am sat on the bottom stair, watching his mum talk on the telephone.
She was listening more than talking. “But you said...well...what
about...for God’s sake. Wait a minute.” She put a
hand over the mouthpiece. “Go away,” she said. “Go
and watch telly or something. I’m on the phone.” Sam
went.
Dean was draped across the lounge sofa, slurping coffee and
smoking, the curtains beside him still drawn. On the television,
a black woman in the audience shouted at a white woman on the
stage. People clapped and whooped. Sam looked at Dean until Dean
looked back. “What do you want?” Dean blew out a
lungful of thick smoke. It rolled over Sam, through him. Sam
felt his mouth tighten, blood rise to his cheeks. He knew his
words were going to stick.
“Can I w-watch cartoons?”
Dean switched his attention back to the television. “I’m
watching this.” His mouth was a tight, mean line. Sam knew
better than to argue. He walked into the kitchen where sun forced
its way through the window blind. He pulled his new trainers
on. His mum called him back into the dark room.
“Your uncle’s coming later,” she said. “He’s
taking you out.”
Sam shrugged, continued lacing his trainers. His uncle always
showed up around his birthday. It was the only time Sam saw him.
He came last Christmas, but didn’t stay long. He didn’t
like Dean. Sam didn’t like Dean either. “Dean says
it would be nice if you called him Dad,” his mum had said.
Some chance. He wished Dean would vanish, that one morning he’d
come downstairs, his mum would tell him Dean had moved out, empty
the ashtray, and that would be that.
In the shade of the house, Sam belted the football against the
back wall for a while. His mum drew the curtains, opened the
window. He watched his mum and Dean talk, then she bent over
and they kissed. Sam looked away, kicked the ball some more,
enjoying the slap of leather on brick. Once they’d finished,
he headed back inside. His mum stopped talking as he entered.
The doorbell rang and his mum went to answer. Dean turned the
television down. Sam heard voices talking, but not the words.
Dean turned the television off. Sam’s mum came back in. “Get
your jacket,” she said. “He’s here.” Sam
pulled on last summer’s jacket. He didn’t want to
stay in, but he didn’t want to go. He never knew what to
say to his uncle.
He walked outside into brilliant summer, and there stood his
uncle. Ridiculous shirt, blue sky, white clouds, flamingos, a
cartoon summer hanging loose around his stomach so the birds
folded in on themselves. His hair grew outward, not down, a cloud
of wire. He looked thin. He looked pale.
“
Hello, Sam,” he said.
“Hi.” Sam squinted upward, caught a dazzle of sun
to the eyes.
“Go on,” his mum said from the doorway, “enjoy
yourselves. Do you have everything, Sam?”
San nodded. He had his pocket money, his best trainers. The
cool kids would be prowling the town, the kids with cool bikes,
cool clothes, Mums and Dads; they’d see him, his ridiculous
uncle, and laugh and point. His uncle’s rat-grey trainers
squeaked with every stride. They were white once, Sam supposed.
“So, Sam. What shall we do?” His uncle never had
any ideas. Last year, they went to some pub for lunch, where
his uncle drank too much, then walked along the seafront where
holidayers hunted in packs, where fruit machines flashed and
coughed out coins, promising jackpots he never won. People queued
at the change counter, changing one gold coin to handfuls of
silver. No windows, no sunlight, just smoke and slots and empty
pockets.
“Don’t mind,” Sam said, irritated at his uncle’s
slow walk.
His uncle wiped sweat from his forehead. “Well - how about
we get something to eat?”
“Sure.” Sam shrugged.
They caught the eighteen bus, crammed together on one hot plastic
seat. The bus juddered over seaside cobbles, the sand dunes to
their left shielding the beach. His uncle sat beside Sam, pressing
him against the windowed wall. He smelled musky, sweet. He was
sweating, his cheeks tinted red. They talked about school, lessons,
subjects, things they talked about the year before. Whatever
he said, his uncle nodded, his uncle agreed.
The bus lurched left, onto the main strip, and Sam rang the
bell. His uncle hauled himself up, blew out his cheeks, clung
to the metal pole. The exit queue was full of teenagers laughing,
swapping sharp, sly looks. A couple pointed at his uncle’s
shirt, laughed, then stared at Sam. Sam looked away. He felt
the laughter.
They stepped off the bus into the dry heat and the sea breeze.
They walked alongside the beach for a while, hearing children
shrilling from below as they braved the freezing sea. Green and
red kites dotted the skyline. Further out, a blue-white boat
hopped the water. Sam watched the kites loop, dive, flutter.
“Sam?” His uncle crouched beside him. His eyes looked
pink. “How about we eat now?”
Sam shook his head. Fine. A happy birthday would be nice. His
uncle took him over the road, against the tide of T-shirts and
shorts, into the sunless backstreets.
“I’m thirsty,” Sam said. His uncle bought
a bottle of cola from a newsagent. They kept walking, the cold
drink sparking fireworks behind Sam’s eyes. Two more turns
and there was a pub in front of them; tatty, red paint peeling
away, the gold writing dulled. Old colours peeked through beneath
the red façade – black, green, wood.
“This is okay, isn’t it?” his uncle said. “They
do burgers. You like burgers, don’t you, Sam?”
Sam nodded. Two o’clock.
It was warm inside, warm, dark and stale. Flames lapped at a
log in the fireplace. Sam blinked in the darkness, his eyes tuning
in. He saw smoke and shapes, backs turned to the bar. An old
man had the window seat, his cigarette smoke making brilliant
weaves in the one seam of sunlight.
“Afternoon, Tom,” the barman said. “This is
Sam, is it? You look nothing like your picture.” Sam didn’t
recognise the barman.
“Yes,” his uncle said. “This is Sam.”
Sam felt the heat of stares as the shapes turned round. One
smiled from beneath a baseball cap, a full set of yellow teeth
on show. “Heard all about you,” he said. Sam smiled,
looked down, unsure.
“Usual, Tom?”
His uncle nodded. “And some food for the lad.” He
nudged Sam. “The menu’s there,” he said, pointing
to the blackboard above the fireplace. “Want me to come
with you?”
Sam shook his head, walked over. The old man coughed, stabbed
out his cigarette. Sam chose quickly, turned back. His uncle
put an empty glass down on the bar, nodded at the barman.
“Burger, please,” Sam said. The barman nodded, scribbled
on a pad, filled his uncle’s glass again.
“Let’s sit down,” his uncle said. They took
a table near the jukebox, lit up in yellows and reds. Sam’s
uncle got him another coke. “What shall we do after this?”
Sam shrugged. “Don’t mind,” he said. He was
waiting for his late birthday to begin.
“The beach, maybe? The arcades?”
It was what he’d suggested the year before, and what they’d
done. Sam had four pounds pocket money and didn’t want
to put it in a fruit machine, but he knew he would.
The barman brought a plate of food over, a fat burger, fat chips,
a bowl with plastic sachets of sauce. Sam tucked in, crushing
the burger until he could lift it, sticky-fingered, juice rolling
off his chin. His uncle asked if he was okay. Sam nodded. His
uncle went to the bar. Sam finished, felt his stomach push out,
weighty. He sat for a while watching his uncle drinking quickly,
talking to the man in the cap. Bored, he crossed to the bar.
“All finished?” his uncle said.
“Yes. Can we go now?”
“Fine. We’ll get down the beach, then. How’s
that?”
Sam nodded, shrugged.
His uncle spoke to the barman and turned round. “Do you
want some ice-cream, Sam? Some chocolate?”
“No thanks.” Sam wanted fresh air and something
to do.
His uncle finished his drink. “Okay then,” he said. “See
you guys later.”
“Nice meeting you,” the man in the cap said.
They walked out into the afternoon shadows, the sea rumbling
in the distance. They weaved their way back down the lanes, his
uncle humming a tune, his ridiculous shirt billowing around his
body in the breeze. His pockets jingled as he swayed in not-quite-straight
lines. They crashed back onto the main strip, the soft black
tarmac stained with ice cream and spat-out gum. They stopped
at the main crossing, the pavement swollen with mums with pushchairs,
kids with strange accents and fast mouths. Sam squinted down
onto the beach. There were two kites on the skyline.
Then Sam saw the cool kids, the kids from his school, striped
T-shirts like a gang, leaning against the chip van. They saw
him, his uncle, the explosion of hair, the shirt. They began
walking over. Sam moved faster through the strips of sunlight
and shade.
“So,” his uncle said, stopping. “About this
birthday of yours. Eleven already.”
Sam watched the kids creep closer, their grins unfriendly. “Twelve.”
“Twelve,” his uncle said. “Twelve. Listen,
Sam. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there on the day.”
Sam shrugged. The kids stopped, lurking back by the rusted church
railings, their mouths moving as they watched. Sam’s mouth
was dry, his tongue sticky.
“
I thought I could get you a present, maybe? A football? You
like football, don’t you?”
“Mum and Dean got me a football,” Sam said.
“Ah.” His uncle jingled the change in his pocket. “Right.
It’s just – look - I’d really like to get you
something.”
Sam wanted to keep moving, not to stop until the kids had gone.
He looked around, up at the skyline, saw his idea. “I’d
like a kite,” he said.
His uncle brightened. “Sure. We could go and fly it, down
there.” He pointed to the beach. “Come on then. Let’s
get one.”
They moved past shopfronts, through families, packs of kids.
Sam looked over his shoulder. The cool kids were ghosting behind
them.
They approached a store, the giant windows filled with toys – bicycles,
toy cars, model aeroplanes – and, at the top, a clutch
of kites, blue, yellow, red, diamond shaped, bat shaped, box
shaped.
“These?” his uncle asked. “Are these the kind
of thing?”
“Yeah,” Sam said. “Please.”
Sam breathed in the cool store air. The kites were high on the
wall, the coloured boxes neatly stacked below. Sam looked at
them all and chose the cheapest, the yellow diamond. Two boys
were pictured on the box, flying the kite. They were staring
up into the sky with big wide grins.
“Right.” His uncle snatched up the box, marched
to the counter. Sam recognised the girl behind the counter. She
lived on his street. He usually saw her hanging around the bus
stop with her boyfriend as the sun set, kissing, smoking. Sam’s
uncle slid the box onto the counter. The girl looked at his shirt,
looked at Sam, punched buttons on the till. The till rattled
and whirred.
“Eleven ninety-nine,” she said, still staring at
the shirt. Sam’s uncle dug into his jeans, pulled out a
fistful of coins. “Eleven ninety-nine,” he repeated.
Using one hand to pick at the coins, he dug out the gold ones,
then started on the silver. People began to queue behind him.
He got to eight before Sam realised his uncle didn’t have
enough money. Sam wanted a drink. Sam wanted to be elsewhere,
anywhere.
“Listen,” his uncle said to the girl. “How
about I give you a tenner for it, yeah?”
The girl lifted her stare from his shirt. She looked at his
uncle with dead eyes. “I’m not allowed to do that.”
“Oh come on, sure you are. A tenner. A tenner for the
kite. That’s fair, isn’t it?”
Sam looked at the people in the queue, a short-haired man half-grinning,
a woman muttering something to her friend.
“I can’t,” the girl said. “Policy.”
“Come on, sweetheart,” his uncle said. The girl
gave a shrug. The short-haired man stopped grinning. Sam’s
uncle dropped some of the coins on the floor. They clattered
and bounced, spinning and rolling, silver and bronze. Sam walked
out, ignoring his uncle’s cry. He stood outside the store,
face burning. When he blinked, one slow, hot tear rolled down.
He didn’t want to be outside, around people, being seen.
He turned to the window, looked at the toys inside.
“Hey, Pa-Pa-Parker.” It was the kids again, three
of them, shaved heads, sunburnt. They’d followed. Sam looked
up at them, into the sunlight, tried to act friendly. He didn’t
know their names. His tongue fattened and dried in his mouth.
“Who’s your boy-boyfriend, Pa-Parker?”
“Yeah. Him with the shirt. Your boy-boyfriend, is he?”
“My u-uncle,” Sam said. His words were sticking.
“Sure he is.” The kids laughed. Sam felt himself
shrinking, blood burning his cheeks.
“Hey, Sam.” It was his uncle, a kite box under his
arm. “I got it. I got it, Sam.”
The kids looked at him and laughed. “See you later, Pa-Parker.” The
boys walked away, looking back.
His uncle looked at the kids, then crouched down beside Sam. “Sam?
What’s wrong? What’s up?”
The words fell out before Sam could swallow them. “You,” he
said, his throat lumping up. “I was em-embarrassed.”
His uncle looked down, breathed out, stood up. “Yes,” he
said. “I’m sorry, Sam. I never wanted it to be like
this.”
Sam looked up into the sunshine. He thought his uncle might
cry. He felt like he should hug him, like he’d upset him.
It was okay really. The kids had gone, and he had a present.
He took the box from his uncle. “Thanks,” he said.
His uncle was staring out to sea. “That’s okay,
Sam,” he said, then he coughed. “Do you still want
to fly it?”
They trooped down the concrete sun-caked ramp, onto the lumpy
beach. Families were lifting windbreaks out from the sand, shaking
towels, packing up picnics into baskets and bags. The kite flyers
had gone. They walked out until the sand was gluey brown. Sam’s
uncle knelt in the sand and unpacked the kite, his hands trembling
as he pushed the poles together slowly, carefully. He passed
the handle to Sam, then threw the kite skyward, letting the wind
haul it upwards. The kite climbed toward the clouds, tilting
left, right, hovering, holding space in the air, the tail flicking
up and around. They took turns, Sam and his uncle, the wind whisking
the shirt around his uncle’s body, unfurling the flamingos,
folding them back in on themselves. Just the two of them left
on the beach as the sun dipped gold into the water and the sea
wished in and sighed out.
[END]
© 2006 Michael Hulme - Contributor's
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