The Things We Thought We Knew

by Mahsuda Snaith

  I liked this new version of your brother. He was less grumpy towards me and even lent me his book about weather so I could read all the words in the glossary. On days that we went to the woods he no longer pulled rank, letting us play our ‘sissy games’ while he went in search of woodland creatures. He wanted to catch a boar, though he wasn’t sure what one looked like, and tried to devise a multitude of traps out of twigs and netting. We helped him occasionally, and when he gave us instructions it wasn’t with rolled eyes and loud exhalations but with calm, considered advice. Your brother had realized your mother was never coming back and relinquished the idea of being in charge, handing the reins to your uncle. It seemed to relieve him, this passing of responsibility, and with this relief your brother became a bearable person.

  Until the incident with the marbles.

  We’d been using marbles as prizes for the slug races in Bobby’s Hideout (which you always won) but ever since the slug homicide that was Stanley’s death, we’d begun to use them in a more traditional manner. We rolled them along drainpipes, bashed them hard into one another, swapped them and won them and then sold them back to the highest bidder. I owned the largest collection of marbles, mainly because they were on a two-for-one offer in the pound shop and Amma had bought me six bags ‘just in case’. I shared out the bags equally between the three of us and heard Jonathan whisper, ‘Cheers, Ravine’ when he thought you weren’t listening.

  Because we couldn’t play on the uneven muddy floor of the woods we decided to have our battles on the smooth tarpaulin of the hideout. We managed to get away with this for some time until one morning we heard a shrill voice shouting at us.

  ‘Sacrilege! Have you no respect for the dead?’

  We’d been crouched down on our knees and, after one glance at each other, began collecting the scattered marbles in panic. We filled our pockets but found the slippery balls tumbled straight out. You lifted your skirt and gestured for us to fill it up with marbles.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ Jonathan said.

  ‘Cod, Cod, Cod,’ you said.

  ‘Sacrilege, sacrilege, sacrilege,’ I said, trying to remember the word so that I could look it up in my mini dictionary.

  We’d gathered half the collection when Mr Eccentric’s crow-like head appeared through the open window.

  ‘Out!’ he shouted at us. ‘Get out!’

  You hugged the hem of your skirt to your chest and hobbled out of the door with the swollen belly of our goods. The marbles fell from your skirt almost instantly.

  ‘Marbles!’ I cried, dropping down to the floor.

  Everything blurred. All I could see was coloured glass rolling through my fingers. I felt a hand on my shoulder. For a moment I thought it was Mr Eccentric but when I looked up, Jonathan’s square glasses were pointing down at me.

  ‘I’ve got it covered,’ he said. ‘Go.’

  I scrambled to my feet and out of the door while Jonathan snatched the marbles. Mr Eccentric’s ridiculous scarecrow frame stretched tall as he grabbed hold of the window ledge.

  ‘Listen, boy, this is no place for games!’ he said.

  Jonathan paused to look up at him. ‘Listen, fella, I’m only going to be a minute. Keep your bloody hair on.’

  We stood outside and watched as Mr Eccentric stood puffing up his chest before striding inside Bobby’s Hideout and hauling Jonathan out by the ear. You stood with a belly of marbles and your luminous shorts on display. I brought out my whistle and began to blow. The whistle (bought from Laser’s car boot) released a pathetic trill so you decided to help out by screaming.

  ‘Let him go, let him go, let him go!’ you yelled until your cheeks were crimson.

  Mr Eccentric stood at the entrance of the hideout with his chin raised in the air and his fingers still clamped on Jonathan’s ear. If he hadn’t had an armful of marbles I’m sure your brother would have thwacked Mr Eccentric hard in the stomach, running off before the old man had a chance to realize what had happened. As they stood next to each other, with too-big glasses and the same twitching scowls, they looked like younger and older versions of each other.

  ‘Now, all of you listen to me,’ Mr Eccentric said over the din of my whistle blowing and your screaming. ‘We’re going to make a deal …’

  ‘Run, for shit’s sake!’ Jonathan cried out. ‘Get Uncle Walter!’

  For the first time in our lives we listened to your brother’s order. We ran out from the trees, dropping marbles across the muddy floor as the voice of Mr Eccentric faded behind us.

  ‘Get back here at once!’ he cried as we checked the road three times and then ran across.

  We found Uncle Walter in the living room, eating a tub of ice-cream. He had his arm wrapped around the carton and a dessert spoon stuck in his mouth. We rarely ever caught your uncle eating like this and it was only as we saw his startled expression that we realized it was a secret. When we told him what had happened, his alarm quickly vanished and his hands balled into fists. He stood on his feet and marched out of the flat with us hopping down the stairs after him. We’d never seen your uncle angry before.

  ‘Non preoccuparti, sii felice!’ you cried.

  ‘Non prick-co-part-seee …’ I tried to repeat.

  It was only when we got to the bottom that I asked you what it meant.

  ‘Don’t worry, be happy,’ you said before running off.

  When we arrived at Bobby’s Hideout there was no sight of Mr Eccentric or Jonathan. We tried to pick up all the marbles from the floor as Uncle Walter scanned the breeze-block walls. He seemed distracted, examining the postcards of worldwide destinations before staring down at the huge ashtray in the middle of the room. I saw his skin fade to grey and worried that he was going to have an attack like the day Sandy tried to seduce him. Instead, he peered at us over his belly, placing his hands on our shoulders. He was Gulliver looking down on the town of Lilliput and we were his Lilliputians.

  ‘You shouldn’t come here, girls,’ he said. ‘It’s not right.’

  When we marched back to the estate, Uncle Walter didn’t look back at the hideout but kept his eyes on Tewkesbury House. As we approached the building, you held on to my arm.

  ‘Maybe he’s turned him into a clock,’ you said.

  The idea made me grin. Images of your brother as a pocket-watch dropped in my bag soon filled my head. I imagined his scowling mouth shouting at me as I brought him out from the depths, slamming the watch door over his fuming face.

  ‘What’s the weather, Jonathan-Weatherboy?’ I’d whisper through the hinges, knowing full well that he couldn’t reply.

  Then I remembered how he’d just saved us from Mr Eccentric and my grin fell from my face.

  But when we arrived at Mr Eccentric’s flat we could see that Jonathan was still very much a boy. Through the front window we saw him sitting on one side of Mr Eccentric’s huge oak desk with the man himself seated opposite. A plate of sandwiches lay between them as pendulums swung back and forth on the wall behind.

  ‘It isn’t right,’ your uncle muttered as his breath became louder. ‘It isn’t right.’

  ‘Non preoccuparti, sii felice!’ you said, even though you seemed unsure of the sentiment yourself.

  When we entered the flat, Mr Eccentric lifted his chin and acted as though the abduction of a child was an everyday occurrence. He escorted us into his living room of clocks and brought seats out for us with a courtesy we’d only ever observed in costume dramas.

  ‘Why thank you, kind sir,’ you said, pulling out the sides of your skirt before planting your derriere on the chair.

  When he spoke, Mr Eccentric’s voice was calm like trickling water and not the shrill, harsh screech we were used to hearing. He asked us if we wanted any drinks and to help ourselves to the sandwiches on the table. You picked one up eagerly but Jonathan looked over at you, shaking his head with such mournful weight that you placed the triangle straight back on the plate.

  ‘Can we speak outside, Reginald?’ Uncle Walter said,
as tears of sweat rolled down his face.

  ‘Certainly,’ Mr Eccentric replied, before following him out of the door.

  If we’d been smarter we’d have listened to their conversation through the flimsy walls of the flat. But instead we asked Jonathan what was in the sandwiches.

  ‘Sardines,’ he said, before clutching his stomach as though he was about to throw up.

  ‘I’ve never had sardines,’ I said.

  Jonathan rolled his head towards me. His skin was ashen, his body slouched in a manner that made him look seasick. ‘You’re not missing out.’

  He didn’t speak much after that but we were happy enough to gabble to each other about the room of clocks. Every wall was covered from top to bottom with the ticking machines. Round clocks, square clocks, standing clocks and mounted ones. Even the strips of wall by the window were lined with them, positioned with precise care above one another until they reached the cornices. That room was not just a room but a gallery of items through the ages from traditional round clocks with Roman numerals to modern irregular pieces shaped like bottles, dragons, flowers and hearts. One clock was shaped like a pizza with pepperoni slices for the numbers; another like a triangular pool rack with different-coloured balls. We stared at these clocks and gave them marks out of ten.

  ‘Eleven out of ten,’ you said, pointing to a clock in the shape of a cow.

  ‘You can’t do eleven out of ten,’ I said, before looking over at your brother. ‘She can’t do eleven out of ten, can she?’

  Unimpressed by the Museum of Time, Jonathan didn’t look up. He kept his eyes on the sardine sandwiches in front of him, seasick in his chair. I put it down to the ticks and tocks working against each other in the room. Even you were swinging from side to side as though the rhythm had taken over your body.

  ‘Do you think Mr Eccentric is actually a clock?’ I asked.

  You thought about this for a second as you bobbed this way and that.

  ‘Most certainly,’ you said, still in Period Drama Mode.

  ‘Indeed,’ I replied.

  You held a finger in the air. ‘Quite!’

  I searched my mind for a suitable synonym, holding my finger in the air and giving it a shake.

  ‘Undeniably!’

  Jonathan sighed loudly.

  ‘For shit’s sake,’ he mumbled. ‘Give it a rest.’

  When we looked over at him his face was twisted in its old bitter expression. He looked sad and cross at the same time. You leant in close to my side, keeping your voice a whisper.

  ‘Unquestionably,’ you said, before giggling into your hand.

  ‘Mr Eccentric’s my grandfather,’ Jonathan said.

  We both looked at him. He was paler than ever and when he looked over at you his eyes were wide behind his glasses.

  ‘Don’t worry, he’s not yours,’ he said. ‘Your dad’s the one in prison. Mine is the one that’s dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ I said.

  ‘Dead,’ he said, pretending to stab himself in the gut.

  Your face was crinkled with confusion but for me the truth became clear.

  Mr Eccentric’s son was Bobby Blake. Dead Bobby Blake. Bobby Blake + Mrs Dickerson = Jonathan Dickerson with Mr Eccentric’s looks.

  ‘I see,’ I said, nodding at Jonathan.

  ‘Exactly,’ he said, nodding back.

  Your face was still confused as Uncle Walter opened the door and told us it was time to leave. We all slid off our seats, Jonathan lagging behind with a bowed head. We kept looking at each other, trying to process what we’d been told. You opened your mouth but nothing came out. I opened my mouth but nothing came out. When we got to the doorstep Jonathan glanced up at Mr Eccentric then at Uncle Walter. He put out his pale-pink palm and shook Mr Eccentric’s hand. It was a short, firm shake, as though finalizing a deal. We both looked at each other as though we’d just seen a pig fly over Westhill Estate.

  Jonathan said nothing as we left Tewkesbury House and kept his head low as we made our way back. When Uncle Walter placed his arm over Jonathan’s shoulder Jonathan slid straight out from under it and began marching ahead. You tried to catch up with him.

  ‘How do you know Mr Eccentric’s your grandfather?’ you asked.

  He shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘He’s not Mr Eccentric, he’s Reginald Blake.’

  Your brows knotted together. I caught up with you.

  ‘How do you know Reginald Blake’s your grandfather, then?’ I said.

  Your brother looked over at me with a scowl. ‘None of your beeswax,’ he said. ‘Now bugger off.’

  The reign of peace in Jonathan’s kingdom was shattered.

  I have a surprise visit from Mr Chavda today.

  ‘I take my commitments very seriously, Mrs Roy,’ I hear him thunder from the bottom of the stairs. ‘I do not allow personal matters to interfere with my professional work.’

  Amma speaks quietly. I sit up in bed, inching close to the foot of the mattress in the hope of hearing her muffled words. One time, Amma stood in the hallway listening to the heavy breathing of a nuisance caller for a solid eighteen minutes. She remained standing, smoothing down the folds of her sari, as the minutes ticked by. When eventually I asked her what was going on she simply raised her hand and continued to listen. The caller buckled first and after Amma had made sure the line was dead, she placed the receiver down and strolled into the kitchen, destalking okra with a thin knife as though nothing had happened.

  It will be the same with Mr Chavda. No matter how much he ruffles his feathers, Amma will not give in. He comes marching into my room, releasing short shots of air from his mouth.

  ‘Phfft! Phfft! Phfft!’

  He carries on making the noise as he straightens his tie, then places his briefcase on the end of my bed and clicks it open.

  ‘Let’s begin,’ he says. ‘I have selected some multiple-choice tests for you to carry out. They are to decipher what level of understanding you have reached so we can decide the next steps in your education.’

  He pulls out a wad of booklets and begins rifling through them. Throughout this whole exchange he hasn’t looked at me once, so I take the opportunity to flatten my bed hair with the palms of my hands, pinching my cheeks to fake the appearance of alertness. When he passes me the first test he still refuses to look me in the eye, sitting down in Amma’s chair and pulling out his silver Rolex to time me. There’s no use forcing tears in an attempt to wiggle my way out of this one.

  ‘Two minutes gone!’ he barks as he taps the glass face of his watch.

  I try my best with the test, but it’s early in the morning and the first question is about quadratic equations. I work my way through but after ten minutes find my eyes wandering across the room and back to Mr Chavda. He sits lax in Amma’s chair, the Rolex held loose in one hand as he rubs his chin absentmindedly with the other. He’s straightened his tie so much that it sits halfway up his neck and when I look at the buttons on his shirt I see that they’re fastened out of order. I follow the track of his eyes out of the bedroom door. Maybe he’s expecting Amma to come drifting in, white flag in hand. The large lids of his eyes are drooping and for a moment I think I see a tear sparkle in the corner of one eye.

  I look down at the test paper and flick back to the cover sheet. The examination length is one and a half hours. I know Mr Chavda is all too willing to wait the maximum time permitted. I place my pen neatly across the sheet.

  ‘I think this test is too hard for me, Mr Chavda.’

  The sound of my voice snaps him out of his gaze. He looks down at his Rolex and pushes himself into an upright position.

  ‘Young girl, I don’t believe they’re designed to be easy.’

  Although the tone is sharp, the sadness in his bleary eyes stops me from getting irritated. All these years and I’ve never considered that Mr Chavda has feelings. Of course he’s been cross with me, indignant on occasion, but these shows of teacher-type behaviour have always felt staged. Similarly, his courtship of Amma has
always had a touch of the hammed-up about it. He seems to do things because he thinks them right, not because of any burning desire from within. It’s only as I look at his watery eyes that I realize perhaps his love for my mother has not been entirely mechanical. That there is genuine affection.

  Mr Chavda, sensing I’m ogling this private side of him, readjusts his expression into a severe scowl.

  ‘It seems the problem is you find all tests too hard.’

  Again, I feel no pang at his jibe.

  ‘Then I guess that says something about me,’ I say.

  Mr Chavda lifts his chin. ‘And what would that be exactly?’

  I shrug. ‘That I’m not academic.’

  He’s startled by the response and a silence ensues as he tries to think of a suitable retort. Eventually, he makes a spluttering noise with his mouth.

  ‘But your English language skills are impeccable.’

  In all his years of teaching, Mr Chavda has never given me one compliment and the fact he just has makes his cheeks blush.

  ‘You write very good sentences,’ he mumbles, ‘even if the technical knowledge within them proves questionable.’

  I watch his hands shaking as he fiddles with the strap of his watch and secures it around his wrist. I look at the circle of white hair around the circumference of his head and see that it’s been brushed in a hurry, the strands criss-crossing each other.

  ‘Are you all right, Mr Chavda?’ I ask.

  He snaps his neck straight, looking at me as though I’ve asked him if he’s an imbecile. He narrows his eyes.

  ‘I suppose you know all about this Rikesh fellow?’

  I frown. ‘Rikesh?’

  As soon as I say it, I realize who he means. Amma has never told me the name of her companion and I’m startled to hear it on my own lips. All the same, Mr Chavda is enthused.

  ‘So it’s not just me she keeps in the dark!’

  He glances momentarily at the door then leans his body towards me.

  ‘I caught them in the park,’ he says in a low hush. ‘They were feeding ducks together and … holding hands.’

  The surreptitious whisper of Mr Chavda’s voice, the way he leans in with manic eyes, makes my stomach heave. He throws his hands in the air with sudden exasperation.