News Where You Are

37

As he approached his mother’s room, he heard an unfamiliar sound. For a moment he wondered if she could possibly be listening to the radio that had sat gathering dust on the sideboard since he’d bought it for her four years ago. As he stood outside to knock, though, he realized that the source of the sound was something unlikelier even than that. He could hear his mother laughing softly. His first thought was that her long anticipated dementia had finally kicked in. He knocked on the door urgently and the laughing stopped. He heard his mother clear her throat and call out ‘hello’. He opened the door, braced for the worst, but was thrown completely by the sight of Walter sitting in the chair where his mother usually sat, and Maureen standing by the window. Frank was struck by the symmetry of the composition, a geriatric version of Hockney’s Mr and Mrs Clark — without Percy.

Walter stood up. ‘Hello, Frank, how are things?’

Frank was slow to respond. He found himself strangely shocked by the scene. ‘Erm … fine, Walter. Don’t get up. Don’t leave on my account.’

Walter hesitated but Maureen said: ‘No, Walter was just leaving anyway. He’s got better things to do than sit around here all day.’

‘Well, that’s certainly not true,’ said Walter as he made his way to the door. ‘Watch out, Frank, she’s on top form today.’ Just before he left he turned back to Maureen and laughing once more said: ‘Oh dear … “emitting pellets”!’ And he left, chuckling to himself.

Maureen started to smile, but bit her lip. ‘Bye now.’

Walter closed the door and Maureen shuffled back to her chair, sat down in it and assumed her usual expression of mild pain.

Frank stared at her until it became clear that she intended to offer no explanation. ‘What was all that about?’

‘What was all what about?’

‘The laughing — the pellets. You seemed to be having a nice time.’

‘Really, Frank, don’t exaggerate. Walter just came by to borrow the newspaper.’

Frank thought of the previous week when he’d seen Maureen and Walter singing together in the group.

‘You never mention Walter when I ask you what you’ve been up to.’

‘Well, why on earth would I?’

Frank was about to counter that she seemed to be seeing an awful lot of Walter, but stopped himself when he realized that he was sounding like a jealous husband. He knew his mother couldn’t stand to let him see her happy.

‘So how have you been anyway?’

‘Oh, the same as usual — staggering onwards in the dark.’

‘Really,’ said Frank.

‘My knees have been sheer hell this last week. I lie in bed at night and it’s as if someone is hammering nails into them.’

‘Have you spoken to the physiotherapist?’

‘Oh, what’s the point? It’s just the usual decay. The gradual falling apart at the seams.’

Frank felt his frustration rising and tried to change the subject: ‘I meant to tell you, I think we’ve had some good news.’

‘Well, that would make a change.’

‘You know the Renwick Building?’

‘I know it was one of your father’s — don’t ask me which one.’

‘It’s the block of offices in Edgbaston.’

Maureen put her head back for a moment: ‘Did it have a pond or something?’

‘Yeah — a large rectangular ornamental pond set in front, supposed to reflect the building, but it was usually too dull to reflect anything. I remember being very excited by the pond as a kid. It looked like a swimming pool on the plans. I imagined the businessmen changing into their swimming trunks at lunchtime.’

Maureen half-smiled. ‘I don’t suppose that ever happened.’

‘No, I think its only successful application was as a kind of floating rubbish installation. Crisp packets and juice cartons float about on it like lily pads.’

‘It’s not been demolished, then?’

‘No, that’s what I was going to say. It’s his only public building left standing in Birmingham and I think we’ve got a good chance of getting it listed. It’s an important building; it has an architectural significance and uniqueness that’s hard to argue against. The owners haven’t applied for an exemption, so I think it should be okay.’ Maureen said nothing and Frank felt the need to press for a response. ‘So that would be good, wouldn’t it? After all the destruction, to save one building, to leave some trace?’

Maureen looked directly at him. ‘Oh, Frank. Let them demolish it if they want to. Things move on. Your father was the first to say that.’

Frank was taken aback. ‘But … I don’t think he was in favour of the complete obliteration of the past, of rewriting history.’

Maureen said nothing. They sat in silence for a while. The light outside was fading and Frank thought he should turn the light on, but momentarily couldn’t summon the will to do so. His mother’s breathing was heavy; he thought she might have fallen asleep and was surprised when she spoke again.

‘Just before your father and I were married he made your Aunt Sylvia a beautiful doll’s house. He designed it and made it all by hand. You really couldn’t imagine the detail — right down to the tiny cutlery — it was breath-taking really. She would have been about Mo’s age and he presented her with it on Christmas morning. I think she would have married him there and then if she could. He could be so thoughtful.’ Maureen turned towards Frank: ‘Your father had an amazing ability to focus, did you know that?’

Frank shrugged. ‘I suppose I did, yes.’

‘Incredible really. He could block everything out and just direct all his thought and energy to one thing. It was quite a remarkable thing to find yourself the object of that beam. It was like the sun shining just on you.’

Frank had a flash of memory of the dream he used to have. He was running after his father, calling for him to turn round.

‘But your father wasn’t a sentimental man. The object of his beam was always shifting — never a backwards glance. Do you know what was the most important thing in the world to your father?’

Frank shook his head.

‘The next thing.’ There were a few moments’ silence before she continued. ‘Of course it’s not so good to be the previous thing. The thing moved on from. But we know that, don’t we?’

Frank looked away, unable to meet his mother’s eye, uncomfortable with her directness.

‘Well, now it’s the turn of his buildings. Their turn to be erased and forgotten. So let the bulldozers come. I can’t really bring myself to shed a tear.’