One Saturday

The Future Never Happened Chapter IV: One Saturday

Continued from 'Me Mam and Dad'

Four.
It was the first sunny, warm Saturday of the year, about three and a
half months after my Dad had come back to my me and my Mam. I was lying
in bed looking at a book of science fiction illustrations that I'd got
out of the school library. I was looking at one I particularly liked, a
cover of a nineteen thirties pulp. 'Amazing Stories' ran the dynamic
red and yellow logo taking up over a quarter of the illustration. Below
that were a family stood on some kind of platform, their silver
teardrop car glinting sleekly behind them. They were dresses in kind of
metallic toga type outfits, the husband with his arm around the wife
and his hand on the shoulder of the daughter stood in front of him. The
wife was holding the daughter's hand while her hand rested on the son's
shoulder. The daughter and the son held each other's hand. Here stood
the family of the future, close and contented and united. Behind them,
beyond the platform, was a view of giant smooth buildings, built of
some white marble like substance, reaching up and up, joined by arches
and walkways which arced gracefully through the air between them.
Between these archways and walkways weaved tiny helicopter like craft,
so small in comparison to the buildings that the buildings must have
been miles tall. Closer to the platform flew vehicles more like the
families own, following each other in orderly lines in and out of the
spotless, gigantic buildings. Nothing in the illustration had square
edges, everything was rounded, smoothed, even the family. I'm sure that
the buildings would have eventually ended in domes.

The thing that had caught my attention about this particular cover,
which was really a pretty unremarkable example of the kind of stuff
that Frank R. Paul did throughout the thirties, forties and fifties,
was the expressions on the faces of the family. As they gazed at the
luminous city behind them there was a kind of contentment mixed with a
kind of hunger. All four were drinking in the fabulous view, ravenously
devouring it, while feeling the pleasure that it was theirs to consume.
Thinking back to that illustration, this family had the look of
pilgrims who had finally reached the Promised Land. The look on their
faces said 'This is our dream, and we're living it'.

Of course I didn't think all this at the time, basking in the sunlight
as it came through the green curtains, making the room seem like it was
underwater. I did feel a recognition of the emotions on the faces of
the family. I remember thinking that I would feel the same in the
future, happy and contented.

While I was looking at this picture my dad strode in, a cup of tea in
his hand, smiling.

"Howay son, get yersel' up. Me an' you's going to town."

I didn't know what to say. Me and my dad had never been anywhere
together without my Mam, so I suppose my mouth must have just hung
open. My Dad knew that me and my Mam always went to do the shopping on
a Saturday and that Saturday was the highpoint of my week because it
was the day my Mam bought me my comic. Every week without fail she
would get me a pristine, unread, shiny covered copy of 2000AD and I
would read it on the packed bus home, usually standing so some old
woman or old man could have my seat. I would read it again when we got
home and then my Mam would flick through it with a cup of coffee as my
Dad watched the football scores. Then, as a final part of the ritual, I
would place the new copy square on top of the pile in my bedroom, it's
shiny cover with its striking logo seeming almost to warm the room. I
would be almost queasy with excitement as we stepped through the
newsagents door, palms sweaty, all over thirty-two pages of words and
pictures, stories revealed in six page segments. 2000AD was concerned
with the future, therefore my dad hated it, so I knew I couldn't
mention it to him.

"But Da, I have to go and do the shopping with Mam."

My Dad was looking at me like an expectant puppy, his bushy eyebrows
raised, his mouth hanging slightly open. "Divvn't worry aboot y'
mother, I've sorted it oot with her. For a change, I'm ganna take you
to town and buy y' somethin'."

"But Da&;#8230;"

"What's amatter?" As I had started to speak I saw the openness in his
face begin to contract like a flower closing "Don't you want to do
anything with y' Da? I just thought me and you could do with some time
together. Have some fun, eh?"

In my head I could see the future receding, being blotted out by grey
pavement and chip wrappers and crying children. I had to get my comic.
"But Da, mebee's we could go after, but I have to get me comic, so soon
as we've got it then mebee's&;#8230;"

"No," anger edged my Dad's voice. "We're gannin noo. Get y' clays
on."

As he pulled the door shut behind him I noticed that he had left his
full cup of tea next to my bed, so I gave it a hefty kick. Watching the
orangey liquid sink into the grey carpet my world felt like it was
caving in."

When I got downstairs he was sat in his chair with his coat on,
silently smoking a tab. The telly was off and the sun was making lacy
patterns on the carpet as it shone through the net curtains at the
window. My Mam was doing something in the kitchen, singing tunelessly
along with the radio.

As I came through the living room door my Dad stood up, clapping his
hands together, sending out a cloud of ash which sparkled in the
sunlight like fairy dust.

"Ready to go, son?" The expectation had returned to his face and voice,
his half-open mouth making his moustache arch. "Get y' coat on an'
we'll be off, eh?"

I wasn't hungry but I wanted to stall him. "But Da, Ah've got to have
some breakfast first." I wanted to talk to my Mam before we went to, I
don't know, apologise for not staying with her and also, more
importantly, remind her about my comic. Needed her to reassure me. I
was, after all, adrift in uncharted waters with my Dad.

Hearing that I wasn't ready that instant, he glowered at me. "All
right, a growin' lad and all that. But hurry up, I'm not ganna sit here
al' day waitin' around for y', okay?" With that, followed by a great
sigh, he sat back down, stubbing out his tab with violence and, like an
automaton, automatically opened the packet and placed another one in
his mouth and lit it.

In the kitchen my Mam was mopping the floor, her arms bared by a
full-length nightie she was still wearing. Framed by the window she
looked pale and fragile, veins blue and visible through her thin,
chalky skin.

"Mornin' pet."

"Mornin' Mam."

She looked at me quizzically, mop in hand. "D'y want us to make a bacon
sandwich for y' before y' go out with y' Da?"

"No, Ah'll just have Coco-pops, he's," I paused and looked over my
shoulder into the living room, "WE'RE in a hurry."

She propped the mop against the bench and got the Coco-pops out of the
cupboard, talking to me as she did, her black hair limp down her
back.

"So, goin' out with y' Da, eh? I'll just have to look after mesel'
today, eh pet? Don't get us wrong, Ah think it's good that you and y'
Da are doin' stuff together," she turned around, bending to get a bowl
out of the cupboard, still not looking at me, "But what am Ah ganna dee
without me little man to help us?"

I was about to ask her about my comic as she handed me the bowl, the
milk already starting to brown around the chocolatey puffed rice, when
my Dad called through from the other room.

"Stop y' gassin' man and get y' breakfast down y'."

I remember looking at my Mam smiling at me and noticing something in
the lines around her eyes that made me doubt her. "Go on pet," she
said. "Divvn't keep y' Da waitin'. He's got himsel' all ready specially
and everything."

Impatience sounded in the voice coming from the living room. "Come on
man! Get y' skates on!" My Mam picked up the mop again.

"Go on pet, divvn't keep him waiting."

Reluctant to leave the safety of my mother, I went back into the living
room and sat in the halo of smoke, shovelling Coco-pops into my mouth
in silence as my Dad stared into space. The way I remember it we didn't
even look at each other, mutually uncomfortable, both sat listening to
my Mam rattle around the kitchen, the radio buzzing music in the
background. When he saw that I was nearly ready he stood up and went to
the front door, opening it and letting in the sound of cars and the
smell of the first warm air of the year.

Going through into the kitchen, my Mam took the bowl from my hands and
put it straight into a sink full of soapy water. Opening my mouth,
intending to say something about my comic, my Mam shushed me, putting
her index finger to her lips.

"Don't worry pet, you and y' Da go an' have some fun, eh? I'll see yez
when y' get back." Before I could say anything my dad shouted through
again, telling me to hurry up, and my Mam turned back to the sink.
Hearing the edge to my Dad's voice I said ta-ra to my Mam and grabbed
my coat from the bottom of the stairs, struggling into it in the thick
sunshine, my Dad almost halfway up the road ahead of me.

We walked quickly that Saturday morning, up through the estate, grey
houses under the pale blue sky, broken up by occasional patches of
scraggy bushes and tiny squares of grass covered in crisp bags and dog
shit. Here and there were dotted the remains of saplings, set in square
holes in the pavement, all snapped and broken, sticking up in the
street like bare bones. As we walked my Dad asked me questions about
school, about Neil, scrabbling in his head to find something to say. I
told him school was alright, Neil was alright. He would nod, saying
"Aye, good, good". Mostly we just walked, quickly and in silence.

We were going to get the 10 into town and, because the fare was cheaper
down the end of Kenton Lane closer to Gosforth, we were walking the
extra distance to save money. This took us past the shops. Chips and
half-eaten burgers and the silver foil cartons of takeaways lay
scattered over the pavements. Splashes of sick glistened wetly in front
of the chinese. Old people walked slowly in and out of the shops
themselves, dragging tartan trolleys and dressed uniformly in
beige.

As we got closer to Kenton Lane the houses got bigger and older,
looking like gingerbread houses with their red tiled roofs and high
hedges, cars in the driveways and big bay windows surveying the world.
A few kids circled on shiny bikes in the wide streets, a couple of Dads
in cords and casual shirts threw buckets of water over new looking
estates and hatchbacks.

Back then I couldn't imagine living like that, hidden away behind
hedges, big rooms filled with books and paintings. It was only ten
minutes from ours, but these streets seemed to be in a totally
different country. In one quiet road we walked through cherry blossom
on the pavement, piled up against the curb like pink snow. In a garden
a woman stood clipping rosebushes along her front wall, a string of
pearls around her neck. These were wide streets, each house in its own
space. Even the pavement was a paler, gentler grey than in front of our
house.

I could never handle the contrast. For a second I remember having a
vision of me and my Dad as being rubbish, people made from old
newspaper and discarded takeaway and sweet wrappers, blowing down the
wide empty pavements, snagging in the hedges, getting wrapped around
the flowbeds, sticking under the wheels of the bright, shiny cars.
There was too much difference between them and us, but I didn't want
what they had, their pretty houses, their antique furniture. I just
wanted it gone, not just theirs but ours too. In the future there
wouldn't be these differences, everyone would be equal because everyone
would have and equal share of the new. No past, only looking
forward.

Compared to the dads in those kinds of streets, my Dad looked lumpy and
ill put together, uncomfortable. The dads there, sponges in their
hands, looked more like that dad with his wife and his flying car, but
with something different. There was something in their faces,
contentment yes, but not placid and self-assured like the dad in the
illustration, his faced warmed by the glow of the luminous city.
Glancing up at me and my Dad as we walked past, these men had a kind of
arrogance in their faces, a challenge. They seemed to be saying 'This
is MY future. I've got it now and there's none for you.'. The family of
the future knew that the glory was theirs by right, the dads with the
cars were just scared that someone was going to take theirs away. Me, I
just wanted it all gone.

As we walked my Dad shook his head, waving his tab in the direction of
one of the men washing cars.

"It's alright for some, eh? They might think they live in Jesmond, but
it's still Kenton, same as the rest of wus." He continued to shake his
head. "Y'd think there was nee-one unemployed the way they gan on,
stannin' there washin' their new cars while blokes is wonderin' how
their ganna get food for their bairns." Sucking visciously on his tab,
he finished with a grimace. "Makes y' sick doesn't it?"

I didn't say anything. If I'm honest it just made me feel weird; made
me think forward to the glittering aluminium and walkways hung miles in
the air.

When we finally got to the bus stop and were both peering back up the
road, we both lapsed into silence again. I don't remember, but I must
have been thinking about my comic.

Thinking about it, it must sound odd that a weekly comic should have
had such a hold over me. How could a tiny, smudgy juvenile
entertainment have taken on such a massive importance, when most kids
soon grow out of it?

I think I was in love.

(Continues in The Future Never Happened Chapter V: A Comic Aside)