by Julia Blake
‘Scott,’ I exclaimed, tripping over the corner of the threadbare rug and launching myself tipsily into his arms, nearly emptying the contents of my glass down his front. I looked up into his face and felt his arms tighten as he took my full weight.
‘Hello,’ I giggled. ‘Ruth’s taking me to the West Indies.’
‘That’s nice,’ he replied, hauling me upright and taking the glass from me. ‘But now, I think it might be a good idea if I take my two favourite ladies out and get them some food to keep their wine company.’
‘Marvellous idea,’ agreed Ruth, getting slowly to her feet, sober as a judge. ‘The pub in the village has a very impressive wine list, food’s not bad either,’ she added as an afterthought.
‘I don’t think Eve should drink anymore,’ Scott decreed, picking up my handbag and attempting to thread it onto my arm.
‘Spoilsport,’ I pouted, the room revolving very pleasantly around my head.
‘She’s a big girl,’ barked Ruth. ‘She can decide for herself.’
‘Yes I can,’ I agreed solemnly, the effect somewhat spoilt by my wobbling.
‘I don’t want her to be ill,’ Scott snapped, putting an arm around my shoulder and turning me towards the door. I saw him glare at Ruth. Much to my surprise, she flushed and bit her lip, coarse brick red colour washing her lined cheeks. A look passed between them, a look I couldn’t understand, a look which later, when my hangover had passed and I tried to remember and analyse the events of the day, I couldn’t even be totally sure I’d seen at all.
Working for Ruth was certainly an experience, although I made sure after that whenever I joined her to share a bottle or two of wine, my stomach was well and truly full of food. I’d never seen anyone drink as much as she could and still remain lucid. Although admiring of her stamina, was also concerned as to what it was doing to her brain cells and her liver, yet when I dared bring up the subject, she dismissed my fears with a resolute, ‘I’m seventy two years old, I’ve been drinking red wine since I was eleven, what’s it going to do? Kill me?’
Jamaica was a revelation to me. Stunningly beautiful, I couldn’t get enough of the heat and the sun. When Ruth took to her air conditioned room, wilting from the temperature, I gladly visited the library and archives in Kingston, bringing back my findings and impressions to her each evening. I also visited an old sugar plantation, listening, filling page after page with notes, as a local historian whom Ruth had arranged for me to meet, talked about what life would have been like. In all, it was a magical week.
On our last evening we ate dinner on the terrace overlooking the sea, Ruth consuming almost double her normal quantity of red wine as well as native rum punches, which she’d taken a liking too. It was late, I supposed we should be getting to bed, mindful of the long journey home, but couldn’t bring myself to leave my view of the sea. Ruth too seemed happily settled in her spacious armchair, sipping at rum punches, every now and then her head lolling back in her chair.
‘Shame you’re not here with your young man, instead of a crusty old bird like me,’ she commented suddenly. I opened my eyes and smiled at her.
‘Well, it would be, if I had a young man,’ I replied dreamily, reluctant to break the beauty of the evening with talk.
‘No, I mean Nigel or Scott as I know he likes to be called.’
‘Scott’s not my young man,’ I said firmly.
‘Why not?’ she snorted, ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘Nothing,’ I laughed. ‘He just doesn’t think of me in that way...’
‘Don’t be such a ninny,’ she scoffed, ‘Boy’s head over heels in love with you, Eve, has been for years.’ Carefully, I pulled myself upright in my chair and turned to look at her. She sipped her drink and stared steadily back.
‘What do you mean?’ I asked slowly, feeling my heart stutter inside my chest.
‘Exactly what I said,’ she stated firmly, and I shook my head in confusion.
‘But, he’s never said, never even hinted that he might,’ I broke off and bit my lip, shock making me incautious. ‘All this time I’ve waited and hoped, but he’s never... no!’ I shook my head. ‘You’re wrong, if he has feelings for me why hasn’t he said something, done something?’
‘Well, why haven’t you?’ Ruth answered my question with another question.
‘Because he never gave me even the slightest reason to hope,’ I cried hotly. ‘Because he’s so emotionally constipated, I seriously doubt he’s capable of love, let alone is in love with me.’
‘He has good reason why he’s that way,’ Ruth stated.
‘Well, I wish you’d tell me what they are,’ I exclaimed bitterly, throwing myself back in my chair in exasperation. She fell silent, staring thoughtfully at me over the rim of her glass. I rubbed at my eyes in weary despair, hearing the faint crashing of the sea on the shore, feeling the breeze waft across my face, drying tears which had barely had a chance to form.
‘Alright,’ she suddenly said. ‘I’ll tell you, and then you’ll understand.’
Ruth had been an old friend of Scott’s family since long before he was born, being best friends with his mother. We went to university together, she explained, and stayed in close touch, even after their lives diverged onto completely different paths. Ruth became an author, remaining resolutely single and gaining more fame and fortune with every successful novel. Scott’s mother married fairly late in life, a marriage which Ruth strongly advised her against, having heard through the grapevine what a cold fish her fiancé was and how the gossip mills were buzzing over the fact he was only marrying her for her money. Scott’s mother came from money, new money; his father came from an old title, was practically penniless.
It’s not uncommon, Ruth said, and, if both parties are aware of the terms of the marriage, then it can work out reasonably well for all concerned. But, if one partner is in love and believes themselves loved in return, the truth can come as a violent and shocking blow. Scott’s mother, unfortunately, did not become aware of the real state of affairs until after the ink had dried on the marriage contract and she’d passed over great chunks of her fortune to her husband.
Ruth had to sit back and watch, with growing frustration and anger, as Scott’s father turned a loving and bright girl into a quietly miserable woman, slowly dying by degrees, trapped in a cold and loveless marriage. Constantly urging her to leave her husband, Ruth was stunned when her friend announced her pregnancy and the net tightened around her.
Being an older mother there were naturally concerns about her health and when it was discovered she was carrying twins. Twins? I sat bolt upright at this point. Yes, continued Ruth firmly. Scott was the oldest of twins, born five minutes before his brother Samuel, and never had two brothers been as close as those two, even to the extent they had their own language. Extremely disconcerting it had been too, listening to them babbling away to each other.
Anyway, Scott’s mother asked her to be godmother, and, for a while, it looked as though things would turn out alright after all. Scott’s father had been softened by the birth of the heir and the spare, Scott’s mother had her two little boys to love and fill the emotional void in her life.
Then, disaster struck, Scott’s mother complained one day of not feeling well, before collapsing half way through a charity lunch in aid of the local hospice. She never regained consciousness, dying at thirty eight of an aneurism. The boys, at the time, were only three.
Ruth did the best she could, but her career was skyrocketing and the demands on her time were many. She did help find the boys a nanny though, a loving yet practical woman whom Ruth felt confident leaving in charge of two little devastated and lonely boys. With the loss of their mother, their world, quite understandably, had collapsed around them. Their father, always a dim and distant figure, retreated even further into his own thoughts and paid them no attention at all.
> Things limped on for a few years, the boys clinging more and more to each other, communicating only with one another, their nanny and Ruth during her occasional visits. Their exclusion of the outside world growing so complete they rarely spoke English anymore, conversing with each other easily in their own private twin talk.
Then, Ruth received an emotional phone call from the boys’ nanny. She’d been let go, the father had decided the boys needed to go to school. Horrified to hear them jabbering to each other like a little pair of monkeys, he’d enrolled them in a boarding school eighty miles away.
In vain did Ruth fly home and plead with him to change his mind. The boys were only seven years old, she’d raged, far too young to be sent so far away from home. If they must go to school, and she agreed they probably should, then could they not attend the excellent local primary school so they could at least come home each evening?
But, his mind was made up and Ruth was abruptly reminded of the limits of her power as godmother, going to visit the boys in their new school before flying sadly back to America to finish the book signing tour she was contracted to complete.
Scott didn’t really mind school so much. More confident and outgoing than his brother, if he’d been alone he would have settled in easily, maybe would even have enjoyed having his keen intelligence stretched by such a rigidly structured educational institution. Although he missed his home, his nanny, the freedom he’d had to roam about the grounds and do as he pleased, had the sense to understand the situation could not have continued forever. The absence of his father meant nothing to him, neither boy understood what it meant to have a loving parent, having only had a brief taste of a mother’s love and none at all of a father’s.
But Samuel hated school, backward, insecure and shy, he clung to his brother, depending on him to protect and buffer him against the rough and tumble of an all boys’ private boarding school, crying himself to sleep every night, becoming more and more introverted. Speaking only in twin talk, he desperately tried to get back to the world he’d lived in all his life, where he and his brother had freedom, peace and solitude. Observing this, the school, with the heedless cruelty of adults in authority and with their father’s permission, separated them, placing them in different houses and classes, hoping this would sever the cord that tied Samuel so tightly to his brother.
Scared and alone, missing his brother, worried how Samuel would cope without him, Scott too went into a decline. His schoolwork suffered, teachers who’d previously been happy with his progress now held emergency meetings to discuss the worsening problem of the twins. Not seeming to understand if they’d let Scott see Samuel, talk to him, reassure him everything was going to be alright, reassure himself Samuel was coping, the problem would have resolved itself. Stubbornly, they persisted in their agreed policy, the twins had been separated for their own good, and apart they would remain until they had worked their way through this nonsense.
One night, Scott awoke, groggy with sleep, his brother’s distress and cries for help ringing in his head. He crept from his bed and silently slipped from the room, making his way down darkened corridors looking eerily different in the dim light. Emerging into the night, he’d stopped for a moment to gain his bearings and saw a light flash someway ahead of him, down by the river. Without thinking, he made his way towards it, almost sleepwalking, believing Samuel was waiting there for him.
He was almost to the river when he stumbled and came to his senses, snapping out of his dreamlike state to stare around at the silent moonlit world in dismay. Disorientated and scared, he turned, all thoughts of trying to reach Samuel fleeing his confused thoughts, all he wanted now was to find his way back to his dorm and get back into bed before someone found him.
‘Who’s that?’ ‘Quick, grab him!’ Suddenly he was surrounded, hands reaching out and grabbing him, silencing his yells with big clammy palms. They seemed like giants, but were in fact a small group of older boys, sneaking out to meet in the old boat house where they kept their illicit supply of booze and fags. ‘Who is it?’ ‘Dunno, one of the small kids.’
‘Bring him with us, quick, keep him quiet or he’ll wake the whole school.’
Frantically struggling, scared beyond belief, Scott was carried into the old boat house and dumped on the floor, staring in wide eyed terror at the three boys who were already sitting there, recognising one as Wilkinson, rugby captain and hero of practically all the school. ‘What’s this?’ Wilkinson asked mildly, blowing an impressive ring of smoke and eyeing Scott curiously.
‘Found him wandering around outside,’ one of the others explained, and Wilkinson leant forward for a closer look. ‘It’s one of those twins,’ exclaimed another.
‘So it is,’ Wilkinson’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully, he prodded Scott’s trembling body with his foot, ‘Which one are you?’ he demanded, ‘The quiet one or the weird one?’
Scott could only stare back in mute terror, and Wilkinson frowned in annoyance, prodding him again, repeating his question. When Scott still sat in petrified silence, one of the other boys roughly shook him. ‘Answer his question.’
‘The... the quiet one...’ stammered Scott, felt the guilt of disloyalty burn inside, as if by his words he’d somehow betrayed his brother, was agreeing with them, yes, Samuel was weird. His cheeks burnt with shame and his mind soared outwards as if seeking his brother, begging forgiveness for his treachery.
‘What were you doing roaming around outside?’ demanded Wilkinson, pulling again on his cigarette and blowing smoke into Scott’s face.
‘Looking for my brother...’ Scott stuttered and Wilkinson snorted.
‘Well, you won’t find him here, that’s for sure. The thing is...’ he paused, lifted a can of beer to his lips and swigged thirstily, eying Scott over the rim. ‘The thing is,’ he smiled nastily. ‘What do we do with you now?’ There was an uneasy movement amongst the other boys. Scott saw the two sitting with Wilkinson exchange worried glances behind his back. ‘You’ve seen us now, you could tell on us...’
‘I won’t, I promise!’ interrupted Scott desperately, his seven year old heart pumping frantically, now convinced Wilkinson meant to kill him.
‘That’s not really good enough though, is it?’ commented Wilkinson mildly.
‘Steady on Wilkie,’ pleaded one of the others. ‘He’s just a kid.’ Wilkinson glared at him. The boy swallowed, licked his lips nervously, yet stood his ground and Scott gazed hopefully at his champion. ‘He’s just a little kid,’ the boy repeated. ‘Can’t you see he’s scared shitless?’
There was a long pause. Scott could feel the tension emanating from the others as the power struggle raged silently in the intense stares of Wilkinson and the other boy. Then Wilkinson shrugged, smiled, and the tension broke.
‘You’re right, Mitch, of course you’re right, he is just a kid,’ he turned and smiled at Scott, a mirthless smile that had Scott shrinking back as if from a rabid dog. ‘Of course we’re not going to harm you,’ he reassured and gestured expansively with his can, ‘And to show there’s no hard feelings, someone get the kid a drink.’
‘I don’t want one,’ Scott squeaked, and the smile tightened.
‘Now you really don’t want to offend me, kid, I said, you’ll have a drink with us.’
‘But Wilkie...’ protested Mitch. Wilkinson gave him a long narrow-eyed gaze that had Mitch reddening and stumbling back, mumbling an apology as another boy handed Scott a can.
‘Drink,’ ordered Wilkinson.
‘But, I don’t want...’
‘I said drink!’ roared Wilkinson. Shaking with renewed terror, Scott put the can to his mouth and drank. The first swallow was foul. Scott fought to keep it from coming straight back up, choking and spluttering as the other boys laughed and clapped him on the back.
‘Swallow it down, kid, that’s right,’ demanded Wilkinson, highly amused with Scott’s disc
omfort, ‘We’ll make a man of you yet.’
What happened after that was the stuff of nightmares. Would haunt the man he became for the rest of his life. He was held down by the others and literally forced to drink, Wilkinson pouring beer down his throat, laughing when it bubbled back up, sitting him upright and thumping him on the back until he swallowed, forcing him to drink more and more and more, until Scott felt he would surely burst at the seams, his small body couldn’t possibly hold it all.
He desperately needed the toilet but they wouldn’t stop. Finally, shaking in shame and terror he’d wet himself, and the spreading stain on his pyjamas caused them to laugh even more. Dimly, through his tears and the jeers of the others, he could hear the nice one, the one called Mitch, begging them to stop, his voice shrill with fear they were going to kill him.
Finally, Scott’s body could take no more and began to void itself. Endlessly and helplessly, he writhed in agony, as his system fought to reject the huge quantities of alcohol it had been forced to consume in such a short space of time.
The boys drew back, watching as his body bucked and retched, fell silent, frightened realisation dawning they’d gone too far, nervously looking to their leader for guidance. When Scott at last lay still, Wilkinson knelt beside him, gingerly avoiding the sticky splattered piles of vomit and diarrhoea, grabbed Scott’s hair, forced his head up so Scott had no choice but to stare into Wilkinson’s cold grey eyes, his vision blurry through a sea of tears and terror, panic and pain.
‘Now listen, kid,’ ordered Wilkinson. ‘You tell anyone, anyone, about us, this place, I’ll know. You even think about talking, I’ll know, and do you know what’ll happen?’ Numbly, Scott shook his head. Wilkinson leant closer, his voice a whisper. ‘Someone will die,’ he stated flatly. Scott’s eyes rolled back into his head in terror and he passed out, the sound of Wilkinson’s laugh ringing in his ears.
What happened after that, Ruth couldn’t say for sure, but Scott had been found, unconscious and seeped in his own waste, dumped outside the nurse’s office. He’d been rushed to hospital, where excessive alcohol consumption had been diagnosed, the doctor’s lips pursing in disgust at such a thing in so young a boy.
