And I am quite aware, believe me, that I’m presenting exactly the same kind of face to him.
He breaks off and goes to sit, hunched forward, his elbows leaning on his knees, head dropped. Anyone who saw him might imagine he’s exhausted, or upset. Anyone who cared about him would slip over there quietly and stroke his back, or cup his forehead, kneel beside him with their hand braced on his thigh while they asked after his problem and said what they could to make it fade. Anyone who cared.
He ducks up slightly, shading his eyes with spread fingers, peering out at me like a boy and then flinching when I look at him, withdrawing again. Which is perfectly natural, because I’m his problem: there is nothing I can do to help him, other than ceasing to be.
And I’m not entirely sure I want to help. Why should I stop him hurting when he won’t stop hurting me.
It went wrong, that’s all, completely wrong. First we laughed at strangers and then, being so happy and so much at ease, we laughed at each other and proved we were safe in our hands, because we didn’t mean a word. But then a little jab would meet a jab and a cut would meet a cut and we’d apologise and there would be tenderness, but the kind you only feel when there’s a bruise. None of it was intended: no one was really attacking, we were both just defending ourselves.
But we didn’t stop. So now we are this: each of us a bad mirror for the other. Not anything better, not anything softer, not anything to do with love.
Naturally, I can’t say this, because I won’t speak to him, because he won’t speak to me and vice versa.
I’m getting an angry headache, possibly a migraine. He’s my sole trigger for the migraines, I never used to have them before. The stomach cramps, the dreams, the shortened attention span: in a purely pathological way, he’s much more a part of me these days than he ever was.
At no signal of which I’m aware, the groups around me start to slide, conversations ending, and the whole crowd shuffling and bumping towards the door.
I won’t go out with them, I can’t face it. Once they’re all in their seats and the music’s started, I’m going home: I find I’m too tired for anything else. I walk to face the only window, stare into the pale day, while the room at my back empties, becomes still.
I know that he hasn’t left, either: I don’t have to turn and see. He’s sitting behind me, just as he was, his breath now audible in the quiet—I can hear mine, too.
Our situation is ridiculous, laughable, and I want to be able to laugh. The fact that I can’t is, in itself, quite funny, if I think about it: quite bizarre that I can lose my own nature so easily, just because he’s with me. And it really should be very amusing that this will go on, that I have nothing better, that no matter what, I still want to be sure that we won’t leave each other alone.
A Bad Son
Ronald was holding on.
He was managing: riding it, doing something dangerous, doing something he couldn’t do. Very softly and wonderfully, he began to think this ought to mean that he was being someone new. The ground was snarling past beneath him and close by his sides and this wasn’t pretending and wasn’t wishing—because neither of those worked—but he was really here with nothing gone wrong yet, not even something small—so he must be someone else now—better than he was—maybe changed just this minute, maybe by miracle.
His father said that miracles don’t happen and his mother said it, too. They could be wrong though, he saw that: because he was holding on.
He remembered his feet, he was meant to be braking with his feet, jamming his heels down in the snow, but he didn’t want to, didn’t honestly understand how, and going this fast was good, anyway, this suited him fine, the jars and bangs hitting so close to each other, they almost became the one thing and made it hard for him to think, which was what he wanted—the less he could hear in his head, the more he liked it. Soon he’d find just the right speed where he’d stop having any words inside him, or any people, or bits of things he’d seen: he would reach the racing speed that could empty him out of everyone. He could feel it beginning to take him, to make him clean.
Ronald shut his eyes and let himself slip and be part of a big, long shine and he smiled and smiled and stretched back so that he was lying down, resting on it, the way that another boy might, one who did this all the time. He’d been scared before he started, but you could only be scared for a while and then it changed—became something else—this time it had burst to nothing, to a hot, white light that was marvellous and still and he was so happy with it that he let the day take his breath.
Before it kicked and tipped away beneath him, yanked his legs, the rest of him following sharper than he’d thought it could, plunging while he imagined smearing, being rubbed out, replaced.
Then something massive caught him, lifted him up.
And he was going to look and see what it was like to be in flight when some other thing wrapped around him, springing and cold and mainly soft, but with scratches in it.
When it let him go, he knew he would drop.
He landed on his back.
Very close to his face, it seemed, there was the sky, a sore blue, but peaceful, and he was breathing again—a lot—in and out so much that it burned when he swallowed. Ronald moved cautiously and the snow creaked in reply. He thought of things he could have broken, or how easily he might have banged his head, or bitten off his tongue—which would be awful, that would mean you couldn’t speak—but when he shifted, patted, he discovered nothing much that hurt, besides his throat. He was probably all right.
He was going to try standing when he heard Jim whoop and yell, crashing towards him, down between the trees, and laughing. This would be OK, though. Jim wasn’t going to make fun of him: he didn’t think so, anyway.
Full of a beautiful calmness, Ronald sat up and considered the pine tree in front of him—the one that had brought him to his stop—it looked enormous, as if you couldn’t hit it and live. The overturned sledge was beside him, crossing the last, dark swing of its tracks, and over his legs was the mess of slush and needles he must have knocked loose when he crashed. Then Jim was here and was hammering on his back and hat—not too hard, only friendly.
“How’re you laughing, tumshie?”
Ronald shut his mouth and the laughing stopped. He hadn’t realised it was him making all that noise.
“Eh? You’re mad. Right intae it.” Jim marched forward and brushed the new scar on the pine’s trunk respectfully. He glanced back and grinned. “Playing chicken with a tree. Mad.”
Ronald felt his mouth become uneasy. “But I didn’t break the sledge? Did I?”
Jim kicked one of its runners, unconcerned, “That? No. We slid that off the top of the barn to test it, like? Fucking indestructible.” It sounded OK when Jim swore—or when Ronald’s father started: getting angry with Barbara Castle, or because of the Icelanders stealing British cod, or when a thing went wrong, even something small, and made him shout. They were people who could handle the words—they never sounded stupid and as if they were pretending, not the way Ronald did.
Trying to think of a word he’d be able to say, Ronald struggled his legs in under himself until he could kneel and dig at the snow and yank up the sledge’s tow rope.
“You’re wanting another shot?” Jim sounded slightly impressed, but Ronald didn’t truly want to do anything, except to get warm again, maybe. He hadn’t expected to be mad, or to stay on, even: everything had been an accident. It had been easier to try the sledge than admit he’d never sat on one before, that was all.
Jim peered back at the slope professionally, “Even Billy hasna came thon way …”
Ronald stood, tipped his head far back to take in the whole trail he’d left, and then had to shake his gaze away again—the slope didn’t look possible, it was far too steep and had rocks: bare, black rocks: dodging out from the snow. He almost started to be frightened, but then remembered he was meant to be new—he was the boy who’d ridden down with no trouble and, better than that, Jim
knew he’d done it—he’d been brave with a witness to see. Ronald tried stretching up his fists, as if he’d scored a goal, but it went wrong and felt silly, so he wagged his arms and stamped his feet and made a war dance out of it. He howled a bit—the howling made him happy. He’d been brave and Jim had seen it.
“Fucking Mad Ronnie. Mad as fuck.” Jim punched his arm and Ronald slapped at him in return without thinking, but that must have been the right thing to do, because Jim just took the rope from him and said, “No, I’ll pull it home—no more time for anything today, or the old dear’ll kill us.” He paused. “Better no tell her, eh?”
Ronald was happy to agree, “Yes, better not.” He was good at secrets.
Again Jim punched him, this time on the shoulder: “And you’ll be needing a rest.” He started walking, the sledge following with a flip and a bounce, after no more than a moment of unwillingness: Jim was strong.
“Aye.” Ronald always said yes at home, but Jim wouldn’t know that. “Aye. Mad as fuck,” which didn’t sound as shy as it could have. He started off, too, determined he would keep up this time and not have to pretend he was stopping to look at things, so that he could rest. There was melt water down his wellingtons—Jim’s wellingtons, actually—and some had run in from his collar, as far as his back, but the damp was getting warm, so he needn’t worry.
“Ronnie, Ronnie, madasfuck, madasfuck, madasfuck. Ronnie, Ronnie madasfuck. Mad. As. Fuck.” Jim made up songs about everyone, always to the same tune, and then just sang them—he didn’t care if people heard, or if they got angry.
Ronald trotted on until he was level with Jim—possibly ahead—even though it made his thighs sting. When the song, his song, started for the second time he joined in, careful to control his breathing and not pant. The rhythm helped him move faster and let him think of being in an army and marching and shouting with people he was like. Comrades, that’s what you called it—being comrades.
Their singing knocked every crow up out of the little wood; just the two of them, they’d shouted that loud. And, because of the snow, Ronald could tell nobody but them had been here for days—not a mark to spoil it, except where they’d walked. No one was near, either, not anywhere he looked. They were the only things moving, so this was their own. He was the only one who noticed, so this was his.
Ronald pushed out a short run forward, the afternoon spinning in him, being light again, brighter and brighter, being good. He let himself fall in the snow, face up and still singing. Ronnie, Ronnie …
“Now what?”
“Madasfuck—Leave me here.” Ronald said this quietly, because suddenly it was needed, what should be.
“What?”
He did want to stay. “Leave me.” If this was his, it would take him away, what was left of how he’d been, and he could disappear.
“Oh.” Jim made a trial drop of snow on to Ronald’s chest. “Leave you? Have to be camouflaged if I leave you …” He gathered a larger scoop and threw it at Ronald’s throat—some went in his mouth.
It tasted of being invisible. “That’s OK.” Ronald reminded himself that he needn’t be scared, he didn’t have to any more. He could be brand new, could be mad as fuck.
He thought of the yogis who had themselves buried for weeks in India—they only breathed once a day, or something, and because of that they were fine when their followers came back and dug them up. You could do whatever you wanted, if you could concentrate enough: walk on coals and levitate, breathe in one nostril and out the other—hot, cold, beds of nails: you didn’t have to feel a thing.
And under snow there’d be no feeling and only the whiteness in your head, no sounds. Better than the sledge—it wouldn’t stop.
Jim had found a rhythm and was scraping snow over him now from either side in flat armfuls. Not wanting to spoil it, Ronald raised his head only slowly and saw he was almost covered. In a while, you wouldn’t tell him from anything else.
“No, you’ve got to stay flat, mind.”
“My face?”
Jim paused while the idea of this caught between them—Ronald pushing what they would do, volunteering to be buried properly. “Your face? Well, aye.”
Surprisingly gently, Jim built a rim of snow up around Ronald’s head, patting it solid. Ronald listened to his ears being stopped with the grind of close movement and the gathering pace of his breath. Then the cold was pressed in at his cheeks, his chin, his mouth, and was closed down from his forehead.
If you died of cold it was nice, he’d read that. You went sleepy and then you slept and then didn’t wake.
His face was throbbing, the chill aching in his teeth, but he let that happen and ignored it. He stared at the sky, weaving his eyes, focusing on how free they were, and how odd and bare it seemed to look at things. Bits of him were burning, somehow, and this might fix the change in him, truly make him another person.
Leaning over and blocking the view, Jim shouted, “I’m away then.” He sounded partly lonely. Ronald’s side read the pressure of his boots as he walked past.
Then it was Ronald alone, and trying to find he was someone else—getting strong.
It was quiet outside him, all dumb. He didn’t know if his ears still worked: they hurt a lot. His lips and forehead, too. Inside, he was still noisy, having to think.
He wasn’t a yogi, Ronald realised, he wasn’t anything yet. There was nothing in him that seemed important. Lying in the cold this way was making him shrink to the point where he might not matter any more. It wasn’t what he’d hoped for, wasn’t fair.
But it wouldn’t be bad to get sleepy and sleep. That wouldn’t be the worst.
He would miss his mother, that was the only thing. He thought she would miss him. They did things together whenever they could, when nothing had gone wrong. But maybe that didn’t matter, either.
Ronald waited for the cold to stop him feeling, scrub everything. He waited to make a miracle.
Even though a miracle you made yourself might not count.
If you didn’t matter—there was a dark, red pain near his eyes—if you didn’t matter—he almost understood—if you didn’t matter, then nothing did. If nothing mattered, then you wouldn’t care. You could do anything and not care.
He wanted that. It would be the best. It would be Ronald, mad as fuck.
Ronald tilted his head back to laugh. A trickle of water ran down into his nose and then quick, to the back of his throat, made him splutter up, heaving clear into the air again.
He coughed, rubbed his face and started it tingling, coughed again, doubled over, and then made a point of spitting. Jim probably spat whenever he wanted to, was good at it.
Yes, but he could be good at it, too. He could learn.
“Hey! Wait, though!”
Up ahead, Jim was tiny.
“Hey! Hey, I’m coming!”
He’d lasted longer than he’d thought—Jim far ahead, trudging and kicking at snow.
“Hey!”
He’d lasted a mad, long time. Mad as fuck. You could do anything, like that.
Ronald staggered forward, then attempted a trot, a wallowing run.
“Hey! Jim!”
This time, Jim span round and opened his arms, yelled for him. “Yes! And Mad Ronnie bounces back.”
Ronald pushed harder at that, bolted, the skin near his lips stinging.
He arrived, almost certain that he was worth a celebration, and risked a punch at Jim’s body. “Uh hu. Mad Ronnie.” He was out of breath, but boiling with success, his joints easy, his arms and legs belonging to Mad Ronnie now—someone who was used to passing tests and having victories. “Uh hu. That’s me.”
“Good thing, as well. Couldn’t think what I’d say to the old dear—you not with me and that—she’d have gone mental …” Jim wasn’t afraid of anyone except his mother. “And we’re late—come on and tank it, eh?”
Before Ronald could think, they did both begin racing: tripping and slithering, battering into each other and then stumbling on. Th
e evening had sunk in at them quickly, a short dash of pink light and then the start of dark, and the farm’s lights showing clearly, spilling in yellow glows as they pulled towards it. By this time, Ronald was nothing but muscles and lungs and the hot clout of his heart and the knowledge that he’d had a great day, the best day. He hadn’t made one mistake.
Although they were both cautious around her, Jim’s mother was in a good mood when she saw them: scolding, but not seriously. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Jim, what were you trying to do—drown him?” Ronald stood close to Jim in the cake-smelling kitchen, feet and fingers seeming swollen in the violent warmth. Mrs. Dickson half smiled. “Look at him—he’s soaked.”
Ronald hadn’t met her very often, but was used to her speaking about him as if he were a small and unusual machine that Jim was bound to break. “I’m OK, though, Mrs. Dickson.” To be respectful, he talked to her in his classroom voice—more Scottish than his home voice, but not as Scottish as his playtime one and not loud and with possible swearing the way he might always be now when he thought that he wanted to. “It was the snow.” The words were awkward: his changes from one thing to another didn’t always work straight away.
“Snow doesn’t jump over boys by itself. Take off everything that’s wet.” She made her voice harder—the way people did for family things when they wanted no arguments. “Jim will carry them to the drier and will lend you his dressing gown. The blue one, Jim. On you go.”
Mrs. Dickson wasn’t pretty, so Ronald tried to be as nice as he could to her, because ugly people were sad the whole time and that was the worst thing in the world.
“Yes, Mrs. Dickson.”
“Don’t yes—just go away, the pair of you—you’re dripping everywhere.”
“Yes, Mrs. Dickson.”
Upstairs in Jim’s room, Ronald sat on the end of the bed in his vest and pants—these were slightly wet, too, but he wasn’t going to take them off. The dressing gown was waiting next to him: but it seemed funny to wear someone else’s clothes, and he didn’t need it yet, he was fine.
Indelible Acts Page 6
