An English Airman Foresees his Death

First 34 Pages

An English Airman

Foresees

His Death

by

David Milnes

infowhattradition@gmail.com

These days it's commonplace to say taboo things and here's mine: I do not love my son. I do not even like him much. I hide it, of course, as everyone hides or disguises such feelings. When he provokes me I show nothing, not even mild irritation. I raise my eyebrows as if to say, You could have a point there, or Have it your own way, but inside I shout at him: I do not like you, I do not like you.

A few Sundays back he came here alone. His wife sometimes sends him over to keep him out of harm's way. I wonder why, Alex? Hmmn? . . . Well, never mind that. I took the chance to broach something I've been meaning to raise for some time.

"I want you to take the dog," I told him. "Take Mason away. Give him a new home, a new life."

He guffawed at the very idea.

"I don't want your Mason! . . ." Quite ribald laughter. "Really, Dad. Whatever next!"

I never wanted animals. Laura brought them into my life, then left them chained up, caged up, expected someone else to look after them. Who? Me? Don't be ridiculous. This is the way people carry on – assuming something on a whim of sentiment then slipping away, sloping off.

"I'm weary of responsibility," I explained. "I don't want any more responsibility."

He shut his eyes and kept them shut.

"Leave it, Dad . . . Mason is your dog. Unto his dying day. Poor animal."

"Your mother – "

"Dispute it no further, Dad! Please!"

He shouted at me. Blindly. Completely lost patience with me.

"It's pointless! What's the matter with you?"

"Your mother owned all the dogs," I continued, speaking to the blank television in front of us; the screen seemed awfully dark and dusty and far off that afternoon. "You know that. I understand nothing about them. Never went to the vet. Not once. Never wanted animals." Then I looked down at him, sitting beneath me in his mother's chair. More softly, I said, "Now, little Joe would love a dog. Rachael said so . . ."

At the mention of his family he stood and went to the bay window beyond my card table. He stared hard at the garden. He was on edge. I could tell he hadn't slept. Another lousy weekend. He's always moaning about his 'lousy' or 'rotten' weekends. No money. Never had any. And his happy marriage, of course.

"A cuddly puppy, Dad. Not an abused and neglected brute like Mason, gnawing at his entrails."

Come to think of it, that was the Sunday for 'the great rapprochement': Rachael's mother was visiting for the first time in twenty years. Twenty bloody-minded years! It was a state occasion but neither of us was invited. She may as well have been coming back from the dead, as far as I'm concerned. Never even met her, never seen a photograph. Widowed again is all I know. Take no notice – family soaps, intrigues, step-relations and so on. I like my mysteries in Len Deighton and Eric Ambler, not in life.

The Sunday Times was spread out flat on my card table, on my freshly brushed baize – genuine baize, not felt – open at the crossword. I caught him glancing down at it. Crossword is complete. Doubtful here and there maybe, but complete. He raised his chin, stroked his neck, averted his gaze.