by Jo Baker
She nods, sets the teapot down. Her lips are pursed, she’s frowning.
She’s thinking, the boy will never ride a bike.
She’s wrong, he knows she is, and she’ll see it too, eventually. He’ll prove it. The boy will turn out fine, better than fine. Billy insists on it. Anything less than this is unacceptable. This is his second chance. He’s paid for it. That boy’s death in Normandy was the down payment. The drip drip drip of guilt, that’s just the interest.
The kettle’s hum grows to a whistle: they both start towards it, fearful of disturbing the child. Billy plucks the whistle from the spout with quick fingertips. Ruby leans against the table, rubs at her forehead, at the tension between her brows. She has to take him to the doctor. She knows she does. The way he kicks out that left leg when he runs, like it’s getting in the way. The way the creases in his chubby legs don’t match. It’s tiny, now; but the wrongness will grow with him, she knows it. It’s her fault.
Billy turns off the gas, lifts the kettle, fills the teapot.
“I’ll pick up something cheap, don’t worry. I’ll do it up,” Billy says.
He clinks the teapot lid into place, warm with the thought of cranks and chainwheels and candlewax. He comes round the side of the table and opens his arms; she steps into the space between them.
“He’ll love it,” Billy says.
She nods, her face pressed into his neck, where the boy had rested his sleeping head before.
Denham Crescent, Mitcham
June 5, 1955
“SORRY,” HE SAYS, because Dad’s already started, and Will had been supposed to help. He’d been reading Eagle. He’d lost track of the time.
Dad grunts something; he’s leaning out across the beetle top of the Ford Anglia, a soapy rag in hand, scrubbing off the dirt. Will heads into the garage for more rags. Sukie raises her head—her eyes catch the light but the rest of her is just a darker darkness in the garage, making Will come to a stuttering stop, almost overbalancing on his built-up boot. Sukie stands up so that Will can stroke her head. Her tail thumps against the workbench.
“Good girl,” Will says. “Good girl.”
He bends on his good leg, calliper stretched out to the side, to rifle in one of the rag boxes underneath the workbench. There are three boxes, containing three different categories of rag. Four, if you include the ones in use, left twisted up and oily or dried crisp on the workbench and shelves. You have to be careful you get the right ones.
The shelves are stacked with old tobacco tins and biscuit tins and sweetie jars full of bike bits, bolts, washers, drawer handles, keys, and bits of tiny engineering that he can’t name but could be sewing-machine parts, something like that. And hanging up on the ceiling, like an exhibit, is Dad’s Claud Butler.
Equipped now with an appropriate rag, Will reaches up, and if he puts his weight on his callipered leg, on the built-up boot, and stretches as tall as he can, he can just touch his fingertips to the bottom of the wheel, and make it shift, make it move along three, four, five ticks. He loves the way it ticks.
He’s just turning to go when he sees that there’s a bit of wood in the vice; his dad’s been working with a hacksaw. The outlines of a horse’s head drawn on in pencil, part of the mane already cut out. There is one wide flaring nostril silvered in with graphite. She is getting a rocking horse. Or maybe just a hobby horse. Anyway.
It’s not his kind of thing, he supposes.
He clumps back out into the back lane to help his dad.
The grass droops with gritty water. The gravel is wet and grey and leaves a film on his boots like plaster. Dad soaps across the bonnet and roof where Will can’t reach. Will manages the doors, the side windows, the boot lid, wiping away the grey soapy streams of water. They work without speaking—just the little concentrating sounds his dad makes, sucking his teeth. Will dips his rag into the bucket, swishing it around; he slops it back onto the car. You don’t put your rag down on the ground, not even for a moment. It’ll pick up grit and that would scratch the paint. And then there’d be that slow explosion of him, like the H-bomb going off. It goes from something small, barely noticed, a tiny fracture in the material of things, and you just don’t see it, you blunder on oblivious, and then you’re right in the middle of it: a fury that plumes and boils a mile up into the air. Will rubs at the silvery back window rim, leans down to do the side panel. He dips down further to attempt the running board, but the calliper digs into his groin, and he yelps. He didn’t mean to. He looks up. His dad’s eyes are on him.
“All right?”
Will nods.
Billy juts his chin at the calliper. “Need sorting?”
Will shakes his head, wants to avoid an uncomfortable limp down to Macklin’s. Dad talking over his head to Mr. Macklin, and Will sitting on an upturned box, bad leg dangling like a puppet’s, and the hot firework of sparks from the welding, which he likes to watch; but he doesn’t like the way the men there fuss him, rub his hair, the way he has to sit there like a broken toy, leg useless. He doesn’t like going to get fixed.
“It’s fine,” he says. “I just pulled a muscle.”
He hesitates, expecting to be detected in the lie, since he doesn’t really have much in the way of muscle to pull. But Dad just nods, and picks up the bucket, and shunts it so that a wave of gritty soapy water flings out down the back lane. He goes in through the gate, to the garden tap, rinses out the bucket, and returns carrying a dark pool of clean water in it, ringed round with a faint circle of old foam.
They are on to the dry rags by the time Mum comes to the back gate and calls them in to supper. Sukie gets up and ambles in after her.
“Be in in a minute,” Dad says.
Will follows him into the garage, into the oil scent and wood dust. Dad flips out the rags, shaking out the wet, and Will does too, until his dad takes them off him and hangs them up on the nails hammered in along the edge of a shelf.
“Go on in,” his dad tells him.
Will does what he is told. He goes down the back garden between the flat rectangles of lawn and the narrow flowerbeds, and swings himself through the porch, and up the step into the kitchen. Sukie is already there, settled underneath Janet’s seat.
There is bread and butter and ham and tea and milk and sugar. There is Janet in the highchair Dad made for her, straining against the straps, reaching out for the bread which is just a quarter of an inch out of her reach, and yelling, “My want it, my want it.” When Will comes in she turns and gives him one of her big wet smiles, and he grins instinctively back. “My want it,” she says again, but this time asking him, and, as Mum’s back is turned and she’s doing something in one of the cupboards, Will picks up a piece of bread and butter and hands it to his little sister, who rewards him with a “Dankoo” and buries her face in the bread. She makes him smile. He watches her eat.
“Wash your hands,” his mother says over her shoulder. Oh yes, that. He goes over to the sink, and stretches up, and scrubs his hands with the green soap, and dries them on the towel, and then Dad comes in. Will watches as his father ambles straight over to Janet and crouches at her side, big smile on his face. He talks nonsense to her, tickling her, making her sputter crumbs. Will rubs the slimy soapy wet off his hands.
Janet shrugs her dad off with a “NO,” and he leans away with a laugh. The baby shoves the bread and butter into her mouth; Dad watches her eat, his eyes tender and fascinated. Sukie licks up the crumbs as they fall, her broad tongue leaving shiny wet patches on the lino. Will watches, drying his hands.
Mum turns round from whatever it is she’s doing and says, “Wash your hands, Billy.” And then, clocking her daughter’s food: “How did she get hold of that?”
“Dunno. Didn’t you give her it?” his dad asks.
“No.”
Will feels his cheeks burn. He can see his mum’s not particularly bothered, just puzzled. His dad though, still crouching, swivels round on his toes and looks at him. Will swallows, tries to gauge this. Is t
his the moment before the explosion? His dad’s face is changing—the smile fading.
“Was she not supposed to have it?” Will asks.
“That’s not the question,” his dad says.
“Little monkey helped herself,” Will says.
His dad snorts. Mum’s face breaks into a smile. “Little monkey,” his dad agrees, and gets up to wash his hands.
His mum shifts the plate of bread and butter further across the table, out of the reach of little fingers. Will draws his chair out from the table, seats himself carefully, stretching out his leg and balancing his calliper on the lower rung of Janet’s chair. Janet stuffs the bread into her face, and munches, and gags, and chews again on what she’s just retched back up. Will waits, hands in his lap, for the bread to be offered him.
Brighton Beach
June 6, 1955
THE AIR IS SO BIG—stretches miles and miles—a sweep of pebbles up along the coast; the air a woompfh and a slap, and the sea growling itself up onto the pebbles. Janet is shrieking in delight, leaning from her mother’s arms as if to grab hold of the whole day, Mum complaining at the pull on her back. Dad is lugging Grandma’s deckchair and bags and the new thermos. Grandma picks her way along in her black dress and tan coat, trailing blankets. And Sukie is just daft with excitement, skittering off across the pebbles, barking at seagulls.
Will swings himself along, all callipered up for the walk. He carries a football in a string bag. He and Dad will have a kickabout.
They follow the high-water mark, a trail of bobbled seaweed and worn shells. The pebbles are tan and gold and grey; he leans over, calliper stretched out, to pick one up. The stone fits his hand neat as anything, and is golden, and almost seems to glow from inside. He drops it into his shorts pocket, and it makes the fabric droop to one side, weighing him down like a diver, pulling at his snake-link belt. Sukie bounces round him, black as a scrap of left-over night, and he laughs at her happy jowly face and dips for another stone, and reels his arm back and flings the stone overarm, putting as much welly into it as he can, sending it towards the sea, staggering with the after swing, his boots scuffing unevenly through the pebbles. Sukie flings herself after it. He watches the nearest waves for a plop and splash, but the pebble falls short, clatters, and Sukie scrabbles to a halt, legs going all directions, scattering stones as she searches, making him laugh.
He glances round to catch the others’ attention; Dad is spreading out the blanket. Grandma stands like a stooped bird, waiting, her skirts and coat stirring in the breeze. “Awfully windy, Billy.”
Dad sets out her deckchair, unfolding it and grinding it down into the stones. Grandma huffs down into the seat. “There.” She looks up and around her. Squints into the bright sun. “Billy, can you pass my knitting bag?”
Will swings himself up towards the family. His big boot clumps and drags and is hard work uphill on the stones.
“Are you having a nice time, Grandma?”
Grandma peers up at him. “Lovely, thank you.” She clicks her false teeth. “Lovely to have a day out with the family.”
He’s sure it is. It wouldn’t be nice spending all that time alone in her flat. It’s dark, and smells funny, and she makes him look at old pictures; that’s all she seems to do. Knit, look at old pictures, and drink tea.
But he is having a nice time too.
Dad is unfolding the windbreak. Mum strips Janet, peeling off layers of cardigan and pinafore and blouse and vest and pants. The baby stands naked for a moment, all belly and goosepimples, before being hoisted into her swimming costume. It is yellow and knitted and elasticated round the legs so that it balloons out round her backside. The straps are already slipping from her narrow shoulders. Dad hammers the windbreak into place with a stone. The shopping bag is stuffed with sandwiches and bottled pop and biscuits, but that’s all for later. Dad eases himself down onto the rug, lies back, lets out a sigh, though it can’t really be that comfortable.
Will sets down the football, and the bag slumps over it like a fallen parachute. Grandma says something, and Dad says, “Eh,” and leans up to her, but she’s not talking to him, she shakes her head: she’s counting stitches, or she’s talking to herself. Sukie comes scrabbling up towards the blanket with a mouthful of leathery seaweed, slapping it around, growling happily.
“She’ll knock the baby flying,” Mum says.
Dad lifts up a stone and flings it way off towards the sea; Sukie goes bounding after it happily, dealt with.
“Fancy a kickabout, Dad?” Will grinds a foot into the pebbles.
Dad tweaks his cap down over his eyes. “Not now. Later. Play with Jannie.”
He worked all week. He cleaned the car. He drove all the way down here. He put up the windbreak. He’s not playing football now.
Mum sends Janet on her way with a pat on the bum. The baby waddles a few steps then squats down to examine a bubble of dried seaweed. She picks it up and starts to chew on it. It must be quite satisfying, popping the bubbles, but Will wouldn’t fancy the salty cabbageyness of it himself.
Mum looks up at him from where she sits on the blue-green-red tartan rug. Her beautiful lipstick. Her eyes blacker than anybody’s eyes. She reaches into her handbag and gets out her cigarette case. She lights up.
“You going down to the sea with her?” she asks.
Will nods.
“Right then, love.” She sets about unstrapping his calliper. “Be careful.”
Janet’s hand is cold and small. Her head, at waist height, is a ball of blonde fluff. She is like a little yellow chick with her fluffy hair and her yellow swimming costume. He’d like to scoop her up and kiss her big round tummy, but he’s not strong enough. He’s been told, and won’t do it again.
Anyway, Janet’s not keen on being kissed. She yells and struggles when you put your arms around her. Pushes your face away.
He feels light without his calliper and built-up boot. His limp is different because he can’t put much weight at all on the bad left leg without the support of the metal frame. It hurts too much. So he skips along, using the good leg for weight-bearing and the bad leg for balance, tiptoe to the ground. His shorts flap around his thin leg like a skirt.
Janet, small but smart, has worked out that she can step from pebble to pebble, fitting her small feet to their smooth surfaces comfortably. Her cold little hand in his, her pink toes placed carefully among the stones, the fat dimpled knees bob in and out in front of her as she walks. He though, he can’t control his body like that. He lurches along at her side, like her pet monster.
He tries not to pull on her as he limps, in case he makes her lose her balance. They come up towards the creeping water’s edge.
Sukie rushes up; she brings a half-shredded bit of driftwood, white as an old bone, and dances up to Will’s side with it, taunting him; he drops Janet’s hand to grab the stick, and Sukie digs all four feet into the stones and tugs against his grip, shaking her head and play-growling. If she could laugh, she would be laughing now, and it makes him laugh too. He says, “Leave it,” in a big deep voice, and she does, and he lifts the piece of driftwood and skims it out towards the sea.
Sukie races after it, bounding into the shallows, then swimming. Will leans down to catch Janet’s hand again. The sea comes curling up towards them, washes over their toes. She laughs, a big laugh that makes her belly shake, and she looks up at him, her face all crumpled up with delight, and he laughs back down at her, out of happiness.
The water swoops up and over their feet, their ankles. They step out further—good leg bad leg—into the water. It slaps up Will’s shins, up to Janet’s knees. He steadies himself against the drag of the water, against Janet’s pull. She’s trying somehow to stretch herself up and out of the sea, shrieking at the cold, delighted. It makes his hip hurt, but she’s so happy. Sukie’s got her stick, and swims back towards them, head sleek and black, eyes big as a seal’s, like she belongs to the water. Will is up to his knees, good leg firm, bad leg supported just on the b
all of his foot. Janet is up to the roundest part of her round belly, and is shivering. Sukie stands dripping. She drops her stick and shakes, spraying them all over with ice-drops of water, making Will yell, making Janet squeal. The stick washes up towards him, and he drops Janet’s hand to get it. He’s just thinking how it’s easier in the water than on dry land, the water wafting it towards him, suspending it at knee height so he doesn’t have to stoop, when the wave peels back, pulling out to sea, and Janet goes down.
It happens so suddenly that he can’t make sense of it—she is there, and then she’s gone—landing on her backside completely under water and dragged away by the wave’s pull. He looks down at her little pink and yellow form through the surface of the water, like he’s looking at her through a glass lid. There is just a moment of blankness. She’ll stand up, she’ll get to her feet and reach up and grab his hand. But she doesn’t.
He reaches for her. For a moment his balance has gone too, and he’s going to land on her, in the water, but it’s just a second, less than a second, and he’s got his arms round her, got her up again, on her feet, and from there he lifts her up onto his good hip, and he can hold her, he can actually, after all, lift her. She is freezing cold. Sputtering. Big eyes wide and wet and red. Too shocked even to cry.
“It’s okay, petal, it’s okay.”
He is strong enough. He is strong. Her wet body clings to him, hard; she lets out a great wail; she’s shaking and crying, salt in her eyes and one arm round his neck, her fingers digging in, and the other fist up to try and rub the salt away. She shivers, jolts with sobs.
“I’ve got you, it’s okay.”
A wave rolls up and over his legs, cold. He feels such an ache of tenderness. He wants to crush her to him, pull her right into his body, make her safe; he edges himself round on his good leg. And there is Dad running towards them, and Sukie’s skipping around his feet, and Grandma’s standing up on the blanket at the top of the beach, crying, “Oh my gracious, oh my gracious me,” and the pebbles are flying out from underneath his dad’s feet, and he’s cursing at Sukie and kicking her out of the way, and Mum is coming down behind him, a hand covering her mouth, the other flapping around for balance. But it’s okay, because Will has got her. He takes an awkward step towards them all. Dad’ll take the weight off him and carry her safely back; Mum can wrap her up and give her a cuddle and all will be well. A drink and wrapped up in a towel and they will soon have her warm and dry and happy again. Because he was strong enough.
