by Hatch, Ben
‘I want my box of felt tips NOW.’
‘I want to get out.’
‘My hair is HURTING MY FACE. SHUT THE WINDOW!’
They did it in shifts for 100 meandering miles, taking it in turns to cry out for something, anything – a banana, Weetabix, toys, sweets, cuddles, treats. Phoebe was so fed up when we reached Chollerford she was pressing the ignition button over and over again on a toddler driving game of Charlie’s with the deadened eyes of a shark. The only respite came from topping her up with half-melted chocolate Aero Bubbles from the driver’s side pocket. When she finally fell asleep, Charlie woke refreshed and took over the baton, angry he was still in his bucket seat and we weren’t there yet. We teetered on the edge of madness down the tiny unmarked roads on the way to Kielder, the lowest moment coming when I took Phoebe for a wee in a field of potentially live ordnance in Otterburn, a few feet from a friendly roadside sign warning: ‘Do not touch any military debris. It might explode and kill you.’
And what do we find now we’re here? The place is overrun with puff adders.
Dinah, after being sanguine before, in a panicky volte-face now insists she and the kids wait in the lodge while I unload the car alone.
‘I see, it’s OK if Daddy gets bitten, is it?’
‘Do you want me to do it too and the kids run out?’
‘No, I’ll do it.’
‘Why are we waiting here, Mummy?’
‘Never mind, Phoebe.’
‘But why?’
‘Phoebe, just do as you’re told.’
‘But why, Mummy?’
‘Because of the puff adders, OK.’
‘Puff adders?’
‘Snakes, Phoebe.’
‘Dinah, is that wise?’ I shout from behind the boot.
‘In real life, Mummy?’ Phoebe asks in a quieter voice.
And Dinah, too tired and beleaguered to filter stuff now, replies, ‘Yes, in real life.’
‘Love, can I have a word?’
‘If there are the snakes you say there are, Ben, I think the children ought to know.’
‘OK, OK. You know best.’
‘Charlie, there are snakes here,’ says Phoebe. ‘Loads of snakes.’
‘Not really!’ says Charlie, fear crossing his face.
‘In real life,’ says Phoebe, nodding. ‘There are snakes, aren’t there, Mummy?’
‘Yes.’
Charlie thrusts his arms in the air, demanding a cuddle. It sets Phoebe off, who demands the same.
‘Mummy! Mummy!’ Phoebe shouts, jigging up and down on the spot with terror.
‘Cuddle, cuddle,’ shouts Charlie.
The situation’s just calming down when something else happens. I’m in the middle of feeding Charlie when I hear a buzzing noise coming from what I think is the failing battery in a pendulum clock on the wooden wall of the living room. But how silly of me to assume it could be something as innocent as an AAA battery? It’s a bat, of course. A live bat trapped in our lodge. It’s officially the lowest point of the day, maybe the entire trip, as the bat I’ve disturbed begins to whip around the living room at great erratic speed. It doesn’t bump into anything because, of course, it has echo location, but that doesn’t stop the children crying and besides it’s a rather hard concept to explain, echo location.
‘Phoebe, stop crying! It’s OK. They won’t fly into you because bats send out sonar bleeps through their larynx that bounce off objects, sending differing rebound signal frequencies back to the bat’s ears giving them a clear picture of what’s in front of them.’ It also doesn’t help that I’m involuntarily ducking every few seconds myself as I’m saying this.
Some days it really doesn’t pay to be the man. I’d suggest fleeing from the lodge but outside there are not only midges but puff adders.
‘Ben, do something. Get it out.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know. God, this is so rubbish,’ says Dinah. ‘We should have gone home when we had the chance. I don’t know, wave something at it.’
Fat tears spring from Charlie’s eyes. His wailing is muffled by Dinah’s shoulder. Meanwhile, Phoebe’s in my arms, hiding her face in my chest.
‘I don’t like it, Daddy. I don’t like it,’ she says. ‘Get it out. Get it out.’
‘Sweetheart, it’ll be fine. Please, no one cry. We’ve been here five minutes!’ I shout. ‘Five minutes! And we’re already at crisis point. This is ridiculous. Ridiculous! Just open the door, Dinah. It will probably just fly out.’
‘You open it.’
‘You’re nearest. I’m holding Phoebe.’
‘Well, I’ve got Charlie.’
‘Phoebe…’
‘Don’t ask her!’
‘I wasn’t going to. I was going to say, go to Mummy, actually.’
Phoebe runs to Dinah, where she begins to whimper.
‘Ben, for God’s sake!’
Dinah’s dad, Bert, is six foot five, a former club rugby player and electrical engineer who, over the course of his thirty years keeping a roof over his family’s heads, received several near fatal high voltage shocks from generators and faulty wiring. He once threw a boyfriend of Dinah’s sister over a 3-foot hedge. This is who I’m being judged against.
‘OK, OK.’
And it comes back to me. The reason I really, really hate bats. Growing up in a windmill, bats used to fly around the sails at night. Once, aged eleven, in the middle of the night, I’d sat on the toilet and heard a high-pitched squeaking noise. Unable to work out its source, I’d eventually stood up and peered down the bowl. A few inches from where my bum had just been, from where my face was now, there was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen – a bat covered in my shit flailing about in the toilet water. It must have flown in through the open window.
‘AHHHHHHH!’ I shout now, making a dash for the door. The bat arcs towards me but at the last moment banks away. It now hangs from the curtain before beginning another looping trajectory. I duck, slide open the door and dart back behind the sofa. Now the bat drops to the ground and crawls across the floor. Its wings resemble a crumpled parachute. It’s a hideous sight, but I find the strength to run at it shouting again, flapping my arms. ‘Ahhhhhh!’
The kids hide their faces.
‘Daddy!’ calls Phoebe, dramatically, an arm outstretched as if I’m sacrificing my life.
The bat takes off, swirls round the room once more and flies through the open door. I slam it shut and turn to face my family expecting – I’m not sure what: cheers? Congratulations? Indebtedness? I’ve saved us and slain personal demons in the process. I’ve done what a man must do.
Dinah, rising and shepherding the kids toward the bathroom, just says, ‘God, you’re a coward.’
‘They’re my tortoises,’ I shout after her. ‘I got rid of it, didn’t I?’
She looks round and raises her eyebrows as Phoebe whimpers, ‘But what if it comes back to get us, Daddy?’
‘It won’t come back. And it won’t get us. Bats don’t get people, Phoebe.’
‘But what if this one does?’
‘I promise you it won’t.’
In the bath Charlie pretends his sponge is a bat and waves it in my face, laughing. Phoebe does the same with her flannel. It’s all family folklore now. Except it’s not. At bedtime Phoebe has to sleep with the light on, while Charlie refuses to go to bed until we put on his Spiderman slippers.
‘Charlie, there’s nothing in your bed!’ I pull the covers back. ‘See! Nothing. You can’t wear slippers in bed. Nobody wears slippers in bed.’
He falls to the floor, writhes about on his stomach like he’s having an imaginary judo bout with Brian Jacks.
‘’Lippers. I wan’ ’lippers,’ he shouts.
‘Is it the bat, Charlie?’
‘’LIPPERS. I wan’ ’lippers.’
‘Charlie, you can’t wear slippers in bed because if you wear them tonight you’ll want them tomorrow night and the next night and the night after that and sooner
or later we’ll lose them like we have lost every pair of your shoes and then you’ll go crazy like you’re doing right now.’
‘I won’t. I won’t.’
‘The bats won’t get you.’
‘’Lippers, ’lippers.’
‘He’s two, Ben. There’s no point reasoning with him. I can’t bear this,’ says Dinah.
She leaves the room.
‘’Lippers,’ shouts Charlie. ‘I wan’ ’lipperrrrs.’
‘Charlie, is it the midges? They’re outside, they’ve gone to sleep. Midges go to sleep before children. Didn’t you know that?’
‘’Lippers,’ he sobs. ’Lipperrrrrs.’
‘Is it the puff adders, Charlie? Look at me. Stop shouting and look at me.’
I hold his head at both sides. I fix his brown eyes in mine.
‘Is it the puff adders?’
He nods slowly and heartbreakingly.
‘Is it the puff adders, Charlie? Is that what you’re scared of?’
He nods again and leans forward to wipe his tears on my shirt.
‘It’s the puff adders,’ I shout to Dinah. ‘Come here, you little fool.’
I pull Charlie into my arms.
‘You won’t get puff adders in your bed,’ I tell him. ‘They’re outside. And anyway they’re more scared of you. Did you know that? Puff adders are scared of little boys.’
‘I wan’ ’lippers,’ he says, softly.
‘What shall I do?’ I shout to Dinah. ‘Help me here, love.’
‘It will become routine,’ she shouts back. ‘Then we’ll lose them.’
Phoebe pops her head down from her top bunk. ‘You could let him wear them this night,’ she shrugs.
‘It’s not as simple as that, Phoebe.’
‘Then he can go back to bare feet the nextest night when there are no puff adders around,’ she says.
‘Thank you, Phoebe. Dinah?’ I shout.
But all I can hear in the kitchen is the sound of wine glugging out of a bottle.
‘OK, you can wear your slippers for one night. Just one, OK?’
He nods.
‘But tomorrow it’s bare feet. Do you understand?’
He nods.
‘And if they fall off in the night, I’m not coming in here to put them back on.’
I read him a Thomas the Tank Engine story. I kiss him good night. I re-check the bedroom window is shut at Phoebe’s insistence and in the kitchen I pour myself a large glass of wine and flop down on the sofa beside Dinah.
‘To be fair on him it was quite a scary half hour,’ I say. ‘If I was his age, I think I’d want ’lippers on.’
‘How did you get out in the end?’
‘I let him wear them.’
Dinah closes her eyes.
‘I had to make a decision.’
‘Fine,’ she says.
‘He looked me in the eye. He understood the deal. It’s tonight only.’
‘Well, it’s you who’s getting up when they fall off in the night,’ she says.
‘They’re quite tight. They won’t fall off. And if they do, I’ve told him no calling out. Trust me. I’ve dealt with it.’
I get up three times. The first two times to replace a slipper. The third time it’s 2 a.m. I don’t know where I am. I stumble about banging into things. Eventually I’m standing over his bunk. I’ve scraped my shin on the ladder. I’m exhausted, furious.
‘Charlie, we had an agreement. I am very cross with you. Very cross. This is the last time. The LAST TIME.’
I lift his covers to check which slipper needs replacing. Both are still on his feet.
‘Charlie, they’re on your feet, man! Jesus! You just woke me up for nothing. It’s the middle of the night. I’m sooo tired.’
A tiny hand sneaks from underneath the covers and points. I follow his hand.
‘Other ’lippers,’ he says, indicating Phoebe’s slippers by the door.
‘What! You got me up not to put a slipper on. But to change your slippers!’
‘’Lippers,’ he shouts.
‘NO WAY, matey! You’ve lost me. That’s it. No more slippers. Slippers ARE GONE. I’m not coming in again. And if you call me in again I will take off a slipper.’
‘’LIPPERS!’
‘Have a tantrum, I don’t care. You can do what you want. I am very, very cross with you. GOODNIGHT,’ and I slam the door.
I stand the other side of it, leaving him crying for three minutes before I go back in.
‘Fworry, Daddy,’ he says.
He holds his arms out. I hug him.
‘That’s all right.’
I pull his covers up.
‘Now, I meant what I said. That’s it. No more slipper nonsense, OK?’
He nods, turns over.
I return to bed and although it’s dark and there’s no movement from her side of the bed I’m pretty sure I detect the ghost of a smile on Dinah’s sleeping face.
The accident happens the following afternoon. We’d planned to take the Osprey ferry to the visitor centre at Tower Knowe that morning, but it was cancelled because it was too windy so instead we’d driven to Housesteads Roman Fort, which we’d missed the day before. The fort, manned by Tungrian conscripts and abandoned in ad 400, was on a windy ridge near Hexham off the B6318. On a tour with an English Heritage guide that started in the small museum, we’d visited the former barracks, the commandant’s house as well as the Roman latrines. But the kids, still jumpy from yesterday, kept mistaking falling leaves for bats and were scared of the free-roaming sheep and it was so freezing on the exposed ridge we left early.
We’re back at the park when this nervousness causes the accident. The kids are looking at the owls in the Birds of Prey Centre, when, returning from fetching the tickets for the now operating ferry to Tower Knowe, I hear Phoebe’s wail. I rush there and discover her whole face washed in blood. Dinah’s looking concerned pressing a tissue to her chin.
‘She fell over,’ she says. ‘Get more wipes from the car, will you? Quickly. It’s a nasty one.’
The bird-keeper says: ‘Sheh bit hor lip reet through.’
I race back to the car.
‘Let me see, popsy,’ I say, when I’m back.
Dinah wipes Phoebe’s face while I tilt her head and roll back her bottom lip. ‘I’m just going to…’
And the bird-keeper’s right – there’s a tooth mark that goes in one side of Phoebe’s lip and right out the other.
At reception, the first-aider gives Phoebe a lolly while Dinah goes through what happened. A five-year-old, southern white-faced owl called Willow on the gloved hand of the bird-keeper had made a tiny movement towards Phoebe, who’d leapt out of the way, slipped forwards and gone down chin first on the loose gravel path. Phoebe has the placidity of a beautiful doll as various interested hands tilt her head back to see her bottom lip, all agreeing on two things. Firstly: ‘She’s bit har lip reet through.’ And secondly, ‘She’s being reet brave, mind.’
Phoebe’s given three further lollies, a plastic key ring and is patted so kindly by up to half a dozen Geordies from all corners of the park, all cooing ‘Dint worry pet – such a brave bairn’ with such genuine affection, Dinah eventually bursts into tears and has to be told ‘Dint worry pet’ herself.
We’re advised to take Phoebe to Hexham General for stitches. Phoebe’s white with shock on the drive. Given treats to perk her up, she can’t shake her natural suspicion at the fact that she’s getting a choccy Aero Bubble for free, without having to, say, eat a Marmite sandwich, first.
‘But I don’t want a sandwich, Daddy.’
‘You don’t have to have one, sweetheart.’
‘But I do want a choccy.’
‘You can have a choccy.’
‘But this is my third one.’
‘I know.’
‘But no sandwich?’
‘No sandwich.’
It’s an hour back the way we came this morning. The same road we drove yesterday. At Hexham General we
’re seen by the A & E duty nurse, who says the wound will probably heal well but wants us to see a doctor. Waiting in the kids’ playroom, the Wimbledon ladies singles final between the Williams sisters is on the telly. At one set up to Serena the doctor takes us into the consulting room. The cut has crossed the vermilion of Phoebe’s bottom lip so there’ll be a small scar when she smiles. He asks if we want to see a plastic surgeon.
‘What would they do?’
‘Knit the lip back,’ he says, although they might not think it worthwhile. We return to the playroom and agree it’s a no if Phoebe requires a general anaesthetic. We watch the next set go to Venus. The duty nurse returns and ushers us back into the consulting room. Charlie hoofs around trying to snatch needles and a roll of bandages from an equipment tray. The consultant tells us we can see a plastic surgeon at Newcastle General tomorrow but we might wait around all day and they’ll probably stitch the day after this. Plus it will be a general anaesthetic because they don’t suture under-fives with a local. She might as well add ‘and they’ll waterboard her’.
We tell her our decision. She agrees it’s the right thing to do, and ushers us into the corridor, where we half wonder about slipping back into the playroom to see the last few games of the final set before we drive back to the park.
‘Sheh bit har lip reet through!’
‘No, it’s sheh bit hor lip reet through!’
We’re copying the beautiful way the sentence sounds in Geordie leaving the park the next morning when I see the belt in the road. Whenever I see clothing in the road – a kid’s glove, a sock, an old trainer – because of our chaotic lives, I always naturally assume it must have come from one of our cases. I’m slowing down for a closer look when it straightens out. The belt coils and moves in a looping S shape off the dirt road, disappearing into the long grass at the verge.
I look at Dinah.
‘Was that what I think it was?’ she says.
I nod, putting my finger to my lips.
‘Why are you laughing?’ says Phoebe.
‘We’re laughing at you guys,’ I say. ‘You’re such lovely nutters.’
Dinah wipes her brow.
‘What’s a nutter?’ says Phoebe.
‘Someone slightly crazy but in a nice way.’
‘So am I a nutter, Mummy?’ ‘Yes.’
‘And is Charlie?’
