Moon Pie

by Simon Mason

  ‘Dad’s room is messy,’ Tug said happily. Tug liked messy rooms.

  ‘He should clean it,’ Martha said. ‘I’ll tell him.’

  At last, under Dad’s bed, they found a large pile of letters, all unopened.

  As soon as she saw them Martha’s heart began to race.

  But she controlled herself.

  ‘Here they are,’ she said calmly.

  ‘Why does Dad collect letters, Martha?’

  ‘Because he’s strange, Tug. Bring them into my room now. We have to sort them out.’

  There were many letters which were uninteresting, from companies offering credit cards or other special deals, and some that were only moderately interesting, such as those from their schools, which requested information about Martha’s recent absences or asked Dad to go in to discuss Tug’s behaviour. These they took downstairs and put in the dustbin. But there were three letters that Martha kept.

  The first was a handwritten note from Dr Woodley, dated a week earlier. It said:

  Dear Mr Luna,

  Can we make an appointment to discuss the results of your blood test, which are just in? There are some things, in fact, which we need to talk about straight away.

  We’ve been trying to get you on the phone, but have failed to reach you, so I’m dropping this in. Perhaps you are away.

  Do get in touch asap.

  Best,

  Geoffrey Woodley (Dr)

  The second was a long, typewritten letter on paper headed ‘Social Services Department’ and dated two weeks earlier. It was not easy to understand. It asked Dad to contact a member of the ‘Children in Need’ team to arrange an appointment to see them, and drew his attention to an enclosed brochure headed What is an Assessment? which began ‘Either you, or someone else on your behalf, has asked the social services departments for help with some difficulty you are having which affects your child (or children)’.

  The third was another handwritten letter, from Grandma, and was also dated a fortnight earlier. It was short:

  You leave us with no option but to contact the Social Services. This we have now done. We very much regret the necessity of this, and resent the fact that you have put us in this position. Regardless of what you think about us, we trust you agree that the safety and well-being of Martha and Christopher are of the first importance.

  P.S. We are not the sort of people who ever thought we would have to do this sort of thing.

  Martha arranged these three letters on the carpet and thought about them, while Tug watched her gravely.

  ‘Dad gets a lot of letters, doesn’t he, Martha?’ he said.

  She didn’t reply; she was thinking. She’d got it wrong again. Dr Woodley hadn’t contacted the Social Services; Grandma and Grandpa had. Dr Woodley’s receptionist had phoned and phoned, but Dad hadn’t answered her calls.

  ‘Tug,’ she said, ‘There are things in these letters that I can’t talk to you about. You’re too small. I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Tug said humbly. He knew he was small.

  ‘But I’ll have to talk to Dad about them when he gets back.’

  ‘Yes, Martha.’

  ‘Now it’s time for bed. It’s very late. I shouldn’t have kept you up.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ He thought for a minute. ‘Did we have tea?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did we have?’

  ‘Sausages.’

  ‘How many sausages did I have?’

  ‘Five. And half of one of mine.’

  ‘That’s a lot, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘All right then. I’ll go to bed.’

  She helped him into his pyjamas, and took him to the bathroom to clean his teeth, and then she read him a few pages from Gobble, Gobble, Slip, Slop.

  ‘Good night, Martha. Is the light on?’

  She put the light on. ‘Yes, it’s on. Good night, Tug.’

  As she was going out of the door, she heard him say something, and turned back. ‘What is it?’

  When he spoke his voice was unusually quiet. ‘Are we all right, Martha?’

  Her breath caught in her throat. ‘Yes, Tug. We’re all right.’

  ‘But are we really?’

  She looked at him lying in his bed, the blunt shape of his head half-hidden under the duvet, and for a moment her lip quivered. Then she put on a cheerful voice. ‘Tug,’ she said. ‘We’re better than all right. We’re tremendous.’

  She heard him give a peaceful sigh and, almost before she left the room, his breathing deepened and she knew he had fallen asleep already.

  24

  She waited up for Dad, sitting at the kitchen table in her dressing gown. Through the window overlooking the garden, she could see the moon in the sky.

  Like flint, she thought. Like a bit of shell. Sharp enough to draw blood.

  She got up and shut the blinds. She didn’t want to see the moon any more. She didn’t like the way it looked.

  It was 10.30 p.m., quiet and cool. She had all the lights on, not just in the kitchen, but in the hall and the front room, and upstairs too. It felt safer. On the table in front of her were the three letters she had found under Dad’s bed. She studied them again, first the one from Grandma and Grandpa, then the one from Dr Woodley, then the one from the Social Services, making sure she knew what each of them meant. It was clear enough. Dr Woodley couldn’t help Dad because Dad wouldn’t let him. Grandma and Grandpa were too angry to help him. And the Social Services were going to take her and Tug away so they didn’t see Dad again.

  She pushed away the letters, and sat there with her eyes closed and her heart beating fast.

  For weeks things had been getting worse, little problems slowly getting bigger. Now, suddenly, they were too big for her to do anything about. It didn’t matter that she was eleven. Like Tug, she was too small to help. There was only one person who could sort things out now. Dad.

  The problem with Dad was that he didn’t realize how bad things had become. Before, whenever Martha tried to explain, he just cracked a joke, or slipped away to the shed, or acted strange. Now she had to make him see how really bad it all was. The letters proved it. If she could just persuade him to read the letters, he would have to take everything much more seriously. He would have to do something. After all, however strange he had become, he was still an adult.

  She took a deep breath and pointed her nose at the clock on the wall. It was 11.00 p.m. now, and she was sleepy. All I have to do, she said to herself, is make him read the letters. I can do that.

  Then she waited quietly at the table for him to come in.

  He was late. Time went by, and she got sleepier and sleepier. The kitchen clock said 11.30 p.m., and then 11.45 p.m. Finally, just before midnight, still sitting at the table, she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer. Her head fell forward, her small nose hid itself in the collar of her dressing gown and at last she fell asleep.

  As she slept, she dreamed. She dreamed that she was all alone in the park, having a picnic by herself, feeling lonely. Overhead, the sky turned black and all the stars came out one by one. The moon appeared, weak and trembling like a beam of torchlight, and she was gazing up at it, wondering who had switched it on, when suddenly it turned into a shiny face. Somewhere nearby a goose honked once, very loudly, like a front door slammed shut, and she sat up with a gasp.

  The clock said 2.30 a.m., and Dad was standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

  He didn’t say, ‘Surprise!’ He didn’t say, ‘Picnic!’ He swayed and clutched the door frame.

  She stared at him in terror.

  His pullover was inside out, there were leaves in his hair, his face was slack and shiny and he looked at her suspiciously, as if he didn’t know who she was. He didn’t look like Dad at all. He looked like a stranger: a man from the street.

  She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t take her eyes off him either, and they stared at each other in silence.

  At last her voice c
ame back, a little quavery, and she said what she had planned to say: ‘I’ve got something to show you.’

  Although he showed no sign that he had heard her, he came into the room, very carefully, like a man balancing something on his head, and sat down at the table. He had a startled, wary look, as if he didn’t understand where he was.

  She could smell him now. He smelled of paint and perfume and dirt.

  ‘There,’ she said, and pushed the letters across the table.

  Frowning, he began to read them, and Martha watched him.

  After a long time he looked up at her. His face was pale, his smile crooked. His eyes were bright and narrow. ‘Bad day for mail,’ he said, in a sticky voice.

  ‘They were under your bed. You hadn’t opened them.’

  He stared at her. ‘I was waiting,’ he said at last.

  ‘Waiting for what?’

  ‘Waiting for a good day.’ Running his hands through his hair, he picked out some leaves and looked at them in surprise. ‘All the days have been bad,’ he added.

  ‘Everything’s bad. You can see that now, can’t you?’

  He didn’t say anything.

  ‘Dad. You have to do something.’

  He slowly rubbed his face. ‘I agree.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Go to bed.’

  He got up and pushed the chair away, and it fell on its side.

  She got up too and, though she was trembling, she stood up as straight as she could and pointed her nose at him. ‘Don’t go! I have to talk to you.’

  Ignoring her, he began to move away, putting his arms out to keep his balance, and again he seemed like a man she didn’t know, a big, shambling man stumbling around in her house. He wasn’t Dad any more, he was The Stranger. Her heart began to race again, and she knew she had to say something quickly before he left. ‘You’re drunk,’ she said.

  He stopped, and slowly turned to face her. A muscle moved in his jaw.

  She took a deep breath and looked him in the eye, and said, ‘You’re an alcoholic, aren’t you?’

  He didn’t say anything.

  ‘I know you are,’ she went on. ‘I’ve been reading about you. Grandma and Grandpa know you are too, and Olivia knows, and now the Social Services know as well.’

  He glared at her with stranger’s eyes, and her skin crawled, but she made herself go on: ‘If you don’t stop drinking, Dad, Tug and me will have to go and live with other people. You’ll be on your own then. You won’t like it on your own,’ she added. ‘And Tug won’t. And,’ she said, quietly now, ‘I won’t either.’

  ‘All right,’ Dad said. ‘I’ll stop.’

  ‘Good. How will you stop?’

  ‘I’ll keep my mouth closed so the drink can’t get in.’

  Her heart sank. ‘Dad, it’s serious. You’ve seen the letters. You’ve got to do something.’

  He stood looking at her, and his eyes were so hard and small she started to get upset, she couldn’t help it. ‘You’ve got to do something because I can’t do it any more.’

  ‘Do what?’ he said.

  Her voice was cracking now, and her words came out in a teary rush as she tried to think of all the things he had to do: ‘You have to talk to Dr Woodley.

  ‘And you have to say sorry to Olivia.

  ‘And you have to see an Alcohol Counsellor.

  ‘And you have to explain things to the Social Services.

  ‘And be nice to Tug.

  ‘And you have to make friends with Grandma and Grandpa.’

  She paused, panting.

  ‘Anything else?’ Dad sneered.

  She thought wildly in case she’d forgotten something. ‘Yes. You have to tidy your room.’

  Lurching sideways, he snatched a mug from the draining board and hurled it against the wall, where it exploded into bits with a crash.

  Everything came to a sudden stop. She stood with her mouth open, staring at Dad, who stood there glaring back at her, and there was no sound at all in the room, not even the sound of breathing.

  Then they heard feet drumming on the stairs, and Tug appeared in the doorway in his pyjamas, holding on to his hair. ‘Martha!’ he cried. ‘I heard banging, Martha!’

  He ran past Dad, and she caught him up and held him, and Dad turned away from them with a groan and lurched out of the room. They heard his clumsy steps on the stairs, and the slam of his bedroom door.

  Tug was whimpering. ‘I didn’t like the banging, Martha.’

  She comforted him.

  ‘I don’t like Dad banging.’

  ‘It’s OK, Tug. He’s stopped banging. It’s over now.’

  For ten minutes they stayed in the kitchen holding each other and listening for sounds from Dad’s room. It was silent. At last they went together out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Tug shrank against her as they went past Dad’s door, and Martha felt herself shrink too.

  ‘I don’t like him being strange,’ he whispered.

  ‘I know you don’t,’ she whispered back. ‘I don’t like it either. But don’t cry any more. We’re going to be all right now.’

  ‘Are we?’

  ‘Yes, we are.’

  ‘Martha?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are we going to be tremendous, Martha?’

  But she didn’t say anything to that, and they went quietly into his room together.

  25

  Friday was the last day of term before the summer holidays. Lessons ended at lunchtime, and the children came out of school and ran into the streets, to the bus stops and shops. In the park there were children everywhere, standing in gangs round the benches, chasing each other across the tennis courts, playing football on the lawns marked NO BALL GAMES, hanging round the café talking. Their laughter echoed in the tennis courts and across the lake.

  Martha and Tug walked together towards the library.

  ‘Why did it make the noise?’ Tug asked again.

  ‘Because it smashed.’

  ‘Why did it smash?’

  ‘Because he threw it.’

  ‘Why did he throw it at you?’

  ‘He didn’t throw it at me, Tug. He threw it against the wall.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’d been drinking. You know what that does to him. I explained it to you, didn’t I?’

  ‘It makes him strange.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And it makes him throw mugs at people.’

  Martha put her hand to her head, and closed her eyes, and breathed slowly.

  At the library she exchanged her old books for three new ones – What Social Workers Do, What is Social Work: Context and Perspectives and The Social Services Inspectorate: Who We Are and What We Do – and Tug took out Munch!

  The librarian gave her a funny look.

  Coming out of the library, they walked back across the park towards home, going in a roundabout way across the grass to avoid the geese by the pond.

  They walked slowly. Even Tug noticed how ill Martha was looking. Her pale face was paler than ever, almost white against her copper-coloured hair, her eyes were sore and her nose looked small and pinched. Twice in the morning – in English and Maths – she’d felt dizzy, and had left her lessons to lie down in the Medical Room until the dizziness passed.

  ‘Martha?’

  ‘Yes, Tug?’

  ‘Will Dad throw a mug at me?’

  ‘No, Tug. He doesn’t throw mugs at people.’

  ‘Will he throw one at my wall?’

  They walked past the ornamental flowerbeds, Tug asking questions about Dad and Martha trying to ignore her headache, and when they came to the park gates they were surprised by Grandma and Grandpa, who were waiting there for them.

  ‘Hello, Martha. Hello, Christopher. Are you well, Martha? You look pale.’

  Martha forced herself to smile. ‘I’m fine, thank you.’

  ‘Grandpa and I hoped we might see you here. It’s the first day of the holidays, isn’t it? We�
�ve brought you some holiday spending money.’

  Grandpa’s smile was short and cheery, and Grandma’s smile was long and white.

  ‘We’re not going on holiday,’ Tug said. As he said this he moved behind Martha.

  ‘But you can have a little spending money, anyway,’ Grandma said. ‘Surely?’

  Tug thought about this. ‘All right,’ he said, and sidled out again.

  Grandma kept smiling. ‘It’s such a beautiful day. Shall we have an ice cream together? Would you like an ice cream, Christopher?’

  Tug thought he would.

  Martha was doubtful.

  ‘Please, Martha,’ Tug said. ‘If you don’t want yours,’ he added considerately, ‘I don’t mind having it for you.’

  So they went to the café in the park. It was an old-fashioned café, with coffee machines that steamed and hissed, and trays of sweets and cakes, and tubs of different flavoured ice cream in a long glass case.

  Sitting at a table in the window, away from the steam, Grandma began to talk.

  She said that although they hadn’t seen much of Martha and Tug recently, they thought about them a lot. They were worried about them, Grandma said. And they were worried about Dad, in a different way.

  ‘I’m afraid you must be worried too,’ she said.

  ‘We’re very bored of him,’ Tug said. He would have said more, but he had just finished his Strawberry Ripple and was starting on Martha’s Mint Choc Chip.

  Martha didn’t say anything. Despite her headache, she was thinking hard about what Grandma was saying. She knew that Grandma was angry with Dad – so angry she had written to the Social Services and told them things about him. It made her wonder what Grandma would tell them now if she found out that Dad was getting worse.

  Grandma was saying how sorry she was for Dad with all his problems which he seemed unable to solve, and how difficult it must be for him to get a new job in his current state of health, and how hard it is, in any case, to bring up children on your own, though somehow she had always known, almost from the beginning, that he would find it impossible, when the time came, to meet his responsibilities.

  ‘No, we’re not worried,’ Martha said suddenly.

  Grandma stopped talking and looked at her through narrowed eyes.