The Things We Thought We Knew

by Mahsuda Snaith

  ‘He’s probably out in the woods right now,’ you said. ‘He’s probably made himself a shelter from branches and having Penguin Stew.’

  Your mother stopped laughing and instantly you realized your mistake. In the old days she would have duct-taped your mouth shut, but that night she simply ran her finger over the lip of her whiskey bottle.

  ‘You really loved your uncle, didn’t you?’ she said.

  You nodded so rapidly that curls fell over your face. I admit my part didn’t help matters, but once the words came out I couldn’t stop them.

  ‘We all loved him,’ I said.

  Mrs Dickerson looked at me with an icicle stare. She leant forward, the stench of alcohol flowing from her lips. She’d thought Uncle Walter’s cowardice would have weakened our love for him but it only made it stronger. She couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t stand being second place in your life.

  ‘He was a liar,’ she said. ‘That fat waste of space you love so much was an out-and-out liar.’

  She took another swig from her bottle.

  ‘He wasn’t even in the bloody army,’ she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  Your face was full of crinkles. ‘That doesn’t make sense.’

  Your mother kept her eyes fixed forward.

  ‘He’s been in and out of the nut house for the last six years. Went completely loopy after the whole Bobby incident … And the Italian? He learnt that from tapes. Planned to move to Italy with Bobby and live in the mountains. What a laugh! He couldn’t bear it when we got together. Thought I was taking his best friend away. Then, when I got pregnant, he knew it was over. I’d won, you see? Bobby was mine. If it hadn’t been for Reggie, buying me off like that, and your stupid uncle trying to get Bobby to leave with him … But Bobby wouldn’t leave me, not my Bobby. He’d rather—’

  She stopped talking, looked down at her bottle and took another swig. She carried on running her finger around the rim as she looked over at us.

  ‘He came crying to me, you know, your uncle? Crying like a big stupid baby. “I didn’t mean to leave him,” he kept saying, sobbing and wailing. “There was so much blood …” It took all my strength not to wallop him.’

  She picked up the remote and began to flick through the channels.

  ‘Course that’s when he started with the panic attacks,’ she said, still flicking. ‘And mummy dearest decided to have him sectioned. The stupid cow said it was my fault. My fault! Said I should never have started anything with Bobby … Then she went and popped her clogs and poor little Walt had nowhere to go. He wrote to me asking for help. Begged me to let him stay so that he wouldn’t have to go back to the ward.’

  She looked you straight in the eyes, as though accusing you of something terrible.

  ‘You think your uncle came to look after you? It was me who was helping him out.’

  Mrs Dickerson looked back at the television until she found a makeover programme and instantly lost interest in her own conversation. When I looked over at you there were tears in your eyes.

  ‘Bitch!’

  We looked behind us to see Jonathan standing in the doorway. He was wearing the same jeans and jumper he’d worn for the last week, his hands curled up in fists as his face turned devil red.

  ‘Bloody stupid bitch!’ he cried again, storming back up to his room, slamming the door shut and kicking it so hard it sounded like thunder above our heads.

  It shocks me to see the grown-up Jonathan in your room, even though I’ve known he’s been there all along. It isn’t his presence that surprises me but the size of him. Even as he lies curled on the bed, wide hands raised up to protect himself from the pillow I’ve thrown, I can see his arms are long and gangly, the length of his legs immense. Did I expect him to never grow? Perhaps. It was always easier to imagine him as a boy with too-big glasses than as a fully fledged adult.

  He lowers his arms, a hesitant move as though he’s expecting more missiles at his head. A familiar nest of brown hair emerges. It’s thinner, less glossy than when he was a child. His skin is familiar, that pallid grey colour that would never catch the sun, but there are no longer any glasses propped upon his nose and, for the first time in my life, I can clearly see the olive green of his eyes.

  He’s a handsome man, I won’t deny it. Handsome, that is, in that scruffy, homeless fashion. But I’m not the best person to judge. The last man I talked to was Mr Chavda and anyone a few decades closer to my age would probably seem attractive.

  ‘Ravine,’ Jonathan says, as I stand before him in clammy paisley swirls.

  I whip the pillow off the floor and use it to cover my torso.

  ‘Jonathan,’ I say, aware that I haven’t yet brushed my hair or teeth today.

  Jonathan opens his mouth, then swallows, opens his mouth, then swallows. As he lies on the bed, he looks like a trout gasping for air on a riverbank.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d come,’ he says.

  I look at the walls, a brown smudge on the blue paint from where he’s been tapping.

  ‘You didn’t give me a choice,’ I say.

  I flop down in defeat, sitting cross-legged on the worn-out carpet. It’s the same carpet as when you were here, that pale-lilac colour your mother got cheap in the bank holiday sale. Apart from the bunk bed Jonathan is lying on, the room is empty. Clearly left behind by the Ahmeds, the bed frame is covered in football stickers and graffiti. MAN U IS RUBBISH. FAIZAL LIKES GIRLS. The sight of these things makes me feel hollow. It’s as if they’ve erased your existence.

  The mattress squeaks as Jonathan pulls himself to a sitting position. He has to bend down to avoid hitting his head on the frame. He’s wearing a moss-green hoodie and navy-blue jeans. His cheeks are smooth and flawless like just-bought soap.

  ‘You didn’t sound well last night,’ he says.

  His voice is deep, far more authoritative than the muffled sounds I’ve heard through the walls.

  ‘I had a nightmare,’ I tell him. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  Your brother nods as though this is a perfectly reasonable response, then purses his lips. He looks around the flat as if searching for something, then slaps his hands together.

  ‘Looks like it’s going to rain,’ he says. ‘Or at least that’s my forecast.’

  He grins, neat square teeth revealing themselves as the muscles flex around his stubbly chin. I’m not used to seeing your brother smile, even when he was a child, so his smile, along with the stubble, bamboozles me.

  ‘What do you want, Jonathan?’ I ask.

  His smile drops and the frown I remember rises up on his forehead. It’s strange the memories that can be triggered by one expression. Suddenly I see your brother standing in his thunderstorm pyjamas, dancing his fairy dance and singing ‘Ravine Ravine Dictionary Queen’, before slamming a door in my face.

  ‘I just want to talk to you, Ravine,’ he says.

  I hug the pillow as I sit on the floor. He lowers his face, raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Do you think we could talk?’

  I look down at the lilac carpet, trying to remember what the white stain by my foot was caused by. Mayonnaise from egg and cress sandwiches? Slug slime from when Stanley escaped his jar? I curl my bare toes as I consider Jonathan’s question and think of how lonely I feel in the flat next door, how I don’t know what time Amma will be returning. I think of her with my father, sitting in a café in Blackpool, drinking tea and discussing their new life in Bangladesh together. I imagine them holding hands over a wipe-clean tablecloth, smiling at each other and singing the Bengali national anthem as the sea hits the pebbled beach in the distance.

  As I contemplate this I realize your brother hasn’t questioned me about the speed at which I’d come dashing to this room, the perfect health I seemed to be in. In all the years I’ve been stuck in my lifebed I haven’t had anyone to confide in. No one real. Amma was always too close, Sandy too distant, Mr Chavda light years away. I look at Jonathan with his long grown-up body an
d scruffy brown mane.

  I shake my head. ‘We’ve got nothing to talk about,’ I say, pushing myself to my feet.

  He calls after me but I have no intention of listening. I’ve lived for all these years without Jonathan Dickerson. I’ve slept day after day in that bed without so much as a postcard from him. I didn’t need him; not then, not now, not ever. I take my pillow and march down the stairs and through the living room, having decided that I will never see your scruffy-haired brother again.

  If it hadn’t been for the umbrella I would have been back in my flat, up those stairs and lying beneath the warmth of my duvet within seconds.

  The umbrella propped up against the wall is short and crayon red. I gaze down at it, drop my pillow and pick up the umbrella by its U-shaped handle. As I push it open, large goggling eyes pop out, black spots revealing themselves on the round red body.

  ‘They were going to throw it away,’ Jonathan says.

  I turn around to see him standing behind me.

  ‘I couldn’t let them throw it away,’ he says.

  The light from the window behind him turns his body into a towering silhouette. For a moment I can’t see his face, just the dark hollow where it belongs. When my sight readjusts, he’s staring straight at me.

  ‘Look,’ he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. ‘I know you’re mad about Reginald. But there’s a reason I came back to see him.’

  I close the umbrella and shrug my shoulders.

  ‘He’s dying,’ I say. ‘You already told me.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Not just that.’

  ‘Because he’s your grandfather,’ I offer.

  He carries on shaking his head. ‘Not that either.’

  I try to appear aloof, twirling the handle of the umbrella around my finger. The twirling is so vigorous I almost poke myself in the eye and have to slow down the pace. Your brother presses his hands together in prayer, thrusting them forward to punctuate each word.

  ‘I want to find Uncle Walter,’ he says. ‘And I think Reggie might know where he is.’

  I almost laugh. ‘Why?’ I ask.

  He thinks for a second.

  ‘Because I know Walter sent him letters. He wanted Reginald to pass them on to me, though of course he never—’

  I stop twirling the umbrella.

  ‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Why would you want to find Walter?’

  He looks confused, then places his hands over his lips. The flat is so still and quiet, it makes me feel nervous. I don’t know what I expect Jonathan to say but I know I need to hear him say it. Eventually he sighs and drops his hands.

  ‘I want to say sorry,’ he says.

  I look into Jonathan’s green eyes.

  ‘Oh,’ I say.

  The Constellation of Fireworks

  Your mother was unconscious. It was late evening by then and she’d drunk so much that even when you shook her, she wouldn’t wake up. We stepped back from the sofa to look at her slumped body, a trail of drool falling down her chin.

  ‘Maybe we should do CPR,’ you suggested.

  ‘What’s CPR?’

  You closed your eyes as you tried to remember. ‘Cardio Resurrection.’

  I pulled my mini dictionary out of my bag, flipping the pages to the letter R.

  resurrection n. rising from the dead

  I looked back at Mrs Dickerson’s face. A bubble of spit had formed in the corner of her mouth and her body was jolting from a series of hiccups.

  ‘She looks pretty alive to me,’ I said.

  You picked up her hand by the wrist, then let it drop. It fell on her lap with a loud smack. You sat beside your mother, the peach skirt of your dress making a crinkling noise as you sighed. Your mother hadn’t got this drunk since she’d returned.

  Some things never change, I wanted to say in that serious grown-up way. I’m glad I didn’t because it’s not true. Everything changes, whether you want it to or not.

  ‘Do you think what she said is true?’ you said, looking up at me. ‘You know, about Uncle Walter?’

  I opened my mouth to speak but, as usual, your brother got there before me.

  ‘Of course it is.’

  He had a bin bag in his hand, pulling it down the stairs behind him. When he dragged it into the living room I could see the jagged corners of boxes pushing against the black plastic.

  ‘They’re liars,’ he said. ‘The whole lot of them are liars.’

  ‘Mum doesn’t lie,’ you said, as she lay inebriated beside you.

  ‘Ha!’ Jonathan cried. ‘She’s the worst one of them! Her whole life’s a big shitty lie.’

  You told him not to be rude; he told you not to be stupid. You told him to be respectful; he told you to show him something to be respectful of. This back and forth went on for some time until eventually I butted in.

  ‘What’s in the bag?’ I asked.

  Jonathan looked back at the bin bag as though he’d forgotten it was there.

  ‘None of your beeswax,’ he said, dragging it to the door.

  We went to the hallway to watch him. It was only as he reached for the keys on the coat rack that I realized your brother had wellies on.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I asked him.

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘Where are you going?’ you echoed, but louder, as though he hadn’t heard.

  He tried to ignore you as he opened the door. You asked him over and over again, your voice getting shriller each time.

  ‘Where are you going? Where are you going? Where are you going?’

  ‘For shit’s sake, Marianne, I heard you,’ he said. ‘I’m going to Bobby’s Hideout, OK?’

  We both blinked at each other.

  ‘What for?’ I asked.

  Jonathan sighed dramatically. ‘Because I don’t want to live with Reginald Blake,’ he said.

  We both blinked again.

  ‘Who?’ we said.

  He sighed again, rolling his eyes. ‘Mr Eccentric.’

  We watched as he pulled a woolly hat over his head.

  ‘He eats sardines all day,’ he told us. ‘I don’t even like sardines.’

  This fact didn’t aid our comprehension.

  ‘But we’re not going to live with Mr Eccentric,’ you told your brother. ‘Mum’s back now.’ She nodded towards the heap on the sofa.

  ‘Yes,’ he mumbled, ‘but for how bloody long?’

  He was out of the door before you could answer. We ran out after him in our party dresses, standing at the top of the staircase as we watched him hauling the bin bag down each step. You looked behind you, as though considering the state of your comatose mother, then back down at your brother.

  ‘Wait!’ you cried. ‘I’ve got to get my wellingtons.’

  You dashed back into the flat as I stood dumbstruck. Even Jonathan seemed shocked, eyes darting from side to side behind the thick lenses of his glasses, skin paler than ever. I looked out at the dark night, feeling the frosty chill against my bare legs as droplets of rain pitter-pattered against the edge of the stairwell.

  ‘What’s the weather forecast?’ I asked.

  Jonathan pulled his serious weatherman face, gesturing his hand out to the side as though a map of the British Isles was right beside him.

  ‘Temperatures will be reaching an all-time low. Expect rain, thunder and snowstorms.’

  ‘Rain, thunder and snowstorms?’ I said.

  He lowered his arm. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’

  I looked back into the flat. You had your buttercup raincoat on, sitting on the floor as you pulled a wellington boot on your foot. I thought of Amma out on her date. I thought of the Soul-drinker coming to get me in your flat with no one conscious enough to help. Then I thought of you out in the dark and my promise to protect you, and with that, all my fear drained away. I looked down at your brother as he wiped the condensation off his glasses.

  ‘I’m coming too,’ I said.

  I pulled the spare key out of my bag and ran next d
oor.

  ‘For shit’s sake!’ I heard him cry.

  But when I came back with my coat, gloves and wellingtons, he was still waiting for us. Then, when we followed him down the stairs on tiptoes I saw a small smile creep across his face. Your brother didn’t want to be alone any more than the rest of us did.

  I follow grown-up Jonathan as he gives me a tour of the flat. He’s so tall he has to duck beneath door frames as he shows me the great bounty of goods he’s discovered.

  ‘They just left this stuff,’ he says, holding up a rusty kettle with loose cords wiggling out the back.

  As well as this treasure, the Ahmeds have left a sofa covered in repeat-leaf patterns in the living room and an old wardrobe they’d managed to get down the stairs but had obviously abandoned in the hallway at the last minute. There are computer cables tied into a figure of eight, a wooden step-stool painted ultramarine, a deflated football that Mr Ahmed had probably punctured the day the boys refused to come up the hill. I try to look for signs of your previous life. Things left behind. I find dead flies along the window sill, dust on the staircase banister, but nothing that was part of you.

  Jonathan decides to make me a cup of tea from the more than dubious kettle. I follow him through the hallway and watch as he fills it up in the kitchen. Stacks of Pot Noodles are arranged in a pyramid across the kitchen work surface and empty boxes of Tupperware are piled up in the sink. If it hadn’t been for Amma’s excessive cooking the man could have died from malnutrition.

  ‘No milk, I’m afraid,’ he tells me. He passes me a chipped mug filled to the rim with black tea and shrugs his shoulders. ‘It goes off too quickly.’

  I sit down on the stool that’s been left by the oven and wrap my palms around the cup. Looking down at the chip, I remember the crash of china I heard when I bailed out of visiting him. It reminds me of his hot temper. The way he used to be.

  ‘When we were younger, Reginald made a deal with me,’ Jonathan says as he leans against the sink.

  He takes a sip from his cup and I, trying to mimic him, take a sip from my own. My face twists as the bitterness hits the sides of my tongue.