We Used to Be Kings

by Stewart Foster

  . . . And astronauts are from America?

  Yes.

  Two of the cosmonauts waved, the other one flicked switches. I think that was Dad. I knocked on the screen but he wouldn’t turn round. Tom said I should leave him alone because he looked busy. The other two floated towards me. I asked Tom how they floated. He said it was . . .

  Gravity . . . It’s what keeps our feet on the ground.

  I know.

  —

  . . . The telly made that funny sound. Beep, beep, glitschhhh! One of the cosmonauts unwrapped a piece of chocolate, let it float in the air, then swam after it like a fish. Dad kept flicking switches. The other cosmonaut laughed, so did me and Tom. We always laugh at the same things.

  Yes.

  Because we’re twins?

  Not that again.

  But we used to wear the same clothes.

  Only when I’d grown out of mine.

  People used to say I was like you.

  You were. You are . . . I think you should get on with the story.

  . . . The cosmonaut opened his mouth wide and swallowed the piece of chocolate. I wondered how they breathed. Tom said it was oxygen, that they stored it in tanks. I was worried it might run out. Tom said it wouldn’t.

  Nothing happened for a while so I went to get a drink. I took big slow steps to the door with my arms out wide. ‘Look, Tom,’ I said. ‘I’m floating.’ He laughed and got up and did the same.

  You’re getting good at this.

  Thanks . . . The telly made that beeping noise again. Beep, beep. Glitch! And a cosmonaut did a somersault and ate a piece of jelly . . . What was the beeping noise again?

  The radio . . . the Russians’ radio . . . it beeped when they finished talking.

  But why? Beep.

  Have we got to do this again?

  Yes. Beep.

  !

  So why did their radio beep? Beep.

  So they didn’t all talk at the same time. Beep.

  Like us?

  —

  Like us?

  —

  Why won’t you answer?

  Because you didn’t say beep. Beep.

  Aaaargh!

  Ha!

  You do that every time. Beep.

  I think we should stop now.

  Because you’re bored?

  Because we’ve got a headache.

  . . . Sorry.

  —

  Sorry. Beep.

  It’s OK.

  —

  It’s OK. Beep.

  . . . I think you’re better at telling the story. Beep.

  —

  —

  The cosmonauts floated around inside our TV for the rest of the afternoon. Me and Jack took it in turns going to the kitchen or the toilet so we could tell each other what had happened. The Russians floated and did experiments while Dad flicked switches and wrote things down. I told Jack about the satellites, how they sent pictures back to Earth, and I told him about the first rockets, that they used to send monkeys but they pushed the wrong button and blew up.

  I feel sorry for the monkeys.

  ?

  I feel sorry for the monkeys.

  It’s OK. They don’t go any more.

  Why not?

  Because they sent Yuri Gagarin instead.

  Our dad?

  I said Yuri, not Steve.

  Our uncle then?

  No.

  But Dad said Yuri was his brother.

  He said he was his comrade.

  Is that the same thing?

  No . . . yes . . . you’re confusing me.

  Me too.

  All I know is that Yuri is in Russia behind the Iron Curtain.

  ?

  It’s a curtain wrapped all around Russia so that people can’t get in or out.

  Can’t they pull it back?

  No.

  Because it’s too heavy?

  Because they don’t want to.

  But Dad’s stuck behind it with Yuri?

  I don’t think so.

  And Yuri is our uncle?

  !

  ?

  He can’t be.

  Why not?

  Because we used to be Kings.

  —

  —

  The next morning me and Jack got up early and ate our cereal while the Russians ate pills and sucked water through straws. It was Sunday and the sun was shining. We thought about going out and playing football. We thought about climbing our hill, but even though we’d only seen the back of Dad’s head we couldn’t risk going out in case he turned round.

  We listened to him talk on his radio and tried to work out what he was saying, but the radio crackled all the time and when it didn’t crackle it beeped. We thought maybe it was a message, like Morse code, or a secret language like the Americans used when they were on the moon.

  A small step for a giant?

  —

  A giant step for an astronaut.

  You’ve got it wrong again.

  But it was something like that?

  Yes . . . it was something like that.

  At dinner time we ate shepherd’s pie. The Russians ate space dust wrapped up in silver foil. Me and Jack stuck magnets to our trays to stop our knives and forks from floating around. They screwed up the foil and put it in compartments. Jack wondered why they didn’t throw it outside. I told him if they opened the door they would get sucked away, that they had waste dumps for rubbish and flue dumps for their toilet, and he laughed when I told him the cosmonauts couldn’t burp in space.

  We watched the Russians all afternoon until the picture started to fade and the TV smelt like it was burning. Mum came in three times, said it was really hot outside and that me and Jack should go out and play. I pretended not to hear. Jack turned the sound down. Mum went back out and I closed the curtains to block out the sun.

  The Russians had gone when she came in the fourth time. Jack was asleep on the settee and I was watching a man show another man how to make a pot on a wheel. Mum sat down beside me.

  ‘What happened to the rocket?’ she asked.

  ‘No reception,’ I said.

  ‘Is it the aerial?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘They’ve gone behind the moon again.’

  She put her arm around me and we watched another man try to make a pot. We thought it was good until the wheel went too fast and the clay got too high, and we laughed when it collapsed and he had to start again.

  I told her about the Russians, how Dad had been pressing buttons and hadn’t turned around all day.

  ‘Maybe he was writing a letter,’ she said.

  I asked her if he was going to write one for her too.

  ‘I hope so.’ She smiled and looked sad at the same time.

  The meter clicked under the stairs, the lights went out, the TV flickered bright, then off. Everything was quiet except for the sound of a car droning up the hill and Jack snoring. I waited for Mum to get up but she didn’t move.

  ‘Is the money on the shelf?’ I whispered.

  ‘There’s none left,’ she said. ‘I’ll borrow some from Auntie Jean in the morning.’

  She went into the hall and found some candles in the cupboard under the stairs and lit them in front of the fire.

  I looked out the window, saw the orange of the street light shine through the curtain. Mum sat beside me. I told her I was sorry there was no electricity left for her to watch her programme. She smiled, said she was tired and that it had been a long day. I told her it had been long and exciting, that it would get even better when Dad sent me a letter.

  I asked her how he would post it and how long it would take to get here. She squeezed me tight and whispered like she was saying her prayers. I told her I couldn’t hear. She said it didn’t matter, that she was talking to herself, then she pulled me back with her on the settee and we watched the little dot in the middle of the TV glow white and disappear.

  Chapter Thirteen

  WE REACH A village with tiny houses—r />
  And a church.

  And a monument with a cross, with a circle of poppies around the bottom that have been turned grey by the sun and the rain.

  We sit down on a step, rest our back against a wall and look up. A church tower sticks out of the ground with a clock at the top. One hand points at the eleven, the other points at the twelve. The wind blows through a tree and somewhere a bird sings. We rest our head against the wall and feel our heart beat slowly against the stone. A road winds away from us between the houses and gets smaller and smaller until it twists around a corner and disappears. There are no lorries driving at us, there are no cars flashing by. There is no one shouting out of windows, there is no one slamming doors.

  —

  —

  —

  It’s like everyone has gone to the moon.

  It’s like everyone died in the war.

  —

  —

  —

  —

  We look back at the cross and see the names of people who died in the First and Second World Wars.

  George Barclay.

  Dennis Foot. VC.

  Cyril Arkwright. DSO.

  Kenneth Abbot. DCM.

  Names we have never heard of and letters of the medals they won—

  Victoria Cross, Distinguished Service Order, Distinguished Conduct Medal.

  We think of Dad and the shiny medals that were pinned on his uniform and we remember the day when Mum helped us make medals of our own. She found some old coins in a tin. We wrapped them in foil and rubbed them with our fingers until the Queen’s head shone through. Mum tied them with red ribbon and we hung them around our necks. She said we looked smart, that Dad would like them. The next day she drove us to watch Dad in the homecoming parade.

  It was raining, people were stood on the edge of the square hiding under their umbrellas. A sergeant was shouting orders, his voice echoed off buildings while the regiment marched up and down in green uniforms with berets on their heads. We wanted them to stop.We wanted to find Dad but their arms and legs moved so fast they were all blurred.

  The sergeant kept shouting and the soldiers kept marching, suddenly the whistle sounded and they all stood still.

  I ducked under the rope.

  I followed and we ran across the square.

  My heart started bumping.

  My head was thudding. It was like we were lost in the supermarket and didn’t know the way home. Dad shouted. We turned around. He was stood there smiling with his arms open wide holding his beret in his hand. We ran towards him. He wrapped his arms around us and wouldn’t let go. We showed him our medals and he said they were as bright and heavy as his. We told him we were glad he was back and couldn’t wait to show him all our new planes and rockets when we got home. He rubbed our heads and hugged Mum. We thought he was home to stay.

  We didn’t know it was only for two weeks.

  We thought that he’d finished fighting. We didn’t know the war was still going on.

  —

  —

  A bell rings and makes us jump. We look up at the church clock and see the two hands pointing at the sky.

  —

  —

  What do we do now?

  —

  What do we do now? Beep.

  We’re thinking.

  Still?

  —

  —

  We should have known that running away would be hard, that escaping was the easy part. But we don’t have to keep running so fast. Just because Dad travelled faster than sound doesn’t mean we have to do the same. Mum used to say that when we got stuck writing our book, she used to say that good things—

  Come in little packages?

  !

  Like me.

  Mum used to say that good things will come to those who wait.

  Oh.

  —

  We tap our trainers on the step.

  —

  —

  So are we just going to stay here?

  Yes. Sometimes the best way to hide is to stay still.

  That’s what we told James Lewis.

  I know.

  And it didn’t work.

  It wasn’t our fault.

  ?

  It was his idea to hide in the freezer.

  —

  —

  We take the map from our bag and spread it out on the ground. It’s torn and crumpled at the edges and where the cities and ports used to be there are big holes.

  I thought I told you to take the pins out.

  I forgot.

  !

  —

  The roads and railway lines spread out like veins across the map. We wish there were more roads to choose from, more places to get lost in, but all we can see between us and Swansea is a place called Shrewsbury and lots of hills.

  And we’ve got to climb them all.

  —

  An engine rattles between the houses.

  We look up and see a yellow camper van come around the corner. We pick up our bag.

  Run!

  I thought you said to stay still.

  In the church.

  —

  Behind the cross!

  The camper van gets closer.

  OK.

  Forget it.

  ?

  It’s too late.

  —

  The camper van begins to slow and stops by the shop. We turn back to the monument, read the names on the cross.

  George Barclay. Dennis Foot . . . We’ve already read this.

  Pretend.

  —

  The van door creaks open. We sneak a look over our shoulder and see a girl get out.

  She’s wearing black boots with flowers on the toes.

  She’s got a red ribbon in her hair.

  She looks across at us, grins like she is excited then lifts her hand like she’s going to wave.

  Don’t!

  Too late.

  We lift our hand and wave back.

  !

  The girl smiles, runs with little steps and goes inside the shop.

  I thought I told you not to?

  But she looked nice.

  —

  She looked nice. Beep.

  I know.

  We put our head down and stare at the hole where London used to be.

  Can we talk to her?

  No.

  Because of me?

  Because of us.

  So can’t we talk to anyone?

  Not really.

  What about if I was quiet? I could be quiet.

  You couldn’t do it for Dr Smith.

  —

  —

  I could whisper.

  People will still hear you.

  Not if I do it like this.

  No, they’ll still hear.

  How about this then?

  —

  Hello. Hello.

  Actually, that works.

  Oh good.

  We look across at the shop. The girl is so small that we can only just see the top of her head as she walks up and down the aisle. Our heart begins to thud. Her head turns from side to side then moves up and down as she stops to talk to the man behind the counter. She points out the window. We look down at our map.

  Is she talking about us?

  —

  Does she know?

  Why are we whispering now?

  I’m practising.

  !

  So does she know?

  No one knows about us.

  Except Dr Smith.

  —

  . . . Mrs Unster . . . and Frost.

  Shush!

  The man walks out from behind the counter, picks up a loaf of bread and puts it in a bag. The girl stands beside him and smiles at us. We feel a weird tingle inside, between our stomach and our heart. It’s a long time since we have seen a girl. It’s been even longer since we have seen a girl smile.

  Clare Macfarlane.

  Yes.

  We liked Clare Macfar
lane. She liked us.

  She liked me . . . until you cut holes in her curtains.

  She said she couldn’t see the stars.

  —

  Why did you touch—

  That was her fault.

  So why’s it always us that has to run away?

  Because . . .

  Because?

  Shit!

  What?

  We look down at our clothes, at the mud on our trainers and trousers, at the blood and blackberry stains on our shirt.

  We need to cover this up.

  —

  We untie our jumper from our waist and pull it over our head. The shop bell rings. We push our head through the hole and pull our sleeve over the cut on our hand. The girl walks out of the shop, her eyes dart up and down the road like she’s waiting for traffic. Our map flaps in the wind. We pick up a stone, put it on a corner and pretend to follow the road from Glasgow to Inverness.

  We hear the sound of boots taking little steps as she hurries across the road.

  She’s coming.

  I know. Remember, don’t talk to her.

  I won’t.

  The steps stop. We look over the edge of the map, see the girl’s boots standing at the bottom. We hear a click and the hiss of air. We look up and watch her drink from a can in the shadow of the cross.

  Hello.

  I give up.

  The girl takes the can down from her lips. Her eyes sparkle with water.

  ‘Hello.’ She nods at our map. ‘Are you going far?’

  Two hundred and thirty six thousand, one hundred and twenty miles!

  !

  The girl laughs.

  Our skin goes hot. Our face starts to throb.

  I told you not to.

  Sorry.

  I’ll walk away.

  No, I’ll stop.

  Promise?

  Promise.

  The girl’s shadow creeps across the map.

  ‘No, really,’ she says. ‘How far are you going?’

  —

  ?

  ‘Ooops, is it a secret?’ She puts her hand up to her mouth.

  Go on.

  What?

  Talk to her.

  ‘Well?’

  No, it’s not a secret.

  We point to the hole above Port Talbot.

  ‘That’s a long way to go for a hole,’ she laughs.

  A vein throbs in our neck, we feel our face turning red. We look down the road. A postman pushes his bike and leans it against a lamp post. He pushes open a gate, goes up a path and delivers a letter. We wish she would talk again, we wish she would sit down beside us, we wish she would do anything just to fill the silence.

  —

  —

  She sits down on the step and puts her bag between us.