by J. A. Baker
Pulling out another blanket from underneath the bed, he places it across her body, straightening it until every crease has been smoothed away. She needs to be kept warm, to feel safe, be kept apart from those boys, separated from the many ails of the world. She is all he has left. Without each other they are nothing.
Stubble scratches at his fingertips as he rubs at his face, the sound of sharp whiskers against soft skin booming in his ears. He shuffles over to the window and stares out into the near darkness. Living here used to provide him a level of comfort, knowing there was some distance between him and other people; the other people out there who are disruptive and lacking in empathy and compassion, but as the suburbs have grown and expanded, their house is no longer so far from the nearby estate. It now encroaches their space, creeping closer and closer until only a field and a rutted track separate them.
He thinks of his early years, teaching at that school with his limited knowledge of dealing with people and the world in general, and shudders. So much has happened in the intervening years and yet here he is, still living in this house with his mother, still teaching at the same school, still battling the same problems. Still battling with the same people.
Robert Bowron.
Dear God; that name, that face. That voice. He remembers it all too well. Rob Bowron’s distinct vocal reach, always eager to be heard above anybody else, his opinion clearly more important than theirs. Dominic winces. Like father like son. Dane is quieter, surlier, his voice not quite as robust as his father’s but his nature is the same – that bristling anger, the sense of entitlement. Dominic recognised it immediately, cringing as he sat opposite the lad’s father a few years ago, aware that Rob recognised him, aware that he still bore an unwarranted grudge for the years they spent holed up together in a classroom, Dominic trying to instil knowledge into an unwilling closed mind, Rob resisting it every step of the way. And now here they are, many years later, older and purportedly wiser and yet nothing has changed. That resentment and inexplicable hatred is still present. There’s no escape. Enduring it in the classroom is one thing; having to put up with it in his home – the one place where he should feel secure and content and relaxed – is unacceptable.
He tries to suppress his anger as he ruminates over what just happened; those boys surrounding his house, shattering his peace, making him feel frightened and unable to protect a vulnerable person who is completely incapacitated. Involving the police won’t work. It will exacerbate an already delicate situation. Every day he has to face those lads, to feel the wrath of their hatred and bitterness. Getting the police to issue a warning will simply stoke the flames of discontent. They will revisit, up their game and next time, they may even break into the house, do something unthinkable. Just the thought of it turns his guts to water.
All his life he has tried to do the right thing, the honourable thing, yet time and time again he is pushed down onto the ground, people holding him fast and grinding him into the dirt. At some point this will all come to an end.
He has no idea of when that will be, but deep inside him, something has shifted, his ability to stomach any more of people’s hatred towards him wearing thin, tapering to a point of invisibility. Perhaps it’s his age. There was a time such behaviours would have washed over him, but these days, he can’t laugh at it all as he once did. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe his ability to ignore the indefensible has made him a target for all these years and he brought this on himself by being too lenient, too ready to forgive.
Behind him lies somebody who needs him to step up to the plate, to be her protector and keep her from harm. He can do that. He has it within him to be the tough guy, the one who will keep the status quo in their tight little bubble. All it takes is a bit of courage, the ability to switch from victim to victor when required. He can do that, can’t he? He’s a grown man after all. He may even decide that he rather likes the sensation of superiority. Being downtrodden has never sat comfortably with him, leaving him as it has, susceptible to other people’s moods and furies. The time has come for change.
He packs his briefcase, bites into a slice of toast, takes one last swig of coffee and leaves the house, closing the door behind him with a gentle muffled click.
Sleep evaded him last night, ideas filling his brain, robbing him of any proper rest. He took a long walk at midnight, revisited the things that have led him to this juncture, tried to tell himself that this too will pass. At some point during the night he crept into the cellar, his thoughts firmly focused on his father, on all the old man’s mainly defunct farming equipment that still clutters up the place. He thought about how it should have been cleared out long ago. Something else he has neglected. Another job left undone. His dad was a stronger man than he could ever hope to be. He told himself that his father wouldn’t have tolerated being victimised like this. He would have done something about it, taken firm action. Showed them who was boss.
After only a few hours’ sleep, he rose both empowered and terrified, his senses and nerve endings firing and misfiring. Walking and thinking in the early hours helped him see through the fog, yet at the same time, left him light-headed and slightly nauseous.
The one thing he does know is that taking the higher moral ground hasn’t worked thus far. All it has done is lengthen his agony, prolonging the attacks on his character and good nature, so why not test the waters, see what a bit of strict indoctrination can do? Whip these kids into shape. He saw it happen when he was a pupil, watching as tall gangly young men cowered, terrified and wide-eyed at the hands of burly, cane wielding housemasters.
Christ almighty, none of them dared breathe when he was a youngster sitting in class, watching as the teacher brandished that stick about, bringing it down across the back of anybody who dared look at them in the wrong way. Nowadays, pupils say or do what they like, and nobody makes any attempts to stop them.
Times have changed, attitudes slackening and morals crumbling away. Soon there will be nothing left but dust. No respect or deference or integrity, just a handful of nothingness where admiration and reverence used to be.
Nearby birdsong stills his thoughts. He has always loved these woods, recognising every sound, knowing every inch of the ground. This place balances him, keeps him grounded, keeping his thoughts in line and reminding him what is important in life and what needs to be forgotten and discarded.
He walks across the gravel track, stopping by his car, staring at it, feeling his pulse speed up at the sight of the gleaming length of metal and what is contained within it. The air is blessedly cool as he takes a deep breath, savouring every mouthful that slips down his throat into his lungs. Everything begins to burn; fire flaring in his chest, pulsing under his skin. The ground tilts beneath his feet. He takes a couple of deep breaths, reaches out, leans against the bonnet for support. He’s not sure he can go through with this. It’s wrong. Deep down he knows it. He has to stop these thoughts. It’s not who he is. It’s not who they are, the children he teaches. At heart, they are all good kids. Last night, two disaffected youngsters came to his home, not for the first time, and he has taken it personally, thinking all pupils are of the same mindset. They’re not. He was, still is, angry and upset, but it’s not something that should affect his thinking or alter his core values.
Dizziness grips him. He presses his palm down on the hard surface of the vehicle to stay upright. He needs to clear his head of these toxic thoughts. He’s better than this, this thing that in the early hours of the morning, took hold of him, twisting his logic and knocking him off balance. Nudging him to do something violent and unforgivable. Something final.
He taps at his briefcase, biting at his lip as he considers what to do next. He should go back in the house, perhaps even call in sick – something he hasn’t done for many years – and stay at home, but then he will be conspicuous by his absence, his lack of presence duly noted by the pupils in question and any credibility he hoped to salvage from this sorry little mess will be lost.
No, he must go into school, face up to his fears, speak to those boys and be the better person. There’s something he should do first though, something important, a decision that needs to be reversed. He made it when his thinking was impaired, when his emotions were running high, flowing through him untethered. He has to undo that decision, limit any further damage.
Dominic looks up to the sky, to the spread of cobalt above him, a thin blanket of the brightest blue. On impulse, he moves away from the car, twigs snapping underfoot as he moves backwards. Today he will leave his vehicle at home and will walk into school, leave what it is he needs to do until tonight. It can wait. It’s been years since he walked to work. The school is only a mile away. It will give him time to think, to prepare himself both mentally and physically. If he gets up a brisk pace it will energise him, get some much-needed adrenaline pumping through his system.
God knows he could do with it after so little sleep last night. And who knows, he may even meet some of his pupils on the way there, get to mingle with them and remind himself of why he went into teaching in the first place. It will do him good to see them in a different setting, to not be viewed as the crusty curmudgeonly old bachelor who cares only about lessons and marking and standing at a board barking out orders.
The sun makes a rapid appearance, its heat immediate and welcome as he strides over the gravel track and emerges out of the shadows and out into the light. He stops, stares up at the orb of watery burnt ochre above and thinks that perhaps today won’t be such a bad day after all.
18
Alex swings his legs out of bed, his vision blurred, eyes fogged up with sleep. His hair is tousled, a musty smell emanating from it. Last night was a laugh. No real harm done, apart from Mr Rose falling over. He got back up, though. He wasn’t seriously injured or anything. More a case of his pride being dented than anything else.
They never did get to Miss Bennison’s house. Too busy legging it home, stopping every couple of paces to catch their breath, their laughter at their antics ringing into the night sky. Dane’s not so bad – a bit sullen and sometimes difficult to decipher but deep down he’s a good mate, not the type of lad Alex would ever have thought of pairing up with, but then, sometimes it’s good to broaden your horizons, mix with people who aren’t necessarily like you. He doesn’t want to become like his mother – boxed into a small predictable corner. It’s a big wide world out there. He wants a bit of diversity, to have friends with differing opinions, not be the stereotypical middle-class teenager everybody expects him to be. He’s better than that. More accepting and open-minded.
Alex showers, dresses and turns to head downstairs. Joss stands on the landing, her hair piled high on her head, her pyjamas concertinaed up the back of her legs.
Their dad emerges from the bedroom, immaculately dressed, hair combed back and smelling of aftershave. ‘Now then, you two. Do you fancy scrambled eggs for breakfast?’
Alex nods. Joss gives a nonchalant shrug followed by a ‘Yeah, suppose,’ before disappearing into her room and slamming the door.
Alex remains still, allowing his dad to pass him, then follows Joss into her bedroom. He stands at the door, checking over his shoulder, making sure his dad is out of sight before speaking. ‘That thing you said about Mr Rose – well you know, about him pressing himself up against you – is it true? Because if it is, we need to do something. File a complaint. It’s serious that sort of stuff, you know.’
Joss says nothing and turns away, her expression impassive. Alex waits, clenches his fists, unclenches them repeatedly. Why is his sister so difficult to read? Nothing is ever easy with her, the slightest of questions a drawn-out battle, as if any attempt at conversation is an attempt to pry into her sad little world.
‘Dunno,’ she says finally. ‘Probably. He certainly didn’t try to move away when I was standing next to him. Why do you ask?’ She pulls out the tight band from her hair and runs her fingers through the long strands, staring in the mirror at her reflection and frowning.
‘No particular reason,’ Alex says softly, thinking about last night at Mr Rose’s house, thinking that his sister doesn’t seem overly disturbed by the event. The purported event. He doesn’t know a great deal about how most girls would react if this happened to them. He supposes that many would be horrified, too scared to go back to school, or maybe not, yet here she is, acting as if it was a minor episode, an everyday occurrence. It isn’t. She should be horrified, anxious. She isn’t, and it worries him. But then, Joss isn’t most girls. She is confident, sassy. What if she’s hiding her true feelings, covering it all up in order to keep face? That disturbs him.
‘Right,’ Joss says, her tone sharp, her gesture dismissive as she turns and stands, hands on hips, ‘well, if you don’t mind, I need to get ready.’
He backs out of the door, part of him wishing he hadn’t brought the subject up at all. For all Mr Rose is quirky and eccentric and a bit of a sad old man, the guy doesn’t strike him as some sort of pervert who would risk his job and reputation by doing such a thing. Joss is his sister. He knows her well. Too well. Perhaps she overreacted, saw something in the situation and misread the whole thing.
Or perhaps she is lying.
His breath is sour and warm as he leaves her and heads down the stairs, stopping briefly to stare at the door of his parents’ bedroom. His mum is probably still in bed. Since moving here, she doesn’t seem to care for early mornings, rising only as they are all about to leave for school and work. Gone are the days when she would get out of bed, fresh-faced and sparkly-eyed, excited at the prospect of what the next few hours might bring. These days, nothing they say or do has the power to snap her out of the low mood she is in.
He had no idea their other house meant that much to her. It was bigger for sure, but new when they bought it and as far as he could see, had no character. This place is smaller, quite a lot smaller, but it’s cosy. Homely. He and Joss no longer have their own bathrooms although his parents still have an en suite here, and they don’t have a huge living room and a music room and a games room but so what? It isn’t the end of the world.
But of course, that isn’t the only thing that is bothering his mum, he knows that. It’s the status, or rather the lack of it, that is also dragging her down. No more cocktail parties, no more expensive holidays. No more paying a small fortune for both him and Joss to attend a private school where the fees cost more than many people earn in a year.
Rubbing at his eyes wearily, Alex heads into the kitchen, the smell of toast making his mouth water. He pours himself a glass of orange juice and sits at the table. His dad cracks eggs into a pan and stirs them vigorously.
‘Won’t be long. You can butter the toast, if you wouldn’t mind?’ It’s as light as air, his father’s voice, almost sing-song, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world even though Alex knows the constant arguments and his mother’s general demeanour must be wearing for him, dragging him right down. They drag Alex down. God knows how his dad feels about the tension that is now a permanent fixture in their once happy home.
Alex grabs at the butter tub and slathers each slice as they pop up out of the toaster, laying them on plates and placing them down on the table. He notices the empty wine glass in the sink, the bottom stained light pink, lipstick smeared on the rim. He wonders how many she had and whether she drank alone. He can’t see any other glasses. Maybe his dad washed his tumbler before going to bed. Or maybe he didn’t drink anything and left her to it, sitting here wallowing in her own misery, consoling herself with each consecutive swallow. That’s the most likely scenario. It’s been the pattern for the past few months. On occasion he will have a tumbler of whisky but given their recent rows, it’s more likely that his dad sat in his study reading while his mum was in here, slumped at the table drinking alone, mired in wretchedness.
‘There you go. Enjoy.’ A plate of scrambled eggs is placed in front of him, the steam rising from the plate in tiny tendrils.
The chair is hard as he sits, his
stomach tightening at the thought of his mum drunk. Again. Two minutes ago, he was hungry. His appetite is now waning by the second, visions of his failing family nipping at him, making him queasy. He wishes he could do something, say something to make it all better but has no idea where to even begin. The egg is hot and creamy. He shovels a forkful into his mouth and nibbles at the toast. It sticks in his throat, dry and rough-edged.
‘Dad, do you like living here?’ The words are out before Alex knows it. Before he can stop them. It’s time to start talking about this, not carrying on as if nothing is amiss, the four of them going about their daily lives while their world is slowly dissolving around them.
‘Like it? It’s a house. It’s warm and dry. We have everything we need right here, son.’ The chair creaks as his dad sits down next to him and takes a sip of juice. ‘Why do you ask?’
Alex feels a pull deep in his chest, a fist grasping and twisting at his lungs making it difficult for him to breathe properly, every exhalation an onerous and painful task. His dad must know why he is asking. Is he really going to make him spell it out? It’s an inescapable fact that his mother is falling apart. They can either all carry on blindly or they can stop, assess the situation, and try to put a halt to her decline.
‘I’m worried about Mum.’ A flush creeps up Alex’s neck, prickling his face, hot needles stabbing at his cheeks. His words were rushed, a wave of humiliation washing over him as he said them but they’re out there now. There’s no taking them back. He takes a deep breath, feeling the cold air stretching his lungs, a welcome breeze that steadies him.
