April 1989
Flook and I hitch-hiked to Norfolk for Easter. He was working as a set-painter for a small theatre and didn’t have enough money for the train fare, and I had sold my Ford Cortina to two Rastafarians for twenty-five pounds. I told them I was selling it because a lot of its undercarriage had fallen off going round Hammersmith roundabout and I had not dared stop to collect it. They didn’t care. They jumped into the car, tied a pair of crocheted red, yellow and green baby bootees to the mirror and screeched off. I bought some Easter eggs with the money and went to meet Flook at Redbridge tube station.
Flook was there already, sitting cross-legged on the bonnet of a big black car, drumming his fingers on his knees. Behind him, Redbridge roundabout was a quagmire of muddy pools where construction work had ceased for the holiday. Flook’s leather jacket with the reclining busty blonde he had painted on the back stood like a dwarf behind the car, held upright by its own stiff folds. A red baseball cap rested jauntily on the collar. Flook jumped down when he saw me. ‘Va Va, we’ve got a lift home.’ He gestured to the car. ‘I bumped into Jim last night, and he’s driving back to Norfolk.’
‘Who’s Jim?’ I whispered as Flook piled my bags into the boot.
‘Haven’t you met him? He’s an old friend of mine. He’s been away, all over the world, for the last few years. It’s great to see him again.’
We got into the car. A man with curling black hair sat behind the steering wheel. His face was long, his jaw square, and across one cheek a glaring scar burned deep into his flesh. He grinned. ‘You look like a Lincoln,’ he said. ‘I know all your brothers, and you look just like them.’ His accent was Irish, and he talked fast.
‘Jim’s from Belfast.’ Flook was rummaging to find a tape in the glove compartment. He turned the machine on, and I could only say ‘Thank you for the lift’ before the car filled with frantic music for the rest of the journey.
We reached Mildney at tea-time. Brodie was there already; his band had played a gig in Cambridge the night before, and they had dropped him off at the station. He and Poppy were drinking tea in the kitchen. Dan and Dad, both leaning on walking-sticks, joined them. Mum crouched on all fours in front of the Aga, a knife in her hand, levering small black meteorites from the oven. ‘My God,’ said Flook as we entered, ‘I think Mum’s been trying to cook.’
‘Shut up.’ Mum’s voice was muffled as she delved deeper into the oven. ‘It’s the Hot Cross Buns. They were meant for tea yesterday, but I forgot them.’ Jim bent to catch a bun which was hurtling towards a sleeping cat. ‘It’s hot!’ Mum shrieked, but Jim grasped the sooty ball and threw it out into the yard. ‘I’ve got asbestos hands,’ he grinned.
‘Who is this man of iron?’ Dad demanded, and Jim was introduced after embracing Dan and Brodie.
‘It’s been a while since I saw this bunch,’ he said to Dad, ‘but I’ve been thinking about them a lot. Flook gave me a book of yours, and I took a picture of it for you.’
Jim pulled a photograph from his inside pocket. We crowded round him to see. It was a beach. Long yellow sands stretched towards a still grey sea. A rifle, its butt buried, stood tall where the waves broke. Slung in the belt, facing us, was a book and from its clean dust-jacket Dad’s portrait stared out.
‘A Kalashnikov.’ Brodie’s voice shook with almost religious awe.
‘And Dad’s Collected Poems,’ said Dan, amazed. ‘What are they doing with that gun?’
‘It’s in Kurdistan,’ said Jim. ‘I was there with the rebels three weeks ago. I thought Patrick might like it, from all the stories you lot told me about him.’
Dad pulled the picture from beneath Dan’s nose. ‘Let me see. Why, it’s charming. Jim, my dear boy, I see you have a sense of humour. I must frame this.’ Dad rose, gripping his walking-stick. He pocketed the photograph. ‘This is mine’ – he curled his lips in a monstrous snarl – ‘and if I catch you boys trying to steal it there will be hell to pay.’
Flook turned to Jim. ‘Dad’s really pleased. But can you explain what exactly you’ve been doing for the past two years?’
Sipping tea and refusing proffered cigarettes, Jim told us how he had taken food, blankets and money out to Kurdistan. Moved by the rebels’ plight, he had stayed, his Foreign Legion training standing him in good stead during the fighting.
Poppy and I, listening from our perch on the Aga rail, looked at one another, astonished. ‘He’s like Robin Hood,’ Poppy whispered. ‘I’ve never heard anything like it.’
Dad came back into the kitchen. He paused in the doorway, struggling for breath. ‘Jim, I should like to have a drink with you. Look under that hat on the shelf.’
Jim lifted the black fur dome and pulled out a bottle. Brodie whistled low. ‘You are in favour,’ he whispered. ‘Dad never shares his champagne with anyone.’
Dad winked at Jim. ‘My children are too barbaric for this ambrosia. Let us drink to Peace.’
Jim stayed a day or two, then left for his own cottage a few miles away. Often when I rang after that weekend, Dad was out driving with Jim, or sitting talking in the playroom with him. Jim delighted in surprising Dad with outings and plans. By summer the dogs had given up barking at his car, and Dad had started Jim on a plan to build a dam across the river.