The Snowing and Greening of Thomas Passmore (15 page)

“We've got an old bedspread in the garage,” Martin Reynolds says. “We could use that for the body. It's got tassels on it.”

Me: “We could get some more of those smoke pellets and have clouds of smoke shooting out its nose.”

Martin: “What smoke pellets?

Gazza looks at me and I concentrate on tracing the outline of a rat from the encyclopædia.

“Nothing,” I say.

He may be a sneaky shit, but he ain't stupid.

“What are you talking about? Have you got smoke bombs? Tell me.”

“It's nothing,” Gazza says. “It was something we were talking about, that's all.”

“You did something. I can tell. What did you do?”

“It's a secret,” Gazza says.

“I can keep a secret. We're working on this project together, aren't we?”

It isn't the same. We say nothing.

Then he puts his hand up and calls across the classroom: “Mr Walters.”

“You say anything and I'll flatten you,” Gazza snarls. He's the shortest of the three of us, but height has sweet nothing to do with the will to scrap and the will to hurt.

“I can keep a secret.”

“You better.”

When Walters gets to our table, he says, “What's the matter, Martin?”

“Can we make a Chinese dragon and do a parade in front of the class, Sir?”

“That sounds like a bright idea. Who thought that one up?”

He hesitates. “Gary did, Sir.”

I hope Gazza'll flatten the creep, but Gazza beams and Walters smiles at him the same way he did when he brought the flint side-scraper to school.

“And would we be allowed to make it breathe out smoke, Sir?”

“Not with fireworks, I hope.”

“No, Sir. Gary knows a way of doing it.”

Walters looks at him and raises his eyebrows, the way teachers do. “Well?”

Gazza pauses, considers, then says: “Greenhouse fumigators. My uncle's got some.”

“Interesting,” Mr Walters says. “Make the dragon first and we'll see about the smoke. We'll have to do it in the playground, if we do it at all.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The following Saturday afternoon, we're standing with our backs to a market stall selling cheap china, furtively glancing across at Thorby's Hardware & Garden Supplies. It's like we're planning to rob a bank and I don't want any part of it, but it's my big gob that got us here. At least Martin Reynolds isn't looking so cocky now.

“Tommo, you wait by the seed stand, like you did before, and, Martin, you stand outside.”

“Forget it. I'm not staying outside. I'm coming in with you two.”

“It'll look too obvious if we all go in,” Gazza explains. “It's not half as busy as it was last time.”

Me: “I'll stay outside. Someone's gotta.”

Gazza: “Nah, you're my watch-out, Tommo.”

Martin: “I can do that.”

Gazza: “No. Tommo knows what to do. He's done it before.”

And I feel a moment's pride, even if he's only saying it because he doesn't trust Martin Reynolds, who he eventually agrees to let come in with him.

By the time we get into the shop there's just five other customers. Gazza and Martin walk to the back and make a show of looking at lawnmowers, while I stand by one of the seed carousels and pick out a couple of packets. I pretend to read the instructions, as if I'm some pint-sized professional gardener researching the growing techniques for prize nasturtiums.

As Gazza and Martin edge towards the fertilisers and begin studying the insecticides on the shelves above the fumigators, there's something wrong. One of the shopkeepers stops tidying the hose nozzles to watch them. The shop's too empty, too quiet. Maybe the police have been tipped off and there's a whole squad waiting to rush in and arrest us. Should I stroll over to Gazza and tell him, or shout and run?

Gazza and Martin huddle closer and Martin reaches out and slips something into his jacket. The shopkeeper stands upright and begins marching towards them. He puts his hands out to grab them by the collar and I croak: “Gazza!”

Gazza turns, sees what's happening, ducks the man's arm and runs the length of the shop in two seconds flat. I've never seen him move so fast. Martin Reynolds stands there gawping with his gob wide open, held tight, and so I follow Gazza.

We run down the same side-alley we used before and dash across the car park. Gazza doesn't slow down for me to catch up, so he must be scared big-time, but when he finally stops and, like me, bends double to ease the stitch in his side, I can tell he isn't scared but pissed off. We're back at that same demolition site we found our way to before.

“We made it,” I say, panting for breath, trying to stand upright.

Instead of thanking me for warning him, he snarls, “Are you bleeding thick or something?”

“What? Why?”

“You called my bloody name out.”

“Oh,” and I crease over again. “I had to.”

“They got Martin.”

“He was too slow,” I say.

Gazza pauses, takes a deep breath, and his tone changes. “Yeah, he messed everything up. Talk about bloody obvious. What an amateur. I bet you he gives them our names.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. He'll squeal like a stuck pig. The moment they get a cop there he'll pooh himself.”

“But you didn't take anything.”

“Doesn't matter. I been in trouble too many times.” Gazza bends down, picks up a brick and throws it across the site. “He'll blab how we took the smoke pellets last time, if only to make us seem like the real trouble-makers. We're in trouble whether we like it or not.”

“Just because he put those pellets in his jacket doesn't mean he was gonna steal them,” I point out. “Don't they have to wait until you're out the shop before they can nab you? He might have been going to the counter to pay for them. Who's to tell?”

“He will. He'll spill his guts. You're right, they nabbed him too early, but he won't think of that.” Then he looks at me and grins. “But they didn't get you, did they?”

In my hand are the two packets of seed I was holding when Gazza did his dash.

“Shit,” I say. “Bloody hell.”

“What are they?”

I read the label on each packet. “Nasturtiums and tomatoes. These ones are called
Money Maker
.”

And he begins laughing.

“Should we take them back?” I say.

And he laughs louder. We cack ourselves laughing.

“Nasturtium
s
,” I say.

“Tomatoes!”

When we stop laughing, the packets are still in my hand and nothing's changed.

“What'll I do with them?”

“Get rid of them,” Gazza says.

There's so much rubble and rubbish around, it'd be easy to lose two packets of seed, and I'm about to post them into the cavity between several broken bricks and chunks of concrete, when I have a better idea. Tearing the packets open, I empty all the seed into the palm of my hand, and share this out with Gazza.

“Here,” I say, and begin running round the site like a mad bastard, leaping over broken tiles and bin bags, sprinkling tiny amounts of seed as I go.

“You're crazy,” Gazza shouts, then starts jumping around too.

When I get home, Martin Reynolds' dad has already been on the phone, and Mum and Brian are waiting.

It's easier to play innocent than I'd thought.

“I don't steal,” I shout back. “I never have done. It was Martin Reynolds who wanted to go into that shop today. Gary and me didn't want to.”

“What about last time?” Brian demands. “It was just you and Gary Fletcher then.”

“I didn't take anything then either. I've never stolen anything. That's stupid.”

“You stay away from Gary Fletcher,” Mum says. Her voice is thin and sharp, like a knife. “He's trouble. You're not to play with him, do you hear?”

I stare mutely at an invisible point somewhere between and beyond them. How can they say such a thing? They don't know him.

“Do you hear your mother?” Brian shouts. “If we hear you're still going around with him, you'll be banned from going out for a month. You'll stay in your room. Do you hear?”

He takes a step in my direction and I sort of nod. But there must be something in my expression he doesn't like, because his voice gets louder and he's all red in the face.

“And if I ever find out you've done something like this again, I'll knock your ruddy block off. I'll knock you from here to Kingdom Come.”

He lifts an arm with the last few words, and I flinch, jump back.

“Mark my words or you'll feel the back of my hand,” he yells.

“You're not my dad,” I say.

My mother reaches me in an instant and side-swipes me across the head, and I go flying, my left ear's ringing.

Brian looks down at me as if I'm dog shit. “No, I'm not your dad. That's right. And I'm glad of it.”

Which stops everyone mid-breath: me, Mum – even Brian seems surprised by what he's said.

Shouting a string of blubbering abuse at him, at her, at every adult I've ever come across, I run out the room, slamming the door as hard I can.

The paintings on the wall rattle. The door flies open.

“Come back here,” he shouts. “This minute.”

“No! I hate you. I hate both of you.”

In my room, I take out the diary bound in black, pretend-leather, which they gave me last Christmas. The novelty of the present inspired me to keep a journal for five days, but then I gave up. It's got a clasp and a small lock for privacy and, though I've lost the key, it isn't hard to pick with one of Annette's hairpins. I grab a pen from my school bag, turn to today's date and write across the page:
BRIAN IS A FUCK-WIT
.

Then I write it on the next page and the next page, and the pages after that:
BRIAN IS A FUCK-WIT
. When I come to the end of the diary, I turn back to the beginning and scrawl it as my entry for 6th January and 7th January and 8th January, filling every page, except for those first five entries. It's a leap year, so I write it three hundred and sixty-one times in total, until I decide to write it twice on the anniversary of my father's death, twice on my birthday, twice on his birthday – until I lose count.

Across the first page of the diary, under the calendar year, I draw some pretend Chinese calligraphy and write:
THE YEAR OF THE FUCK-WIT
. Then I draw a picture of Brian.

It's a couple of fuck-wit years later that I'm sitting on the top deck of a bus going to a friend's house and, in passing the demolition site, I see nasturtiums growing over the rubble, across the split bin liners and weeds growing between the broken slabs. Long tendrils of tiny umbrella-like leaves and masses of flowers: yellow, red, orange. Several clumps are dotted across the area. The bus is moving and so I don't get to see if there's tomatoes growing too, but the site's been fenced off so I know no one'll come along and pick them.

A few months after that, the site gets cleared and Northampton's new bus station is built.

Sometimes, as a teenager, when I wait for the Nenford bus to take me home from my Saturday job on the market, or from a party, or a dance, or especially when I'm waiting for Kate's bus from Abetsby, I'll look at the expansion joints in the slabs of concrete and in the mortar lines between the brickwork and half-expect to see a tendril of nasturtiums pushing through or a tomato vine sneaking out.

NINE

We're making doughnuts and Gazza says: “When you die your whole life flashes before your eyes.” He talks about the speed of time and about death and dreams.

And so does Kate.

They're regular conversation pieces, are these. Maybe my old man once talked about such things with my mother.

Kate says: “You know the dream where you're falling off a cliff and, just before you hit the ground, you wake up?”

Morning sunlight floods through her cream curtains, illuminating the yellow wallpaper and its faded pattern of roses, as well as the silhouette of a pot plant or two on her windowsill. At seventeen, the world's brighter and sharper than ever before.

“You had that dream last night?” I say and reach for her hand. She's naked against my skin; her long, chestnut brown hair lies across my white shoulder. To be naked with Kate is a new and delicious nakedness. “You should've woken me.” Why hadn't she woken me?

“No,” she says. “I was just thinking about it, that's all. But you know the one I mean?”

“Yeah.” I relax again, but keep stroking her fingers, tracing the size and shape of each one, remembering how she traced my shape and made me grow to bursting. It's my duty to keep darkness from her door – unless of course I'm that darkness, which is something I won't understand until too much later. I know what she's going to say (about dreams and dying), but I want to hear her say it anyway. I love listening to her speak in English, Italian or French – about her love of Paris, about music, the books she's read, about films she admires, about the sun rising, the moon setting, about anything and everything… except why our relationship might be bad news, why a shallow fling would've been better, why it'd be more sane if she never saw me again.

Kate: “People say that when you dream you're falling off a cliff or whatever, that if you don't wake up before you hit the ground, that's the moment you die.”

Me: “Yeah.”

Kate: “Do you believe it?”

Do I believe it? What's the right answer here? Is it a test? Maybe she's had a bad dream after all and the doubts are back, except she's brooding on them instead of letting me know. If I don't say the right thing, she'll know I ain't worthy of her, and then I might lose her forever, which is a bloody long time to be without a Kate, now that we're together, now that I know her, now that I'd know what I've lost. (There are some things in life you never get over losing.) Maybe she's woken to an overwhelming sense of mortality, or maybe this is just trivia we're discussing here and everything's hunky-dory.

“I don't know, Kate,” I say. “How could anyone prove it? It's just an idea.” These sound like valid comments to me, and she's more logical than me.

“It makes you wonder though.” She isn't frowning, but she isn't smiling either.

I begin feeling clever. What a clever bastard I am these days – she's made me cleverer – and so, so, so, so lucky. Underneath the single sheet and blanket, I have her warm thigh next to mine, her foot stroking mine, the knowledge of her breasts and her loganberry nipples a lick away, the deliciousness of her neck stretched back for me to kiss and another night of shared sleep between us to make me recklessly, fucking confident.

“It's a philosophical question,” I point out.

She turns and faces me, side on. “Why? Why's it a philosophical question?”

“Because.”

“Because what? Don't just say
because
. That's lazy.”

“Well, how does anyone know about the nature of death? We imagine what it might be like. We think about it because we're intrigued, but we can't know for sure. We can't, can we, Kate? Not even those people who reckon they've had near-death experiences can really know, can they?”

“We'd be better off asking how we know we're alive?”

“Exactly.”

She blinks, smiles, leans across and kisses me. I don't want the conversation to go much further, because the idea of the vast permanence of death is too scary to comprehend, but I feel we've arrived somewhere new together all the same. She'd hate me to think I have to prove myself to her, but I do, I want to, and in doing that she's made me more alive than ever before. I grow every day I'm with her; I stretch towards her. The world's a big place for us and I know we've got adventures ahead.

Kate reaches for my hand, blows across my fingers and brings them to her lips.

*

Dearest Tom,

We waved goodbye only ten minutes ago, but I've already started writing this. Is all this too absurd? I want nothing else than to get off at the next station and return to you, but know I mustn't think like this…

The Channel crossing was awful and most passengers were hogging the toilets or heaving over the rails. It was vile, but I arrived at Boulogne without disgracing myself…

I don't ever want to lose you, Tom. Promise you'll always be there for me. Whatever I do, whatever I say. Promise. How many times have you said you'll love me forever? Whatever
happens, please let that be true.

Sorry, I'm being melodramatic – I know I am – but it's because I'm scared of losing you. I wish there was some other
way of doing this.

Chez Picault. Evening.
I've unpacked and am taking ten minutes to finish this first letter before joining the family for dinner. Monsieur and Madame Picault (Alain and Chantal) have made me very welcome. Obviously, we're all on our best behaviour, but I think I'll be happy here – as happy as I can be. Xavier and Marie-Laure are four and six respectively…

Dear Kate,

I'm nothing without you. I'm empty, lost, adrift. Being without you is a death of sorts.

Even though I've just got home from waving you off, I'm counting the days until you return from France. As soon as you let me know when you'll have time off, I'll be counting the days until we meet in Paris, Calais, Boulogne, Vladivostok or Timbuktu if you want – wherever. Let me know as soon as you can.

It rained for a short while after you left; the sky turned black…

We write every day. Sometimes she can't get to a postbox, so she packs three letters into one envelope, and receiving this makes up for the smothering silence of the days in-between.

It's a summer of endless parties and dances, but I want no pleasure without Kate. And my old friends, bored by my abandonment of them, no longer press me to join them.

I keep the letters in a bundle and read them over and over; a stash of green envelopes tied with a piece of red cord, and almost every letter is written on matching green paper. It's Kate's favourite stationery, which, by way of a farewell gift, I add to before she leaves. The length of red cord comes from the wrapping of a present she hands me at the station: a corn dolly woven into the shape of a figure eight.

“I thought you might like it,” she says, “because you're into that pre-Christian stuff and because the figure eight symbolises eternity. That's how strong our relationship is.” She's leaning into me, face-to-face, the way lovers sometimes stand in public places to embrace and kiss, in greeting or farewell, and her eyes are red. Her luggage sits to one side. The air is humid. “You can hang it over your bed and, who knows, you might get lucky and dream me next to you.”

“You got this in Whitby,” I say. We saw them on a craft stall there. “I didn't see you buy it.”

“I hadn't known what to get until we saw them, and then it seemed perfect. There's an explanation on the label.” She lifts the piece out of its wrappings and twists the card round to show me: ‘
People believed a corn spirit or goddess lived in the corn and that she made the crop grow each year. At harvest-time she retreated into the uncut corn until only a sheaf was left. So as not to kill her, the harvesters would cut this last sheaf and plait it into a dolly, which would be hung in a sacred place throughout winter. Then, when it was time to plough the ground and sow the first corn in spring, the corn dolly would be ceremoniously ploughed back into the earth so
that the spirit could be re-born.'

I tuck it in my pocket, place my hands on her waist. Her magic is stronger than any corn dolly – light and life. “It's great. I love it. Thanks.”

“It's not much. I wanted to buy you a ring, but couldn't afford it; they're out of my league.”

“A ring? Really?”

“Yeah.”

“This is just as symbolic, Kate.” I hold her left hand out and examine her fingers. “Would you wear a ring if I bought you one?”

She nods, smiles. “As long as we both had one. As long as it was an exchange. Would you?”

I nod.

The platform fills and we shift her suitcases and shoulder bag against a pillar to make room for a family heading off on holiday.

“Tell you what, at the end of my first year in London, when you join me and we get a place of our own, we'll bury the corn dolly together somewhere and exchange rings with one another. We'll create our own ceremony.”

“It's gonna be a long winter,” I say.

“But we'll see one another every few weeks.”

“And we'll meet up in Paris as soon as you say.”

“I'll write every day,” she says.

“I'll have to study flat-out next year.”

“There's bound to be a good History course.”

“We'll walk to lectures together in the morning, meet for lunch, go to galleries at the weekend, see bands and concerts…'

Dear Kate,

Is everything okay? Haven't heard from you in four days. At night I can't sleep – it's like a choking darkness presses down – and it's because I'm without you…

Dearest Tom,

I'm sorry for the delay in posting this, but I've tried completing this letter several times, and have screwed up each pathetic attempt. I've been sick too, which isn't like me, and I think it's because I've been so worried about how unhappy this will make you.

When I asked Chantal about having a few days off, she was bemused at first, but became almost hysterical when I insisted. She understood, she said, that I'd be with the family (as a member of the family, she emphasised) for the entire three months – every day – and that they'd rented a gîte in Brittany for a fortnight in a week's time. She said she was happy for me to take an occasional half-day, as long as I arranged it with her first, but that the whole idea of having an au pair was to have a full-time companion and carer for the children and to give her a break. Hadn't this been explained to me when I took the position? What was I thinking of? How could I suggest
such a thing?

I told her it hadn't been explained that way, Tom, and I tried telling her about our plans, but she was practically shouting at me – the spoilt bitch – and I was getting emotional myself,
which meant I couldn't express myself the way I needed to.

I can't tell you how much I've cried over trying to write this letter. If they hadn't been as generous in other ways and if I didn't think it might reflect badly on Angie Taylor, I'd have told Chantal she could shove her job where the sun don't shine! But then, what chance would I have of finding another
job now?

Tom, I know how upset you'll be when you read this, but please know that I love you more than ever. I wish I could tell you these three words face-to-face: I love you. The written word is too inadequate, but there's enough between us for you to know how much I mean it. I'd say come to Paris for a half-day, for an hour, and I know you would; however, I can't think of anything worse than seeing you for a short time and then having to say goodbye again…

My letters to Kate grow bleaker and I foist my darkness upon her. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Dear Tom,

Arrived back in Paris three days ago. Hope you got my postcards. Alain and Chantal have been very kind recently. They thought I was getting tired and bored, so arranged for me to meet people my own age. Jean-Paul (the son of one of Alain's colleagues), Stefan and Sylvie took me to a carnival and a nightclub. I felt guilty going without you, but it was good to let my hair down, even though I drank more than I should, and my conversational French is now probably better than it was. Being with children all the time is exhausting,
Tom.

Even if I tried to stop loving you, I wouldn't be able to. I'm not sure how that makes me feel. It's as you said, we seem to be tied together in so many ways that, when we're apart, it's hard not to think about each other almost every minute and feel more incomplete with each day that passes. Is this a healthy thing though? It seems wrong, if not self-defeating, and I want you to promise that you'll still go out, meet up with friends, and not simply ‘cross the days off the calendar until we're next together.' I can't stand thinking of you locking yourself away because I'm not there. It's not healthy. Life's for living, remember. I need to do this myself, otherwise I know I'll be sick again (I still have a hacking cough). I can't bear to be so unhappy all the time, nor to suspect that we might be expecting it of one another. So on Saturday I'm going to a party. I'll probably be miserable without you, but I need to do those things again that make me feel I'm actually alive.

Oh, Tom, maybe you're right; maybe we should find a way to stay together this year, no matter what. Life's too short to regret being apart…

Dear Tom,

Alain and Chantal have asked me to stay an extra week. This will mean that I won't have time to return to Abetsby before starting uni. It'll be the middle of the week and you'll have started school by then, so my parents are going to meet me in London on my way back from France and bring all the stuff I need down with them; I'll move into Halls of Residence straightaway and begin getting settled. I know you'll hate this idea, but it'll probably be less upsetting than meeting up for the evening only to say goodbye again, and a lot less tiring too…