It’s always during moments like this, amidst the slapping wind, bitter frustration and utter powerlessness that I think back to my father. Know your worth is what he would say. A conservative tie primly crossed at the point where his throat would tighten to speak, only ever allowing itself to loosen after an essential stream of whiskey had taken to relax his blood. He lived alone, my parents deciding to divorce the year before I started secondary school. Sallow lighting hung around the unkept corners of the modest room he rented. He had no friends and cared little for sports or anything involving teams. He would constantly stress that people spoke too much. Fervently he would say how everyone held opinions and agendas that only served to compensate for what their lives were really lacking.
Stay focused.
He kept no pets and watered no plants, admitting both required a love he was unable to provide. When it came to music and literature however he was more than capable of generating an exclusive, spacious heart where both could be accommodated. I would always leave him feeling more and more confused. On the one hand he loathed opinion and similarly the opinionated, yet on the other that’s all he was, a non-active, contradictory set of theories and beliefs. His bare and laconic style of interaction would cause whatever he expressed to linger for unhealthy periods of time on the bleak shores of my young consciousness. In our life we all die many times Alex, it’s the last death we need to be most worried about. What did that even mean?
Often when he would begin speaking on subjects of life and purpose I would be hunched in one of the corners of his room, ranting in cynical bursts about whatever menial or demoralising job I happened to be under at the time. He would sit pensively, listening, but never with his eyes. His gaze would slowly coast away to meet some invisible creature out beyond his single window, or he would stare vacuously into the palms of his hands, never looking at me. Then astonishingly, once I’d finished his response would somehow be the most concise, the most elucidating and insightful solution or token of advice anyone could have offered me. Poised and aloof he may have appeared, especially to those who first encountered him, but contrary to the assumption they may have formed he was in fact one of the most perceptive and astute characters I had ever known. He simply had a way of doing things in strict accordance with his own set of principles, and society will forever detest and chastise people like that.
It wasn’t until I was older that I was fully able to comprehend what it meant to be present while simultaneously appearing absent in a world crowded with noise and commotion. That’s how his memory works on me now, coming back to present itself whenever I’m left waiting like this, my uncle having gone off to run yet another errand. Once the monotony starts to take effect I find myself rummaging through the moments we had together, unearthing a little relief from those aphoristic penchants he would so readily share. Most recently I’ve been thinking back to the evening we spoke about worth. Him sitting with a single-malt whiskey in his hand, the few remaining tassels of white hair sparsely covering his head. The crows-feet imprinted on his deep eyes spreading and pushing down into his skin at the moment something made him smile, proof that even happiness wants to be acknowledged in the sad history of the face. A quaint lamp bending its light to fit into each uneven crevice making it all seem like sets of individual pages from a great book, one reaching its end but that you desperately need to go on forever. His arms resting over the chair, erudite and boss-like. Know your worth Alex, that’s all you’ll ever need to recognise. Everything else can be learnt from books or life, but worth, that’s something only you can decide.
The winds are picking up. The sky’s overcast. The trees look like old derelict buildings. I’m holding it down. The fourth edge of the blue tarpaulin we put up to act as a low makeshift roof while we build the wall for the top part of his house. My uncle’s house. It’ll become part of an extension he’s planning on converting into a small office, at least that’s what he tells me. I’m pressing down into the corner. Firmly. It’s not even high enough to stand up in but I don’t ask questions. We’re out of nails again, he’s only got screws, which he says can’t be used to fasten the plastic sheet into the wood so he needs to go and buy another packet. It feels like being inside a cheap tent we’ve pitched up at the summit of some undiscovered mountain. The corner I’m crouched in is littered with solidified remnants of cement and scattered wood shavings. A mess. My knees are becoming sore and bruised again. He’s had to go to the B&Q down the road. Again. The only instruction he left me with was to hold my corner down until he came back. Again. To not let go or it’ll take us another hour to try and put the tarpaulin back up. To not fuck up Alex. Again. This is all time we don’t have. Remember what happened the other day? I’m looking around nervously at the unmanned edges. A pile of stacked bricks on one. Another load stacked on the adjacent corner. Those were all the spare bricks we had up here so we improvised using a drill and a chunky hammer defaced with white paint-speckles to act as the weight for the third corner. I’ve been holding it down, the fourth corner, my corner, for over five minutes now. He knows I could mess it up like I’ve done before, he knows I’m an amateur hence why he scampered down the ladder like running water shouting I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Don’t let me down Al!
The two wooden beams we put up in the middle of the roof to keep the tarpaulin erect are teetering with each new gust of wind. If I do let go and he comes back to find the same mishap as last week then he’ll fire me on the spot. We had the same issue then; only my back gave in minutes after he’d left. My arms started to shake, my leg muscles trembled and before I knew it my body was trying to pull itself apart as the roof collapsed around me. Pathetic really because it took us forty-five minutes to put the whole thing back up again, then another forty-five minutes to take it down at the end of the day. He scorned bitterly that the time altogether cost him £200, threatening to deduct it from my wages although he never did. Instead he proceeded to moan and cuss for thirty of those forty-five minutes, blasting the overall circumstance of things; his fate, his luck, rich people, corrupt politicians and then his ex-wife, concluding at last with the omnipotent God he ardently prayed to each night. For the remaining fifteen minutes he swore directly at me, cursing my idleness and incompetence. Combined within those insults was his view on my general lack of ability to do anything to an even slightly satisfactory standard. If I were to lie I would say his chiding assessment didn’t really bother me, but I won’t lie. In fact, now that I can feel myself becoming increasingly anxious at the possibility of the same situation repeating, I’m forced to recall another recent error, one that caused him again to lose his temper with me.
The day before last I made a cement mix but it was too loose. Again, it was my fault. I ended up adding too much water into the mix by mistake. I wasn’t paying attention. He couldn’t use a mix like that for the wall. In a mad annoyance he dashed the bucket off the roof, slashes of grey runny soup painting the dead grass below. My mind was elsewhere. I tried to explain that to him in the most honest way possible, but he screamed out saying he didn’t give a shit, and I should come to work with a clear, focused head. He said he wasn’t paying me to constantly blunder his work, which as he always reminded me would cost him both time and money. He’s right, it’s his business and his house we’re fixing up after all but here’s the truth of it, I mainly think about her. I think of where we’ve come from and where we might be heading but without the common fondness you might expect to find attached to such a personal and honest confession.
Change hands.
Stretch out the fingers.
Keep strong.
Watch your back.
I’m thinking now if I accidentally do let go again and he comes back to shout, or even call me what he did a few days ago, I’ll probably leave. Leaving any kind of relationship takes a substantial amount of courage, a sure mustering of strength and self-worth both of which I’ve always seemed to lack. I don’t think there’s been a time when I haven’t backed away from some sort of physical confrontation or challenge. As a young boy I would be content to stand inert and unguarded while the onslaught of punches from whoever had taken issue with me would proceed to cut my skin, burst open my lip and blacken my eyes. Back then it seemed far easier to stand and do nothing than to go through the daring ordeal of retaliating with my own series of feeble strikes. Plus, I never regarded myself as a fighter, what with my spindly legs and uncoordinated arms. From then I accepted I would make a skill out of endurance rather than aggression. In class, teachers would scorn me and again I’d do little to stand up for myself. Instead I’d sit surreptitiously at my desk, my face appearing more amazed at their fervent contempt for one so young and blameless than for the brazen reproach of my averse way. Back at home cousins would ridicule everything I came to like about myself which soon enough worked its way into successfully undoing any bit of self-admiration I may have been fortunate enough to establish.
That’s when my back gave way. I was having these very thoughts when I felt a sharp spasm-like twinge attack me, followed by the ataxic withdrawal of motion and stability; finally to be crushed by the collapse, feeling the cold wet ground against my clothes. I couldn’t move. Agony. There was nobody to call. If you’ve been unfortunate enough to experience muscle spasms or have trapped nerves toss your limbs into rolls of stiff relentless whirls, then you’ll know it’s not the burning sensation in the shoulders or the sequential throbbing that drives the overall discomfort. It’s the rigorous trapping in the lower part of the body, the ongoing relentless pangs leaving you groaning in excruciating pain shamed on the floor, prostrate and weird like some marooned starfish. That’s how I must have looked to him when he came back up the ladder with the packet of nails in his hand, to find me wriggling and my body gripped with pain. I’d raised the issue with him before.
The other afternoon he had me carry two buckets of brick-mix up to the roof at the same time. A bucket in each hand whilst trying to climb a ladder. Imagine. For two hours straight. Each one must have weighed around 12kg. After the second hour I admitted, defeated, I couldn’t do it anymore. My hands were raw and calloused and my back was aching to the point it hurt to stand straight. He retorted mockingly saying it was due to the amount of time I’d spent reading books. According to him it had nothing to do with the weight of the brick-mix or the taxing duration of the labouring. Too much looking down he sneered. Too much looking down and sitting in front of those devil screens. He may have had a point. Whenever I happened to be on lunch or waiting for new instructions I’d pull out whatever book I was reading, this was my preferred way of filling the unpredictable gaps between hours. It was either that or stand idly kicking gravel until he decided what it was he wanted me to do. My jobs weren’t particularly exciting either. They mainly ranged from mixing cement, carrying bricks from one place to another, emptying sacks of debris into the skip, cleaning out the back of his van or running to the shops if he needed another packet of cigarettes. I’ve always enjoyed reading.
Poetry, I was to soon discover, had a special reverence within such a disorderly working environment. Its economy meant I was able to dip in and out of pieces without having to follow the particularly long and complex narratives common to most novels. Sometimes I would read the same poem for days, continually discovering something new and appealing. Then, if I wanted to change things up I’d bring in stories, even essays or other non-fictional writing along with a flask of green tea and some sandwiches. Very quickly they too became like spectacular films I could watch on my imagination’s screen. He’d tell me reading was for people who didn’t know how to live, that’s why they were so engrossed in the lives of all those characters that didn’t really exist.
There will come a point in your life where you’ll be forced to make some decisions Alex. To travel into those parts of yourself you fear most. That’s what true bravery is. To go where the lights are broken and the only voice you can make out is your own ugly rebound. Those will be the moments which go on to shape your life. I’m ten minutes in. I’m doing alright so far. I’m being cautious. You see Alex, decisions involving bravery can catapult you out of one reality and straight into another if you let them, sometimes for the worse but sometimes for the better. I’m doing good. I’m feeling strong. Only another five minutes and he’ll be back.
One evening I came home from school with a split lip and a cut eye. My father asked me what happened. I must have been about eight when I told him for the first time that I wasn’t brave. That I didn’t like fighting and all the other boys were stronger and more aggressive than me. I told him I liked reading and how the friends I made in books were far nicer than the ones I made in school. He stubbed out his cigarette tilting my head up towards the ceiling, moving my eye into the light so as to see the depth of the cut. Your mother will be upset. How many? Just one I replied staring up at him, a tremble in my throat. So why didn’t you hit the bastard back? Because he was bigger than me and I was scared. He took a breath in turning away to wade off his frustration. Your granddad used to tell me that we were peaceful people living in a violent place. I was the same at your age but there’s only so much the eyes can take before all they’re able to see is dirt. He walked out the room, leaving me to wash the dried blood off my face with a hot towel by the sink. For most young boys that would have been the moment when the next encounter with a bully would result in some kind of assailed retaliation. Not for me though. I wasn’t that strong. I never could hit back.
It’s pouring down with all the confidence of heaven now. One of the beams has fallen. The other three corners seem to be slowly losing their fight too. He’s been gone for nearly twenty minutes. He’s doing it to me again. My fingers are starting to ache turning a light blue against their bones. Take one hand off. Put the other hand on. Flex. Rotate. Keep it together. Put pressure where it’s needed. In the corner. Strength. Stamina. Strength. Stamina.
Since working here I’ve found myself writing more. My friend Wilton who’s a literature aficionado mentioned there were nights in town where people could go to read their work. After some deliberation I decided to take myself along and find the confidence to recite a few pieces I’d recently put together. The people there didn’t speak much to each other which suited me fine. In a safe corner I sat discretely knowing nobody would come to bother me. I signed up for the open-mic. The host, a tall angular man with brown eccentric hair and a waistcoat matching his shoes giving him the appearance of being fashionably odd, told the tense anxious crowd it didn’t matter if others understood the poems or not, the point of the night was for people to come and read free of judgment and criticism. He also stipulated humorously that poems couldn’t be maliciously directed at other poets in the audience, saying it had happened before in the past. The crowd found this amusing, a low rumble of shy laughter gently swallowing each person’s nerves, whereas I stayed too contorted to pay it any real attention.
Wilton mentioned how many great writers began reading their work at nights such as these. Poets, novelists, playwrights, all reciting sections of their stories and poems to random audiences. He told me how at the end of each reading the crowd would applaud out of sheer politeness, so if I was to read I shouldn’t see the gesture as the barometer with which to gauge the success of my writing. The piece I thought to perform was one I’d written linking the process of building a wall to the art of crafting a poem.
From the outset walls can appear quite disenchanting and average, similar to the way a poem can, but with closer inspection they both have the ability to transcend the ordinary. It was only after labouring for these months that I began to see how a wall is in actual fact the ancient poetry of stone. Architects, builders and bricklayers are in a sense all creating an alternative kind of poetry. Each brick acts like a single word, one constantly relying on the other to properly define it, then line by line, its shape and form is provided by the structure it finally comes to stand inside. From what I’ve understood poetry is more about the words a writer doesn’t use than those she or he does use, just like the bricklayers who at their disposal have a limited number of bricks which they use to build the wall that eventually becomes the impenetrable body of the entire building. They will cut away at parts too wide in the same way a poet will refrain from using words which are unable to fit around the abstract images of the mind – manipulating tenses and grammatical categories which in turn will give birth to new definitions and concepts, those which were previously unheard of. Hunched over their wall the inward bricklayers depend on the learned arithmetic and symmetry of their straining eyes, while across the road the working poet may too be sat hunched at his or her keyboard, pulling at those inventive aesthetics, playing with the various forms of metre so intrinsic in giving the writing its distinct pattern and velocity.
I read the piece to Wilton; he liked it. I think the audience did too despite them applauding me in the same sluggish manner they did the elderly gentleman who gave the impassioned outpouring of several short poems themed solely around bugs. Overall the night was a success, I jumped on the last train home in high spirits and for the first time in months I wasn’t thinking about her or the building site.
Twenty-five minutes have gone. The remaining wooden beam is swaying stubbornly around the wind and rain. I look down into the garden. The ladder. No sign of him. The lower part of my back’s beginning to release a slight tingle. Focus on something else. Something without pain. At around fifteen minutes after midnight I arrived home. She was already in bed. She liked to sleep but she didn’t like to sleep alone. I put the television on mute, moving some of her paintings off the coffee table to place them carefully against the wall. They were still drying. Flicking to the wildlife channel I made myself a cup of chamomile tea in the usual ritualistic way. For the first time in as long as I can remember my whole body felt as if it were smiling. My mind still in that little poetry basement, filled with cheerful people who only wished to say nice things to one another. How amazing it would be to wake up each day and write. Then I started thinking of work and of labouring again; soon my meagre fantasy retreated back into my mind’s private box. The rain’s coming in directly now. Hitting my face. The first edge has twisted itself loose – the one with the drill and rusty hammer over it. There’s nothing I can do. I look around at the other two corners and notice the intermittent gusts trying to tackle the helpless stack of bricks. I panic a useless panic. Know your worth he said. What am I even doing here? She wakes from her sleep shuffling into the living room to ask where I was. I tell her about the poetry show. The old man with his poems about bugs. How Wilton had suggested I should go to read. How they gave me an applause. She presses two fingers into each of her temples. Massaging. Closing both eyes. Keeping the pressure on. She asks when I’m coming to bed. I say after the documentary. I ask her to sit down and watch it with me. I tell her it’s about endangered species knowing how much she loves animals. She doesn’t respond, keeping the pressure on her temples. I ask if she wants a herbal tea. She takes the two fingers off her head to rest them on her hips. Her thick white dressing gown half undone exposing her blue nighty with a colourful Disney character I’m unfamiliar with. She’s not wearing slippers. She tells me to come to bed. I explain how I’m just trying to let the adrenaline from the show settle then I’ll come. The countenance on her face caves inwards. She says I’m neglecting her again. Not showing her enough love. That my poetry and my books are what’s really important to me. I assure her that’s not the case. Her voice grows louder. Fierce. She’s no longer dazed and soft from sleep. My voice falls lower. Whispering. I mention the neighbours. We shouldn’t shout. I remind her of the couple downstairs with the baby. She ignores me. Her eyes becoming wet and dangerous. On the other side of the roof the first stack of bricks comes undone. Two wild edges of tarpaulin are now whipping themselves against the fury of the storm. I look at the solitary beam of wood trying to support the precarious structure. It’s still there although now it looks weak and afraid. The rain pelts relentlessly. I’m drenched. Cold. The sky is a warship grey. I shiver. Storming towards the coffee table she picks up my mug of chamomile tea, the television flashing muted images of a group of fishermen off the Japanese coast spearing a family of terrified whales. The last remaining corner has three bricks on it. It’s looking strong. Hope redefines itself. I’m contemplating using my foot to pin down my corner so as I can try and put the drill, hammer and fallen bricks back on top of their sides. I don’t know if I can stretch myself all the way across. I put my foot down. She picks up the mug of boiling tea and throws it in my face. I shoot up from the sofa. Panicked. Screaming. In pain. She smashes the mug over the side of my head, just above my right ear. Her paintings fall flat on the floor as if too beautiful to witness such ugliness. I grab her wrist. I’m unable to reach over to the bricks. They’re too far away. The roof is too wide. Too big. Bigger than me. I can see the blue plastic slipping away. I lunge back to my corner and push down hard with both hands. Everything hurts. I feel sick. Tears discover my eyes. I throw her onto the floor howling down into her face. My head pressed down hard onto hers. Hot saliva splattering after each syllable. Blood ruins what’s left of her infuriated beauty. She screams her nose is broken again. She kicks me in the stomach. I fall back into the wall. Looking at her. At the blood. I say I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. That I didn’t do it deliberately. I hold back tears but my eyes crack. I try to explain how she pushed me. I reacted badly. That she smashed a mug over my head first and I would never have hurt her intentionally. She runs over to the bathroom to look in the mirror. I push down harder. Cursing. Hot saliva splattering after each syllable. I can’t tell the difference between tears and rain. My body shudders. Her nose is fine. She feels it all over. Looking for blood or bone. Nothing’s broken. She stands in front of the mirror baffled. Her face changes. Her mouth sinking as she says the words oh no and sorry repeatedly. Reaching out in a half-dead motion she touches the side of my head, the side gushing blood, then with both her hands cupped over her mouth she hastens out the front door, out into the blindness of the night. I replace her face in the mirror. I scream. I cry. For help. For assistance. I’m on my own. The only person here. The storm’s all around and there’s nobody with me.
I’m letting it all go. I can’t.
I release.
The last beam drops like a shot-down guard as the blue tarpaulin soars up towards the sky with all the aggression of a wild thing, drifting back down to fall into the garden below where it wraps itself around the solid body of an old tree. I’m laying flat with my back against the cold roof looking up. The wooden beam dead and wet beside me. I see the rain as it should be seen, falling purposefully on my face – naked, cruel and dumb. Stretching out my lower back I attempt to expel the pain, steadily trying to breathe, closing both my eyes waiting for my uncle to return.