Body Line

wasn’t a good driver – she was excellent – but she carried so much of his love with her it made him vulnerable. And he was a policeman – he knew what road accidents looked like.

‘I know,’ he said.

Dad looked past him at Atherton. ‘Hello, Jim. You another orphan? Emily’s away, isn’t she?’

‘Covering the Irish elections.’

‘I was always the same when Bill’s mother was at the WI. Home’s not home without the woman. Well, come in, don’t stand on the doorstep. You both look cold. I thought this morning Bill should have taken a coat. And I see you’re no better, Jim. Can’t trust March sunshine, you know. I lit the fire.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Have you eaten?’

‘Lunch,’ Slider said, remembering with an effort. It seemed so long ago.

‘Sandwich, I dare say,’ Dad said. ‘You want something hot this weather. I made a bit of stew and there’s plenty left. It’s in the slow oven, just in case. You go in to the fire and get warm and I’ll serve it up.’

‘All serene upstairs?’ Slider called after him as he went away.

‘All serene,’ Dad said, looking back. ‘I give my boy his supper, we had a little play together, then bath and bed, one story, and he was off like a lamb. There’s nothing like routine, if you want a happy child. You were just the same. Never had an ounce of trouble with you, bedtimes.’

He was gone. ‘He must like it here,’ Atherton said, following Slider down the passage. ‘I’ve never known him so chatty.’

‘I feel guilty because he does so much,’ Slider said. ‘He’s taken care of the baby all day and into this evening, and then he’s made supper as well.’

‘He enjoys it,’ Atherton said, with the wisdom of not being involved.

‘And he gave up his home and his garden and everything. The garden here’s a fraction the size.’

‘Flagellate away,’ Atherton said. ‘I know you need it. Just remember he was all alone, day after day, stuck out there in the middle of nowhere—’

‘Essex,’ Slider corrected.

‘Same thing – hardly seeing a soul.’

‘Oh, thanks. Now I feel guilty about neglecting him before. Make yourself comfortable. I’m just going to pop up and see George.’

He trod up the still-uncarpeted stairs, trying not to echo like a mastodon in a drill hall. The house did not yet feel like home, but his senses were soothed by the Edwardian proportions, and the fine detailing which, miraculously, had not been ripped out in the dread days of the seventies’ home improvement. The house had been quite a stroke of luck, for even with all Dad’s money it was not easy to find a place with a separate flat or ‘granny annexe’ attached, in the right place and at the right price. It had been a probate sale: an old lady who had lived there most of her married life and died alone, with only a son in New Zealand who wanted the money rather than the property. The separate quarters were in an extension added in the eighties to be let separately and create an income, but which latterly had been occupied by the old lady’s companion-stroke-housekeeper.

It needed a certain amount of updating and decorating, but they couldn’t afford to do that yet. They couldn’t even afford properly to furnish it. It was so much bigger than Joanna’s one-bedroom flat, where he had been living with her; and the family furniture from his marriage with Irene had been disposed of long ago. So there was too little in it yet to make it cosy. But they had done their best with the sitting-room, buying a Turkish-style carpet to cover the bare floorboards, opening up the fireplace and arranging Joanna’s saggy old sofa and two disreputable armchairs around it.

Dad had his own furniture in his own quarters, of course, and he’d given them one or two pieces that wouldn’t fit in; and he had found a wonderful second-hand furniture store where they sold ‘Utility’ furniture from the forties. The style of it was out of fashion, which was why it was cheap, but it was well made and of solid wood, and only wanted ‘a bit of buffing up’ as Dad called it. A solid oak extendable dining table, bought for ten pounds, rubbed down, stained and varnished, was a handsomer thing than any skimpy Ikea make-do, and a fraction of the price.

Mr Slider had done everything he could to make Bill and Joanna comfortable. As well as looking after George while they were at work he had turned his quiet, capable hands to a spot of repairing and decorating, as if he had to be grateful to them, rather than vice versa.

In the baby’s room, Slider’s latest son was asleep in his cot. By the small light from the hall through the open door, he could see his rosy face, the faint sheen of moisture on the delicate eyelids, the gently parted lips, the madly ruffled hair. George didn’t sleep curled up like his other children at that age: he was sprawled on his back, arms outflung, legs straight, fists lightly clenched, as though prepared to go three rounds with sleep before it got him. He hated to miss anything. He had thrown the covers off in his energetic struggle against unconsciousness. It was cold in the room. Slider lifted them gently back over the boy; and had a sudden flash of waking once in his own childhood to find his father doing the same thing. Ah, the massive continuity of fatherhood!

Downstairs again, the sitting-room was deliciously warm from the fire, which was at the red and glowing stage. Slider put on some more smokeless fuel and roused it up with a poker, and he and Atherton stood over it, warming their hands. Slider was remembering an exchange he had had with his father a week or so ago. He had got back from work one evening when Joanna was out and Dad was babysitting, and had found that after digging the garden all morning to plant vegetables for them all to eat, Mr Slider had spent the rest of the day painting the dining-room. In his guilt over the exhausting work rate – the old man was all of seven stone ringing wet – Slider had said, ‘Really, Dad, you don’t need to do all this stuff for us.’

And after a beat of silence Mr Slider had said, ‘All right, son. I’m sorry. I won’t interfere any more.’

He hadn’t been being a martyr, either. Slider had cried, ‘I didn’t mean that! I don’t think you’re interfering. I never said—’

‘I know you didn’t.’ Mr Slider had looked at him carefully. ‘Look, son, the last thing I want is to be a nuisance to you and Jo. I know how awkward it can be to have someone hanging around when you want to be private.’

‘How can you say that? We’re so grateful for all you do for us—’

‘Ah, that’s just it, don’t you see?’ Mr Slider had said, with a gleam of humour. ‘Being grateful, you can’t tell me to sling my hook. But I don’t want you to be grateful to me. I like to be nearer you, and to have little things to do – you know I don’t like to be idle – and I like taking care of my little lad. So I just want you to be honest and tell me if you’re seeing too much of me. You won’t hurt my feelings, I promise you that. I’ve got my own comfortable place to go to, and I’m used to being on my own, so you needn’t worry. Promise you’ll be honest with me.’

They had looked at each other for a moment: level blue eyes, in faces made from the same fabric; one under brown and one under grey hair, but hair that grew the same way. And Slider knew that it would never be possible to say, ‘Dad, we want to be alone. Could you go, please.’ And he knew, moreover, that his father knew that too. They were caught in a benign leg-trap of mutual love, respect and kindliness, and any such promise was worthless. Worst of all was that he really liked having the old man around, and he knew Joanna felt the same, and he was afraid that his father might not know that, and believe he was only being tolerated. But between men, and particularly between father and son, there weren’t sufficient words for this sort of thing. All you could do was hope the love underneath was sensed. ‘I promise,’ Slider had said.

Atherton turned to toast his other side. He had known Slider a long time, and could guess some of his thought patterns. ‘For what it’s worth,’ he said, ‘I think you’ve got a brilliant set-up here.’

Slider looked at him, and read all the things which, again, being men, they weren’t going to say to each other. So he said instead, ‘I’m going to have a malt. Ancnoc. Fancy one?’

Atherton grinned. ‘Better make it three.’

When he had poured them, Slider sat down with his, shoved his shoes off and wriggled his besocked toes towards the flames. A whiff of Dad’s rich and delicious stew scented the air. His colleague who was also his friend was enjoying fire and malt with him. Little George was asleep upstairs, and any minute Joanna would be coming home. Sometimes he wondered what he had done to deserve such multiple blisses. It more than made up for the things he faced at work: the smell of blood, the horror-porridge on the carpet, the man with no face, the stupidity and wickedness of murder. He turned his mind resolutely from those things. Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof.

‘I’d like some music,’ he said, ‘but I’m too comfortable to get up and put a disc on.’

‘Me too,’ Atherton said. He thought a moment. ‘Would you like me to hum?’

‘Nah,’ said Slider slothfully. ‘Dad’ll be back in a minute. We’ll make him do it.’