Your Father Sends His Love (29 page)

The last date is the biggest one on the itinerary. The Irishman joins us on the bill. He doesn't recognize me and I have no interest in talking. I have a couple of drinks, and from backstage see my mother by the bar, an old guy chatting her up. For a moment, just for a split second, he could be Mr Hughes. But he is not Mr Hughes, just a man in a blazer, laughing loudly. It turns out that he is the compere; a filthy, innuendo-soaked old queen popular with the local students.

‘Apparently he's a real cult,' says the Irishman to the group of us, pointing over to him as he helps himself to a glass of wine. ‘Or at least that's what I read in the
Guardian
.'

Everyone laughs but me; it is a joke I do not quite understand. Mother is still at the bar, now checking her eye make-up in a compact mirror. She does not belong here, surrounded by students in their DM boots and cardigans and limp, long hair. She looks out of time as much as out of place. I watch her until I'm given the nod.

The applause is warm, just as it is at the Palladium. I salute left, and I salute right. I stand in the centre of the stage and it all comes so easily; it's the last gig and it's all so easy.

I stand there and when I can take it no longer, when there is just a sense of audience unrest, I do the wink.

‘Hello, ladies and gents, my name's Davey Cruz,' I say.

‘I only have to wink at a bird and she gets pregnant,' I say and look down to the front row. ‘Are you looking forward to raising me bairns, sir?'

I do the low reassuring laugh.

‘I'm only kidding!' I say. ‘I can't help it, me. I'm just a kidder, you know. This one time though this bloke, true story this, ladies and gentlemen, this bloke tried to attack me live on stage, as I was actually performing. Which is why I always wear a brown suit on stage. Just in case I have another little accident.'

The intonation, the accent, the stance, is purely my father. I'm not wearing a brown suit, but I do the brown
-suit routine anyway. The room is nervous, the laughter sparse.

‘You're shit,' someone shouts.

‘No, sir,' I say, ‘it's just the brown suit. You need to get your eyes tested.'

It's an ad-lib from the cassette version of the routine. It comes at around the right time and I try the little tip of finger to nose gesture he was good at. It works perfectly. I do the whole routine, line for line, word for word, ending exactly the way my father had.

‘My name's Davey Cruz. Don't go changing – I won't recognize you.'

I turn away and see myself as a child, backstage, in the wings, standing beside my mother. Mum is young and applauding my father, her face set with joy. I turn back to the audience one last time, just as my father does on the video. Mum is standing now, applauding. Members of the audience are turning to look at her, the crazy woman clapping alone. She ignores them and continues to applaud. I can hear her even when I'm finally backstage.

She still talks about it. When she remembers. When she's more lucid. But even then it's hard to know whether she's talking about me or my father. Perhaps it's both. At the hospital, she tries her best, but jokes won't be wrangled the way they once were.

‘Are you a doctor?' she asks when I arrive.

‘I'm your son,' I say.

‘But are you a doctor?' she asks again.

‘I'm a proctologist,' I say.

‘That's right,' she says. ‘My son, the proctologist.'

Acknowledgements

A grant from The Society of Authors provided time and space to write some of this collection. Its generosity is gratefully appreciated.

This book would not have seen the light of day without the guidance, help and patience of Andrew Kidd. Thank you, and good luck.

Kate Harvey for her editorial wisdom and continued support. Lucy Luck for stepping in as though she's always been there.

Stuart Wilson for the cover, Nicholas Blake for the copy edit, Camilla Elworthy and everyone at Picador.

Nick Royle at Salt, Philip Davis at
The Reader
, Rachael Allen at Granta for publishing early versions of these stories. Ra Page and Steven Amos for commissioning ‘Swarm', which benefited from the consultation of Pepe Falahat; Rowan Routh for excellent early editorial input.

Susan Ruszala, Kristina Radke, Lindsey Rudnickas, Tarah Theoret and everyone at NetGalley/Firebrand.

Suzanne Azzopardi, GJ Bower, Niven Govinden, Lee Rourke, Nikesh Shukla, Chimene Suleyman.

Jenny Offill, Eimear McBride, Teju Cole for their kind words.

The Chequers, E17, for excellent editing facilities.

William Atkins for his quiet wisdom. Nicci Cloke for being brilliant at whatever she does. Barbara Baker and Eugene Sorokin; Simon Baker and Hilda Breakspear. Gareth Evers and Matt Baker.

Oliver Shepherd for always being there; Daniel Fordham and Jude Rogers for inspiration both musical and written.

My mother and father, Joyce and John Evers, for setting the benchmark.

Lisa Baker and Caleb Evers. To the ends of the earth.

In memory:

Stephen Callender (1951–2014).

Molly Evers (1923–2014). YNWA.

Also by Stuart Evers

Ten Stories about Smoking

If This Is Home

Copyright © 2015 by Stuart Evers

First American Edition 2016

All rights reserved

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The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:

Evers, Stuart.
[Short stories. Selections]
Your father sends his love / Stuart Evers.
— First American edition.
pages ; cm
ISBN 978-0-393-28516-1 (hardcover)
I. Title.
PR6105.V48A6 2016
823'.92—dc23

2015029784

ISBN 978-0-393-28517-8 (e-book)

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