Alan Garner - Red Shift

“I’d rather not. Sorry. It was a lovely meal.”

“Moselle’s good for an upset stomach.”

“No, thanks.”

“Your colour’s back.”

“I’ll finish your wine,” said Tom.

“Show it a little respect,” said his father. “It’s not lemonade.”

“To the glorious dead German grape.” Tom raised his glass.

“Cider’s the worst,” said his father.

Tom and Jan cleared the table.

“You feel it in your bones next day. Soon as you drink anything – tea, milk, water – you’re as stoned as when you began. Wicked.”

“Courting time,” said Jan. “All ancients into the lounge.”

“Ay, well,” said Tom’s father. “Think on.” He closed the kitchen door after him.

Tom poured the last of the wine. He hid his face in Jan’s hair. She stepped away.

“What’s wrong now?”

“I don’t like the smell of drink,” she said.

“Have some, then you won’t notice.” She shook her head. “Your loss.” He emptied the glass.

“Let’s wash up.” Jan pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and ran hot water into the sink. Tom picked up a towel.

“There’s something bothering your father. He wasn’t himself.”

“Wasn’t he? Look, I’ve worked it all out. On your pay, and what I can scrounge, we should just about be able to meet, say, every month. Crewe.”

“Why not come here? It’s not that much further.”

“Crewe’s quicker, and we shan’t waste time we could spend together. No privacy here. We couldn’t talk. If you make it Saturdays, the shops’ll be open, and it’ll be warm.”

“I’ve never felt romantic in Crewe.”

“You will. It’ll be the most fabulous town on earth.”

Jan gave him a plate to dry. “Fantastic,” she said.

The kitchen door opened, and Tom’s father appeared.

“Er.”

“Yes?” said Tom

“My glasses.”

“By the telly?” said Jan.

“Oh. Feeling better?”

“Right as rain.”

“Good.” He went out.

“There’s definitely something wrong,” said Jan. “He’s embarrassed. And listen: they’re arguing.”

“When aren’t they? I’m sorry I panicked at the motorway. We’ll be OK. – I wonder why rain is always right.”

“Didn’t you see him?”

“No. We’ll be OK in Crewe. You can get a cheap day return.”

“Listen!” She held his shoulders. Warmth seeped through and bubbles rainbowed his shirt.

“You’re wonderful,” he said. “Your eyes are like poached eggs.”

“Tom, listen. Something’s wrong—What did you say?”

“Poached eggs. Round and meaningful. I cherish them.”

Jan laughed and wept on to his chest, hugging him. “You lovely bloody idiot. What am I going to do?”

“Don’t swear. It demeans you. Poached isn’t the same as hardboiled. I love your face.”

“I love you.”

The kitchen door opened. Tom’s mother stood with uninterrupted vision. His father was with her.

“Is there no privacy in this camp coffin?” said Tom.

“Your mother and I would like a word with you. Both of you.”

“Why?”

“In the lounge.”

“It’s Sunday, sergeant-major. We have the kitchen, and you have the lounge.”

Jan led the way to the other end of the caravan. Tom’s father turned off the volume control on the television.

“It must be serious,” said Tom.

“Shut up,” said Jan.

“Sit down: will you – please? On the divan.”

They sat. Tom’s father went to the window and peered out, half facing the room, his hands behind his back. “Stand easy,” said Tom. His mother lodged one buttock on the arm of the chair, swinging her foot.

“I want to ask—”

“What?”

“I want to ask you and Jan—”

“What?”

“It’s written all over you,” said his mother.

“Your mother and I – would like to know whether you’ve anything to tell us.”

“What’s your problem?” Tom reached out his hand for Jan. She took it.

“We think—”

“Both of you?”

“Don’t,” said Jan.

“I’m trying to be useful,” said Tom.

“Like hell.”

“Watch that tongue of yours!” said Tom’s mother.

“She’d look pretty silly if she did.”

“Stop arsing around,” Jan whispered.

“I heard that!”

“Let’s try again,” his father said.

Tom opened his mouth, but Jan kicked him.

“Your mother and I. We wondered if you’d had any occasion to do anything to make us ashamed of you.”

Tom stared at the muted commercials on the television screen. I’m wearing my cans. Please, I’m wearing my cans.

“Well?”

“Would you care to rephrase the question in English?”

“You heard me.” His father was shouting: he could see him.

“Yes. We have.”

“What did I tell you?” said his mother.

“What did she?”

A silent boy poured cornflakes silently into a bowl of light, and smiled.

“When?” said Tom’s father. “When did you?”

“When did we what? Look, sergeant-major, I’ve a pile of work to get through tonight—”

“When did you have occasion—”

“—to make you ashamed of us? Last Saturday.”

“What?”

“We went by bus to Sandbach without paying.”

“What’s eating them?” Jan said to Tom in Russian.

Tom stood up. He was shaking. There were no cans. He spoke clearly.

“My parents are trying to articulate – or, more accurately, my prurient mother is forcing my weak father to discover on her behalf, where, when, and preferably how, we, that is, you and I, have expressed ourselves through sexual intercourse, one with the other. Am I not right? Daddy?”

His father grasped the side seams of his trousers, rocked as if he would fall.

“What did I tell you?”

“Yes, what did she tell you?”

His father steadied himself. “We’ve had complaints.”

“Complaints?”

“Reports.”

“Reports?”

“Yes.”

“From whom?”

“Neighbours.”

“May we know their names?”

“Never mind who,” said his mother. “We’ve heard and seen. You two: always walking wrapped round each other: kissing and that.”

“Kissing and what?”

“And – that.”

Cans

“And the time you spend in that house alone. Do her parents know?”

“Of course,” said Jan.

“Then they ought to know better.”

“Than what?”

“Than to let you get up to things in their own home.”

“It’s the only,” screamed Tom, “place I could ever work without your clattering: drivelling: the weather! The only – keep books clean! Jan first ever,” his eyes were shut, “see anything. anything in me. worth. anything.” He rammed the backs of his fists into his face, dragging his eyes open.

“I do not propose to discuss our relationship, or matters appertaining to it, beyond that statement. I will be private, sergeant-major. I will be private sergeant-major—” He meant to laugh, but the trembling reached his throat. He stood, his father’s size, broken.

“You great wet Nelly,” said his father. “You’re as much use as a chocolate teapot.”

“Is Tom right?” said Jan. “Is that why you’ve done it?”

“What can’t speak can’t lie,” said his mother. “I can read that one like a book.”

“You cow. You think we’ve been having it off together, don’t you?”

“I’ve told you to watch your filthy tongue, young woman.”

“You’re afraid,” said Jan. “Afraid we’re doing what you did when you had the chance. And what if we have? Who are you to preach? I bet you’ve flattened some grass in your time.”

Tom ran from the room.