The Favourite Game

‘So long, Breavman.’

Breavman followed him out of the yard.

‘She’s perfect, Krantz, didn’t you see?’

Krantz plugged his ears with his forefingers. They passed Bertha’s Tree. Krantz began to run.

‘She was really perfect, you have to admit it, Krantz.’

Krantz was faster.

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One of Breavman’s early sins was to sneak a look at the gun. His father kept it in a night-table between his and his wife’s bed.

It was a huge .38 in a thick leather case. Name, rank and regiment engraved on the barrel. Lethal, angular, precise, it smouldered in the dark drawer with dangerous potential. The metal was always cold.

The sound of the machinery when Breavman pulled the hammer back was the marvellous sound of all murderous scientific achievement. Click! like the smacking of cogwheel lips.

The little blunt bullets took the scratch of a thumbnail.

If there were Germans coming down the street…

When his father married he swore to kill any man who ever made advances towards his wife. His mother told the story as a joke. Breavman believed the words. He had a vision of a corpse-heap of all the men who had ever smiled at her.

His father had an expensive heart doctor named Farley. He was around so much that they might have called him Uncle if they had been that sort of family. While his father was gasping under the oxygen-tent in the Royal Victoria, Doctor Farley kissed his mother in the hallway of their house. It was a gentle kiss to console an unhappy woman, between two people who had known each other through many crises.

Breavman wondered whether or not he’d better get the gun and finish him off.

Then who’d repair his father?

Not long ago Breavman watched his mother read the Star. She put down the paper and a Chekhovian smile of lost orchards softened her face. She had just read Farley’s obituary notice.

‘Such a handsome man.’ She seemed to be thinking of sad Joan Crawford movies. ‘He wanted me to marry him.’

‘Before or after my father died?’

‘Don’t be so foolish.’

His father was a tidy man, upturned his wife’s sewing basket when he thought it was getting messy, raged when his family’s slippers were not carefully lined under respective beds.

He was a fat man who laughed easily with everybody but his brothers.

He was so fat and his brothers were tall and thin and it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair, why should the fat one die, didn’t he have enough being fat and breathless, why not one of the handsome ones?

The gun proved he was once a warrior.

His brother’s pictures were in the papers in connection with the war effort. He gave his son his first book, The Romance of the King’s Army, a thick volume praising British regiments.

K-K-K-Katy, he sang when he could.

What he really loved was machinery. He would go miles to see a machine which cut a pipe this way instead of that. His family thought him a fool. He lent money to his friends and employees without question. He was given poetry books for his bar mitzvah. Breavman has the leather books now and startles at each uncut page.

‘And read these, too, Lawrence.’

How To Tell BirdsHow To Tell TreesHow To Tell InsectsHow To Tell Stones

He looked at his father in the crisp, white bed, always neat, still smelling of Vitalis. There was something sour inside the softening body, some enemy, some limpness of the heart.

He tore the books as his father weakened. He didn’t know why he hated the careful diagrams and coloured plates. We do. It was to scorn the world of detail, information, precision, all the false knowledge which cannot intrude on decay.

Breavman roamed his house waiting for a shot to ring out. That would teach them, the great successes, the eloquent speakers, the synagogue builders, all the grand brothers that walked ahead into public glory. He waited for the blast of a .38 which would clean the house and bring a terrible change. The gun was right beside the bed. He waited for his father to execute his heart.

‘Get me the medals out of the top drawer.’

Breavman brought them to the bed. The reds and golds of the ribbons ran into each other as in a watercolour. With some effort his father pinned them on Breavman’s sweater.

Breavman stood at attention ready to receive the farewell address.

‘Don’t you like them? You’re always looking at them.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Stop stretching yourself like a damn fool. They’re yours.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Well, go out and play with them. Tell your mother I don’t want to see anyone and that includes my famous brothers.’

Breavman went downstairs and unlocked the closet which held his father’s fishing equipment. He spent hours in wonder, putting the great salmon rods together, winding and unwinding the copper wire, handling the dangerous flies and hooks.

How could his father have wielded these beautiful, heavy weapons, that swollen body on the crisp, white bed?

Where was the body in rubber boots that waded up rivers?

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Many years later, telling all this, Breavman interrupted himself:

‘Shell, how many men know of those little scars in your earlobes? How many besides me, the original archaeologist of earlobes?’

‘Not as many as you think.’

‘I don’t mean the two or three or fifty that kissed them with their everyday lips. But in your fantasies, how many did something impossible with their mouths?’

‘Lawrence, please, we’re lying here together. You’re trying to spoil the night somehow.’

‘I’d say battalions.’