Clara

Banks remembered being puzzled and upset by what he read. Jem had never mentioned anyone named Clara, nor had he ever mentioned where his family lived or what they did. He looked at the address again: Croft Wynde. It sounded posh. He hadn’t a clue what Jem’s background was; his accent was neutral, really, and he never spoke about the world he had grown up in. He was clearly educated, well-read, and he introduced Banks to a whole world of writing, from Kerouac and Ginsberg to Hesse and Sartre, but he never said anything about having been to university. Still, everyone was reading that kind of stuff then; you didn’t need a university course to read On the Road or Howl.

When Banks had finished thinking about what he’d just read in the letter, he made a note of the address. He decided to drive out to see Jem’s parents. The least he could do was offer his condolences. His time in London had been lonely, and would have been a lot more so if not for the shared conversations, music and warmth of Jem’s tiny bed-sit.

The song finished and the audience’s applause brought Banks out of his reverie.

“That was weird,” the kid next to him said.

The black-haired girl nodded and gave Banks a mystified glance. “I don’t think they wrote it themselves.”

Banks smiled at her. “Bob Dylan,” he said.

“Oh, yeah. Right. I knew that.”

After that, the band launched into one of Brian’s songs, an upbeat rocker about race relations. Then the first set was over. The band acknowledged the applause, then Brian came over. Banks bought them both another pint. The couple at the table asked Banks if he would please save their seats, then they wandered off to talk with some friends across the room.

“That was great,” Banks said. “I didn’t know you liked Dylan.”

“I don’t, really. I prefer The Wallflowers. It used to drive me crazy when I was a kid and you played him all the time. That whiny voice of his and the bloody-awful harmonica. It’s just a nice structure, that song, easy to deconstruct.”

Banks felt disappointed, but he didn’t let it show. “I liked the ones you wrote, too,” he said.

Brian glanced away. “Thanks.”

There was no point putting it off any longer, Banks thought, taking a deep breath. Soon the band would be starting again, and he didn’t know when he would get another chance to talk to his son. “Look,” he said, “about what we said on the phone the other day. I’m disappointed, of course I am, but it’s your life. If you think you can really make a go of this, I’m certainly not going to stand in your way.”

Brian met Banks’s gaze, and Banks thought he could see relief in his son’s eyes. So his approval did matter, after all. He felt curiously light-headed.

“You mean it?”

Banks nodded.

“It was just so boring, Dad. You’re right. I screwed it up, and I’m sorry if I caused you any grief. But it was only partly because of the band. I didn’t do enough work last year because I was bored by the whole subject. I was lucky to get a third.”

Banks had felt exactly the same way about his business-studies course – bored – so he could hardly get on his moral high horse. Well, he could, but he managed to put a rein on his parents’ voices this time. “Have you told your mother yet?”

Brian looked away and shook his head.

“You’ll have to tell her, you know.”

“I left a message on her machine. She’s always out.”

“She has to work. Why don’t you go over and pay her a visit? She’s not far away.”

Brian said nothing for a while. He swirled the beer in his glass, pushed back his hair. The place was noisy and crowded around them. Banks managed to focus and cut out the laughter and shouted conversations. Just the two of them on a floodlit island, the rest of the world a buzz in the distance.

“Brian? Is there something wrong?”

“Nah, not really.”

“Come on.”

Brian sipped some beer and shrugged. “It’s nothing. It’s just Sean, that’s all.”

Banks felt a tingling at the back of his neck. “What about him?”

“He’s a creep. He treats me like a kid. Whenever I go over there he can’t wait to get rid of me. He can’t keep his hands off of Mum, either. Dad, why can’t you two get back together? Why can’t things be the way they were?” He looked at Banks, brow furrowed, tears of anger and pain in his eyes. Not the cool, accomplished young man anymore but, for a moment, the scared little kid who has lost his parents and his only safe, reliable haven in the world.

Banks swallowed and reached for another cigarette. “It’s not that easy,” he said. “Do you think I didn’t want to?”

“Didn’t?”

“A lot’s changed.”

“You mean you’ve got a new girlfriend?”

If it were possible to inflect the word with more venom than Brian did, Banks couldn’t imagine how. “That’s not the point,” he said. “Your mother has made it quite clear, over and over again, that she doesn’t want to get back together. I’ve tried. I did have hopes at first, but… What more can I do?”

“Try harder.”

Banks shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “It takes two to do that, and I’m getting no encouragement whatsoever from her quarter. I’ve sort of given up on it. I’m sorry about Sean. Sorry you don’t get along.”

“He’s a plonker.”

“Yeah, well… Look, when you get a bit of free time, why don’t you come up to Gratly? You can help me work on the cottage. You haven’t even seen it yet. We can go for long walks together. Remember the way we used to? Semerwater? Langstrothdale? Hardraw Force?”

“I don’t know,” said Brian, pushing his hair back. “We’re gonna be really busy the next while.”

“Whenever. I’m not asking you to put a date to it. It’s an open invitation. Okay?”

Brian looked up from his beer and smiled that slightly crooked smile that always reminded Banks so much of his own father. “Okay,” he said. “I’d like that. It’s a deal. Soon as we get a few days’ break I’ll be knocking on your door.”

A bass note and drum roll cut through the buzz of conversation as if to echo what Brian had said. He looked up. “Gotta go, Dad,” he said. “Be around later?”

“I don’t think so,” said Banks. “I’ve got work to do. I’ll stick around for part of the set, but I might be gone before you’re through. It’s been great seeing you. And don’t be a stranger. Remember my offer. There’s a bed there for you whenever you want, for as long as you want.”

“Thanks, Dad. What’s it they say? ‘Home’s the place where they have to take you in.’ Wish I knew where mine was. Take care.”

Banks stuck out his hand and Brian shook it. Then, feeling guilty, he checked his watch. Time to hear a few more songs before slinking off to keep his date with Annie.

One day Gloria came to me and asked if I would mind closing the shop for an hour or so and walking with her. She looked pale and hadn’t taken her usual pains with her appearance.

It was the beginning of May, I remember, and it was all over but the shouting. Hitler was dead, the Russians had Berlin, and all the German troops in Italy had surrendered. It could only be days from the end now.

I closed the shop, as she asked, and we walked into Rowan Woods, leaving the road behind and wandering in the filtered green light of the new leaves. The woodland flowers were all in bloom, clusters of bluebells here and there, wild roses, violets and primroses. Birds were singing and the air was pungent with the smell of wild garlic. Now and then, I could hear a cuckoo call in the distance.

“I don’t know what to do with him, Gwen,” she said, wringing her hands as we walked, close to tears. “Nothing I do to try to reach him does any good.”

“I know,” I said. “We just have to be patient. Let the doctor do his job. Time will heal him.” Even as I spoke them, I felt the triteness and inadequacy of my words.