W2F-003 Touch and Go-0.txt
TOUCH GO

SAM McAUGHTRY

ONE

DOWN IN THE CENTRE of Belfast, only twenty minutes'walk away, the Court of Criminal Appeal was hearing my case. For some reason nobody had told me that I wasn't going to be there. For the next two days the courtroom would be full of men with wigs and gown and nothing in their heads but disputation. They would play the legalistic game, read from law reports, spectacles on the end of their noses, determining whether this strand of evidence should be accepted or that one rejected. It didn't seem right that they should do this without my being there, to see and to be seen. It might help to remind them of just what it was they were about.

Two and a half days and then I would know. Months ago, through all the preliminary appearances and through the trial itself, I had made for myself artificial horizons beyond which I had taught myself not to look, one for each of the early court hearings, one for the trial, one for the appeal, one for the decision of the Minister of Home Affairs as to whether or not he saw any reason to interfere with the due course of the law, and then, of course, only one horizon would be left.

At the end of my trial I had taken the sentence well. The papers had all said so. 'With composure', that's how they 'd put it. But when, in two and a half days, they would come to tell me the outcome of the appeal, when I came to the limits of that horizon, there wouldn't be any reporters to tell how I 'd take it. I could react in any bloody bastarding way I felt like reacting. It wouldn't matter to anybody except myself.

I should have paid more attention when the lawyers were setting out to me the grounds of my appeal. If I had, I 'd have been better able to mark the long hours. As it was, all that I could do was listen to one screw of the deathwatch saying the Serenity Prayer, the boozers'doxology: 'God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things that I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.'

It was all right for him - he was going home when his four hours were up, he could look for serenity and courage and wisdom and feel the wife's leg at the same time. But over in England in a pub called Help The Poor Struggler, Albert Pierrepoint, the public executioner, would be reading about me. I knew all about him. In another world, at another time, Dicky Walters had told me, and Dicky had studied Pierrepoint the way Newton had studied gravity.

The hangman was a wee man, liked to sing Irish songs and do conjuring tricks in the bar. If - when - the Court of Criminal Appeal rejected my submission, it would give me three clear Sundays and then I would take a walk. The day before the execution, Pierrepoint would arrive at Crumlin Road jail with his bag. In the bag would be the straps, the rope, the shackle, and the white cap.

When the time came for the wee cunt to slip the white cap over my head, my eyes would have looked on the last horizon.

TWO

THE BOAT TRAIN FROM Larne slowed just by Jennymount Mill. Mother had worked there as a weaver before she 'd married Dad. She 'd always been proud of it. Weaving was clean work, not like spinning or doffing; weavers didn't stand in water with their skirts hoisted up to the houghs.

My poor, lovely mother was the reason I was here. Twenty-four hours earlier I 'd been in Bari, Italy.

'I say, Reilly, may I?' The C of E padre was a nightly piss merchant. Life was funny: he could preach Christianity with a hangover and a clear conscience, while I, an atheist, felt as guilty as sin about my boozing.

I nodded him into the office. When my flying was over they 'd made me a staff officer at Air HQ Bari, helping the Eyeties re-form their Regia Aeronautica.

The padre shimmered in, like Jeeves. 'I 'm afraid it's not good news, Paddy.'

I was in no condition to hear bad news. It's something I 've said to some brass hat last night, I thought. Christ, maybe I 've insulted the air vice-marshal. As usual, my sweat seemed to stink like sewer seepage.

'It's your mother, and I 'm sorry to say she's seriously ill.' He squeezed my arm. Padres are great touchers. 'Deeply sorry.'

To be truthful, all I 'd felt at first was relief. Drink blackouts begot daymares. Only a couple of weeks earlier, on Christmas morning, I 'd woken up to learn that the previous evening I 'd bopped a fellow officer. He 'd disputed my version of 'The First No&8el'. 'She didn't say anything in her letters' was all I could say. 'Well, mothers don't, bless them.' At least with an excuse like this nobody could blame me for beering it up. But they didn't give me time to do it at Bari. When a staff officer was posted away the air vice-marshal liked to have a word, but in my case there was no invitation. It was Johnny Watson, the camp commandant, who said goodbye: 'Mind yourself, Hugh. I 'm sorry about your mother.' Mind yourself. I 'd got used now to my real friends telling me to mind myself. Johnny Watson was fair-haired, blue-eyed, a public schoolboy pilot, going for the law when he was demobbed. We were close, having been squadron buddies. Afterwards Johnny had saved my bacon a good few times on the HQ campus after piss-up balls-ups. He smiled and shook my hand. 'Just bloody take it easy, you old bugger. You made it through the war - don't cock it up in civvy street.' He 'd got me priority all the way to London. I was on a Communications Flight Anson to Pomigliano in two hours, and fixed up in a Dakota to Blackbush after another two. A day in London, strangely sober, sipping half-glasses of beer like an Englishman, walking into Cox and King's Bank to draw the first pounds sterling I 'd seen for three years. The soft-eyed woman in the bank smiled at me. 'I do all the air force officers'accounts beginning with R and S. I know all my officers. So glad that you got through all right.' The train, groaning and squealing, drew into York Street station. I grabbed my cases, swung down on to the platform, and walked quickly towards the barrier, one of a crowd of returning soldiers, sailors, airmen and merchant seamen, with their suitcases and their kitbags, their wary eyes, and their thoughts. Relatives, friends, sweethearts, waited on the other side of the barrier. Women were crying, being lifted, swung around, feet off the ground; fathers, brothers, shaking hands. I saw our Bill, in his dungarees. He put out a hand, but when I came up to him I laid my cases on the ground, put my arms around him, and it was touch and fucking go for crying. He was seventeen, with a face more innocent than mine ever was. He took a case, we went out of the station, past the taxis with the gasbags on their roofs, on to York Street. I pointed Bill towards the Edinburgh Castle on the other side of the road. Halfway there we were halted by a convoy of heavy carts coming up from the deep-sea docks nearby, the huge draught horses striking sparks from the granite square setts. The road cleared and we crossed to the bar. Inside, in the just-opened smell of disinfectant, Brasso and whiskey, I ordered a short for myself and a mineral for Bill. We sat down beside a soldier in web equipment. I smiled and looked Bill over. His hair wasn't as dark as mine, more of a brown than a black. His eyes were blue and wide and innocent; mine were brown, after Mother's side. He reached up to about the bottom of my ear. When I 'd joined up six years earlier, he 'd only been four hands higher than a po. I thought of all the things I 'd done that he hadn't. When he was twenty-five he wouldn't be needing the whiskey, for one thing. But it was gorgeous to be home. Bill was looking at me as if I was Gregory Peck. He took a sip of sarsaparilla. 'Flight lieutenant pilot,' he said. 'Tommy Boyd's brother's only a sergeant cook.' 'Up Tommy Boyd, then, with a wire brush.' I sank the whiskey, pretended to punch him on the button, and rose to go. Walking up Duncairn Gardens, I looked around at the city I 'd left behind three years earlier, in January 1943. The blitzed ground between houses was overgrown with weeds and wild grass, and moss had softened the tops of the broken walls. Civilians walked past with their heads down, the women in headscarves and tight-pulled winter coats, the men in grey or brown raincoats and duncher caps. They walked like a people who had lost a war. 'How's Mother?' Bill didn't hesitate. 'She's very serious.' It was the first time I 'd really thought about her since I 'd heard the word from the padre. She was often out of sorts, but seriously ill was a bit much. Right through the war, she 'd written to John and me once a week. If there were other letters, Mother's was opened last. I loved her, but there was never anything very interesting in a letter from a mother, except maybe the catalogue of casualties among the guys who 'd grown up with me. When her weekly letter had stopped about eight weeks earlier I 'd hardly noticed. On the other hand, I had written to her and to Bill just about every other day since February 1940, when I 'd enlisted. Mother used to tell me in her letters how much she and Bill looked forward to them. 'If your daddy was here he would be so proud of you, a pilot. I keep all your letters,' she 'd say Writing letters was a compulsion with me. I had kept up contacts with other aircrew mates, as well. The educated ones never knew that by their letters they were educating me, sparking up my writing, lending to it the shine that Mother had liked so much. 'John's home, too,' Bill said. Lovely. Bloody lovely. 'He has no good word for you, Hugh. Never had, and he hasn't changed.' 'That doesn't surprise me.' We turned the corner of the street, and the two old Nesbitt dames were at the door. I 'd forgotten about them, the Nesbitts, small and lonely, living their lives at the front door, one on a stool, the other leaning, arms folded, against the doorpost. Maudie, the elder sister, pointed as we appeared, and she and Agnes made squeaky noises of surprise and welcome. I took Agnes's hand and made to do the same with Maudie, but she held me at arm's length and peered up at me. 'You went away a boy, Hughie, but you 've come back a man that's seen too much,' she said. Bill had knocked the door and Maudie was kissing me when it opened. It was John. 'Huh. The Brylcreem boy's home.' With one glance he took an inventory, from top to toe. I could have done with a haircut; my tunic was wrinkled, the buttons tarnished. I needed a shave; my shoes were muddy and neglected. He gave another snort: 'The Household Cavalry!' He turned away. No handshake, nothing. I followed him up the narrow hall, with its creaking, sagging floor. The joists and doorframe had never been the same since the 1941 air raids. In the tiny kitchen I felt oversized and awkward. Dropping my case beside the other one just inside the parlour, I hung my greatcoat over the banister. Before I had time to do anything else John called me: 'You 'd better come up.' He was halfway up the stairs, looking down impatiently. I fell in behind him. He was in army undress, khaki shirt, trousers, and white canvas braces. Barrack-square creases angled through his broad backside; his boots had a high, bullshit shine. Aunt Nellie, Mother's sister, was waiting outside the back bedroom. She kissed me, held me close, then she let me go and backed towards the front bedroom, out of the way. John spoke round the door of Mother's room: 'Hugh's home, Mother. He's here.' His voice was soft. With a jerk of the head I was invited to go in. A low-watt bulb shone weakly through an orange-tinted shade; yellow morning light filtered through an off-white paper blind, three-quarters drawn. The room was set for a dying. It was full of the scary-sweet bedpan smell of the deathbed. The double bed filled most of the room. I walked around the end of it on the lino, past the tiny hearth, marking the places where Dad used to land his burning Woodbine butts.

Mother, in a pink flannel nightdress and a woollen bed jacket, lay against high-heaped pillows. Her hair was soft, pinned back loosely. I dropped to my knees beside her. She was so weak that she couldn't turn her head towards me, only her eyes moved, and I bent over her, to make it easier.

Her eyes were so sunken that the lids seemed to rest above them, out of contact. The skin was clapped tight to her skull. What had once been wrinkles were now lines drawn on parchment.

I kissed her brow. It felt hot and dry. Her hands rested on the turned-down sheet and I took one in mine. She no longer had a bosom.

Aunt Nellie had come into the bedroom. She stood, with John, at the door. She was Mother's younger sister and she looked as Mother had looked the day I 'd left to go overseas - strong black hair, going grey, rolled-up sleeves, energy and bounce in every line of her. 'There now, Betty,' she said, 'that's Hugh home, too. They 're home to see you, your two lovely boys. And Hugh's an officer and all.'

The lips fell back from the putty face; I had to bend to hear Mother's voice. 'Aye.' It was a whisper, fighting to get out of a sigh.

'Hello, Mother.' I felt the stick fingers move in my hand. They searched along my own fingers, then came the voice again.

'Your ring?' 'It's downstairs. I was washing myself and left it on the mantelpiece.' As I spoke looked up. Bill had joined the others, but it was to John that my eyes went. His contempt was clear, for the lie about the ring.

I stood up. The bedclothes had fallen away from her and I took the edge of the sheet to draw them up, but John's voice stopped me: 'Watch it, for heaven's sake, she's in agony, can you not see that?'

I straightened, kissed her again, and followed John and Bill. Again I had the cloddish, clumsy feeling as I went back downstairs. I had forgotten how small the house was. The feel of it hadn't come back to me yet.

Down in the kitchen I undid my tunic, hung it in the hall. Aunt Nellie handed me tea in one of the best china cups: Mother's wedding present. The cup rattled and shook so much in my hand that some of the tea spilled into the saucer. I set them on the carpet and lit a cigarette. John and Bill and Aunt Nellie were watching.

It was the woman who showed understanding, as I felt the sweat break. 'You must feel strange, back home again, after three years.'

I nodded, tried lifting the saucer again and made it. As I drained the tea I could feel John's eyes going over me.

'What kind of job were you doing at Air HQ?' Bill asked. He was ready to commit the details to memory for transmission at Canning Street corner that night.

'I was helping the Eyetie air force to re-form,' I told him.
'Bunch of bloody ice-cream seller,' John growled. 'They were about as much good in the field as a troop of the Girl Guides.'
'Actually, their pilots weren't that bad,' I said. 'It took a lot of nerve to fly some of the out-of-date kites that they had. Our fellows were knocking their SM 79s out of the sky with no bother, and their fighter pilots in the Machi 202s were no joke. They got a good few of ours.'

'All the same, it's great, you being an officer and all,' Aunt Nellie was smiling shyly. 'It should help you to get a good job when you come out of the air force.'

'I 'll tell you one thing,' Bill said, enjoying John's chagrin, 'you 'll not be going back to working in Short's.'

I had been a paint-sprayer in the aircraft factory, but when war came I walked out. I just smiled at Bill and looked around the kitchen, at the china cabinet that was new, the scrubbed, bare table and the worn sofa that had been there for as long as I could remember, at the stool that Dad had made, and the four worn and scarred chairs around the table. The lino and rug were new.

Just when she 'd begun to clear the house of the war's shabbiness and lift her heart with some new items, Mother was going to die.

'What does the doctor say?' I asked Aunt Nellie, knowing the answer already. She shook her head as she spoke. 'There's no betterment for your mother, Hugh...' She dropped her head and wrung her hands.'... "No betterment at all.'

I went into the parlour to unpack. There was a brand-new suite of furniture in the room, some sort of fawn tweedy material; scatter cushions lay on the two chairs and the sofa, with larger cushions. A dark carpet had been laid, and over it a light fawn long-haired rug. Beside the door was another new china cabinet. In this, and in the one in the kitchen, were Mother's most loved possessions, two china sets, an EPNS tray, trinkets and souvenirs of bygone trips with the Mothers'Union, the swimming medals Dad had won as a young man, some cheap glasses, a decanter that had never seen wine or spirits, framed photographs of my grandparents, on both sides. There was a new bookcase, empty of books, beside the cabinet. On the mantelpiece two wooden elephants stood sentry, beside each was a brass candlestick, and in the centre was a clock with Westminster chimes.

The parlour was looking nice.

It was a rotten time for her to die. She was only fifty-nine.
