Sometimes she’s so moved by the memories that it takes her a little while to realise that nothing is wrong, nothing is lost—that it’s Tom who’s moved out, and Max is still there, and alive, and well, and probably playing computer games in his bedroom. And it would only take a moment to go and see him, and look at him, and give him a hug. And she might even do this. And she might not.
Max is in trouble at school again. It isn’t his fault. (Oh, it is never his fault.) She shouldn’t be too concerned, but would she mind coming in some time and having a little chat with the head of year? This Tuesday? Wonderful.
The head of year, a decidedly ugly woman called Mrs Trent, invites her to sit down, and asks her if she’d like a cup of tea.
Max is being bullied. Yes, that little spate of bullying that had taken place in the spring term had been dealt with; this was a different spate of bullying altogether. Mrs Trent is just wondering if something at home is the matter. She knows there’s been problems, Max isn’t very forthcoming, but … Would she like some sugar? Here, she’ll pass the sugar. There you are.
“He still sees his father every other weekend,” she says. “That’s quite a lot. That’s more than some kids get when their fathers live at home.”
“How long has it been since you and your husband separated?” asks Mrs Trent. She tells her. “And was it amicable?” Are they every amicable, really?
“We just worry,” says Mrs Trent. “Because Max is a good boy. But we just think. That with the amount of bullying he gets. We just wonder. Is he in some way inviting it?”
Of course he’s inviting it, she thinks. He’s weak. He’s weak, just like his father is. He’s one of life’s fuckups. You can see it written all over his face. Like his father, he’s never going to be anyone, or achieve anything. It’s like he’s got a sign on his back saying ‘Kick Hard Here’. What she says is, “What do you mean?”
Mrs Trent gives a cautious smile. “Max doesn’t seem to have any friends. Not a single friend at all. Does he have friends at home?”
She thinks, I want the bullies to go after him. I want them to hurt him. Maybe it’ll knock some sense into him, make him grow up a bit. Is it wrong that I take the side of the bullies over my own child? Of course it is. This is the position he puts me in. He makes me into a bad mother. He makes me into a bad person. The little shit. She says, “He has friends. He has me.”
Mrs Trent doesn’t seem very convinced by that. That cautious smile looks even more watery. She wonders if Mrs Trent has children of her own. She guesses that she doesn’t.
What they agree is, they’ll both monitor Max more carefully from now on. In the classroom, and at home. Because maybe there’s nothing to be worried about. But no one wants this to become a situation anyone has to worry about. It all feels rather inconclusive, and she supposes Mrs Trent thinks the same, and she realises that Mrs Trent probably only called this meeting because it was part of her job, she doesn’t really care what happens to her weak little son either. They shake hands.
Max is waiting for his mother on a bench in the corridor outside. He gets up when he sees her, “Well then,” she says. She knows she’ll have to come up with something better than that eventually. But right now it’s the best that she’s got.
“Are you cross with me?” he asks.
“No.”
To prove she’s not cross, on the way home she takes him to MacDonald’s as a treat. She watches him as he joylessly dips French fries into a little tub of barbeque sauce, the sauce drips onto the table. “Any good?” she says, and he nods. Then she takes him home.
“Is there something you want to talk about?” she asks, and it’s right before his bedtime, and she supposes she ought to have asked earlier, but she’s asking him now, isn’t she? He shrugs, and it’s such an ugly little gesture. Then he drags his heels upstairs to his bedroom and closes the door. And she thinks: remember the bike. Remember the wasp. Remember when he came out of you, shiny and brand new.
She recognises it as the exact same shrug Tom gives her a couple of days later when he comes to pick up Max for the weekend. She thinks she should tell him what had happened at school, about the teacher’s concern their son has no one to play with; and there it is, that shrug, that’s where Max has got it from. She should have known.
“I’m sure he’s okay,” says Tom.
“And that’s it, is it? That you’re sure he’s okay?”
The shrug.
“What will you boys be getting up to this weekend?” She wonders if Tom is trying to grow a moustache or if he simply hasn’t shaved. But there’s no stubble on his chin, so he’s shaving the chin, and that means he’s deliberately not shaving under his nose. Probably. She wonders whether it’s to impress some other woman. Probably.
“I don’t think we’ll do anything,” says Tom. “We’ll just hang. We’ll just chill. You know? Hey, superstar,”—for Max has now appeared, and Tom has started calling him ‘superstar’, and she guesses Tom’s picked that up from a TV show—“hey, you got your bag, you got your things? I was just telling your mum, we’ll just hang and chill this weekend, okay?”
She bends down to give Max a hug. She doesn’t really need to bend, he’s nearly as tall as she is now, she hopes the bending to hug him makes the act look more endearing. “You be a good boy for your dad, yeah?” He grunts, he hugs back. She doesn’t know why they’re hugging, she supposes it’s mostly for Tom’s benefit.
“And, you know, don’t worry,” says Tom. “It’s part of growing up. Being a boy. I know. I was a boy once!”
“Yes,” she says to that.
“And you,” he says suddenly, “You have a good weekend too. You’re okay, you’re doing okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good,” he says. “Good. Well. Bye, then.” She never knows whether he’s going to try for a hug himself or not. Three months ago he’d knocked on the door, he’d been in tears. His girlfriend had thrown him out, and she could have seen that coming, she was practically half his age. (“Two thirds!” he’d protested. “She’s two thirds my age!”) “I’ve made such a terrible mistake,” he said, “you are the love of my life! I wish you could find some way to forgive me.” “But I do forgive you,” she’d said, and she did, for the silly affair, at least, she did—“I do forgive you, which is why I’m not punching you in your fucking face.” And she’d closed the door on him. He’s never mentioned the incident since, and sometimes when he comes round to pick up Max he seems hurt and snippy, bristling with passive aggression, sometimes he just bounces about and makes jokes like they’re cool sophisticated adults and it’s easy and it’s fun to ignore all the betrayal and all the waste. In the last three months he’s never tried for a hug, but she knows it’ll happen, one of these days it’s coming.
And that’s it, Max’s gone, now starts her little fortnightly break. She gets Max on Saturday mornings, and he’ll be back for Sunday evening, but otherwise she has practically the whole weekend to herself. She feels lighter already. And she feels guilty too. What will she do with her new won freedom? She doesn’t know. She never knows. Maybe she’ll do some shopping this afternoon, maybe she’ll tidy Max’s room. She goes into the kitchen and has some cold cuts from the fridge, there doesn’t seem much point cooking when it’s only for her.
A week or so later she asks Max, “Are things any better at school?” and Max manages a smile and says thank you, everything now is fine. That’s just two days before he comes home with his face bruised and bleeding. Max insists it’s nothing, but she sees red—she demands to speak to Mrs Trent about the matter, but for some reason Mrs Trent is now so much busier and cannot see any parents at all about anything, maybe phone ahead and see if she’s available next week? And for three whole afternoons she pulls a sickie at work, and she sits in her car outside the playground, and watches the children when they are let out to play, and she doesn’t get out of the car for fear that Max will see her, but she sees him—and she watches all the kids, and wonders which o
f them are hurting her son, and what she will do when she finds out. Will she climb the fence and go and protect her boy? Will she find the bully and track him down and beat him herself? What she won’t do—what she doesn’t need to do—she won’t ask the bully why.
The invitation comes in the post. It’s addressed to Max, but it’s also addressed to her, in parenthesis—it says, ‘To Maxwell Williamson! (and also to Mrs Williamson!!); either way, she doesn’t feel bad about opening it first. ‘It’s Nicky’s Birthday!’ the card says inside. ‘Come And Celebrate At Our Swimming Pool Party! (bring trunks). And there’s a little picture of a smiling fish, presumably because fish can swim, even if they rarely do so in chlorinated water. The envelope is scented, and that’s an odd choice of stationery for a boy, she supposes the invitations were sent out by Nicky’s mother.
She shows Max the invitation when he gets home. “Who’s Nicky?” she asks.
“Just someone at school.”
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“He’s not even in my class.”
“Do you want to go to his party?”
Shrug.
“You’d better go, mister.” Lately she’s been calling him ‘mister’ whenever she wants to sounds stern—she doesn’t know why, maybe she picked it up from a TV show. “The school says you need some friends, mister. You’re going to that party.”
The party is the coming Sunday. That’s a weekend Max is supposed to spend with Tom; she phones Tom and asks him to reschedule. Tom whinges about it, he says he’s already got plans the following week. So she says it’s up to him then—Tom can be the one to take their son to his best friend’s birthday party if he wants, she’s more than happy not to have to bother with it. Tom agrees to reschedule after all.
“Shall we get Nicky a birthday present? Shall we go shopping for a birthday present? What do you think Nicky might like?” Max says he has no idea. He’s barely spoken to Nicky, he says, he doesn’t know why Nicky’s invited him, Nicky must have invited everyone. She supposes that is probably true—but she reminds herself Nicky’s mother went to the effort of sending a postal invitation, and finding their address to do so, it can’t be as random as all that. On the Saturday they go out to buy Nicky a present, all she knows is he must like the water, she buys him an inflatable Donald Duck for the pool—she also buys a card, which she’ll get Max to sign—and she buys Max some new swimming trunks.
Sunday morning, and it’s raining. Not the gentle sort either—it falls as mean sharp strips, no one would want to be out in this. “What a shame,” she says. Max brightens—does that mean he won’t have to go to the party after all? She is having none of that. She tells him to get into the car, and he’s sulking now, positively sulking, he’s twelve-years-old and he should know better. He slams the car door and won’t speak to her all the way there. She brings the birthday present and the birthday card, and she brings Max’s swimming trunks too, just in case. The rain is thick and nasty as they drive, but as they reach the other side of town the weather starts to lift, and once they reach Nicky’s house the clouds are gone and the sun is shining hot and warm, it’s a beautiful summer’s day.
“Come on,” she says. “And for Christ’s sake, smile a bit.”
They ring the doorbell, and a little boy answers, neatly dressed, and beaming happily. “Nicky?” she asks, and he says—“Yes, yes!” He says to Max, “Maxwell, it is so very good of you to come.” And he offers her his hand, “Mrs Williamson, my mother will be thrilled that you’re here. Please, come through, both of you. Everyone’s out back in the garden!”
There must be about twenty children standing by the swimming pool, all of them boys, all of them in their bathing costumes. She thought there would be more of them, and she feels a weird thrill of pride for her son—now he’s the twenty-first most wanted child at the party, and not, as she had feared, the hundredth. The water in the pool looks so blue and warm, it looks good enough to sleep in, good enough to drink. She says to Nicky, but why aren’t you all swimming? And Nicky looks genuinely shocked and says, “We wouldn’t start until Maxwell got here! That would be rude!”
The boys don’t seem impatient or annoyed that Max has kept them waiting; they smile, a couple of them standing by the far end of the pool wave in greeting.
“Well,” she says to Max. “Do you want to run along and play?”
Max says, “I don’t know these boys.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re not at my school. I don’t know any of them.”
“Don’t worry, Max,” says Nicky. “These are my friends, and that means they’re your friends too. I’ll introduce you, and we’re going to have such fun! Did you bring your trunks? You did? Let’s go inside and get changed. I haven’t got changed either yet; I waited for you.” And he holds out his hand, and that seems such a peculiar thing—but Nicky is smiling so warmly, there is no malice in it, or sarcasm, or even just dutiful politeness—and when Max hesitates for a moment Nicky doesn’t take offence, he smiles even more widely and gives his outstretched hand a little flutter of encouragement. And Max takes it. And they hurry indoors.
She feels suddenly awkward now, left all alone, alone except for the twenty little boys all staring at her. “Hello,” she says, but they don’t reply. She becomes aware that she is still holding a birthday card and a birthday present with Disney wrapping; she puts them down upon the poolside table.
And then, suddenly—“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, what must you think of me!” Nicky’s mother is not a prepossessing woman. She’s short, and a little plump, and she doesn’t wear any makeup; her hair is sort of brown and tied into an efficient bob. And yet it’s curious—there’s nothing drab about her, she looks comforting, she looks mumsy. And Max’s mum feels a short stab of jealousy that anyone can look as mumsy as that, the kindly mother of children’s books and fairy tales, the mother she’d hoped she’d be for Max. A stab of jealousy, just for a moment, then it’s gone.
“Thank you for inviting us,” she says to her. “Max is so excited!”
“I hope you’re excited too,” says Nicky’s mum, “Just a little bit! The invitation was for both of you! You will stay?”
“Oh. Because my car is outside … ”
“Please. Have a glass of wine.”
“And I’ll have to drive back.”
“Not for hours yet. Please. Everyone else stayed. Please.”
“Oh, yes, Mrs Williamson, you must stay! Everyone’s welcome to my party!” Because Nicky is outside again, and he has brought Max with him.
Both boys are in swimming trunks. And it occurs to her that she hasn’t seen Max’s bare body, not in years. She’d always supposed that he was rather a plain boy, the way he carries himself as he slouches about the house made her think he was running to fat. But that isn’t fair. He’s not fat. There’s a bit of extra flesh, maybe, but it looks sweet and ripe. The skin isn’t quite smooth—there are a few scab marks where Max has no doubt scratched away spots—and there’s a little downy fur on his chest that can’t yet decide whether it wants to be hair or not. But she’s surprised by her son—he looks good, he looks attractive.
He is not as attractive as Nicky, standing beside him, and showing off muscles and tanned skin. But that’s fine, that’s not a slur on Max, she rather suspects that in the years to come no one will compete with Nicky.
“Please stay,” Nicky says one more time.
“Yes, all right.”
“You’re staying?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“We got you a card and a present. They’re on the table.”
“Thank you. Well, Maxwell! Are you ready for the pool?”
“Yes,” says Max.
“Oh, watch this,” says Nicky’s mother. “This is good, you’ll like this.”
The boys all take their positions around the perimeter of the pool. Nicky leads Max to the edge; he shows him where to stand, next to him. Max looks apprehensive, but Nicky
touches him on the shoulder and smiles; Max looks reassured. Then, at the other side of the pool, one of the boys raises his arms high above his head, tilts his body, and dives in. And as he dives, the boy next to him raises his arms likewise, diving as well. It’s like watching domino toppling, she thinks, as the actions of one boy precipitate the actions of the next—or, no, more like one of those old black and white Hollywood musicals, weren’t there lots of movies like that once upon a time? Because it feels perfectly choreographed, each boy hitting the water a matter of seconds after the last one has jumped, and entering it so cleanly, there’s barely a splash.
And she’s frightened for Max now, as the Mexican wave of diving boys fans its way around the poolside to where he stands waiting. Don’t fuck it up now, she thinks. Don’t fuck it up. Three boys to go, two boys, Nicky himself. Max jumps. He doesn’t dive, he jumps. His splash is loud and explosive and throws water over the side. He fucks it up.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “Max’s not much of a swimmer.”
“Oh, but he’s charming,” says Nicky’s mother. “And he’ll learn.” She taps at her arm lightly with a fingernail. “Come inside. Swimming for the children, and for the grown ups there’s wine and cigarettes and fresh fruit.”
“Don’t you think we should watch them?”
“Oh, we’ll watch them. Indoors.” That tap with the fingernail again, and then she turns and leaves. Max’s mum follows her.
“Oh, this is a nice house,” she says. “I like your house, it’s nice, isn’t it?’ In truth, it’s as unprepossessing as its owner—but it also feels homely, and warm, it feels safe. “Have you lived here long, Mrs…?” She remembers, ridiculously, she has no idea what this woman’s name is. “Are you new to the area?”
“Have some wine,” says Nicky’s mother.
“Well, a glass of white, maybe.”
“I’m sorry, I only have red.” And she does sound sorry too. “But I think you’ll like it, it’s very good.” She pours two glasses of red; she’s right, it’s smooth. “And a cigarette?”
Shadows & Tall Trees 7 Page 13
