What I Did

by Christopher Wakling

  — What’s that?

  — Red snappers. David Attenborough says —

  — Not now, Billy. He shoves his phone hard into his pocket and takes me over to some plastic chairs which are cleverly bolted onto the floor. It is all squares. You could play chess in here if you had any pieces. Chess is like kitchen roll, very absorbing. It will take your mind off anything.

  — Do they have any pieces? I ask Dad.

  — Enough about species, Son.

  — No, no, no. If we have a game we can mop up the bad news from your phone.

  He plonks me onto a plastic chair and squats down in front of me. In baseball, which they play in America, which is near Cornwall, they have a man who squats like this the whole time. Dad shakes his head and pinches the top of his nose.

  — Okay, Billy. Listen. This is important.

  — I know, I say.

  — We’re going to see a doctor.

  — I know. And I’m going to tell the truth.

  — Right. Good. The doctor wants to look at you and ask you about your bruises. How you got them. And it’s very important that you tell him—

  — The truth.

  — Yes, the truth. The simple truth. No stories with it, okay. Just answer the questions. Honestly. And briefly.

  — What’s briefly?

  — In as few words as possible. No wittering on about nature or whatever. Clear? The plain truth.

  — All clear, I say. But the truth doesn’t always help. You told me that —

  — Did I? I did. Well . . . not always doesn’t mean never. Understand?

  — Yes.

  — Good, right. He looks me straight in the face. Our eyes are the same gray color because mine came out of his, but right now I think his are more shiny, like cutlery. A cutlass is a type of sword but it doesn’t cut less. — I can’t believe this is happening, he whispers. He looks away for a moment. When he turns back he’s smiling at me to be reassuring but it doesn’t work because the smile is as fake as the whale’s.

  Soon we are in the waiting area with the babyish Thomas the Tank Engine toys and boring magazines and, look, here’s Butterfly, she’s come, too. Dad spots her pushing through the swing door and goes stiff-tall in his little seat because like a dog or a deer or a rabbit or any creature really his body movements have many purposes, including for saying things like Oh no, danger danger, don’t come any closer, stay clear!

  Butterfly doesn’t get it, though. She marches straight over, smiles, and sits down opposite us, bag on her lap, a corner of jeans-folder poking out of it, very alert, like an Alsatian’s ear.

  — Great, she says. — I’m so glad we’re all here.

  Dad nods.

  Butterfly leans forward toward me and says, — Dr. Adebayo is a very nice man.

  — How long will this take? Dad asks.

  — Not long, she says, still looking at me. — He’s a very gentle doctor. Do you know, he even keeps his stethoscope on the radiator, to make sure the silvery end is warm!

  — What’s a—

  — He’ll just want to ask you some questions and look you over like I did yesterday, okay?

  — It’s a medical instrument for listening to chests, Billy, explains Dad.

  — Oh. I thought . . .

  — It was some sort of dinosaur. ’Fraid not. No.

  — Carnivores use slashing motions—

  — Not now, Billy.

  Butterfly is still smiling but with confused eyes. She goes off to the lady at the desk with her bag bouncing under her arm. In Scotland they play bagpipes by squeezing their elbows together tightly. Top marks, Butterfly, inflatable.

  The doctor appears. He offers Dad a hand to shake, then switches to the other one with a silly-me laugh when he sees Dad’s red plaster cast. Very friendly. He takes us into another room, which is in fact two rooms connected by a door with a window in it. The door is open. Here’s another little low table. This one has Legos on it. Sadly the bricks are too big for highly detailed work, but never mind, I’ll manage.

  — Build me a bridge, says Dad.

  — Okay.

  — And while Billy’s doing that, says the doctor, — perhaps you and I could have a chat through here.

  Dad pats me on the head and follows the doctor through the door, which swings shut. The glass has little wire squares through it, which would be great if you wanted a massive game of noughts and crosses, but I prefer chess, and for that you’d have to color half the squares in black, like the floor. Dad is standing very straight. He looks as if his belt is done up too tightly; I’d like to go and tell him to undo it a notch, but I know I’m not supposed to interrupt so I don’t.

  He’s explaining something very stiff and quiet to start with. I can’t hear it. So I construct some pillars for my bridge.

  But then he says things loudly enough for me to hear.

  — Of course not!

  — Then don’t in sinew ate it!

  — That’s ridiculous!

  I need longer bits than they have here to connect the pillars up but these short bits will work if I join them with reinforcements so I keep trying anyway. At least I have something to show Dad when he eventually comes out, still done up too tightly, but pleased with me all the same; I know because he kneels next to me and squeezes my hand long-short-long. It’s a sign.

  The doctor appears in the doorway.

  — Okay if I have a chat with Billy next? he asks Dad.

  — Yes. Leave that, Billy. Come with us.

  — If you’ve no objections, and Billy doesn’t mind, it might be helpful to talk to him one to one. Just through here.

  Dad lets out a sort of low sharp sigh and says through gritty teeth, — Of course. As I said. We have absolutely nothing to hide.

  — Very good.

  — I’ll be just here, Son, Dad says. — No need for you to worry about a thing. Okay? Five minutes. With the doctor, here. Just be . . . I’ll be right . . . outside.

  — Okay, I say, and I give him an I-know-what-to-do wink.

  The doctor has a lovely watch, very silvery, with a red hand that goes round smoothly without stopping. Actually, looking carefully, I see that it moves in tiny jerks. Tickety-tick. Seconds are short things. Very brief.

  — So what have we here, then? Let’s just lift that up and I’ll help you take it off. Now those. There we go. How old are you then, Billy? Let me guess.

  It’s an easy question to start with, so I answer: — Six.

  — Is that right?

  I’ve told him the truth but he must think I am lying and he does, yes, because look, he’s checking something on a screen.

  — Well then. Six! Let’s have a look at you. Turn this way. And lift up your arm. And let me just look at . . . Yes, yes. That’s right, I see. You’ve been in the wars, haven’t you?

  — No.

  — Does this hurt when I press here?

  — No.

  — And this?

  — No.

  — Well you’re a brave boy saying it doesn’t. This scrape here looks nasty. And . . . recent. Can you tell me about it?

  — Yes.

  — Good. Good boy.

  I look at the doctor’s face. He has very dark eyes, like tarmacs.

  — Well then. How did it happen?

  — Actually I’ve forgotten.

  — Well, I bet you can remember if you try. Have a think about it for a moment, and then tell me how you got hurt here, and here, and here. Can you do that for me?

  — Yes.

  — Excellent.

  Once there was a very rich man who pressed eyes into the tarmacs of roads. Cats’ eyes. It must have been a hot day when he did it because they stuck in and they’re still there, winking. Everyone gave him ten pence afterward to say thank you, well done, now we can see, marvelous, you deserve to be rich.

  — Tell me, then. Was it all at the same time?

  — Yes.

  — And when was that, then?

  — Yesterday.

>   — Yesterday. Good boy. And . . . what happened yesterday?

  Last summer some of the tarmacs on our road melted. I know because I trod black stuff into Cicely and Lizzie’s house. It wasn’t my fault but I felt bad. Their house is actually a part of a house. A part of one.

  — Where were you, then?

  — Out.

  — Out. Whereabouts?

  — Outside.

  — Okay. Outside. At the park, perhaps. Did this happen in the park?

  — No.

  — Okay. It’s okay. You can take your time. It didn’t happen in a play park. On a road?

  — No.

  (And it’s really quite interesting this, using the littlest words possible for my answers, while being truthful, too. It is interesting because otherwise it would be very boring, because Butterfly and Mum have already asked about these bruises and now that Dad’s given me permission I’m allowed to do what I want to do which is say as little about them as possible. It actually happened on the pavement but he hasn’t asked me that.)

  — Was there anybody with you when you got hurt? asks the doctor. As well as tarmacs for eyes he has lovely brown skin on his arms, and undone shirtsleeves rolled up above his elbows, and his big silvery watch slides up and down his quite thin wrist when he moves his hand about. I put my head on one side to look at it and the next thing I know he’s undoing the strap bit. — Here, he says. You can have a closer look at it if you want.

  — Thank you.

  — Watches have very delicate insides, he explains. — But the watchmakers are very clever; they protect the workings with strong casings and toughened glass. Now. Was anyone with you when you got these nasty bruises?

  — Yes.

  — Can you tell me who?

  — Yes.

  — Who, then?

  — Dad.

  — Okay, Dad. And what was he doing when it happened?

  — Shouting.

  — What about?

  — Me.

  — And why was that? Why was he shouting about you, then?

  — He was cross.

  — I see. Why was that?

  — Because.

  — Because of what?

  — Just because.

  — Okay. Is he often cross with you?

  I put the watch down on the side and say nothing. How often is often?

  — Don’t worry. Nobody’s cross now. Tell you what. Do you know what this is? It’s a ruler, for measuring how big things are. I’m just going to measure these bruises. And see this, this picture of a person-shape, well this person-shape is like a little version of you, and I’m going to draw the bruises on it. Here. Here. And here. This is your back, and this is your front.

  — Where’s my face?

  — Good point. I’ll draw you one.

  The doctor’s thin quick fingers draw a picture of a face on one of the person-shapes, but it’s a stupid smiley face, not very realistic, which is a shame because that’s what I have to tell him when he asks.

  — How’s that, then? Better?

  — No.

  He laughs and says, — A critic, eh. But he carries on measuring bits of me with his ruler thing and jotting down things on the people-shapes, and although he’s a friendly man with a watch something about the way he’s doing everything makes me cross. He thinks I’m ever so slightly an idiot. I’m not. And I even know some jokes. Would you like to hear them? Okay: What goes ha, ha, bonk? Easy: a man laughing his head off. And what do you call a blind deer? Easy again: no idea. Do you get it? I do. And I know some more, too, including this one: What do you call a man with a seagull on his head? Very easy: cliff. Do you understand? It’s because seagulls live on cliffs. And what do you call a man with a spade in his head? That’s simple, too: Doug.

  Dad told me another one after he told me that.

  — Try this one, he said. — What do you call a man without a spade in his head?

  — I don’t know, I said. — What do you call a man without a spade in his head?

  — Easy, said Dad. — Douglas.

  I still don’t get that one.

  And another thing I don’t like about the doctor is that he keeps asking me what I did to make Dad cross.

  — What was it, then? What happened?

  — Nothing.

  — Come on now. You’ve already said he was angry. Clever boy like you: I’m sure you can remember why.

  — Nothing.

  And this is the truth because it’s what Dad said afterward, and even if Dad keeps telling people about it I won’t because he said that it was all in the past, Son, that we could forget it. So I have.

  — But something must have happened. This must have hurt.

  — I’ve forgotten.

  — Really. You’ve forgotten? How’s that then?

  — Because.

  — Because of what?

  — Dad.

  — You’ve forgotten why he was cross because of something he said since?

  — Yes.

  — What did he say?

  — Forget it.

  — Well, it must have hurt. I’m sure he wanted you to feel better quickly. That must be what he meant. I’m sure you’re allowed to remember how it happened, and tell me. What hurt you here? It’s all right. You can tell me.

  — A brick.

  The doctor pushes his papers to one side and turns his turning chair, which looks excellent because it’s got almost no friction, and swivels right round to face me properly. — A brick?

  — Yes. A wall brick.

  — What happened with this brick?

  — It hurt me.

  — How?

  — It wasn’t my fault.

  — No, no. I’m sure it wasn’t. But whose—

  — Dad’s—

  — fault was it, Billy?

  — Dad’s.

  — What did he do with the brick?

  — Nothing.

  — Did he hit you with it?

  — No.

  — Or throw it?

  — No

  — Okay. So it wasn’t your Dad’s fault, then.

  — Yes it was!

  — How, though?

  — It just was!

  The doctor’s thin fingers do a long heavy wipe of his face, and when they’ve finished he takes a big breath and lets it out through his quite wide nostrils which have hairs inside, very ticklish. Being brief is reasonably hard and the doctor isn’t giving up. He’s like the ivy on our garden wall: we’re always pulling it off but it keeps growing back again.

  — Okay. Let’s go slowly. You say your dad was to blame.

  — Yes.

  — Well, tell me simply. What did he do?

  — Got cross.

  — I understand that. And you don’t want to tell me why. He was just cross about something. But what did he do?

  — Hurt me.

  — How?

  — He just did.

  — But he didn’t hit you.

  — Yes he did!

  — He did hit you? What with?

  — Nothing. He didn’t.

  — Nothing. He did, or he didn’t. This is . . . The doctor digs his fingers into his tarmacs now, and he’s trying not to show it, but failing: he’s even perhaps almost nearly being frustrating. — So, you weren’t running away, and he didn’t catch up with you, and he didn’t smack you for running into the road?

  I think: He knows. He knows. He knows.

  It comes out as: — No, no, no!

  — He didn’t smack you? He didn’t—

  — No!

  — So the brick you mentioned . . .

  — It was a whole wall. Not just a brick.

  — But he didn’t hurt you?

  — Yes he did!

  — But not with the brick?

  — Yes.

  — He hurt you with the brick?

  — He did! It was his fault! The brick bit me first. Because of him! Then his hand hit me, too. That hurt as well. Afterward!

  As I
say this I realize the doctor isn’t just winning because he’s won, and something inside of me changes color, from glowing yellow to flat purple, and a wavy feeling rolls up through my chest into my face. It feels hot and heavy and miserable. I look down at my legs. They are still bare. And the next thing that happens is very shameful, sorry Dad, babyish: I start to cry.

  — It’s all right, says the doctor, very softly. — Here. He slides a big box of tissues across at me, but it’s tricky to pull one out because loads of others come with it, and I get in a muddle, which the doctor eventually helps with; he holds an open tissue out to me, then wipes my face for me with it, saying, — There we go. Don’t worry.

  — Dad said use small words, I say.

  — What’s that?

  — He said be brief.

  — Really.

  — Yes.

  — Why do you think he said that?

  — I’m not supposed to tell you.

  — I see.

  — We’re supposed to forget everything and put it behind us.

  — I see.

  — I’m not allowed . . .

  The doctor shakes his head and blinks at me kindly. How hot does it have to be to melt tarmac do you think? You could manage it if you had a heat wave like last summer. Mum has a hot thing she uses for her hair, but I don’t think she would like the black stuff sticking to it. Do your fingers have eyes? Neither do mine and in the winter it gets cold which is all right apart from the gloves because gloves are a pain unless they’re mittens. Shall I tell you why? I already have. It’s because I don’t have eyes on the ends of my fingers and sadly without eyes they are rubbish at looking for finger holes. The doctor reaches his hand out to mine. I’m not sure what to do at first but then I pick up his watch from the table and give it back to him.

  — Not supposed—

  — It’s okay, it’s okay.

  — To say much.

  The doctor clicks his watch back up onto his wrist and slides his chair away.

  — You’ve said enough, he says.

  I am good at swimming because it’s important. Otherwise if you fall into a canal you’ll drown. Once I did fall into a canal in fact because of some swans who I was feeding for the Queen, because she’s the only person allowed to eat them. Swans have incredibly thick necks and powerful beating wings, so I gave them some stale bread. There were some other people doing it, too, but I wanted the swans to like me best so I stood nearest to them, right at the edge where even the grass leaned out a bit, and I fell in. I would have started swimming very quickly if I’d had the chance but before I got going it was already too late: Dad was in the water with me trying to get us both out. It didn’t work to begin with. Both of us went right under instead because canals have steep sides. Then it did work and I was on the edge with the other kids again, only they were dry and I was wet. Dad climbed out after me and he was wet, too: when he stood up water spouted out of his laces-holes. We borrowed some bin bags from a pub to sit on in the car and we went home with the heater on. Mum was quite cross with Dad for letting it happen. Dad normally gets angry about accidents like that, too, to teach me a valuable lesson, Son, but do you know what? No, because you weren’t there. But I was and I can tell you that when he pulled himself out onto the bank after me he didn’t shout at all because he was too busy just lying there laughing.