Post by albie on Mar 30, 2009 12:56:36 GMT
"Come on, Dad. We're ready to go."
"I'm not stopping you."
His voice betrayed his location. Bell figured his father was in his bedroom again.
"We have to go, Dad. What are you doing?"
Silence.
"Do you need help with the stairs?"
The stair lift had been taken out the day before, to allow his father to stay on as long as possible and help with sorting out what needed throwing and what was heading for storage. Bell climbed the stairs frowning at the large pock marks in the wall.
"They made a bad job of taking the chair out, didn't they?"
If he didn't find a buyer for it the bloody thing would probably rust away in his garage until he scrapped it. The home waiting for his father was already fitted out with the latest models.
"Dad? Did you want to keep anything from the garden?"
He could hear him rooting through the leftovers in their cardboard boxes.
"Did sally get around to sorting the shed out?"
"The shed? What about it?"
Bell opened the bedroom door slowly, in case it was blocked with his father. He was sat on the stripped bed, his back to Bell, a box at his feet. The room was loud with emptiness.
"Did Sally get you to look through the shed, I said."
He turned his head to look at him, his face red from bending over the box.
"Sally who?"
"You know, that woman I married."
"Oh. Is she here too?" He said, digging around in the box.
"She's in the car, waiting. We have to go now."
"Says who?"
"Says the new owner of the house, Dad. You don't want to be here when they arrive."
" Why? What would happen? Don't try and frighten me."
"I mean they might find you a shock. They won't be expecting a resident."
"Why should anyone come here? This is my house. Yours too, when I die."
"We've been through this. You signed the papers. Come on, we can get you up to the home before tea if we go now."
"Signed the papers? It takes more than that. If I signed anything then you tricked me into it."
"You were happy to sign, Dad. It's the law now. It's just a house."
"Is this stuff we are chucking?"
"The new owners want it. They run a charity shop. They can sell it on."
His father stood to show him a photo album, yellowing sellotape dangling from it.
"Why would anyone buy this? This is mine. Your mum is in here, look. So are you."
"It must have gotten in by mistake. Take it with you. The car's waiting."
"What else have you chucked when my back was turned?" He returned to digging through the box, the bed creaking under his weight. Age had fattened him of late. The stair lift had taken away his only exercise.
"Dad? Sally went through everything with you. If it was in there then you said so."
"What? Silly? Who's silly?"
"Sally, Dad."
"Is she silly? No wonder she threw my stuff out."
"Very good, Dad. I'll tell her that. She'll like it."
Telling on me now? Trying to frighten me again? Your own father?"
"Oh, Dad. Come on."
"Trying to scare me. I know who's scared and who isn't." He finished the sentence with a gurgling chuckle.
"Dad. We'll take the box with us. You can sort it in the car. I'll bring back what you don't want."
"He's not in here, is he?"
"Who?"
"Flower Pot Man. He's been chucked too as he?"
"I'm not eight, Dad. Are you?"
"I'm not stupid. I didn't sign anything."
"I can show you our copy of the papers. I've got them in the car."
"Yeah? Then you'd push me in and drive me off to the asylum."
"It's a care home for the elderly. You liked the brochure."
"Your mum wouldn't have let me sign anything unless she had seen it too."
"She's not in a position to do that, is she?"
"Not in a position? Your own mother. Talking like that."
"She would have liked the brochure."
"Brochure? You make me laugh. They mess about with them things with a computer. Digitals."
"I went there. You could have gone too, to have a look."
"I wonder why I didn't. Probably too busy signing fancy papers, I expect."
"It's a nice place. I wouldn't mind living there myself. All your meals cooked."
"Oh? Good. You can go and live there then. You can have my bed."
Bell almost chuckled as he checked his watch.
"You know you can't live here on your own. It's too big, and your legs..."
"There's nothing wrong with my legs. It's them stairs, they're warped."
"Well all the more reason to live in the home. They'll look after you. And you'll be nearer to us and Jane."
"Jane?"
"Jane, my sister, your daughter."
"I know lots of Janes. I bet she remembers Flower Pot Man."
"How could we forget something as daft as that?"
"Daft? You didn't think he were daft when you were a lad."
"I didn't know what to think."
"You laughed, sometimes."
"Eventually. Like I said, I'm not eight years old."
"You remember him then?"
"Yeah, and he's not being chucked out. He goes where you do."
"That's right."
"So are we okay, then? Can we get going?"
"Yeah, "he said, getting to his feet and walking around the bed. "After I've sorted through the shed."
"Aw, Dad. What are you going to need? They'll have a gardener at the home. Maybe he'll let you do some pruning."
"Oh? Well I'll need a few things then, won't I?"
"Okay. Just a few odds and ends then. I need to use the toilet before we go. We have a long drive."
Bell walked his father down the stairs, holding his elbows. At the bottom he unbolted the back door, pushing away a memory of once finding the bolt too stiff for his childish fingers.
"You go and get what you need from the shed, and I'll be back in a minute to collect you."
His father brightened in the sunlight as Bell headed back up the staircase, wondering if there was anything in the story of them being to blame for the fall that meant buying the stair lift. He laughed it off as he locked himself in the toilet and urinated, making sure he didn't wet the seat for the new owners.
He washed his hands with cold water and wiped them on his jeans to dry. He checked his reflection in the window sized mirror, deciding that he could waste a bit more time for his father's sake. Give him a few more minutes to himself and his memories. It could do no harm now he was resolved to leaving. He sat on the side of the bath and checked his watch.
"Bloody shed." he said, noticing that they would have to compete with the mid-day traffic.
Bell had to work at the lock on the door to get the door open and then had one look around before trotting down to the back garden. Flower Pot Man was stood on the lawn. Just on the edge of the shade cut by the trees.
"Very funny. Are you going dressed like that?"
Flower Pot Man didn't respond.
"You can't wear that old boiler suit in the home. You'll have them thinking you're a tramp or something."
Flower Pot Man raised his left foot and slowly brought it forward and down to the grass. A moment later he repeated the motion with his right foot. Was this his way of slowing down the move even further?
"Is that ballet? Where did you learn that?" Although Bell thought the motion was from somewhere else. Maybe the large plant pot covering his head so completely forced him to take each step like this.
"You even have the same pot. I thought I smashed that one ages ago. Oh, and the same gloves and boots. You must have put them on quick. Where's your clothes? In the shed? I'll get them and you can sit in the car like that."
Bell walked over to the shed, noticing the cobwebs in the window. It can't have been used much recently. Someone kept the lawn trim though."
"I hope you haven't got your clothes dirty. There must be allsorts in there."
The door dragged on the cement step, as always. The interior was a mottled collection of shapes, merged by the gloom as well as the webs. There was little room not taken up by the red lawnmower and the tools that fought to be familiar. It looked as if nothing had been moved in months.
"Where are your clothes? Have you got them on underneath that boiler suit?"
His father was stepping towards him, still adopting the quick upward thrust of the foot followed by the slow placing down of it on the ground.
He must have pulled his overalls on over his clothes, for the green outfit looked tight. He almost looked thin again.
"Give it up, Dad. Are you going to spank me too? Reliving our youth?"
Bell closed the shed door with force and climbed over a rose patch towards the house, hoping to guide his father back in doors.
"Flower Pot Man. Over here."
His father heard and adjusted his direction with a quick jerk of the hips.
"Come on, Flower Pot Man. Take your helmet off. We always knew it was you. You couldn't discipline us yourself, could you? Had to get pothead to do it."
Flower Pot Man quickened his pace and kicked his feet out harder as he climbed the two steps to the back door. Bell backed up into the house.
"There we are. Nearly there. You can give Sally a scare. Pop up from the hedge. She never believed me about you. Come on."
Flower Pot Man continued to follow Bell, through the back door into the hallway and past the foot of the stairs. His boots clomped on the floorboards despite how gently he placed his feet down.
"You've brought the smell of soil in, Dad...sorry...Flower Pot Man. You'll stink the car out. Silly Sally won't appreciate it."
Bell collided with the bend in the hallway and edged over, wondering if his father would remember to do the same.
"It's a long drive to the home, Flower Pot Man. Sure you didn't want to take a leak before we set off?"
Kick. Foot down. Kick. Foot down.
"You won't leap out on Sally when we are driving, will you? Don't want an accident."
Kick. Foot down. Kick. Foot down. A side step to avoid the kink in the route.
"Your legs work all right, then? Must have been a cry for help all that business with the stairs. Trying to get attention."
The next kick almost connected with Bell's knee.
"Oops. You know, I think I recognise the walk now."
Bell felt for the front door behind him, searching for the latch. He could lock the house up after he got him in the car. He would stop playing up as soon as Sally saw him.
"Come on, Dad. It's not funny anymore."
The latch was stiff. He tried with both hands.
"No, it's not funny now."
Flower Pot Man stopped kicking and stood still now there was no room to move. He looked taller and thinner than he could recall his father ever being. No doubt the play acting had bolstered him, straightened his back. But he couldn't turn back all the signs of age. Bell could see strands of white poking from the drainage holes in the base of the pot and another thicker one disappearing under the collar of the boiler suit. They glistened with moisture.
"Not going to do the voice, Dad?" Bell said as viscously as he could through his strained breath. The smell of mud, amongst other things, was strong. Too strong for his father to bear, surely. Bell heard a sound like stone sliding on stone.
Soil dropped down as gloved hands gripped the pot and forced it off with a wet slurp.
"I'm not stopping you."
His voice betrayed his location. Bell figured his father was in his bedroom again.
"We have to go, Dad. What are you doing?"
Silence.
"Do you need help with the stairs?"
The stair lift had been taken out the day before, to allow his father to stay on as long as possible and help with sorting out what needed throwing and what was heading for storage. Bell climbed the stairs frowning at the large pock marks in the wall.
"They made a bad job of taking the chair out, didn't they?"
If he didn't find a buyer for it the bloody thing would probably rust away in his garage until he scrapped it. The home waiting for his father was already fitted out with the latest models.
"Dad? Did you want to keep anything from the garden?"
He could hear him rooting through the leftovers in their cardboard boxes.
"Did sally get around to sorting the shed out?"
"The shed? What about it?"
Bell opened the bedroom door slowly, in case it was blocked with his father. He was sat on the stripped bed, his back to Bell, a box at his feet. The room was loud with emptiness.
"Did Sally get you to look through the shed, I said."
He turned his head to look at him, his face red from bending over the box.
"Sally who?"
"You know, that woman I married."
"Oh. Is she here too?" He said, digging around in the box.
"She's in the car, waiting. We have to go now."
"Says who?"
"Says the new owner of the house, Dad. You don't want to be here when they arrive."
" Why? What would happen? Don't try and frighten me."
"I mean they might find you a shock. They won't be expecting a resident."
"Why should anyone come here? This is my house. Yours too, when I die."
"We've been through this. You signed the papers. Come on, we can get you up to the home before tea if we go now."
"Signed the papers? It takes more than that. If I signed anything then you tricked me into it."
"You were happy to sign, Dad. It's the law now. It's just a house."
"Is this stuff we are chucking?"
"The new owners want it. They run a charity shop. They can sell it on."
His father stood to show him a photo album, yellowing sellotape dangling from it.
"Why would anyone buy this? This is mine. Your mum is in here, look. So are you."
"It must have gotten in by mistake. Take it with you. The car's waiting."
"What else have you chucked when my back was turned?" He returned to digging through the box, the bed creaking under his weight. Age had fattened him of late. The stair lift had taken away his only exercise.
"Dad? Sally went through everything with you. If it was in there then you said so."
"What? Silly? Who's silly?"
"Sally, Dad."
"Is she silly? No wonder she threw my stuff out."
"Very good, Dad. I'll tell her that. She'll like it."
Telling on me now? Trying to frighten me again? Your own father?"
"Oh, Dad. Come on."
"Trying to scare me. I know who's scared and who isn't." He finished the sentence with a gurgling chuckle.
"Dad. We'll take the box with us. You can sort it in the car. I'll bring back what you don't want."
"He's not in here, is he?"
"Who?"
"Flower Pot Man. He's been chucked too as he?"
"I'm not eight, Dad. Are you?"
"I'm not stupid. I didn't sign anything."
"I can show you our copy of the papers. I've got them in the car."
"Yeah? Then you'd push me in and drive me off to the asylum."
"It's a care home for the elderly. You liked the brochure."
"Your mum wouldn't have let me sign anything unless she had seen it too."
"She's not in a position to do that, is she?"
"Not in a position? Your own mother. Talking like that."
"She would have liked the brochure."
"Brochure? You make me laugh. They mess about with them things with a computer. Digitals."
"I went there. You could have gone too, to have a look."
"I wonder why I didn't. Probably too busy signing fancy papers, I expect."
"It's a nice place. I wouldn't mind living there myself. All your meals cooked."
"Oh? Good. You can go and live there then. You can have my bed."
Bell almost chuckled as he checked his watch.
"You know you can't live here on your own. It's too big, and your legs..."
"There's nothing wrong with my legs. It's them stairs, they're warped."
"Well all the more reason to live in the home. They'll look after you. And you'll be nearer to us and Jane."
"Jane?"
"Jane, my sister, your daughter."
"I know lots of Janes. I bet she remembers Flower Pot Man."
"How could we forget something as daft as that?"
"Daft? You didn't think he were daft when you were a lad."
"I didn't know what to think."
"You laughed, sometimes."
"Eventually. Like I said, I'm not eight years old."
"You remember him then?"
"Yeah, and he's not being chucked out. He goes where you do."
"That's right."
"So are we okay, then? Can we get going?"
"Yeah, "he said, getting to his feet and walking around the bed. "After I've sorted through the shed."
"Aw, Dad. What are you going to need? They'll have a gardener at the home. Maybe he'll let you do some pruning."
"Oh? Well I'll need a few things then, won't I?"
"Okay. Just a few odds and ends then. I need to use the toilet before we go. We have a long drive."
Bell walked his father down the stairs, holding his elbows. At the bottom he unbolted the back door, pushing away a memory of once finding the bolt too stiff for his childish fingers.
"You go and get what you need from the shed, and I'll be back in a minute to collect you."
His father brightened in the sunlight as Bell headed back up the staircase, wondering if there was anything in the story of them being to blame for the fall that meant buying the stair lift. He laughed it off as he locked himself in the toilet and urinated, making sure he didn't wet the seat for the new owners.
He washed his hands with cold water and wiped them on his jeans to dry. He checked his reflection in the window sized mirror, deciding that he could waste a bit more time for his father's sake. Give him a few more minutes to himself and his memories. It could do no harm now he was resolved to leaving. He sat on the side of the bath and checked his watch.
"Bloody shed." he said, noticing that they would have to compete with the mid-day traffic.
Bell had to work at the lock on the door to get the door open and then had one look around before trotting down to the back garden. Flower Pot Man was stood on the lawn. Just on the edge of the shade cut by the trees.
"Very funny. Are you going dressed like that?"
Flower Pot Man didn't respond.
"You can't wear that old boiler suit in the home. You'll have them thinking you're a tramp or something."
Flower Pot Man raised his left foot and slowly brought it forward and down to the grass. A moment later he repeated the motion with his right foot. Was this his way of slowing down the move even further?
"Is that ballet? Where did you learn that?" Although Bell thought the motion was from somewhere else. Maybe the large plant pot covering his head so completely forced him to take each step like this.
"You even have the same pot. I thought I smashed that one ages ago. Oh, and the same gloves and boots. You must have put them on quick. Where's your clothes? In the shed? I'll get them and you can sit in the car like that."
Bell walked over to the shed, noticing the cobwebs in the window. It can't have been used much recently. Someone kept the lawn trim though."
"I hope you haven't got your clothes dirty. There must be allsorts in there."
The door dragged on the cement step, as always. The interior was a mottled collection of shapes, merged by the gloom as well as the webs. There was little room not taken up by the red lawnmower and the tools that fought to be familiar. It looked as if nothing had been moved in months.
"Where are your clothes? Have you got them on underneath that boiler suit?"
His father was stepping towards him, still adopting the quick upward thrust of the foot followed by the slow placing down of it on the ground.
He must have pulled his overalls on over his clothes, for the green outfit looked tight. He almost looked thin again.
"Give it up, Dad. Are you going to spank me too? Reliving our youth?"
Bell closed the shed door with force and climbed over a rose patch towards the house, hoping to guide his father back in doors.
"Flower Pot Man. Over here."
His father heard and adjusted his direction with a quick jerk of the hips.
"Come on, Flower Pot Man. Take your helmet off. We always knew it was you. You couldn't discipline us yourself, could you? Had to get pothead to do it."
Flower Pot Man quickened his pace and kicked his feet out harder as he climbed the two steps to the back door. Bell backed up into the house.
"There we are. Nearly there. You can give Sally a scare. Pop up from the hedge. She never believed me about you. Come on."
Flower Pot Man continued to follow Bell, through the back door into the hallway and past the foot of the stairs. His boots clomped on the floorboards despite how gently he placed his feet down.
"You've brought the smell of soil in, Dad...sorry...Flower Pot Man. You'll stink the car out. Silly Sally won't appreciate it."
Bell collided with the bend in the hallway and edged over, wondering if his father would remember to do the same.
"It's a long drive to the home, Flower Pot Man. Sure you didn't want to take a leak before we set off?"
Kick. Foot down. Kick. Foot down.
"You won't leap out on Sally when we are driving, will you? Don't want an accident."
Kick. Foot down. Kick. Foot down. A side step to avoid the kink in the route.
"Your legs work all right, then? Must have been a cry for help all that business with the stairs. Trying to get attention."
The next kick almost connected with Bell's knee.
"Oops. You know, I think I recognise the walk now."
Bell felt for the front door behind him, searching for the latch. He could lock the house up after he got him in the car. He would stop playing up as soon as Sally saw him.
"Come on, Dad. It's not funny anymore."
The latch was stiff. He tried with both hands.
"No, it's not funny now."
Flower Pot Man stopped kicking and stood still now there was no room to move. He looked taller and thinner than he could recall his father ever being. No doubt the play acting had bolstered him, straightened his back. But he couldn't turn back all the signs of age. Bell could see strands of white poking from the drainage holes in the base of the pot and another thicker one disappearing under the collar of the boiler suit. They glistened with moisture.
"Not going to do the voice, Dad?" Bell said as viscously as he could through his strained breath. The smell of mud, amongst other things, was strong. Too strong for his father to bear, surely. Bell heard a sound like stone sliding on stone.
Soil dropped down as gloved hands gripped the pot and forced it off with a wet slurp.