What I Did (13 page)

Writing comes then and the lights round the edges glow orange.

I sit up. Dad stretches.

— Verdict? he asks.

— Brilliant.

 

We walk the rest of the way home because it has stopped raining and exercise is good for you. Some people have dogs. If you're one of them you have to take your dog for a walk every day because if you forget it will chew the furniture and make you fat. But we only have a cat, Richard, who does his own thing, Son. Miss Hart at school gives us gold stars for being like Richard. Doing independent work it's called: in deep end dent. My reading age is impressive but Finn is a month younger than me and his is truly spectacular.

Dad doesn't say much while we walk and neither do I. I hold his hand and when we go past shops with cat-flap signs outside I don't even have to try not to duck through them, I just don't. When things are fine it's called harmonious and that's funny because it is vertically the opposite of harmful.

 

I like the beach. Do you? Probably, because normal people do, and the best beaches are near America in Cornwall with waves on them, because a beach without waves is like one of those daft hairless cats, Son. Try stroking one! Pointless. But watch out, you have to be careful at a beach with waves on it because waves do what they want to do, and sometimes all they really want to do is slide on in up the sand and steal a child or two. So don't go too far without me, Son, do you hear? It's the treacheries' fault. There are in fact hundreds of treacheries near the beach, like cliffs you can fall off into sharks' mouths with teeth that all point backward. Don't even bother trying to pull them out because they'll just grow back again sharply. Other things to beware of include currents, killer whales, and jellyfish, particularly the box jellyfish from Australia, or ones with huge ten tickles from Portugal. Yes, look out for anything tickly at the beach, and anything in a small Australian box. Some killer whales play tennis with seals and our cat Richard does the same only he uses mice. Very bloodthirsty: you might not like it, but it is in fact a fact of nature. And keep out of the wind, too, because as well as blowing you off cliffs and creating huge waves that steal children the wind will spoil your lunch which is normally a picnic. Sandwiches with sand wedged in them are horrible. Thanks for that, wind. Did you know that Cornish people used to live underground? Well they did, and it's cold down there, so they kept their lunch warm by wearing it under their hats in pasties which don't have seams like sandwiches and are therefore much more sensible for the beach. Here come the Cornish people out of their tunnels with their excellently designed lunch under their hats for a brilliant picnic. And if they want they can shout, too, because that's the thing about a wavy beach, Son: it has a restful sound track. Shout all you like, the sea hush will soak it up. Stamp, too, if you want. The sand won't mind. That's it. Run around, jump up and down, shout and scream to your heart's contents, and when you're finished we'll go for a swim.

 

And here's Mum sitting at the table very still with the kitchen door open, which means she can see us taking our coats off in the hall, and me putting my shoes away, but instead of jumping up to come and say hello and perhaps rubbing my head like she does after school on a normal day she just keeps on sitting there watching us and waiting until we are finished. The house is very quiet. We go into the kitchen where the quiet makes sense because there's no radio on and yet it still feels bad. Dad doesn't say anything either. But this silence is an incredible tactic which Mum is the best at because it doesn't matter how long you just wait wait wait she'll still be waiting longer for you to speak first and eventually Dad does.

— Hello, he says.

— Hello.

— You okay?

Mum drums her finger on the table. — Where have you been?

— Film! I say.

Mum bites her lip and looks at Dad. He nods and shrugs.

— There were cola bottles and blue things and a tree blew over with huge bullets, I say.

Mum gives me a little nodding smile but quickly looks back to Dad, and I'm hungry anyway so I sort of sneak sideways to the cupboard to look for a snack.

— You went to the cinema? she says.

— What's the problem?

— You had a nice time?

— What is it?

— You didn't think to call me after the medical?

— Well, I . . . thought you'd be sleeping.

— What did you see?

—
Avatar
. They were reshowing it.

I find the biscuits and check: they're not even looking, so it's incredibly easy to take one. Two, in fact.

— I hope it was good, she says, and Darth Vader has a funny voice, too, so that even when he says fairly nice things like
Obi-Wan has taught you well
he still sounds pretty unfriendly, and that's the same as Mum, because it's obvious that she's not really interested in the blue aliens or the guy in the wheelchair or the big fallen-over tree. In fact she means almost the opposite.
I don't care if it was good or not
would have been more truthful.

But Dad doesn't seem to get it.

— It was fine. Distracting.

— Wasn't it violent?

— I suppose so, in parts. Vicious use of panpipes, that's for sure.

— And now is the time to take Billy to a violent film. Today. In the middle of this . . .

— Tell you the truth, I wasn't really thinking. I wanted not to think.

— No, you didn't want to think, or return my calls.

Dad reaches for his phone now and the two of them are totally absorbing, like chess, so I actually decide to eat a third gingernut because nobody is going to notice and there are no nuts in gingernuts anyway and even if there were I am not like Connie in the other class who is allergic. Dad pulls his phone from his pocket, holds it out to Mum, and his thumb presses some buttons.

— Sorry, he says. — I switched it off.

— Yes, she says. You would, wouldn't you. Today. It makes sense.

— Look, the medical was fine, wasn't it, Billy. Billy? Come out of there! This'll blow over, Tessa. He was only with the doctor fifteen minutes.

— So that's all right then, says Darth Mum.

Dad's voice goes warning-loud then but it's okay, I'm nowhere near the biscuits now. — Look, he says. It's not as if we've done anything wrong.

— No. I'm sure not.

— What's that supposed to mean?

— It'll all be fine, I'm sure you're right.

— It
will
be.

— Yes.

Dad's phone starts beeping.

— And those messages won't alter anything.

Dad's thumb starts doing more buttons.

— Not even the one from me . . . telling you they've already rung us. That woman, the one who was here yesterday. She says the doctor has some concerns. And because of that, because of that . . . they've decided they have a duty to investigate us, this family, further.

Dad's thumb stops what it's doing and he drops his phone onto the tabletop. Clonk. He sits down, plants his elbows on the table, drops his head into his hands. His fingers prod wrinkles into his forehead as his face dips lower, lower, and lower, until his fingers are digging into his hair. He has nice hair, Dad. It's the color of straw. But oh no, it looks as if he's going to pull some out.

— Stop! I say.

It works. His hands drop down as he glances up at me. —Come here, he whispers.

I've eaten too many biscuits so I do as I'm told. He lifts me up onto his knee and sticks his nose in my ear first, then my hair, then my ear again. He grips the back of my neck and holds me reasonably hard.

— Whatever happens, he says quietly. — Whatever happens, you must remember none of this is your fault. You hear me? You've done absolutely nothing wrong, Billy. Promise me you'll remember that.
It's not your fault.

— What's not? I say. It rhymes.

— That's it, says, Dad in a small voice. — Precisely.

 

After that I go upstairs to fetch my stretchy lizards. I've got three. Two are the same blue-gray color but one is gray-green different although they are all quite similar. Stretchy. Pull them like that and they will stretch to more than twice as long and shrink in the middle to half as thin, but watch out you don't yank them about too hard, Son, or
snap
, you'll have a leg off.

How hard is hard? Not that . . . because that's fine . . . and so is that, even though the bit by its shoulder has almost gone see-through . . . but it's still fine . . . even probably when I pull it harder still, like . . .

Snap.

No, no, no. I can't believe it! But it has happened. It's terrible and I did it and now I've got two bits of one lizard, a leg and the rest, in two totally different hands. And my stomach feels very small and hard, like a Brazil nut. Perhaps if I put the pieces under my bed and push them like that toward the wall . . . But no, no, no, I can't, I mustn't. Instead I have to drag them out again and make myself take them downstairs to show everybody because if I don't I'll have done something worse called a lie. And although my stomach nut is horrible and both my hands know and tingle that they shouldn't have done what they did, and I really, really don't want to tell Dad or Mum, a strange tiny part of me is actually okay. Shall I tell you why? Because at least it happened to the gray-green one which was different anyway, and not the blue-gray other ones which are an amazing pair.

Down I go.

But I stop on the broken banister stair.

Because they're still talking and it is rude to interrupt anyway, which isn't the real reason.

— You told your mother?

— I had to speak to somebody. You weren't answering.

— Your
mother
?

— This isn't just going to go away. She knows people.

— I can't believe it.

I squash my lizard's leg-stumps together hard. You can barely see the join. I could just keep squashing it together like this forever and nobody would notice but it would be difficult at night when I go to sleep. Some batteries are rechargeable.

Dad's still talking. — What did you say to her exactly?

— All I know. That somebody saw you belting Billy in the park. That he's covered in bruises. That they're saying somebody — meaning you or me, presumably — may have hit him with an implement of some sort.

— Implement?

— That's what she said.

— What fucking implement?

— I don't know.

— This is insane.

— I know.

— Insane!

— So you haven't hit him with anything?

— Jesus, Tessa.

— Well?

— You're actually asking me this. I don't believe . . .

—
You
don't believe
me
?

Superglue! It's amazing, and Mum has some, because she mended my cup with it, the one Grandma Lynne gave me when I was born. Peter Rabbit. Mum actually cried when I told her I'd broken the handle off. Anyway it's mended now but I'm not allowed to drink out of it anymore so in a way it isn't mended which is confusing. But nobody drinks out of lizards so the glue will mend it, probably, and then my stomach Brazil nut can forget all about it. I jump down the last two steps, thump, and rush into the kitchen.

— But it's okay! I say.

Mum and Dad are standing at opposite ends of the kitchen table. If they had a little net and some bats and the right kind of really light ball they could play table tennis standing there like that, but sadly they don't look like they want a game.

— It's fine, I tell them, holding out my snapped lizard. — We can use your glue to put him back together.

— Billy. We're talking, here, says Dad, but kindly.

— Yes. I broke my lizard, though. Sorry! Superglue . . .

— Give it here, says Mum.

— Let's have a look, says Dad. — I'm not sure glue will work, Son. He may have to be a wounded lizard from now on.

— I'll mend it, says Mum. — Now run along.

— It's not fixable, Tessa. Dad's voice has scratches in it. Have you ever licked sandpaper? I did once but I'm not going to do it again.

— Run along, Mum says again, very calmly. — I'll mend it.

Dad leans forward, both fists on the table, plonk-plonk. He shakes his head. — Jesus, he says.

— Are you cross?

He keeps his eyes on Mum and says, — With you, Son? No. Not at all. Do as she says now. Run along.

I put the lizard bits on the table between them. It's confusing, but at least I'm not a liar and they're not cross with me. And out I go, as far as my step. I don't want to go all the way upstairs because I'll see the other lizards there and even though it was the gray-green one now there are only two. So I sit down and wobble the banister out and hold it across my lap for defense instead.

 

Once, I was wearing my shark trunks in the swimming pool, because they are excellent, even though they're unrealistic, because all the sharks are swimming in exactly the same direction, and in the wild that would not happen.

Anyway, whatever you do, don't jump into the pool until everybody is ready.

Fairly often, especially when he is in a good mood, Dad will finish doing up his own trunks and look at me standing on one leg ready in the changing room and say, — Shark shorts, eh. Shall we play the game? And this is excellent. And it is also what happened on the day I'm talking about. He was helping me put my goggles on. They are tricky customers because of the rubber which is very gripping but unfortunately a bugger for tangling in your hair.

Dad had his own goggles up on his forehead, very blue, and he sorted out mine eventually and said, — What about it?

— Okay, I said.