Swan River

Swan River Read Free Page B

Book: Swan River Read Free
Author: David Reynolds
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mother’s mother, was American.
    Uncle George continued to smile, though he looked tired. ‘You’ve made her very happy, David. You know that, don’t you?’ He leaned forward and poked at my knee again. ‘They were married for sixteen years before they had you, you know.’
    â€˜I know,’ I said wearily. My father mentioned this fact almost every time we met someone new, especially new farmers: ‘This is my son David. We were married sixteen years before he came along.’ Depending on the response, this was often followed by: ‘My third marriage. My eldest son’s forty-five and this one’s eleven...’ His arm would then be placed round my shoulder. ‘Remarkable.’
    They had married in 1933, and I, their first and only child, was born in 1948. My father was then fifty-six and my mother forty-two, but I could never understand why this should be of such interest to people, especially complete strangers.
    Uncle George took my hand again and leaned back in his chair. He shut his eyes for a minute, and I wondered whether he had gone to sleep. When he opened them, they were watery, and he spoke about his wife, Marie: how pretty she had been and how he still missed her. He pronounced her name with a long ‘a’ sound and the emphasis on the first syllable.
    The same foreign man refilled his teacup and my glass, and then I asked him about my whisky-drinking, disappearing grandfather and where he went after he had to leave home.
    He took several sips of tea while staring at me over the rim of the cup. He put the cup down slowly and carefully, and turned his eyes back to mine.
    â€˜When you are grown up and can afford to travel, you must go to Swan River, Manitoba.’ Despite his obvious tiredness he said this with great earnestness, nodding, waggling his eyebrows and tapping my knee quite hard.
    I felt a little strange, as though I had heard bad news, although he was smiling at me now. I had never heard of Swan River or Manitoba, but I felt that I had to obey this curious instruction, as if suddenly I had a duty. I asked him why and where was it, but he was looking down at the floor and didn’t seem to be listening.
    â€˜Is that where my grandfather went?’
    He looked up at me, nodded and smiled; then he looked at his old Omega watch and said he was tired and that it was a long story and Billy Cotton’s Band Show would be on television soon; he would explain next time I visited him. ‘But remember, Swan River, Manitoba.’ Again, he said the words with emphasis and then smiled.
    It was a quarter to six; Billy Cotton would not, in fact, start up for another fifteen minutes; the sun had long gone off the river and the trees. He said no more about Swan River, but talked about his brother Ernest’s first wife who had worked in the music halls around the turn of the century. There was clearly a connection in his mind between her and Billy Cotton whose show was a variety show, the closest thing on television in 1960 to the kind of entertainment Uncle George had loved as a young man.
    Ernest’s wife had earned her living in the music halls by playing the violin with her feet while walking around on her hands. She could even do this while going downstairs, Uncle George said, and sometimes practised at home in the house where they all lived. This amazed me. I found it hard to picture; I could see her only as a still image, but not in motion. She had an exotic name, La Frascetti, he told me, although she was English and came from the East End of London, and her real name was Rose Porter.
    Just before six o’clock Uncle George asked the foreign man to turn on the television. A thin old man with a stick walked slowly past and raised his hand to Uncle George in greeting; he sat down near us and stared up at the television, sitting very straight with his hands on his stick. As I finished my orange squash, I watched the opening number, Billy

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