Lifesaving for Beginners (37 page)

‘No.’

‘Don’t use that tone with me, boy.
You’ll go where you’re told.
You’re nine years old and—’

‘I’m nearly ten.’

‘What?’

‘Ten.
I’m nearly ten, remember?’

Dad doesn’t say anything for a while.
He concentrates on driving, which I’m pretty glad about because there’s a cycle lane now and he has to be careful that he doesn’t hit any of the cyclists with the Christmas tree.

After a while, he sighs and says, ‘That’s not the end of it, Milo.
We’ll talk about it again.
Another time.
OK?’

I don’t say anything so he says, ‘OK?’
again, louder this time, so I have to say, ‘OK,’ even though it’s not.
It’s not OK.

Nothing else happens until we pull into the driveway and then one end of the tree – I think it’s the top bit – gets squashed between the car door and the pillar.
It’s still pretty much attached to the rest of the tree but only by a couple of splinters.
Dad gets out, kicks the pillar and says, ‘Bloody hell!’
He tugs at the squashed bit of the tree and it comes away in his hand, which is just as well because now there’s a chance that the tree might fit in the sitting room.

In the end, I have to ask Sully – who’s home from the war for a few days – to help Dad carry the tree inside.
There are pine needles all over the floor by the time they’re finished.
The top of the tree is bent against the ceiling.
I don’t think Dad notices the bent bit at the top because he just says, ‘Now that’s a tree, eh son?’
He looks at me and punches my arm but he’s smiling so I know he’s only messing.

When Faith comes downstairs, she has make-up on her face.
She looks like everything is back to normal.
She’s even wearing the black dress that Rob bought her last Christmas.
She’s wearing tights and boots and she looks like she might go out later, which would be good for her because she hasn’t been out in ages.

After lunch, Dad says, ‘I’m going to skedaddle.’

Faith says, ‘Drive carefully.’

Dad doesn’t make a joke, the way he normally tries to.
He nods and says, ‘I will.
I’ll ring you when I get there, OK?’
He holds out his arms and this time Faith walks right into them and he hugs her really tightly and she says something, but I can’t hear what it is because of the way her face is squashed against Dad’s shirt.

Dad bends down when he’s talking to me.
I’ve grown five centimetres since he last saw me but he still bends down.
‘You be good for your sister, son.’

I nod.

He puts his hand on top of my head.
‘I’ll ring you on Friday, OK?’

I nod again.

He opens the car door but instead of getting in, he turns around to me.
‘Look, Milo, you know I won’t be able to come down this year.
For Christmas, I mean.
Because of Celia.
Having the baby.
You get that, don’t you?’
I nod a couple of times.
I do get it.
I really do.

Faith says, ‘Go on, Dad.
It’ll be getting dark soon.’

He gets into the car and turns the key in the ignition.
I knock on the window and point to the seatbelt and he nods and pulls the seatbelt round him.
He says that haggis is the reason his stomach looks like Celia’s.
Haggis is the lining of a sheep’s stomach and people in Scotland eat it, but I don’t know why.
Dad says it’s because it tastes nice but that couldn’t be true.

He rolls down the window and looks at Faith.
He starts to say something and Faith says, ‘Don’t worry, Dad.
It’s fine.
We’ll be fine.’

He shakes his head, like it’s not fine.
‘When we brought you home, Beth worried that she wouldn’t know what to do with you.
That she wouldn’t do a good job.’

Faith says, ‘Tell Celia we said hello, won’t you?’

‘She was wrong.
She did know what to do.
She did a great job.’

‘Roll up that window.
You’ll catch your death.’

‘She loved you, Faith.
It never mattered to her.
She loved you just the same.’

Faith nods a tight nod, like her neck is stiff or something.
Dad blows a kiss at Faith and salutes me as if I’m a soldier or something, and then he drives down the road, turns left and is gone.

Faith walks inside the house, up the stairs and into her bedroom.
When I go up later with a cup of coffee, she’s in her pyjamas, in bed, with her headphones on.

I say, ‘Are you tired?’

‘Sort of.’

‘You should go out.
Get some fresh air into your lungs.
It would do you good.’

‘You sound like Mam.’

I say, ‘Well, somebody has to.’

That makes Faith laugh but not for very long.

I go downstairs to make a sandwich.
The sitting room is dark now, on account of the Christmas tree.
It’s so big, it blocks out most of the light.
Dad and me were supposed to put on the decorations before he left.
Normal trees look fine without decorations but Christmas trees look kind of sad.
Bare.

It takes me a lot longer than I thought it would.
Mam and me usually argue about what to put at the top of the tree.
She liked the red star I made from a Weetabix box when I was a little kid.
She always liked the stuff I made at school, even if it was a bit ripped or not coloured in properly.

I like the angel.
We’ve had her for years.
Mam bought her the first Christmas after Faith was born.
Well, after Faith came to live with Mam and Dad, I suppose.
Dad said she was eighteen months when she came to stay.
That’s still a baby, but I think you can probably walk a bit and you can talk but it’s mostly gibberish so no one knows what you’re saying.
The angel has black hair and green eyes, which is why Mam bought her, because she said she looked like Faith.
I like her because there’s a button under her dress you can press to make her light up.

Usually me and Mam can never agree.
The star.
Or the angel.
Usually we end up tossing a coin for it.

I have to stand on my tiptoes on a kitchen chair to reach the top branch.

When I’m finished I turn off all the lights downstairs and then I plug in the fairy lights.
They’re all different colours and they flash like mad, and if you look at them too long your eyes go funny.
You can’t really see the rip in the star from here.

I text Ed.
‘Do you want to do something today?’

Ed texts back.
‘I am sick.’

I ring him.
He tries to be huffy but he’s not very good at it.

‘Hi, Ed.’

He doesn’t say ‘Hello, Kat.’
Just ‘Hello.’
That’s how I know he’s huffy.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’ve got a cold and a cough.’

‘Do you want to come over?’

He says nothing.

‘I’ll pick you up.’

He says nothing.

‘I’ve got
The Wizard of Oz
on DVD.’

He says nothing but I can feel him falter.
The Wizard of Oz
is one of his favourite films.
It’s the lion who thinks he has no heart that does it for him.
Every time.

‘I’m going to order pizza and drink Coke and eat Skittles.’
I’m not going to drink Coke.
I’m going to drink wine.
But Ed is a sucker for Coke.
The fizz of it.

‘Did you get a family-size bag of Skittles?’
He’s nibbling at the bait.

I let out more line.
‘I got two.’

Another pause but not as long this time.
Then, ‘OK.’
I reel him in.

The outside world is unchanged and yet seems unfamiliar to me.
For starters, there’s Christmas.
It’s like Santa’s sack has exploded and left the debris of Christmas all over the place.
Christmas looks awful in the daylight.
Cheap and tacky and miserable.

It feels good to be in the car.
I hold the wheel with one hand, a cigarette with the other.
I pull into a garage.
Get a black coffee.
I like garages.
Nobody has a clue who you are and, better still, they don’t want to know.
I hate corner shops.
There’s often a jolly, fat woman behind the counter and she always thinks she has the measure of you.
‘Still smoking?
Even after the hike in the budget?
Isn’t it well for you?’

In the garage, nobody says anything, apart from, ‘Any petrol or diesel with that?’

I pull in at the top of the road and ring Ed.
I say, ‘I’m at the corner.’

He says, ‘Are you not coming in?’

I say, ‘I’m at the corner.’

Dad walks Ed down the road, even though he’s perfectly well able to walk that far by himself.
Ed gets into the front passenger seat and puts on his seatbelt.
Dad opens the driver’s door and says, ‘Well?’

I say, ‘Hi, Dad,’ like nothing happened.

He says, ‘I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.’

‘Sorry.
I’ve been busy.’

He stands there.
Looks at me.
He must be frozen.
He’s not wearing a hat or even a coat.
He doesn’t look cold.
He looks like he’s got a puncture.
Like someone let the air out of him.

He says, ‘I gave Faith your number.’

I look in my rear-view mirror.
‘I’d better go.’

He straightens.
He says, ‘I forgot.
You’re busy.’

‘Do you want a lift back up the road?’

He shakes his head.
‘I like the cold.’

Ed says, ‘See ya, Dad,’ and Dad nods and waves and I drive away and don’t look back.

For a while, neither of us speaks.
I know Ed is getting ready to say something.
I recognise the signs.
His mouth moves (I call it ‘picture but no sound’), and he’s checking off things on his fingers.
So far, he’s checked off three things.

Then he says, ‘Milo is cool, so he is.
And he’s good at the Wii too.
He’s not as good as me but I told him he just needs to practise as much as I do.’

When I don’t say anything, Ed goes on: ‘Is Milo a bit like my little brother now?
Or my nephew or something?’

‘No.’

‘I’d love a little brother.
I’d show him how to play the Wii and bring him swimming with me and everything.’

I say, ‘You’re my little brother and I never showed you how to play the Wii.’

Ed says, ‘You showed me other stuff.’

‘Did I?’

‘Yeah, you showed me how to tie my laces, remember?’

I nod.
I remember.
He was ten and he still couldn’t do it.
It took a whole weekend to teach him.
That’s the thing about Ed.
It takes a while.
But after that, he never forgets.

In the apartment, I want to put on the film but Ed is still talking about Milo.
‘He’s got loads of hair and he never brushes it because his mam is dead so he doesn’t have to anymore.
And his best friend is Damo and their favourite game is Bulldog Takedown.
He told me how to play it and I showed it to everyone at Arch club last week.
He doesn’t have a girlfriend like I do but he likes a girl called Carla.
She’s in his class but he doesn’t want to kiss her.
Just hang around with her sometimes.’

‘Ed?’

‘And his sister is in a band.
It’s called .
.
.
I can’t remember what it’s called but Milo said you can download their album, if you want to.
Do you want to?’

‘Do I want to what?’
I’m lighting the fire.
Well, I’m switching on the gas fire.

‘Do you want to download Faith’s album?’

‘Maybe later.’

We watch
The Wizard of Oz
.
Ed sings along with the Munchkins of Munchkinland, like he always does.
He covers his face with his hands when the Wicked Witch of the West makes an appearance.
And he cries when Lion sings ‘If I Only Had a Heart’, just like always.
I sit beside him on the couch.
There’s a chance I’m smiling.
It feels nice.

Ed hates it when the film returns to black and white, near the end.
I get up to switch it off before he begins complaining.
It’s only when I return to the couch that I notice he’s asleep.
I shake his shoulder.
I say, ‘Ed.
ED!
Wake up.’

He jerks awake and looks for a moment like he has no idea where he is or how he got here.

I say, ‘Ed, sorry.
I didn’t mean to give you a fright .
.
.
Are you all right?
It’s just .
.
.
what the hell are you doing falling asleep in the middle of
The Wizard of Oz
anyway?
It’s one of your favourites.’

‘Was I asleep?’

When I look at him carefully, I see the skin of his face is pale.
Tight.
There are dark circles under his eyes.
I think he’s right.
He is a bit tired.
I put my hand across his forehead.
The skin there is a bit damp.
I take his temperature.
It’s normal.

I say, ‘I’ll make you a smoothie.
That’ll perk you up.’

Ed shakes his head.
He says, ‘No, Kat.
Thanks a lot.
I think I’ll go home now.’

‘I thought you were staying over?
I’ve made up your bed and everything.’
I even draped fairy lights along the top of the mirror in his room.
Ed loves fairy lights.

Ed says, ‘OK, Kat.
I’ll stay.’

I know that Ed does not want to stay.

‘It’s all right, Ed, you don’t have to stay.’

‘OK then.
Can you drive me home?’

I ring the Italian restaurant and cancel our order, then turn off the fire.

I say, ‘Come on, then,’ as if there’s nothing wrong.
And there is nothing wrong.
Probably nothing.
People get tired.
People get tired all the time.
And just because Ed never complains about being tired doesn’t mean that he is immune to fatigue, right?
He just needs one good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast in the morning and he’ll be fine.
Kippers, maybe.
Ed loves kippers.
Despite the foul stench.
And they’re very good for you, I’d say.
Smelly food often is.
Like cabbage.
Smelly as hell but a brilliant source of various bits and bobs, like vitamins and minerals and whatnot.

Ed doesn’t move so I take his hand and lead him towards the door.
He sways a little, as if he’s dizzy.
His hand feels cold.
Clammy.
I am carrying his overnight bag but he doesn’t take it from me, as he usually would.
He says ladies aren’t supposed to carry baggage.

Outside, the air is solid with cold.
It feels like it might stick in your throat.
I hold the keys out to Ed.
He likes pressing the button.
The way the lights flash on and off by themselves.

Ed shakes his head.

So I press the button myself, like it’s no big deal.
I press the button, open the boot and turn to pick up Ed’s bag, and that’s when I see Ed and he’s bent over and sort of clutching his chest and his breath is coming and going in gasps and he looks at me and there is confusion all over his face and I’m afraid.
I’m not supposed to be the one who is afraid.
I’m supposed to be Kat.
The big sister.
The one who knows things.

But I am afraid.
I say, ‘ED!’
I think I shout it.
I run till I reach him, put my arms round him.
He leans against me like I’m a wall and then he sort of crumbles until he is sitting and then lying on the hard, cold ground.
His eyes are open but I don’t think he can hear me.
I take off my coat, wrap it round him, throw everything out of my bag, look for the bloody mobile.

The hospital is listed under A for A&E in my contacts.
The phone rings and rings.
I hang up and I scream out loud and lights snap on in various windows.
I dial 999.
I ask for an ambulance.
I tell them it’s an emergency.
They say it’ll be twenty minutes.
I say, ‘No.
That’s too long.
Twenty minutes is too long.’
They say they’ll do their best.

It’s hard to think.

In the end, I half lift, half drag Ed into the back seat of the car.
I look at his face.
He looks like he’s asleep but he does not react when I shout his name.
His lips are blue.
There are flecks of spit on them.
I wipe them away with a tissue.
I try whispering now.
‘Ed,’ I whisper.
He does not move.
I push my fingers into the soft folds of skin round his neck.
I can’t feel his pulse.

I get into the front seat.
Switch on the lights.
The engine.
The heater.
The wipers.
I turn to look at Ed one more time and then I gun the engine and the car moves.

I use the bus lanes.
I speed, too.
Nobody notices.
Just when you’re desperate for some flashing lights and sirens, the roads remain eerily empty.
I put the phone on the hands-free and ring my parents’ landline.
No point ringing their mobiles because they’re never switched on, and if they are, they’re on silent.
The phone rings and rings.