You can't Whistle

You Can't Whistle
I sit in my bedroom looking through my old schoolbooks and diaries
thinking about my mum. I've not cried yet, not even after I saw the
sadness on my dad's face and the way his hug felt. I don't know if he's
cried. I spent the whole evening with Beth, but she is in bed now, she
wanted an early night but I'd be surprised if she's sleeping because
sleeping feels like the hardest thing in the world right now. I come
back to the diaries I wrote when I was growing up now and again, they
are familiar and I was happy when I wrote them. For once I don't have
any music on my stereo, happy songs don't seem appropriate and sad
songs seem much too so. While I am flicking through the pages I hear
footsteps going down the stairs and lights being switched on. I put
everything down on my desk and follow the sounds. Unsurprisingly it is
my dad and equally unsurprisingly he has got a bottle of whisky in his
hand. He's a kicked dog, my dad. At the best of times he has a world
weary expression and everything looks to be an effort. He has a face
which shows the pain he feels, not just his face but his whole body.
He's a brilliant guy, most kids grow up being embarrassed by their dad
but I never did do, I've always got on with him really well. Maybe
because I'm a bit of a kicked dog as well, and we have to stick
together.
'I'm not surprised you're turning up when there's a free drink
Will.'
'How are you dad?'
'Sober. Get yourself a glass. How was Newcastle, I've not asked
you.'
'I forgot I'd been there. Yeah, it was good, I wish I'd been here
though.'
'No. You were best away from it all. She was poorly, waiting to die.
It's for the best. She ended up with a horrible life, at least she
didn't have a horrible death.'
'I wish I'd been able to say goodbye.'
'That would have been nice. She loved you Will. She lived for you and
Beth. She loved you too much.'
'Too much?'
'You know she did. She wouldn't let you grow up, wouldn't let you act
your age. She always wanted children, sadly most of all when you
weren't children any more. It was like she hadn't thought as far as
what happens when you get too old to hold hands with her in the street
and go to the pub on a Friday night and don't come back til the
Tuesday. She always told you what you should and shouldn't do. Drink
your whisky!'
I drink and my dad refills my glass.
'She was just concerned about what me and Beth were doing.'
'So much that you both left home.'
'I didn't leave home to get away from her.'
'But you were glad that you were, eh?'
I don't reply because it's true and I don't want to lie to my dad.
Instead I drink my whisky, which again he replaces.
'We had some good times though, me and Anne.''
I forgot my mum had a name.
'In the days when we were courting we went for weekends away as well.
We went on long walks, car rides, visiting friends. We used to lie in
bed reading our favourite books to each other. I was reading to her
when she died, it's what she wanted. When you and Beth were born and
life was better than I ever thought possible. Even when we had been
married fifteen years we were as in love as we could be.'
'Then she got poorly?'
'Yeah. And it made us both bitterer day by day. But then you saw
that.'
'Yeah. I blamed myself though, I thought I contributed to her being
poorly.'
'That's stupid.'
'I know, but when I was 14 I lost the ability to think straight.'
'You were always unhappy when you came home from school. I worried
about you, I assumed you were upset about your mum.'
'Upset about everything. I'm fine now?except for obviously?'
'You were right the first time. You're fine now. You loved your mum,
you had your good times together, nothing can take that away any of us.
We both loved her and that's why we grew to resent her.'
My dad drinks more whisky and I look at him surprised.
'It's true. With her illness Anne was a completely different person.
She was slowly ruining us all. I feel bad for you son, you only got to
see a glimpse early on of the true person that she was. If she'd never
been poorly?oh balls to it. Lets remember the good times that we had
together Will, the four of us. You and Beth are a credit to your mother
and hopefully you'll find the freedom and happiness that she always
wanted for you that always alluded her. Your sister will be okay won't
she?'
'She's stronger than me and you dad.'
'Is she?'
'Well she's not down here getting drunk. She'll be alright.'
'Will, I know when you first left home it killed you leaving me and
your mum. Promise me you won't think twice next time you have an
opportunity to do something you want. She worried about you.
Needlessly, I kept telling her. Have some more whisky. You don't talk
about being away much. How's your radio programme?'
'It's good, I get to chose my own songs and talk a little bit in
between. I should record it for you one day so you can hear it.'
'I'd like that. And how's Anya?'
'She's fine.'
'Lovely Anya. Look after her. But don't let her play the role your mum
played. Make sure you are never nagged at, told what to do,
mollycoddled, put under pressure or criticised by women again. Me and
you have had enough of that. A boat with a couple of blokes and some
beer miles away from here sounds like a brilliant idea.'
'They'd drink you under the table dad. And you'd want to play Genesis
and The Beautiful South all the time. They'd throw you in the water
after five minutes!'
'I like The Beautiful South.'
'It's dull dad. There is nothing about them. You don't listen to them
and want to become Paul Heaton. It doesn't make you want to jump around
in your underpants, it can't wreck your ears and it isn't beautiful.
Not like records I could play you.'
'You can whistle to it though. the problem with your generation is that
you're not whistlers.'
My dad sips some whisky before perfectly demonstrating how to whistle
'My Way' by Frank Sinatra, stretching out his arms as a finale.
'It's your turn.'
'I can't.'
'Point proven. You keep your music and I'll keep mine. I can remember
when all postmen and milkmen used to whistle, people used to do it just
walking round town. It was an important way of announcing yourself.
Take that Indian music you used to blare out of your room. What's the
point? You can't whistle to it, you can't dance to it, you certainly
can't pull a girl to it. What's the point?'
'It's funky.'
'Go to your room Will. Get that record, put it on now. I'll tell you if
it's funky or not.'
I put my whisky down and go up the stairs quietly, not wanting to wake
Beth up. I pick up the record my dad was talking about. I also pick up
a handful of CDs from my shelf to play him. I walk down the stairs to
the sound of 'Something in the Air Tonight' by Genesis, with my dad
again whistling his heart out. I put my hands over my ears, half joking
but also half so that I didn't have to hear it. When the song finishes
he puts the record back in its sleeve, comes up to me and uncovers my
ears.
'Beat that.'
'So I put on 'Fell in Love with a Girl' by The White Stripes, resisting
the temptation to put it on full blast, waking up Beth and the entire
street. My dad looks quite impressed, and then puts on Bat Out of Hell
by Meatloaf. I rise to the challenge and respond with Teenage Kicks by
The Undertones.
'I remember that song Will. God, I've not heard that for twenty
years.'
'You can tell you haven't been in The Smokers Cough for a while. It's
always on the jukebox. Mainly because I normally put it on.'
'Put another song on the stereo'
I pick out a Smiths song that I know he'll like, and this time instead
of just listening to the song we listen to the whole album, not really
saying a lot to each other but not feeling the need to. When the album
finishes he doesn't say anything and I continue my new role as house
DJ. I put on the Super Furry Animals, Belle and Sebastian, Nick Drake
and Radiohead.
'I've never heard music like this before.'
'In a good way or bad way?'
'In a good way. It's different, kind of organic and non commercial, you
could listen to it all night.'
'We have been.'
I put on Mercury Rev, Spiritulized and Hefner and soon the bottle of
whisky is empty, but luckily so are our heads and for a short space of
time we forget everything in the world except for how good music is. We
forget about the reason that we are drinking, the reason why neither of
us want to go to bed tonight. And to me, that's what the point of music
is. My dad puts his head on the table.
'Don't fall asleep there dad. Go to bed.'
'Why?'
'Because Beth will be wanting to eat her breakfast in a couple of
hours. It's late, you've got a hard day tomorrow, phonecalls to make,
people to see. I shouldn't have let you drink so much.'
'I didn't drink that much. I'll be fine.' My dad's face looks painful,
and him looking in the cabinet for his sleeping pills is an image that
I'll never lose.
'Do you wanna sleep in my bed tonight dad? It must be hard being in a
double bed alone?especially?'
'That would be good Willow.'
'That's the first time you've ever called me Willow.'
'I know.'
He goes upstairs and I follow. I don't sleep at all in his double bed
but he'll sleep well in mine. Probably better than in a long time.