by Jacqui Rose
When their father had died a year ago, and their uncle who they only knew from short, strained yearly visits had come across from Pakistan to live with them, he’d taken over as head of the family, and Tariq had changed, although admittedly he had been forced to. He’d gone from a protective loving brother to a chastising angry one, who each morning scolded her over the breakfast table or when he came home from work at night. It was almost as if he was playing a role. A role their uncle had given him; one which didn’t really fit. At times Tariq seemed cruel, harsh, but Laila knew that wasn’t who he really was, but what their uncle expected of him.
The pressure to be a man when he was only a boy had taken its toll on Tariq. Like her, he’d been expected to take on a different role overnight. A role no one had warned them about when their father had still been alive.
When he’d been alive they’d talked, dreamt and loved one another. But their uncle had put a stop to that before their father had even been cold in the ground. Now she barely said a word to her mother or Tariq, and neither did they to her. And even though she knew hatred was against all her teachings, Laila struggled not to hate her uncle with a vengeance.
Tariq had been good at so many things when he’d been younger; he’d been especially good at football. Their father had often told Tariq he was certain he’d be the first Pakistani goalkeeper playing for England.
But only a month after the funeral, Tariq had come home from school, walked into the garden and set his football kit on fire. Their uncle had stood a few feet behind Tariq patting him on the back as the flames leapt into the air.
She’d looked at Tariq from the kitchen door, watching in puzzlement before her brother had turned to her angrily, answering a question she hadn’t asked but only thought.
‘There’s no point in having it Laila. There’s no time for playing; that’s what boys do.’
‘But Tariq …’
Mahmood had jumped in then. ‘Enough Laila. When will you learn it’s not our place and certainly not your place to question what we’re called to do? Your brother’s made up his mind.’
‘You mean you’ve made up his mind for him? You haven’t even bothered to see him play. Have you ever thought he could’ve been called to do that? A gift he was blessed with, uncle?’ That day was the first time Laila’s uncle had hit her.
Tariq stopped playing football. Stopped playing sport and even stopped making an effort at school, leaving with no qualifications but stepping straight into a job within their uncle’s business. Laila tried to talk to her brother about it, but he refused to talk to her and shut her out of his life.
She was certain if their father was alive Tariq wouldn’t have chosen the path he was now on. He seemed to be trying to convince not only his uncle but himself that his life was what he wanted it to be. And with it, the Tariq who’d once loved her, kindly teasing her as he pulled on her pigtails as they walked to school, had disappeared, along with his burning football kit.
9
Arnold drove steadily to the hospital. There was a sense of urgency to get there but a stronger sense of not wanting to break the thirty mile per hour limit speed. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, or perish the thought, kill somebody by driving too fast. He’d never been one to break rules even as a boy. Especially as a boy. His father had made sure of that.
1973
Northumberland
‘Arnold! Arnold, come here.’ His father’s voice echoed round the large hallway and Arnold shivered. Even though he’d just turned eleven he still never knew if his father was cross or happy when he called him. The tone was always the same; low, soft and devoid of any emotions which might give away his true feelings.
Coming down the stairs, Arnold made sure his shirt was without creases and his tie was straight; his father liked that, liked him looking smart, looking better than the other boys.
‘Now son, I want you to take your sister out, it’s not good for you to be cooped up in here all day. When I was a boy, the holidays meant adventure, not sitting in your room reading books. Go up to the woods; have fun, but mind Arnold, you know the rules. Don’t get dirty. You know what happens to dirty boys.’
Arnold glanced at his father; he actually didn’t know what happened to dirty boys. From as far back as he could remember, his Father had always said the same thing, and although he’d never heard his Father raise his voice or seen him lose his temper, there was something in the way he spoke, something which warned Arnold and made him afraid to ever dare to come home covered in dirt. He didn’t want to break the rules.
Arnold watched his sister stand on her tiptoes as their father bent down slightly to receive a goodbye kiss. He then turned to Arnold and reached out his hand for his son to shake it. ‘Have a good time children. And remember what I said.’
‘Fiddlesticks.’
‘What is it Arnie?’ His sister looked at him with soft big eyes and a mop of honey-blonde hair. He loved that she called him Arnie. She was the only one, and she only ever did it in secret when their father wasn’t listening.
‘I’ve forgotten our damn sandwiches, we’ll have to go back and get them.’
‘No Arnie, I’m too tired to go all the way back, you go.’
‘Then if you’re too tired to walk, you’ll be too tired to eat, so I’ll only bring mine.’ His sister looked at him before her cheeks flushed red with anger, which always made Arnold laugh; she had such a quick temper.
‘Arnold Wainwright, you’ll get my sandwiches for me or I’ll tell Pappy you said damn.’
‘You’ll do no such thing and if you do, I’ll tell him you call me Arnie.’
His sister, who was three years younger than him and four inches smaller than him, swung her fist violently. Arnold ducked out of the way and laughed, making his sister angrier.
‘Tell me you’ll get my sandwiches for me Arnie, tell me.’
‘Yes all right, I’ll get them, I was only teasing. Wait here for me. I won’t be long. Now, where’s my goodbye kiss?’ Arnold stretched his arms wide open and put out his cheek, expecting the loving kiss his sister always gave him; the only bit of affection he got.
‘I shan’t give you a kiss Arnold, I shan’t.’
‘Well I’ll give you one then.’ He bent forward but his sister darted away, still annoyed at her brother’s teasing.
Sighing, Arnold started to walk back through the woods towards the house, stopping for a brief moment as his sister shouted out to him.
‘Arnie?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you still love me more than life itself?’ Arnold smiled before he replied to his sister, whose face was lit up with eagerness.
‘Yes. Yes Izzy, I do.’
Arnold ran as fast as he could back to the house to get the sandwiches he’d forgotten. The grass made him feel as if he was springing along as he bounded down the hill towards the isolated house. The River Coquet ran alongside and though it looked particularly turbulent today, hungrily sweeping along broken branches and leaves, many a summer had been spent paddling in the shallow part of the river, followed by a desperate attempt to dry out their clothes before returning back home.
As he ran he thought about Izzy. He hated it when she was angry with him. Hopefully when he got back she would cheer up and be his friend again. As long as he had Izzy he didn’t need anyone else and hopefully neither did she.
Approaching the house, Arnold was cautious to check his clothing, making certain no stray piece of mud or grass had surreptitiously got onto his trousers.
The large wooden front door creaked open. Standing in the entrance hall, Arnold contemplated going straight into the kitchen to pick up the lunch he’d left on the side and hoped his father hadn’t heard the door. But then it would mean breaking rules and he was loath to do that; even for Izzy.
The mahogany stairs leading up to his father’s office were highly polished, as was the rest of the house; pristine, with nothing out of place. Pictures of unknown relatives stared out from their gilded frames and
the gold ornate wallpaper gave a feeling of formality to the high-ceilinged hall.
The mock-crystal candelabra with the glass droplets was in the exact same place, turned the exact same way it always was and Arnold was careful not to go anywhere near it as he passed, recollecting what had happened last year.
It was a simple mistake. An unintentional one when he’d run past the decorative candelabra, trying to get to his room before his father had finished counting to ten, being warned but not knowing what would happen if he didn’t make it to his bedroom by the end of the countdown.
He’d been aware of knocking it slightly, but he hadn’t thought anything else about it, until his father had come into his room in the middle of the night. Waking him up, suppressed rage in his voice, sweat dripping down his forehead, wanting to know who’d smashed the light. His father had dragged him out of bed and along the corridor to look at the candelabra.
‘Look at that Arnold, look at it. I didn’t know I lived with vandals.’ Arnold had looked, but hadn’t seen anything different. The candelabra still stood in centre place on the carved red wood table and the glass droplets gleamed as much as they always did.
His father had leaned into his face, punctuating each of his words as he spoke. ‘It’s. Been. Moved. Arnold.’ The fear Arnold had experienced only allowed him to mutter two words before he’d wet himself.
‘Sorry Papa.’
‘Well Arnold, you know what happens to boys who destroy people’s things. They have their own things destroyed.’
His father had then spent the next two hours quietly breaking all of Arnold’s treasured possessions which, in the absence of any toys, were made out of things Arnold had collected and found in the woods for him and Izzy to play with. The origami birds he’d made which Izzy loved. The pictures he’d painted at school and the stories he’d written for her to read up in the woods were cut up with a shiny pair of scissors, along with anything else Arnold held as valuable.
Clearing his thoughts of that night, Arnold stood outside his father’s office, hoping his Father would open the door straight away and let him get the sandwiches to take back to Izzy. He was aware his hand was shaking as he knocked lightly on the panelled door. A voice came from inside.
‘Yes?’
‘Papa, it’s Arnold.’
‘I thought I told you to go to the woods son.’ Pushing himself further against the thick door, Arnold spoke again, hoping his father wouldn’t think he was shouting, but at the same time needing to be close enough to hear him, as his father never repeated anything twice.
‘We did go to the woods but I forgot the sandwiches Papa.’ The long silent pause was exaggerated by the solemn ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall below. Eventually the door was opened and Arnold jumped back, standing up straight with his hands firmly by his side.
It was only his head his father put round the door but curiously, Arnold could see his shirt was without a tie with the top two buttons undone. The normally immaculate black hair was ruffled and a slight red flush sat on his cheeks. A strong sweet smell hit Arnold’s senses. His father glared and Arnold wanted to be sick.
‘Forgotten your lunch? Then what does that make you Arnold?’ Arnold put his head down and muttered inaudibly.
‘I can’t hear you Arnold.’
‘I’m stupid Papa. I’m just a stupid ignorant boy.’
‘And what else Arnold?’
Arnold stood in silence before his father promoted a reply. ‘Say it. I want to hear it boy.’
‘Izzy … Izzy doesn’t love me. She only loves you and not me.’
‘That’s right, and don’t you forget it. Run along now Arnold and get those sandwiches.’ As Arnold turned to go, his father’s words stopped him. ‘Shouldn’t you say something to me Arnold?’
‘Yes Papa. I love you more than life itself.’
Arnold was singing now. Singing a number song he’d made up about Izzy. He didn’t know why and he certainly wouldn’t tell Izzy this, but numbers made him nearly as happy as she did. Wherever he looked he would count and see numbers. It was almost as if the world was made up of them; rushing into his mind as if they were trying to tell him something. If he looked at the trees within a matter of minutes he could count the leaves. If he looked in the sky he could see how many clouds there were. If he saw numbers written down he could add them up, take them away, his brain making constant patterns with them.
It was his secret comfort, and in the back of his mind he had a memory of a lady who’d sung a number song to him as he lay curled up in bed when he was small. Singing to him; making him feel safe. He’d often wondered if it’d been his mother, though he had no one to ask. His father had always warned him never to ask about her – ‘You know what happens to boys that ask about her.’ Arnie didn’t, but all the same, he didn’t ask.
The tree he’d left Izzy by was the tallest in the woods, flourishing with branches which intertwined with the surrounding trees. He’d carved Izzy’s name on the base of the trunk two years ago and much to her delight, it was still clearly visible.
The vibrant green grass growing around it was like sitting on a mattress; soft and comfy. When they lay on the ground they’d watch the clouds go by, promising each other when they were older they’d always be together. It was their special place, but looking around now, he couldn’t see Izzy.
‘Izzy. Please come out. Izzy, I’m sorry I made you cross.’ The trees in the warm wind blew gently, caressing the air with their scents. Arnold sighed and hoped the whole afternoon wouldn’t be spent searching for Izzy as she watched him, laughing and looking on from a hiding place she’d found.
He started heading up towards the river; it was the only way she would’ve gone. He knew she wouldn’t venture deeper into the woods, she was afraid of the chattering branches and whispering leaves.
‘Izzy? Izzy?’ His feet were beginning to throb in the tight brown lace-up shoes he was wearing. They weren’t really suitable for walking or for the summer months but his father insisted on them being smart, even if it was only to go out and play.
Sitting down on the grass in the clearing, Arnold took off his shoes and rubbed his right foot; he could see a blister forming and if he put his shoes back on it’d only get worse.
The dancing sunbeams on top of the flowing river were mesmerising, making the water look like crystal glass waves, bubbling and breaking against the edges of the steep bank. As he watched the birds dive in and out of the water, Arnold noticed a large black bundle which looked like a bag on the side of the bank near the disused watermill. Getting up and shielding his eyes from the sun to see it more clearly, he realised that it wasn’t a bag at all; it looked more like a heap of material.
Leaving his shoes and enjoying the sensation of the grass between his toes, Arnold walked round the arch of the river towards the heap. He stopped dead. His heart banged in his chest and his breathing became shallow, then his legs started to run as his mind screamed. It wasn’t a piece of material. It was Izzy’s jacket and he could see it moving. He could see something struggling. It was Izzy.
The river gushed over her face as she fought to keep her head above the water level, clinging onto the side of the broken submerged limestone wall of the mill. The river careering towards the weir a few feet along.
‘Izzy!’ Arnold threw himself down on the ground, leaning his body over and hoping to reach his sister.
‘Help me Arnie. Help me; I fell.’
‘Hang on Izzy, I can’t reach you, I’ll get a branch.’ There were twigs, ivy and broken pieces of brushwood but nothing that would do. Arnold tried to pull on a hanging branch, hoping to break it off, whilst all the time calling encouraging words to Izzy, but the branch simply bowed, holding on solidly to the body of the tree.
Running back to the river empty handed, Arnold leaned over the side again, pushing himself further forward than last time.
‘Izzy, you’ve got to try to reach up and hold my hand.’
‘I can’t Arnie
, I can’t let go.’
She was right. It was impossible for her to let go of the wall with one hand and stop herself from being swept along into the weir.
‘I’m going to go and get help Izzy.’
‘No, Arnie, no; don’t leave me.’
Arnold looked into his sister’s eyes, wanting to stay but knowing he needed to get help.
‘Izzy I have to go. Promise me you’ll hold on until I come back. Promise me Izzy even if you don’t think you can any more; I need you to hold on. Don’t leave me.’
‘I promise I won’t let go; I won’t leave you. Come back Arnie, come straight back.’
‘I will. I’ll never leave you but you’ve got to be strong.’
Running faster than he ever thought he could, Arnold darted back through the woods towards the house, calling his father as he ran. ‘Papa! Papa!’ Arnold opened the door wide, running into the hallway and shouting to his father. ‘Papa, please come quickly.’
The thunderous sound of his father running down the stairs and the wrath he saw on his face didn’t stop Arnold from screaming. ‘Papa, it’s Izzy.’ His father grabbed him, shaking him in frenzied anger. Arnold felt his head jolting back and forth as he swallowed the words he was trying to say.
‘Where are your shoes Arnold? Why are you covered in dirt?’
‘It’s Izzy, Pappy; please there isn’t much time, she’s in trouble.’
‘Answer me boy. Where are your shoes?’
Arnold looked at his father, then at his feet. Almost immediately, a different kind of fear hit him; he’d forgotten to put his shoes back on. He didn’t bother looking up, but was well aware of his father’s rage towering above him as he continued to speak. ‘Rules, Arnold. Rules are here to be adhered to and not to be broken. Haven’t I told you not to shout? Haven’t I told you never to get dirty? I’ve told you about the rules haven’t I?’
‘Yes Papa.’
‘Then why would you come running in here covered in dirt with no shoes on?’
Terrified, Arnold answered. ‘I left them up by the river Papa.’
