Dad once saw me playing a game like that against myself. — What are you up to? he asked.
— Playing chess against myself.
— But you know as well as I do. Pawns can’t do that.
— They can in this game. I’ve made up new rules.
Dad’s bottom lip pushed out a little to go with his nodding. — New rules, he said. Then he scratched his head and the nodding turned to shaking. — But without the proper rules it’s not chess.
— Yes it is.
— No it’s not. It’s just fiddling with the pieces. I mean, carry on, have fun with it, by all means, if that’s what you want. But surely you see that without the rules you’ve got nothing. Just a pointless . . . can of worms!
— It’s not pointless, I said.
He ruffled my head annoyingly so I went on:
— And neither are worms. Mr. Sparks put some into the school compost last week. He was wearing yellow rubber gloves because he didn’t like the touch of them. But he said they were an important part of it because—
— Whoa, Billy. Back up a bit. School compost heap? What’s that all about?
— It’s where we put the scraps. From lunches without meat in them and from mowing the grassy bit. No biscuits or chocolate. One of us is allowed to do the putting-in every day.
— Then what? You stand around watching the worms and discussing the circle of life?
— No. Just the putting-in bit.
The nodding came back then and Dad’s eyes went gentle black. — Fair enough, he said. — I expect it beats Latin.
We can hear them talking downstairs but because the door is shut it’s impossible to tell exactly what they’re saying. Gradually Dad’s grip on me goes softer; if he was a python now would be the time to swallow me whole. He doesn’t do that, though, no, of course not, because he has to answer his phone instead. It’s in his pocket. He slides me off him and up toward the pillow end and fishes the phone out and smoothes down my hair with his bad hand, clunk, clunk, and answers it.
It’s a work call.
I lie on my back and check the old ceiling crack. It’s still there, streaky lightning, a bit longer than before perhaps. When I was a baby it was smaller because I was as well. Snakes have forked tongues. It makes them impossible to understand. I listen to Dad on the phone overcoming obstacles and finding new ways to push things forward but what he’s saying doesn’t really make sense either.
Yes, communication is extremely hard, and Dad does whole projects of it almost by himself, because it’s his job, which is impressive. Quite often, though, I realize I don’t really know what a communications project is, and that’s fair enough because they’re so difficult. But my brain is developing at a fantastic rate so every now and then I ask Dad to explain his job again just in case my powers have caught up. And when I ask, two things happen. First, whatever he says always makes sense. And second, it always sounds quite exciting. Actually, I was wrong about two things, because in fact there are three. The third is this: once Dad finishes explaining, the sensible bit stops making sense again very quickly, or rather, I realize it isn’t actually true!
And to prove it, here are some of the answers Dad has given me when I’ve asked him — Hey, Dad, what are you actually doing? I’ve put the answers in groups because I’ve noticed that’s where they belong; whatever communications projects involve it normally has to do with something else: either farming or building or sailing or cooking or sport or craft or party games or breaking laws or religion or fighting.
— I’m making hay while the sun shines, Son; I’m harvesting what I sowed; I’m counting my chickens before they’ve hatched; I’m trying to see the wood for the trees; I’m shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted; I’m casting pearls before swine . . .
— I’m building bridges; I’m reinventing wheels, Son; I’m mixing cement with a toothpick; I’m trying to build Rome in a day . . .
— I’m setting the sails; I’m keeping things shipshape; I’m sailing into a headwind; I’m trying to bail us out with a teaspoon . . .
— I’m cooking without gas, Son; I’ve got my head in the oven; I’m reheating the books . . .
— I’m keeping the ball rolling; I’m playing with ten men; I’m caught in the offside trap; I’m trying to keep my eye on the ball . . .
— I’m watching paint dry; I’m trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear . . .
— I’m pinning tails on moving donkeys; I’m playing musical chairs; I’m jumping through hoops, Son; I’m pushing a rope uphill; I’m running to stand still . . .
— I’m driving with the headlights off; I’m mugging old ladies; I’m doing thirty in the fast lane; I’m robbing Peter to pay Paul . . .
— I’m trying to walk on water; I’m dancing to the devil’s tune; I’m feeding the five thousand without a fish; I’m going to hell in a handcart . . .
— I’m taking on allcomers; I’m fighting with one arm tied behind my back; I’m winning battles but losing the war; I could tell you but I’d have to kill you . . .
Dad has moved over to his desk while I’ve been remembering this list for you, talking on his phone the whole long time. And I’ve been watching him. His head is a silhouette because his computer screen is glowing round its cut-out edges. Once at school we made biscuits. Now Dad puts the phone down and his cookie-cutter head drops forward and his hands change the outline by making themselves into earmuffs. Who knows, maybe my brain has developed enough to understand what he means better now. There’s only one way to find out.
— Dad?
— Yes, Son.
— What are you doing?
His shoulders shift and the earmuffs shrink to match his smaller voice: — I don’t know, Billy. I really don’t know.
We sit in the quiet after that, Dad at his table, me on the bed. Crocodiles do the same thing with their mouths open. It’s fine, but slightly boring.
Eventually the voices are louder again in the hall. Good bye yes good bye, we’ll be in touch. Then the front door raps shut. Dad pushes back from his desk. He squats down by the end of the bed and says, — Would you do me a drawing?
— Okay. What of?
— You decide. Something with teeth, perhaps. Just put lots of detail in it.
— Can I use a piece of paper from your dream?
— Ream, Son; it comes in reams. Of course. And you can work at my table. There you go: desk lamp on. Here’s a pencil. Use as many sheets of this as you want. I’ll be back up for an inspection a little later. Stay put until I do. Okay?
— Okay.
And off he goes, underwater slowly. It’s a long way to the bottom of the ocean, Dad! Look out for the anglerfish; they’ll help you see what’s what.
Anglerfish have lots of teeth and a lightbulb on a stick sticking out of their nose. It acts as a lure. Come here, smaller fish, I’m luring you, luring you, luring . . . you don’t know what’s going on here, do you? Whap! I start drawing one. But I get it wrong, because halfway through drawing the mouth I remember that anglerfish have bigger teeth on the bottom than the top. Or at least their bottom teeth stick out farthest. It’s called an under-bite and Raphael at school has one but you shouldn’t point it out because Miss Hart will tell you not to. He wants to be a human, you see, not a deep-sea fish.
I do something very clever next: instead of allowing my crossness at the mistake to send prickles across my head, making me go downstairs to say I’ve done it wrong and need to start again, I use my memory and take another piece of paper because he said I could.
Ream, not dream.
The second drawing goes better. In fact, it is excellent. I do a fantastic underbite and incredibly sharp backward-pointing teeth, totally barbed, and I get the light-lure in the right place and even do some cross-patching on the belly where it joins the fins to make him look like he has three dimensions. It’s an allusion and you don’t even need cinema glasses to see it. But sadly, when I realize this I think about the film and see that
my anglerfish isn’t quite as excellently dimensional as the blue and red dragons, and before I can stop myself I go downstairs to show it to Dad because he’ll probably make me feel slightly better by saying my anglerfish is actually better because there’s a crack in everything.
It’s nearly a disaster of tremendous portions!
I make it halfway down the stairs before realizing that I’m not supposed to be going down the stairs at all. The anglerfish has lured me into dangerous waters. I freeze. They’re talking.
— I don’t care what you think, says Dad. — They can stick their conference up . . .
— Just slow down for a second, Mum pleads. — Think of the consequences.
— I have nothing to hide. We’ve done nothing wrong.
— You have to help us prove that, Jim, says Grandma Lynne.
— No, they need the evidence, and there is none.
— These sorts of cases are different. They’re—
— I’m still innocent until proven guilty.
— You’re being naive. If they think a child is at risk they—
— Nobody’s at risk! They can confer all they like.
Mum, very tired: — It’s not as simple as that.
— You go, then. If that’s what you think. I’m having no part of it.
Something bangs down hard on something else then, and there’s mumbling and — oh no — footsteps. Before they make it to the door I run back up the stairs. Mink sometimes do the same thing when they hear hounds, and foxes have been known to flee up trees as well, because although they’re mostly dog not many people know that they can in fact be the opposite of cheetahs, using their claws which are . . . retractable!
He comes thumping up the stairs. I’ve made it to the study-bedroom doorway. Before he can say anything I show him my drawing. He looks at it for a long time.
— Brilliant. Toothy.
He gives it back and leans two-fisted on his table staring at everything on it in turn, very disappointed. There’s a gorilla at the Zoo that looks exactly the same quite often before it eats whole cabbages leaf by leaf. They should give it something more interesting to eat. Eventually Dad pushes himself upright, puffs out his gorilla cheeks, and claps his hands softly.
— Sod this lot for now.
— Can I help sod it? I ask.
He smiles. — It’s half-term, isn’t it?
— Yes.
— Fetch your trunks, then. I’ll take you for a swim.
— Yes, yes, yes!
I sprint into my bedroom and grab my one-directional shark trunks and my green goggles which live in the same drawer under my pants and sprint back to Dad who is holding his bag open like a grouper’s mouth. He stuffs a couple of towels in on top. Try saying something now, grouper-bag! It can’t. Dad zips it up and off we go downstairs into the hall for shoes and coats. It’s normal. But then, as I’m putting mine on, something funny happens. Mum hears us, leans out of the kitchen door, and catches sight of the bag in Dad’s hand. That’s not particularly funny I know. But her face is: it looks like somebody has taken a photo of her when she wasn’t expecting it, only faces like that normally disappear immediately in real life, and hers doesn’t: it stays fixed like it would in a photo, very fright-surprised, as if the bag probably contains an incredibly venomous funnel-web spider.
— Jim? Where are you going?
Dad doesn’t answer. He looks at her and shakes his head and sort of laughs and says, — Unbelievable.
— Swimming, I say. — We’re going swimming.
Mum’s face blinks itself normal but only just. She puts a hand on my shoulder and says, — Lovely. When shall I make lunch?
Dad puts a hand on my other arm and speaks to Mum like he did to the man who came to mend the dishwasher. He was from Pole land. North Pole land, I expect, since nobody lives in Antarctica except emperor penguins, leopard seals, and, occasionally, David Attenborough, wearing a huge fur-hooded coat, because it’s so in hospital there.
— I’m not sure, he says. We may have something while we’re out. But don’t you worry, we’ll be back in time for tea.
We go swimming. Like normal it’s great, only it’s even better this time because Dad’s red arm goes in a special plastic elastic sleeve thing. I’m not allowed to tug it. Have you ever played paper rock scissors? It’s quite a good game to play on land if you’re bored, and better still to play in the pool even if you’re having a good time. We play underwater because you only need one hand. First Dad and I take deep breaths in our goggles and then Dad says, — Right: one, two, three, and on three we do submerging. Down we go, right down, until we’re sitting on the black line, with Dad pressing one of his legs onto one of mine so I don’t float off. Then we clench one fist each and knock them together: one, two, three; paper, rock, scissors; which is it going to be? Dad’s scissors cut my paper in the first game but I’m not disappointed. We go up to the surface and he says it before me:
— Best of three.
Down we go again and I win this time because on three my rock blunts his scissors totally.
Up for a breath, and down again. Look at his hair waving about like Blue Planet seaweed. One, two, three. No, no, no. My rock is folded up by his huge paper hand and I feel desperate. We go up to the surface and as soon as I’ve breathed I ask if we can make it best of more than three but he laughs and swims off on his back, so I attack him viciously because I’m cunning, and ever since the lifeguard with the soggy trainers told us off I know Dad is in fact powerless to retaliate. Eventually he decides to listen to me.
— One more chance, please!
— But I’ve won.
— Another best of three.
Dad can make water squirt out of his hand when he wants to, and he wants to now because he squirts some at me. It goes in my eye. Luckily I’m not Casper in Mrs. Preddy’s class because when you do that to him he screams.
— I wasn’t playing my hardest, I say.
— Tough.
— And anyway I’ve got a better game. Paper, rock, scissors . . . Death Star. I put both of my hands together to show him what one looks like.
— What can a Death Star beat?
— Everything.
He laughs at me and shakes his head. — No. Escalation like that would upset the delicate balance of power.
— The what?
— The game wouldn’t work.
— Yes it would.
— We’d destroy each other.
I can see what he means, nearly, so I concentrate on the bit I can’t see; I did something similar when Tom at school explained about Father Christmas, and it worked, because he still came. And then I remember the bit at the end with the X wings and Red Five standing by and it makes everything more complicated.
— Actually there’s Luke, too, I explain. — So you’re even more wrong, because the Death Star can be destroyed.
But Dad’s not concentrating. He’s standing up pinching the water out of his eyes, muttering something else about escalators. And anyway I’ve got two hands of my own so I decide to have a go at the new version of the game by myself. Deep breaths. Down I go. Without his help I have to fight to keep the silvery wobbling water-lid high above my head. One, two, three: hand versus hand, victory. The sign for Luke is a finger pointing out like a light saver.
Later, in the showers, Dad thumb-pumps some green from the dip sensor thing into his hand and rubs it on my head, very like washing-up liquid; bubbles slipper off everywhere and down the drain, popping eventually. You have to keep pressing the water knob because otherwise idiots wouldn’t know how to turn off the taps and everything would get wasted. It’s tiring. I watch bubble scum drizzling in the drain gully, then look at Dad who has fur on his chest. Have you ever blown up a balloon? I have, nearly, and when I let it go the stretchiness breathed out, very hilarious and finally floppy. Dad’s willy is pink and looks quite similar, unlike his arms and legs which have excellent knotted-towel muscles. Natural athlete, Son: don’t worry, you’re cut
from the same cloth. If God existed, he would have an excellent pair of scissors. Thoughts are odd, like daffodils: the bulbs are inside you somewhere getting ready to pop up in your lawn brain from nowhere, and often they’re shaped like questions, which jump out of your mouth in exactly the same way.
— At the end of wars do the losers congratulate the winners?
— What’s that? says Dad. — Soap in my ears.
I repeat the question.
Dad half laughs. — Unfortunately not.
— But why? It’s bad sport.
— Sportsmanship. Yes. But war isn’t a game.
— There are winners and losers, though. So it’s similar.
— Some winners, more losers. But no real rules. And yet . . . no. War isn’t a sport, Billy. It’s hell.
— But hell doesn’t exist.
— Okay, it’s the worst thing people can do to each other. It’s people being horrific to other people on purpose. It’s something we should avoid at all costs . . .
He trails off and I look at him out of my eye without water in it, and see him staring sadly at his red plastic-bag arm through the shower rain, shaking his head. With a bit more light we could have a rainbow in here.
— You know all that, he continues.
— Yes, I say. — And paper rock scissors Death Star isn’t a real sport, either.
Instead of going home we walk to Cicely and Lizzie’s house with a bag of food from the special small expensive shop, which I am allowed to carry. It’s fine, not that heavy. Delicate essence. — Keep up now, says Dad, and I do, but every now and then I have to stop to check what Dad bought and by the time we get there I know: a pot of dirty green olives with little orange flickers in them; yes, they look like dragons’ eyeballs. Some flappy bits of ham not even in a proper plastic box but paper instead, very folding. That big round crunchy crust loaf of bread without slices. And in this pot there’s some humorous, which Dad doesn’t normally like and I think is only medium so why did he buy it? But yes yes yes, there they are, there: two gingerbread men, I can see by their outline. Excellent!
What I Did Page 14
