Lee Rourke - The Canal

Each Saturday morning I used to accompany my mother on a bus ride to the other side of London to visit my grandmother — on my father’s side — for the day. She never took the tube because she thought it a breeding ground for germs and pestilence. I took this journey with my mother every Saturday up until the age of twelve, when my mother finally learnt how to drive. I may have been six years of age on this occasion. I was sitting at the bus stop with my mother. The bus, as usual, was late. Behind the bus stop was a public house called The Willow Tavern, which has long since been demolished and flats with large balconies have been built on its land. In front of the pub there used to be a car park. The car park was surrounded by a chain-link fence, fitted with thick spikes on each link. I presumed this was to deter people from driving straight from the road, over the pavement, and onto the car park when the pub was closed. Pubs don’t seem to have these same spiked, linked fences any longer, at least I haven’t seen any. I remember being bored and walking over and sitting on it, between two spikes. It started to sway like a swing in a playground and I began to purposely push myself forward and backwards, forward and backwards with relative ease. And then, before I could figure out what was happening, there was sudden blackness. Just blackness. Warm, like a large duvet had been pulled over me. When I opened my eyes my mother was crouched down over me. She was crying, a frantic look upon her face. Two strangers — an old man and woman whose faces have never left me — were also standing over me.

“He’s opened his eyes.”

“He’s opened them.”

“ Oh, son … Son … Son …”

“He’s okay, lady.”

“He’s shaken …”

“Oh, son …”

I quite enjoyed the trip in the ambulance at first. I remember the sirens in particular; I was quite content for a moment. And then I noticed the blood. Blood, my blood , was everywhere. I was covered in it, my mother was covered in it — the paramedics’ hands were covered in it. I reached a hand around to the back of my head. Fear gripped me instantly. I remember thinking that I was going to die. I remember — like it was only yesterday — being convinced that I was dying, that there was nothing anyone — my mother, the paramedics — could do for me. I remember starting to shake, to holler and scream. I became convinced the ambulance was taking me to the hospital to die. My memories of this unpleasant episode are bathed in red. Blood red. The sickly sight of my own blood. I began to wail.

“Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood? Is it my blood?”

My mother, still sobbing, held me and told me that everything was going to be okay, that I would be fine. For the first time in my life I didn’t believe her. I was convinced otherwise. I continued to think that I was dying. I continued to ask her over and over again all the way to the hospital, I remember it like it was yesterday.

“Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum? Am I going to die, mum?”

I was convinced. My mother soothed my head, shushing me all the while.

“Shush … Shush … Shush …”

* * *

The clouds suddenly began to darken like a giant bruise across the sky and a breeze picked up around our ears. My right leg began to shake. I was anxious. I wanted to pick her up and take her with me somewhere. To the Rheidol Café. Anywhere. I wanted to be with her and the longer these silences persisted the stronger grew my urge. Little by little she was beginning to consume me. But I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what to do. I kept on looking at her, waiting for something, waiting for her to do something. She was still looking over at the whitewashed office block. I’m sure she was looking directly at the man with the white shirt, red tie, and grey cardigan one size too small. I’m positive she was.

I don’t think I’ve ever been in love with anyone — I seriously think I’m incapable of love in that way: to actually love someone. I have certainly felt love for things, I have felt the love of others, but I seriously don’t think I have ever loved anyone. The closest thing I ever felt to feeling love for someone was a long time ago now. It was a girl, we fleetingly lived with each other. We used to spend all day in bed together, only getting out from the bed to either piss or prepare food. One Sunday she spent the whole day colouring in each individual freckle on my right leg with a blue Biro. Each freckle as unique as a snowflake. She spent all day doing this, tattooing each individual freckle, each individual shape with her blue Biro. It literally took all day. I lay there, allowing her to do this, quite curious, as she worked on each individual freckle patiently, with tenderness and care. The light outside was beginning to fade when she finally finished her task — although we could never be certain she had actually coloured in each and every freckle. When I finally looked in the mirror, at first glance it looked like my entire leg was blue, but on closer inspection I could locate each individual freckle. I didn’t know I had so many. I hadn’t realised. I’d never given it much thought before. I had more freckles than unblemished skin it seemed. I liked that. I kissed her passionately. Then I became concerned that I might get ink poisoning. It took me a full hour in a hot shower to scrub each individual dab of delicate blue Biro off. I felt like we had achieved something, that we had both discovered something together.

But it wasn’t love. I’ve never felt it. This was never a problem until I started visiting that bench each day. I often think of people in love, those who have spent their entire lives together, as deeply bored — they must be, to want to spend a whole life together. Nothing must force them to part, to walk away, to do something different. Their boredom must be channelled into this thing they believe in, this word: love. They must never think about it: the boredom, as it pours into them, convincing them that their love means something. That there is deep meaning in all the years they spend together. I don’t know about that. I think those types of people are scared: scared of being alone, scared of emptiness, scared of dying alone: scared of boredom.

Although, I soon began to think about love too. I began to think about love quite a lot — as much as I think about boredom, in fact.

And then they walked over to us. They seemed to appear from out of nowhere, from within the murky ether of the canal. That same gang, those same four teenagers who accosted me the day I was alone. The lad with the red hair I didn’t trust. They were dressed in exactly the same clothes. The red-haired one looked dirtier though, unkempt, like he’d been sleeping rough. They seemed to know her — or at least recognised her from the other day, when they asked her for a light in the street — pointing at her in unison as they approached.

“Hey, it’s you, man.”

“You’re here again, man.”

“With that battyboy, man”

“You and him, man.”

She didn’t seem too fussed by their immediate and abrupt presence. In fact, she seemed to let it wash over her, even when they began to sit next to her, cutting me out, leaning in close to her and flicking her hair from time to time.