Dan brushed perspiration away from his brow. The morning clouds had dispersed and the sun was right over the backyard. Dan stripped off his sweatshirt; his blue singlet was damp with sweat. He used the old grey top to wipe his face, under his arms, across his chest. He turned the wood over and started sanding down the other side.
‘Dearie, you’ll catch a cold.’ His grandmother was carrying a tray on which were two cold beers, a jug of water, a glass and some Monte Carlo biscuits on a white plate. She put the tray on the small garden table.
‘It’s alright, Nan, the sun’s out.’
She snorted softly. ‘Summer’s gone, Danny. The weather will change any moment.’
‘Irene, leave our kid be. He said he’s fine.’ His granddad wouldn’t hear a word against Dan, not one word.
Taking a sip of her beer, his grandmother came over and ran her hand over the plank of timber he had been working on.
‘I’ll have the shelves up by tea,’ announced Dan. ‘Promise.’ His nan smiled at him.
Dan downed his water and poured himself another glass. He could feel the muscles in his chest, in his forearms, taut and strong, thick and ropy beneath his skin. He gulped down the water and got to his feet. ‘Righto, smoko’s over.’
What he liked most about being with the olds was that there didn’t need to be talk. He could work, listen to the radio, stretch his muscles, toil. He often went days without speaking to anyone, days and nights of quiet. Sometimes Dan thought all words were useless. For him there was no emptiness in silence — quite the opposite, there was peace and calm; it was only in conversation that trouble lurked.
That was why he liked working the night shift at the supermarket. Sure, he had to talk to the customers, but it was never more than a hello, how you doing, do you want a bag? have a good night. He greeted the delivery guys in the morning, called out have a good one to Vikram when he arrived for the morning shift. But that was it, not millions of useless words. There was no loneliness in silence. Loneliness could be found in conversation, it lurked in words.
His nan had cleared the kitchen, the table and chairs were stacked up against the fridge. Dan was happy to do all the work himself, to hammer in the nails, to build in the shelves, but he knew his granddad wanted to help, to be useful. So they worked in silence together, and in an hour the job was done and the table and chairs were back in place. His nan came in from the garden with a bunch of flowers, blue snapdragons, a cluster of honeysuckle; from the laundry she fetched the jade vase that had been their one wedding present. Dan knew the story: it had been given to them by Jenny, a woman who’d sailed with them on the ship from Glasgow, who then became his grandparents’ best friend. Now his nan arranged the flowers, and put them on the middle shelf next to their one wedding photograph. It was black and white, his granddad in a light-coloured suit, his grandmother in a smart jacket and skirt. Jenny was standing next to his nan, and next to his granddad was his best friend, Bruno, who was the only one smiling in the photograph. His nan looked stern, his granddad had half turned away from the lens, as if he resented the presence of the camera. It was the men who were splendid, who looked handsome. The women seemed apprehensive, as if unused to the fine clothes, as if they knew they were playing parts that didn’t belong to them, as if they feared they were overdressed for the unadorned walls of the registry office.
Dan glanced across at his granddad, trying to see a resemblance between the youth in the photo and the old man in the kitchen. Only a few years before he had seen it; as a teenager he had been able to match the mature, lined face of his grandfather with the smooth-skinned lad in the photograph. But in the last few years age and time had accelerated. His grandfather had shrunk, and his clothes hung from his thinning body.
Dan wrapped an arm around his granddad’s bony shoulders. ‘They look alright, don’t they?’
‘Aye. You’ve done a good job, mate. Thank you.’
‘You sure you don’t want me to finish them?’
‘Ach, I’m not in the grave yet, kid, I can still stain a bloody shelf.’
‘Well, call me if you want some help.’ Dan hugged his granddad lightly for a moment. His nan had started placing plates and cups on the shelves, and other photographs: of Dan’s family, of his uncle Pat and aunt Diana, of his cousins. She sat a small cuckoo clock, trays and bowls, on the new shelves. Soon the wedding photograph was jostled behind a stainless-steel water jug, and Bruno’s smiling face disappeared behind the smoky opaque glass of a rose-coloured decanter. ‘How is Uncle Bruno?’
His granddad had carefully sat himself down on a kitchen chair, using his cane for balance. He and his wife made furtive eye contact, as if Dan’s question had somehow shamed them.
‘Bruno’s gone, dear,’ his nan said quietly. ‘He died over a year ago.’
Dan knew why they felt ashamed. Bruno must have died when Dan was in prison. They didn’t have to say it, he knew it by how the silence had changed, how it was no longer comfortable between them, no longer safe. Sensing it as well, his nan started chattering, going on about shopping and the Easter holidays, reminding her husband that the car registration was due.
Dan wasn’t listening, he was blocking out the words, wishing he knew how to say to his grandparents that they didn’t have to fear the eight months he’d been away, those months he’d been out of the world. He wished he knew how to express to his grandparents that he was reconciled to those lost months — indeed, that he was grateful for them.
But this was why words always tripped him up. In gaol he had rediscovered routine, it had been prison that had helped him recognise how precious habit was for him, how he needed order and repetition. He’d discovered again the joy of waking up at the exact same time every morning, of eating at the same time every morning, lunch and evening, of working the same hours and the same shift. Then there had been his gym workout every afternoon, and his daily visits to the library. That had been his favourite activity; he would rush there as soon as he’d finished in the kitchen or the workshop: work, gym, the library, and then reading till lights out at the exact same time every night.
Dan got up from the table, checking his pockets for his wallet and keys.
‘Danny, you’re not leaving? Aren’t you going to stay for tea?’
He wanted to be on the move, to feel motion. He shook his head. ‘Got some stuff I need to do before work this arvo.’ He turned to his granddad. ‘You sure you’re going to be alright staining the wood? I can come back on the weekend.’
‘You’ve done enough, kid. It’ll give me something to do.’
They were both watching him, both anxious. He could see the words forming on his nan’s lips, she wanted him to stay, was scared every time he went out into the world. He wished he could have told her: I’m safe out there, when I don’t have to talk to anyone, when I’m on my own. That is much safer.
He was about to lean in and kiss his grandmother’s cheek when she said to him, ‘Danny, love, why haven’t you called your mum?’
Words. They ensnared you, they unsettled you. They reminded you that you were no good.