On the afternoon of my return to Newcastle, the town of my birth, I took a taxi to my brother’s large and impressive semi-detached house, set back some way from the road. A For Sale sign jutted out between two cherry trees. A woman I took to be his wife evidently saw me making my way along the driveway and was standing at the foot of a short flight of steps leading up to the front door, a concerned expression on her face. It’s an expression to which I’ve become accustomed. A middle-aged man in a wheelchair is never a welcome sight. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked. ‘Are you here to view the house? The estate agent didn’t tell me anyone was coming.’ ‘Are you Catherine?’ ‘Kathleen. Do I know you?’ ‘No. I’m Kevin.’ She continued to look concerned, but there were also unmistakeable elements of suspicion and alarm. Any physical similarity I had to my brother, any lingering trace of a local accent, any echo of a familiar name, escaped her. There was only the wheelchair. A stranger in a wheelchair. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone, and you say I don’t know you. I’m a little confused. Are you here to see my husband?’ ‘Yes, I am.’ ‘Is he expecting you?’ ‘Oh, no.’ She took a step backwards. I had the distinct impression she was afraid I might suddenly spring from my seated position and overpower her. She was clearly finding it very difficult to hide her discomfort. For ten seconds or so, she stood there in an unsmiling silence. A girl of around eight or nine came out on to the steps. ‘Mummy – ’ she began. ‘Go back inside!’ ‘Hello,’ I said. ‘Who are you?’ ‘Don’t answer him!’ ‘Poppy.’ ‘I said, go back inside!’ ‘Poppy. Lovely name. I’m Kevin.’ ‘Uncle Kevin?’ ‘Yes.’ We waited for Martin in the kitchen. The steps made it impossible for me to enter by the front door, and I followed Poppy along the side of the house and manoeuvred myself through the narrow entrance. Kathleen offered no apologies, either for her initial wariness or for the difficulty I had in getting into the kitchen, but issued a series of instructions that I should not knock against any of the fitted units, her anxiety prompted not by concerns for my comfort, but for the effect any blemishes might have on the house’s resale value. ‘Why are you in a wheelchair?’ asked Poppy. ‘Be quiet,’ said her mother. ‘That’s not a nice thing to ask.’ ‘It’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’m in a wheelchair because I can’t walk.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘I had an accident.’ This appeared to satisfy her, and as the initial novelty of my wheelchair started to fade, she wandered into the living room to watch television, leaving Kathleen and I alone at the kitchen table. She showed little interest in me, my history, or the reason for my unexpected reappearance, and contented herself with making several uneasy and unconnected remarks about the slowness of the housing market, the likelihood of rain, and the probable whereabouts of her two other daughters, Laura and Katy. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to ring Martin?’ she asked again. ‘I’d rather you didn’t. I was hoping to surprise him.’ ‘Well, I think he’d want to know,’ she sighed, irritated by my lack of co-operation. ‘But if you insist.’ We sat mutely for several minutes. ‘How do I know you’re Martin’s brother?’ she asked, suddenly. ‘How do I know you’re his wife?’ I was saved from any further interrogation by the sound of a car pulling into the drive. I heard Poppy run to the front door and explain to Martin in a series of disjointed whispers that someone was waiting to see him in the kitchen. As he stood in the doorway each of us tried, and failed, to conceal our surprise. My skinny, fifteen-year-old brother was now a mature, handsome, and smartly-dressed man. I watched his eyes for a flicker of recognition but there was nothing: just a prolonged and uncomprehending inspection of a wheelchair and its unfamiliar occupant. ‘Well, Martin,’ I said, ‘you’ve certainly changed!’ At last, he forced himself, willed himself, to respond, with an effort that seemed almost physical in its intensity. ‘It’s you,’ he said softly. ‘Kevin. It’s you, isn’t it?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, equally quietly. ‘It’s me.’ We sat around a cast-iron, circular table on the patio at the rear of the house. I’d allowed Martin to push the wheelchair along the path, although it was a straightforward enough journey for me to make. Poppy sat with us; Kathleen remained in the kitchen. ‘I rejoice that you’re here, Kevin. I’d never given up hope that we’d see each other again. I’ve told Kathleen and the children all about you. My big brother.’ ‘Not the prodigal son?’ ‘No, no,’ he laughed. ‘Hardly. When the prodigal son returned, he was resented by his brother. This brother – your brother – couldn’t be happier.’ There was an inflection to his speech and an expression on his face that I found hard to identify. ‘But tell me,’ he continued, indicating the wheelchair. ‘What happened?’ ‘He was in an accident, Daddy,’ said Poppy. ‘Yes, I was in an accident. A rig fell on me.’ ‘A rig?’ ‘I was the lighting designer at a theatre. We were in the middle of a technical rehearsal. It was my own fault. I’d loaded too many spotlights on the rig. I miscalculated their weight, and the whole thing came down on me. I’m paralysed from the waist down.’ ‘When was this?’ ‘Six months ago.’ ‘Does it hurt?’ asked Poppy. ‘It did at the time. But not now.’ ‘I’m relieved to hear that,’ said Martin. ‘I think Uncle Kevin is very brave, don’t you, Poppy?’ ‘I suppose so,’ she said. He turned to me. ‘And I see no bitterness. No resentment. Only courage.’ ‘You’re not looking hard enough.’ I gave him an abbreviated version of my life over the last three decades. I admitted that when I’d left home, I had no idea of what I might do or where I might go. After I’d tired of sleeping on friends’ floors, I left Newcastle, moved to Manchester, and signed on with a couple of events agencies where I worked as a roadie. Amid the lousy food, cheap hotels, all-night driving, egotistical rock musicians, heavy lifting, and fights with the local toughs, there were undeniable fringe benefits: the mantra of sex and drugs and rock’n’roll is something of a cliché, but there were ample opportunities to misbehave. I gradually became interested in the technical aspects of stage performance, and picked up some of the basics of sound engineering, special effects and lighting. Eventually, I was offered a job as an assistant lighting technician with a small theatre company based in Bristol; when we took our production of Equus on a tour of Denmark I found a similar job there, and decided to stay on in Copenhagen. After that, I moved around a lot, working in theatres in Stockholm, Amsterdam, Berlin, and, eventually, Barcelona. That was where I met Belinda, a postgraduate student from Canada, who was on a six-months internship at the city’s Picasso Museum. When her placement ended, we went back to Vancouver together. And that’s where I had my accident. ‘But we’re still together,’ I concluded. ‘In fact, she’s over here with me.’ ‘I’m so glad,’ my brother said, smiling. ‘What about you, Martin?’ I asked. ‘For a long time, I was in banking. But not now. You saw the For Sale sign? We’re moving down to Yorkshire. I’ve been a lay preacher in St George’s here for some years, I studied theology part-time at the university, I’ve gained my qualifications, and now...well, I’m joining the clergy. From next month, I’m the new curate at the parish church in Skipton. If all goes well, I’ll be ordained Deacon after a while, and then, if it’s God’s will, I’ll be given my own parish as Vicar. We’re all very excited, aren’t we, Poppy?’ The girl nodded automatically and as she did, Martin’s imperturbability, Kathleen’s apprehension, and Poppy’s compliance fell into place. ‘I think it’s you who’s brave, Martin,’ I said, non-committally. ‘That’s a big career change.’ He must have seen the lack of enthusiasm in my eyes. ‘Oh, it’s much more than a career change, Kevin. I first found God in my early twenties. Or perhaps God found me. It’s ironic...you know, when Mum was ill, I prayed every night for her to recover, and when she didn’t, when her suffering increased, I decided there was no God. There couldn’t be. So, my faith, when it came, was a revelation. Jesus revealed himself to me. That’s all I can say.’ ‘You had a vision?’ ‘Not in the terms you imply, no. But he undoubtedly came to me. I think I denied him at first. I didn’t want to know. Why me? But once I accepted it as a fact, it seemed natural and right. He’s a part of me. He teaches me, he watches over me, he guides my every action. His love is the defining element of who I am.’ ‘Just as this wheelchair is the defining element of who I am?’ ‘Not in God’s eyes.’ ‘You think?’ ‘I know.’ ‘OK,’ I said, trying to change the subject. ‘Tell me how Dad reacted to your new life?’ ‘Oh, you know what he was like. He disliked anything abstract, anything beyond his control. He never knew God. He always remained uncomfortable about it.’ I nodded. Our father maintained a strict, almost fanatical, conviction that his view of the world was the only possible one. As though he were God. Anything that challenged his view was misguided or dangerous or stupid, and deserved to be punished. I’d been right to leave when I did. ‘You look troubled, Kevin,’ he said. ‘Can I help?’ ‘I’m confined to a wheelchair, Martin. Of course I’m troubled.’ ‘God is with me. He can be with you, too. You may not understand this, but I believe he has always been with you.’ ‘Even when I had my accident?’ ‘Especially then.’ ‘It’s a pity he didn’t do something to prevent it.’ ‘You know that God moves in – ’ ‘In mysterious ways. Yes, so I’ve been told.’ ‘Tell me what you’re thinking, Kevin...what you’re really thinking. You can be honest.’ ‘I will be honest, Martin. I’m not a religious person. In my view, religion – any religion – is science-fiction, a fantasy, a fairy tale. You’ve simply replaced one father who had all the answers and expected you to obey him with another one. The only difference is that this new Father comes with a capital F.’ We sat staring into each other’s eyes, until eventually he looked away. ‘This is unfortunate, Kevin,’ Martin said, rising from his seat, ‘but I really must leave you. I have a meeting – my last meeting – of the parish council to attend, and I believe they have some kind of presentation to make to me. Where are you staying?’ I gave him the name of my hotel and he promised to call tomorrow morning. ‘And then you must come back for lunch. There’s so much to talk about. We’ll have the whole afternoon. We’ll have a proper conversation. You know, I envy you.’ I looked at him in disbelief. ‘You do?’ ‘Of course. God intended your accident as a liberation, not an imprisonment. He has a plan for you.’ ‘You know, Martin,’ I sighed, ‘Perhaps you mean well, but statements like that...’ I left the sentence unfinished. Belinda was waiting for me in the lobby of the hotel. ‘Well?’ she asked, leaning down to kiss me. ‘Was it what you expected? Has your brother changed?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, taking her hand in mine. ‘He has. We both have. If we hurry, we can catch the 7.30 train down to London. There’s no point in staying.’ About the author:
I was born in Stoke-on-Trent and now live in Newcastle upon Tyne. As Reader in Sociology and Visiting Fellow at Northumbria University, I’ve written several books and many articles around topics within popular culture. I’m also a writer of fiction, and my short stories have appeared in numerous anthologies and literary magazines, including Prole, Popshot, Litro, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, Riptide, East Of The Web, The Frogmore Papers, and Bandit Fiction. My debut collection of short stories “The Day Chuck Berry Died” was published by Bridge House in Autumn 2022. Website: http://ianinglis15.wixsite.com/home
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