by James Rice
You crossed the carriageway to the estate behind the square. By the time I caught sight of you again you were stepping through the gate of what must have been Angela’s back garden. It was hard to make out, through the trees, but I could just about see you, the two of you, laid out on the wooden skeletons of her parents’ sun-loungers. You were giggling and passing a rolled-up cigarette, letting smoke crawl out amongst your white and steaming breath. I sat in the bus stop across the street, hood up, hugging my parka shut. I ate my tuna sandwich. I found that, if I tapped my feet together, I could keep them from going numb.
It’s strange to think that a few months ago you weren’t a part of my life. That I only knew you vaguely, as The Girl In The Shades or Miss Cool or (through Ian and Goose’s notes) as a little coloured-in symbol the shape of a pair of sunglasses. I knew you in the same way I know the names of the TV shows or songs people talk about, without having seen/heard them. I must have seen you around school once or twice but I’d never really registered you. Not until under the bridge. Not until your smile.
It’s hard to remember now what Goose and Ian used to write about you in their note-tennis. They haven’t written about you recently so I’ve not been able to properly pin down your social status. You’re just one of those unpindownable people. If you were popular I’d know who you were, I would at some point have been pushed to the ground or had Tango poured over me or have been asked to ‘say something’ in front of you in some kind of attempt to impress. But if you were unpopular then I would have more than likely witnessed you as a victim of similar pushings-over/Tango-pourings. So I’m guessing you lie somewhere in Skipdale High’s social middle class. Therefore it’s pretty impressive you’ve landed a friendship with Angela Hargrove.
When Sarah first started at Skipdale her form teacher had asked the class what they wanted to be when they grew up and Angela Hargrove said she wanted to be ‘Every man’s wet dream’. My sister retold this story that night at the dinner table. Mum was so shocked she let a half-chewed forkful of cannelloni fall from her mouth onto the tablecloth. I think that’s what my sister loves the most about Angela – her ability to hang-mouth adults. Sarah’s never actually managed to make friends with her, instead becoming one of her crowd of backing dancers at school dance shows. (Angela Hargrove is the Dancing Queen. She moves like silk. My sister says Angela has her own fifteen-minute dance solo in the Christmas Dance Fantastical and my sister, whose own part is five minutes, at the back, along with three Vultures, says this with genuine, head-shaking admiration. Awe even.)
How have you managed to get in with Angela? I bet she doesn’t know you live in the Pitt, does she? No way would she hang around with anyone from the Pitt. She pulls her disgusted wrinkle-face if she sees a Pitt kid the other side of the playground, never mind sharing a cigarette on adjacent sun-loungers. The two of you seemed pretty merry with each other at lunch. You couldn’t stop laughing. In the end Angela laughed so much she slid off the front of her lounger, disappearing from view behind the tree stumps. Then you started your own giggle-fit, rocking too far on your lounger and tumbling right off the back. I had to climb up on the bench to see you. You didn’t seem to be hurt, though. You were still laughing.
You remained on the ground, then, the two of you. You left your sun-loungers with their legs in the air and just lay there, mumbling and smoking and giggling. I decided to head back to school. I wanted to get back to the warmth of the library, but it was starting to rain by the time I reached the dual carriageway and I knew better than to linger in the rain – it was lingering in the rain that made me sick a few months back. So I climbed down to the canal path, took shelter under the bridge instead. Usually I do my best to avoid bridges, or archways, or anywhere else one of Them could suddenly drop down upon me, but the canal bridge is different, I like it under there. I feel safe. Sometimes, if I don’t want to go home between school and our bus, I go there and wait for you to finish work.
Today was particularly cold and parts of the canal had frozen into these little white islands. There were half a dozen ducks perched on the bank, inspecting the water like it was some lifestyle choice they’d yet to decide on. I balled into my warm-position: legs tucked into chest, coat over knees, hood pulled tight. I wondered if the ducks were cold. They seemed perfectly happy standing there, aiming their beaks at the surface of the water.
I closed my eyes and thought of you. I imagined you and Angela, lying there on your sun-loungers. Pictured you, staring up into the sky, raindrops speckling the lenses of your sunglasses.
By the time I opened my eyes again I was late for form. All the ducks had snuck off and left me.
DATE UNKNOWN
A couple of months ago I got sick. Like, really sick. Like, spend-three-days-rolled-up-in-my-duvet-like-a-frozen-sausage-roll sort of sick.
I got sick because back then I always waited in the library after school for the crowds to disappear before walking home and so by the time I was ready to leave the sky had gone black and the wind had picked up and I had trekked across the field and out through the gap in the hedge onto the dual carriageway to avoid your brother and the rest of that gang of Pitt kids who had nothing better to do than hang around the gate after school and throw stones at the orchestra who had stayed late to practise and I had walked down towards the square and I had put my bag on both shoulders because it was really heavy because at lunchtime I had gone down to Waitrose and bought three 4-packs of videotapes to record old movies that were showing that week as part of Channel 4’s Retro Hollywood Season and I had had to carry them around all day and my shoulders were really aching and the skin where my neck joins my shoulders was really stinging from the pulling and scraping of my shoulder straps and I was cold because I couldn’t hug my coat together to keep warm that day because I had to keep my thumbs under my shoulder straps to keep my bag hoisted on my back to stop one of the corners of one of the 4-packs of videotapes from nuzzling my spine and the wind had been hissing at me that day like Nan’s cat Mr Saunders used to hiss when I would try and move him off my bed so Herb wouldn’t catch him and literally kick him off the bed instead and the wind had been getting right under my shirt that had untucked and was flapping against my skin that was all tight and goose-pimpled and there had been a mist of ice-water in the wind and it had stuck my shirt to my skin and my hood had blown down so the mist of ice-water in the wind had got into my eyes too and made them water which I had been glad of in a way because at least the tears on my face were warm and I hadn’t been able to cross the dual carriageway because I couldn’t see properly and it’s dangerous to cross a dual carriageway when you can’t see properly so I had half stepped half slid down the embankment to the canal to take cover under the bridge so that I could reposition the videotapes in my bag so that I could release my thumbs and put my hood up and walk with my hands in my coat pockets and wrap my coat around myself and hopefully stop the icy mist of rain getting in and also cover my nipples which were sharp and straight like drawing pins but in the end I hadn’t been able to fix my bag or my coat or my nipples because instead of finding peace in the-safety-and-solitude-of-under-the-bridge I had stumbled down to find you waiting in the-safety-and-solitude-of-under-the-bridge and I had had to just keep on walking with my head down and pretend that I was just passing through the-safety-and-solitude-of-under-the-bridge because your big eyes were there and they were unsunglassed and blue and aimed right at me and I’d had to try my best to not look at them whilst trying to work out who you were and what year you were in because you were wearing Skipdale uniform but I hadn’t recognised you at the time without those thick dark glasses and I had kept walking and the wind hadn’t hissed under the bridge like Mr Saunders because it had been sheltered and silent under the bridge and for some reason as I passed you I had lifted my head which had been a very strange thing for me to have done because when I’m walking past people I always just watch my shoes and count to ten and I’m still not entirely sure whether I did in fact lift my head or whether
I might have just imagined lifting my head and imagined seeing that your hair was wet and imagined that the dye had streaked red lines down your face like blood and imagined that your big eyes had fixed on mine and imagined that smile that smile and I can’t remember if I had smiled back or if I had even imagined smiling back if in fact your smile had just been imagined by my imagination because all I can remember is how much I had concentrated on walking because walking had seemed only possible if I concentrated very carefully on it and I had managed one step at a time to keep walking through the rest of the-safety-and-solitude-of-under-the-bridge until I had come out the other side onto the canal path again and that’s where I had stopped and I hadn’t been able to walk any more and I’d sat down in the icy mist of the rain and watched the ducks for a while and then watched the ducks for a while longer until I was very cold and very wet and sick.
And even if I didn’t smile back at you at the time, imaginarily or realitarily, it didn’t really matter, because even through my sickness and my shaking and my headaches and my chattering teeth I kept smiling for the next three days.
24/11
Miss Hayes has a new theory. She thinks I’m not reading enough. Today she brought in two handle-stretched Waitrose bags bulging with books. It was hard work heaving them to the bus stop and the bus was so packed with rush-hour commuters I ended up having no place to store them but on my seat, which meant I had nowhere to sit but on top of them, which is why I may have seemed taller today.
Miss Hayes thinks reading will help me interact with my peers. If I made more of an effort to fit in then maybe I could make some friends. If I had some friends maybe I could stop thinking about Them so much. I did have a friend once, back in St Peter’s. His name was Andrew Wilt. I used to stay in the classroom at lunch and play chess with him. Everyone else was out playing football but he had to stay inside because he had leukaemia and his body was weak. He was a bastard. He used to jab me with a pencil and call me Freak Boy. I guess he had the right to be a bastard, what with the leukaemia, but he’d always sharpen the pencil before he jabbed me and once the tip broke off and stayed in my hand, a little grey freckle I have to this day. The teachers thought I was very noble to stay with Andrew at lunch but he said I was just a freak with no choice. He always went on about how bad I was at chess. Then, when no one was looking, he’d jab me. In year six Andrew Wilt finally died of leukaemia and from then on I sat alone at lunch and played chess on my own. I actually preferred it that way.
I didn’t tell Miss Hayes any of this. She was sitting there smiling, just waiting for me to talk, but I didn’t know where to begin. She asked if I’d written anything in my journal this week and I nodded. She grinned and leant forwards, so far I could see the white of her bra. She asked if it had worked, if I felt any different. I wanted to say yes, especially with Miss Hayes literally perched on the edge of her seat like that, but I couldn’t think of any effect it had had on me (except for cramping my hand a little) and I didn’t want to lie, so I just shook my head and watched Miss Hayes’ smile disappear, watched that frown crawl back as she slouched into her seat again. She tapped her pencil against her lips.
She said these things take time. She said I need to be more honest in my writing. She said: ‘Remember, nobody will read it.’ I promise that I’m being as honest as possible. I’m writing as much as I can but it’s hard when you don’t know what to write. I never know if I’m writing the right thing.
That’s when Miss Hayes went out for the books. She had to go to her car to get them and when she got back her hair had frizzed in the rain. Her blouse was stuck to her chest and I could see her bra without her even having to bend over. I tried not to stare. I could feel this pressure, building inside me. My head ached. I was scratching my arm. She put the pencil to her lips again. I tried to concentrate on the books, tried to read the titles, but I couldn’t seem to focus.
Miss Hayes said I was very lucky to have someone lend me all these books. She said that when she was my age she was good at English too and if her English teacher had given her time and encouragement and a big pile of books like this she would have found her calling earlier on in life. She said books can save people. She said books can change the world. I can’t really see how a book could change the world – nobody even reads them any more. Everyone in class talks about music and TV, not books.
Miss Hayes said it was Mr Cullman who introduced her to books. She said that Cullman may teach Geography but his real passion is literature. He has a library in his house. She said she’s only marrying him for his library and winked. By the time I realised I was meant to laugh it was too late.
Then she asked if I had ‘someone’. I wasn’t sure how to answer, so I didn’t.
‘You know, like a girl,’ she said. ‘A girl you like? Or likes you? It’s important, you know, to have someone. Even a boy …’
I stared at the carpet.
‘You need someone you can confide in. Someone you can love. It’s important to find a home for your love. Do you understand? These books are a start, but you’ll need people, too. We all need people.’
Now I’m back home. Miss Hayes’ books are stacked in the corner of my bedroom. They’re adding an uncomfortable level of clutter to my room. I might stash them away, at the bottom of my wardrobe. I can always pretend I’ve read them.
TRANSCRIPT
Extract of interview between Detective Sergeant Terrence Mansell (TM) and Gregory Hall’s teacher, Miss Rachel Hayes (RH).
TM: Thanks for coming in.
RH: That’s OK.
TM: I presume you know why you’re here.
RH: I’ve read the newspapers. I don’t exactly know the details.
TM: I can’t discuss details anyway.
RH: Right.
TM: All I’m after here is some basic information.
RH: Mm-hm.
TM: Stuff on your relationship with Greg.
RH: OK.
TM: So, tell me about your relationship with Greg.
RH: Well, I’m his teacher.
TM: What subject?
RH: English.
TM: And you also spent time together outside of school?
RH: You know, it’d be easier all round if you didn’t make me answer questions you already know the answers to.
TM: I’m just trying to establish the facts here.
RH: You know the facts. You know I saw Greg outside of school. That’s why I’m here. That’s why you’ve brought me in.
TM: To be honest, Miss Hayes, it’d actually be easier if you just answered the questions. Then I can tick them off my list. Then you can go home.
RH: Fine, yes, I saw Greg. After school. Every Tuesday.
TM: Why?
RH: The idea was that he could discuss any problems he was having. In school, at home. Whatever. But he stopped coming. A few weeks ago.
TM: Why was that?
RH: I don’t know exactly. There was the stuff with my fiancé, I don’t know if that might have scared him off.
TM: Right.
RH: A lot of people were … different after that. It’s stupid, though, really. I mean, with Greg. It had no bearing on our meetings.
TM: When did these ‘meetings’ first start?
RH: A few months ago. October, I think.
TM: And you knew about his condition?
RH: Yes.
TM: And that he was on medication?
RH: Yes. Well, I learnt about everything, you know, the phobia and everything, from the school nurse beforehand. I found out about the pills in class, actually, when one of the other pupils stole them from his school bag. Showed them to everyone.
TM: That must have made things difficult for him.
RH: To be honest we never really talked about any of that, the bullying. There was a fair bit of bullying, it’s true, but I didn’t want to fixate on that.
TM: What did you talk about?
RH: Not much, really. He wasn’t one for baring his soul.
TM: Right.
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RH: I tried all kinds of approaches but it made no difference.
TM: What did you try?
RH: Well, I’d ask him questions. Tell him things, about me, about my life. I wanted to just make some sort of connection, you know? I gave him some books once, some of my fiancé’s. Of course that’s probably the last we’ll see of them.
TM: But you never made this ‘connection’?
RH: He was unreachable.
TM: Disconnected.
RH: Right.
TM: What was it exactly that made you want to set up these meetings?
RH: What do you mean?
TM: Well, why did you want a connection? What did you hope to get out of it?
RH: I just wanted to help him. I thought he was intelligent. Misunderstood. I thought eventually he’d open up. Obviously at this point I didn’t know, you know, what he was capable of.
TM: It had nothing to do with your own personal history?
RH: No. I mean … what’s that got to do with anything?
TM: Just a question. It’s not important really.
RH: Well, I mean, I did have a tough time growing up. And he seemed to also be having a tough time. So there was that, yes. I wanted to help. I felt compelled to help.
TM: Right.
RH: But the emphasis was always on Greg.
TM: Of course.
RH: What do you mean, anyway – my ‘own personal history’?
TM: Just referring to what I’ve read. The parts Greg’s mentioned.
RH: Mentioned?
TM: In the journal.
RH: Journal?
TM: His journal. That was your idea, right? You gave him the journal?
RH: Yes, I gave him a journal. In one of our sessions. I didn’t think he used it much.
TM: Oh, he used it all right. There’re hundreds of pages’ worth back at my office.
RH: Really?
