by Anne Fine
‘Stumps?’
‘The murderer had cut her hands off.’
My stomach churned. ‘Christ, Harry! Who feeds you this crap?’
‘Don’t say “crap”, Tilly. It’s rude. I told you. It was Kevin’s brother.’
‘He made it up.’
‘No, honestly. It really happened.’
Night after night. A merciless stream of grim stories. Crucified children. Set-on-fire dogs. Disembowelled horses. Girls chained for years in cellars. What can you find to say to comfort a child when your own heart is thumping?
I spoke to Geoffrey. ‘That boy needs help.’
‘Help?’
‘Someone professional to talk to. His brain is swimming in this crap. He’s drowning in horrors.’
‘I’m sure it’ll pass.’
‘Why? Because that’s an easier thing to think?’
‘That’s a bit spiteful, Tilly.’
‘Hit home, did it? Maybe you should consider if there’s a bit of truth to it.’
And out it came on cue, the perennial whitewashing claim: ‘I think I know my own child.’ With no spare bed to sulk in, I simply turned my back. But only the dead drunk and the born insomniac can share a mattress with someone they’re busy despising, and after a couple of sleepless nights I made my offer. ‘Let me pay for it. Let me find someone who can help him. He needn’t even know it’s therapy. He’s only eleven, for God’s sake. We can probably kid him that he’s helping out with some survey, or something.’
‘No, Tilly.’ I saw Geoff’s face brighten as a notion came to let him off the hook. ‘It wouldn’t be right unless I asked Frances.’
Smart way to kick that ball straight into touch. Who’s going to phone a woman who is eating Mexican weeds and practising ‘positive visual imagery’, and tell her that her son’s so frightened she’s going to die that every dark thought in the world is camped in his brain?
Not even me.
I took a break from the whole boiling. First, I phoned Donald. ‘Pass the word,’ I said. ‘Anything. Anywhere.’ Within hours, the first call came in. ‘Tilly? Donald says you’ll trade a week on rig for time later in the year.’
‘Spot on.’
‘Trouble at home?’
‘Just need a bit of space.’
‘I’ll take it! Shall I tell Luis you’re in the market for the weekend as well? His wife’s going through the wringer with this new baby.’
See? Easy-peasy. But when I came home, nothing was any better. In fact, things were worse. I got in far too late to see the children on the Sunday night, but when I came down in the morning it was to find Minna already in tears, barricaded behind cereal packets. ‘Harry’s being mean. He keeps on saying I’ve got such big nostrils that everyone can see up to my brain.’
‘He can’t help being a halfwit.’
She used her pyjama sleeve to wipe off slug trails. ‘And he keeps saying my knickers smell and everyone talks about it.’
I turned to Harry. ‘Out!’
She took some comforting. I held her close and patted while she hiccuped and snivelled. Gradually, out spilled the horrid things he’d said and done, and got in trouble for at school. ‘They’ve even sent a letter.’
‘Here?’
‘Arif’s mother made them. Arif told everyone. Didn’t Dad tell you?’
I played it loyal, muttering something inane. ‘Oh, that letter. I thought you meant some other letter.’ But Minna’s litany of her brother’s sins had at least had the cheering effect of reminding her he was the one in deep trouble. Wiping her nose upward with spread palm, she now declared herself recovered enough to slip off my knee and go back up the stairs for her school bag. I sat hearing the thump of her footfalls overhead and asking myself if I could possibly have failed to register Geoff’s mention of any letter from the school, and wondering if he had any intentions at all of saying anything about it in the future. Even as I was laying my psychic money on ‘no’, I heard the rattle of post through the letterbox and onto the mat fell a letter addressed to Mr and Mrs Anderson. Even with Minna’s warning uppermost in mind, I opened it without a thought, simply assuming that, as usual with such letters, it was a special offer from a garage he had visited, or a suggestion that we switch some household bill that was under Geoff’s name over to some other system of payment.
It was another letter from the school. It spoke of continuing problems with Harry and referred to more money going missing, ‘unlikely denials’, and a further rash of tantrums and fights. It even made mention of ‘Mr Anderson’s visit last month to discuss matters’, and suggested it was time that we set up another meeting.
I’d only been gone a week. A single week! I read the letter several times, then left it unfolded on top of Geoff’s heap of post before ushering the children towards the back door. ‘Come on. I’ll take you this morning.’
‘But Dad’s nearly finishing shav—’
‘No, no. It’s late already. Come along.’
I know they sensed that there was trouble brewing. They clambered in the car without the usual fuss about front seats and ‘turns’. Each time I glanced in the mirror, Harry’s eyes caught mine, then dropped at once. Minna was scarcely breathing. The sheer relief of both when we reached the school was pretty well palpable.
‘’Bye, Tilly!’
‘’Bye, Tilly!’
I took my time driving back. (Letting Geoff stew.) But I’d be daft to think Geoff needed any help from me in postponing an argument. By the time I got home he’d vanished to the printing shop. And though I heard his key in the lock around eleven, it must have been at least an hour before he dared come up to the bedroom, where I was working on my knees in an armchair.
‘About this letter, Tilly …’
He tossed it sideways onto the bed.
‘Yes?’
‘I had been meaning to tell you.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘What’s been going on with Harry.’
Could I have sounded less convinced? ‘Oh, really?’
He coloured. ‘Yes, really. It’s been a difficult week.’
‘Longer than that, by all accounts.’
‘It did start a little bit earlier, yes.’
I reached for the letter and waved it in the air. ‘Judging by what’s in here, it must have started a whole lot earlier than our conversation about finding Harry someone to see him through all this.’
‘The thing is, Tilly, I didn’t see how that would help.’
‘The thing is, Geoff, the discussion that we had – perhaps I should say the discussion that I tried to have – was in entirely bad faith. I wanted to talk about your son’s problems and all you were doing was hiding every single piece of information that might have led to—’
I broke off, suddenly exhausted. It seemed to me that I could see the end of every single conversation before we’d even started it. ‘Listen,’ I told him. ‘Not giving people the facts is quite as deceitful as lying. It’s simply a different way of being dishonest.’ Filled with exasperation, I practically pushed him aside in my eagerness to make for the door, but, as he followed me to the top of the staircase, I made the mistake of putting the boot in. ‘Oh, yes. And, of course, it is a whole lot more craven.’
Behind me, I heard the strangest little popping noise. I turned to look. Geoffrey had turned beet red. His fists were clenched. Framed by the narrow upstairs landing, he had the look of someone in a comic strip – one of those characters so angry that steam’s coming out of their ears. And when he finally managed to get out the words, his voice had shot high as a child’s. ‘Oh, shut up, Tilly! You are such a fucking moralist!’
I stared up. He stared back down, pop-eyed in his wrath. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Tilly! Look at yourself. Talking to you is like having skin stripped off. Want to know why I don’t tell you things? It’s because I can’t stand what happens the minute you get your sharp little teeth into them.’
My breath came back. ‘What’s that supposed to mean
?’
‘What do you think?’ he shouted. ‘You feed on other people’s weaknesses. You love their petty failures. You know your problem, Tilly? You think you’re doing something positive. “Taking an interest in people.”’ He was shaking with rage now. ‘But what you’re really doing is gathering little lumps of ammunition. And as soon as you’ve worked out just how someone close to you ticks, then you start getting your jollies punishing them with all the small cold truths about themselves. What could be sicker than that, Tilly? What could be sicker than that?’
I was astounded. If he had punched me, I couldn’t have been more shocked. It was exactly what my mother said when I was seventeen. ‘Tilly, you’ll come to no good. You have an evil gift for twisting what you know about people round into knowing exactly how to upset them.’
One person might get you wrong. But two? Far more unlikely. There was a rushing in my ears and suddenly my knees gave under me. In moments Geoff was at my side. ‘Oh, Tilly! Oh, God! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean what I said. I was just upset because I should have told you about the letter. Please forgive me, Tilly!’
I can still see us there – me on the edge of the hall chair with my legs still shaking; him on his knees in front of me, his arms around my waist, hugging me to him. ‘Oh, Tilly! Please! Let’s try again. I won’t tell any more lies. I won’t keep secrets. I will tell you everything. This is ridiculous.’
I will admit it, I felt like a murderer whose victim rises from the grave to say, ‘I’m sorry. It was all my fault.’ The truth stung till I couldn’t breathe, but I’d have given the world for him not to realize that what he’d said hit me so hard. I think I was praying he’d be true to form, and keep on thrusting all those harsh black words of his back down into that part of him so practised at burying everything painful. I’m sure it was only because I was so desperate to distract him that I managed to summon – God knows from where – the presence of mind to lead his thoughts as far away from me as possible. ‘Look, Geoff, none of this matters now. We can sort it out later. What’s important is Harry and his stealing. What does he say about that?’
Bank upon one thing: the need of people like Geoff to slide away from unpalatable truths outweighs all else. Within a flash, the errant lover in our little tableau had recast himself. The caring parent frowned. ‘He says it isn’t true.’
Distraught as I may have been, I was still startled. ‘What, none of it? Is he saying he’s never stolen anything from any of the children in school?’
Geoff’s distress turned to sheer embarrassment. Clearly he knew what crap he was talking before he even spilled out the words. ‘He swears he hasn’t, Tilly.’ The chin went up. The serious look spread over his face. ‘And of course, as his father, I have no choice but to believe him.’
What utter horseshit! No two ways about it: good nature is, without a doubt, the most selfish of qualities. In almost every case it seems to stem either from simple idleness or from a lack of courage. On any other day, at any other moment, my lip would have curled. The scorn I felt would have poured out in torrents. But I was still reeling from what he’d said about me, and couldn’t muster the will even to try to confront him. All I could do was pat his hand. I can’t remember how the next hour passed. I know I wept. I know that, soon, the two of us were crying in each other’s arms. I even have dim memories of hearing myself say soppy things like ‘It must be so difficult’ and ‘I do understand’, over and over. I know we were awash in tenderness. I know that, after, we made love.
* * *
That evening, Ed rang. ‘How is Mr Perfect?’
I’d had my supper. I felt more robust. ‘Change of plan,’ I informed my brother. ‘In future in this respect you may have to ask after the two of us since, from this day on, I aim to out-perfect him.’
‘You? Tilly the Wicked Stepmother?’
I was a bit put out. ‘What do you mean?’
He tried to backtrack. ‘Nothing.’
‘Come on, Ed. Spit it out.’
‘Nothing, Til. Honestly. It was just a joke.’
‘You don’t think that I’m horrid to Geoff’s children, do you?’
‘No, no.’ I sensed Ed’s discomfort grow as I let silence ride. ‘It’s just that sometimes …’
‘Sometimes …?’
‘I think you might be just a little scary.’
‘Nonsense!’
You can’t expect a brother to lose an argument just out of tact. ‘It isn’t nonsense, Tilly. What about that time when Minna’s kitten died?’
‘So what about it?’
‘Don’t you remember? You said she stared up with those waify eyes of hers that get on your nerves so much, and asked if Moppet would be going safely up to Kitten Heaven—’
‘Oh, yes.’ I felt a tug of shame. ‘It’s all coming back now.’
But Ed persisted. ‘And you said, “Probably. Unless, of course, she’s already gone straight down to Kitten Hell.”’
‘Yes, yes! No need to harp. It was a joke.’
‘A pretty scary joke, if you’re just four.’
‘Christ, Ed! Minna must have been at least seven when Moppet got run over!’
‘Nevertheless …’
Things come to a pretty pass when your own brother thinks you’re the monster in the relationship. So, next day, I began afresh. A different person. Someone kind and sensitive. Not like myself. I spent the extra days off work I’d earned in doing things with the children. The hours became a whirl of ice-rinks and films. I cooked their favourite meals as they sat at the table beside me, busily grating and slicing and chopping. I helped them both with their homework, and sat for hours with Minna, cutting things out of magazines and helping her stick them in scrapbooks. To put it bluntly, I was nice. I even half enjoyed it. It was a bit like giving up chocolate or meat for Lent: the discipline made me feel all strong and kind and virtuous.
Tilly in Noddyland, you could have called it.
Pity I couldn’t keep it up …
7
IT’S TRUE WHAT they say. If you want to be loved, just love and be lovable. It is amazing how easily you can win round a child with a bit of attention. Both of them calmed down. Harry still had a terrible problem sleeping, but he stopped being mean to Minna, and seemed more cheerful. Sometimes I was at home. Sometimes I had to go to rigs as far as Texas and Peru. But even from places like that I’d try to keep in touch with cheerful cards posted from airports, and the occasional call. And since I always came home with a gift for each of them – two pretty spinning holograms, hand-carved ‘witchdoctor’ finger puppets, even boxes of grown-up chocolates – Harry and Minna were soon in the habit of waiting eagerly at the door from the moment they heard the approach of the taxi.
Soon confirmation came that things were going better at school as well. We had a letter from Mrs Dee saying that Harry’s behaviour had improved ‘immeasurably’, and there had been no further incidents involving money gone missing. ‘Whatever you’re doing,’ the letter finished up, ‘keep at it, since it’s working well.’
We even managed to return the stolen loot. One evening, sitting on the side of the bed, saying good-night to Harry, I noticed a shadowy streak at the edge of the carpet, as if elves with their very own tiny vacuum cleaner had been raising the nap the wrong way in a line along the skirting. Odd, I thought. Never noticed that before. But even before Harry had finished showing me the fresh graze on his ankle, it had slipped from my mind. Next morning, as I came into the room to dump some laundry, the memory suddenly came back, and I turned round. In daylight, the effect was not so noticeable. Still, it was there, so, dropping to my knees, I ran a fingertip over the narrow strip. Lumps. Actual tiny lumps that I’d have noticed underfoot if they’d been anywhere but there, hard up along the skirting.
I fetched a stubby knife and used the blade to prise up the edge of the carpet. It lifted a whole lot more easily than I expected, and when I peeled it back, there lay a tidy line of coins along the floor beside the skirting. They were g
rey with dust pounded down through the coarse weave of the carpet backing, but when I picked them up and blew, one or two proved to be new, and one was downright shiny, with that year’s date. Most were pound coins, though there was a scattering of other silver. When I added it all up, it came to less than twenty pounds.
It seemed a very small amount of money to make a child of eleven toss and turn at night, and keep him from that equanimity he needed to get through school. I wondered why Harry hadn’t dropped the whole lot down the nearest drain to be rid of the worry, and realized it was his conscience playing up. Stealing the money had been sinful enough. To have thrown it away would have been even more naughty.
I gave both children their juice and cake as usual after school. Then I set Minna up at the table with her ten spellings and her homework reading book, and said to Harry, ‘Come with me.’
He followed me up to the little workroom of mine that had become his bedroom. I couldn’t see the point in torturing him with a series of questions he had no hope of answering, so I sat on the edge of the bed, pulled him down at my side, and simply pointed. ‘See that?’
He went bright scarlet. ‘It wasn’t me,’ he wailed. Tears swelled and splashed.
‘Yes it was, daftie.’
The tears kept coming. Already the bottom of his shirt was soaked.
‘What are we going to do?’ I asked. He didn’t answer, so I said, ‘What I mean is, how are you going to give it back?’
He looked up with a flash of hope. ‘Back?’
‘Yes. You don’t want to have to feel guilty for ever, do you?’
He shook his head.
‘Right. So we have to give it back – without,’ I added sternly, ‘shoving the blame onto someone else.’
He started to cry again.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll go in and give it back and tell that Mrs Dee of yours you’re really sorry. But I’ll also say that she’s got to leave you alone and not talk to you about it. I’ll make it clear you only took the money because you’re so upset, worrying that your mother might die.’
There. I had done it. I had finally said the bloody word. Out loud. To him.
