Slights (19 page)

Mrs Nicholson wrote, "Although your methodology, logicality and metaphors are not always clear, I enjoyed this. A rare glimpse of imagination and humour such as this can make a teacher's week. Well done."

  My other great moment in school was also in English. We were studying poetry with Alice Blackburn, which everyone hated. I was so bored I cut stripes in my arm with my penknife; just drew the sharp thing across. I drew a weave of blood. I was completely involved in the design of it, the neatness of the squares. I could hear poetry in the background, knew it was poetry because it went up and down, soft and loud.

  I became aware of silence; realised they were watching me. I pulled my sleeve down, tucked the knife under my exercise book. I had things spread all over the desk, taking up room, making it look like I needed a whole desk to myself. Like I chose to sit alone, in a room full of best friends, leaning in to each other, shoulders touching, same sense of humour, same taste. They were all pairs, except the ones who were triplets. Samantha was in another class that year. They split me up from the only friend I had.

  Sometimes the triplets would fight, split into twins and a lonely only, an enemy. Then I would clear a space and that one would sit beside me. They would mutter, complain, tell me stories of slights I could barely register. And I never learnt; every time I'd agree, I'd help make terrible plans for revenge, I'd throw in my own nasty stories. Then they'd all be friends again, and my words repeated as if they were truly mine. Enemy number one, for a while, until they found someone else to hate.

  Alice Blackburn said, "Did you hear the poem? Would you like me to read it again?"

  I nodded; I remember thinking she could choose which question I was answering yes to.

  She wanted to read it again; I pictured her, sitting alone at night, memorising the poem. She loved it. Her cheeks were red. The poem was "Lady Lazarus", by Sylvia Plath.

  "Can you tell me what that poem is about?" the teacher said, soft voice, she was ignoring the sleeve of my school shirt, blood soaking neatly through.

  I was surprised by the simple question. I expected a real test, I thought she'd make a fool of me.

  "It's about suicide. And how suicide can be comforting, something to look forward to. I don't know."

  She smiled at me. "Very good," she said. She was sacked soon after; there was such a fuss about the stuff she was reading us. It didn't bother me. I thought it was interesting, that's all, the Sylvia Plath poems,
Go Ask Alice
; people seemed to die in all the books and poems she picked.

  Alice Blackburn, call me Alice, never lost sight of me after that. Periodically I'd hear from her, and she'd say, "Uh huh, uh huh." Dying to hear bad news. That's what I thought.

I'd finished three months of my nursing course before Peter bothered to ask me about it. Even then, he didn't want to know anything. He wanted to talk about some things Mum had wanted done, which we didn't do.

  Peter said, "You realise, of course, Steve, that under the circumstances we are unanimously obliged to fulfil the requirements of our mother's will?"

  I snorted; I heard Maria snort too, but it must have been my own echo. I said, "I didn't realise they taught Fucking Wanker at Uni," and cracked up. I glanced at Maria to make it funnier, but she stared at me blankly, as if nothing had ever happened and I had never made her laugh.

  Peter said, "Things like throwing out Dad's things, Steve."

  "You leave his stuff alone," I said.

  My memories of events are autoscopic. I see them as an observer, an adult observer. There is a value judgement in every memory, from hindsight and education. Children don't have any of that, and I've forgotten the innocence, the freedom, of being without them. I can't remember so much of what I thought of the events of my childhood as they were occurring; but I know what I think of them now.

  People who say they have experienced near death witness the scene in a similar way; they are detached, disconnected.

  I am disconnected.

  People won't let me alone. If they're not trying to sell raffle tickets or chocolate, they're on the phone trying to ask me questions.
Ring ring.
"What?" I said. Who has time for niceties.

  "Don't bother," the person said. Touchy. It crosses my mind that they would have many slighted people in their rooms. People who are annoyed, irritated, all waiting for them.

  It strikes me that I could ask one of those door knockers in, and no one would know where they got to.

at twenty-three