by Emlyn Rees
For all this Mum has remained steadfastly ungrateful, although nobody would be able to tell, since her whole purpose in life seems to be to keep up appearances to the good people of Rushton, who – as I’ve pointed out on many occasions – probably don’t give a damn. In public, she always bragged in an offhand way, claiming that Dad was ‘in the oil business’, while in private she railed at her would be JR Ewing husband for not being entrepreneurial and for lacking what she called ‘oomph’. To my mind, if Dad lacked ambition and sparkle it wasn’t surprising, considering she trod on any ideas he ever had. She never once appreciated that her husband’s uninspiring daily toil as an overseer of the rapidly expanding petrol station business of Hertfordshire kept food on our table and paid her mail-order-catalogue accounts.
But as much as the uncelebrated Geoffrey Maloney kept his wife on the tracks of normality and did his best to make up for her lack of parenting skills, his wife complained bitterly that she was holding him back. Probably the worst thing that could have happened was that Miles and Louisa Roper moved into the big house next door. They fed into every lifestyle aspiration Mum had and, since she spent her life trying to point out the things she had in common with all the people around her, finding her identity in the illusion she had of her role in her community, she felt undermined by her fashionable neighbours, comparing her lot relentlessly and ruthlessly with theirs, and finding hers lacking.
For a while, until the cracks started to show, I think she liked the fact that she lived next door to the Ropers, perhaps feeling a frisson of excitement that, in being so close, maybe a bit of Miles’s glamour, or Louisa’s beauty and grace, had rubbed off on her.
I’ve always held Mum in some way responsible for driving Fred away but, if I think about it charitably, it must have come as a terrible shock to her when she realised just how different the Ropers were. When everything exploded she reacted with the loudest voice, feeling shame at her proximity to the one-time friends and decrying them with instant tabloid-like condemnation. And so it was that while my mother didn’t even pause for breath in her tirade of outrage, Louisa and Fred slipped away and, in the blink of an eye, the Ropers had gone from Rushton for ever.
Up in my old bedroom I look out of the window across to Fred’s old house. I don’t know who lives there now, but the house has been painted yet again. It looks garish, like a pantomime dame disguised in stage make-up and a wig, but for anyone in the know it’s still possible to see that the paint is thicker on the front porch, where spray paint once defaced the house. I lean on the windowsill, looking across to Fred’s old room, but the window is obscured by one of those baby-friendly black-out blinds and I focus instead on my own window, picking at the edge of the rainbow sticker that’s been stuck to the glass for over twenty years and hides a small crack where Fred once threw a stone too hard.
I was never any good at biology, but I find myself wondering if butterflies ever visit their old cocoons. If they do, I wonder if they feel any of the strangeness I feel standing in my old bedroom. It’s like coming back after years to a prison cell, somehow feeling unnerved by the intimacy of four walls that have witnessed such vast emotions, yet knowing that what remains of me here is no more than a dusty fingerprint.
When I was a teenager I always assumed that I’d live in a house much bigger than my parents’. I took it as a basic right, a natural path through evolution, that I would be more affluent than them and that my lifestyle would, one day, be grand and lavish. It hasn’t really worked out like that though and, now that I live in a small flat, I envy my parents the fact that their junk is only enough to fill Scott’s room and they have the space to leave mine alone.
I sit on the low stool in front of my old dressing table, feeling the frill of faded flower-patterned material that sticks out from under the glass top, and look at my reflection in three angled oblongs of mirror. Tucked into the top mirror clip is a curled-up photograph of me with Joe when he was a baby. I’m holding him so that his back is against my stomach and we both stare at the camera with the same impatient expression. It’s the kind of photograph my mother likes, but I think it’s a terrible likeness of both me and Joe.
I put the photo back and turn away to the cupboard behind me. Inside, there are several winter coats and suits of my mother’s draped in dry-cleaner’s plastic. On the end of the gold hanging rail there’s a china pomander on a frayed ribbon. I reach up and sniff the small holes in the top, but I can’t tell if I’m just conjuring up a memory, or if the scent is real.
I sigh and close the cupboard door. There’s no point in being in here; it makes me feel depressed. I walk on to the landing to the window at the top of the stairs, my feet instinctively treading a silent path across the beige carpet that avoids the creaking floorboards underneath. From the landing window I look down into the back garden.
Joe looks bored and a bit fed up. He leans on the fence near the back door, scuffing his rollerblades on the rough stony path that runs from the front drive down the side of the house and along the garden fence. I’m about to knock on the window and wave, when Joe’s expression changes. I watch as his face breaks into a wide grin and he eagerly jumps away from the fence and starts clomping off along the path to the front of the house. I strain my head, trying to see what has caught his attention, but I can’t.
By the time I get to the bottom of the stairs I can hear voices out on the drive and, with a sinking heart, assume that my parents have returned prematurely. Quickly, I root around in the array of china figurines on the shelf by the mirror to find the front door key. When finally I get the front door open, however, I’m astounded by what I see.
On the drive there’s an old red Renault 5, parked behind my van. Joe’s sitting behind the steering wheel looking delighted. Beside him, Fred stands by the open driver’s door, smiling patiently as Joe plays with the steering wheel and various levers.
I feel blood rushing to my cheeks as Fred looks up at me bashfully and waves, before ushering Joe out of the car.
‘Look Mum,’ says Joe, tripping towards me. ‘Fred came after all.’ He looks up eagerly at Fred, who approaches, jiggling his keys in his hand.
‘Hello, Mickey,’ he says, almost apologetically.
I can’t believe he’s here. He was absolutely the last person I was expecting to see. I cock my head to one side, trying to find answers in Fred’s eyes, but he avoids my questioning gaze.
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ continues Joe. ‘I was getting really bored.’
I pull a face at my son, then look at Fred, but he turns his attention to Joe.
‘You can’t be bored. This is Rushton. There’s loads to do.’ He laughs.
‘You look terrible,’ I say, standing to one side and holding the door open for Fred to come in. As he steps towards me, I can see that his eyes are bloodshot and he looks as if he hasn’t slept. Instinctively, I want to reach out and stroke his cheek and ask him what’s happened, but I can’t and anyway, Fred doesn’t give me the chance.
‘Thanks.’ He steps into the house, wiping his feet on the mat.
‘Mum!’ admonishes Joe. ‘Don’t be mean. Come on, Fred.’ He shoots past me and up the corridor into the kitchen, before I have time to tell him to take off his rollerblades.
I close the door and, while Fred’s back is turned, hastily check my reflection in the hall mirror. I grab my ponytail and roughly yank it tight, not that it makes any difference: I still look a mess. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be on your stag do?’ I ask, walking into the kitchen as casually as I can. I lean against the unit and fold my arms, but I can feel my heart hammering.
‘I was. I got back this morning,’ says Fred.
‘What’s a stag do?’ asks Joe, sitting on one of the kitchen chairs and pulling off his rollerblades.
‘It’s where a whole bunch of men go away somewhere, drink too much, feel sick and wonder why the hell they’re bothering,’ Fred says, looking at me.
‘Why?’ asks Joe.
‘Good questi
on,’ says Fred, smiling, before breaking eye contact. ‘You’ll find out about it when you’re older. Anyway, I remembered you were here, so I thought I’d come and surprise you. I hoped the fresh air might do me some good.’
Joe seems perfectly satisfied with this explanation and jumps up. ‘I found you on the wall. Come and see,’ he says, sliding across the kitchen lino in his socks. Fred follows him into the utility room.
I swipe my hand over my mouth and press my lips, willing my heart rate to slow down. How can this all seem so normal? How can Fred walk into this house and be so natural, when there’s a million reasons why this is anything but? I can hear him laughing with Joe and there’s a part of me that wants to laugh too, but there’s also another that wants to tell him to leave. He can’t make friends with Joe; it’s not fair. But then, Joe’s just a kid and Fred’s made his day by turning up. Is it worth upsetting Joe when, if I’m honest, Fred has made my day, too?
I can’t look at Fred when he comes back into the kitchen.
‘It’s all changed around here, hasn’t it?’ he says.
I nod mutely.
He ducks his head and looks out of the kitchen window up to the back field. ‘Can you believe it? They’ve built on the field. I wonder if those people will be haunted by the bull.’
‘What bull?’ asks Joe.
Fred raises his eyebrows. ‘Didn’t your mum ever tell you about the bull?’
‘Fred,’ I caution, but I can’t help smiling.
‘Go on, Fred, tell us,’ begs Joe enthusiastically.
‘A long time ago,’ Fred begins. He looks at Joe, then back at me, as if something has occurred to him. ‘Actually, we were probably your age. We buried a tin of treasure in the field over there.’
‘What was in it? What was the treasure?’
‘I can’t remember,’ says Fred, ‘but it was important at the time. Anyway, Jimmy Dughead – he’s the scary farmer who used to own the land – put his prize bull, Hercules, in that back field and we couldn’t get our stuff.’
‘So I came up with a plan to distract the bull, only it didn’t work,’ I add, gazing at Fred.
‘What happened?’ asks Joe, looking between us.
‘I shot it,’ Fred says, scratching behind his ear.
Joe’s mouth opens with this revelation. ‘You shot it?’
‘Uh-huh.’ Fred nods. ‘Killed it outright.’
‘With a gun?’ gasps Joe.
‘I thought it was a pretend one, like they use at school sports days to start the races with, only it wasn’t. I only meant to scare the damn thing.’
‘What happened?’ asks Joe.
‘To cut a very long story short,’ I say deliberately, staring at Fred, willing him not to go into details. ‘We got away with it.’
Fred looks at me, his eyes telling me that he’s colluding with me, but that he’s also having fun.
‘Well, sort of,’ he corrects me. He turns to Joe. ‘I got a right telling off from my dad and wasn’t allowed to go out for ages, but Mickey got away with it. She always had that knack, your mother.’
I can tell this is fun for Joe. He’s never had anyone who’s had old history with me and hearing about my youth from Fred is making him look on me in a different light. He stares at me with new eyes, as if he’s seeing me as a person, rather than just his boring old mum. I shift uncomfortably, feeling strangely shy. I love remembering this stuff for myself, but I feel odd over Joe knowing about it, as if somehow he’ll stop respecting me.
‘What happened to the treasure?’ he asks Fred.
Fred shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I guess it’s still there.’
‘Can we go and get it?’ demands Joe, clearly caught up in the adventure. He looks between Fred and me.
‘It won’t be there, darling.’ I laugh. ‘They’re building new houses up there. It’s bound to have been dug up already.’
‘It might not have,’ says Fred mischievously.
‘Fred! Don’t even think about it. It’s trespassing.’
‘Oh.’ He grins. ‘And when did that ever stop you?’
The sun comes out as Fred, Joe and I pick our way through the piles of bricks and concrete mixers up on Jimmy Dughead’s old field. Up close the new houses look feeble. Their timber frames seem to be stapled together like badly made scenery and it’s doubtful whether they’re going to survive against even the lightest of winds.
As we tramp through the deserted building site, Fred entertains Joe with a ridiculous monologue about the future inhabitants. ‘Whoops! There’s Mr Jones on the loo. Sorry!’ he says, pulling a face at Joe and waving his hand in front of his face at a pretend smell. ‘Good morning, Mrs Jones,’ he continues, stepping out through a future back doorway into a future garden and doffing a pretend hat. ‘Your garden’s looking marvellous. What a view!’
Joe’s in fits of giggles and I’m laughing too, as Fred stops and breathes in deeply, looking out over the trees to the rooftops of Rushton. I try to read his face, but I can’t tell what he’s feeling, whether it’s nostalgia, regret, or just plain denial. He seems to be on a mission not to let me get a serious word in, or ask any questions. His policy is a great hit with Joe and I have to admit that his good humour is infectious.
‘It’s about here, isn’t it?’ he asks suddenly, turning to me and making my heart jump with his bright smile.
I shrug. ‘It all looks so different. I can’t remember.’ I look around me. We’re standing in a plot marked out by wooden posts connected by lengths of string.
‘You must be able to,’ tuts Fred. ‘It was your idea. You said to bury the treasure in the middle of the four oak trees.’ Fred points to the trees. ‘So it must be here.’
Joe’s eyes light up with excitement. ‘Shall we start digging?’ he asks, looking down at the flattened earth.
‘I think it’s better if we prod around first. Why don’t we borrow some of these posts?’ Fred suggests.
Joe and Fred tramp off to a corner of the plot, dislodging the wooden post in that, before doing the same with another. I watch them, feeling the weight of time that has passed since Fred and I were last here. I shade my eyes against the sun and smile as Joe waves his post at me.
‘Here,’ Fred says, ‘make yourself useful.’ He passes me one of the posts and for a second his fingers cover mine. I look up at him, wondering what he’s trying to communicate, but in another second the moment is broken and he turns away to help Joe with the other post. We must look ridiculous, all three of us, walking around in circles jabbing the ground.
After a while Fred leaves Joe and comes over to me. ‘I hope you don’t mind me showing up like this,’ he says.
I turn my head to look at him, wiping my hair out of my face. With the sun behind him, his short hair is made into a halo and I’m amazed by how strong and tall he looks. I feel myself blushing. ‘I could do without these harebrained schemes of yours.’ I laugh.
I face Fred. I think the fresh air has done him good. He has colour in his cheeks again and he grins happily at me.
‘You know, I feel so liberated,’ he says, then he drops his voice. ‘You’ll never guess what I’ve done?’ He bites his lip and for a second my heart skips a beat.
I stare at him, wide-eyed, waiting for him to tell me that he’s changed everything. ‘What’s that?’ I manage.
‘I’ve left my phone and my watch in the car,’ he says, stretching his arms out wide and laughing. I nod, not knowing what to say. I feel almost choked by the realisation of what I wanted to hear.
‘I’ve found it!’ Joe yells and Fred rushes over.
I stab my post into the ground with unnecessary force, telling myself to let go of my ridiculous fantasy.
Sure enough Joe’s post has been stopped by an object beneath the surface.
Fred looks at me, his eyes glittering in the sun. ‘Could be it,’ he says.
‘It’s probably just a rock,’ I say, but I’m excited too.
Joe’s already on his hands and knees digging a
t the earth with his hands. It’s strange to see him get so filthy. Usually he’s very prissy when it comes to keeping his clothes clean. Fred squats down next to him and I join in, until all three of us are laughing and scrabbling at the hole.
‘There it is! There it is!’ squeals Joe.
Fred leans down, levering his hand around the hole. Eventually he pulls out the round tin box.
‘My God!’ I laugh, clapping my hands with glee. ‘I can’t believe it! Open it, Fred, go on.’
Fred’s laughing too, as he struggles with the lid, but it’s rusty and won’t budge. ‘I can’t. It’s jammed on tight. We’ll have to take it back to the house. Come on Joe, help me put these posts back.’
I shovel the earth back into the hole we’ve made, scraping more round to even out the surface. Then I jump on it to flatten it down, lifting my knees up and pounding my feet down. I don’t know whether it’s frustration, or exuberance, or both, but as I jump, it’s strangely therapeutic. I’m going to play along with Fred and enjoy today, just for today. If I try and read signs into everything he does, I’m going to go crazy.
‘Come on, Mum, let’s go!’ Joe yells.
‘OK.’ I smile, catching my breath and smoothing down my jeans.
‘I think we should go the traditional route, don’t you, Mickey?’ Fred winks at me.
‘After you,’ I say, curtseying and sweeping my arm out down the hill to the trees and the stream beyond.
The undergrowth is a lot more tangled than I remember it. I’m covered in briars as we make it through to the ditch at the back of our garden. The stream runs at a trickle and the sun glints through the canopy of trees, dappling the water.
