The crisp folding green notes scratched a little and crackled in my hand as he counted them out, with comparatively weighty coins that jangled and had a tang of mothballs. I took off down the bright, aromatic country lane, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine on my face, the taste of the dust kicked up at every step, the tuneful birdsong and the gurgling of the stream.
Sirens and laughter and cash-registers and gambling machines soon occupied me, along with ever-fragrant girls on my lap and in my face and their gin-flavoured breath and slap-up dinners every night and hangovers every morning, until the money ran out.
Then it was cold wind, shivers, misery, dark days and long nights by the stinking pig bins, hoping for a few foetid scraps.
In the end, I came to my senses.
I decided to leave my torn and sicked-on shoes behind, take what velvet I could and go home, seeing if I could get hired as a hand, maybe working with the slurry-strewn calves or the clucking hens.
But before I got there, Father had rushed out to me.
He kissed me lip-smackingly, repeatedly, shouting and waving his arms. He brought me a ring to slip on my finger, and shoes and a coat to keep me warm.
He splashed hot blood on the cool, dusty stone flags as he slaughtered a calf and we had a spit roast, with the fire crackling merrily, his arms around me often.
‘My son!’ he shouted to anyone who would listen. ‘He was lost but now he’s found. He was in the grave, wrapped in bandages and decomposing, rigid and silent, but now he’s vibrant, full of health, moving, talking, fragrant, clean-shaven and… mwah!’
He slapped me on the back repeatedly, and kept proffering great platefuls of tender, aromatic cooked meat until golden dawn broke over the distant hills.
No comments:
Post a Comment