Remember Why You Fear Me (16 page)

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take care of everything.”

And as she walked up the road, she thought she could hear the grunting from the boot—louder, more desperate. It was calling for her, she knew that, the grunts were for
her
, where are you
going
, and she kept walking, and she didn’t look back.

There was a note from her husband waiting for her on the kitchen table. It told her that he loved her and that he hoped she’d had a good weekend and hadn’t worked too hard at the conference, and that he’d had to go to bed, he couldn’t wait up any longer. It wasn’t that long a note, but her husband had appalling handwriting, and she was only halfway through deciphering it when he quietly entered the kitchen.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey,” she said. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

“I was,” he said. “But I don’t know. I suppose I was waiting for you to get in.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “How was it?”

“Oh, you know,” she said. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

He nodded.

“Go on,” she said, “you go back to bed.” Please. “I’ll be up in a minute, I’ll just have a cup of tea, then I’ll join you.”

“I’ll make you some tea, I don’t mind.”

“It’s okay,” she told him, firmly but gently, the way she’d been advised, the way they’d both been advised, “I can make tea.” And he smiled, and agreed, and they both knew he’d been told not to fuss her, they mustn’t fuss each other, and then one day everything would be magically back to normal.

The kettle took a while to boil. She walked into the sitting room, turned the lights on, just looked at it pointlessly. Then she turned the lights off, and closed the door behind her. Then she went into the dining room—well, they called it a dining room, they ate in the kitchen mostly—and she turned the lights on there, she looked at that too. Then she turned the lights off, and closed the door behind her. The kettle still hadn’t boiled, so she went upstairs, very quietly. And she opened the door to the nursery. Their useless little nursery. They’d even stripped the wallpaper, just to put up something more colourful and childlike. She turned the lights on, looked at this room as well. They should turn it into a spare bedroom, she thought, be useful for when guests stayed over. Assuming guests would want to stay over anymore. And maybe that boy had been right, maybe loving two people at once would be a bit complicated, maybe it was for the best. And she pulled at a hanging flap of wallpaper, and turned off the lights.

She went downstairs, and drank a cup of tea.

Then she went up the stairs to bed. Her husband was already asleep, just this mound in the darkness. She quickly got undressed—she was getting used to that, she thought, and then it was gone, that really was the last attention she gave that weekend, it was now behind her. She slipped in beside him. He grunted a little, nuzzled against her. And then didn’t make another noise, all they had was this companionable silence. She felt warm and safe and utterly unreal.

“Listen,” she said, softly. “I don’t love you anymore.”

He didn’t reply. But his breathing became less regular.

“Listen,” she said again. “I did love you. Oh, God, I loved you so much. And I wish I loved you now. But I don’t. I want to end this, whatever it is we’ve got. Listen. I want to put it out of its misery.”

She wished she could cry. That would be so great, right now. Make the whole thing so much more momentous. But no, dead inside was all she felt.

She had an idea. She turned on the bedside lamp. She wanted to see the expression on her husband’s face. And, more importantly, if it made any difference. She studied it carefully for a good few seconds. “That’s what I thought,” she said at last, then rolled over, and turned out the light.

Craig Boardman’s dad has joined the circus. Craig Boardman told my son all about it in the playground. My son came home in tears, apparently Craig had been boasting about it rather. “I thought you were friends with Craig,” I said, and my son sulked, and said, “Not anymore,” and I’m not sure who he was most angry with, Craig Boardman, or me, for not understanding why.

I’d only met Craig Boardman’s dad once, after I picked up my son from Craig’s birthday party. He seemed all right, he worked in the city, he was a bit full of himself, actually. I couldn’t imagine why he’d have thrown away a career like that to go and work in a circus. “He’s a clown,” said my son, as if that explained everything. “The clowns are the best.” He asked me whether I would go and work in a circus—preferably as a clown, but it was up to me, whatever suited. I explained I had a job already. I worked in a bank. My son said that wasn’t as much fun as working in a circus, and I thought about it for a while, and I said he was probably right.

My wife made us his favourite meal, and I let him play an extra hour on the X-box, but my son refused to be cheered up. I admit, I thought it would soon blow over. Craig Boardman had always seemed like quite a nice kid whenever he’d popped round to play, he always spoke to me politely and ate with his mouth closed; to be honest, he always seemed a rather better catch than my own son; to be honest, taking into account all the sulkings and temper tantrums and refusals to go to bed, there were times I rather envied Craig Boardman’s dad. But it didn’t blow over. If anything, the situation got worse. My son came home with news that other school friends’ parents had all followed Craig Boardman’s dad’s lead, and they’d all joined the circus too. Andy Wyman’s dad had become a clown, Rachel Pinnocker’s dad had become a lion tamer, and in year four Tommy Puce’s dad now every night took his life into his own hands and allowed himself to be fired out of a cannon. And their kids had all formed a gang, with Craig Boardman at its head, and they went around the place lording it over the other kids, and bullying those that got in their way. One day my son came home and there were Chinese burns all over his arms, and my wife and I agreed that this had to stop.

I went round to Craig Boardman’s dad’s house right away. I rang the doorbell. Craig Boardman answered. “Hello, Craig,” I said, “I’d like to speak to your father.” As I’ve said, I’d always got on quite well with Craig, he seemed to be a well-brought-up sort of boy, but now he smirked at me insolently before going inside to fetch him. I suppose if you’re the son of a clown you don’t need to defer to anyone, but I think that’s rather a shame. And then Craig Boardman’s dad came to the doorstep. He was wearing a white face, and thick painted lips, and he had a red shining plastic nose that flashed every few seconds or so. I presumed he was on his way to work. I told him that my son and his son had had a bit of a falling out, and that I knew boys could be boys, and they’d be friends again soon—but would he speak to Craig about the Chinese burns, because that really wasn’t on. And Craig Boardman’s dad didn’t say a word. His painted lips curved downwards, dramatically, to show me he was sad. He rubbed away mimed tears with his fists. And he indicated I should smell the flower in his buttonhole. I thought it was a peace offering, so I leaned forward as bidden. He squirted water in my face. Then he laughed—but silently, it was a mimed laugh, which seemed all the merrier somehow—and he honked his nose, and he closed the door.

My son didn’t seem surprised when I returned home. “He’s a clown, Dad,” he said, “why would he talk to the likes of you?” And the worst of it was that my wife seemed disappointed in me too, disapproving even. That night in bed she put down her Mills and Boon and fixed me with a serious look. “I don’t see why you
can’t
join the circus,” she said. “It’s not as if there’s not part time work going as well.” My wife, who had always said she’d loved me for me, banker and all. I asked her whether she’d really rather I worked in a circus than in the third most solvent banking conglomerate in Western Europe, and she said, “If you won’t do it for your family, at least do it for
yourself
,” and I wasn’t sure what she meant by that. Our lovemaking seemed pointedly pedestrian, and I wondered whether my wearing a red plastic nose would have put a bit more life into her. I agreed to go to a circus audition. She smiled at last, made something approaching the right sort of sexual effort. And for my part, I rued the day we had let the council tear down the local library and erect that big top in its place.

I put on my best suit, I went to the circus. There was a line outside. It was composed of nervous middle-aged men all trying to look entertaining, I recognized a lot of them from school Parents’ Evenings. We were auditioned in groups of six. The man in charge asked us one by one to explain what we thought we could offer a circus; I assumed he was the ringmaster, but he wasn’t wearing a red suit or a top hat, and his T-shirt was stained and he kept picking at it. I told him I wanted to be a clown to impress my son, and he said that, yeah, they got a lot of that.

He led us out into the circus ring. I gazed up at the seats all around, and imagined they were full of paying customers demanding to be amused, and at the thought butterflies started swirling round my stomach most unhelpfully. My feet sank deep into the sawdust, and I looked down, and saw that it was fake and plastic. “Let’s see what you can do,” the ringmaster said.

First, he had us juggling. I had never juggled before, I didn’t think I could. But it was easier than it looked, or maybe I had a natural proclivity for it, I don’t know—the three balls were soon dancing through the air, and I knew really that I was the one making it happen, I knew I was catching them and throwing them, but it seemed to me that it was all taking place independently of me, without any effort, the way I keep my heart beating or my lungs heaving without having to think about it, all I was doing was patting the balls on the back in friendly encouragement and sending them on their way. “More balls, more balls!” called the ringmaster, and then I was thrown a fourth ball, then a fifth, a sixth; then he threw in a glass of water, a plastic spoon, a brick—and
still
I could do it, still I could keep them all in the air, in one increasing circle, as if they were all cars on some invisible Ferris wheel and my hands were the fulcrum, no, not so much science, as if it were
magic
. And I dared to believe that I was good at this, and I dared to believe that my son and my wife would be proud of me. I stole a glance at all the other dads. And they were juggling too. And they were juggling a
dozen
balls each, maybe two dozen even, it was hard to see because they were spinning through the air so fast, so much faster than mine, my balls now seemed to me to be meandering through the air as if stunted by arthritis and wheezing for breath. And some of the dads were juggling knives and chainsaws and burning torches, and was that a grenade, was the man next to me really juggling a grenade? They were better than me. They were all better than me. And I lost control, I admit it, I lost confidence, so did the balls, everything came crashing down. The ringmaster looked at me, frowned, didn’t say a word, and made a little mark upon his clipboard.

He made us try all sorts of things. Custard pies, collapsing cars, pratfalls—oh, I tell you, I pratted my very hardest, I tried to be the best prat I could be. And at the end of every test he would take out that clipboard, make more marks against it, and at the end of the
final
test he made the biggest marks on his clipboard of all. “Right,” he said, looking through the results, and then looking at us,
through
us, as if he could see our very clowning souls. “Right, I’ve reached my decision. You,” and he pointed at me, “yes, you, one pace forward.” And I couldn’t believe it, and I burned with pride, and I knew I would never go back to the bank again, and I knew this was what I had been born for, after all, to do stunts and japes, and make silly noises, to make people happy, to be
spectacular
. I began to thank him. “You can go home,” he said to me. “The rest of you, welcome aboard. Go through that door, you’ll find your barracks. You’re in the circus now.”

I begged the ringmaster to reconsider. And he listened to me, and his face softened, he seemed even quite kindly. But I knew he’d had men beg in front of him before. “It’s not your fault,” he said. “It’s your face. The whole point of comedy is that we can laugh at another’s suffering without feeling guilty about it. These other guys, life shits on them, and their faces puff out so amusingly, there’s nothing you can do
but
laugh! But you. There’s something tragic about you.” To illustrate his point he poured water down my trousers and hit me round the head with a frying pan. “You see?” he said. “The way you look now, so humiliated and pathetic, it makes me want to cry.” And indeed he wept then, tears rolled down his cheeks, and he asked me to leave.

I got home, and my son was so excited; he was bouncing around the room, singing, “My Daddy’s joined the circus, my Daddy’s joined the circus!” My wife looked excited too. And I had come up with all sorts of excuses why I hadn’t got the job, racism, sexism, flat feet—but when it came to it, I just told them the truth. “I wasn’t good enough,” I said. And I thought my son would throw one of his tantrums, but he didn’t; he looked at me soberly, even touched my shoulder, and said, “That’s all right, Dad.” And I saw that a certain light had gone from his eyes. He went to his room. My wife said, “Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” and put on her coat. I asked her where she was going, but she didn’t reply. About an hour later she was back; “There!” she said, rather smugly really, and dropped a sequined dress upon the kitchen table. She’d got herself a job as a trapeze artist, and I must admit I was surprised—my wife had never been what you’d call svelte, not even when we’d first met, and that was years and years ago.

The next Saturday I took my son to see his mother perform at the circus. I hadn’t seen a circus show since I was small, and I felt very excited in spite of myself. I bought us some tickets, and some hot dogs, and we took our seats. There wasn’t much of an audience, just little patches of sad looking men like me sitting with their kids, and I was disappointed, I thought the circus would have been more popular than this. Then the lights on the ring went up, and on to the fake sawdust bounded every one of our friends and neighbours. Near us, all alone, sat Craig Boardman. He looked rather lost. My son told me he didn’t think Craig Boardman’s dad had much time for Craig Boardman anymore. I asked my son whether we should invite Craig to sit with us, and my son shrugged, said why not? Craig seemed pleased, and said thank you very politely. I gave him a hot dog, and he ate every last bit of it with his mouth closed.