Free Crustaceans by Andrew Cowan Page B

didn’t know what. The yellow curtains were closed. In the sandy half-light I peered under the bed. I opened the cupboards and drawers and felt around in the corners. I lifted their pillows and pulled back the blankets. I put my nose to their sheets. All that remained was their smell and I kicked off my shoes and lay face down on the mattress. I had an erection, and when at last I rolled over I saw the empty space near the ceiling.
    My father, I knew, would be working, as he had done all through their visit. He hadn’t known Katharina and Eva before, and he’d made no effort whilst they were with us. A friend had asked him a favour, he’d said – they’d needed a bed and we had one, so why shouldn’t they use it? Because they’re ignorant, I’d told him. They’re just German, he’d shrugged. And thieves, I thought now, hurrying downstairs and out through the kitchen. He was welding. The vast door to his studio was open, a shuddering blue light in the darkness, a cinematic cast on the walls, his flickering shadow. The smell was pungent as fireworks, the noise snapping and crackling. I shielded my eyes. There were masks on a bench in the corner and I grabbed for the nearest. I covered my face. Urgent, impatient, I stood where I wasn’t supposed to. Through my tiny window everything was black but the green point of the weld. The crackling stopped, the light went out. Paul, he said with annoyance, lifting his visor. What is it?
    My voice hadn’t yet broken, and I heard how I sounded, high-pitched, excited. They’ve taken Mum’s case, I told him. Who? Those Germans, they’ve nicked it! Calm down, Paul, he said. A lick of smoke curled from his sculpture. He shook his hands to loosen his gloves, clamped them under his arms to remove them. Which case? he said. Mum’s, I repeated; the one with her clothes in. My father picked up a hammer. Oh, that, he said, and chipped some slag from the weld, carried on with his business; that’s been gone for a long time. Where? I said; when? Charity, he said simply. But you should’ve asked me! I protested; why didn’t ask you me? Asked you what, Paul? he said, not looking up. If I minded, I said; if I wanted to keep something! He stood and faced me then, his eyes narrowing, the faintest of smiles. Your mother’s dresses? he said; I don’t think so, son. There might’ve been something, I insisted. There still is, he replied; there’s things all over the house. Take your pick, Paul, he said, waving his hammer; take whatever you like. But that stuff’s not hers, I objected; it’s just stuff, it belongs to the house. My father sighed. So what do you want, Paul? Because her case isn’t there now, it’s gone. And furious, frustrated, I yelled, I want to know why she died! But you won’t fucking tell me!
    I stepped sharply away, but my father made no motion to hit me. He gave a tired groan and stared for some time at the ceiling. Right, he said finally. Alright, then. He set his mask on the bench and picked up his cigarettes. Come on, he told me, and I followed him, his sagging blue overalls, industrial smell, the worn tread of his boots. He took me into the coach-house. A cat darted past us, carrying something, furtive. Inside the light buzzed and stuttered, flashed on, and for a moment he seemed unsure where to begin, gazed dismally around him, then wheeled a sack-barrow towards the far wall. There was a typist’s swivel chair in his way, a stack of wooden pallets, a row of green lockers. He carried the pallets to the door and rolled the chair after them. One by one he tilted the lockers on to the barrow and clanked them aside, revealing a rack of grey metal shelving, a clutter of art-books and boxes and tins – ICI Belco 300, Paripan Dryfast Enamel, Nitromors, Trimite, Holts … Breathing heavily, he scratched the back of his neck, flipped the cap from his lighter. He lit a