— Oh hi! she says.
I wriggle some electricity out of my left arm. This one. Dad’s face is already set to bright.
— Hi, he says. — I’m doing some coffee.
— Actually . . . Grandma Lynne points at the kettle . . . — I’ve come down to make some tea.
— Of course.
I judder out some more sparks in the noisy bit where Dad watches Grandma Lynne fill the kettle quite loudly. She clicks it down on the black circle thing as if it’s a new one, very special, and they both stand there watching the coffeepot and kettle take ages boiling, until Dad realizes there’s something else he could be doing in the fridge. He rummages around in it for a while helpfully noisily, then thumps the door shut with a look on his face that says, fridge, you disappoint me. I have seen that look myself because I am not the best at catching.
— No milk.
Grandma Lynne looks nearly cheerful about this sad situation. — No bother, she says. — I’ll nip to the shop.
— Would you? says Dad, smiling more normally. — I’m expecting a call.
— Leave it to me.
Grandma Lynne disappears into the hall. Dad slumps back against the cupboards. They’re also called units. We count in them at school, which makes sense, because the bit above them is called a counter. Steam starts fluffing out of the kettle. But instead of the front-door sound Grandma Lynne comes back into the kitchen and puts her handbag down on the side.
— Jim, she says.
Dad knows what she’s going to say already. I can tell. He’s gripping his forehead as if he’s trying not to let the next words in.
— I’d forgotten, says Grandma Lynne.
He knows what, but still asks: — Forgotten what?
— The supervision—
— Jesus, Lynne. You’re popping down the shops.
— Yes but—
— It’s ridiculous, anyway. No offense, but I’ve never been more likely to commit an act of violence than I am with you here now, constantly breathing down my neck. Do they really think putting a family under this kind of pressure could possibly help?
— It must do. In some circumstances. Otherwise they wouldn’t—
— Yes but not in these circumstances. Not here.
— No.
— Then please. We need some milk.
Grandma Lynne grips both flopped handles of her bag and lifts it up an inch. But she puts it down again. The coffeepot is rattling on the cooker and my sore leg is starting to throb. If he doesn’t turn the knob down soon the spitting will start. I’ve seen it happen: the blue flame squirts orange.
— You’re right, Jim. But why take the risk?
— It’s not a risk. It’s a point of principle.
Grandma Lynne puffs air through her lips and shakes her head. It’s a mistake. When wolves are doing dominating they use tiny body-language signals. Leopards do the same thing probably. By puffing out air through her lips Grandma Lynne is really saying, — You, Jim, are quite an idiot. In response Dad’s good fist knots up behind him on the counter. Very slowly, he leans over to turn off the cooker.
— You’ve done a lot to help over the past weeks, he says.
Grandma Lynne says it’s no bother by shrugging her shoulders.
— But I really think we’ve imposed for long enough.
— Don’t be—
— Your work . . . Dad nods at Grandma Lynne’s papers . . . — must be suffering. I know mine is.
— Tessa asked—
— And we’re all grateful. Really, we are. I won’t forget what you’ve done, particularly when Billy had his accident. But I can’t accept anymore . . . help. I just can’t do this anymore. It’s tantamount to an admission of guilt. I’ve done nothing wrong. You know that. Sooner or later they’ll understand, too. In the meantime, I need some space. I just . . . do.
— I can’t leave.
— Please don’t make me ask you to.
— I promised Tessa.
— I’ll explain to her.
— That’s not the point.
Dad straightens up and takes a small step nearer Grandma Lynne. He slaps his red cast into his open good hand. His eyes are screwed into slits and there are two lines either side of his mouth. Grandma Lynne leans back without letting go of her bag handles, but trying not to pick the bag up. Plants grow toward the light no matter where you put their roots. We did sunflowers in Reception. The electricity is still buzzing but the sore bit of my leg is sort of drowning everything out and anyway I’m not about to move.
Dad, very quietly: — It’s my decision, Lynne.
— Let me call Tessa. I can wait for her to get back.
— No.
— Look, I’ll fetch the milk. You’re right. Ten minutes won’t hurt. I’ll come back. Let me come back.
He takes another small step toward her; the bag comes off the surface but she stays where she is, saying, — Please.
Can’t she hear? Can’t she see? I want to scuttle out from under the Serengeti and explain: when Dad’s voice goes all sandpapery like this you just have to do what he says. Immediately. If you don’t . . . Have you ever seen those twisty things they use to hold bags shut? My insides feel very wound up tight like that. Dad moves forward again. The mouth part of me wants me to say something but I manage to keep it shut, and luckily Dad swerves around Grandma Lynne into the hall. He’s moving funny. Jerk jerk. I suddenly recognize something: the electricity is in him, too; it’s not quite the same sort but it’s definitely related.
I know you, Son: I can see your soul.
Dad makes it to the front door. I lean across to watch him step back from it, the door swinging in slowly. It’s as if he’s opening it for a magnificent queen. He’s looking very hard at his socks. Don’t worry, Dad, they’re even.
Grandma Lynne says, — Just some milk then. Her voice is un-Grandma-Lynne-ish, like she’s not a quite old grown-up with carefully cut black wing hair, but someone small forced to answer a Miss Hart question she thinks she’s probably got wrong instead.
Dad doesn’t reply.
Grandma Lynne takes her coat from the pegs, puts it on slowly, and slides her bag handles up her arm. She opens her mouth but closes it without speaking. Down the front step she goes. Dad sock-watches a moment longer. Then his face lifts slowly to the ceiling and he flicks the door with the fingers of his good hand. The door swings shut with a clunk. He folds his arms and leans back against the hall wall. Maybe it’s the gray light coming in through the window over the door: his face is the color of the smashed potatoes they give us at school. He shuts his eyes. You can’t sleep there, Dad: it won’t be comfortable. He opens them again, looks the door up and down slowly, as if it’s wearing an excellent superhero outfit, including mask plus boots, then gently slides the metal thing at the top of the door across.
It’s not the lightning kind, but still it’s called a bolt.
He leans his forehead against the door.
Then he says, — It’s all right, Billy. You can come out.
— I’m not—
— Come on. Out from under the table.
— But I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m—
— It’s all right, Son. Come here.
I stand up a little too soon as I’m coming out and scrape the back of my head on the table lip. He swings round quickly.
— I’m fine.
— Good. He rubs my head. — Upstairs then, to the study. Let’s play chess.
I nearly win.
But not because I play well: more because Dad isn’t concentrating. He spends less time looking at the board than at me. It wasn’t just the hall light, either: even up here where there’s a yellow bulb in the lamp he still looks white. His fingers shake when he moves his pieces. Mostly he puts them right in the way of mine so that even an idiot would know how to take them, and when I do an experiment and leave my knight right in front of his queen he just ignores it.
He ignores the doorbell as well.
And his
phone.
He looks at the face of it, mutters, — Christ, and switches it off.
I don’t like that: it’s not normal.
So when the doorbell rings again I say, — That’s the doorbell. I can answer it if you like.
— Stay where you are, Son.
— But it’s the doorbell.
— I know.
— So we have to answer it.
— No we don’t. Now come on, it’s your move.
— But—
— NO BUTS, he roars. Then he immediately steps round the board and grabs me to his chest and says, — Sorry, sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean it. You’re okay. You’re okay. Are you okay?
— I’m fine.
We sit there for quite a few moments more. The doorbell gradually gives up ringing. There’s a dog down our road that sometimes barks at night until it stops. Our cat Richard never says anything: he doesn’t even meow. I know who is ringing the doorbell and Dad knows who is ringing the doorbell but neither of us say who is ringing the doorbell. It makes me sad. And angry. I look at the pieces on the chessboard, including my excellent pawn wedge of defense, and suddenly they all seem so incredibly stupid that I want to knock the board over. But I don’t, because I did once and it only made things worse, and anyway, even as I’m thinking about it, the doorbell starts ringing again.
— Ho-hum, says Dad, but it’s not a real ho-hum because a real one means never mind and I can tell that Dad actually minds very much indeed. He shakes his head. He goes over to his computer. Then he flicks a switch on the stereo. Lights glitter on the black box and the speakers on the bookshelves do crackly hissing. Here comes the music, the crackles say, get ready, it’s going to be impressive! And they’re right, because that’s what comes next: swelly loud music. It’s like the sea, with us under the surface, and all the roaring and crashing going on overhead. Dad wasn’t concentrating beforehand and neither can I, now, so we’re even, which makes it all the more spectacular that after another twenty-thousand-league journey under the sea I nearly win.
I don’t, though.
Just when I’ve almost got him with my queen and castle he suddenly stops fiddling with his fingers, looks at the board for a moment, says, — No you don’t, and does something sneaky with that pawn there. A move later he turns it into another horrible queen. The same thing happens to Doctor Who’s enemies occasionally. The Doctor never fails, though; he’s a Time Lord so he can always sort things out. I can’t. Next move, I’m dead.
— Close, but no cigar! Dad says over the music.
I’ve lost, so I’m cross, but I know I’m not supposed to be cross that I’ve lost, or at least I know I’m not supposed to let anybody know I’m cross I lost, but I can’t help feeling cross I lost, so I shout, — The doorbell is ringing again! It is. I can tell.
He twists the music softer and stands there with his hands on his hips.
— That was a good game, Billy, he says. You did well. I’ll never throw a game, though, and you’ll thank me for that eventually. It’s only a matter of time. When you win, you really will win.
There it is again: brrrringggg.
His eyebrows pinch down. — You’re right, he says.
— It could be Mum, I say. — You did up the bolt thing.
He checks his watch, squints back at me, drags the fingers of his bad hand through his hair. There are gray marks just inside the cast’s rim. I’m not sure whether you get soot inside volcanoes.
— If it is her she’s back early.
He goes to the window and looks out. I do, too.
— I’m right, I say. — That’s Mum’s car.
— Where?
— Parked next to the skip.
We both bound down the stairs to let her in. And as I’m bounding I don’t even care about my sore leg because everything is great. When prairie dogs reunite they lick each other’s faces. All pack animals do it, I think, except the ones killed on the hunt. Skips have nothing to do with skipping. I somehow squiggle past Dad so that he has to lean forward above me to undo the lightning bolt, and by the time he’s done that I’ve already turned the latch-lock thing, so it’s really me who pulls the door open to let Mum in.
It’s not just her on the step, though.
There’s a little party looking in.
Mum’s up front, holding hands with Grandma Lynne, and Butterfly and Giraffe are there, too, right behind them.
Dad’s hand is still on the top of the door, which slides forward just far enough to make me think he’s going to shut it again. But he doesn’t. Instead he sort of uses the door to steady himself for a moment before he says, — Hello, very quietly, followed by, — Come in, come in.
Mum leads the way. Her mouth is a line which only crinkles when I grab-hug her round the bum and leg. By the time we’ve all made it into the kitchen, though, her face is fixed again. She stands very still, like the fridge she’s wedged herself against. There are three ways a prairie dog can react when it’s impossibly cornered. One, it freezes in a sub-missing pose; two, it flees away at top speed; three, it fights back like a Tasmanian devil. Which is it going to be, then? Giraffe and Butterfly are standing quietly either side of the kitchen table, looking at one another, being very polite about whose turn it is to speak first. Dad slumps down on his chair, head bent forward. And Grandma Lynne, coming in last, does something surprising: she goes round behind Dad, puts a hand on his shoulder, and murmurs, — It’s okay. I’m sorry. Don’t worry, Jim.
— Don’t worry? snaps Mum. — You’re sorry? He’s had you sitting in your car for . . . and you’re apologizing?
Dad shoots Mum a very worried look. Hold on, the look says, please don’t let it be you who starts throwing spanners here.
And Grandma Lynne says, — Really, it was no bother. I was able to catch up on some reading. Right in front of the house. Just outside.
— Okay, says Giraffe, very I’m-in-charge-here. — I really do suggest — this time — that we find something nice for Billy to do while we’re talking. She has a go at smiling while looking sideways from Dad to Mum to me, then her eyes drift up to look for some more acacia leaves.
Dad does some of-course nodding at Mum, and says, — Come with me, Son. Let’s find something interesting to watch on TV. But although when he says that it’s normally yes-yes-yes time, today the words make me feel like I’ve just landed slap in the hot bath again, all instantly no-no-no NO. My leg actually begins to throb. Has he forgotten what he said last time? These people are here because making me sad is what they do. It concerns me! I can’t do anything about it, though, because there’s a man on television who can bend spoons with his eyes, and it feels like every eye in the room is powerfully saying the same thing to me now: go and watch something that isn’t as amazing as it sounds, like spoon-bending, on TV. It’s just metal fatigue.
I don’t even look at Dad as he switches the boxes on. Doesn’t he realize I can do it myself?
— What do you want to watch?
— I don’t care.
— Come on, Billy.
— Anything.
— Anything it is, he says, pushing buttons.
I nearly say, — Anything but that, when he finally chooses, but his fingers are all twitchy with the mote control so I don’t.
He pulls the door to as he leaves, and I hear the kitchen door shut beyond it. Pulling the door to is a stupid saying. To where? To not quite shut. I stand up and open it again. The TV shows a stupid boy who is probably only five, with blue hair and a water pistol. I have a better water pistol than that. He can’t even aim his straight. Last time Butterfly and Giraffe were here Dad said fucking because the situation must have called for it: he was incredibly cross with them. Why? Because they wanted to take me away. On cat-feet, very stealthy, I run upstairs to my bedroom to find my water pistol. It’s not actually a water pistol at all: it’s a pump-action water shotgun. In the olden days people were killed for things like setting off fireworks beneath the House of Parliament, and they went
to prison for tiny things like borrowing bread without asking. Nowadays we actually give it to pigeons. Some of them roast in Big Ben. I haven’t stolen anybody’s bread, but that’s not the point. The point is that the people who can’t cope with their children aren’t allowed to keep them in case somebody gets hurt. And what have I done? I’ve run away across the playing pitches and hurt myself on a wall without railings and nearly had a fight with Fraser at school and weed in my trousers afterward. Then I didn’t go to school even though I wasn’t ill and Miss Hart saw. And after that I jumped into a stupid hot bath and stayed away from school again until I nearly got cross about losing at chess. I’ve already had one smack which made Butterfly cross. But it wasn’t enough because since I had it I’ve done more bad things anyway. And now they think I can’t cope, so Grandma Lynne had to stay outside in her car and Mum came home early and Butterfly and Giraffe are here to do what people like them always do, Son: take people away. I fill up my water shotgun in the bathroom and take it downstairs.
I know exactly how the TV mote control works. On and Off are the same button, but I’m not even going to press it. I’m going to press this one instead: Mute.
I creep up to the kitchen door and listen at the crack, very stealthy.
— But I was just outside, says Grandma Lynne again. — In the car, right in front of the house.
— That’s not what the child protection plan says, though, is it? Supervised contact means supervised contact. Mr. Wright isn’t supposed to be alone with Billy . . . for now.
My shotgun is dripping slightly. It’s one of the rules: I’m not allowed to use it inside. I take my sock off the foot attached to my unburned leg and wrap it round the end of the barrel to catch the drips.
— And the very fact that Grandma was in the car at all is evidence that the plan isn’t working. Mrs. Wright hasn’t been able, as she hoped, to persuade Mr. Wright to do as we agreed, have you?
Mum: — No.
— Listen. It’s not her fault, says Dad. — It’s mine, of course. I’ve been an idiot. I am an idiot. But I’m sorry. I’ll . . . comply from now on. I promise. It’s just been hard to take in. But I’ve got it, now. I’ll do what it takes. I’m sorry, I’m . . .
What I Did Page 21
