by Rebecca Shaw
Cleaving her way through the terrible anger she felt, Myra realised the sense of going shopping in Viv’s car and nodded her head. The hot sweet coffee felt good. The neighbours noticing! The neighbours talking about her! But did she care? No! It was her house and she’d do exactly what she wanted in it, and sleeping in the same bed as Graham was not a thing she wanted. Not after losing the babies, and certainly not after her operation. No, certainly not, that side of things was over with for ever. She forced her thoughts back to practicalities. She’d need more butter, and extra milk and . . .
‘Finished your coffee? I’m glad to see you drinking it all. You skimp on food don’t you Myra? Why? Are you punishing yourself for something?’
‘Now you’re being ridiculous. Of course I’m not. What have I got to punish myself about? I’ve never done anything wrong.’
‘Denying yourself any joy? Shutting yourself off from your husband when you could be holding each other close? A shared bed makes the wheels of a marriage go round better than anything I know.’
Myra stood up. ‘You may have been a friend since the day we moved in here, but speaking to me like this is just not right, it’s all too . . . intimate.’ Using that word made her blush. God, what was she thinking of? Blast Viv. ‘Are we going shopping this morning or next week?’
‘Right away. I’ll get my purse and lock up and we’ll be off.’
The traffic was heavy and slow-moving, the car park was full to bursting, the supermarket packed, and in the end Myra and Viv decided to eat a quick lunch in the cafe and do the shopping afterwards. By the time they got home it was after three o’clock and just as they turned in to the drive to unload Myra’s shopping Graham and the boys came home.
More used to the tiny quantities of shopping for two, the mass of bags and mountains of food overwhelmed Myra and she had to rely on Viv to help her sort all they’d bought. What angered her was that both Oliver and Piers took to Viv immediately and spent lots of time describing their kite-flying expedition. Finally the shopping was all put away, her bags for life in the cupboard where they belonged and Graham was carrying the tea tray into the sitting room with a generous plate of biscuits included.
Viv made her farewells. ‘You enjoy that tea together just the four of you, I’ll have a cup with you all another day. Bye boys. Glad you’ve had such a good time with the kites . . . and I like little Pete, by the way.’
With Viv gone, Myra sat down, unable to recall what it was she’d planned for supper, despite all the food she’d bought, and by the time she’d finally remembered, she found herself involved in a decision about bringing Pete into the house. ‘Do you want to know what I think?’ she said. ‘I think it’s all new for him at the moment, new garden, new noises, maybe we’d do better to leave him to get settled and then try him in the house in a few weeks, we don’t want to confuse him, do we?’
Graham gave her a grateful smile and Oliver agreed they’d better wait until he settled.
Piers meanwhile had been wolfing biscuits down as though he hadn’t had any for weeks. Was it good for him to eat so many? It certainly wasn’t good for the housekeeping. Myra decided to say something. ‘You like those biscuits, Piers?’
He blushed and nodded his head, replaced the one he had in his hand but hadn’t bitten into and sat back looking mortified.
Oliver explained on his behalf. ‘Delphine always gave us cream crackers with no butter on and they tasted funny, kind of old, that’s why. Old and musty.’
‘Help yourself,’ Myra said, determined to score a victory over that dratted Delphine. ‘I don’t mind.’ Though in truth she did mind when to her amazement, the entire plate was emptied by the two boys. Was this how it was then, eating a plateful of biscuits and then not wanting their supper? She’d not get it ready until a bit later, give the biscuits time to go down.
Suddenly there she was making allowances for the pair of them when she’d sworn she wouldn’t. They must abide by a few basic rules she’d thought up last night, and now before she’d even had a chance to explain them, they’d unwittingly broken them. She sat silently thinking about the cross she’d given herself to bear.
Graham cut through the strained atmosphere by suggesting the boys went to the car and brought in their kites to show Myra.
‘Look Myra, there’s a picture of mine on the box.’
‘Oh! So there is.’
‘Uncle Graham got it going really high,’ Piers said. ‘Up and up. It was lovely wasn’t it, Oliver?’
‘If you say so.’
‘It was fun then?’ asked Myra.
Piers’ sparkling blue eyes twinkled at the thought of how much he’d enioyed himself, but seeing Oliver’s face he remembered he wasn’t supposed to be happy and his eyes shut down and he lay back against the sofa cushions, his painful memories right there in his cherubic face. Graham took hold of his hand saying, ‘It was fun and I’m sure your dad would have loved to see you flying it.’
‘He would, wouldn’t he Oliver?’
Oliver gave Piers a long stare then stood up and walked out. They could hear his feet tramping solidly up the stairs, then the thud of the bedroom door being slammed and a sound like someone throwing themselves on a bed.
Piers, with tears beginning to brim in his eyes, set off to follow him, but Graham caught his hand saying, ‘Piers! Let’s leave him for a while, maybe he wants to be alone.’
Chapter 4
In fact Oliver did want to be alone. He lay on his bed fighting back the tears which he’d promised himself the moment his dad died he would not allow. But God, it was hard. At twelve he thought tears were for wusses, not for a boy who would be in his teens very shortly. He stared at the old-fashioned wallpaper with the roses as big as cabbages dotted all over. What kind of wallpaper was that for a bedroom? It was rubbish, just like Myra. Never ever as long as he lived would he ever call her Mum. He didn’t know his mum, hadn’t the faintest memory of her. Dad had shown him pictures of her holding him when he was a baby, some faded snapshots of her holding his hand as he learned to toddle, and a clutch of photos taken from the only holiday they’d had together – a windswept beach under a grey sky. He tried to turn the pictures into memories, to bring them to life but he was only two when Piers was born and his mum was killed when Piers was three months old. For a moment he grieved not for her, but for himself never having known his mother.
So here he was, laid on this bed in this bedroom, alone, and what was worse, afraid. Afraid of going back to school and everyone knowing he was an orphan, and them all, even his close friends, feeling sorry for him. Afraid of Myra and her unpredicatability and that icy calm that sent shivers down his spine. Afraid that Uncle Graham would favour Piers and not like him just as his granny did. She truly was a nasty old bag. Piers had very kindly given him £2.50 from his money box to make up for the five pound note granny Butler had given Piers. Piers always shared the money she gave him, and he was tempted to refuse it out of pique but then he would have upset Piers. It wasn’t Piers’ fault his granny thought the sun shone out of his bottom. Brothers, especially ones with no Mum or Dad, had to stick together.
Oliver rolled over onto his back and, putting his hands behind his head, thought about his dad. He had the same name as his dad, John Oliver Butler, did that mean he’d be the same kind of person? Loving and laughing and kind. No matter how hard Uncle Graham tried, he didn’t sound as sincere as his own dad. He tried, oh how hard he tried, and he meant to be kind and jolly but it didn’t quite work. Perhaps with a bit more practice, a bit more experience of being a pretend father he might, just might learn how to do it right.
But those blessed kites he was so proud of! The sight of Uncle Graham prancing and dancing after his kite was enough to make a cat laugh. He was so clumsy, so awkward, Oliver was glad there was no one else in the field to see. He imagined having to go to Parent Teacher evenings with Uncle Graham and Auntie Myra in tow. What an image – her in her old-fashioned dowdy clothes and Uncle Graham trying so hard t
o be fatherly.
On the other hand he was glad his dad hadn’t chosen Delphine to take in the two of them. He’d have run away from her, he most definitely would; a backpack full of clothes, food from that cupboard she called her larder that had more spaces on the shelves than it had tins and jars. He’d have bought two pints of real milk instead of that horrible soya stuff she thought would do them good (even though she always kept proper stuff for her own tea, he’d noticed), and he and Piers would have sat in the bus shelter down the road and drunk their pints of proper milk right to the bottom, while they waited for a bus that would take them anywhere at all because nowhere could be worse than Delphine’s. The dried-up old stick that she was. Bitter, mean, and very peculiar.
He thought back to the biscuits he and Piers had just scoffed. He felt embarrassed about eating them all, but they couldn’t help themselves, and he was surprised how Myra didn’t appear to mind them being greedy. However, just as a precaution in case things went pear-shaped he’d have a stash of money and keep adding to it in case of an emergency. He’d ask Uncle Graham about pocket money and he wouldn’t spend his except for a very little bit then it would soon mount up. He studied the bedroom and decided the top shelf of the wardrobe would be best, inside a pair of socks. He had to stand on a chair to reach the very back of the top shelf of the wardrobe, and just as he almost overreached himself, the bedroom door burst open and he narrowly averted being knocked to the floor by clinging to the top shelf. It was Piers.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Ssshh! Close the door!’
Piers whispered, ‘Well, what are you doing?’
‘Don’t say a word downstairs,’ he pointed to the bedroom floor, ‘I’m storing money in case we decide we have to run away.’
Still whispering, Piers asked why should they want to run away?
‘Sometimes you are an idiot. It’s early days yet, but Myra might decide she doesn’t want us after all, or start acting like Delphine. We need a Plan B.’
‘Where would we run to?’
‘I haven’t thought about that, yet, but I will.’
‘Not Granny Butler’s, not Delphine’s, not Granny Stewart’s. And Auntie Susan’s flat smells terrible with all those cats. Last time I counted it was six and they make me wheeze. We’ve got nowhere to go. But I’ve got lots of money saved, shall we put mine with yours in the wardrobe?’
‘How much have you got?’
‘About fifteen pounds.’
‘Right. Give it to me and we’ll put it together and save it up. That’ll make twenty-one pounds fifty pence.’
‘That’s not enough.’
‘No, I know that, Piers, but it will start to add up because I’m going to ask Uncle Graham for some pocket money and we’ll save it all.’
‘But I like spending my pocket money. Like Dad always said, money burns a hole in my pocket.’
Oliver got down from the chair and grabbed Piers by the throat saying, ‘Don’t mention his name again, I don’t want to hear it. Right?!’
‘That hurt!’
‘It’ll hurt even more if you say his name again. So shut up.’
Shaken by the strange bullying tone of Oliver’s, Piers relayed his message to him, with a funny tremble in his voice.
‘I’ve come up to tell you supper’s almost ready and we have to go and shut Pete up for the night and check his water.’
‘Right. Remember, don’t breathe a word of our plans.’
‘We’re not really going to run away are we? The money’s just in case isn’t it?’
‘Shut up, Piers. Or else.’ Oliver shoved his fist under Piers’ chin and frightened him out of his wits with the threat in his voice. This wasn’t Oliver, not the real Oliver, what had happened to him? Where had he gone?
Together they went downstairs and out through the back door and with the torch Uncle Graham handed them, they went to shut up Pete for the night.
Crouching close together talking to Pete healed the breach a little, they were both good at one-sided conversations with Pete and they could keep going for ages when all they got for an answer was a glance from Pete’s warm brown eyes.
‘Do you think he’s settled yet, Oliver? I want to bring him inside.’
‘No, not yet. We’ll give him a week.’
They heard Myra calling, ‘Supper!’
Piers grabbed Pete, kissed the end of his twitchy little nose, popped him in the hutch and Oliver slammed the door shut before Pete could race back out. Piers watched Pete trying to scrabble his way back into the run. ‘I’m glad I’m not a rabbit, shut up all the time. Do you think we could let him out to run in the garden one day?’
‘If you want to lose him, fine. He’ll burrow his way out and that will be that.’
‘Supper! Come along, boys.’
‘That’s Myra again, better hurry up. “Wash your hands boys after touching the rabbit, not hygenic you see.”’ Oliver copied Myra’s voice exactly and Piers began to laugh and was still laughing when they reached the kitchen door.
‘Wash your hands boys after touching the rabbit, not hygenic you see,’ Myra reminded them.
Neither of them could help it, they immediately broke into even bigger peals of laughter and Myra was annoyed. ‘I don’t know what you find funny in that, you should always wash your hands before eating, plus heaven alone knows what you might have picked up from Pete.’ She turned to look at them and scalded herself with the hot water from the greens she was straining.
‘Run your hand under the cold tap, quick!’ Piers shouted and turned the cold tap on himself. Oliver busied himself straining the abandoned greens and began serving the food. Myra stood there with her scalded hand under the cold tap, her wrist gripped by Piers who’d no intention of letting go until he was satisfied he’d done all he could.
Uncle Graham came into the kitchen as Piers was allowing Myra to dab her wrist dry. ‘Dab not rub, remember. Fresh air is the best for scalds if there’s no broken skin, just a very red patch. Try not to catch it in case it blisters because then you might break the blister and that really will hurt. Sit down. That’s for shock, is sitting down.’
Myra, gratified by his obvious concern, asked where on earth he’d learned all this first aid.
‘We had a a nurse come to our class to teach us first aid. Scalds and burns were my speciality,’ Piers said proudly. ‘She said I was a natural. I remembered everything she told me. Dab not rub,’ he repeated.
‘All right, Myra?’ Graham inquired, cautiously. Normally Myra would have deemed herself in need of serious medical aid in similar circumstances, but for some reason she’d accepted Piers’ treatment without a murmur. ‘How did you do that?’ he asked.
Oliver spoke up. ‘Straining these greens. Is that enough veg for you, Uncle Graham?’
‘Yes, thanks. I must say the two of you are coping very well, I shall be redundant soon.’ He smiled that odd lopsided smile that made Oliver wonder if Uncle Graham ever did anything natural without having to think hard about it first.
Oliver placed Myra’s plate in front of her. The food wasn’t arranged on the plate as meticulously as she would have served it, and she couldn’t stop herself from saying so.
‘You’ve not served the food very tidily at all.’
Piers held his breath waiting for the inevitable outbreak of temper from Oliver.
‘I did my best. I saved you from having to do it when your hand hurts.’
‘It needs to be neater altogether, just remember that. Not potatoes covered by the greens and one sausage this side of the plate and the other sausage half hidden under the sage and onion stuffing.’
Oliver looked down at the floor for a moment, then without warning he swept Myra’s supper plate and all the food on it off the table and onto the floor. In a voice full of scorn he shouted, ‘Is that neat enough?’ and left the kitchen. For the second time that day they heard him climbing the stairs, slamming the door and flinging himself on his bed.
Piers had ha
lf a mind to run after him to avoid Myra’s reaction but somehow he was pinned to his chair by panic.
Uncle Graham, stunned by the situation, sat motionless too. It was the most dramatic thing that had happened in that kitchen since the day the two of them, full of happiness, moved in.
Myra couldn’t understand why Oliver had done what he’d done, all she’d spoken was the truth. What was wrong with the truth? He’d have to come and clean it up, and eat it and she’d eat his. As she headed for the stairs a dull flush crept over her cheeks, an outward sign of the temper boiling within. Without knocking on the bedroom door – why should she, it was her house, she reasoned – she flung it open and said in her icy tight-lipped tone, ‘Come downstairs and get your supper. Now, this minute, and you can eat the food you flung on the floor.’
Oliver’s answer was to turn over and let his back say it all.
‘Do you hear me?’
She got no reply. Then she made the biggest mistake yet. She took hold of his arm and tried to drag him off the bed, but Oliver – well versed in fights with his brother – had both hands wedged under the edge of the mattress with his weight laid on them and he held on, and so long as he kicked out hard with his feet, he knew she wouldn’t be able to move him. Myra, not having done anything really physical in years, let alone faced the stubborn rage of a twelve-year-old boy, couldn’t get him off the bed.
‘I said, go downstairs and eat your supper.’
Silence.
More angry than she could ever remember being, his silence aggravated her into saying the unforgivable. ‘I never wanted the two of you in the first place, and if you think you can behave badly and get away with it with me, you’re very much mistaken. I’ll send you back to Delphine and you can see how you like that. She’ll be glad. I’ll keep Piers but not you. You wicked boy. Now do as I say.’
But Oliver, devastated by her threat, didn’t move a single inch. He didn’t beg, didn’t argue, didn’t do anything except weep inside, which she could neither hear nor see.
