Joseph O'Neill - The Breezes

I started laughing.

‘Son,’ Pa said, ‘think about it. You’re a man now. What are you aiming for?’ He put down the lollipop and brandished another: MONEY. ‘Is this what you want? Do you want money?’ He pulled out another: FAMILY WITH HOUSE, SECURITY. ‘A family, a house?’ JOB SATISFACTION, the next placard said. ‘How about job satisfaction?’ Pa said. ‘How important is that to you?’ He pointed at my feet. ‘Are you really going to wear those socks together? Look, they don’t even match.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, forcing my damp thighs into some jeans, ‘I’m not going out today.’

Pa was about to reply when he remembered the original point of the conversation. With an effort, he raised the three lollipops in his right fist, displaying them in a crooked fan, and then with his left hand he pulled a final lollipop from behind his back: in red letters, EVALUATION AND CHOICE. He stood there for a moment, arms aloft, like a man trying to wave in a wayward aeroplane. ‘You’ve got to work out which of these—’ he shook his right hand — ‘you want, and why, because I’m telling you now — and believe me, Johnny, I know what I’m talking about, I’ve been in this world a little longer than you have, listen to what I’m saying to you — I’m telling you that in this line of work you’ve taken up, you can forget about this—’ He dropped the MONEY lollipop on the floor. ‘And without money, it becomes very hard to have this—’ JOB SATISFACTION fell to the ground. ‘And this—’ Down with a clatter went the surviving sign, FAMILY WITH HOUSE, SECURITY. ‘Take it from me, Johnny, you’re running a big, big risk with this — this project of yours.’ He wiped sweat from his mouth and waited for me to respond. He had planned this presentation down to the last detail, that was obvious. I envisaged him with his glue and scissors and felt-tips, anxiously cutting circles in the cardboard, rehearsing his speech. Now the decisive moment had arrived: was I going to buy?

To stop Pa from seeing the laugh on my face, I pulled a jumper over my head and pretended to get caught up in the neckhole. ‘OK, Pa,’ I said, muffling my voice. ‘I’ll think about it. Thanks very much. I’ll get back to you,’ I said, still faking a struggle with my jumper.

‘I’m glad,’ Pa said, his voice trembling a little. ‘You think about it. Remember, don’t hesitate to come to me with any problems or ideas, or feedback generally. My door is always open,’ Pa said.

I am not sure which door my father was referring to when he said that, but of course I never took up his invitation. My mind was made up, and soon after what Pa liked to call our ‘meeting’ (‘Son, have you thought about our meeting? Have you got anything you want to tell me?’), I threw the lollipops into the bin in my bedroom, where they protruded from the yoghurt cartons and the tangerine peel and the other trash. Pa got the message.

Shortly after that, he approached me with his hands in his pockets. I knew what that meant; it meant that he was about to apologize. Whenever Pa is about to say he is sorry, his hands disappear into his trousers.

‘Listen, Johnny, I hope I haven’t upset you with what I said about your new line of work. I’m sorry if I have.’

‘No, Pa, of course you haven’t, I said.

He said, ‘I just want you to know that I’m on your side, son. I’m right behind you. You do what you want to do. What’s important is that you’re happy. As long as you’re happy, that’s all that counts.’ In his emotion he left the room and went to the kitchen and put his head into the fridge, pretending to look for something to eat.

What was it, then, that had blown Pa off course like this?

Chairs. That was all. I had decided to make a living making chairs.

‘You know, I’ve been thinking about it,’ he said when he returned from the kitchen. ‘Maybe it’s not such a bad idea.’ He started trying to light his pipe, the bowl of which was carved into the wise and unblinking visage of an ancient philosopher. At that time, Pa was going through a phase of pipe-smoking. ‘There’s a good market for chairs. People are always going to need to sit down. Let’s work it out.’ He took a company biro from the row of pens snagged on his breast pocket and flipped open a company scratch pad. ‘I’d say that people sit down now more than they ever did. I read about it somewhere — nowadays people are sitting down a whole lot more than they used to.’ Pa winked at me with his good eye. ‘Which means they’re going to need more chairs than ever before.’ He breathed on the nib of his biro, then slowly wrote down in capitals — Pa always writes in capitals — MORE CHAIRS THAN EVER BEFORE. ‘Yes,’ he said, growing excited, ‘and when you consider that more people are getting older now and that old people are always sitting down …’ INCREASED DEMAND, Pa wrote.

That clinched it for him. He threw down the biro with a bold finality. ‘Increased demand, Johnny. That’s what it’s all about. They demand, you supply. That’s the golden rule.’ He stood up, waving his pipe. ‘You know, I think you may be on to something. I think you may be on to something big.’

I said carefully, ‘I’m not sure how commercial I’m going to be, Pa.’

Pa was sucking away at his pipe, having another attempt at lighting it. ‘You may not be sure, son, but I am,’ he said, inhaling noisily. The philosopher’s cranium released a small cloud. ‘I see great possibilities in what you’re doing. Which is why I’ve come to a decision. I’m going to invest in you.’

‘Invest?’

‘That’s right. I’m going to set you up. I’m going to get you a proper workplace with proper equipment. No more scratching around in your bedroom upstairs.’

I stood up in protest. ‘There’s no need,’ I said. ‘I’m managing fine as it is. Pa, don’t even think about it,’ I said.

‘This isn’t a hand-out, this is business. You’ll pay me back with interest once you get going.’ He turned towards me with his skewy eyes wide open. ‘Johnny, we’re going to be partners!’

Looking back at that episode, at my unqualmish acceptance of finance, I cannot avoid a feeling of shame. In those days I found my father’s donations a marvellously uncomplicated business. I needed the money, and not just for tools, materials and workspace — the fact was, I needed the money generally. I was twenty-three — I needed to live, didn’t I? And as I saw it, money was simply part of the deal with Pa: subsidies, allowances and disbursements came with the terrain of his acquaintance. Besides, in the final analysis I was doing him a favour by taking his money — what else was he going to spend it on? Why shouldn’t he buy a flat for his kids if that was what made him happy?

Maybe buy, with its connotation of outright purchase, is not quite the right word, because that makes it sound as though Pa just reached into his pocket and handed over the cash. It did not happen that way. To finance the transaction, Pa had to remortgage his house, the family home at 75 Turtledove Lane. The agreement was that Rosie and I would pay what rent we could afford. Property was buoyant, Pa said. You’ll see, he told us happily as he showed us his name on the deeds, we’re going to come out of this smelling of roses.

Soon after Pa bought the flat the property market plunged. For two years now we have kept watch on the house prices, waiting for an end to their descent like spectators waiting for the jerking bloom of a skydiver’s parachute as he plummets towards the earth. But two years on, the prices are still falling and interest rates are still rising and Pa has to make whacking monthly payments which he cannot afford to make. Even so, he has never asked Rosie or me for a cent, with the result that no real rent has ever been paid. Now, there are reasons for this inexcusable situation. In my case, the answer is poverty: I’m broke. Unlike two years ago, though, at least now I experience genuine guilt about it. But by the operation of a circuitous, morally paralysing causality, somehow this guilt expiates its cause: the worse I feel about not paying Pa, the more penalized and thus virtuous and thus better I feel. As for Rosie — well, Rosie has other things to do with her money and no one, least of all Pa, is going to give her a hard time about that. Allowances have to be made as far as Rosie is concerned because allowances have always been made as far as Rosie is concerned. Besides, there is Steve. There is no point in being unrealistic about it — Steve is not the type to pay for anything. Steve lives for free.