Everybody speaks at once.
— Are you—
— Jesus, Billy—
— The poor little—
— What have I told you—
— Thing.
— About swinging back on the—
— Okay?
— Bastard chair!
And Dad’s chin is sharp-edged on my face for a while, wet with something, and Mum keeps pulling at his arm, and it really didn’t hurt that much, but there’s no space to say anything, none at all, because Mum is saying, — Give him here! and Dad is going, — No, no, no! and Grandma Lynne is begging, — Please! and I am too busy trying to breathe.
And that’s when the bell goes off.
The doorbell.
Ringer-dinger-ding, a crack in everything.
Grandma Lynne steps backward. Dad’s got me tight on his knee, so tight it’s actually making it tricky for me to connect my windpipe to the oxygen supply efficiently. And Mum has one hand on her hip and the other in my hair. They’re both going — You’re okay, you’re okay.
— I am, I am. Sorry, sorry, I say.
The bellringer dings again.
— That’s the doorbell, I explain.
At least Grandma Lynne’s got the idea; she’s halfway out of the room and across the hall.
— Leave it, Lynne, says Dad. But she doesn’t seem to hear him because she prefers what Mum says instead, and that’s the actual — No, answer it, opposite.
Grandma Lynne made Mum in her room. Not her bedroom, but the room next to her stomach. All female mammals have one. And all babies start out from there with stretchy umbrella cords. Sadly there is no cord between Mum and Grandma Lynne anymore, but they’re still more connected than Grandma Lynne and Dad, and that’s probably why Grandma Lynne finds it easier to understand Mum’s instructions. She smoothes her hair wings and goes to open the door.
Mum follows her. I hear some normal hello-do-come-in stuff and there’s some slow shuffling-through-there noises and then the kitchen door widens and Mum and Grandma Lynne come back in with the Butterfly lady behind. She has somebody else with her as well. A giraffe.
Dad breathes out hard through his nose and I can smell too-old-oranges and drain. A man came with a whizzy thing to unblock ours once, but sadly the whizzy thing got stuck so he had to get another one.
Dad keeps hold of me. The Giraffe is quite interesting because of her extremely reaching neck and narrow shoulders and stretched long arms. She is holding a black boxy briefcase in one hand. Perhaps there are bricks in it and that’s why her shoulder is sloping down so hard. No, because the other one is doing it as well. She looks round the room over everyone’s heads while Butterfly gets herself all ready for a speech. It’s a kitchen, Giraffe; no acacia leaves here, no matter how high you look. No, not even up above the clock, we’re very sorry.
Grandma Lynne is fiddling around behind the wicker chair, looking for something. What is it? Her bag. She takes it to the far side of the kitchen table and sits down very quietly. Don’t mind me, she means, I’m completely out of the way: I do the same thing when there are crisps in a bowl and I want some but know they’ll say no if I just take them. And Mum has backed up against the units to give the visitors space. Sadly it looks a little bit like she’s scared of them. Don’t be, Mum. Prairie dogs have nothing to fear from giraffes so long as they keep away from their highly kicking legs. And butterflies aren’t a problem either. Unless . . . I don’t know, so I ask, — Dad, are any butterflies poisonous?
— Probably, he replies very quietly.
— So, says Mum.
Butterfly clears her throat. — This is my colleague, Rommi Godwin. She’s also on the ChildSafe team.
Giraffe does a strange sideways-nod thing. Her hair is cut in an excellent wedge shape into the back of her neck which makes it look even longer. She reminds me a bit of the blue things in the film, minus a plug-tail. And Grandma is fiddling with something inside the mouth of her bag, and squinting at it like a very obvious spy which means it must be her phone.
— What are you here for? Dad says, low and cross.
Butterfly fights back with a smile. — As I explained to your wife yesterday . . . she looks at Mum like they’re very good friends . . . — our visit to Dr. Adebayo has progressed us to the next stage in this process. That’s what we’re here to explain, in person. And we’re here to reassure you, as well, that we have Billy’s best interests at heart. We really do want to find a constructive solution to this difficulty.
— Progressed us to the next stage? spits Dad. — Solution to this difficulty? Speak English.
— Jim! says Mum.
— No, no, it’s all right. Butterfly fiddles with her hair halo. — You’re right. I just think, as before . . . she smiles at me . . . — it might be best if we discuss the detail without Billy present. It’s really a Mum-and-Dad chat, this.
Dad shifts under me. Did you know the world is made up of plates? Not like the plates you eat off and then have to wash up, no, much bigger ones. They float about on fiery lakes of larvae with buildings on top; Big Ben for example. Every now and then one of the plates knocks into another and probably breaks and that’s when the larvae squirts through. Stand back, stand back! It’s gonna blow. Dad breathes hard through his nostrils again, straight down my neck, hot ticklish, and says, — He’s going nowhere.
Butterfly’s lips do her straight-line smile. She looks at Mum, but there’s no help from her because she’s caught in some headlights. Quick. Don’t just stand there. Get out of the way! There’s a horrible bit in a film called Crocodile Done Deeds which I was allowed to watch once, where idiots shoot kangaroos with flashlights on trucks, until one of them isn’t a kangaroo in fact but is Mick Done Deeds with a gun instead, shooting the idiots back which is excellent. But where’s Mick now? He’s hiding . . . in Grandma Lynne!
— I think perhaps it would be wise to do as the lady asks, Jim, she says.
— And I think perhaps it’s my decision, Dad says back, very friendly, very calm. But it’s all camouflage! He’s actually vibrating a bit in his seat: I can feel it through my back. And everybody else is a grown-up so they should surely understand better than me that it’s time to stand very well back and turn off the searchlights and put your giraffe head in an emu hole. Here’s more evidence: low growly Dad words with unusual gaps in them: — Whatever you have to say . . . about me and my son . . . you can say . . . to me and my son.
Now Giraffe does another of her strange sideways head-jerk things and her eyes go blinkety-blink, and she says — We can’t force you to exclude Billy from this conversation, but not doing so may well have an impact.
Mum’s crept round the units to us and now she puts her fingers on Dad’s shoulder. They slide down his arm and stop on his hand, which clenches tighter around my own wrist. — Please, Mum whispers. — Please.
— Impact, says Grandma Lynne. — What do you mean?
— It won’t be considered appropriate parenting.
Dad snorts.
— Please, Jim, says Mum again.
— Nowhere, Dad hisses.
Grandma Lynne’s hands are clutching and de-clutching on the kitchen table; scratch-scratch goes one of her rings against the wooden top. It doesn’t matter because the table is old. I’m even allowed to paint on it and last week on Blue Peter they showed how to milk a cow. Gently squeeze its udders. Scratch, scratch. — Tell you what, says Grandma Lynne. — Why don’t I make a pot of tea and you can explain where this is all going?
— We don’t have a teapot here, I say. — Just bags and mugs.
Butterfly laughs very enthusiastically, like I’ve told a no-eyed-deer joke or something.
— It’s true, I say.
— Of course, she nods. — A mug of tea would be lovely.
— I’m afraid now’s not the time for tea, says Dad.
Giraffe shifts about on her hooves looking this way and that for lions in the tall grass and Butterfly’s straight-line smile zips
shut again.
Dad goes on: — Just get to the point.
— Yes, well, says Butterfly. — The point is this. Having examined and talked with Billy, Dr. Adebayo has some further concerns for his welfare. And the doctor’s concerns . . . I don’t want to be alarmist, but you should realize the seriousness of the situation . . . require us to take further steps to make sure he’s all right.
— What further steps? asks Mum.
Giraffe leans forward now. They have incredibly soft mouths, like horses, and similar big yellow teeth. — Under Section 47 of the Children Act, if our initial investigation has concluded that Billy is at risk we have a duty to proceed to a Child Protection Case Conference. This will be attended by Dr. Adebayo, ourselves and other representatives from ChildSafe, Billy’s schoolteacher, and any other interested professionals. You are encouraged to attend, too. It is recognized that parents have an important part to play in the decision-making process . . .
— You recognize we have a part to play? says Dad. — That’s fucking priceless.
— Jim, please, says Mum.
He ignores her. — But what if we don’t recognize you? What if I don’t think you’ve any right to interfere with me, with my family, at all?
— Of course we recognize . . . Mum starts.
— No. We. Don’t.
Giraffe’s lips peel back. She pauses before speaking. Acacia trees protect themselves using their most vicious thorns, but despite having velvety-soft lips giraffes aren’t bothered. They eat the leaves up all the same. — If a Section 47 Inquiry is obstructed, Giraffe says slowly, — and Billy is considered at risk, the Act envisages it may be necessary to apply for an Emergency Protection Order under Section 44.
— What does that mean? Mum asks.
— It might mean removing Billy from the perceived threat so as to ensure his safety. Giraffe says these words like she’s telling Mum one of her Tiddlo’s will go up the Hoover if she doesn’t tidy them up. Butterfly still wants to be Mum’s friend, though, because she does very reassuring smile-nodding at her as she goes on, — Which is precisely why you’re so right to want to cooperate fully with the process.
Mum is nodding hopelessly, still very caught in the headlights, while Grandma Lynne’s fingers are still gripping at each other so tight, tight, tight that her rings look like they’re about to pop off. Rattle-scrape-rattle goes the wooden tabletop. And just next to my ear I’m sure I can hear Dad’s teeth grinching as he clamp-bites them together. We have a salt grinder that makes the same squeaking noise because it’s got a rubbish plastic mechanism, Son.
— And if we do as you say, Dad spells out super slow, — if we come along to your kangaroo court, and listen to you chatting about what some anonymous stranger in a park has to say about us, and what the doctor thinks he knows as a result of a ten-minute chat with Billy, and sit there while you come to the same ridiculous conclusion that he’s at risk . . . what can we expect you to decide for us then?
— We can’t prejudge that, says Giraffe with a kinder face. — And in any case—
— No, no. I bet you can’t, Dad interrupts. — But surely you have a duty to inform us of the likely eventualities?
Giraffe does one of her nervous-but-not-that-nervous headshakes and says, — A child protection plan might follow, to ensure Billy’s well-being. His progress would be monitored, as would the family’s.
Dad shifts beneath me. I squiggle sideways on his lap and see what I already knew: he’s gone deadly pale. Stand back, stand back!
— What else? he asks. — What would this protection plan mean?
— There’s no point in us second-guessing eventualities here and now, says Giraffe. — Let’s take it one step at a time.
— But I want to hear you guess it. Go on. Do your duty.
— Please remember, we have Billy’s best interests at heart, Mr. Wright. Giraffe spreads her long arms in a sweeping circle. — We really do.
— Enough platitudes. I want facts.
— Well, if the continuing risk is deemed serious, that is, if it is thought that Billy is likely to suffer significant harm, then of course we will have to take action to safeguard him, as I say.
Dad once hit his thumb with a hammer. We were in the garden because it was sunny and there was a stake for a new tree to knock into a hole. He used the big claw hammer and I kept out of the way because he told me to keep out of the way, and it was all all right. In went the pointy stick stake, bang, bang, bang. Then I helped put the root end of the tree in the hole next to the stake and we filled in around both with special mud called compost. It’s nutritious. New tree slush. Watch out, worms. We stamped the mud down with our Wellington boots, only Dad didn’t have any so he used his worst trainers. And that was fine, too. But then Dad had to knock a nail through a strap into the post so that we could tie the baby tree up straight like a prisoner about to be shot, Son. That was when it happened: the post didn’t like being jabbed with a nail. It became a tricky customer, wobbly as hell. — Get in there you . . . said Dad, and sadly walloped his thumb incredibly hard with the big hammer by accident. I was right there. I saw his fist fold his thumb down and the redness spill out between his shut fingers, and I saw Dad’s eyes go squinty as he bent over to hold himself superbly still, pressing it, a statue, pressing it, and pressing it harder, until he couldn’t press it anymore and went — Fuck, fuck, cunting fuck! instead. Then he kicked the stake and tree so hard they both bent over and he hurled the hammer smack-straight through the wooden slut fence.
When Giraffe says the bit about safeguarding, Dad’s eyes do the slitty hard-staring thing. He holds me. He holds me. Then very slowly he lifts me from his lap, using his good and bad arms, straight onto the kitchen table beside his chair and stands up.
— Which means . . . Dad growls louder.
— We’re getting way ahead of ourselves, here, says Butterfly in a very cheerful twittery blackbird voice. She takes a step backward. — With Billy present, in particular, Mr. Wright, it’s not appropriate to—
— To what? shouts Dad. — To what? To tell him the truth? That you’re going to try to take him away from us? That’s what this is about, isn’t it? That’s where it leads. I’ve read about you. You interfering fucking useless—
— JIM! yells Mum. — Shut up! Please, shut up!
— NO! This is my house. I’ll say what I want. I have a duty to say it.
There are sharp red triangles in Mum’s cheeks, and the corners of them have somehow jabbed tears into my eyes, and there’s a gulp-sob fighting up in my chest. I try to wipe the tears away and push the sob back down but it’s useless. Even if I could feel some force I couldn’t use it: I’m too powerless to resist. And Mum has spotted what’s coming, and she quicksteps around Dad who is swaying toward Giraffe, not as tall as her but two thicknesses wider and a hammer-split-thumb crosser, and everyone’s talking high and loud and fast:
— Get out of here. Get out!
— This will only exacerbate—
— I don’t fucking care—
Grandma Lynne: — Jim, please. He’s unwell, stressed.
— I am not sick. I’m the only sane—
Mum, to me: — Come here, darling, shh.
And the sob comes, and Dad evolves on his heel and grabs hold of me, shouting at the women, — Look what you’ve done to him! Is this what you want? This is what you do!
— Leave him, Jim! pleads Mum, her fingers pecking at Dad’s. I saw some ducks trying to jab through some ice once but they didn’t manage it quickly enough and I had to go home before they did, if they did. — Just calm down. Let me take him upstairs. Calm down—
— He’s not leaving! They’re leaving! You two. Out! Get the fuck out!
Grandma Lynne: — He’ll see reason. We’ll do what’s needed. I’ll make sure that we —
— IT’S NOT UP TO YOU!
Butterfly’s eyelashes are flapping above her “O” mouth as Giraffe grows taller all the time, advancing across the kitchen-tiled
savannah toward us. Watch out for those hooves! Mum’s peckety-peck fingers have less and less point because the sobs are still coming like bubbles swelling up through porridge, glup, glup, glup, and with each one Dad’s grip tightens. It’s like beer cans. Not the can bit itself but the plastic O, O, O thing that holds them all together before you throw it into the sea afterward so that it can strangle penguins or otters. There’s something similar in Watership Down. Bigwig puts his head into it and they have to dig out the peg because the harder he struggles the tighter it gets.
I’m not struggling.
Dad stands up with me clutched to his chest. Mum stretches out her arms, very zombie, but Dad doesn’t hand me over because Butterfly is saying something soothing about listening to Grandma and how this really isn’t the way forward and Giraffe is all tilty-headed silent, looking down her nose at us out of one big brown unimpressed eye.
— Just get out, Dad says.
— No, no, don’t, pleads Mum. — Stay!
Dad glares at her. — In which case, he says, and he barges us toward the open door, making Mum step back and Giraffe shy sideways and Butterfly flutter out of the way, too. Then we’re through the gap in a very impressive instant and Dad even clips the door shut with his heel as he turns for the stairs. Up we go, three at a time. Explosive! Where now? His study-bedroom, of course, because we’re Batmen, or a wounded animal, seeking the comfort of our lair!
Dad slumps down on the foot end of the bed, both of us breathing hard, then slower, lub-dub-lub-dub-lub-dub. Over his shoulder I can see his table with work papers all over the place. Very messy. And there’s his computer screen glowing at me, too. The black and whites, eight by eight. He’s been playing chess! I stare at the glowing squares and pieces trying to figure out who won and saying nothing.
I’ve already told you that I know exactly how to play chess and it’s true, I do: I know how all of the pieces move, and I know about castling, and I even know the en passant pawn thing, which means I know all the rules, and that’s an achievement in itself, Son; you should be proud. And I am! But sometimes the rules are annoying. Why can a pawn only do that and nobody but a knight jump and a queen do everything else? So from time to time I forget all about the rules and make up my own instead. Hey you, bishop! You can slide over there if you want. Go ahead, it’s fine. Jump if you like! Why should knights have all the up-down fun? And you, pawn! Ever thought about going in a long curve instead of little plodding steps? No problem. Have a go at it. I’ve changed the rules!
What I Did Page 13
