Goggle-eyes

by Anne Fine

  Lie down and look up at the sky. It’s such a small thing to do, but it makes such a difference. The sky looks so huge it’s absolutely astounding. You only notice when you’re flat on your back. Strolling along streets or glancing out of windows, you only get to see the thinnest rim of it. On your back, you can see it all: the vast upturned bowl that stretches miles and miles in peaceful blue, or hangs right over you in dark, bruisy colours, threatening to spill. I think that everyone in the world should stretch out quietly for a while every single day of their lives, look up at the whole sky, and be astonished.

  Our minutes of silence were over, so it popped out.

  ‘I think that everyone should lie on their backs every day, and stare up at the sky.’

  ‘You must be joking!’

  Goggle-eyes shuddered in horror, and reached down from where he had been standing beside a couple of police officers, preserving what was left of his suit and his dignity. He hauled Mum to her feet.

  ‘Kitty’s right,’ Mum agreed, brushing grit off her jeans. ‘People waste too much of their lives rushing about building new things and pulling old things down. They ought to take time to look at what’s been there for ever.’

  ‘An empty sky!’

  ‘Infinity,’ Mum corrected him. ‘Eternity.’

  Well, we can’t all be closet philosophers. ‘Did you bring the sandwiches?’ I interrupted, patting the bulging pockets of Mum’s anorak. ‘I’m really hungry.’

  Unfortunately, this started Jude off.

  ‘Me, too,’ she wailed. ‘When are we going ho-o-me?’

  ‘Please don’t start whining,’ Mum told her irritably. ‘You know I can’t stand it.’

  Jude didn’t answer back. She never does. But, scowling, she sidled closer to Gerald Faulkner, exactly the same way she always used to move towards Dad for his support whenever Mum was ratty. And, sure enough, Gerald immediately stuck up for her, just the way Dad always did.

  ‘Go easy, Rosalind. It’s been a tiring day.’

  Mum’s like me. She hates people even hinting she might be being a bit unreasonable.

  ‘For heaven’s sake!’ she snapped. ‘It hasn’t been that bad! When I was young we used to have to sit for two whole hours every Sunday in a stone cold church, bored stiff, to save our selfish little souls. Jude’s lucky! A few times a year she gets a couple of hours of fresh air to try to save the whole world’s bacon. Is that so terrible?’

  There was a little Gerald Faulkner pause. I waited with interest. (It’s not that often they’re not directed at me.) Then:

  ‘Do you know what you are, Rosalind?’ he said. ‘You are almost unbelievably bossy.’

  Jude and I caught our breath. If Dad said anything like that, the fur would fly so fast, so furious, you’d hit the floor for safety. But, then again, Dad would have said it differently. It would have come out as a sort of snarl, a terrible insult. Somehow Gerald Faulkner managed to say it in an affectionate kind of way that made you think the fact that Mum was so bossy filled him with loving admiration.

  And, astonishingly, that’s the way she took it.

  ‘I am bossy, aren’t I?’ she said. ‘Yes, I really am bossy.’

  I breathed again. (So did Jude. I heard her.)

  ‘You’re wasted running that hospital,’ Gerald Faulkner told Mum, as he ground the poles of my banner deep in the mud of the bank, so it would stand up by itself. ‘You ought to be running British Telecom. Or Great Britain! Or the world!’

  Everyone around us, I noticed, was beginning to look rather uncomfortable now.

  ‘Yes. I could run the world.’ (Mum sounded keen.) ‘I’d do a really good job. I’d make an excellent dictator.’

  It was embarrassing. She honestly didn’t seem to notice that half the people who overheard were reaching down for the little waterproof rucksacks that held their thermos flasks and banana yoghurts, and were edging away uneasily. Others were standing paralysed, with their mouths full of alfalfa-sprout sandwiches, watching with shocked expressions.

  Goggle-eyes didn’t seem to notice, either. Or, if he did, he didn’t care.

  ‘You’d be ideal!’ he assured her. ‘You have the basic qualification for the job. You know for a simple fact that, to be absolutely in the right, people need do no more than come round to your views.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Mum told the few people who could still bear to remain in earshot. ‘He’s absolutely right!’

  I made a solemn vow right there and then to change my name, and dye my hair, and join another group. Like everyone else, I started shuffling away, pretending to take a sudden interest in what was happening up at the fence where the snowballers were still grinding away ineffectually at their chosen strands of wire, and an assortment of police officers were standing by, eyeing the rainclouds ominously gathering on the horizon, and patiently waiting to make their arrests.

  The snowballers kept up a constant chatter as they toiled away.

  ‘Could I have a go with your wire-cutters after you’ve finished?’

  ‘These are no good. I thought I might try yours.’

  ‘These? These are useless!’

  One of the policewomen shifted restlessly, and looked at her watch. It was clear she was dying to get back to the station. Inspector McGee squinted up at the clouds as they rolled steadily nearer. The other officers contented themselves with exchanging meaningful glances while the snowballers hacked away at the wire. It was obvious what they were thinking. ‘Thank God this little lot aren’t defending the country!’ I know because they had exactly the same look on their faces as Goggle-eyes did, except that he, of course, had made a point of saying it aloud, several times, till even Jude got bored with hearing it, and wandered off along the line of snowballers to see who was doing the best. She came to a dead halt halfway along, behind Fish Eyes, like a supermarket shopper who has finally worked out which check-out is likely to be free first, and, sure enough, after a moment there was a rustle of excitement where she was standing.

  ‘Mine’s coming! I think mine’s coming! Yes!’

  And, seconds later, from Grubby Green Jacket:

  ‘I’ve done it, too! I’m through the wire!’

  The first two to succeed punched the air in triumph, and grinned. The police officers sighed, and a couple of them moved forward.

  ‘Off we go, then.’

  ‘Right-ho.’

  Still smiling proudly, Fish Eyes and Grubby Green Jacket were led off towards the open doors of the blue vans. Everyone else turned their attention back to the fence.

  ‘Who’s next?’

  ‘Try the hacksaw.’

  ‘Press harder!’

  ‘Don’t press so hard!’

  ‘How can a strand of wire this thin turn out to be so tough?’

  We cheered as, one by one, the snowballers completed their task and were led off to the police vans. Beth’s granny cheated. She let a pregnant woman in pink dungarees do all her cutting for her. All that Beth’s granny did was lay her hacksaw on the broken strand, and claim loudly and dishonestly:

  ‘I’ve done it! I have cut the wire!’

  Graciously, Inspector McGee turned a blind eye to the deception. Pink Dungarees looked far too pregnant to spend long in a police station, and anyway, Inspector McGee knows better than to tangle with Beth’s granny. As usual, she slid her arm in his, and made him escort her personally back to the vans, carrying her comfy peace cushion. Everyone grinned as she hobbled by on his arm. She gets away with it every time. I’ve seen her forcing even the sullen and unpleasant police officers to be helpful and polite as they arrest her. Mum says it only works because she’s so old. Mum says they know she can remember back when they were truly the servants of the people, and not just the paramilitary arm of the state that they’ve become today. Being reminded of how much things have changed makes them uneasy, Mum says, so they treat her properly.

  The rain clouds were rolling nearer and nearer, but the advice we shouted to each snowballer was getting better with
experience, so the arrests were coming quicker now. Soon there were only three snowballers left at the fence. Flowery Headscarf from St Thomas & St James got the one good pair of wire-cutters. Delaying for only a couple of moments, smiling, while someone from her church group took a photograph, she snapped her strand through cleanly, cheered herself, and then without thinking handed the wire-cutters to the policewoman standing beside her.

  ‘Hey!’

  The last two snowballers looked up from their strands of wire. One was the shy economist to whom, earlier in the day, Gerald Faulkner had been extolling the virtues of food mountains. The other was a student called Ben who once spent a whole bus ride to Edzell airbase trying to help Simon explain decimals to Jude.

  ‘Excuse me,’ the grey-haired economist said to the policewoman. ‘We need those. These are useless.’

  It was the same policewoman who had been looking at her watch. Now she looked at the wire-cutters that had ended up in her hand, and said, exasperated beyond measure:

  ‘But I can’t give them back now!’

  The economist was too shy to argue. He shrugged and turned back to the fence. But Ben didn’t give up so easily. (Anyone who can try and explain decimals to Jude can’t be a quitter.) Pushing his fingers through his hair, he tried to wheedle his way round the officer.

  ‘Oh, go on,’ he tempted her. ‘We’ll be here hours otherwise. This pair’s quite blunt.’

  He took care to glance up at the huge purple cloud that now hung over all our heads.

  You should have seen the look on the policewoman’s face. She was in torment. She glanced at her watch a second time, then back at the wire-cutters. You could tell she was kicking herself for allowing her fingers to close round the handles of the stupid things in the first place. And, to make matters worse, one or two heavy drops of cold rain splattered down, threatening all of us still standing waiting, but not those safely seated in the vans, ready to go.

  ‘But I can’t hand back wire-cutters accidentally in my possession so you can do criminal damage!’

  ‘We’re going to cut the wire, anyhow. This way we’ll just do it quicker.’

  ‘Much quicker,’ agreed the economist, still sawing away at the fence, getting nowhere.

  The policewoman looked over at her colleague still standing behind the economist, waiting to arrest him. He wasn’t much help to her. He just stared back blankly. So she looked round for Inspector McGee. But he, of course, was still out of sight behind the vans, no doubt settling Beth’s granny on her comfy peace cushion and exchanging hairy old Scottish Ban the Bomb March reminiscences.

  Ben shrugged, and turned back to the fence.

  ‘This will take hours,’ he threatened.

  The policewoman suddenly made up her mind. With a flash of decisive thinking that Mum said later was a tribute to her training, she flipped the only good pair of wire-cutters into the grass.

  ‘Whoops!’ she said. ‘Dropped them!’

  The economist and Ben dived together. Ben, being younger and fitter, got to them first. Swooping them up with one hand, he passed her his useless pair with the other.

  ‘Allow me,’ he said courteously, as though he were simply handing her back the pair she had dropped.

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured.

  ‘And thank you.’

  He swung round on the fence. I think his big mistake must have been to go at the wire as forcefully as if he still had the blunt pair he was using before. He certainly did something stupid. I’m sure if he’d been handling them properly, they’d never have slipped like that, and pinched his finger so horribly.

  ‘Ow! Ow-ow-OW!’

  Again the wire-cutters fell in the grass. Sucking his finger, poor Ben jumped up and down, yelping with pain.

  ‘Ow-ee! It hurts!’

  ‘Let me see.’ The policewoman looked anxious.

  Ben put out his hand and slowly, gingerly, extended his fingers. You could see where the wire-cutter handle had pincered his finger. On either side were the sort of drained patches of squashed skin you know are going to turn straight into massive black bruising as soon as the blood can bring itself to flow back.

  ‘Oh, that is nasty!’ said the policewoman.

  ‘Poor Ben,’ said Jude, and her eyes filled with sympathetic tears. She’s quiet, Jude is, but she’s loyal. She never forgets anyone in the ever-growing army of those who’ve helped her with her arithmetic homework.

  Behind us, alerted by the howls of pain, Mum tore herself away from offering Goggle-eyes the job of grand vizier in her despotic regime, and scrambled up the bank to take a peek at the damage. Mum’s good with accidents. She’s got that perfect mix of being both calm and – well, yes, he’s quite right – almost unbelievably bossy.

  ‘Show me,’ she ordered him. And when he had: ‘Oh, that is nasty!’ she echoed the policewoman. (Two real professionals.)

  Ben didn’t respond to these sophisticated diagnoses. The poor soul looked pale as a maggot. I think he was about to faint.

  The policewoman turned to Gerald, who had been scrambling up the bank after Mum, and now stood gasping for breath at her side.

  ‘Would you help me get this young man to the bus before he keels over?’

  She must have chosen Gerald because of what was left of his nice suit. She can’t have picked him because of his physical fitness. He was still panting heavily as he obediently took Ben’s other arm to support him.

  Ben tried to shake them off.

  ‘I’m not going to the bus,’ he insisted. ‘I’m going in the vans. I’m being arrested.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ Mum said. ‘That’s going to turn into the most unpleasant bruise. You’re going home.’

  She turned to the policewoman for support, and the policewoman clinched it.

  ‘I wouldn’t arrest you anyway,’ she declared baldly. ‘You never even got through your bit of fence.’

  You could tell everyone thought this was a bit harsh. One or two of the Quakers looked a little reproachful, and Ben was positively outraged. But Gerald and the policewoman cut short his indignant protests by leading him off firmly towards the bus. As they stumbled past me down the muddy slope, I heard Ben muttering darkly about conspiracies; but apart from gripping his arm just that little bit tighter, and speeding up, the policewoman and Gerald simply ignored him.

  While the economist was still snipping gingerly at his own stubborn strand of fence wire, Mum looked round the little knot of bystanders. As usual she seemed to have completely taken over.

  ‘We need one more now,’ she announced. ‘A replacement for Ben. Any volunteers?’

  Silence. To make the point that whoever was going to volunteer had better get a move on, a few more drops of cold rain fell. Everyone glanced at one another with those helpless little I-would-if-I-could shrugs that make it clear they have an important engagement, or their mother-in-law happens to be staying, or, just this once, their yoga class has been changed to Sunday.

  ‘Come on,’ cajoled Mum. ‘It’s only a couple of hours down at the station. Your court case won’t come up for weeks.’

  Everyone took a sudden interest in their muddy toe-caps.

  ‘We need another person,’ Mum insisted. ‘This snowball is going to look pathetic if we don’t even have sixteen.’

  I don’t know how they held out against her, truly I don’t. I cracked.

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Certainly not!’

  Then even Jude began to look a little bit wistful. She opened her mouth once or twice, daring herself to volunteer. But even her passion for Inspector McGee couldn’t triumph over her tiredness, and the fact that her feet were cold, and the unknown territory of ‘down at the station’. And Mum would only have ignored her, anyway. So we all stood there looking terribly uncomfortable, while the last policeman carefully kept his face straight, and Mum’s eyes roved over everyone, just like Mrs Lupey’s do when she’s waiting for someone in the class to confess to some heinous crime like dropping a chocolate w
rapper on the floor, or sliding the window down a micromillimetre while she’s turned her back to write something on the blackboard.

  But this lot aren’t that easily intimidated. After all, if they cared all that much what people thought of them, they wouldn’t have come on the demo in the first place. So they just kept on politely inspecting the ends of their shoes, and I honestly believe that, but for what happened next, the whole business might have been wrapped up with a few more moments of stern waiting, and then Mum shrugging and breaking the silence with something like: ‘Oh, well. Fifteen. Sixteen. What’s the difference?’

  But the policeman snorted.

  Personally, I would have ignored it. After all, if Gerald Faulkner had been standing there, he probably would have snorted too, and just as loudly. But, let’s face it, Mum’s soft on Goggle-eyes. She wasn’t soft on the policeman.

  ‘Lost your tissues?’ she asked him in exactly the same tone of voice Gran uses for ‘Had your eyeful?’ And I told you already that that sounds so rude Mum’s ordered me and Jude to stop saying it, ever.

  It irritated him, you could tell, her coming back at him like that. And he was pretty young. Maybe Mum’s scornful response reminded him of being scolded by his own mother for tracking mud from his regulation boots over her nice clean floors or something. Anyway, suddenly he got exactly the same sort of look all over his face as Jude gets when she’s cheesed off with Mum. And he muttered sullenly: