by Nick Hornby
eight
‘What a bitch.’
Will looked at his feet and made noises intended to convey to Suzie that his ex-wife wasn’t that bad, not really.
‘Will, it’s just not on. You can’t ring up five minutes in advance and change plans like that. You should’ve told her to…’ – she looked around to see whether Marcus, the strange kid they were apparently stuck with for the day, was still listening – ‘… eff off.’
His ex (who, according to Suzie, was called Paula, a name he must have mentioned the other night) was always going to get the blame for Ned’s non-appearance at the picnic, but he felt obscurely loyal to her in the face of Suzie’s empathetic anger. Had he pushed it too far?
‘Oh, well,’ he kept saying, while Suzie raged on, ‘you know.’
‘You can’t afford to be soft. You’ll just get messed around all the time.’
‘She’s never done it before.’
‘No, but she’ll do it again. You watch. You’re too nice. This is a nasty business. You’ll have to toughen up.’
‘I suppose so.’ Being told that he was too nice, that he needed to be meaner, was an unusual experience for Will, but he was feeling so weedy that it was easy to see how Paula had walked all over him.
‘And the car! I can’t believe she took the car.’
He had forgotten about the car. Paula had also taken that, first thing this morning, for reasons too complicated to explain, thus obliging Will to phone up Suzie and ask for a lift to Regent’s Park.
‘I know, I know. She’s…’ Words failed him. If you looked at the whole picture, the Ned thing and the car thing, Paula had behaved outrageously, he could see that, but it was still hard for him to summon up the requisite anger. He was going to have to, though, if only to show Suzie that he wasn’t a hopeless, spineless wimp. ‘She’s a cow.’
‘That’s more like it.’
It was much more confusing than he had imagined, making people up, and he was beginning to realize that he hadn’t thought it through properly at all. He already had a cast of three – Paula, Ned and his mother (who wasn’t imaginary in quite the same way, having at least been alive once, although not, admittedly, recently) – and he could see that if he was going to carry this through, then there would soon be a cast of thousands. But how could he carry it through? How many times could Ned reasonably be whisked away by his mother, or maternal grandmother, or international terrorists? What reasons could he give for not inviting Suzie round to his flat, where there were no toys or cots or nappies or bowls, where there was no second bedroom even? Could he kill Ned off with some awful disease, or a car crash – tragic, tragic, life goes on? Maybe not. Parents got pretty cut up about kids dying, and he’d find the requisite years of grief a real drain on his thespian resources. What about Paula? Couldn’t he just pack Ned off to her, even though she didn’t want to see him much? Except… except then he wouldn’t be a single father any more. He’d lose the point of himself, somehow.
No, disaster was approaching, and there was nothing he could do about it. Best pull out now, walk away, leave them all with the impression that he was an inadequate eccentric, nothing more – certainly not a pervert, or a fantasist, or any of the bad things he was about to turn into. But walking away wasn’t Will’s style. He always felt something would turn up, even though nothing ever did, or even could, most of the time. Once, years ago, when he was a kid, he told a school-friend (having first ascertained that this friend was not a C. S. Lewis fan) that it was possible to walk through the back of his wardrobe into a different world, and invited him round to explore. He could have cancelled, he could have told him anything, but he was not prepared to suffer a moment’s mild embarrassment if there was no immediate need to do so, and the two of them scrabbled around among the coathangers for several minutes until Will mumbled something about the world being closed on Saturday afternoons. The thing was, he could still remember feeling genuinely hopeful, right up until the last minute: maybe there will be something there, he had thought, maybe I won’t lose face. There wasn’t and he did, loads of it, a whole headful of face, but he hadn’t learnt a thing from the experience: if anything, it seemed to have left him with the feeling that he was bound to be lucky next time. So here he was, in his mid-thirties, knowing in all the places there were to know that he didn’t have a two-year-old son, but still working on the presumption that, when it came to the crunch, one would pop up from somewhere.
‘I’ll bet you could do with a coffee,’ said Suzie.
‘I could murder one. What a morning!’ He shook his head in amazement, and Suzie blew her cheeks out sympathetically. It occurred to him that he was really enjoying himself.
‘I don’t even know what you do,’ Suzie said, when they were settled into the car. Megan was in the baby seat beside her; Will was in the back with Marcus, the weird kid, who was humming tunelessly.
‘Nothing.’
‘Oh.’
He usually made something up, but he had made too much up already over the last few days… if he added a fictitious job to the list, not only would he begin to lose track, he’d be offering Suzie nothing real at all.
‘Well, what did you do before?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You’ve never worked?’
‘I’ve done the odd day here and there, but—’
‘Oh. Well, that’s…’
She trailed off, and Will knew why. Not having a job ever, that’s… nothing. There was nothing to say about it at all, not immediately, anyway.
‘My dad wrote a song. In nineteen thirty-eight. It’s a famous song, and I live off the royalties.’
‘You know Michael Jackson, right? He makes a million pounds a minute,’ said the weird kid.
‘I’m not sure it’s a million pounds a minute,’ said Suzie doubtfully. ‘That’s an awful lot.’
‘A million pounds a minute!’ Marcus repeated. ‘Sixty million pounds an hour!’
‘Well I don’t make sixty million pounds an hour,’ said Will. ‘Nothing like.’
‘How much, then?’
‘Marcus,’ said Suzie. ‘So what’s this song, Will? If you can live off it, we must have heard of it.’
‘Umm… “Santa’s Super Sleigh”,’ said Will. He said it neutrally, but it was useless, because there was no way of saying it that didn’t make it sound silly. He wished his father had written any other song in the world, with the possible exception of ‘Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini’, or ‘How Much Is That Doggie In The Window?’
‘Really? “Santa’s Super Sleigh”?’ Suzie and Marcus both started singing the same part of the song:
So just leave out the mince pies, and a glass of sherry,
And Santa will visit you, and leave you feeling merry,
Oh, Santa’s super sleigh,
Santa’s super sleigh…
People always did this. They always sang, and they always sang the same part. Will had friends who began every single phone call with a quick burst of ‘Santa’s Super Sleigh’, and when he didn’t laugh they accused him of a sense of humour failure. But where was the joke? And even if there was one, how was he supposed to make himself laugh at it every time, year after year after year?
‘I expect people always do that, don’t they?’
‘You two are the first, actually.’
Suzie glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. ‘Sorry.’
‘No, it’s OK. I ask for it, really.’
‘But I don’t understand. How does that make money? Do carol singers have to pay you ten per cent?’
‘They should do. But you can’t always catch them. No, it’s on every Christmas album ever made. Elvis did it, you know. And the Muppets.’ And Des O’Connor. And the Crankies. And Bing Crosby. And David Bowie, in a duet with Zsa Zsa Gabor. And Val Doonican, and Cilla Black, and Rod Hull and Emu. And an American punk band called the Cunts, and, at the last count, at least a hundred other recording artists. He knew the names from the royalty statem
ents, and he didn’t like any of them. Will prided himself on his cool; he hated making his living from Val Doonican.
‘But haven’t you ever wanted to work?’
‘Oh, yes. Sometimes. It’s just… I don’t know. I never seem to get round to it.’ And that was the long and the short of it. He never seemed to get round to it. Every day for the last eighteen years he had got up in the morning with the intention of sorting out his career problem once and for all; as the day wore on, however, his burning desire to seek a place for himself in the outside world somehow got extinguished.
Suzie parked the car in the Outer Circle and unfolded Megan’s buggy, while Will stood awkwardly on the pavement with Marcus. Marcus had shown no interest in him whatsoever, although he could hardly claim to have made a vigorous effort to get to know the boy. It did occur to Will, however, that there were few adult males better equipped than him to deal with a teenager (if that is what Marcus was – it was hard to tell. He had a strange frizzy bush of hair, and he dressed like a twenty-five-year-old chartered accountant on his day off: he was wearing brand-new jeans and a Microsoft T-shirt). After all, Will was a sports fan and a pop music fan, and he of all people knew how heavy time could hang on one’s hands; to all intents and purposes he was a teenager. And it wouldn’t do him any harm with Suzie if he were to strike up a sparky, mutually curious relationship with her friend’s son. He’d work on Megan later. A quick tickle would probably do the trick.
‘So, Marcus. Who’s your favourite footballer?’
‘I hate football.’
‘Right. What a shame.’
‘Why?’
Will ignored him.
‘Who are your favourite singers then?’
Marcus snorted. ‘Are you getting these questions out of a book?’
Suzie laughed. Will blushed.
‘No, I was just interested.’
‘OK. My favourite singer is Joni Mitchell.’
‘Joni Mitchell? Don’t you like MC Hammer? Or Snoop Doggy Dogg? Or Paul Weller?’
‘No, don’t like any of them.’ Marcus looked Will up and down, taking in the trainers, the haircut and the sunglasses, and added cruelly, ‘Nobody does. Only old people.’
‘What, everyone in your school listens to Joni Mitchell?’
‘Most people.’
Will knew about hip-hop and acid house and grunge and Madchester and indie; he read Time Out and iD and the Face and Arena and the NME, still. But nobody had ever mentioned anything about a Joni Mitchell revival. He felt dispirited.
Marcus went on ahead, and Will made no move to keep up with him. At least his failure gave him a chance to talk to Suzie.
‘Do you have to look after him often?’
‘Not as often as I’d like, eh, Marcus?’
‘What?’ Marcus stopped and waited for them to catch up.
‘I said, I don’t look after you as often as I’d like.’
‘Oh.’
He walked on ahead again, but not as far as before, so Will was unsure about how much he could hear.
‘What’s up with his mum?’ Will asked Suzie quietly.
‘She’s just a bit… I don’t know. Under the weather.’
‘She’s going nuts,’ said Marcus matter-of-factly. ‘Cries all the time. Doesn’t go to work.’
‘Oh, come on, Marcus. She’s just had a couple of afternoons off. We all do that when we’re, you know, off colour.’
‘Off colour? Is that what you call it?’ said Marcus. ‘I call it nuts.’ Will had only previously heard that note of amused belligerence in the voices of old people who were trying to tell you things were much worse than you wanted to pretend: his father had been like that in the last few years of his life.
‘Well, she doesn’t seem nuts to me.’
‘That’s because you don’t see her very often.’
‘I see her as often as I can.’
Will noted the tetchy defensiveness in her voice. What was it with this kid? Once he had seen where you were vulnerable, he was merciless.
‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe? What does “maybe’ mean?’
Marcus shrugged. ‘Anyway, she’s not nuts with you. She’s only nuts at home, when it’s the two of us.’
‘She’ll be fine,’ said Suzie. ‘She just needs a weekend taking it easy. We’ll have a nice picnic, and when you get back tonight she’ll be rested up and ready to go.’
Marcus snorted and ran on. They were in the park now, and they could see the SPAT crowd over by the lake in front of them, filling juice containers and unwrapping silver-foil packages.
‘I see her at least once a week,’ said Suzie. ‘And I phone as well. Does he really expect more than that? It’s not as if I’m messing around all day. I study. I’ve got Megan. Jesus.’
‘I don’t believe all these kids are listening to Joni Mitchell,’ said Will. ‘I would have read about it. I’m not that out of touch.’
‘I suppose I’m going to have to ring every day,’ said Suzie.
‘I’m giving up those magazines. They’re useless,’ said Will.
They trudged towards the picnic, feeling old and beaten and found out.
Will felt that his apologies and explanations for Ned’s absence were taken at face value by the SPAT picnickers, although there was, he knew, absolutely no reason why they should not have been. Nobody was so desperate for an egg-and-cress sandwich and a game of rounders that they would go to all the trouble of inventing a child. But he still felt a little uncomfortable, and as a consequence threw himself into the afternoon with an enthusiasm that he was only usually able to muster with chemical or alcoholic assistance. He played ball, he blew bubbles, he burst crisp packets (a mistake – many tears, lots of irritated glances), he hid, he sought, he tickled, he dangled… He did more or less anything that would keep him away from the knot of adults sitting on blankets under a tree, and away from Marcus, who was wandering around the boating lake throwing pieces of leftover sandwich at the ducks.
He didn’t mind. He was better at hiding and seeking than he was at talking, and there were worse ways to spend an afternoon than making small children happy. After a while Suzie and Megan, asleep in her buggy, came over to join him.
‘You miss him, don’t you?’
‘Who?’
He meant it; he had no idea what she was talking about. But Suzie smiled knowingly, and so Will, on the case again, smiled back.
‘I’ll see him later. It’s no big deal. He would have enjoyed it here, though.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Oh… Nice. He’s a really nice boy.’
‘I can imagine. Who does he look like?’
‘Ummm… Me, I guess. He drew the short straw.’
‘Oh, he could have done worse. Anyway, Megan looks just like Dan, and I hate it.’
Will looked at the sleeping child. ‘She’s beautiful.’
‘Yeah. That’s why I hate it. When I see her like this, I think, what a gorgeous baby, and then I think, you bastard, and then I think… I don’t know what I think. I get into a mess. You know, she’s a bastard, he’s gorgeous… You end up hating your own child and loving the man who dumped her.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Will. He was beginning to feel cheap and churned up. If the conversation was taking a mournful turn, it was time to make a move. ‘You’ll meet someone else.’
‘D’you reckon?’
‘Well. There’ll be lots of men… I mean, you know, you’re a very… You know. I mean, you’ve met me, and I know I don’t count, but… You know, there are plenty…’ He trailed off hopefully. If she didn’t bite, forget it.
‘Why don’t you count?’
Bingo.
‘Because… I don’t know…’
Suddenly Marcus was in front of them, hopping from foot to foot as if he were about to wet himself.
‘I think I’ve killed a duck,’ he said.
nine
Marcus couldn’t believe it. Dead. A dead duck. OK, he’d been trying to h
it it on the head with a piece of sandwich, but he tried to do all sorts of things, and none of them had ever happened before. He’d tried to get the highest score on the Stargazer machine in the kebab shop on Hornsey Road – nothing. He’d tried to read Nicky’s thoughts by staring at the back of his head every maths lesson for a week – nothing. It really annoyed him that the only thing he’d ever achieved through trying was something he hadn’t really wanted to do that much in the first place. And anyway, since when did hitting a bird with a sandwich ever kill it? Kids must spend half their lives throwing things at the ducks in Regent’s Park. How come he managed to pick a duck that pathetic? There must have been something wrong with it. It was probably just about to die from a heart attack or something; it was just a coincidence. But if it was, nobody would believe him. If there were any witnesses, they’d only have seen the bread hit the duck right on the back of the head, and then seen it keel over. They’d put two and two together and make five, and he’d be imprisoned for a crime he never committed.
Will, Suzie, Megan and Marcus stood on the path at the edge of the lake, staring at the dead body floating in the water.
‘There’s nothing we can do about it now,’ said Will, the trendy bloke who was trying to get off with Suzie. ‘Just leave it. What’s the problem?’
‘Well… Supposing someone saw me?’
‘D’ you think anyone did?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe they said they were going to tell the park-keeper.’
‘Maybe someone saw you, or definitely? Maybe they said they were going to get the park-keeper, or definitely?’ Marcus didn’t like this bloke, so he didn’t answer him.
‘What’s that floating next to it?’ Will asked. ‘Is that the bread you threw at it?’
Marcus nodded unhappily.
‘That’s not a sandwich, that’s a bloody french loaf. No wonder it keeled over. That would have killed me.’
‘Oh, Marcus,’ Suzie sighed. ‘What were you playing at?’
‘Nothing.’
