IN THE VEIN OF THE FATHER by DF Lewis

Clara was certain who had spoken. Her dead father.

She turned swiftly towards the corner of the room whence she thought the voice emanated. But, of course, her certainty was matched by the knowledge that nobody was there: merely the wooden stool that her father had once made with his own hands for the purpose of resting his false leg.

She still had that leg in her possession. In the broom cupboard under the stairs at the moment. It had replaced his real leg when the latter was amputated during the World War. She had never questioned why he had needed to rest a wooden leg upon a stool. Such mysteries she relegated to a realm of forgotten memories that were simply stories unto themselves, with nobody to listen. In any event, memories were thoughts gone bad, past their best-by date. And, now, for whatever reason, she recalled her father resting his false leg upon the stool, whilst his real one was awkwardly skewed, its foot upon the floor. His spectacles were the real memory for Clara - by being so ordinary. Except for the odd mischievous sparkle...

Her ruminations were interrupted by the arrival of Jack. He was someone who often revealed his whereabouts by stealth. But not today. He arrived with a flourish, leaving Clara's thoughts about Father in mid-air.

"Guess what?" Jack achieved a strange bodily manoeuvre, a cross between a curtsey and an arm swing which took in the whole room with a pointed finger. Without waiting for a reply, he answered his own question. "Mum is going to get the place decorated ... at last!"

Clara had never really liked her brother. Too much in the vein of Father, with none of the good points.

"Really? What's making her do that?"

"Well, Clara, it's all a bit quaint. Uncle Rodney is coming soon. And, apparently, a beginning needs to be made on it. Marriage is on the cards. The details are unclear, even to Mum. But it does look as if romance is being planned. And the whole place is to be SPRING-CLEANED!"

He cheered, expecting Clara to share his glee.

"Uncle Rodney? Dad hated him." She laughed inside as she remembered her father's favourite expression about even mermaids being vulnerable to Rodney's loose cannon!

"Dad didn't exactly hate him," countered Jack. "More a rivalry. Dad shouldn't have died, should he?"

Clara smiled at Jack's innocent cruelty. He had no experience of the world, except perhaps the insides of several pubs. Glancing at the foot-stool, she imagined it discarded amid the flurry of redecoration. A brand new wall-paper, unknown to her father, would be pasted up by whistling decorators to replace the familiar flying-geese version. The ceiling was to have its stipples removed. The fireplace taken out and a more modern heating-device installed in its place. She shuddered at the thought of central heating, then shivered. She knew what houses were like these days. She had been inside several. In fact, Neil had possessed a flat that possessed every conceivable mod con. Neil - another thought gone bad. She cringed. Why had she suddenly remembered Neil? She had met him at an office cocktail party. She had preferred him to most previous suitors, thus allowing herself to be swept off her feet. She could not now recall exactly what he looked like. More of a signpost than a destination. But she did recall his flat in exact detail. Closing her eyes, she felt as if she were sitting in his wire-sculpture that passed itself off as a chair, viewing a space-age television screen with wide-split stereo sound. But then it would be nice to have a personal headset like Neil's, complete with ear-phones and eye-pieces which, if nothing else, would have the benefit of switching off her brother Jack, as he continued to rant about the decorating. The memory of Neil, if unwelcome, had crowded Jack out.

Like the single member of a chorus who is out of tune, she again heard her father's voice at the back of the head, a misplaced undergrunt. She opened her eyes and there was the face of Neil. But, like her father's voice, it was not there at all. In the circumstances, how could it be? Neil had died in a particularly horrendous road crash, when she was supposed to have been sitting next to him in the car. She blamed herself somewhat - not for that instinctive act of self-preservation embodied in her absence from the passenger-seat but rather for the probability that the accident would not have occurred at all if she had been present as originally planned. After all, Fate was like that, with only a cursory respect for synchronicity. She knew that if she hadn't caught a diplomatic cold and if Neil had picked her up, as planned, from the pre-arranged spot, his car would not have been at the same place at the same time, given the law of common sense. But, given the law of averages, Neil needed to die early. The law of averages, she knew, was not an average law. Clara had seen everything in Neil's eyes. His eyes had milk-ponds visibly surrounding the pupils: the death-look behind the sparkle: deep at the back of the mind: a lurking doom.

So, indeed, there was no Neil's face. Only Jack's, chatting about their mother's makeshift plans for the house, pending the arrival of Uncle Rodney. It all seemed so unnecessary to Clara. And the foot-stool in the corner made her want to cry. It was manufactured from the same wood as Father's false leg.

Uncle Rodney was more than simply an uncle. He was a family friend of long standing. Called Uncle merely by the quirk of some strange relative in Australia. Clara had never worked out the mechanics to her own satisfaction. He arrived on Good Friday, bristling with news about a cricket match. Jack showed some passing interest. Clara none. She had however once enjoyed listening to John Arlott's ball-by-ball commentaries on Radio Three. She preferred Classical Music, however.

He brought Easter Eggs with novelties inside for Clara and Jack, as if they were still children, whilst the one for Mother had a large purple bow and masses of crinkly paper that shone expensively. A romantic gift, this. The eggs for Clara and Jack were meant to be gobbled up quickly. Mother's, lingeringly.

His other presents for Mother were kept secret. But, it was obvious that they caused embarrassment, not by their nature so much, but because Mother had thought to buy him nothing. Still, visitors have a duty to arrive bearing goodies. The awkwardness was swiftly overcome and the polite small talk among the four of them was replaced with more meaningful exchanges, but only when Uncle Rodney was not watching the cricket. The new Cable TV brought live sport from all over the world. Not that Clara had welcomed the arrival of this multi-channelled beast, bringing all manner of rubbish with it. It had been Jack's idea, mainly because of the 24-hour news service, with a General Election in progress - but he had soon tired of it. Little did any of them predict that the sports channels would ever be used. Uncle Rodney now at least made the rental money worthwhile. He actually took some genuine enjoyment in some of the more esoteric sporting events, like kick-boxing and Sumo - much to Mother's bewilderment, if not irritation.

"Clara, what do you think?" Uncle Rodney's voice was large and mellow - he should have been a TV commentator, she thought (or an Easter Egg!). It was the third night of his visit. They were in the same room as the foot-stool. Jack and Mother were in other parts of the house, pursuing matters of their own. None of them rarely left the house. Easter brought the best weather of the year so far, but there'd been little urge for an airing.

"What do I think?" The answer was even more non-committal than it sounded.

"About Irene and myself."

It took a moment to realise that this was the question Clara had been expecting all weekend. Now that it had come, she was ill-prepared to answer it. She did not really understood the circumstances. Where was Jack? "Jack thinks..."

"No, not what Jack thinks, what do you think, Clara." Rodney had turned fully in his seat, visually adding an extra lump to the foot-stool with his jutting elbow.

"You already know what Jack thinks, then?" She was determined to spin this out. Her next ploy was to question Mother's views themselves, the most important ones of all.

"Yours is the most important opinion I need. You know what a soft spot I have for your mother."

"My opinion is more important than Mother's, then?"

"I think I know Irene's feelings."

"Only think ?"

"Yes, you know she is not that forthcoming. I need not tell you that, since you are more aware of her feelings than I am."

"Thank you at least for that ."

"Well, don't take me wrong, Clara. Like that other time when you were younger." He blushed as he moulded his hands into cone shapes, but then pulled himself together. "If you are against it, then I must know."

"What would you do about it if I were against it?"

"Leave by tomorrow."

"It's still Bank Holiday tomorrow."

"Well, the trains run."

"A Sunday service."

"Yes."

They soon both gave up, she deliberately toying with word associations, he letting go like a fisherman with a wild fish.

The silence was full.

Emptied only by her father's voice.

From the foot-stool.

Saying nothing.

Clara slowly passed the brush through her shoulder-length hair.

From the quarter-opened sash window filtered the sound of children playing in the street. The odd shout, the squeaky trundle of soap-carts, the more unified chanting of gangs, the patter of plimsolls, the snarl of rage, the unquenchable tears: an orchestration of play that caused Clara to wonder whether life was even more random than she thought. Very little point to anything.

Her bedroom, albeit a sanctuary, was a condemned cell. Since life could have complications, life was fragile. Death could never have complications - because the whole set-up of death was one long complication in itself. If death were to go smoothly, then there would be no death at all. Death meant something had gone wrong. There was no correct moment. No optimum age. All depended on the miscalculation of muscle and mind. Rot at the centre. A mind gone stale. A rogue median in the weft and woof of synchronicity. Clara thought no such thoughts for herself. Nevertheless, such thoughts occupied the space around her. It had once been her father's bedroom. The one he died in. No wonder there was pretension in the air. Haunting was simply another version of pretension.

The kid outside (the one who was bawling his head off) might one day be a father himself. Uncle Rodney had no children of his own, unless he had any he disowned: miscegenate bundles of wrong blankets. Easter had indeed seen the engagement of Mother to this moth-eaten man. Jack and Clara had acted overjoyed - not that Jack could act very well, so it was probably genuine in his case. Already two months in the past.

Clara felt her stomach. She had put on a lot of weight. She sensed Father looking over her shoulder. The clump of the leg had forewarned her, oddly echoed by her clumsily dropping the hairbrush.

"I'm sorry - there was nothing I could do, Dad. You were the one who died prematurely. You can't blame me."

"I don't blame you, Clara. In fact, I should congratulate you, instead. Rodney may look after Irene better than I could."

"But Mum never complained."

"Yes, that's true. But now I can be a little more objective. Death allows you to be laid-back about things, if that's the right expression."

She laughed. It was almost the laugh her father should have had for his own joke. But the dead could never laugh, she knew. They made jokes for the living to enjoy. They were not able to laugh themselves.

She grew serious again. "Does death allow you to see all the angles?"

"Yes."

"You sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure. You were always the doubting Thomas, Clara."

"Are you a ghost?" She was surprised at her own calmness. She knew now that even the dead did not see everything it was possible to see in any one situation.

"No, I'm not a ghost. I'm really here. The dead come back as themselves. You should have realised." She failed to fathom the distinction. She would have to die herself to understand such rarified matters. "How's your brother Jack? He never lets me come to him, like you do, Clara. He hasn't the wherewithal, I suppose. Never had."

Clara smiled: simply a sign of understanding. She now comprehended that the dead could only properly return if those to whom they returned actually believed in their presence. Otherwise, they did not return at all. "Jack's the same as ever, Dad. Rodney's promised him a lot of business deals following the marriage, when he's had a chance to catch his breath after the honeymoon."

"Where they going for it?" Clara hesitated to answer, but the hesitation was more incriminating than the truth. The same town, the same hotel, the same trips out, as her parents had. "Rodney is not legally able to marry Irene, you know," continued her father. "Neither of them realise."

Clara started. Surely the dead couldn't change life like this. It wasn't fair to the living. The living should be allowed to plough onward, making their own random mistakes.

"You said Rodney would look after her."

"That's why I'm going to let sleeping dogs lie."

"Why tell me then? It's put a responsibility on my shoulders I shouldn't have. You're being cruel in telling me. And why can't they get married - legally?"

"Their blood relationship is too close. Nobody but me has understood the ramifications, the various complications - and thankfully I am dead." He took a deep breath, spiritual in its resonance. "They're almost siblings." The last few words were barely whispers, full of the antipodal angst of corpses.

"Almost siblings? What do you mean, Dad? I don't understand."

There was no answer. She felt that his own deep breath had blown him away. Even less substantial than a real ghost, her dead father had vanished - out of the window, no doubt. Clara was relieved that there was no reprise of the clumping leg.

The staccato sounds of playing children resumed in the darkening streets. She tried to cry and brush her hair at the same time.

Memories stunk out the broom cupboard, when she went to find her father's foot-stool and leg. She could hardly remember Neil. Yet she knew that his head had been amputated in the car accident at the precise moment of his death. Her father had lost his leg many years before his death. Furthermore, Neil did not really care for Clara, in contrast to Father's deep love for her. If the dead were to return they needed the bait of love to fetch them from the ocean of ephemera. She shrugged. The dead could not return, in any event. All in the head, wasn't it?

Mother had left on some spin round the world, presumably to forget Uncle Rodney, the marriage now annulled because of some tragi-farce that had occurred on the wedding night - an event to which Clara had not been made privy.

Jack was off with his cronies on a Welsh drinking holiday.

So, Clara had the house to herself. The Cable TV flared in the corner. A brick-oven of a day. A real scorcher, as the newspapers had so clumsily described yesterday with today's headlines.

The foot-stool had never been any good with only two legs. So she chopped it up for firewood. Not that they needed firewood - with the whole house gutted of grates and chimney-breasts in readiness for the whistling decorators. Clara lost herself in the news of yet another General Election, hazy faces moving across a flickering screen.

Her father's leg she placed on the sofa - somehow to remind her that bodies were like joyrides at the fair: and she would coast along in hers until God was ready to take its jelly-mould for one more new angel. She laughed at her own thoughts. She suddenly imagined that her father was a one-legged ghost trapped here on Earth because God couldn't countenance incompletions in Heaven. She laughed again. But God had probably made an exception for someone so good and kind as her father. Then she thought of Uncle Rodney's loose cannon - and a court case called Bobbitt, of which those TV cable stations were once full, but now forgotten. She was tickled pink by the image. She laughed and laughed until becoming aware of a potentially louder laughter from behind. She turned and saw hands shaped in the shape of her own neck reaching out from a grinning headless ghost...

(published ‘Heliocentric Net' 1994)