The Summer We All Ran Away

by Cassandra Parkin

  “You need to understand what he’s doing for you, sweetie,” she said.

  Davey was transfixed by the sight of his blood, twirling in thin little strands in the water.

  “It’s one of the best schools in the country. Going there will give you opportunities.”

  “I d-d-d-don’t want opportunities. I want to s-s-s-stay here with you.”

  “Well, you can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not letting you miss out on this!” Her voice made his head ache. “Because of James we’re really well-off, he can do things for you I’d never be able to. My God, Davey, look at everything we’ve got now. Don’t you remember what it was like? I had to borrow against my wages all the time, just to buy your nappies!”

  This was an argument he could never win, because he couldn’t remember what it was like to live without luxuries, without, sometimes, even the necessities.

  “I don’t want to go,” he repeated stubbornly.

  “This is an amazing thing he’s doing for you,” she said, and stroked his head. “When you’re older, you’ll thank him.”

  How could she sit there and mop the blood from his head and still say this man was a force for good in their lives? He knew it was wrong for James to hit him. Why couldn’t she see it too?

  “He’s a good man,” Helen said, and kissed Davey on the forehead. “He’s not perfect, but he’s good. And he’s your father.”

  “S-s-s - ” He paused and took the breath his speech therapist was forever reminding him to take. “Stepfather.”

  “He wants to give you everything he never had. He doesn’t want you to struggle the way he did. He’s not perfect, but he’s doing his best.” Her eyes begged him to understand. “Do you see that?”

  “But - ”

  “Just try not to provoke him,” she said. “Because you do provoke him, Davey. You act like you don’t like him, and that hurts his feelings.”

  That’s because I don’t like him, Davey thought mutinously. But even at seven, he knew better than to say this aloud.

  “And it hurts my feelings too,” she said softly. “Because I love you both so much, and I want you to love each other. It’s so hard, feeling as if you both want me to take your sides. I want us to be happy together. All on the same side.”

  That pierced him, because she was right. He did want his mother to be on his side.

  “So is that settled, then?” she asked him, smiling. “You’ll go to school like a good boy? And come home every weekend, and we’ll have loads of fun?”

  How could it possibly be settled? Had James hitting him somehow been the winning move? Was that really how their lives worked now? He opened his mouth to say no, I’m not going, I’ll never, ever go, but then he thought again about his mother, stuck in the middle of him and James.

  What if she didn’t choose him? What if she sent him anyway? Would James carry him, kicking and screaming, in over the threshold?

  “Yes,” said Davey, in defeat, and buried his face in his arms.

  His life fragmented into four discrete territories, all terrible. When he was fifteen he discovered Dante’s Purgatorio with its seven terraces of torment, and recognised it. There were the days at school, the lack of privacy, the constant tormenting presence of the boys who hated him and who he hated, the claustrophobic knowledge that you could never get away from each other, but would sit on the same table at dinner time and clean your teeth in the same bathroom the next morning. The nights at school, lying miserably awake in a room filled with the sounds and smells of other boys. The nights in his own bed, the passionate relief at being away from school ruined by the knowledge that respite was only temporary, the pressure mounting as the clock ticked inexorably round to 7:15 on Monday morning, the farewell at the doorway, the silent journey to the school gates. Finally, the never-ending tension and occasional explosion of those two dreadful days, the Saturdays and Sundays supposedly dedicated to ‘family time’.

  “I heard about this new place from Alistair,” James said over his paper one Saturday morning when Davey was nine. “Indoor rock climbing. I’ll take Davey next weekend. Just the two of us. Give you some time to yourself. Buy something new, I’ll take you for dinner.”

  She has all week to herself, Davey thought. Why would she want the weekend alone as well? He’d said this aloud once, and been slapped viciously around the head and banished to his room for ‘disrespecting your mother and not appreciating how hard she works looking after both of us’.

  “That sounds nice,” said Helen.

  Davey looked at her carefully. Did she really think it sounded nice? Was she genuinely pleased at the prospect of getting rid of her husband and son for the afternoon? Did she think they would have a nice time, or even a tolerable one? Or was she just being nice to James for trying, the way she was always kind about the models he made her in pottery? It was impossible to tell.

  “Davey?” said James. “What do you think?”

  He was always torn between the coward’s desire to please, and the boy-child’s urge to rebel against the man standing between him and his mother.

  “Sounds g-g-g-good,” he said, trying to keep his voice neutral.

  “You don’t sound very keen,” said James.

  “James,” said Helen warningly. Davey felt a quiver of mean pleasure that she was taking his side.

  “A bit of enthusiasm would be nice. That’s all. When I was your age I’d have loved anything like that. It costs a lot of money, if you’re not going to enjoy it then maybe we’ll not bother.”

  “Of course he wants to go. Don’t you, Davey?”

  The coward knew to say yes, I’m really looking forward to it. The rebel wanted to suggest that his mother should take him, and give James some time off to go shopping. Their compromise was a mutinous silence. It lasted only a second, but in that second he knew he was caught.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” said James wearily.

  “He’s only nine,” Helen began.

  “Nine’s old enough to appreciate a nice gesture! We always said – haven’t we always said? – we always said we will not raise our son to be a bloody spoilt brat.”

  Helen put a hand on James’ arm. It amazed Davey that she was so comfortable touching him. It was like watching someone petting a scorpion.

  I’m not your son, he thought.

  “Davey, James is right. You are sounding quite ungrateful. He’s gone to the trouble of finding a really nice day out for both of you - ”

  He didn’t find it, he didn’t! Someone just mentioned it to him!

  “ - and all you do is look like he’s taking you to prison for the day. What’s the matter with you?”

  “N-n-n - ” A deep breath, “ - nothing.”

  “Something’s the matter, or you wouldn’t look like that. Stop looking so bloody miserable!”

  Of course I look miserable, I am miserable! You’re yelling at me and you made my mother yell too! How am I supposed to look?

  “Sorry,” said Davey, burying his nose in his glass of milk.

  “I should think so too,” James said, and disappeared back behind his paper. Davey watched his mother out of the corner of his eye. Sometimes after a squall she would make eye contact with him and give him a reassuring smile or a wink, telling him that she still loved him and that she was still on his side. Not today. He slid off his chair, took his plate to the dishwasher, and started upstairs to his room.

  Passing the dining room he heard James again. He was angry, and that meant he was almost certainly talking about Davey. Davey stopped to listen.

  “I’m serious, Helen, he was sat right there watching you! Waiting for you to give him a little smile and let him off the hook! He’s trying to get around us by going to you behind my back.”

  “I backed you up, didn’t I? I told him he was being rude. What more do you want?”

  “I want you to not undermine me. He’s got to learn we’re a team. He can’t get away with splitting us up like
that. If we’re not consistent, he’ll never learn. He’s ungrateful, he’s getting spoilt. We’re trying to give him a nice life and he doesn’t appreciate it. It’s not on.”

  “He’s a good boy.”

  “He’s not a bad boy, but he’s got to learn. He’s nine years old, for Christ’s sake, what’s he going to be like when he’s a teenager? We’ve got to get control of this now or - is he listening outside?”

  Davey scrabbled madly for the stairs, but James was too quick for him. He knew now there was no escaping, he was going to be hit. Crying made James angrier, but he couldn’t help it. He was only nine years old, and James was strong.

  “Right, then,” said the climbing instructor, friendly and encouraging. “You’re all strapped up. Off you go.”

  Davey hadn’t known what to expect of an indoor climbing centre, but he had certainly not been prepared for the sheer vertical reach of the wall, studded with lumps of moulded plastic. He had no idea where to start. James tutted impatiently, took Davey’s right hand and forced it onto a large orange hold above his head.

  “There,” he commanded. He seized Davey’s left hand and jammed it roughly onto another hold. “Now put your feet up, here - ” His fingers gouged into the flesh of Davey’s calf. He would have bruises later.

  “Now pull yourself up,” said the climbing instructor. “Come on, you can do it, that’s it.”

  Painfully, Davey inched upwards. There were holds everywhere, cheerful primary colours like nursery school toys. His legs ached and his fingers trembled. James climbed swiftly beside him, his face right by Davey’s shoulder.

  “Come on,” said James. “Keep going. Go for that one there. No, not that one, you’ll never get anywhere, that one.” Again Davey’s hand was seized. He clung to the one remaining handhold in a panic. “Stop being such a wimp, you’re not going to fall, now reach up here, like that - ”

  His arm was stretched painfully high, his fingertips sore and throbbing. He was secure, but stranded, stretched long and tight like a squashed spider. Now James’ fingers grabbed at his ankles again, forcing his knee to bend. His kneecap crunched painfully against the wall and he cried out. James slapped his leg irritably.

  “Give over complaining, it wasn’t that hard. It’s your own fault for not concentrating. Foot on here. Here. Here!” Another slap. “If I can climb this wall and hold you on and show you where to put your hands and feet, you can at least listen and do as you’re told. Use that leg to push up - ”

  They climbed higher, higher, higher. Davey’s arms were pulling out of their sockets and his legs were elastic bands. James was right beside him, pushing, pulling, grabbing, crushing, jabbing, taunting, criticising. Occasionally the instructor shouted up encouragement. The holds grew sparser. James was forcing him to reach and stretch further than he had ever thought possible. He whimpered in pain.

  “Give over,” James hissed. “Fuss about bloody nothing. We’re nearly at the overhang.”

  Davey squinted up at the looming out-swelling of brown-painted fibreglass. He remembered looking at it from the floor. It was dangerous to be up here. They were too high. They were too high.

  “We’ll go up to it and touch that blue hold on the end. Then we’ll climb down again. Alright?”

  He couldn’t move. He was frozen to the spot. He glanced down, saw the rope snaking out behind him, felt his palms turn damp.

  “Come on. Don’t freeze. Move. Move!”

  “I c-c-c-can’t,” he whimpered. “I’m scared.”

  “What the hell are you scared of? You’re on a safety rope, you can’t fall. Get moving.”

  “I can’t! I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, get me down, I c-c-c-can’t d-d-do it, I w-w-want to g-g-g-get d-d-d-d-d-down.”

  James peeled Davey’s fingers off the hold and pulled his arm up above his head. Davey struggled and sobbed.

  “Stop it,” James hissed. “You’re making an idiot of yourself, and you’re embarrassing me. Stop panicking, do what I’m telling you and you’ll be fine.”

  “I c-c-c-c - ”

  “Grab on there. There. Right? Right. Now this hand. Come on. Let go. Let go!”

  Beyond speech, Davey shook his head.

  James thrust his face right into Davey’s. Davey closed his eyes in terror.

  “Look at me. Look at me! Stop that silly performance and look at me!” Davey shook his head stubbornly. “How do you expect me to help if you won’t follow a simple instruction?”

  “I want mum.”

  “Well, mum’s not bloody here, is she? It’s just you and me. So you’re going to do what I say for once and stop trying to hide behind her! Now listen. Listen! Give me your hand. Give it to me! And stop that stupid noise, you’re safe!”

  Davey clenched his fingers even tighter around the grip and shook his head.

  “Right,” said James, his voice dangerously calm. “If you’re going to be such a little brat about it, I’ll show you how ridiculous you’re being.”

  And he slid one strong, sinewy arm in the space between the moulded fibreglass and Davey’s hunched body, and pushed Davey off the wall.

  “I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life,” James said to Davey, threading the car deftly through the late afternoon traffic. “Will you stop that bloody racket? I don’t know what you’re upset about, I’m the one who should be upset. Telling everyone I pushed you.”

  “But you did,” Davey whispered.

  “You what?”

  “You d-d-d-did push me.”

  James stared at him. Davey wiped tears from his face and stared back.

  “You p-p-p-pushed me off the w-w-wall,” he repeated. “With your arm.”

  To their left was an abandoned pub, windows boarded up, sign faded to a pale greenish blur. James wrenched the wheel sharply left and cut across angry traffic to bring them to a screeching halt in the empty car park.

  “Listen to me,” he said, his finger inches from Davey’s face. “I did not push you off that wall.”

  Davey was baffled. Did James really not remember doing it? Or was he remembering wrong?

  “But - ”

  “I didn’t push you,” James continued, “because there was no way you could fall. All I did was to demonstrate to you that you were safe. I did it because you were being stupid, and not listening. Do you understand?”

  Davey was speechless. A sign above the car declared that these premises were protected by SCAMP security.

  “Do you hear me? I didn’t push you. I did not. I don’t want to hear you saying that, ever again, to anybody, and especially not to your mother. Are we clear?”

  A dog barked in the distance.

  “I said, are we clear?”

  “Yes,” said Davey.

  “And what have you got you say for yourself?”

  Davey lowered his head. “I’m s-s-s - ” James waited.

  “I’m sorry,” Davey managed at last.

  “Good. Then let’s go home.”

  James shoved his way back out onto the carriageway. After a few minutes, he turned on the radio and put the volume up loud.

  When Davey was fourteen he grew taller than James, and realised that his stepfather was actually shorter than most men and that in a few years, he himself would probably be physically stronger. Davey’s greater height seemed to unleash some new fury in James, or perhaps it was merely the ending of restraint over attacking someone smaller and weaker. The beatings became more frequent, more violent; three times in his fifteenth year Davey was unable to return to school on Monday because the bruises were too prominent.

  “Why do you keep m-m-making excuses for him?” Davey pleaded with his mother one afternoon. “You w-w-w-wouldn’t let him hit you like this. Why do you let him d-d-d-do it to me?”

  Helen shook her head helplessly. “He does it for your own good.”

  “How? How is this for my own good?” Davey held out his arm. His wrist was black and swollen with bruises. “What’s he t-t-t-trying to achieve?”

 
“You make him do it! You know he’s got a temper, and you provoke him anyway! Besides, he’s got a point. If you’re going to amount to anything you need proper qualifications, not some airy-fairy nonsense - ”

  “I don’t w-w-w- oh, Christ, I don’t want to do Economics or Maths! They’re b-b-boring and I’m no good at them! I like English Literature and History.”

  “Maths and Economics are what you need to get a proper degree employers will take notice of. James knows what he’s talking about. You need to start listening.”

  “W-w-why won’t you listen to me? I don’t want to work in a m-m-m - ” deep breath, “ - merchant bank. I want to g-g-g-go to university and study English Literature and then - ”

  “Yes? And then? What comes after that? You don’t want to be a journalist, you don’t want to work in broadcasting, you certainly wouldn’t make a teacher. If you could give us one single, solitary example of what you actually want to be, Davey, maybe we’d listen to you, but as it stands, all you can tell us is what you don’t want. Well, it’s not good enough. I’ve sent your options form in, and that’s that. We’ve spent a fortune on your education, you’re not throwing all that away.”

  In the solitude of his room, Davey stripped off his sweatshirt and examined the bruises along his ribcage. Would he ever escape? It was wrong for a grown man to hit a kid, he knew that; but what would anyone make of a seventeen year old who let himself be beaten up by a man shorter and older than he was? They’d laugh and tell him to toughen up. There’d been a window of opportunity when he was small and vulnerable, but that window had closed long ago. He was on his own, and he would have to find his own way out.

  “Why are you even doing Maths when you’re so fucking awful at it?” Simon asked, as they slouched among the trees in the Arboretum. Simon was smoking a cigarette in an elegant black holder.