Flamingoes in Orbit Read online

  ‘Was it a gift from the friend you mentioned? The one you recited­ poetry with?’

  ‘Indeed it was. And this beautiful thing here – you see? – is an iridescent ammonite. A fossil. It reminds me of a lovely weekend I once had in Lyme Bay, a beautiful place on the South Coast. Have you ever been there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, you must go. Stunning views. Very dramatic.’

  ‘And what’s this one?’ I asked, pointing at a small, silver case. ‘Is it a pillbox?’

  ‘It is, indeed. It is an antique pillbox. From the reign of George III. It belonged to my mother. But that’s not the reason I keep it. It’s what’s inside that’s important.’ He grinned. ‘You can open it if you wish.’

  I opened the silver case.

  Inside was something pointed and pale yellow.

  I said, ‘Is it . . . a bird’s beak?’

  ‘No,’ Mr Kass said. ‘It’s a tooth.’

  ‘A . . . a human tooth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘One of yours?’

  ‘Oh, no, no.’

  ‘Then . . . whose . . . ?’

  He took the pill case from me and snapped it shut. ‘That’s a story I haven’t told anyone.’ He put the case back on the shelf. ‘Not a single soul.’

  He stood with his back to me, breathing deeply.

  I said, ‘Was it someone . . . you knew, Mr Kass?’

  ‘It was, yes.’

  ‘A . . . man?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was he . . . a friend – ?’

  Mr Kass turned to face me. ‘I see you won’t stop asking questions until you wrench the story out of me.’

  ‘Oh, I’m . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to – ’

  ‘So you don’t want to hear the story?’

  ‘No, I . . . I . . .’

  ‘Well, do you want to hear the story or not? It is a simple enough proposition with a simple enough response. “Yes” or “no”.’

  I said, ‘Well . . . yes. If you . . . if you don’t mind telling me.’

  ‘Very well.’ He opened the bedroom door as wide as it would go. ‘Your mother is going to call up when Magnificent Obsession comes on the television. It’s one of her favourite films, and mine. I promised to watch it with her. I don’t want to miss her call.’ He pointed at a hardback chair against the wall. ‘Please sit there.’

  I did as I was asked.

  ‘I shall sit here.’ He perched on the edge of the mattress, as far away from me as it was possible to get in that tiny room. ‘Now . . . where shall I begin?’ He thought for a moment. Then, ‘Yes! My father!’ He took a deep breath. ‘My father was in the army. He was injured at Dunkirk. When I say “Dunkirk” you know to what I am referring?’

  ‘The Second World War. Our troops were stranded at a place called Dunkirk. They had to be rescued.’

  ‘Excellent, excellent. You know your wars as well as your war poets, I see. My father suffered a shrapnel wound in his left leg. Not too serious. But serious enough to make walking impossible. A fellow soldier – one my father had never met before – carried him to a rescue boat. When my father got back home he was cared for by my mother – who was pregnant with me at the time – and my Aunt Eugenie, both members of Queen Alexandra’s Royal Army Nursing Corps. When I was born my parents named me after the man who had saved my father. Trafford. There is a photo I would have loved to show you – alas, now lost – of my christening. Not because I was a delightful baby – although I most certainly was – but so I could show you just how many members of my kith and kin, so to speak, wore uniforms. From the moment I was born, you see, it was expected that I, Trafford Kass, would follow them all into military life. And, as I grew up, that’s what I expected too. Indeed, I craved it. I adored the dedication and comradeship. I loved the neatness of the uniforms, the discipline to keeping physically fit, the stoicism, the patriotism. I relished every aspect of army life except for one thing. I abhorred the prospect of violence.’

  A noise from downstairs. Mum was making her way from the front room to the kitchen.

  ‘Aha!’ Mr Kass said. ‘Your mother, if I am not very much mistaken, is putting the kettle on. That must surely mean this evening’s cinematic masterpiece will be starting very soon. I shall have to get a move on with my story.’ He coughed, like an actor about to deliver a speech. ‘I abhorred the sight of blood! I abhorred the thought of people suffering. When I was nine or ten years old, I remember going to the cinema with my father and watching a newsreel. It included footage of enemy planes being shot down. Everyone in the audience cheered. My father cheered. But all I could think of was those poor airmen spiralling to their deaths. What were their last thoughts as they saw the earth rushing up to obliterate them? I started to cry. And once I started I could not stop. My father dragged me from the cinema. He was a good man. A brave man. I loved him. And I knew he loved me. But he did not want a son of his to be a sissy! I understood how he felt. I didn’t want to be a sissy either. My father decided I needed some “toughening up”. So he asked an ex-army friend – Major Trusk – to help. Major Trusk ran a boxing club. He trained the roughest, rawest young men East London had to offer. Major Trusk said I could work for him part time. I would help out wherever – and however – I could. I would be at ringside. I would watch men hurt each other. I would wipe their blood from the floor. I would do all this until it became . . . normal. And so, just after my fifteenth birthday, the age you are now, I started working at Major Trusk’s Pugilistic Emporium.’ He straightened the collar of his shirt. ‘Tell me, young man. Do you think I liked working there or not?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know.’

  ‘Hazard a guess.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Perhaps . . . you still didn’t like the sight of blood . . .’

  ‘Go on, go on.’

  ‘But . . . the violence of boxing . . . that’s different from real violence, isn’t it?’

  ‘In what way, d’you think?’

  ‘Well, boxing . . . it’s a sport . . . They’re not hitting each other because they hate each other. Lots of boxers are good friends. You see them hug each other after fights. And I think . . . I think you would have liked that aspect of it. The comradeship, I mean. And you would have liked all the discipline. It takes a lot of hard work to be a boxer. I’ve seen Rocky.’

  ‘Rocky?’

  ‘The Sylvester Stallone film.’

  ‘Aha! I seem to have missed that one.’

  ‘There’s more than one. There’s Rocky II and Rocky III as well. They’re Lloyd’s favourite films. It’s what got him interested in body building. Well, that and his dad. Lloyd’s dad could lift my dad above his head.’

  ‘Goodness!’

  ‘Lloyd’s doing weight training. Dumbbells. He has to train with them for at least two hours every day.’

  ‘And is he getting a better physique?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. The muscles on his arms are huge.’

  ‘Do you prefer him looking that way?’

  ‘I . . . I guess so.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong in preferring it! Nothing wrong whatsoever. All the great artists have admired the male physique. Michelangelo’s David, for instance. And, yes, I admit, for that reason – as well as the ones you so astutely mentioned – I did indeed enjoy working at the Emporium. I loved making sure the boxers had everything they needed. I would tie their boxing gloves for them. I would bring them clean towels. I would mix their drinks of raw eggs. In short, I made myself indispensable to them. And then, about four months after I started working there, I saw Major Trusk talking to someone new. He was about eighteen or nineteen, which seemed very grown up to me at the time. He clearly wanted to join the gym. The young man removed his shirt and . . . oh, his physique was magnificent! And then I saw . . . on his back! A tattoo. Or, rather, lots of small tattoos. Birds. Pink birds. Flamingoes. Flying in a circle. Major Trusk shook the young man’s hand and called out to me, ‘Come and meet
our new recruit, Traff.’ I went over to them. Major Trusk said to the young man, ‘This is Traff. He’s our lucky mascot. He’ll make sure you’ve got everything you need.’ Then he looked at me. ‘Traff, this is Troy Flamingo.’

  ‘MR KASS!’ Mum called up.

  ‘BE RIGHT WITH YOU, MRS WINSLEY!’ Mr Kass got to his feet. ‘It looks like we’ll have to continue our story another time, young man. Magnificent Obsession is about to begin, and Jane Wyman will fall in love with Rock Hudson all over again. And who could blame her, eh?’ He glanced in the mirror above the mantelpiece and tidied his (already tidy) cravat. ‘Are you coming down to watch the film with us? I’m sure your mother would like that.’

  ‘I . . . I’d rather not.’

  ‘I totally understand.’ He stood in the doorway, waiting for me to leave. ‘It’s been a pleasure to have your company, young man.’

  The next day, a Saturday, I woke to the sound of the lawnmower. I got out of bed and – still wearing just the Y-fronts I’d slept in – went down to the kitchen. Mum was putting some laundry­ into the washing machine.

  ‘You’re up early,’ she said.

  ‘Well, it’s hard to sleep with that racket going on!’ I nodded towards the garden.

  ‘Mr Kass is doing the lawn for me. He’s going to jet-wash the paving stones too. And mend the porch light. That’s more stuff than your dad would do in a year.’

  ‘Don’t . . . don’t talk about Dad like that, Mum.’

  ‘It’s the truth!’

  ‘It’s not. Dad did lots of things in the house. Who put the paving stones down and the porch light up in the first place?’

  ‘Well, Dagger did most of the paving stones. And, yes, your dad did put up the porch light. But only after I had to nag him to do it for about six bloody months. And if you think your dad’s so wonderful, why don’t you pack your bags, and you can go live with him.’

  ‘I don’t know where he is!’

  ‘He’s in Milton Keynes!’

  ‘He’s . . . You know where is?!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He told me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘A while ago. He rang.’

  ‘How long “a while ago”?’

  ‘The day I suddenly felt better.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘There was no point! I told your dad I wouldn’t have him back even if he begged me.’

  ‘And . . . did he beg you?’

  Mum didn’t say anything.

  ‘Mum!?’

  ‘Go upstairs and put some clothes on,’ she said.

  ‘Tell me if Dad wanted to come back first.’

  ‘He . . . he might have done.’

  ‘But . . . Mum . . . why didn’t you tell him he could – ?’

  ‘Remember that red-headed girl who used to work in the baker’s? I ordered a cake for your dad’s birthday there. You went round to pick it up. Remember? Remember?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘It was her! That’s who he’s run off with! It had been going on for months. Months! It was going on when I ordered that cake. Jesus! She’s twenty! Young enough to be his bloody daughter! Do you know how that makes me feel? Do you?’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m sorry, Mum.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘So, no, your dad is not stepping foot in this house again. Even if he does beg.’ She turned the washing machine on. ‘Now, go upstairs and get dressed. You shouldn’t be walking around like that. We’re not the only ones here, you know.’

  Later, when I heard Lloyd get back from Mack’s, I rushed next door to see him. We looked at the photo he’d just got (a bulldozer clearing away a pile of dead bodies), then decided it was too hot for us to stay indoors, so we went to the park. We bought ice creams and sat on the grass by the lake. We talked about another photo Lloyd still wanted to get from Mack (a soldier with his guts hanging out), but there didn’t seem to be anything Mack wanted to swop for it. We debated how much – if it came down to money – Lloyd should pay for it. We agreed no more than fifty pence. Then –

  ‘You know the red-headed girl who used to work in the baker’s­?’ I said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Lloyd said.

  ‘She’s the one my dad ran off with.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘Mum told me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘Who told your mum?’

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘Jesus! . . . The girl from the baker’s.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘She served us lots of times.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So . . . she’d sell you stuff. Joke with you. And all the time she was sucking your old man’s cock.’

  ‘Don’t say that!’

  ‘Well, she was.’

  ‘I know, but . . . I don’t want to think about it.’

  ‘He’s old enough to be her dad.’

  ‘That’s what Mum said.’

  ‘Well, he is, the dirty old sod.’

  ‘Don’t call him that.’

  ‘Lucky sod, then. I’d fuck her any day of the week.’

  ‘She’s twenty, Lloyd!’

  ‘The older woman! I’m getting a hard-on just thinking about it.’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’

  ‘It’s true! If she wanted to run away with me, you wouldn’t see me for dust.’

  ‘Really? We could be sitting here like this – having a good time – and she could come over and say, “Let’s run away, Lloyd!” and you’d just get up and . . . and leave me here.’

  ‘You bet I would. Don’t say you wouldn’t do the same.’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t actually.’ I got to my feet. ‘I have too much respect­ for our friendship.’

  ‘Oh, you’re getting in a strop again! Jesus!’

  ‘I’m going home!’ I pointed. ‘There’s some girls over there. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of you rushing off to fuck them.’

  ‘I wouldn’t let you get in the way!’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yes. Really!’

  I walked away, so angry – so tearful – I could barely breathe.

  When I got home, Mum was getting a bottle of lemonade from the fridge.

  ‘Just in time,’ she said, raising the bottle. ‘Want some?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. Another argument with Lloyd.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Suit yourself. I’m doing lamb cutlets for dinner. That okay?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Here!’ She held out a glass of lemonade. ‘Take this out to Mr Kass? He’s still doing stuff for me in the garden, bless him.’

  I hesitated.

  ‘Please!’ Mum said.

  ‘Okay, okay.’ I took the glass from her.

  ‘And here! A glass for you.’

  ‘I said I don’t want – ’

  ‘You’ll change your mind in a minute. You know you will. Take it.’

  I took it and went out to the garden.

  Mr Kass was pruning the roses.

  ‘Mum said to give you this.’ I handed him the lemonade.

  ‘Why, thank you, young man. A refreshing libation is most welcome. As, indeed, are you.’ He sipped the drink. ‘Have you been having a good time with your friend?’

  ‘Not really. He’s rapidly mutating into a mega-moron.’

  Mr Kass grinned. ‘I see. Then perhaps you’d like to stay here with me for a while. I would relish some company.’ He sat on the bench by the shed.

  I sat on an upturned terracotta pot.

  We sipped lemonade.

  ‘Tell me about Troy Flamingo,’ I said.

  ‘Goodness! Now there’s an unequivocal request if ever I’ve heard one. Very well. If you insist.’ A sip of lemonade. ‘Now . . . where exactly did I get to?’

  ‘Troy had just joined the gym.’

  ‘Aha! Of course.�
�� Another sip of lemonade. ‘No one trained harder than Troy. Like the other men there, he had a job during the day – he worked with his father in a local timber yard, I believe – so his training was restricted mainly to evenings. But he always stayed late. Much later than any of the other boxers. Major Trusk said to me, “That boy might not be the best boxer in the world, but he certainly sets a great example.” And he did. Everyone admired Troy. Admired, rather than liked, perhaps. Troy didn’t make friends easily. Most of the other boxers thought him “standoffish”. But it was Troy’s very “standoffishness” that, for me, made him so intriguing.’ Another sip. ‘I did everything I could to become his friend. But, alas, no matter how hard I tried, a friendship – a true friendship – did not fully blossom.’ Sip. ‘And then, one day, Troy left his comb behind. I found it on the bench next to his locker. It was an ordinary, plastic comb. Nothing special. But it had some hairs in it. Troy’s hairs. I wrapped the comb in my handkerchief and took it home. A few days later, while he was training, I took a handkerchief from his jacket pocket. I took that home as well. I put both it and the comb in an old shoe box. It was the start.’

  ‘The start of what?’

  ‘My “Box of Troy Flamingo”.’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lloyd opening his bedroom window. I was glad he hadn’t stayed too much longer in the park without me. He glanced down at me and Mr Kass talking. Immediately I looked as engrossed as I could in the conversation. ‘What other things did you collect, Mr Kass?’ I asked eagerly.

  ‘Oh . . . let me see now,’ Mr Kass said. ‘There was the wrapper from a bar of Cadbury’s chocolate. There was a bus ticket. Quite a few bus tickets in fact. There was a plaster he’d been wearing.’

  ‘A plaster?!’

  ‘Oh, yes. It still had some of his blood on it.’

  ‘But that’s . . . a bit “ugh”, isn’t it?’

  Mr Kass chuckled and nodded. ‘Yes, yes, I suppose it is. But what I felt for Troy . . . it was like a . . . a kind of madness. A fever. I’d never experienced anything like it before and – ’

  Music started playing in Lloyd’s bedroom. It was Status Quo. The only band that we disagreed on. I hated them as much as Lloyd loved them.