Still Falling

by Wilkinson, Sheena;

  ‘Were you – were you with her?’

  He shakes his head. A million questions are flitting through my mind – like who told him? How did he react? I hadn’t been expecting anything so dramatic, so sudden.

  ‘And so did you just go straight to live with Sandra and Bill? I mean I … I don’t know how these things get – well, organised.’

  He half turns away. ‘Look,’ he says and his voice is – well, it sounds more bored than anything, or cross maybe, ‘I hadn’t been living with my mum since I was eleven.’

  Relief floods me. ‘Why not?’

  ‘She just wasn’t very – you know. Capable or whatever.’ His face twists. ‘She had me too young.’

  ‘So – you’ve lived with Sandra since you were eleven?’

  ‘No. Only since the start of term.’ He sighs. ‘Someone else.’

  I wait for more but it’s clearly not coming.

  ‘So why did you move?’

  ‘It didn’t work out.’

  ‘After six years?’

  He shrugs, and I know he’s reached the limit of what he wants to tell me.

  I reach out my hand to touch his arm. It’s totally rigid. ‘So why didn’t you tell me you’d been in care for so long?’

  ‘It didn’t come up.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous! It’s not like some little detail you could just forget.’

  ‘So you think it’s a big deal?’ He turns back to face me and his eyes are sparking with some expression I can’t read. I remember his meltdown that day in RE.

  ‘I – I …’ I don’t know how to answer.

  He pushes his hands into his pockets. ‘Look – I saw how you reacted when I first told you I was in care. You were shocked.’

  ‘Not shocked. I just never –’

  ‘You don’t know anyone in care.’ His voice is hard. ‘Kids in care don’t go to Mansfield. Kids in care get into trouble and –’

  ‘Stop it! That’s not what I think.’ But I suppose until I met Luke I never really thought anything about kids in care. They just weren’t on my radar. Maybe that’s why he didn’t tell me.

  ‘It’s what your dad thinks.’

  ‘I’m not my dad.’ I look at him very steadily, and slowly the anger dies out of his eyes.

  He shakes his head. ‘I already told you – I don’t want to be different. I didn’t want people to know.’

  ‘So am I just people?’

  ‘No,’ he says after a pause. ‘Of course not.’ But when I go to kiss him he jumps up and says it’s cold and we should get back to class.

  Luke

  I jump awake. The room’s lighter than it should be. And the house is noisier: hoovering on the landing; TV blaring from downstairs. I fumble for my phone on the bedside table. 10.38.

  10.38? I scramble out of bed. The roar of the hoover increases. Bill must be right outside my door. I pull my dressing gown from its hook on the door.

  ‘All right, lad?’ Bill turns the hoover off and it growls a bit before subsiding. I have to sidestep to get past. The landing is tiny, just a square. ‘Not like you to be getting up at this hour. You missed your fry. Sandra wanted to wake you but I said let the lad have a lie-in for once.’

  ‘I mustn’t have heard my alarm.’ Now the day’s going to be over two hours shorter than usual. I have to revise for another economics test, do a history essay – I’ve been wasting too much time drawing lately. I have to pick Esther up at seven, and I’m never going to have everything done by then.

  Panic flares in my chest, then subsides when I think of the neatly wrapped present sitting on my desk. Thank God for the Internet. I could have wandered second-hand bookshops for months before finding anything as perfect as the little old copy of Wilfred Owen’s poems. It’s not a first edition but it’s leather-bound and special-looking.

  I think about Esther as the hot shower blasts down on my shoulders, and as I get dressed, throwing on any old thing, and dragging my duvet up roughly, not smoothing it the way I normally do. It was stupid not to have told her before, about being in care so long. I think I’m glad she knows now.

  Yes, but you wouldn’t want her to know everything, Lukey boy, would you?

  Shut up. Give me a day off. Please.

  The card should arrive this morning. It took ages and it wasn’t my usual kind of thing at all, but it looked good in the end. I wonder what time her post arrives. As I run two at a time down the stairs I see that ours has come, but I don’t bother lifting it, because the only thing that ever comes for me is stupid boring stuff from Social Services.

  ‘Och, there you are.’ Sandra turns round from putting dishes away in the cupboard. She still has a drying cloth over her arm. ‘Not like you to sleep in. That’s all those late nights. I looked in on you about half nine but you were dead to the world. I said to Bill, no point in putting his name in the pan, I said, not today.’ She smiles, pleased and motherly.

  I try not to process the thought that she looked in on me.

  I try not to think of those lost hours.

  ‘Luke?’ Sandra waves her drying cloth in front of my face and laughs when I blink and jump back. ‘I said, do you want me to do you something now? You know we’re going to Megan’s wedding, but I’ve time to do you an egg or –’

  ‘It’s OK, I’ll just grab a cereal bar. I need to start work.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Well, I’ve got you a bottle of wine for tonight.’ She gestures to the table where a bottle of red sits beside the fruit bowl. ‘Is it OK?’

  I know nothing about wine and I don’t suppose Sandra does either, but I imagine her checking out the wine in Lidl, maybe asking someone for advice, telling them what it was for.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘That’s really nice of you.’

  One of the reasons we chose Boccaccio’s was because you can bring your own.

  ‘Och, well, it’s a big night, isn’t it? Now what about some toast?’

  I escape before she can complain about balanced meals.

  _____________

  It’s funny when they go. I’ve hardly ever been in this house alone and I don’t know all its creaks and hums. I like being left alone to work with nobody nagging me to come and eat or have a cup of tea or go and lift leaves in the garden. But I must have slept for too long, because my eyes are gritty and the words in the economics book blur and ripple. I try the history essay instead. I know what I want to say, but the argument chases itself round the screen and I end up deleting the whole thing.

  I give up. If I don’t go out and get some fresh air I’m going to fall asleep. I put on my running gear. It’s cool and drizzly outside, which means the streets of the estate are quieter than usual. I love running. I love the way my whole body does what I want it to. I love the way I don’t think. I love how the music in my ears helps my feet to pound out a rhythm on the damp pavements and drowns out everything else. And today’s rhythm is Esther’s birthday Esther’s birthday Esther’s birthday.

  Esther

  ‘I can’t believe my wee girl’s old enough to drive,’ Mum says for about the sixth time.

  ‘It’ll probably take me years to learn,’ I say, looking at the voucher in my card. It’s for ten lessons. The card says, TO OUR BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER, and there’s a picture of a princess on the front. A nine-year-old princess. Mum’s made a big cooked breakfast even though I’m trying to diet and Dad’s meant to be watching his cholesterol.

  ‘It’s not just the lessons,’ Dad says. He sets down his laptop at the end of the table we aren’t using, and comes and sits down beside me. He usually only works in the study, but he’s decided to come over all family man today which means he still spends the morning doing schoolwork, but he does it in the kitchen instead. I wish he wouldn’t. I can’t look at his laptop without remembering. ‘It’s costing a fortune to have your mum’s car insured for you.’

  I slip my phone out of my jeans pocket and check it under the table. I was expecting an early-morning happy birthday text from Luke – he’s a
lways up way before me – but so far there’s been nothing and it’s after 9.30.

  ‘Esther – not at the table.’

  I sigh and slide the phone back into my pocket.

  ‘Och, Alec, it’s her birthday.’ Mum leans over and sets down a plate of egg and bacon and toast. ‘There you go, love.’

  I pick up my knife and fork. I don’t want to want this, but the salty smell of the bacon is irresistible. And it is my birthday. In my back pocket my phone bleeps. Mum and Dad exchange glances.

  ‘Sorry.’ I chew my lip and spread butter on a fresh slice of toast.

  The smack of the letter box releases me. ‘I’ll go!’ I dash into the hall, and even as I register that there are four cards on the doormat – no, one’s a brown envelope for Dad, but three look very like birthday cards – I’m pulling my phone out of my pocket.

  Happy birthday pal,

  have a good 1.

  Be good LOL

  Ruth. Oh, well.

  I pick up the envelopes. I always get three cards through the post: Gran, Aunty Jenny and Toby. The pink one is Gran, the Cath Kidston spotty one is Aunty Jenny, and the big white one must be Toby. I’ve neglected Toby a bit since Luke came on the scene, and I feel guilty.

  But it’s not Toby’s spidery writing. It’s a neater, clearer style. Luke. My face spreads into a grin. Who cares about a silly text message when he’s gone to the bother of posting a card?

  The picture is hand-painted on thick card. Kind of cartoony but delicately detailed. Ink and watercolour. It’s a silvery-white pony with flowing mane and tail. Ice-skating. There’s a tiny signature in the corner: LB. I gasp out a giggle, and sit back on the bottom stair to open it. All it says inside is Happy Birthday Esther. All my love, Luke. The letters are outlined in ink and painted. It’s the most beautiful card I have ever had. And it’s much, much better than anything I could do, or anyone in my AS art class, even Mihai, who’s Beauman’s golden boy. I didn’t even know Luke could draw. Why does he waste his time on economics and maths?

  I sit on the stairs and run my fingers over the hand-painted letters.

  All my love, Luke.

  All.

  My.

  Love.

  I can’t wait until tonight.

  Luke

  As I set my keys on the hall table, I hear a tap dripping from the kitchen, and the hum of the central heating. It’s five to six. Just time for the quickest shower ever.

  God, my bones are like lead. I ran for way too long; just didn’t want to stop.

  The tap drips louder; it’s really annoying. I need to turn it off before I do anything else. I push open the kitchen door.

  The smell from the fruit bowl on the table is overpowering. Something must be going off. I reach over to lift out a black banana, when everything shudders. The kitchen blurs. I have a split second to think, Shit –

  _____________

  Blood in my mouth. Eyes open on – what is that? I blink. Rough wood. Why am I under the table – well, half under? The underside of the table is rougher than the top, and wavy. It doesn’t stay still. It makes my eyes funny to watch it. I might just close them again. Might just lie here.

  What am I all tangled up in? Hands scrabble on rough cotton. Tablecloth. I’ve pulled it down with me. I force myself up, ducking my head clear of the table, freeing myself from the cloth that’s gathered under my arms. The fruit bowl is lying upside down in the middle of the floor. Apples and oranges dot the lino. The sickly smell of banana fills my head.

  What’s the damage? Elbow tingly, must’ve banged it on the table leg. Usual foam of bloody spit, but I’ve only bitten my tongue, nothing major. I rinse my mouth at the sink.

  The teapot-shaped clock on the kitchen wall says it’s just on six. So I’ve only been out for a minute or so. The house feels too big and empty round me, even though I still haven’t got used to how small it is. I wish Sandra was here.

  No. That’s stupid. I make myself pick up the stuff from the floor, though bending down makes my head swim. The wine bottle has rolled across the floor and is wedged against the fridge door. Amazingly it hasn’t smashed. I take this as a good omen, and set it carefully on top of the fridge. I put all the fruit back in the bowl apart from one squashed banana which I put in the bin. The cloth is wrinkled and grubby so I stuff it in the laundry basket and find a clean one.

  This is what they’ve all been scared of, why everyone’s so bloody overprotective – that I’ll have a seizure when I’m alone and not be able to cope. Well, look at me: coping. You fall. You land. You get up.

  And if Sandra was here she’d only say I couldn’t go out. She’d take the decision away. It’s up to me; it’s my body, and I can look after myself.

  I reach up to the high cupboard and take down the tin of tablets. I take two painkillers, then another two for luck.

  My limbs feel like they’re clogged with liquid cement, so I have to do everything slowly, but I do it. I stand under the shower (again) longer than I probably should because it feels so lovely. There’s a red mark on my elbow that will be a bruise tomorrow but that’s nothing. I’ll get away without anyone knowing I’ve even had a seizure. A secret between me and my brain.

  I check myself in the mirror in the hall. No marks on my face at all. I smile. Pick up the bag with the book, check that I’ve got my keys, wallet and phone, remember the wine and go back to the kitchen for it.

  The kitchen is clean and tidy and the tap isn’t dripping any more. There isn’t a single sign of what’s happened. And for once, no losing it in public. A rush of something – pride, determination, or maybe just adrenalin – carries me down the street to the bus stop. Because that’s another good thing – I can get the bus. It won’t happen again tonight. Everything’s under control.

  Three wee kids, all smoking and laughing, come towards me. I have to stop because they’re taking up the whole footpath.

  ‘Oy, mister. Give us some of your wine.’

  ‘Aye, go on.’

  ‘Piss off.’ I jostle past them. Wee shits can’t be more than eleven.

  ‘Piss off yourself, you snobby get!’ they shout after me.

  It’s a stupid, nothing encounter, but as I walk on down to the main road my head starts that tell-tale throbbing.

  Stop it, I order it. You can’t do that. I gave you the pills. Stop playing dirty. But it ignores me, and the pain beats out my footsteps.

  By the time I’m in the bus the adrenalin or whatever it was has deserted me and something queasy and ominous has taken its place. The bus is quiet so I have a seat. I close my eyes as the juddering hum of its vibrations find their way into me. I breathe deeply and keep telling myself it’s my imagination, it’s just the movement of the bus, it’s because my head’s sore, it doesn’t mean anything. Because the only thing nearly as embarrassing as having an epileptic seizure on a bus would be puking on a bus. But it’s not going to happen.

  It doesn’t. I get to the stop near Esther’s house safely. The fresh air, the walk down her street, will revive me. Her street is pretty much how I thought it would be. I count off the identical cream bungalows, distract myself by doing a survey of the cars in the drives – matching Mercs in one; then an Audi and one of those cute little Alfa Romeos; a boring Renault people-carrier thing festooned with Baby-on-Board stickers. As I pass it I glance in and see the detritus of juice cartons and baby wipes all over the seats. My insides lurch. I shouldn’t have taken those pills on an empty stomach. I close my mind to the reality of sitting in a restaurant for hours, with the smell of food all round, and drinking this wine – oh God. If someone could magic me back to my own bed, I would let them, birthday or no birthday.

  Then I square my shoulders. It’ll be fine. The pills will kick in soon. Esther doesn’t even need to know.

  The car in Esther’s pristine driveway isn’t Big Willy’s Golf, it’s a Clio; must be the mother’s. I hope they really are both out. I don’t want to meet even the mother, and I especially don’t want to meet her now
when I feel so weird.

  Esther opens the door, and the small part of my brain that isn’t focussed on trying not to throw up registers that she looks nervous but gorgeous in a proper girly dress I’ve never seen before and her eyes all sparkly.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ I say with startling originality. ‘Sorry I’m late.’ I smile widely, ignoring the way the movement of my lips sets the headache off on a sharper spiral of pain. ‘You look beautiful.’

  But the talking undoes me. Huge surge of nausea. Cheeks tingle. Just time to turn away before I’m puking all over the doorstep. I clutch the wall with one hand and stay bent over, because it doesn’t feel like I’m done.

  If anyone throws up near me my only thought is to get as far away as possible. But Esther does the opposite. I feel her hands on my shoulders. She doesn’t flinch when it happens again, just rubs my back and says it’ll be OK in a minute.

  When I’m pretty sure it’s over I straighten up. ‘Oh God. I’m so sorry. Shit.’

  I punch the wall of the house but the pain doesn’t help. I glance down at myself. There’s puke on my trousers and I want to die.

  Esther sees where I’m looking. ‘It doesn’t matter. We’ll sort it out. Come inside.’

  Esther’s hallway is all pastels and beige. She steers me past closed white doorways to a bathroom. ‘Take your trousers off,’ she says. ‘It’s only a wee bit. I’ll wash it off and put them on the radiator.’

  I obey. I can’t say I’ve never thought about taking my trousers off in front of Esther – No I bet you haven’t. Shut up, not now – but never like this, in a pale green bathroom smelling of Toilet Duck, and me mortified and shivering, my legs looking ridiculous. Why don’t girls’ legs look stupid?

  Something catches at my nostrils. Orange. Bubble bath. I have to breathe in hard to stop myself throwing up again.

  Esther throws my trousers into the bath. ‘I’ll sort them out in a bit,’ she says. ‘Are you ill, or was it a seizure?’

  ‘Seizure.’

  ‘Have you taken anything? Painkillers?’

  I try to remember. My head is fuzzy. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘But they’re probably – you know, on your doorstep.’ I can’t bear to think about the mess out there. ‘Your present! It was in a bag.’