Pat Barker - Border Crossing

‘He used to come home on leave. I was always glad when he went back. Then he was in the Falklands,then Northern Ireland again, and then suddenly he was home.’

Tor good?’

Danny laughed. ‘Or evil. Permanently, anyway.’

‘What was that like?’

‘A cataclysm. For me. I’ve got two photographs of me round about four, five. One’s of me sitting on Mum’s knee in a Paddington Bear t-shirt. And the other — this is only two months later — I’m wearing a flak jacket and carrying a gun.’

‘Toy gun?’

‘No, his. He let me hold it.’

‘And you liked that?’

‘Yeah, I thought it was great.’

‘So there was a change of allegiance?’

‘Hmm. Yes, that’s exactly the right word.’

Tom thought for a moment. ‘What were some of the changes?’

‘Well — I’m trying to be fair here — there was a lot of rough and tumble, a lot of* charging about and shouting, and… I’d never had that, you see. Because although we lived with my grandparents at the time, Granddad was.… he was almost more of an old woman than Gran.’

‘And you liked the games?’

‘Most of the time, yes. But he had a very short fuse. We were playing French cricket once and I got hit on the leg and started bawling and he threw the bat at me. And, you know… at me. I was taken to casualty. And… I don’t know why things got worse, but they did.’ He was massaging his forehead as he spoke. ‘I wasn’t the kid he wanted, I think I have to accept that, but I think there was an element of… I don’t think he was in a terrific state when he got back from the Falklands, and within a month, literally within a month, he was in Northern Ireland.’

‘And drinking heavily.’

‘Yes. How did you know that?’

‘Something you said before. Go on. You said things got worse. How?’

‘I started getting the shit beat out of me. He had this big thick black belt. He used to keep it on the table by the television, and… If you hadn’t done anything too bad, you got the leather end.’

‘But not always.’

‘No, not always.’

A long silence. Somewhere outside, in a different world, footsteps hurried past.

‘I’ve thought about this a lot. I honestly do believe he thought he was doing the right thing. But he had a temper, and you’ve got to remember in his mind he was very hard done by. Loved the army, stupid bitch can’t cope, sends her home, still can’t cope. He comes out of the army — and she still can’t cope.’

‘So your mother was still depressed?’

‘Not while we were living with her parents, I don’t think. Later, on the farm, she was. But that would’ve depressed anybody.’

‘And he blamed your mother?’

‘For him having to leave the army? Yes.’

‘Who did she blame?’

‘Herself. I think. That was… That was the myth, I suppose. He was doing well in the army, he had to come out because of her, and that was the end of a brilliant career. She believed it, I’m sure she did — I don’t think she ever doubted it was all her fault.’

‘Was it true?’

A flicker of impatience. ‘God knows. I think when it comes to your parents you might as well stick with the myths, because you’re never going to get at the truth. It’s just not possible. And anyway, it’s the myths that form you.’

‘I’d still like to hear what you think now.’

A deep sigh. ‘Well, before he went into the army he couldn’t settle to anything.’

‘Sorry. Can I stop you there? Who’s this coming from?’

‘My grandmother. Who didn’t like him, so the source is prejudiced.’

‘Your mother?’

‘Never said a word against him — ever.’

‘Okay, go on.’

‘What I think — and this is only suspicion, I don’t know — I think he came back from the Falklands in a far worse state than he let on. And perhaps it wasn’t altogether unwelcome to have an honourable way of getting out of it. Or perhaps I’m just making excuses and he was a violent bastard who’d have beaten the shit out of me anyway.’

‘Did he ever talk about the army?’

‘Oh, all the time.’

‘With regret?’

‘I don’t think so. I think the first year on the farm he was quite happy. There was a lot of building, draining fields, that kind of thing, and he liked all that. There was a cowshed, and he turned it into a workshop. Mum never went in there, so it was a sort of den.’

‘Did you go?’

‘Yes. They were some of the best times. There was one window, so grimed up hardly any light got through, and I’d sit on a bale of straw — it was scratchy on the backs of my legs, still remember it — and watch him hammering away, smoking, always smoking. And his hair was curly, and there’d be a sort of fuzz of sunlight and cigarette smoke round him, and he’d talk about the army. This guy he killed in Belfast. They were clearing houses, and he shot him, and he sort of slid down the wall, very slowly, leaving this broad band of red all the way down the wallpaper. And there was another story from the Falklands — chasing somebody, and when the guy turned round it was a child. Early teens, I suppose, but he didn’t look it. He looked about twelve.’

Tom was startled. Danny had slipped into being his father. ‘What happened?’

‘Killed him. Nothing else to do.’

‘Do you remember how he said that?’

‘No. I know what you mean.I don’t remember. I’ve asked myself that many a time. You know, was he traumatized? Was he talking to me like he’d have talked to a —’ He stopped and shook his head.

‘A tape recorder?’

‘Dog, I was going to say. But we had a dog, so perhaps you’re right.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think it’s too easy for sensitive types’ — Danny’s voice oozed contempt — ‘to assume that everybody who kills is traumatized by it. I think there’s a lot of evidence that the majority of people get used to it quite quickly. And… yes, I do think it bothered him that he’d killed a child. But not very much. The kid was in uniform, he had a gun, and the responsibility for his death belongs with the people who put him there. I’m pretty certain that’s the way Dad saw it.’

‘And what do you think about that?’

‘I think he was right.’

‘So why did he tell you these stories?’

‘Reliving good times? He always… you know, although a lot of things happened in the Falklands that disturbed him, he never stopped seeing it as an enormous stroke of luck. In the army, you’re mainly rehearsing for something you never do. And he did it. He was grateful for that.’

A pause. Tom said, ‘Why did you get beaten? I mean, what sort of things did you do?’

‘Breathe.’

‘As bad as that?’

‘Yes. In the end I couldn’t do anything right. I mean, he used to take me rabbiting. I did like it, I liked the occasion, going off with him and Duke. But I didn’t like the dead rabbits. “But you’ll eat it, won’t you?” he used to say, and then he’d shove it in my face. I remember walking back with him once, trailing along behind. Cold, frosty day and these rabbits dangling from his bag. Glazed eyes, blood in their mouths. Feet swinging.’

‘What are you feeling?’

‘Feeble. No use.’ A pause. ‘I’m afraid I’ve lost the thread a bit. I can’t remember why I was telling you that. Oh, I know, I couldn’t eat the stew, so I got belted for that.’

‘What were the best times?’

‘Watching videos. He’d have his fags and his cans of beer, and I’d creep closer to him on the sofa. I was always watching him out of the corner of my eye and whatever expression was on his face, I’d try to imitate it.’

‘What sort of things did you watch?’