What I Did (14 page)

What he meant was shall we play the shark game now? And what I meant was okay, let's play.

Here's what happens. First of all I swim off in one direction. Then he swims off in another. Then I sort of swim around a bit and he swims back very stealthy, normally along the bottom, a top predator shark. Then . . . when I am unsuspected . . . he attacks! I have to try and defend him off by whacking him on the nose to confuse his radars. It's excellent.

On this day he swam off a long way and I swam off, too, and he didn't come back for so long that I started looking at the black lines. With my head under the water they were very still, but when I stuck my head out and looked down they were all wobbly, which was interesting, even if I tried looking at them with one eye shut. Then somebody else was in the way so I swam round them and decided to see what the ceiling looked like if I lay on my back. Some lights and some metal-pole things and a slit of window showing brown clouds. I leaned my head back a bit so I could look up through the water to check if the ceiling would also be wobbly then, and it was, and the cloud was greener, but sadly some water went up my nose because that's what happens when you do that.

And I really had forgotten.

And that's when Dad struck.

Whap!

I didn't see anything. I just felt the grip around my leg and arm and down I went, yank, and I was thrashing, and half pretend-punching through the water, very weak but trying anyway to see if I could erupt his shark radars, but I couldn't, and I was up again, and the water was double up my nose now, so I was half yell-help-scream laughing, and I didn't take a breath, but down I went again for the death roll. Over and over I went fighting until I got a nose-whack in, and then Dad swam down and off again with bubbles silvering up behind him, and I was swimming up again, too, because what I really needed was a huge big breath . . .

And that's when he struck.

Whap!

No, not Dad this time, but the lifeguard man in his clothes from the tall chair on the edge. He wanted to save me. But I didn't really understand because I didn't really need saving. Instead I thought it was another pretend shark attack so I did some huge excellent pretend struggling, including some nose whacks which didn't work because they didn't make him go away at all. He dragged me to the side of the pool instead and lifted me very strongly up onto the tiled edge, saying, — Stop! Stop! Stop! It's all right! You're okay!

— I know I am, I said.

— You're okay?

— Yes. I thought you were another Great White attacking.

— Lifeguard. I'm the lifeguard.

— I know, I said. — It's brilliant. But your shirt is very wet. At home we have a drier, but mostly we hang things on the line. It's my dad, normally, who is the shark.

— Your dad?

— Yes, him.

Dad was arriving then up out of the water and onto the side, too. He looked small next to the lifeguard, and worried: he pulled his goggles up but one side snapped back down wonky into his eye.

— What is it? he asked when he got it straight. — You're okay, yes?

— I'm fine.

— He's fine, Dad said to the tiles.

— He wasn't a minute ago, said the lifeguard.

— Yes I was! Tell him, Dad! You're the shark!

— Come on, Billy. Thanks so much.

— Did you pull him under on purpose?

— No, no! We were playing a game.

— Yes you did! I said. — You even did the death roll.

— I had an eye on him, said Dad. — He was just playacting.

The lifeguard peeled off his shirt and began wringing it out. Lots of water wriggled out of it, probably because it was so absorbing. He looked quite a lot younger than Dad with his top off, very pink muscled, and he sounded more important.

— Kids must be supervised at all times, he said.

— Of course.

— Not ducked.

— I didn't . . . of course. Come on, Billy.

We started walking away with Dad holding my wrist not gently and the lifeguard calling after us, — Anymore ducking and I'll have to ask you to leave.

 

I sit on the steps with my banister gun sword, very well defended, until eventually from in the kitchen I hear Mum say, — I've got to make up the spare bed.

Dad says nothing back to start with. Then he says, — Come on, Tessa. There's no need for this.

— There is. She's staying over.

— Who is?

— My mother.

— What do you mean?

— She just wants to help.

There's a long silent bit next, very long and quite deadly, like a poisonous snake. Taipans are the most venomous. Here one comes, slithering out through the half-shut kitchen door and up the stairs to envenom-hate me. No way, snake! Don't bother trying. I am too well defended.

But it isn't in fact a snake that comes out of the kitchen next; it's Dad instead. His eyes have shrunk. They blink at me. — Put your shoes on Billy, he says softly. — I need some air. We'll take the football.

 

On Saturday mornings I play football but I don't have any football kit or shin pads. Tom from my class has both. But football isn't about the uniform, Son, or to do with my class, or even school, at all. It's just normal, like the rest of Saturday, so I wear normal shorts because I am a beginner. Tom is in Level Two where they play proper matches using goals and a pitch and cheering. Football is a very running sport. That's the bit I like because it's the bit I'm good at because I've got a proper motor. Yes, you've got a great little engine on you, Son. In fact it's a heart, because I'm organic, and if Dad wanted to give me a better compliment about running he wouldn't choose the car to compare me to but a gray wolf instead. Look at him go! Back and forth, forth and back, tireless, keep at it! Lope!

Sadly the ball part of football is tricky.

Do you like soft-boiled eggs? I do.

With the ball part the thing that you have to do first is called trapping it. Clod the coach is always telling us that. He is French. — Ready? 'Ere you go! Trap eat. Trap eat! What Clod means, and I know because he has showed us, is that we should put our foot on the top of the ball and hold it there, trapped. You're going nowhere, ball, so don't even think about it even though you're very rolly. Come back here!

I have actually thought of a much better trap using a box and some long string.

Although we don't play games like Tom with shin pads does, we do other stuff as well as trapping the ball, like kicking it round some markers on the floor and back again. You have to imagine the ball is attached to your boot with very sticky spit because that's what it's called: dribbling. And remember, actually spitting is rude, so whatever you do don't spit the ball right out, feet. Okay! Keep going, that's right. Dribbling.

Then at the end we do actually play a small game without the proper goals Tom has or much cheering, and it really matters which team you're on because some of the very little kids wander off. Jake's brother, Tim, for example. Come back, Tim; we need everyone on the team to help, not just some of us. I switch on my tireless loping anyway but the ball is a bugger and doesn't go in the right goal for me very often. Never mind, Son; the engine on you! I was watching. You ran that little heart out.

 

Today in the park I do some running around after the football as well, trying my best to make Dad pleased, but sadly it doesn't work. He stops kicking the ball to me quite soon and we walk about instead for a while. Quite a long while in fact. By the time we arrive home again the sky is plug-hole dark and my stomach is vertically empty.

But then, brilliant, we open the door and Grandma Lynne is there!

She sort of swoops down and pulls me into her buttons before I've even undone my Velcro shoe straps. It's nice but uncomfortable and I feel suddenly shy. She holds me away without letting me go and looks me up and down with a big crinkly smile. — Billy! she says. Then she stands up and straightens her jacket and turns to Dad to say — And Jim, of course. I'm so glad you've brought him home.

Dad hangs his coat on the hook and mine, too. — Lovely to see you, Lynne, he says.

— Well I had to come. Straight from work, as soon as I heard. It's outrageous!

— It'll blow over, says Dad quietly, walking past us into the kitchen.

Grandma Lynne watches after him as he goes, shaking her head, her eyes very wide. It's only the kitchen, Grandma Lynne, nothing to worry about. She's wearing one of her smart suits; that's why the hug wasn't comfortable. And now she's bending down on her stiff knees in front of me to ask, — Are you okay, darling? Are you sure you're okay?

— Yes.

— You're sure, though.

— I'm fine.

— Good, good. That's good. My beautiful boy.

I feel shy again when she says that because boys are supposed to be handsome not beautiful, but I don't tell her that because it would probably be ungrateful. Instead I say, — Do you always take your suitcase to work?

Her eyebrows runkle up. — Briefcase, do you mean?

— No, that. I point at her suitcase in the hall.

— That's my overnight case.

— But you said you came straight from work?

She smiles at me again and says, — Funny little thing! But when I turn around I see Dad leaning in the kitchen door and he winks at me which is a sign.

 

Do you know some things about Grandma Lynne? I do because she's my grandmother and here is a selection from them. First of all, she has a car with a map that moves on a screen in it, and she keeps sweets in the glove box, but she never eats them herself because she concentrates on yogurts for breakfast. She doesn't like the Grandma bit of her name much and once she asked me to call her just Lynne, but Mum laughed behind me when I tried it and Dad said I didn't have to bother after that. Grandma Lynne listens to music without any words in it and is very important because her job, which is being a curator, says so. Curators look after things. Her hair is brilliant shiny-black like crows' wings, and she was once married to a man called my grandfather, but he went away from her ages ago and then, before I was even born, he died, and now Grandma Lynne doesn't have to have a Christmas tree because she can enjoy ours and Cicely-and-Lizzie's instead. There are more things about her, too, but I haven't selected them.

 

Mum makes me supper. I eat it. It's normal.

Then, excellent:
The Private Life of Plants
. It's an old one, but David Attenborough is fully involved in it. Grandma Lynne even bought me some Smarties to eat while I'm watching the surprisingly violent plants. Crawling, climbing, flying, thieving, fighting, killing: they do all of it! And Mum and Dad must both have forgotten the film Dad took me to earlier because having this as well might give me square eyes. But it doesn't matter to me because it's not true. I've never seen anyone with square eyes in my life, or animals, and Dad once told me he agreed. — Old wives' tale, Son: they're compulsive liars! When some plants let out their seeds it's like bombs going off, and apart from the bit with the doctor this is probably the best day of my whole life.

 

Sadly everything ends, and that includes plant life, and I know how to turn the television off, so I do, which is sensible. I sit on the sofa in the quiet. This arm and cushion is quite stainy. It's my fault, because I was a very leaky baby and then when I was older I started drinking Ribena un-carefully in cups without lids. Mum keeps a throw over this sofa but it has scrunched off because I've been sitting here, and that's what Dad says about the throw, always: — What's the point? The moment you sit on it the thing comes off. And anyway Mum never throws the throw on, she smoothes it, so it should be called a smooth. Except that it's quite tickly. I burrow my legs under it; they're roots feeling for moisture. Any old Ribena down there? No. Still, now I'm planted I can't move, which means I'll have to sit here and wait until somebody comes along and harvests me for bed. It's not my fault is it?

Grandma Lynne is talking in the kitchen. — Things like this. They snowball. You have to react quickly to stop them getting out of hand.

She's right. The only way to deal with a dandelion in your lawn is to dig it straight out with the handle of a spoon. If somebody just cut my top half off two more of me would grow back through this throw-smooth in no time.

— I agree, says Mum. — But what should we do?

— Take some advice, says Grandma Lynne. — Find somebody with the expertise to put our case.

She's still talking about her case which reminds me to feel happy because she's staying the night. In the morning I'll probably have hot chocolate because she'll have tea in her bed. The spare room is right next to mine and the walls in between them are thin. It's called stud partitioning, Son; basically it's rubbish. I can even hear the spare bed squeak when she sits up in it in the morning. It's like the signal; squeak, she's up: go, go, go! Some people eat their whole breakfast in bed on a tray in case they drop bits.

— What do you think, Jim? asks Mum.

— I think I'll fix us another drink. What will you have, Lynne?

— I'm all right, thank you.

— Jim? says Mum.

Dad: — Nonsense. The bottle's open.

— Really, says Grandma Lynne. — I'm fine.

— We can't afford lawyers, says Dad. — I don't think we need one anyway. There's no
case
to argue. It'll fizzle . . .

— I disagree, I'm afraid, says Grandma Lynne. — You need to be pragmatic. She's using her slow important voice, very like the woman on the radio who reads the news. — Listen, if it's a question of money . . .

— No. No. Thank you. We'll handle it.

Mum: —
Jim
.

— There's no
Jim
about it.