Алан Гарнер – Red Shift (страница 5)

Jan laughed and wept on to his chest, hugging him. “You lovely bloody idiot. What am I going to do?”

“Don’t swear. It demeans you. Poached isn’t the same as hardboiled. I love your face.”

“I love you.”

The kitchen door opened. Tom’s mother stood with uninterrupted vision. His father was with her.

“Is there no privacy in this camp coffin?” said Tom.

“Your mother and I would like a word with you. Both of you.”

“Why?”

“In the lounge.”

“It’s Sunday, sergeant-major. We have the kitchen, and you have the lounge.”

Jan led the way to the other end of the caravan. Tom’s father turned off the volume control on the television.

“It must be serious,” said Tom.

“Shut up,” said Jan.

“Sit down: will you – please? On the divan.”

They sat. Tom’s father went to the window and peered out, half facing the room, his hands behind his back. “Stand easy,” said Tom. His mother lodged one buttock on the arm of the chair, swinging her foot.

“I want to ask—”

“What?”

“I want to ask you and Jan—”

“What?”

“It’s written all over you,” said his mother.

“Your mother and I – would like to know whether you’ve anything to tell us.”

“What’s your problem?” Tom reached out his hand for Jan. She took it.

“We think—”

“Both of you?”

“Don’t,” said Jan.

“I’m trying to be useful,” said Tom.

“Like hell.”

“Watch that tongue of yours!” said Tom’s mother.

“She’d look pretty silly if she did.”

“Stop arsing around,” Jan whispered.

“I heard that!”

“Let’s try again,” his father said.

Tom opened his mouth, but Jan kicked him.

“Your mother and I. We wondered if you’d had any occasion to do anything to make us ashamed of you.”

Tom stared at the muted commercials on the television screen. I’m wearing my cans. Please, I’m wearing my cans.

“Well?”

“Would you care to rephrase the question in English?”

“You heard me.” His father was shouting: he could see him.

“Yes. We have.”

“What did I tell you?” said his mother.

“What did she?”

A silent boy poured cornflakes silently into a bowl of light, and smiled.

“When?” said Tom’s father. “When did you?”

“When did we what? Look, sergeant-major, I’ve a pile of work to get through tonight—”

“When did you have occasion—”

“—to make you ashamed of us? Last Saturday.”

“What?”

“We went by bus to Sandbach without paying.”

“What’s eating them?” Jan said to Tom in Russian.

Tom stood up. He was shaking. There were no cans. He spoke clearly.

“My parents are trying to articulate – or, more accurately, my prurient mother is forcing my weak father to discover on her behalf, where, when, and preferably how, we, that is, you and I, have expressed ourselves through sexual intercourse, one with the other. Am I not right? Daddy?”

His father grasped the side seams of his trousers, rocked as if he would fall.

“What did I tell you?”

“Yes, what did she tell you?”

His father steadied himself. “We’ve had complaints.”

“Complaints?”

“Reports.”

“Reports?”

“Yes.”

“From whom?”

“Neighbours.”

“May we know their names?”

“Never mind who,” said his mother. “We’ve heard and seen. You two: always walking wrapped round each other: kissing and that.”

“Kissing and what?”

“And – that.”

Cans