I made myself turn from him. Politely awaiting my attention were the two elderly brothers. They didn’t say a word; they smiled hopefully.
“No, thanks,” I said.
I got to my feet and left the room. I went out into the back garden and took some deep breaths of air. It was spattering with rain, just a little. I didn’t mind.
There was no way to leave the garden without going back through the house; I decided to stay there for a bit.
I heard a voice behind me. “Embarrassing, isn’t it? Watching other people enjoy themselves?” And I turned around, ready to meet the challenge. But there was no challenge, the words were not unkindly meant—there was J. C. Tuck, and he was smiling at me.
“I didn’t see you joining in either,” I said. “Is that what the gloves are for, to keep people away?”
“Ah,” said Tuck, and he smiled wider, and I thought it was a sad smile. “I think my thumbsucking days are over. I have other tastes now.” He reached into his pocket. “Cigarette?” he asked.
“Thanks,” I said. I lit one. I had to light his too, he couldn’t manage with his gloves on. He held on to my hand gently as I steadied the flame.
“You should come back inside,” he said. “You might like it. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“No, thank you,” I said. “No, I’m not that… I have a wife.”
“So? Lots of the men here have wives. You’re not cheating on them, you know. You’re only tasting. Are you cheating on your wife if you taste a nice sandwich?” He pulled on his cigarette. “Here you don’t even have to swallow.”
My own cigarette was getting damp. I tried to pull on it too, but no matter how hard I tried there was no draw to it. I threw it away. “How long has my father been coming here?”
“I don’t notice such things,” he said. “That he’s here now is all that matters, sharing the bounty. It’s a good place. Anyone can come here and be free.”
“In which case, why is everyone here a man? And old? And white?”
Tuck shrugged. “I’m sure I don’t know. You should ask all those young negro girls. I’m sure we don’t discriminate.”
“I think I would like to go now.”
“Your father wanted you to see this. Why do you think that was?”
“I don’t know.”
“The thumb,” said J. C. Tuck, “is the most remarkable part of the human body, you know.”
“Actually, I’m pretty sure it isn’t.”
“It’s the thumb which separates man from the animals,” said Tuck. “The opposable digit, which allows us to wield tools, to make something better of ourselves. Without our thumbs we would be nothing. The thumb is the greatest gift God gave us. And just because he loves us so, he gave us a second one, on the other hand, as a spare!”
“I don’t really believe in God.”
“I can see you’re not a man who believes in things.” He smiled at me, to show he wasn’t blaming me for this—if anything, he pitied me. “You’re an individual, yes? But what gives you the key to your individuality? The thumb. You know your fingerprints are unique. And the thumbprint is that uniqueness writ large. Thicker and wider and prouder than any mere finger.” He leaned into me, and I wanted to back away, but I didn’t dare somehow, and his voice was now so calm and gentle. “Do you know why babies like to suck their thumbs?”
“Um. To feel secure?”
“Because they know. Because at the very core of us, before civilisation moulds us and corrupts us, when we’re still pure and newly born, we know. The thumb is sacred. They tuck it away into their mouths to mother it, to comfort it and keep it safe. Why else would you think God designed the tongue so that it would fit so exactly around it?”
I looked down at my thumb. I didn’t want to. I felt compelled to.
“When did you last suck your thumb?” J. C. Tuck asked me.
“I don’t know.”
“So long ago,” whispered Tuck. “A time of comfort, so far away.” I don’t know why, but I felt my eyes begin to prick with tears. “It’s all right,” said Tuck. “Bring your thumb home. Suck your thumb for me now.”
I put my thumb in my mouth. It didn’t feel especially comfortable; it certainly didn’t feel like it had been brought home. My tongue lolled around the intruder awkwardly; it wasn’t really sure what to do with it.
“Not like that,” said Tuck. “Let me show you.”
And his gloved hand reached for mine, he drew it away from my lips and towards his. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t bite.” And he opened his mouth and pulled my thumb inside.
The first thing I noticed was how warm his mouth was, warm like a bed on a frosty morning, warm that was cosy and nice. And it was such a big mouth—mine had been all teeth and tongue, and half-chewed food most probably, there was barely room for my thumb at all—but in Tuck’s mouth the thumb could roam wide and free, the plains were vast and empty and my thumb for the taking. Tuck clamped my thumb gently to his soft palate with his tongue. The soft palate yielded like a sponge, the tongue was firm and it knew its business and it brooked no argument, it kept me pressed there and then it stroked me—it didn’t lick, it was nothing so uncouth, it flexed and flexed again, it seemed to pulsate.
And then, so soon, it was over. He pulled me out of his mouth, his lips pressed hard so they slid against my skin.
“Was that all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Good,” he said. “And now then. Maybe you would do a little something for me.” He began to tug off his glove.
“You want me to suck your thumb?” I asked.
“No, as I say, my tastes have changed.” And he lifted up his hand.
There, on the end, was now just a stump. It cut off abruptly above the knuckle. There were tooth marks, some fresh too, there were still traces of blood—I saw little specks of bone.
“I like to chew,” he said.
He brought it up to my face, that stub of raw meat, and I wasn’t going to open my mouth, I wasn’t, but I had to breathe, and I felt my lips part. “Share the bounty.”
“Let him go,” said my father.
J. C. Tuck didn’t take his eyes off me for a moment, his face now so close to me I could taste that warm breath once more. The warmth that was so cosy. “Get back inside,” he said genially enough. “You’ll get wet.” And it was only then I realised that it was now raining very hard indeed.
“Let him go.” Father sounded frightened. He sounded as if he would run away at any second. “He’s my son. I brought him here to know me better. To understand. I…” I thought he had stopped, so did Tuck, who gave his attention back to me.
“He’s my son,” said my father one last time.
Tuck didn’t move for a moment. Then he looked down at the ground, and he stepped back from me. “Then go home,” he said softly. “Both of you.” And he went indoors.
Father and I held back in the garden for a minute, we didn’t dare follow. I went to my father and I smiled. He smiled back weakly. There was a line of guacamole on his chin.
It was raining heavily as we walked to the tube station, but Father was in no hurry, and I didn’t feel I could rush him. I took his hand. He held on to me, but there was no grip to it. I looked down at him, and thought once more how old he was.
“What am I going to do now?” he said at last.
“There’s still cricket,” I said. “There’s still Wodehouse.”
We reached the station. And he looked so sad, and I opened my arms wide for him and took him in a hug. I kissed him. I kissed him on the top of the head, and then I kissed him on the cheek.