The Peculiar Memories of Thomas Penman by Bruce Robinson

Author:Bruce Robinson [ROBINSON, BRUCE]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC000000, FIC043000, FIC019000
ISBN: 9781468305777
Publisher: The Overlook Press
Published: 2012-08-01T00:00:00+00:00

Next morning at breakfast there was a postcard from Bel. Thomas had just got back from the railway station and sat alone at the kitchen table reading it over a bowl of cornflakes …

‘Dear Everybody,’ she wrote. ‘Having a smashing time and learning to ski! I can’t tell you how my German has improved. I hope you are all well, and hope Grandad is feeling better. I will be home in two weeks with Eva. Love Bel.’

On the reverse there was a coloured picture divided into five sections showing various pleasantries around Düsseldorf. In the middle was a bloke on a plinth. Thomas tore the stamp off wondering what Eva was like. Sixteen apparently. They have big tits, Germans.

But his thoughts were actually elsewhere. He was about to go upstairs and resume work on his communication to Gwen. The completed poem was to be called ‘Lead Valentine’, and when he finished it he would send it to her in a black envelope …

Two noises happened at once.

One was a measure of quite purposeful footsteps upstairs, and the other someone coming through the front door.

‘Oh fuck it,’ said Thomas, with no time to escape.

A moment later, Rob barged into the kitchen in his brown bifocals and surgical-collar. His blood was up and he was talking in headlines.

‘“CASTRO DEFIES THE U.S.”’

A sample of every newspaper printed in England was slammed on to the kitchen table. For reasons that aren’t really material, Thomas had managed to avoid the Country Run this morning and had yet to hear it from Rob.

‘“U.N. WILL IMPOSE SANCTIONS,”’ he said, with a condemnatory gesture at the Telegraph. ‘As if the fucking U.N. could impose anything else.’

A white loaf took the brunt of it; he carved a slice with eyes on the dog’s casserole. It was clear that for some reason Ruby hadn’t fed him this morning. He would breakfast now and at this time of the day the kitchen wasn’t a good place to be.

Traditionally, there would be a variety of topics to debate – Blacks rioting in Notting Hill – Cyprus – Korea – anything he’d seen in that morning’s inks. But this particular morning, full volume was focused at the Cuban …

‘AMERICANS are too GUTLESS to do anything. There’s only ONE WAY to deal with that BASTARD.’ He stuck a finger at Thomas as though it were all his fault. ‘CARPET BOMBING, that’s the only thing he understands. HIT HIM WHERE IT HURTS.’

Rob lifted the lid of the iron pot and plunged a thumb into the fat. A red, gelatinous compound clung to the underside, and this was the stuff he was after. Even at this time of the day it was too good to pass, and he spread it, and ate it. Simultaneously, an oar went past the kitchen window.

Thomas saw it, but his father didn’t.

‘“The United Nations Will Impose Sanctions,”’ he said again, re-emphasising an equality of contempt for every word. ‘The United Nations? They’ve got a SWEDE running it, you think CASTRO cares

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