happy. His life was tough enough without denying him such a small pleasure. I sat on the sofa, watched as he left the room, wondering what I should say, eyes drawn to the large frame positioned above the fireplace. Where most folk would hang a lovely landscape or a soothing ocean scene, here instead was a home-made collage, fashioned from individual faces cut from photographs small and large. Haphazard in appearance, the dismembered heads had been pasted together somewhat clumsily so that, in places, lumps of dried glue bulged behind eyes or cheeks or throats, giving many in the tableau an air of the grotesque: malformed, misshapen, mutated. And as I glanced from face to face, a new realisation struck. Each image was that of a family member –nothing unusual there – but these were specifically chosen for a reason. I was nowhere to be seen, that was for certain, nor my father, nor any of my sisters, for the simple reason we were still alive. What I was staring at was a montage of deceased relatives, a grisly, constant reminder of loss and of tragedy and of grief.
I looked at my Nan, who was staring straight ahead, at nothing in particular, and wondered what precisely went on in her mind.
Why would anybody wish to be surrounded by the faces of the dead?
‘Nice montage,’ I said, not really sure why, knowing that I had to say something.
‘What do you mean?’
Sharp, brittle.
‘Erm, it’s a nice gesture.’
She turned my way now, the ash at the end of her cigarette beginning to bow downwards a little, on the verge of collapse. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.
‘I call it my Wall of Memories,’ she said emphatically, cupping a well-practiced hand beneath the burning end of the cigarette at precisely the moment the ash finally dropped, catching it in mid-air before dumping it into an overflowing ashtray atop the gas fire.
‘Yeah, yeah.’ I was feeling edgy, nervous even, though I was not sure of the reason. ‘I can see why.’
Even as the words came out of my mouth, I realised how sarcastic they sounded, how callous, but that had not been the intent.
Nan glared at me.
‘What the fuck do you want me to say?’ I thought. ‘Yes, Nan, seems perfectly healthy and normal to ignore all of your relatives that are actually, you know….alive, and focus instead on those who have been fed to the fucking worms.’
But of course I didn’t say that, instead mumbling something about how long Grandad was taking, clambering from my seat, eager to be away from the baleful gaze of both those on the wall and the one in the room who was still just capable of breath.
‘Back in a minute.’
I slipped through the door, into the kitchen adjoined, only to find that the room was empty. I had expected to find my Grandad midway through the tea making ritual but, instead, only silence greeted me, along with a back door positioned slightly ajar. Without pause, I stepped through, out into the passageway that led to the back garden, not breaking pace, straight out onto the lawn, to find him in his favourite place of all: outside, on his bench, away from the harridan within, pipe in hand.
‘Sit down, lad,’ he instructed, as he had done just a few minutes ago, but this time he patted the bench next to him to indicate I should join him.
I felt privileged, almost.
For long moments we sat in silence but, where inside, with the eyes gazing down at me, the silence had been heavy, weighed down by the lingering sense of an accusation yet to come from the woman opposite, here it was easy, natural, comfortable, just two men enjoying both the company of the other and the slight blush of breeze against the face.
‘Look at that,’ Grandad said at last, using his pipe as only an older man can, as a pointing device, the wet end jabbed in the direction he wanted me to look.
‘Bloody hell,’ I said, groaning aloud.
Here, as within, death lingered, this time a rockery dominating one corner of the garden, from the centre of which jutted a crudely fashioned cross. At the foot of the cross, a black plaque with gold, embossed lettering which simply read ‘In memory of our beloved David,’ a cousin whose life had been snatched cruelly from him by that blight of the blood, leukaemia, at the age of twenty two.
‘She made me do that,’ he said, his voice weighted down with weariness. ‘What do you think of it?’
‘Well,’ I began, briefly considering dribbling out a platitudinous banality before realising that he deserved better than that.
‘It’s bloody awful,’ I admitted, holding my breath slightly after I had said it, not sure of the response to come.
‘It’s horrid,’ he agreed and, before either of us knew what was happening, we were in floods of tears, though this weeping had little to do with the funeral like atmosphere the rockery was meant to invoke.
‘She’s totally fucking insane,’ my Grandad managed between gales of laughter, his face ruddy, red and vibrant.
Slowly, the chuckles subsided and, once more, we settled into that comfortable silence that so often eludes.
Christ, I loved this man.
‘Best go in, I suppose,’ he said eventually, reluctantly. ‘See what the old cow-bag has got to complain about this time.’
‘Just blame it on me,’ I advised.
‘I might just do that.’
He led the way.

‘What the hell is it?’ she demanded.
‘What are you on about?’
‘Don’t talk to me like that, young man.’
‘Young man? I’m twenty five.’
‘Twenty five, are you? So why are you acting like a stupid little school boy?’
Spittle flecked at the corner of her mouth, and her eyes bulged in their sockets so acutely I feared they may well burst out.
‘Why are you getting so agitated?’ I demanded.
‘That….that….thing,’ she spat, pointing around my head as best she could.
‘What, this?’ I said, grabbing hold of the small ponytail I had grown in the six months since the last time I visited. ‘It’s the year 2000. Everyone’s got them, now,’ I tried to explain. ‘It doesn’t mean…..’
But she would not let me finish.
‘I know exactly what it means, thank you. You don’t need to spell it out.’
Her eyes blazed more furiously than ever and, had she suddenly developed the ability to fire laser bolts from them to strike me down, I would not have been surprised.
‘Oh, you do, do you? Do you mind telling me then, cos I don’t bloody know.’
‘Don’t get cute with me,’ she barked, teeth bared. ‘You’re not too old for a good hiding.’
I laughed at that, I couldn’t help it, it was so ridiculous.
‘Oh, piss off, you old bag,’ I said. Unkind, I know, and I really should have controlled myself, but the blood was up and, in a strange way, I was kind of enjoying it.
It was just like the good old days.
‘What did you say?’ she asked in a manner so clichéd I half expected her to start shaking her fists at me, too.
‘You ‘eard,’ I bellowed, feeling like I may as well join in with the script.
That’s when she broke from the norm and jumped to her feet faster than she had any right to be able to at her age. For a second, I thought she was going to make a lunge for me, and I was at the door quick as a panther, not really interested in a fist fight with an octogenarian. But she surprised me again, not making a move for me, instead swivelling and stooping in one fluid motion, coming up with something in her hand, hurling it at me, rapid, forcing me to duck, startling me as something heavy and made of glass exploded on the wall at the exact spot my head had been but a moment before. I realised the mad old bitch had hurled her ashtray at me, a huge, heavy, faux crystal lump of moulded glass that, had it connected, might very well have taken my head clean off my shoulders. Grandad’s words from just a short while ago echoed through my mind, even as my ears still rang from the blast of the impact – ‘She’s totally fucking insane’ – and I began to see his point.
Without a second glance back, I was out of the living room door, stumped briefly by the locking mechanism of the front door, blood running cold in my veins as I heard her moving my way from the living room, but not quickly enough. Front door open now, I burst into the world of the normal, forcing myself to walk, but swiftly, past the privet hedge, out onto that wide dog-leg road, heading for my Dad’s house opposite, planning on just grabbing my coat and heading off as quickly as possible. A brief glance behind had me doing a double-take, as the mad old battle-axe was marching my way, dressing gown flowing behind her, still with a cigarette burning away between trembling lips, though the stride was determined and strong, the gait of a much younger woman, a geriatric Terminator, on the war path, unable to rest until the ponytailed enemy had been vanquished.
‘Oi, Oi, Terry,’ I heard from behind as I put on a spurt of speed.
‘At least she’s eloquent,’ I thought wryly, making it to the short driveway that led up to my father’s house, before stopping dead.
What the hell was I doing?
I’m not a child anymore, I realised. I don’t have to put up with this. Just turn around, and talk to her in a rational manner.
I span around, then light flashed bright, dark, bright, dark, as she hit me, once, twice, open palmed slaps, one to each cheek. I started to shake, knowing that I was about to lose my cool, equally aware how foolish I would appear if I were to floor an eighty year old woman with a fist to the face.
I stepped back, out of range.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I shouted, probably screamed – embarrassing, really, in the middle of the street – ‘I should call the police.’
‘Ooooh. Call the police,’ she mocked. ‘Hello, officer, I’m a pufter, and I’m being beaten up by an old woman because I’m nothing but a pufter with a pufter ponytail and a pufter voice and a pufter dick and a pufter…….’
Her face was crimson, the words coming out in a torrent, a stream of consciousness that revealed a mind full of nought but hatred, and it was then I realised that she wasn’t really angry at me.
No, she was angry at everything.
Everything and everyone.
‘That’s right,’ I agreed softly, turning away from her, leaving her to rant to herself, knowing there was nothing I could say or do that would change who she was; what she was.
Best leave her be.
She’d calm down in her own time.
I went inside.