Lee Rourke - The Canal

“I have a son.”

“Pardon?”

She inched up the bench so that she was sitting beside me, our thighs nearly touching. A perfectly plucked eyebrow raised itself above her left eye. Something shot through me, like some sort of charge. I felt like a breakthrough had been made.

“I said I have a son.”

“Oh. I mean wow, that’s great! Isn’t it?”

“A son.”

“What’s his name?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“How old is he?”

“Old enough to know that I’m his mother.”

“So, why are you telling me this?”

“Because I don’t love him?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I wish he didn’t exist, that I didn’t fall pregnant with him, that I didn’t give birth to him … That’s what I mean. Like that lie I told you about. I wish it could all be forgotten about.”

“Why don’t you love him?”

“I don’t know … All I know is that I feel nothing for him.”

She leaned closer to me; she looked me in the eye. Her eyes tightened and wrinkles appeared around them like oyster shells. I noticed a faint mole on her cheek. Her lips were thick.

“You’re the first person I’ve ever told.”

“About you not feeling anything …?”

“Yes.”

“Does he know?”

“That I don’t love him?”

“Yes …”

“I guess so … He’s a bright lad. He’s not stupid. There’s a book out … Have you read it? It deals with …”

“No. I don’t read that many books.”

“Oh.”

“Why are you telling me these things?”

“Because I don’t know you … I find it easier to talk to strangers, real strangers, not some pathetic voice on the end of a phone. Unlike my friends, the few I have, I don’t care what you think about me.”

“Do you feel you’ve got a lot to talk about?”

“No more than everyone else … I don’t know. I just feel like talking.”

“That’s fine by me …”

“I know.”

“ You know ?”

“Yes. I could tell that you would listen. Plus, bored people will listen to just about anything.”

“Right … How do you know I’m bored?”

“You told me.”

“Right.”

We both stopped to watch a narrow boat pass us by. It was called Angel . It was probably the smallest I had ever seen. I remember thinking that it would be pretty horrid living on it. No space to breath, to move. The man at the steering wheel didn’t notice us. He just sat there, motionless, without a care in the world. He was deep in thought and smoking a pipe. I liked him.

“It was strange …”

“What was?”

“The pregnancy … The birth . I’d wanted him so much. I couldn’t wait to hold him in my arms. I couldn’t wait to touch his soft skin, to do all the things a young mother dreams of. And then it happened …”

“It?”

“I gave birth to him. The very moment I held him in my arms I knew I would never love him, that I would never want him …”

“Why? How?”

“I just knew … A gut feeling.”

“But … Surely you could grow to love him?”

“Too late.”

“Why?”

“He’s gone … He doesn’t belong to me.”

“But don’t you ever think of him?”

“Yes, but not much.”

“What about now?”

“ What about now ?”

“Well, you’re thinking about him now …”

“No, I’m not. I’m talking, not thinking. Just talking about him as I would that man on his bike over there. Or that bus on the bridge, or that beautiful tree there. He’s nothing to me.”

“But you gave birth to him. You carried him in your womb for nine months.”

“I know I did.”

“But what about …”

“What?”

“The father?”

“What about him?”

“Well, surely he had something to say about … you know …”

“Him? He couldn’t understand much at the best of times.”

“But, surely he must be angry with you? Just not caring, wanting nothing to do with your … with his son?”

“He didn’t concern me either.”

“Is he the same …”

“… Man I told you about? The same man I lied about being pregnant to?”

“Yes.”

“No, he’s not. The father of my son is a kind man, a man full of love, a man any woman would be proud of … I just don’t love our son, that’s all.”

“Are you …”

“Still with him?”

“Yes …”

“No. He left me. He took our son with him. See?”

“Yes. See what?”

“I told you he was a nice man.”

We fell silent again. I was hungry. I felt hot. I felt that it might have been her causing it, but it was most probably due to the hunger — but, to be honest, I’ve never felt that way since. It was an odd feeling deep in my stomach. I felt light. I felt like I was floating. I wanted steak. A rare steak. With Roquefort cheese melted on it. Good thick sirloin. Only the best. I wanted to go to Elliot’s Butchers on Essex Road and purchase their finest cut. Or maybe a corn-fed free-range chicken, roasted and stuffed with lemon and garlic. I would have eaten the whole thing. I began to think about roasted squash with whole, unpeeled garlic cloves and roast potatoes, roasted in goose fat. I think I began to salivate in front of her. I’m not too sure. I looked at her. She was staring straight ahead again, looking towards the snazzy flat-screen monitors. She yawned a couple of times, brushed the hair from her face, cowered slightly from the breeze. I tried to see what it was she was looking at — there were only a couple of the office workers left now. They had all gone out for lunch together or something. The man in the shirt and tie who liked to spend his working day walking back and forth from his desk to the other, over and over again, was sitting at his desk with his head in his hands. I couldn’t see enough of him to gauge what colour tie he was wearing. He looked tired, troubled somewhat. But it was hard to tell. For all I knew he could have been asleep; he certainly looked like he was. He definitely had something on his mind. Maybe she was looking at him? She was certainly looking at something.

I didn’t know what to do so I asked her.

“Are you hungry?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Why?”

“Would you like to come for a coffee and a bite to eat with me? … I know a café just up the road from here … The Rheidol Café.”

“No.”

“Oh … Are you sure? You look like you …”

“Yes. I’m sure”

“Okay.”

She didn’t look up at me once. She stared steadfastly ahead towards the flat-screen monitors. I felt stupid. I tried to get up from the bench — but I couldn’t. I was rooted to the spot. I felt small and quite insignificant. She suddenly turned to me.

“But, please, don’t take this personally. I just don’t feel like drinking coffee, or eating, or anything. That’s all. I’d much rather remain here.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you sit here?”

“…”

“I said, why do you come to this bench each day? I told you why I did. You should tell me. It’s only polite.”

“…”

“Are you not going to tell me?”

“…”

“Are you not?”

“…”

She remained silent. I should have gotten up from that bench there and then, maybe walked back to work — but I didn’t. I simply stayed with her. It felt right. Staring straight ahead at nothing in particular. Pretty soon a swan appeared. It was probably the same one I’d noticed earlier — a magnificent creature. Beautiful in every way: so clean, so poised, stoic and aristocratic in movement. It was easily the biggest swan I had ever seen — not that I’d seen that many in my lifetime. I remember wondering why it had chosen to reside on the canal. Surely there were better places in London? Why hadn’t it found itself an idyll in Kensington? Or in the suburbs? Why this grotty, uncared-for, stinking canal? It didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense. She seemed not to notice the swan; she seemed in a trance, completely elsewhere. I didn’t want to disturb her but I felt compelled to tell her. I couldn’t help myself. I should have left her alone.