I had sat by the window for over an hour (perhaps longer), listening to it. A few times I thought it had gone, but then it would return, revving louder than ever, like a wild animal staking out its territory. What did the biker in black leather want?
Finally, after a twenty minute silence, I decided it had gone for good and went to bed. But I kept gasping awake, imagining I’d heard it, and rushing to the window again . . . and again.
After the swim in the near-empty pool, I went to the changing rooms and saw Trey Slater sitting on one of the benches. Trey was in the same class as me (and in the swimming team).
‘You haven’t got much time, Trey,’ I said. ‘School starts in fifteen minutes.’
‘I’ve had my swim,’ he said. ‘I’m getting dressed, not undressed.’
‘I didn’t see you in there!’
‘Well, I was. Your shoulder looked okay.’
‘It’s fine, yes.’
I dried myself, then started to put my clothes on.
‘How . . . how did it all go yesterday?’ Trey asked.
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘How’s your mum?’
‘Fine.’
‘And you?’
‘Fine, fine.’
I could see him struggling with his tie. What is wrong with people like him? He’s been wearing the school uniform since he was eleven! Hasn’t he bloody learnt how to tie the knot by now?
He caught me looking at him.
‘I usually manage to take it off without the knot coming undone,’ he said. ‘So I can . . . you know. Slip it back on. But today . . . no such luck.’
‘I can see that, yes.’
He wants me to help him – obviously – but I am not going to offer. If he needs my assistance, then he’s just going to have to bloody well ask. I don’t care if he feels humiliated. He should feel humiliated. It will teach him a lesson. Boys like him irritate me. They strut around boasting about all the girls they’ve had sex with, or want to have sex with, and they use obscene – and often sacrilegious! – language to do it with, and they . . . they eat with their mouth full and yawn in class and pick their nose for all to see, and think it’s humorous to urinate in the communal showers and . . . and they all consider themselves to be so strong and ‘real men’ but they have no concept – none whatsoever! – of personal hygiene or how to get a proper crease in their trousers or how to polish their shoes correctly. I cannot believe how shoddily some of them look during morning assembly. Why hasn’t one of the teachers – why hasn’t the headmaster!? – said something? Am I the only one who notices these things? Am I the only one who cares!?
‘Can you . . . do my tie, please?’ Trey asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ I said.
I stood in front of him.
I lifted his shirt collar.
‘Your top button’s undone,’ I said.
‘I like it like that.’
‘It’s better for the tie – more proper generally – if the shirt’s buttoned all the way up.’
‘Do you want me to do it up, then?’
‘Yes, please.’
I watched him button it, then smoothed his tie between my fingers.
‘It’d be easier if you gave it a good ironing, Trey.’
‘Mum irons it whenever she washes it.’
‘It needs to be ironed every day.’
‘Every day!’
‘Stand still please!’
I could feel Trey’s breath on my face. It smelt of mint, which was better than the habitual halitosis favoured by most of the boys. I’d never seen Trey’s teeth this close before, and I was surprised at how straight they were. And – with the exception of one incisor – pleasingly white.
He asked. ‘You . . . you finished yet?’
‘Nearly.’
I completed the knot, then smoothed his collar down around it. I started to straighten the shoulders of his shirt but –
‘Don’t bother with that.’ He pulled away. ‘Thanks.’ He put his blazer on, then hovered, obviously wondering if he should hang around for me to finish dressing.
I decided to put him out of his misery.
‘You go on ahead, Trey.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes, yes.’
It was a huge relief not to have Trey jittering beside me. And an even greater relief not to have to walk to school with him. True, the journey only takes six minutes (at a steady trot), but trying to make conversation with Trey Slater would’ve made it feel like a shoeless trek across the Sahara. Without water. With a migraine. Being stung by scorpions.
I was halfway to school when I heard the motorbike.
At first, I couldn’t see it but then –
There! It was coming round the corner opposite The Oasis. The biker looked in my direction. He pulled the bike over to the curb. He started revving the engine, slowly, rhythmically, as if enticing me to come closer.
I looked at my watch. It was five minutes to nine. If I walked back to the biker I would most certainly be late for school. And I have never been late. Not once in six years. I was the only pupil who had that record. Ever! Was it worth losing that for the sake of –
‘My goodness! I wasn’t expecting to see you today!’
It was Miss Morris, my English teacher. She was clutching a pile of exercise books and a (very full) briefcase.
‘You looked lost in thought,’ she went on. ‘Nothing wrong, I hope?’
‘Nothing wrong at all, Miss. I was just trying to remember if . . .’
‘Mmm?’
‘If I had my packed lunch on me!’
‘And have you?’
I looked in my satchel. ‘Yes! It’s there! Phew!’
‘Let’s get a move on, then. We don’t want to be late, do we.’
‘No, Miss. Can I carry those books for you?’
‘Why, thank you. What a gentleman you are.’
I glanced behind me. The stranger on the motorbike was still there. And still looking in my direction. He gave the bike one last – and very shrill! – rev, as if saying, ‘You had your chance! Now you’ve blown it!’
I thought about the stranger for the rest of the day. Several teachers – for the first time ever – had to ask me if I was ‘paying attention’, and I always replied, ‘Yes, sir’ or ‘Yes, miss’. But, of course, I wasn’t. And the teachers knew it. But they put it down to my recent ‘loss’ and gave me patient, sympathetic smiles. I wasn’t irritated in the slightest by their ‘understanding’ (as I had been on many occasions before). On the contrary, it was somehow liberating to have a bona fide excuse to let my mind wander.
I kept thinking about when I first saw the stranger on the bike, opposite our house. I had been pretty certain that he’d smiled at me. And the more I thought about it, the more positive I became. Why did he smile? Why did he pull alongside me at the traffic lights? Why did he look at me as I sat in the car? And such a deliberate look. A lingering look. And that mumbling of his. Perhaps he wasn’t praying. Perhaps he was trying to tell me something.
The last lesson of the day was religious instruction and, afterwards, Mrs Cole asked me to stay behind for ‘a word’. When the classroom was empty she said, ‘I hear the funeral went very well yesterday.’
‘It did, yes.’
‘And you delivered your eulogy perfectly.’
‘I hope so, yes.’
‘A very nice recollection about you and your father, so I was told. Something about a putting boxing gloves on a snowman?’
‘Something like that, yes.’
‘That sounds very much like your father. I had the pleasure of meeting him several times – at parents’ evenings and at the church, of course – and he always had a wonderful, boyish twinkle in his eye.’
Wonderful, boyish twinkle?
Mrs Cole asked, ‘Are you going to choir practice this evening?’
‘Of course.’
‘Your mum’s not.’
‘Oh? She hasn’t said anything to me.’
&n
bsp; ‘She phoned Mrs Garnet this afternoon.’
‘Oh.’
‘Why don’t you spend some time at home with her this evening?’
‘Yes. Of course.’
‘She needs you.’
‘Yes.’
‘She’s worried about you, you know.’
‘I don’t know why she should – ’
‘Your mum told Miss Garnet you were up all night pacing your room.’
‘Oh . . . well . . . I was up once or twice but – ’
‘And Miss Morris found you looking very troubled on the way to school this morning.’ She reached out and gave my arm a squeeze. ‘Grief is a strange thing. Sometimes we think we’re coping, but we’re not. I lost my father eight years ago. There’s no comparison to your loss, of course. My father was in his eighties. I was fifty. But I still went a bit . . . “deranged”. There’s no other word for it. I kept misinterpreting things and over-reacting and . . . oh, I was convinced – convinced! – I saw an angel! I was sure it must’ve been sent by my father to give me a message.’ The squeeze got tighter. ‘Trust in Christ and you’ve got nothing to worry about!’
‘Yes, Miss, I know. And I will. I do. I . . . best be going.’
I decided to take a slow walk home – something I never do (I rarely do anything slowly) – but I wanted to have time to think and – yes, I admit it – there was always the hope that if I took longer to get home it would – fingers crossed! – give me more of a chance to see the stranger on the bike again. Or for him to see me. That’s if he still wanted to see me. But, although I heard several bikes on my protracted journey, none of them were his.
When I opened the front door, Mum called, ‘The prodigal son returns!’ She was in the kitchen preparing dinner.
I went to her.
‘How was your day?’ she asked.
‘Fine.’
‘You sure?’
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘I had Mrs Cole on the phone and she said – ’
‘Jesus! I hate being spied on all the bloody time.’
‘Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain! And don’t swear! I won’t have it! Not in this house! What on earth’s got into you?’
‘ . . . Sorry.’
‘And no one’s been “spying” on you, as you so nastily put it. People are just . . . they “look out” for you. Because they care. You’re lucky – we’re both lucky – to have such a supportive circle of friends. I don’t know where I’d be without them, that’s for sure.’
‘Okay, okay. I’m sorry.’
‘You need to think before you speak sometimes.’
‘Yes. I’m sorry.’
She chopped a green pepper.
I got a Coke from the fridge.
‘Use a glass, please!’ she said.
‘I always do!’ I poured the Coke into a glass and started to drink.
Mum watched me for a while. Then she put the chopped pepper in a frying pan, then said, ‘Is there anything you want to talk about?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you? Who else is in the kitchen?’
‘I don’t want to talk about anything, no.’
‘Not even where you went after school today?’
‘I didn’t go anywhere. I came straight back here.’
‘Well, it took you an hour longer than usual!’
An hour!? I looked at the clock on the gas cooker.
It had taken me an hour longer! I knew I’d walked slower . . . but not that much slower.
‘Sorry, Mum,’ I said. ‘I just . . . I just started talking to some of the swimming team about Sunday’s competition and . . . lost track of time.’
‘Well, just be a little more thoughtful in the future, please.’ She smiled, slightly. Then, ‘By the way, I won’t be going to choir practice this evening.’
I didn’t say I already knew. I just raised an eyebrow.
‘Oh, they can manage just fine without me – without us! – for one rehearsal. Another smile, a bit wider this time. ‘Hope you’re hungry. I’m cooking chilli con carne. Your dad’s favourite.’
‘His “favourite”?! But we haven’t had it in years.’
‘Well, your dad couldn’t handle spicy food once he . . . once he became unwell.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, there was a lot he had to stop eating— Don’t look at me like that!’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you think I’m making things up again.’
‘I don’t think that. I just didn’t know.’
‘Your dad ate a spicy beef samosa at work one day and had such pains in his stomach they sent for an ambulance. And before you say, “He didn’t tell me that!”, he didn’t tell me “that” either. I only found out when one of the doctors mentioned it. Your dad was a brave man. He never complained about anything. God bless him.’ She looked at me and smiled. ‘Go and do your homework. I’ll call when dinner’s ready.’
The chilli con carne was delicious and, afterwards, we settled in the living room with a cup of tea. Mum turned the television on to watch a soap opera she loved, but I had never really got into. She had a comment to make about every actor’s appearance (‘Oh, she’s got a lovely complexion!’ ‘I don’t like his moustache!’ ‘That one’s not ageing well!), while I kept one eye on the screen, and the other on the window. The curtains were still open, so I had a good view of the street. If the bike turned up – even if I couldn’t hear it above the noise of the television – I’d certainly see it.
I imagined the stranger in black leather parking outside. He’d be doing that revving thing, beckoning me to join him. Mum would say, ‘What’s all that racket about?’ I’d say, ‘I’ll check. You watch the programme.’ I’d go outside and the stranger would tell me to get on the back of his bike and hold on tight. I’d wrap my arms around him, under his leather jacket, feeling his torn T-shirt, damp with sweat. The bike would take off down the street, so fast I’d fear falling off. I’d cling tighter and tighter, pressing the side of my head between his shoulder blades, hearing his heart beat and –
‘Time for bed, I think,’ Mum said.
‘Eh? What?’
It was dark outside now. How did that happen? It had been twilight a moment ago.
Mum kissed me goodnight and went upstairs.
I washed up the tea things, tidied up the kitchen, and made sure the back door and all the windows were locked. This used to be Dad’s job. Now it was mine. No one had said anything. I just did it.
I went to my room and opened the notebook.
Playful glint in eye.
Liked chilli con carne.
Kept unpleasant things a secret.
The next morning I was at The Oasis again. I wasn’t the first in the pool this time (there was already an old woman in the shallow end doing – what I assumed to be – a dog paddle, and two middle-aged men racing each other – very slowly, very splashily – across the width), but if I kept to the deep end it felt as if I had the place to myself. I did a few dives. Something I hadn’t done in months.
The best part about diving, for me, was not the actual ‘dive’ part, but when my feet made contact with the bottom of the pool. For a brief moment, it was like being on another world. A world of muffled sound and diminished gravity, everything blurred and tinged with blue, no jagged edges, no sharp sounds, comfortable, safe.
On the third dive I tried to stay at the bottom for as long as I possibly could. I willed myself under, air bubbles squeezing from my nostrils, ears going pop, pop, pop. I looked up at the world above the water, my previous home, the place I’d left, a place as distant – and as alien – as Alpha Centauri. I didn’t want to go back there. But my lungs were beginning to hurt and my heart palpitate, so I allowed myself to float up . . . up –
There! Someone was looking down at me from the edge of the pool.
It was him!
The biker!
I kicked and kicked and got to the surface as fast as I could, erupting with a ga
sp and splash, but –
It wasn’t the biker. It was Trey.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
‘. . . Yeah.’ Deep breath. ‘Fine.’
‘You were down there for a bloody long time. I was getting worried.’
‘I know what I’m doing.’
‘I saw you dive. Great stuff.’
‘Thanks.’
He jumped in and attempted a backstroke.
I made my way to the changing rooms. I was toweling myself dry when I noticed Trey’s uniform strewn across a bench. Why couldn’t he put it on a hanger like everyone else? No wonder his trousers and jacket always looked so creased. Not to mention his tie –
His tie!
It was tangled, but the knot was still intact.
I pulled it between my fingers, remembering what it had been like to stand so close to Trey, feeling his breath on my face, my lips.
I undid the knot and put the tie back on the bench.
I was buckling my belt when Trey walked into the changing room.
‘You’ll be late for school if you don’t hurry,’ I said.
‘Yeah. I got a bit carried away.’
I needed to remain in the changing room long enough for Trey to put his tie on (or try to), but he was taking forever to dry his hair.
‘How you feeling about the competition this Sunday?’ I asked.
‘Yeah! Great! We all reckon you’re going to win breaststroke.’
‘Well, I’m going to try my best.’
I picked up my shoes and started to put them on. I stopped. I made a fuss about one of the shoelaces. I took it out. I studied it intently.
‘We’ve got to keep our training up,’ I said. ‘Even in Mr Barkham’s absence.’
Mr Barkham had, apparently, decided to take a few days’ ‘compassionate leave’ to deal with ‘a family matter’. Otherwise known as his wife leaving him.
‘I am keeping my training up,’ Trey said. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘And that’s why I’m here too.’
‘Yeah. Obviously.’
‘Obviously.’
I put the shoelace back in again. I studied it intently again. I took it out again and –
‘Oh, shit!’ I heard Trey say.
At last! He’d spotted his tie.
Flamingoes in Orbit Page 13
