Nostalgia is my second novel, a magical-realism sci-fi drama about memories, family, addiction and the dangers of living in the past.
The story so far: Paul Angest attends his father’s funeral, and is reunited with his estranged siblings: kid-sister Brydie, older brother Wayne (who is a recovering alcoholic), and his younger brother/toy collector nerd Elliot.
They instantly slot into their usual roles: Brydie is the antagonistic mother hen, Wayne is the sardonic joker and Elliot is the emotional wreck. Paul does his best to keep them all at arm’s length, plotting his escape from the wake at the earliest convenience.
But as he sneaks out with so much as a goodbye, Paul is accosted by one of the mourners - a middle-aged Australian woman - who thrusts a metal canister into his grasp before fleeing without an explanation. On the canister is a name: Ivor Angest. Paul’s Dad.
On the train journey back to the coast, I cradle the metal cylinder like a newborn; intrigued by what is inside. By the time I get home to my bedroom, I’ve covered all bases, from a flask of hot chocolate to toxic nuclear waste. I stare at the cylinder, placed in the centre on a small leaf-fold table. I struggle to break off the security tag. Scissors only dent the plastic tag. I go harder but I can feel the scissors buckling.
Down in the kitchen, I find Mick prodding at sizzling meat. He’s wearing some sort of kimono dressing gown that barely hangs below his arse cheeks.
I’m still holding the metal flask, which Mick presumes is full of coffee. ‘I hope that’s filled with Brazil’s finest. Denise will be out in a tick.’
I’ve no idea who Denise is and don’t want to know. ‘What happened to Deborah?’ I ask, immediately wondering why I’m getting involved.
‘She’s history,’ says Mick.
I marvel at how often it repeats itself.
‘What can I say, you’re a hard man to keep up with, Mick. I’m in my forties. The stock-taking years,’ I say.
‘Oh don’t give me that. Y’know what I did when I turned forty?’
I shrug without care, rifling through the cutlery drawer for a sharp knife. ‘Threw a suitcase full of used notes on a bonfire?’ I half-joke.
‘I got in touch with my exes.’
‘Well, mine would be a very short list,’ I say, moving onto the utensil drawer.
‘You need to relax. Look at your toes! They’re at right angles! C’mon! Live life! Have a fling with one of your students. Never did me any harm.’
The urge to death-punch Mick pounds in my chest and he can see it in my eyes.
‘Mate, I’m not taking the rise. All I’m saying is… Don’t waste your life force on being a miserable twat,’ says Mick.
‘Well, thanks for your astute insight into depression, Dr Mick.’
‘You’re depressed? You should have said.’
I slide a large knife from a wooden block, which unnerves Mick somewhat.
‘I’m making breakfast. Bacon, sausage, eggs, hash browns. Some sort of giant mushroom, er...’
I hack away at the plastic security tag on the flask. It doesn’t fare any better. Watching me fail, Mick intervenes. ‘You’ll never do it with that. I’ve got just the thing.’
Within minutes, Mick returns with a hazardous-looking hunting knife. ‘I got it signed by Stallone for my thirtieth. It’s the actual knife he used on Sheriff Teasel in ‘First Blood’.
Mick holds the knife to my throat, staring me in the eyes. ‘Don’t push it. Or I’ll give you a war you won’t believe.’
The plastic security tabs slice off with ease. I look at Mick for him to give me some space as I unscrew the lid, removing it.
A plume of white air escapes. A refrigerated chill from inside. I peer inside the flask, finding ten test tubes slotted into a supporting cradle. I delicately slide out a test tube. There’s a printed code on the tube. Inside, dark red blood. Removing another tube, I find hair samples; again labelled with a code. Mick peers closer to the tube. ‘What is it?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Maybe it’s dinosaur blood. Like what they did in that film where the dinosaurs all went ape-shit?’
‘You’re talking about one of the most successful films ever made. Call it by its name.’
‘Open it up for a sniff. Let’s do a taste test,’ suggests Mick.
‘What are you kidding? It’s clearly blood…'
Mick tends to the frying pan, sliding greasy sausages and rubbery eggs onto two plates.
'Excuse me, more pressing matters. About to find out how whats-her-face likes her eggs in the morning.'
Mick saunters away with the two plates, calling back as he goes. 'Get some coffee on the go. And don't open whatever that is. Don't want to find out the hard way that it's some biological weapon... we all turn into red-eyed zombies or something.'
I lean in to inspect the test tubes, muttering to myself. ‘Who would notice?’
‘You’re going to help clear Dad’s house, aren’t you? This weekend.’
‘Brydie, I can’t. I’ve got work to prepare for next week. Besides, it’ll take a small army to empty Dad’s house.’
‘We’re all busy, Paul. Wayne and Elliot are going too, if that’s what’s bothering you.
The street I grew up on has changed a lot since the last time I visited. Most of the trees have been cut down, probably because the council doesn’t want to keep fixing the uneven pavement. The street is open and brighter, but with the cover of leaves and the punctuated decoration of colour gone, it is poorer for it.
I huddle under the front porch of my Dad’s house, shielding myself from blades of rain like the victim of a prank. Mobile to ear, I rock impatiently as I express my annoyed state to Elliot.
‘Where are you? I’m here. At Dad’s house! Brydie said we were clearing it today---What about Wayne?’
There’s a pause as Elliot blurts excuses and suggestions.
‘You’re kidding, right. Brydie’s not coming down. Too busy fulfilling her family’s every wish and demand. Just get your arses over here.’
Elliot mentions a spare key, somewhere in the shed. Which is fine, except the side gate is bolted. I drag a couple of bins together, climbing on top. I feel the plastic buckling under my weight, so I move fast. I’ve never been nimble on my feet, and I roll over the top of the side gate and land in a heap on the other side, snagging my coat and scraping my shin.
I growl expletives to myself, hauling myself to my feet with the grace and balance of a hammered zombie. I rub the pain on my shin, which throbs as I half-limp towards the shed. I slow down, taking in the sight of the garden. Once a picturesque display of neatly presented flower borders; now an overgrown wasteland. It occurs to me that all this will be gone soon. No longer will I be able to revisit the home I grew up in. A stifling lump forms in my throat as if I’ve swallowed a tennis ball.
I find the house key under a large plant pot.
Inside Dad’s house, the airlessness hits me first. The place still smells of my parents’ laundry detergent. The spot where his armchair used to be is now space.
I then realise there is a mattress on the floor. A single chair. A few clothes in an open suitcase. Outlines on bare walls where picture frames once hung. Bare floorboards.
I step into the kitchen with an increasing sense of concern. The kitchen is bare. A space where the cooker used to be. A small fridge and a microwave remain.
Roaming the bare boards upstairs, I find the rooms are all empty, and my consternation hits peak frenzy. I slump to the floor of my parents’ bedroom, stupefied. I don’t know how long it until my racing suspicions become background music. My hands reach out, gliding across the fresh carpet, once preserved under my parents’ bedframe. It feels like the day they bought it. I’ve no idea how long I’m lost in this feeling of homesickness, but I’m brought back to the now by:
‘… THE BLOODY HELL’S THIS, THEN?’
I hurry down to find Wayne and Elliot aghast, gaping at the emptiness before them.
‘You’ve been busy. Where’s all Dad’s stuff?’ My brothers look to me for answers. I have none.
‘This place used to be floor to ceiling with all sorts of crap. You didn’t see what he was like in the last few years. He never used to chuck anything out.’
Feeling responsible for the situation, I stutter a defence. ‘It was like this when I got here. When was the last time you paid him a visit?’
‘When did you?’ snaps Wayne.
My voice skyrockets. ‘You live ten minutes away!’
Elliot interjects, attempting to calm our tempers. ‘He always visited us, didn’t he?’ Elliot looks to Wayne for backup. There’s a moment of stunned silence, until Wayne mumbles. ‘Bagsie that chair.’
I go from room to room, opening windows to let in fresh air. Elliot rifles through a metallic box file, removing bank statements as Wayne sifts through the scant contents of Dad’s open suitcase.
‘It’s like he knew his time was up. Probably didn’t want to leave it all for us to sort out.’
Potentially true, but I know there’s more to this.
‘You know what he was like. Too trusting by ‘alf. Probably got doorstepped by some chancer who said he’d take it all off his hands for fifty quid,’ suggests Wayne, pausing as he finds a handful of photos in the suitcase. ‘Didn’t know Dad joined a lynch mob when he was younger?’
Wayne holds up a black and white photo of men in tank tops and neat hair, all clutching lengths of rope with a noose at the end.
‘That’s the bell-ringing society,’ I clarify, uncertain if Wayne is being serious. He flicks through the photos, skimming one at me, which I just about manage to catch. It’s a photo of me, five years old, sitting on the back garden swing in the summertime. I’ve not seen it for many years, and my initial joy melts into a pained longing. I look so happy and carefree, and I wonder if this was the last time I felt that way. At that moment comes a realisation. I want it all back. I want to be that boy in the photo again. This is why I buy old books and films from my past, that once meant something to me. It’s the best I can do, the only thing I can do. But it’s never the same because I wasn’t the same.
‘What if he had a secret life?’ poses Elliot.
Wayne’s face screws up as he lights a cigarette. ‘Like what? He hated gambling and drinking. Why’d you think me ‘n Dad got on so well over the years?’ After a pause for thought, Wayne’s mouth drops open. ‘You don’t think it was prossies, do ya?’
Elliot shoots his brother a disgusted look, but Wayne continues. ‘I’m serious. Maybe he had another woman? Sold all his stuff to keep her in Louis Viton?’
‘The man is in the ground and this is how you speak of him?’ says Elliot, wounded by Wayne’s train of thought.
‘He’s in a pot, to be precise,’ counters Wayne.
Elliot pauses; eyes wide on the paperwork. ‘Hang on. Hang on. What? What?’ Elliot’s eyes dart as he quickly scans the paperwork. We’re practically leaning forward on the tip of our toes, waiting for the update. Elliot finally speaks. ‘He was practically bankrupt. Less than a hundred quid in the bank.’
Wayne seethes smoke, as I snatch up the paperwork from Elliot, reading for myself. Dad had paid the care home a lump sum for Mum’s care, but other than that it was all gone.
‘Gotta be drugs,’ Wayne surmises. ‘Out of his mind. It’s not that far-flung from the truth, is it? He randomly attacked a complete stranger last year.’
‘Punched. He didn’t attack anyone,’ counters Elliot.
I frown at this piece of news. ‘When did this happen?’
‘Oh you know about all that…’ says Wayne, flapping a weary hand.
‘This is the first time I’ve heard this,’ I protest.
‘Dad was lucky he wasn’t nicked!’ exclaims Wayne.
‘He was just upset about Mum and had a few words with some bloke…’ explains Elliot.
Wayne cranks up to the next level of boastful opinion. ‘Yeah? He almost killed the bloke from what a mate of mine down the pub said.’
As I attempt to process this information, Wayne exhales a single laugh, strolling outside into the rain. Elliot looks at me like a lost puppy.
‘He left us nothing.’
After an hour or so of silent contemplation, I remind the other two that we have a job to do, even though the majority of house clearing has already been completed ahead of schedule. We roam the empty rooms upstairs, taking nothing but memories with us.
‘Breaks my heart to think he was living here like this. He was always so strong. Mum would’ve hated this. She loved this house. I should’ve visited more. I’m ashamed of myself,’ says Elliot.
‘I’m ashamed of you,’ jests Wayne. Hopefully.
I stand under the loft hatch, gazing up. ‘There’s probably nothing up there. Dad’s knees were bad. No way could he get up there.’
My brothers look at me expectantly. Accepting my lot, I clamber up through the hatch. Fumbling for a light switch, a strip light flickers to life revealing a horde from the past. Half crouched, I carefully tread around the piles of boxes. Old tools. Books. Obscure-looking electrical equipment; half-dismantled. Stuff that Dad was going to mend or make use of. One day. It makes me smile, at least.
I spy a relic from my childhood. A toy wind-up ‘radio’. Given to me as a toddler, I loved it so much. I twist the yellow button in the centre, grinding as it cranks. Releasing my grip, the button slowly unwinds, playing a tinkling rendition of ‘Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head’.
Wayne calls out from down below. ‘What are you doing up there, ‘avin’ a disco?’
I wait for the song to peter out, along with my smile. I get on with clearing the loft, passing stuff down to Wayne, who in turn gives it to Elliot to sort through.
In a few hours, the loft is empty and my parents’ old bedroom is full of random piles of junk. Amongst the mess, I fish out a creased piece of paper. Unfolding it, I smile curiously at a child’s drawing before handing it to Elliot. ‘Yours, I believe.’
Elliot frowns with dawning recall. It’s a crayon-coloured picture of a creature - half bear, half elephant - and the words ‘Charleee Land’ roughly scrawled above it.
Wayne roars with laughter at the sight of it. ‘Bloody ‘ell, I remember that! You had that manky old teddy Mum knitted for you! We all thought you had a mental problem until you were eight or nine ‘cos you’d be talking to yourself all the time. You’d say “Can’t talk, I’m in Charlee Land!” Wayne erupts into a rattly cough as he laughs.
Suitably shamed, Elliot folds up the drawing and stuffs it in his jeans pocket.
Sorting through more junk, Wayne finds a lame-looking toy. ‘Why did they get me this? More to the point, why did he keep it? Wayne nods to Elliot. ‘You’re the one who collects toys. How much would I get for it?’
‘Doesn’t anything have sentimental value for you?’ asks Elliot.
‘The amount you spend on old Star Wars toys, you’d be better off in therapy. It’s cheaper.’
A forced smile from Elliot does little to stop Wayne. ‘You keep it if it means so much.’
Wayne tosses the toy to Elliot, who handles it with far more care.
Opening a shoe box, Elliot pokes through the contents, finding something of interest: A photograph. Wayne leans in for a peak. ‘Oi oi! You ‘n Dad have got the same taste in birds!’
I snatch the photo away, looking at it. It’s Meredith. A photo I took of her on the beach. I moved back in with my parents after I split up with Meredith. I only took a handful of ‘treasures’ from our time together. I grab the shoe box with a protective instinct.
I threw all this out years ago. Why did Dad keep it?
The evening creeps in as I top off the pile of black rubbish sacks out by the pavement. I catch sight of a car across the road. I can’t make out who’s inside, but there are two of them and they appear to be watching me. I give them a confrontational stare, stepping into the road for a better look. The engine starts, and the car erratically pulls away before I can reach it.
Back inside the living room, Elliot has hooked up an old record player to some cobwebby speakers. The needle lands on vinyl, crackling. ‘Ragtime Cowboy Joe’ by Alvin and the Chipmunks. Elliot finds this trip down memory lane hilarious. Wayne shakes his head in unamused silence.
Eventually, Elliot concedes as I beg him to stop. He replaces the 45 with an LP, pressing play. The arm of the needle cranes outwards, bouncing down on the record. A voice mumbles out of the speakers, as Elliot treasures the LP sleeves: “And They’re Off! A Horse Racing Game.”
‘Whoah! We used to play this all the time.’
‘We played it, what, once?’ says Wayne.
Elliot justifies his position. ‘It’s not about what happened, it’s about how you remember it.’
‘Alright, shuddup. Are we doing this or what? I’m in for fifty,’ says Wayne, throwing his money down. I can’t believe they’re actually going to do this, and now they’re looking at me with expectant stares. I politely decline. ‘Even if I had the cash I wouldn’t waste it on you two.’
Elliot places his bet, and the race commences. Elliot urges his horse on. Wayne mutters under his breath… until the commentator announces the winning horse. Elliot jumps to his feet, elated. ‘Ha! I won! I won!’
Wayne looks aside with a disappointed grumble. ‘Here’s an empty mug, you winner.’
I unplug the record player before any arguments kick off. ‘Know when to bow out with dignity,’ I say.
‘How many times did I hear that over the years? Whether it was women, hangovers, getting into pub fights… “Bow out with dignity”’ says Wayne, waggling a patronising finger.
Elliot joins in the humorous poking. ‘“Mark my words. You mark my words. Nothing good will come of it.” We should have those words engraved on Dad’s headstone.’
‘That’s what he said when I told him I was getting married. If only I’d listened,’ muses Wayne.
‘He told me “Don’t ever get married”,’ says Elliot. ‘He just wanted the best for us. He was a good man. That’s what I’ll remember him for.’
Tired of the rose-tinted reminiscing, I fling on my coat; striding for the front door as I speak my parting words.
‘When I told him I wanted to marry Meredith, all he said was “I hope you know what you’re doing”. That’s what I remember.’
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2023