Read
the winning story by Robert Fenner of Rochester, Kent.
It was Gramps' idea, to take over the fishing lessons after Dad died. Thank
goodness he did. He kept me sane. Someone to talk to, a shoulder to cry on.
Fishing was an escape from misery, from the house which leaked grief. He
just appeared one day and plonked himself down on the river bank, put an arm
round my shoulder and gave me a rough hug.
"Come on, lad. Wipe your eyes. Now, I want to see you cast a line."
He held my gaze for a long moment, as if he were sizing me up, then he
winked. "Let's see if there's anything left for me to teach you."
I'd only been a toddler when Dad went away. From time to time he'd come home
on leave, a stranger with a moustache, stinking of cigarettes and unwashed
uniform. But within days he'd be off again, leaving behind the space I'd
been trying to fill with a real father. Then, just before my ninth birthday,
he came home for good. "We'll go fishing at weekends, Billy. You and
me. Give your mum a bit of peace, eh?" A chance to get to know one
another, our special time beside the quiet water, whispering close so as not
to disturb the fish. "My old dad taught me how to do this, Billy.
Reckon it's my turn to pass it on."
Six years of bloody conflict he survived, to come home and die from a heart
attack only months later.
Cigarette behind one ear, he used to whistle in the garden, digging up weeds,
mowing the lawn - "We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when,"
Mum singing, him whistling, his tongue scooting up and down the scale,
creating a riff all his own, lips kissing air as his cheeks fluttered. I'd
place my fingers either side, feeling the tune rolling round his mouth.
For weeks after he died I heard him whistling, but Mum said I was daft. She
was falling apart, and Pita was more than she could cope with. Pita was my
baby sister Susan, or pain in the arse. Dad said it one day as a joke when
she was bawling as usual, and Mum frowned at him, shooting a look in my
direction.
"Little ears, John. You're not in the barracks now."
So it became our secret; we'd laugh at Pita's antics, two men of the household
ganging up against the women.
One day … afterwards … I heard him whistling a lullaby in Pita's room. "Dad?"
I whispered. "Dad, is that you? Where are you, Dad? I can't see you.
Oh, come out, Dad, please. I can't see you." My heart hammered in my
chest as the tune lifted, fluting high on a trill of notes that carried to a
place where I couldn't follow. Was it Germany? Would he be home again soon
on leave?
"Do you think he'll come back, Gramps?" We were baiting hooks, our
heads bent in concentration. Worms writhed in a heap at the bottom of the
tin, slipped through my fingers, hung dead from the spike.
"It's all right to miss your Dad, Billy. It doesn't make you a cissy.
Keep him in your heart, lad, and I promise he'll never leave you."
I stood up, checking my float. Flies buzzed over the water.
"He was smoking a cigarette last night," I said. "I could smell
it, in the sitting room." I picked a scab on my knee. "And his
gloves were on the table, all warm like he'd just been wearing them."
A pair of thick-lined, black leather gloves he'd taken off a dead U-boat
captain when he'd been stationed in Lubeck. The warmest, softest gloves I'd
ever seen, with a shiny brass stud to fasten them snugly round your wrist,
so you'd never feel cold with them on. Both my small hands fitted easily
inside just the one. He forgot to tell me why the German officer was dead.
"Smart, eh boy? What with these and my new dickey-dirt, reckon I look
just the ticket." He'd winked at me, then caught Mum's eye. She shook
her head, disapproving.
"Language, John."
Always disapproving. Always snapping at him.
I thought he was speaking German or top-secret code; I resolved to learn it
quickly. From then on, it was up the apples-and-pears to bed, a bowl of
loop-the-loop for tea, and Susie'd dropped her rattle on the rory-o-more. I
talked to school friends on the dog, I washed mud off my boat-race.
Under the bridge, ducks bickered in a flurry of feathers. Which words was I
supposed to use now? Words were failing me; I had no vocabulary for loss.
"Mummy cries all the time," I said.
Gramps wedged his fishing rod on the bank and helped me untangle my line. "There.
Now let it out slowly. Slowly boy. You can't rush things." His
outstretched hand seemed to calm the trembling in my arm. "That's it,
Billy. Good lad. Now we sit and wait."
Watching our floats bobbing mid-stream, I felt strangely at peace. Who could
fail to enjoy such a quiet spot? Dad would have loved it.
Dad? Dad was gone, enjoyment was impossible. Unthinkable. And guilt flooded
in.
That night I woke suddenly, my eyes snapping open. I lay there motionless,
scarcely daring to breathe. From the room below came tiny sounds of
movement, then, uncertain at first, a few whistled notes that floated up the
chimney wall and out through the empty hearth by my bed. They carried a
smell, a presence.
On tip-toe, so as not to disturb Mum or Pita, I crept down the stairs,
avoiding those which creaked. When I reached the bottom, I froze. So
powerful was the smell of tobacco I almost coughed. Moonlight streaming
through the hall window lit a trail of smoke that curled slowly round the
half-open sitting-room door. Like a finger, it beckoned.
I couldn't move. His name hung on my lips, but I couldn't speak. Instead I
mouthed a silent plea and from the dark recesses of the house came a sad,
heavy sigh.
At that moment, Pita started screaming. I knew her bawling would wake Mum,
who'd cross the landing, see my door wide-open, pop her head round to check
on me and … Careless of noise, I rushed back upstairs and flung myself on
the bed, burying my head under pillows and blankets to silence the drumbeat
of my heart.
Next morning I made sure to be first in the sitting room. Mum was busy making
breakfast, shovelling food down Pita and scooping her messes off the kitchen
floor, so she didn't notice me. As soon as I drew the curtains I saw the
ashtray. It was sitting on our little side table by the sofa, full of cold
grey ash with fag ends stubbed out in the middle and spent matchsticks
visible in the debris. His black gloves lay next to it.
"Look," I shouted. My hands were shaking as I placed the evidence on
the sink. "Where is he, Mum?" She looked aghast. "What's
going on? Where's Dad?"
Her hands flew to her face, a look of horror behind her eyes. "Oh, Billy!"
she wailed. "It's not …"
"I knew he'd come back. I knew he would. Gramps said he'd never leave us."
She stared at me, eyes stretched wide. "What on earth are you talking
about?"
"Grandpa William, he told me Dad …" I was stumbling, writhing
on the spot, wringing my hands because it hurt so badly. "Last night I
heard him … I did. He was whistling and smoking and … and I heard him."
Slowly, from her apron pocket, she produced a pack of Woodbines and a box of
matches. She held them out on the palms of her hands, like sacrificial
offerings. "It was me, Billy," she said, weeping. "Oh, Billy,
sweetheart, I'm so sorry. I didn't realise …"
She confessed. In her agony she had tried to bring him back to life. Wearing
his gloves, she could touch him; smoking his cigarettes, she could smell
him. She'd even tried to whistle, to end the silence.
Tears streamed down her face, but I ignored her sobbing explanations, shouting
over and over, "But he promised me, Gramps promised me, he told me …"
while Pita banged her plate and spoon and flung them crashing to the floor.
The sudden noise created silence. Mum drew a shuddering breath and in slow,
measured tones she said, "Your father's dead, Billy. You must stop all
this nonsense. He's never coming back. Or his ghost. There's no such thing
as ghosts. There's nothing. Nothing." Her voice broke in a whisper. "And
I never kissed him goodbye."
I fled the house. Jumping on my bike, I pedalled till my calves ached,
heedless of traffic, unaware of direction, cycling like fury through city
streets and country lanes, criss-crossing myself and doubling back but
ending inevitably at our latest, favourite spot by the Lea. Gramps was
already there, waiting for me.
He patted the grass. "Sit down, lad. Tell me what's happened. You don't
look too good."
Neither did he, for that matter. As I blurted out my sorry story, I noticed
for the first time how frail he'd become, the skin on his face translucent
and fragile, a paper lantern for the light behind his eyes. They smiled at
me now, milky blue like the sky.
"Time to ease the pain, Billy. Would you mind giving her this, lad?"
A sealed envelope which he'd taken from his coat. With Ellen written bold on
the front. "Your Dad sent it to me at the start of the war, for safe
keeping. Just in case."
"In case of what?"
"Good job I didn't throw it away." He shook his head. "Funny
how things turn out." He started packing up his fishing tackle,
wrapping the rod and line in an old sack which he tied with string. Hitching
everything onto his shoulder, he turned to gaze at the fast-flowing river. "I'd
best be off now. Make sure she reads it out loud, Billy. It's for you as
well. It might help you both."
I put the envelope in my saddlebag. At the road by the bridge, I turned as
usual to wave goodbye. But he'd gone.
Mum was hanging the washing out when I got back. I made her a cup of tea,
offered her a biscuit, said vaguely "I found this, Mum," and gave
her the letter. Silly really. I should have thought. But I was too excited.
She dropped the cup, which smashed on the path. Ripping the envelope open, she
pulled out a single sheet of paper which fluttered in the wind. Darling
Ellen and Billy, her voice faltered, if you're reading this now, it means
the worst. Damn this war. But I want you to remember how much I love you …
"Where did you get this, Billy?"
"I told you," I mumbled, "I found it."
"Billy!"
I shrugged my shoulders. There seemed no way out. "Gramps gave it to me,"
I whispered.
She screamed hysterically. "Don't be ridiculous, Billy. I want the truth."
"Grampa William gave it to me this morning …" She turned white,
her eyes staring. "…Just now, when we were fishing. He's been keeping
it for us, just in case …"
"Oh my God, Billy, what …? Gramps died years ag …" as she
slid to the ground in a faint.
