We Used to Be Kings

by Stewart Foster

  We smell bread—

  We smell violets.

  The girl pulls a loaf of bread out of her bag.

  The postman wheels his bike to the next house.

  ‘Want some?’

  She breaks off a piece of bread and taps us on the arm.

  ‘Do you want some?’

  Yes please.

  !

  We take the bread, rip a piece off and shove it in our mouth.

  Chew slower.

  We’re hungry.

  The girl laughs. We chew for a minute and try to think of something to say.

  What’s your name? Where are you from? How old are you? When’s your birthday?

  I know. I know.

  ‘Sorry?’ She puts her head on the side like she’s heard a whisper from the cross.

  We choke. Bits of bread fall out the side of our mouth.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  —

  Yes. Sorry. It’s been a long time since—

  We sat next to a girl.

  Since I ate.

  She grins and shrugs at the same time.

  ‘Here,’ she says.

  We take the can in our good hand and drink. The coke is so cold and fizzy that it stings our throat and—

  Ice cream headache! Ice cream headache!

  !

  The girl laughs. ‘Do a handstand,’ she says.

  Can we?

  No.

  We hold our head and squeeze tight until the pain starts to fade. Out the corner of our eye we can see the girl looking at us. An ache starts to grow inside, in our stomach, up to our chest. All the things we want to say tumble around in our head. What’s your name? Where are you from? How old are you? When’s your birthday? They go round and round and all the time we are thinking we can see her out the corner of our eye waiting for one of our thoughts to come out. She tilts her head back and looks at the sky. The sun shines on her face, turns her skin white, turns the ends of her hair red. We look up and see a white cloud float across the sky.

  Can’t you think of anything?

  —

  !

  It’s a cumulonimbus.

  That’s a good one!

  ‘Sorry?’

  The cloud . . . it’s a cumulonimbus.

  ‘Oh, that’s nice.’

  A trickle of sweat runs down our back. We pull at the neck of our jumper to try and get some air. She watches us. We look down at our jumper, at the yellow line knitted across the brown.

  ‘You look like a bee,’ the girl says. ‘Or Captain Hook.’

  He was a pirate!

  Shit!

  We put our hand over our mouth.

  Sorry, forgot.

  The girl puts her hand on our knee. ‘It’s OK,’ she says. ‘I’ve got a friend that stutters.’

  Oh that’s handy.

  We smile, look at the ground and try to think of the next word that we might get stuck on.

  —

  Where are you from? How old are you? When’s your birthday?

  I’m trying.

  ‘How did you do it?’

  ?

  ?

  We look up. She nods at our hand.

  Uh oh!

  —

  We slide our sleeve down.

  —

  We– I was mugged . . . two days ago.

  !

  She screws up her face as she looks at the jagged line across our knuckles and the dried blood trapped under our nails.

  ‘It looks quite nasty,’ she says. ‘Was it glass? It can be bad if it’s glass.’ She looks at us like she cares. We look at the ground again. We have already told her one lie; she seems too nice for us to tell another.

  He—

  He had a knife.

  !

  ‘Oh no, did you call the police?’

  No, we never call the police.

  No . . . he would have been gone before they got there.

  She looks across the road, bites her bottom lip like she’s thinking.

  ‘One minute,’ she says. ‘Wait here.’

  She jumps up and runs back across the road. We watch her hair bob up and down and her dress blow in the wind. She slides back the door on her van and climbs in.

  Can we talk properly now?

  Yes.

  Why did we lie?

  —

  Why did we lie?

  Because she wouldn’t like us if she knew the truth.

  Can we talk to her more?

  I’m trying.

  But you’re not very good.

  —

  —

  —

  Can I try?

  No, it’s better if you whisper.

  I like whispering . . . I wish we’d thought of it before.

  Me too.

  The girl steps out of the van with a first aid box in one hand and a bowl in the other. She smiles as she walks back towards us.

  ‘My name’s Harriet by the way.’

  Ha!

  !

  ‘And. . .’

  ?

  !

  ‘What’s yours?’

  Ja—

  You dare.

  Ha!

  Tom.

  She puts the bowl on the step and kneels in front of us. ‘Well Tom,’ she says. ‘I think this will help.’

  We rest our elbow on our knee. She holds our hand, puts her fingers underneath, rests them gently against ours.

  Will it hurt?

  No.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she says. ‘I’ll be careful.’ Her voice is suddenly quiet and soft as she reaches down, dips cotton wool into the bowl and drips water over our cut.

  Our knuckles start to sting and our fingers start to tingle. Harriet gets another piece of cotton and reaches down for more water. A gold necklace hangs from her neck. We watch it swing from her chin to her chest.

  She dabs the cotton wool gently around the cut. ‘There,’ she says. ‘It’s looking better already.’

  Bloodied water drips off our hand and stains the stone. Harriet reaches back into the box and unravels a bandage. We anchor one end with our finger while she wraps the rest around our hand. Her breath is quiet and warm in our ear. We lean forward and watch her chest move up and down in the shade of her dress.

  I don’t think we—

  ‘It’s not too tight is it?’

  We wriggle our fingers.

  A little bit.

  No, it’s fine.

  She smiles. A warm feeling goes through our body.

  —

  —

  She tips the water out of the bowl and stands up.

  Is she leaving?

  I think so.

  But she could give us a lift. She could help us find Dad.

  —

  Say something.

  ?

  Where are you from? How old are you?—

  Harriet starts to turn away.

  —

  Where are you from? How old are you? When’s your birthday?

  !

  We put our hand over our mouth.

  Thanks.

  That’s OK.

  Harriet turns around and laughs.

  ‘Sounds like we’re in the army.’

  We smile.

  She pulls a strand of her hair back behind her ear.

  ‘Cambridge . . . Nineteen . . . August . . .’ She blinks quickly like she’s got something in her eye. ‘What about you?’

  Lots of—

  Hartlepool. Eighteen. July—

  Two days ago.

  ‘Oh, that’s bad luck.’

  ?

  What is?

  ‘Getting mugged on your birthday.’

  She smiles and walks across the road.

  The air grows cold as the sun disappears. The postman starts to run from one door to another. We look up at the church and see dark clouds creeping towards us. Harriet comes back, picks up her can and puts it in a bin by the church wall. A raindrop lands on our head, another flicks our ear. The wind blows around our head. We
look down and watch as raindrops start to splatter across our map. Harriet walks towards her van.

  We wonder where she’s going.

  If it’s on the way to Swansea . . .

  Maybe we could go too.

  The rain comes down harder, seeps through the holes in our jumper onto our skin. We pick up our map, fold it over our head and peer out through the holes. Harriet laughs and climbs in behind the wheel. We want to stop her, we want to hitch a ride, but we can’t talk. It’s too risky to talk.

  But we like her.

  I know.

  The van turns in a circle, stops in front of us. Harriet winds down the window.

  ‘Are you mad?’

  . . . Ask her.

  —

  We pull the map off our head and blink in the rain.

  —

  !

  . . . Where are you going? Is it near Swansea? Can we come too?

  She giggles again.

  ‘I like this game . . . Not telling you. Not telling you . . . And I’m thinking about it.’

  We stand up. The rain comes down harder, flattens our hair, drips down our neck. We shiver, lift up our arm, push our fringe out of our eyes. Harriet bites her lip. She looked pretty in the sun, she looks even prettier through the rain. She smiles as she reaches across and opens the door.

  We climb in, throw our map in the footwell and hold our bag on our lap. The van smells of Harriet and Harriet smells of—

  Coconut?

  Yes.

  We run our hand through our hair.

  She’s looking at us.

  —

  She’s looking at us. Beep.

  —

  Beep!

  !

  ‘Sorry?’

  . . . I thought you were going to hit the postman.

  Ha!

  The postman waves as he crosses in front of us. Harriet slowly shakes her head.

  ‘You’re funny,’ she says.

  We smile.

  I think she likes us.

  I think she likes you.

  Is that OK?

  I’m not sure.

  —

  —

  Harriet lets out the handbrake, presses the accelerator. The van rattles and judders as we pull away. We clutch our bag to our chest. The rain runs down the windscreen, it turns the road into a river and blurs all the houses. The wipers squeak backwards and forwards but we still can’t see where we’re going. Harriet looks in the footwell, lifts up the lid of a box between the seats.

  We lean forward, pull the sleeve over our hand and wipe our breath from the screen.

  ‘Thanks.’

  That’s OK.

  That’s OK.

  She reaches down, changes gear and we drive off through the rain.

  Summer 1971

  The day after Dad went to the moon me and Jack got up early and waited for the postman, but all he brought was two brown envelopes and the History of the Universe magazine. I went into the sitting room and turned on the TV but the Russians weren’t on. I changed channels and searched for them but all I could find was a man pointing a stick at some triangles on a blackboard with letters and numbers underneath.

  Me and Jack got ready for school but all we could think about was the Russians and waiting for Dad’s letter to come through the post.

  In the first lesson I swapped chairs with Matthew Simmons and piled my books up high on my desk so I could hide behind them and look out the window. Mr Taylor talked about the clouds, how they were made of water sucked up from the ocean and how they got heavier and heavier until they crashed into mountains. A magpie landed on a telephone wire. Mr Taylor kept talking but I wasn’t listening because I was watching a DC-9 cut a line across the sky. I imagined myself in it, that my pen was my joystick. I pulled it towards me, the nose rose up and I flew high up into the jet stream. I saw something shining, a piece of glitter falling through the sky. I increased the throttle, got closer and closer until I drew level and saw Viktor and Georgi smiling at me through the window and I saw Dad turn around, hold up his hand and wave—

  ‘King!’ I heard Mr Taylor shout.

  ‘King!’ he shouted again.

  Matthew Simmons nudged me.

  ‘Gagarin.’

  I turned away from the window. Everyone in the class was laughing. Mr Taylor was standing with the blackboard rubber aimed at me.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ I said.

  My heart was beating. I could feel my face turning red.

  ‘Ah! At last. Welcome back Gagarin.’

  I rubbed my head and I wondered how he’d known I’d been away. He pointed at the blackboard, at the clouds he had drawn and the writing underneath.

  ‘So, tell us,’ he said. ‘Which one is the biggest, cumulonimbus or stratus?’

  I checked back out the window; the DC-9 had disappeared. A chair scraped on the floor and Mr Taylor walked between the desks towards me. I didn’t know what to do, whether to sit still or run. Before I could decide he was already standing behind me.

  ‘So, which is biggest?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

  He put his hand on my head. I felt his fingers dig deep into my skull as he turned my head away from the window.

  ‘You won’t find the answer in the sky . . . It’s written on the board.’

  I wanted to tell him about the Russians, that they were in space, that my dad was up there with them, that he was a cosmonaut and Mr Taylor must have seen them all on TV. But I remembered Dad’s words, ‘Tell no one, it’s a secret.’ So I said nothing. Mr Taylor let go of my head and said perhaps I’d like to tell him in detention instead.

  At break time I walked around the edge of the playground, still looking at the sky. I got hit by the football and tripped by ropes. I stopped for a drink at the fountain and then I went round again. I heard girls screaming, I heard a boy shout, Watch out! My head banged against the netball post and I fell to the ground. My ears were ringing, my jaw was aching. I opened my eyes and saw the older kids circled around me like I’d been knocked down in a fight.

  ‘What are you doing?’ one said.

  I rubbed my head.

  ‘Looking for the Russians,’ I said.

  They looked at me like I was dumb.

  At the end of the day I ran down the road and met Jack outside his school gates. His shoes were scuffed and his shirt was torn. He had a bandage on his elbow and a red blob of disinfectant on his knee.

  ‘What happened?’

  He screwed up his face like it still hurt.

  ‘I fell over,’ he said. ‘I was looking at the sky.’

  I took his bag and put it on my back and I laughed because he had spent his day walking around the playground looking for the Russians just like me.

  We started to walk down the road. Jack dragged his feet. I told him to go faster, that I wanted to get back and see if we had a letter. We crossed the road on the corner by the church. Jack opened his arms wide, I did the same, and we flew like aeroplanes all the way home.

  Our front door was open, like it had been all summer. We kicked off our shoes and hung our bags on top of Dad’s jacket in the hall. Mum was in the sitting room talking to Auntie Jean. I asked if we had a letter. Mum nodded at an envelope on top of the TV.

  I picked the letter up, tried to slip my finger under the flap, but my hands were shaking too much to find a gap in the glue.

  Mum held out her hand.

  ‘Let me try,’ she said.

  ‘You can’t,’ I said. ‘It’s for our eyes only.’

  She smiled. ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘I’m sure Dad won’t mind.’ She slid her nail under the paper and gave it back to me.

  The letter was creased in the middle and torn across the top. I knelt down, placed it on the floor and flattened it out like a map. Jack lay on his stomach beside me and together we read our first letter from the moon.

  7th June 1971

  Dear Jack, Dear Tom.

  Yesterday we pointed the rocket at the stars. All the
bones in my body got jumbled up. Georgi was sick, Viktor needed to pee. My tonsils wobbled in my throat. The sky went black, then blue. Ooops, I nearly forgot. Georgi and Viktor say Hi.

  Hi!

  Hi!

  They are very funny and friendly. Did you see us all on TV?

  I’m sorry if my letter took a long time. Georgi keeps missing the post and we have to wait twenty-four hours before it comes around again.

  Georgi says sorry.

  Sorry!

  Viktor says Hi again.

  Hi!

  When they stop talking it is quiet here. I get tired and I’ve got blisters on my fingers.

  Jack, I’m still looking for your monsters.

  Tom, the Earth spins so fast it makes me dizzy. Look the speed up in your encyclopaedia.

  Got to go, Viktor says I’ve got to push another button.

  Will write soon.

  Dad

  X One for TomX One for JackX One for Mum

  I read the letter three times to Jack and another hundred in my head. I thought how happy he sounded, and I was glad that the Russians were his friends and now we knew their names. I ran my finger across the moon he had drawn and thought how no one else at school would have had a letter that came from so far away.

  I folded it up and put it back in the envelope. Mum said I should keep it safe. I found our book and put it inside. Jack turned the TV on and he watched the Russians. I got my pen and tried to write a letter back to Dad. I told him what I’d been doing, that I’d seen the rocket take off and that I’d seen him inside, but when someone has done something so exciting in their life it seemed boring to tell him what I’d been doing in mine. Mum saw me chewing the top of my pen. She told me not to worry, that Dad would still love my letter no matter how much I wrote. I tried to write again but no more words came out, then Jack turned around, took the pen out of my hand and drew a picture that took up the rest of the page. I put the letter in an envelope and addressed it to Dad on the moon, then I put it on the mantelpiece and Mum said she would post it in the morning after me and Jack had gone to school.

  That’s what we did all that week: got up, waited for a letter, went to school, walked around in circles, flew home, found Mum was sometimes out, Auntie Jean was always in and she’d fall asleep while we watched the Russians on TV. And during that week I wrote to Dad every night and told him that Mr Taylor had talked about the altostratus and the cirrus and Jack told him that Mrs Gough had taught him to tell the time, that there were sixty seconds in a minute, sixty minutes in an hour and sixty hours in a day. I didn’t tell Jack that he’d got the last bit wrong because it didn’t matter that week – the only time that counted was the one on our clocks, and the only clouds that mattered were the ones that floated across the moon at night and got in the way.