Dead Dad

Dead Dad

The cranes mimicked the dockers and in turn the dockers mimicked the cranes. Canvas and jute grab bags the size of Edwardian double-breasted wardrobes played out time, counterbalances in the fantastically complex inner workings of a case-less grandfather clock. In went the stevedores’ hand hooks and with the old heave-ho the cargo would be landed, stacked, carted and railed. The bonded warehouse became Boatshed Four and Boatshed Four became so big you could believe at first sight on the first day of your apprenticeship that it was big enough to house the entire world. In Boat Shed Four they built bastard big boats that the rest of the world would refer to as Ships. And right there in the middle measuring in at a little less than one thousandth of the original volume is Phones-4-U.
There are one hundred and seventy beats per minute to the background music and the boy in the serge pea jacket, a first year Philosophy undergraduate, puffed up on Twentieth Century Avant-Gardist theories, is actually going to ask the sub-A level sales boy two years his senior to cut the Dub-step in Phones-4-U. This is going to be worth watching. He’s intent on mischief, he’s going to be a philosopher after all and moreover, even though he doesn’t know it yet, his great grandfather used to work hot rivets on the very spot where the three sided sales and customer service counter corral now stands. He wants a smart phone and being smart he wants to test their claim that they can get you any ringtone in the world 4-U. He says he wants an I-Phone – he asks for 4’33’’ by John Cage– they get it for him – he questions their competence – they check out the handset – there must be something wrong with the volume settings – the Philosophy student explains that it’s a piece of silence played on the piano and that in order to hear it they need to cut the Dub-step playing on their shop sound system – they cut the Dub-step – they all listen to the silence – this is the original Carnegie Hall performance – they hear a cough – “Cool” is the universal pronouncement of approval but before the knowing smiles can stretch right across their faces, the Philosophy student pounces on them – he changes his mind and asks for Cage’s Concerto for Prepared Piano. Mr Cage obliges with a symphonic Dockyard cacophony for prepared piano on rusting iron framed hulks strung with steel hawsers. All the polyphonic rhythms of wood and sheet metal being crafted once more fill the air for here stands Jack, an impossible 95 years old, patiently waiting to get one of the lads to top-up his pay-as-u-go. Man and boy he served out his life right here in Boat Shed 4 and he could still feel it, smell it, hear it. He saw the developers there the day the dry docks were being eyed up for underground parking, their steep stepped declines so suggestive of Green Zone Level Four, immediately above Yellow Zone Level Five.

My father stands at the Phones-4-U end of the Great Ropehouse, looking for the bastard who vanished with his micrometer; above his head will be mounted the graphically combined sign for the Emergency Exit and Customer Toilets for Zizzis restaurant. The lenses on his black framed spectacles have fogged-up – it is twelve degrees Celsius inside the Ropehouse and ten degrees outside. It is 1030 feet from one end to the other, long enough to house the Eiffel Tower when laid on its side. The exertion of running in his overlays of three boiler suits have super-heated his head beneath the black and grey woolly hat that his wife knitted for him. I still have three woolly hats knitted for me by my mother stored in a cardboard box in the attic, their colour combinations determined by chance – by the combined unused remains of balls of wool. I should be wearing one now, what sort of pilgrim am I to not have dressed in the garb of homage?

I want my father to find the micrometer – not so that he can get on with the job, but so I can see how he deals with the man or boy who took it.

He removes his specs, searches blindly in the endless perspective, its vanishing point somewhere way beyond the harbour on the Gosport horizon. He takes a white cotton handkerchief out of his pocket and wipes the lenses, sticks them back on the bridge of his nose which he then blows it with a broken bassoon reed. Three times he blows; the handkerchief is sodden, he shoves it back into his boiler suit. He walks, a big man in steel toe capped boot with acid resistant anti-slip rubber soles. He eyes up two men. They catch his eye, turn and laugh. He approaches, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“All right Gordon – Union business is it?”
“Come on, let’s have it.”
“Have what?”
“My micrometer.”
“What d’you mean?”
“One of you two jokers has just run off with my micrometer.”
“Not us Gordon – what do we want with a micrometer?”
“That’s the bloody point.”
“What?”
“You don’t need it and I don’t need the wind up.”
“I’m sorry Gordon but we haven’t got it have we Bob?”
“We certainly haven’t David.”
“Has anyone else just come in?” Gordon adjusted his glasses to the horizontal.
“Nope,” Bob said as he walked past Gordon towards the workbench, “no one’s been through here. Did you see anyone Dave?”
“Can’t say that I did Bob.”
“Can you give me hand with this David? Sorry Gordon can I just get you to move over there.”
“No problem Bob -” David stepped over to the workbench as Gordon moved aside, “what’s in it today?”
“Pie and cake.”
“Crikey, pie and cake. That’s definitely a two man job.” Bob and David took hold of either end of Bob’s lunch box.
“On the count of three; kinetic lift – have you got your knees slightly bent.”
“Righto Bob, we don’t won’t to put our backs out do we?”
Bob counted – “One – two – three.” They let out a tremendous groan, “Shit, it must be her pork pie, I can’t shift it. Come on Gordon, don’t stand there like a lemon, give us a hand.” Gordon, now cold with his own sweat, still fuming about his stolen micrometer, desperate to get the truth out of these two men, found himself grabbing hold of a metal lunch box that could have contained nothing more than two size nine shoes. The three of them pulled and the oak workbench juddered.
“It’s not her fruit cake is it Bob? If it is we’re in trouble. Come on Gordon put your back into it man.” The workbench suddenly tilted on two legs, Gordon, who was in the middle felt it’s weight coming towards him, he threw himself forward to counter balance it. It rocked back on all fours.
“Phew that was a close one. I’d tell my wife that you tried to help Gordon, but if she hears that you weren’t man enough to move the lunch box she’ll only think you need feeding up and start making me bring an extra pie in for you.”
Gordon undid the hasp that secured the lid of the lunch box and opened the lid. Inside was a plastic container with a ‘Walls Family Size Vanilla’ sticker on the top. He took it out to reveal the heads of four bolts securing the box to the workbench.
“What the bloody hell is this?” Gordon knew the joke was on him – his dilemma was whether he should allow himself to enjoy it or to continue to be Mr Hurt and Angry.
“Nice one Gordon.” Bob patted the boiler suits on Gordon’s shoulders.
“Yeah, nice one Gordon.” David added, patting Gordon on his other shoulder whilst slipping the micrometer into the pocket where Gordon had stuffed his handkerchief.
“We’ll ask around and see if any of the lads know anything about your micrometer. I know how you feel, they’re thieving bastards in this place – I’ve had me lunch stolen before and that’s why I keeps it padlocked in that box on the bench.”

There was a welder’s flash, a planishing hammer beating the dents from a sheet of mild steel, a grinder finishing off a welded seem, a rivet gun popping like a slow motion machine gun. Gordon stood next to his bench, pulled out his handkerchief and heard the almost inaudible tink of a tiny piece of metal hit the concrete floor. As he raised the wet rag to his nose he looked down to see his micrometer staring back up at him. Beneath the woolly hat, his mind assembled judge and jury. The defending barrister pointed to the obvious – “ You absent mindedly put the micrometer in your pocket and having forgotten about it, naturally leapt to the conclusion that the person who ran past you having disturbed tools on your workbench, had taken it.” For the prosecution the case was more complex - “It was either Bob or David who grabbed the said micrometer as they ran past. Whilst you were unable to identify which of the two it was, you pursued the person in question and saw them enter the Rope Shed. Upon approaching Bob and Dave, you state that their behaviour was suspicious and that they engaged you in a diversionary practical joke. During the activity of attempting to lift Bob’s lunch box from his workbench, they both had ample opportunity to slip the micrometer into your pocket. The judge concluded that the case for the prosecution, whilst not without its merits, was wholly based on circumstantial evidence. The case would have to be dismissed and the costs incurred by the plaintiff would be the swallowing of pride.

The undeveloped philosopher declined the need to purchase despite the full attentions of the entire front of house Phones-4-U sales team. His self-satisfied amusement is smugly smeared across his cleanly shaven face. He turns from the counter to find himself almost nose-to-nose with ancient Jack whose feet have inched his weak frustration forward to the point of near contact. The philosopher is shocked but can only recoil as far as the counter. He is hemmed in on either side. He has to face Jack and Jack’s myopia makes the philosopher seem further away than he actually is. Jack notices how pale and blurred at the edges this boy is. He sways slightly, feels warm sugary breath on his nose and cheeks. The philosopher begins to dissolve before his eyes and the Warfarin in his blood stream cannot hold enough sap to his brain. Jack flowed onto the philosopher like a length of fabric released from the top and allowed to flop and fold with gravity. With the philosopher leant back over the counter, Jack’s head slowly slid down his smooth face, cupping in his neck like a lover and coming to a temporary rest between his nipples. The philosopher involuntarily clutched the old man’s head to his chest; they became one. The heels on the philosopher’s Nike trainers began to move outwards across the carpet and away from the counter, he could feel the embossed Phones-4-U logo sending its semiotic message down the length of his spine as the pair of them inched towards the floor. Jack’s head was in the boy’s crotch, the buttons on the boy’s fly pressing into his forehead. All is quiet in Phones-4-U. Everyone is staring at the boy with the old man in his lap. People do not lie on the floor in phone shops – this should not happen when you are shopping. De-de-de-le-da-da-de-de-le-da. The phone in Jack’s hand is ringing. Nobody moves. I step forward, take it from his hand and push the button with a green telephone symbol on it.
“Hello Jack its Gordon,” I recognise the voice.
“Is that you dad?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re dead.”
“Yes. But I just wanted to tell you that Jack was a good man.”
“Was he?”
“But he had a son. His name was David.”
“He took your micrometer, didn’t he?”
“I don’t know. I was never certain.”
“He did dad – I saw him do it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes dad, I saw him do it.”
“Thanks for telling me son.”
“That’s okay dad.” Before I could ask him the question that I’d always wanted to ask him, the phone went dead.