It’s warm here in our kitchen. My cheeks are aflame with it. There’s a rich smell coming from the oven and the windows are steamed up. Dad and I stand like two storks waiting for a zookeeper to come with food. Neither of us speaks, and overhead we can hear Mum’s voice hum, and the splash of water. Banks is having another bath in our house, only this time Mum’s running it. My heart lurches around in my chest as if it might stop at any moment, and Dad is pale as an uncooked pie. His fingers drum on the work surface: dubbada-dubbada-dubbada.
I have no idea why he did this. It would have been easy to let Banks go his own way. As we sat together in the car I could see Dad’s eyes in the rear view mirror, peeking at Banks, seeing him for what he was: an alcoholic tramp, hero or not.
Banks’ dip in the sea had made him look dirtier and even more unkempt than before. His face was so cold and pale that the grime round his jaw showed up like spilled oil on sand. The hair dangling round his face was seaweed, his fingers were bleached driftwood and the shuddering of his shaky breath was like the wind around pier legs. He stank of salt and long encouraged sweat, and the alcohol smell seemed sharper, closed in as we were. Dad’s silence and the stiff set of his hands and shoulders as we’d driven home had made me wonder if he was angry, but then I remembered that Dad’s seen it all before. His eyes darted from the rear view mirror back to the road again like an expert. I wonder how many other people would have done what he did.
As Mum runs the bath, we make tea in a big pot, with milk in a jug and brown sugar cubes. There’s also a chicken pie with thick gravy and peas. It’s all put together anyhow because Mum was halfway through it when we came crowding in. She didn’t make a sound, just looked surprised for a moment as if we were playing a sort of trick. Dad put on his ‘speaking face’ that said ‘Please, just do it and we’ll talk later,’ and just like that, she turned to Banks with a smile and took him off to have a bath.
Dad and I retreated to the kitchen and whispered as if we had a nun in the house, or the Queen had popped in unexpectedly. Then we sat and listened to the noises overhead while we drank our tea.
The rest of the evening is spooky. We devour the pie and tea in silence, save for the cutlery clashing on the china plates like bells clanging, and the oven timer buzzing bee-like in the background. Banks keeps his eyes on the food, glancing up only twice to meet my gaze. If it wasn’t for what had happened I know I’d laugh out loud – on and on without being able to stop.
After we’ve finished eating, Banks helps to clean up. He folds the plates into the curves of the dishwasher rack as if they were babies, and mum whisks up the table mats and squirrels them away. I go upstairs and stand at a window, listening to Banks’ voice from the garden below, where he’s talking to Dad. Dad says, ‘Don’t think about it now, not when you’re tired. What’s needed is a good night’s sleep and maybe the doctor in the morning.’
Later, I lie in bed with my thoughts whirling. Banks is here. He’s staying! I’m sure now that everything will change. I listen to the house, worried suddenly that they’ve put him in Sam’s room, but in the end I drift off as if I’m floating on the sea. Images crowd my head and my heart slows, folded round a little knot of fear that’s centred in my stomach. The afternoon is still with me, lying around in pieces like the stuff left stranded when the tide recedes. I hear voices on the floor below – Mum talking about blankets and then a door closing. I lie there imagining Banks standing somewhere in my house, or lying between our clean sheets, and I wonder what he’s thinking.
The next day I wake late with a jolt. When I look at the clock it’s almost eleven and I’m terrified they might have packed Banks off while I was safely unconscious.
I scramble into jeans and a T-shirt and go downstairs. The bedroom doors are open and the house is silent. There’s no one in the sitting room or the bathroom, and downstairs the shop is open, but Mum’s not there. I find her in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a cup of tea. Through the open back door comes a cool draught and voices. Mum looks up as I go in and gives a small smile. I follow the sounds to the back door, and there is Banks. He stands beneath the spiky tree in the courtyard garden, helping Dad to put up the wooden awning. Dad’s in his overalls and Banks is in a white vest and jeans. He’s holding one of the heavy wooden posts, while Dad shifts the bottom of it into its footing. Two empty cups and plates sit on the table and it’s clear they’ve been at it for a while. Mum comes to my side and we both look out.
‘He asked what all the wood was,’ she says. ‘And when your dad told him, he said, why not put it up.’
I nod. There doesn’t seem much to say.
‘I’m sure he’ll know if it’s too much for him,’ Mum goes on. ‘You know, after yesterday. It seems to be going all right so far.’
The shop bell burrs behind us and Mum disappears. I make myself toast and stand at the window to eat, not sure what’s going on out there, or why. Is Banks staying? Mum and Dad must find it weird – this alcoholic man in our house, putting up the awning. I have a sudden vision of us all with Banks as a sort of adopted brother and son. We’d get him off the drink like we couldn’t do with Sam and slowly he’d lose the tired dirtiness and start to look young again. One day he might go out in a suit and tie to work. Perhaps he might even go back to his wife and baby. They might one day be sitting round this very table having dinner.
I shake my head. As fantasies go, it’s a good one, but fantasies are all things normally remain. Outside, work has stopped. Banks is sitting on the steps, rolling a cigarette while Dad watches, mopping his head and staring up at the wooden framework in wonder. I turn away and see the oven glowing in the corner of the kitchen, and knives and forks waiting by the sink. It’s such a cosy, normal scene that I can’t quite believe it. I clear the papers off the table and set out the knives and forks as quietly as I can, as though I might break the spell if anyone notices I’m here.
‘Ah, good!’ It’s Mum. She bustles in from the shop with flushed cheeks and does a little twirl in the centre of the floor. ‘I just sold that lacquered cabinet,’ she grins. ‘Things are looking up!’