Ghosts in the Morning

Chapter 9



‘Ian phoned last night.’

I opened one eye. Graham was stood at the side of the bed with his back to me. He had his hand tucked deep into his faded black-now-grey boxer shorts, scratching his bum. It made me feel sick. I closed my eye.

‘Andrea, are you awake?’

‘Huuh,’ I grunted. A dull hammery throb at my temple.

‘Ian phoned last night, I said. While you were out drinking. You know - Ian. Your son.’ Graham sounded annoyed. Maybe I woke him when I came in.

‘Oh yes, I think I remember him,’ I said, leaving the sarcasm hang in the air for a moment. ‘So, is he alright?’

‘He’s coming home.’

I sat up. ‘Why, what, what’s happened, is he alright? I thought he wasn’t supposed to be coming back for another couple of months, what’s up, what’s happened?’

‘Nothing’s happened, he said he’s coming home, that’s all. He said he’s had his fun, he’s had a great time, but he’s had enough of travelling for now. He said he wants to come home and – well, “get on with his life” is how he put it. To be honest, I think he’s probably a bit short of cash. Strangely enough, I think he may be homesick, too, not that he’d ever admit to that, of course.’

I grimaced. Graham’s hand had moved to the front of his boxer shorts now, I could hear his nails scraping through his pubic hair.

‘I did say I’d lend him some money if he wanted, I mean it’s silly him cutting short his travels if it’s just for the sake of a few quid, but he was adamant. Said he wanted to be home for Christmas.’

‘So, what, when – ’

‘A week or two, he’s going to sort out a flight soon,’ Graham shouted from the en-suite bathroom. I heard the intermittent stream of urine splashing into the toilet bowl.

‘Why won’t you shut the bloody door when you go to the loo?’ I muttered, then put my head gingerly back on the pillow.

‘Simon phoned too,’ Graham shouted over the noise of the flush. ‘He should be back around the around the same time as well.’

I frowned. ‘I thought he would be back sooner than that. His uni break’s up before then.’

‘Yes, but he said he wanted to get a bit of extra study done while he was there, he wants to keep on top of things. He said it’s easier to study there, without any distractions, said he can just come home then and enjoy the Christmas period.’

I sighed at the thought of Christmas. It felt like merely weeks ago that we had taken down last year’s decorations.

‘I was thinking that we could go out for Sunday lunch today,’ Graham said, reappearing at the bathroom doorway. He was shouting still, over the noise of the filling cistern, and I rubbed my head. ‘I mentioned it to Daniel last night, and he said that he might come along too. I thought it would be nice, to go out for a change for Sunday lunch, to a pub, yeah?’

I frowned. This wasn’t like normal Graham behaviour at all. Usually on Sundays, we didn’t go out for Sunday lunch. Usually on Sundays, Graham and I barely talked, we sometimes went hours without exchanging a sentence, apart from the occasional yes or no or can you pass the butter. Our Sundays usually consisted of a routine; Graham would go and get the Sunday papers from the newsagent, and croissants and a baguette from the French bakery. Then he would proceed to read the papers from cover to cover, including all the boring business sections. Breakfast would therefore take an age. I ignored the broadsheet papers themselves, I just read the glossy magazines that accompanied them. I liked looking at the photos of the super skinny models wearing outlandish clothes and dangerous shoes. I would picture them eating their Sunday breakfast, probably a herbal tea and four raisins – no croissants slathered with thick Jersey butter for them. I would read the one tabloid that Graham deigned to buy too, just to see if a superstar footballer was sleeping with one of those super skinny models.

Then, as morning headed towards lunchtime, I would clear up the breakfast dishes, while Graham would busy himself with some chore outside or in the garage; he would clean the car, or mow the lawn if it was summer, or tidy up the garage yet again. Then he would take a shower, and begin to make the relevant preparations for the great Sunday camping-in-the-lounge expedition. This involved him opening a bottle of red wine and a large family-size packet of crisps and then sinking into his armchair clutching the remote control. From noon until evening, he would watch sport. Every bloody sport, any conceivable sport that was on television, Graham would watch. Even during the summer, when the football season was in summer holiday mode – a break that seemed to last a matter of days – he would find something to watch. Golf or ladies darts, who knew. I would usually read a book or, if the weather was nice, I would take a walk.

It hadn’t always been like that. Before, when the children were young, we used to do things on a Sunday. Together. We would go for long walks, “adventure walks” we called them; tramping happily along the footpaths that edged Jersey’s imposing north coast cliffs, or baiting the waves along St. Ouen’s majestic beach, to see who could stand at the edge of the surf for the longest, without getting wet by an incoming wave. But, as the kids got older, gradually the walks became less frequent, the call of the television with its ubiquitous football became stronger, and then eventually the adventure walks stopped.

‘Andrea?’

‘Eh, yes?’

‘So?’ Graham sounded impatient.

‘So what?’

‘So,what do you think? Shall we go out for Sunday lunch?’

‘Er, oh, um, okay, yes, I suppose.’

‘Right, okay, okay, good, that’s settled then. I’ll, er, I’ll book somewhere.’

Graham headed off downstairs. Ah well, I thought, maybe a glass of wine at lunch would ease the throbbing pain in my head.



***



‘Well, this makes a nice change, doesn’t it? Must say, I haven’t been in this pub for ages, I had forgotten how quaint it is.’

‘I assume by quaint, you mean you bang your head on the beams when you walk in?’ Daniel said with a sarcastic smile.

‘Yes, but remember there’s a lot of history in those beams, son.’ Graham tutted. ‘Something that you young people don’t seem to appreciate any more. You’ve got no sense of...no sense of history, no concept or understanding of where you came from, I mean, well, how things used to be. For instance, did you know that this is one of the oldest pubs in Jersey – that wooden bar over there is actually made from the wreckage of a hull of a smuggling ship that ran aground on the rocks in the bay.’

‘Yeah, righto, Dad. How would you know that anyway, you’re just making it up?’

‘I’m not son, I’m not. I know my history.’ Graham paused and looked down. ‘Besides, it says so right here on the front page of the menu.’

They both laughed and I joined in. I had forgotten that Graham could sometimes be funny.

‘So, Daniel, any new girlfriends on the horizon?’ I tried to keep my tone light, tried to force the question to sound innocent.

‘What’s that supposed to mean, Mum?’

‘It’s not supposed to mean anything.’

‘So why are you asking that then?’

‘Nothing, Daniel, just asking, that’s all. It’s not a trick question.’

‘Well for your information, no.’ Daniel glared at me. ‘Not that’s it any of your business, anyway.’

I glared back at him. ‘I am your mother, Daniel, it is normal for me to ask these sorts of questions, you know. I just wondered if there was anyone, that’s all, I mean - ’

‘Give the lad a break, Andrea,’ Graham interrupted. ‘He’s too young to be worrying about that sort of thing, anyway.’

‘Or too old,’ I muttered and bit my lip.

‘Are you ready to order?’ The waiter was brusque, unsmiling, and standing too close to me at the edge of the table. I felt hemmed in.

‘Er, yes, yes we are,’ Graham said, without asking for my acquiescence.

The waiter scribbled our orders and turned away. I opened my mouth to continue the discussion, I wanted to ask about the girl – Jadie-Lee - but Daniel must have sensed what was coming and was quicker.

‘So, Dad, who do you reckon is going to win this afternoon?’

‘Hmm, not sure. Fairly academic though, to be honest. Both clubs are destined for a mid-table position, it’s that kind of clash, it won’t impact the big boys at the top.’

I zoned out as they talked about the ‘big teams’ and ‘away form’ and ‘European trophies’. I hated football, I couldn’t see the point of it. It seemed wrong, somehow; grown men heaping adulation on younger, fitter men – just boys some of those players, even if they were very rich boys - purely because they had the dubious talent of kicking a ball hard in the right direction. These grown men would buy expensive shirts for themselves and their children, shirts that bore the names of the young football-kicking boys on the back and advertising on the front. I mean they pay to be advertising boards for large companies, how stupid is that? Then soon enough they would have to discard their silly, expensive shirts because their lovely, loyal player went and changed teams. All that posturing by the players in front of the fans, all that hand clutched to heart, that badge kissing, went straight out of the window when another club waved a few more thousand pounds under their noses, and so the shirts would be in the bin, and along would come a new player to be saluted, worshipped, and another shirt bought.

The waiter returned with three steaming plates loaded with Sunday roast, and dumped them down without a word. He’s not getting a tip, I thought.

I cut into a potato. It was slightly hard, not fluffy like the ones I made. I stabbed my fork into the Yorkshire pudding and it deflated with a warm, moist sigh. I turned my head slightly and took a breath, and paused until the waiter was on his way back to the kitchen and then I called out ‘excuse me’ and signalled him back. I pointed to my glass of wine and asked for another. I didn’t add ‘please’. I could feel my headache easing with each sip. Graham smiled at me, and I noticed a fleck of mustard on his silly, wispy attempt at a moustache. I forced a smile back, still surprised at this change in Graham. He seemed to really be making an effort, I didn’t understand it.

‘I was thinking that, after lunch, er, maybe we could go for a walk along the beach, what do you reckon?’

‘Er, love to Dad, but–’ Daniel was looking down at his phone, texting while he ate. I hated this modern world, where common manners took second place to technology, I wanted to pick up his phone and smash it. I squeezed my fingers tight. ‘See, Dad, Paul’s coming down to pick me up after lunch, we’re going for a few drinks, we’re maybe thinking of going to the pictures.’

‘What are you going to see?’ I said.

‘Dunno.’ Daniel mumbled. He was still texting, and I looked across at the log fire that was merrily burning in the corner of the pub. I wondered how long it would take for his phone to melt in that fire.

Graham was looking at me, his eyebrows still raised. ‘Er, what do you think, Andrea, shall we go for a little stroll?’

‘Er, I suppose, er, yes, okay, yes, maybe we could go for a little walk.’

I cut into my roast beef and shuddered. It was cooked rare in the middle, there blood oozing from the flesh. I tugged at the muscle fibres with the knife, trying to cut around the bloody section. I was a good cook, I knew that this was the way it should be cooked, I knew meat should never be overdone, but I was no purist when it came to actually eating it. I liked my meat to be well done, I didn’t like to see a hint of blood.

A piece of sinew was twisted in the tines of the fork and I thought of the rugby player’s face. It had looked like raw beef, T-bone steak, I remembered the gristle and bone protruding through the sticky red mass. I closed my eyes. ‘You f*cking fat cow’, that’s what he’d said, he’d thrown the words out like confetti, seemingly unaware that words aren’t confetti, sometimes words can be grenades, sometimes they can produce an explosion...

‘Andrea, are you alright?’ Graham said.

‘Er, yes, yes, I’m fine.’

The rugby player must have been doing the Movember thing too, I remembered he had the beginnings of a moustache, I had seen the downy hair mixed with blood and snot and bone...

‘You don’t look fine, Andrea, are you sure you’re feeling okay?’

‘I’m just a bit tired after my night out with Anita, that’s all, not used to a late night, I guess. Excuse me a moment, I just need to go for a quick pee,’ I said.

I dashed to the toilet, locked the door of the cubicle and threw up.