Field Study

by Rachel Seiffert

  So when her husband gets to the dog-leg corner, he waves and smiles at nobody before he makes his way across the playground, down the alley to the station and then work.

  __

  They are on waiting lists now and get brochures in the post. New housing estates near train links, good primary schools. The boy’s mother empties the letterbox each morning when she takes her son to nursery. She doesn’t go straight home, but takes the fat envelopes to the café down the road. Her daily treat. Milky coffee and some dreams of what could be. Soon.

  Biro crosses near her favourites, she takes the marked brochures home and spreads the city map out on the living-room floor. The maisonette with garden is near a school and a park. Two hospitals in the area, so she could work again. Agency nursing perhaps, and then a regular day shift, when the boy starts school.

  After lunch, after his nap, she lies down on the bed by her son.

  – What shall we do this afternoon?

  – Swings.

  She smiles.

  – I’ve found a new park with swings and a pond. Do you want to see on the map?

  She carries his sleep-warm body into the living room and shows him the lines which represent their street and all the other roads around it in the centre of the city. Spidery black outlines, filled in pale yellow, pink and green. She takes his hand and traces the run of the lane, guiding his finger along and round the dog-leg. And then their hands hover together above the main arterial road into the city, and she says:

  – We could even get a train to the new park today. Or a number 73. All the way. Look.

  She begins the wide arc with their arms, from the lane out to the suburb where the maisonette lies, but her son shouts and snatches his hand away.

  – No!

  He holds his fingers in a fist close to his chest, then wedges them under his armpit.

  __

  – It was weird, Mark.

  Her husband shaves in the evenings now, to save time in the mornings. She sits on the edge of the bath and watches him.

  – Like I hurt him or something, but I was just holding his hand.

  – He’ll get used to it, love. He’s three. Two weeks in the new place and he won’t even remember dog-leg lane.

  – I suppose so.

  – I know so. We’ll go to this place together Saturday, he’ll see the garden and the park and it will be fine.

  But on Saturday the boy refuses to get dressed. And when his mother says they will take him to the new flat in his pyjamas, he screams until he can’t catch his breath. They decide to try again after lunch, call the housing association. Only the boy makes his same shrill protest in the afternoon and on Sunday morning again.

  – Next weekend then.

  But the next weekend the boy is ill. Just a cold, but it drags on for over a week in which none of them sleep properly and the new brochures pile up, their envelopes unopened, the contents unread.

  __

  Day off work, wedding anniversary. They both take their son to the nursery and then go back to bed. Late-morning and husband and wife walk down the lane together, holding hands. She buys wine and olives, he chooses a ripe mango treat for their son. When they pick him up at midday, the other parents smile congratulations: their boy told the teacher, has made them a card.

  Evening, bottle open on the kitchen table, and son asleep in bed. The parents sit up late, their talk of past and future, the kitchen light off, hall light on, lips and teeth tinged dark by the wine.

  – We should maybe give it another go, what do you think?

  They look again through the housing brochures, their son’s glue and tissue-paper card.

  – Will you talk to him, love?

  – I’ll talk to him.

  And they smile at each other, at each other’s wine-stained smiles.

  But their son frowns and kicks at the chair legs when his mother talks to him. Puts his hands over his ears. And when she shows him the pictures in the brochures he punches them away, neck jutting forward, hands in tight fists.

  – What is wrong with you?

  __

  The father does well in his new job. A pay rise already, only two months in. They have more money, fewer debts, but less time to spend together. The trains are slow and if the boy’s father doesn’t make his connection, he doesn’t get home until after his son has gone to bed. He misses him.

  They get up earlier to compensate: breakfast is now their family time, mother and son in pyjamas, father fully dressed. It is getting to be winter, so it is dark outside while they make their toast and tea, and it is a tired and silent meal.

  Standing at the window, watching her husband walk to the corner, the boy’s mother whispers to her son:

  – It would be so much nicer for Daddy. For all of us. If we lived somewhere a little closer. Don’t you think?

  And the instant she says it, she feels the change in his breathing, his body tightening in her arms.

  She puts him down, crouches next to him.

  – What is it, love? Please tell me.

  But he won’t look at her. Face set, knees locked, fingers like claws.

  __

  His mother doesn’t tell her husband, she makes an appointment and takes their son to the surgery.

  – It’s not normal. I mean it just doesn’t feel like normal behaviour.

  The doctor listens absently, watches the boy watching his mother.

  – All children have times when they feel insecure.

  His mother is angry, but also embarrassed. Perhaps it is nothing to be worried about after all. She calls a friend who says my god yes it’s been ages hasn’t it, and of course you can come over. So she puts her son into his pushchair after lunch and walks him through the market to the swings. But when they get past the playground he starts crying, and at the mouth of the alley his tears turn to low screams. His mother stops.

  – No, please.

  But the pitch goes up, and her son twists his body, straining against the straps. His small face contorted, white. His mouth red and loud. She pulls him out of the pushchair and holds him.

  – Please, sweetheart. Stop.

  His body is hard against hers, limbs unbending. She can feel his heart. See the mothers in the playground looking at them, the people on the market. Standing by the alleyway with her boy who won’t stop screaming in her arms.

  __

  – It’s like he’s afraid of something.

  – In the alley?

  The boy is in bed. His mother has called her friend, apologised, and now she phones her husband at work.

  – It was that same screaming again.

  – But maybe it’s about something else now.

  – No. I don’t know. Can’t you just come home? Please?

  They argue and she hangs up. Stands at the living-room window, closes the curtains against their second-storey dog-leg view.

  __

  – What is it, sweetheart? Can’t you tell me? Nothing will happen to you. I’ll be with you and it will be fine.

  But it is the same every time now. Whenever she tries to go beyond the lane, he cries. She reads books, calls family, friends, helplines for advice. If they walk, his limbs become rigid. In the pushchair he throws his weight from side to side. She tries reason, bribery, authority, pleading. They battle, mother and son, and he always wins. She can’t bear his stiff body when she carries him. Can’t put him through it. Is afraid of the screams.

  Her husband listens to her crying when she phones. In the evening, she shows him the marks left by their son’s fingers on her arms.

  – He wouldn’t turn the corner with me. I couldn’t make him. He was doing that. He was holding my arms like that, see?

  He watches his son sleeping, then picks him up, carries him into their bedroom, and the parents lie down in the street-light dark with their boy between them.

  – You could get your old job back. I’m sure they would give it to you.

  – I thought of that Clare. I thought it, too.
But it’s not a solution.

  – No, not long term. But maybe he just needs another six months or something. If we just told him we’d be staying then maybe he’d be alright.

  – We don’t know that, love. Do we?

  She doesn’t say anything, knows he is right. It wouldn’t be a solution either, it would just be lying.

  __

  The boy is thin, so is his mother. They have had concerned looks from the other parents, gentle questions from the nursery teacher.

  – You know. Anything we can do.

  She tells her husband.

  – I could have cried. I said thank you.

  They go back to the doctor, together this time, and she listens more attentively, looks at the bruises, the rings under their eyes.

  – I have a colleague who can perhaps help you.

  She writes the phone number down, the address. They leave it one more week, still hoping for a change, and then they phone him. His practice is on the outskirts of the city.

  __

  Her husband borrows a car, from a colleague. A child seat from another. He straps it in to the back, and his wife watches him from their second-floor window. The way he stands by the parked car a moment, murmuring, lips moving. The frown-lines cut into his forehead.

  They drive along the street away from the dog-leg dead-end. The boy’s mother in front with her husband at the wheel, son in the back, high and upright in the bright padding of the child seat. He can see out of all the windows and she worries, wonders whether they shouldn’t shield off at least some of the view. Midday traffic, red lights, red buses and roadworks. They make their way slowly through the city streets and his mother watches for a reaction, a flicker. He moves his lips gently, but her son seems calm.

  She turns forward, checks where they are, looks at the map. Whispers to her husband.

  – Third left.

  And her husband says:

  – He’s got his eyes shut. His eyes are shut, love.

  He is looking in the rear-view mirror. She looks round at her son. A minute ago his eyes were open and he was looking, but now he is pale and his eyes are firmly closed. She looks at her husband. He has slowed to a crawl, head bent low over the steering wheel. She thinks he might cry.

  – Park the car.

  – There’s nowhere here to park it.

  – Park the car.

  – We’re on a red-route, Clare. We can’t.

  The cars beep behind them. Drivers hanging on to their horns. The streets running off to the left are blocked by concrete bollards. A high metal barricade runs along the centre of the road to their right. The boy sits silent in the back of the car, face ashen, fingers and feet trembling. His father swears and his mother takes off her safety-belt, turns and touches him, his cold hands and legs. His eyes dance under his eyelids, but he does not respond. She pulls herself up and over the seat, and her husband drives on. The people in the cars beep and overtake. They drive slowly past them in the fast lane, watching the mother make her clumsy way into the back seat to be with her panic-stricken son.

  She undoes his straps, pulls her boy into her lap, holds his head under her chin, small body in her arms and sits. Eyes closed in sympathy.

  Her husband watches them in the rear-view mirror, watches the road ahead for a place to turn.

  __

  Christmas comes, and they make their excuses. Don’t invite family, don’t invite friends, decline invitations. The holidays fall between weekends that year, and so the father is home for twelve full days.

  It is claustrophobic at first, just the three of them. In the flat, mostly, but they also go to the café when it’s open and, when it’s not raining, the swings. And then they get used to this. Talking about nothing much. Cooking, eating, walking, swinging, sleeping, sitting. Heating turned up, carols on the radio, toys on the floor, condensation on the kitchen window.

  The lane is quieter than usual. Families away, shops and restaurants closed even after Boxing Day. They walk past the tinsel window displays together, boy between his parents, hand in hand in hand. On the wet pavement dotted with chewing gum and across the empty market place with its cigarette butts and puddles. The weather turns cold and they wear heavy coats, scarves, hats, feel the grip of each other’s fingers through layers of mitten and glove.

  They wake together in the mornings, the three of them, lie blinking at each other. Too warm under the duvet, but none of them thinking about getting up.

  __

  Some time around New Year they run out of bread and milk. Think the shop by the swings might be open, but when they get round the dog-leg they see that the shutters are down.

  – What about the one opposite the station? Just at the end of the alley.

  – You stay with him then? Play on the swings with Daddy, sweetheart, I’ll be back in a sec.

  His father swings the boy high, but he is watching his mother walk down the alley. Only one eye showing, face turned into his anorak hood.

  – She’ll be back before you know it.

  His dad catches the swing, and the boy slides off, runs to the start of the alley and stops. His mother has turned the corner, out of sight. He turns back to his father.

  – She’s fine. She’s just gone into the shop.

  The boy turns away again. Takes two, three steps into the alley, and his father stands ready. Waiting for him to stop and scream but he doesn’t, he just keeps slowly walking. And when his mother comes back round the corner with the bag of bread and milk, he is already half-way down the alley. She stops still, is silent for a moment, and then says:

  – Hello you.

  The parents see each other from opposite ends of the alley. White faces above dark coats, under hats.

  Their son has stopped walking now. He looks from mother to father, one to the other, looks frightened, and they both walk towards him, slowly, trying not to run.

  __

  They cook dinner and eat together, go to bed. The winter day behind them like a small, unexpected gift.

  Their son was trembling as they carried him home. They both felt his breathing fast and high, saw the skin around his eyes, blue-white.

  But no one asked, or begged or forced him.

  The boy sleeps and his parents lie in the dark, afraid to talk, even to think about it. Frightened, grateful, awake.

  Francis John Jones, 1924–

  “My life before I came into the army was uneventful but full of

  childish dreams.”

  Private H, 1944, in A War of Nerves: Soldiers and

  Psychiatrists, 1914–1994, Dr Ben Shephard

  The story he is going to tell happened in 1944.

  – Not a story.

  Fran corrects himself. Sitting by the window; looking out of it mostly, rather than at me. Says he’ll tell me about an incident in the summer of that year, the way he sees it. Knows I have heard something of what happened already: a family secret, discussed in loud whispers. A stigma for his daughter: other dads had medals. Less so for her sons: the safer distance of another generation. I work with one of them, and he asked about my PhD in a lunch break a while back, making conversation, said I might find his granddad interesting. Probably thought I would never take him up on it, and I wonder now whether Fran took a lot of persuading. I expected reluctance, belligerence even, but I don’t know how to describe him. Gentle handshake, biscuits and tea laid out on the table.

  Fran should have turned twenty in Italy, with his battalion, only he got sick and spent his birthday outside Cairo. In the army hospital, with the wounded, the amputees. Heat like he’d never known: days spent dozing, staring at the ceiling fan. Nights wakeful, listening to the other men dream.

  – Frightening sometimes, that noise. Especially when I had the fever.

  Jaundice followed. The medical officer said six more weeks. He would join his battalion late. Further up the line. Couldn’t be helped.

  His eyeballs were still yellow when he got to them. Inspected in the small square of shaving
mirror that first morning, he could only see fragments of face. Pink forehead, tight with sunburn; sickly tinge of eye laced with fine red veins; upper lip soft with down. He soaped his cheeks, got his razor out.

  – Bloody hell Jones, is it worth the effort?

  Thorn was the only man there he knew already. Not well: they had got the same transport out of Naples in February. Never spoke much, never had much to say to each other, but it helped to have someone there he recognised. Always unfamiliar faces, new recruits, battalions fused to make up numbers. People came, then they were gone again.

  Fran was the last to join his new platoon. Spent the first day struggling to remember names while they called him Titch because he was tall, and Bones because it rhymed with his surname, and you could still see his ribs, despite the pounds he’d gained those last weeks laid up in hospital.

  – Fuck’s sake. Look what they’ve sent us.

  This is how Fran remembers his first encounter with Butler, who was joking of course.

  – After a fashion.

  There was always plenty of that kind of thing; you came to expect it. Humour in the war, Fran says, was quick and cold. Still there was a difference to it that summer, in that platoon; something he never got the measure of. The men were not unfriendly with each other, but he never felt they got along.

  Fran looks at me a moment, I don’t know why. His fingers move, self-conscious, find his tie, smooth it against his chest. We smile at each other, briefly, and I wonder if it was put on especially for the occasion.

  The Leicesters had taken the woods at the southern end of a ridgeway, and Fran’s battalion was sent up the line to relieve them. Over half the men had gone ahead already and the remaining platoons, Fran’s included, were to march north in the morning. These were their orders, swiftly supplemented by a rumour: tanks were just a day behind them, on their way from the coast as back-up.

  – They wanted us to break the line, we thought.

  All geared up for something. Sicily, Naples, Rome: forcing the Germans north to the border.