by Morag Joss
Now there were times, like today, when there was no point in asking her anything. He could see from her face she couldn’t really see him; she seemed to be elsewhere, listening to a conversation he couldn’t hear. When she did pay him some half-attention she’d only say more of her stupid things that were vague and prone to her sudden changes of mind, that began Oh, I’m not sure or Ah, though maybe or Well, I just wondered. Sometimes she’d read her poems aloud at the table, or worse, try to make him write some. Adam sped angrily around the yard. She did it on purpose, making everything wishy-washy and slippery so that nothing she ever said was really true or not true and you couldn’t ever argue about it. When he took the scooter back to the pig shed, he flung it down and let it fall over.
Later, he was pleased that Kevin and Kyle’s dad brought them to the picnic instead of their mum—Louise hadn’t been very nice to him that morning—even though Digger stayed on the edge of it all, pouring out most of his tea on the grass and saying he only had time for a half-cup. Then he stood in the bracken instead of sitting on a rug with the others while Adam opened his presents.
There was a bag of marbles from Callum and Fee—they were nice colors, and Fee said they were made of special hand-blown glass; Adam wasn’t sure what that meant or that he knew how to play marbles. But Kevin and Kyle’s present was brilliant. Just brilliant, so brilliant that at first all he could do was gasp. Then he tore the rest of the paper off so fast that Callum had to go off down the hill after it. It was a M.A.S.K. vehicle, one of the best ones, the Razorback—it turned into a mobile weapon platform and it came with a Brad Turner figure and an Eclipse mask. Adam yelped with delight. Kevin and Kyle were grinning. He did high-fives with them, and the excitement spread—Kevin turned red and whooped and clapped and Kyle made both his hands into fists and shook them around his head as if they held dice. Adam had seen the M.A.S.K. videos at their house; Kevin and Kyle had loads of the other vehicles, too. They, or Louise, must have seen how much he absolutely loved them. He’d been given something he really wanted. Suddenly he wished everybody could disappear. He didn’t want them to watch him gazing at his Razorback and touching it and getting used to it being his, in case he cried. Then his mother broke in with one of her Well, now!s and told him to say thank you. Then she went very quiet, and he could not look at his father for the rest of the picnic for fear of catching his eye.
After that, doing the cake was real fun, even though the cake had dried apricots in it and his mother and Fee clapped their hands a lot and made too many thrilled noises. Kevin and Kyle’s dad had gone by then. Everybody else huddled up together on one side to keep the wind away from the candles and he pretended he couldn’t blow them out without making loud raspberry noises that made everybody laugh, especially Kevin, until his father told him to get on with it or they’d still be there when it got dark. On the way back down the hill he ran around shouting and chasing Kevin and Kyle and laughing so hard he felt sick by the time he reached the bottom.
That night he lay awake in bed, amazed to think he’d been so happy. He wondered how it was possible that a day could be as happy as that, and yet before it was over turn into the complete opposite. Because after everybody had gone home and he was sprawled on his front in the hall playing with the Razorback, he was suddenly aware of his father towering over him. Adam shrank back; for a moment his father’s head, silhouetted against the antlers behind him on the wall, sprouted a gigantic, jagged halo of thorns. All at once his Razorback was scooped off the floor. Adam scrambled to his feet yelling, but it was already beyond his reach.
“Adam,” his father said, in his deep calm voice, “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid it doesn’t matter how much you object. No thinking father would let his son play with a toy that glorifies bloodshed and violence.”
In the dark, Adam broke into high, squealing sobs that shook the bed. Tears poured down his face and into the pillow. After he’d watched him break the Razorback in two and put it, along with the Brad Turner figure and the Eclipse mask, in the recycling bin, he was so weak with hatred and grief that he hadn’t the power to stop his father drawing him on to his lap and holding him for a long time. He remained rigid in his father’s arms. “I’m sorry you’re upset, Adam,” he said. “But never mind, eh? Tomorrow you can finish your dinosaur and play with that.”
NOVEMBER 2011
From: deborahstoneyridge@yahoo.com
To:
Sent on wed 9 nov 2011 at 11.32 GMT
Hello Adam, it was nice to talk to you at the weekend, so you caught me in, finally! I was out and about quite a lot seeing as Dad was at Jocelyn Lodge and there was nothing to hold me back. They kept him there a few days longer as he was doing so well, he does look as if he’s put on weight but that could be the beard growing back because they didn’t shave him there. He doesn’t seem to mind so I think that little phase is over.
It did seem he was away ages! He’s been back a week already, it doesn’t feel like it. He is definitely a bit brighter and more on the ball. He’s at stroke club now, was keen to go this time. He’s talking more. Love, Mum xxx
PS This morning he managed to say to send you his love, at least I think that’s what he meant!
To: deborahstoneyridge@yahoo.com
Sent on wed 9 nov 2011 at 09.23 EST
Mum that’s great! Give me a bit more detail, how far can he walk now – do you mean with the frame or with a stick? Or can he manage without?
Glad you’re ok – flight details soon.
I’m actually in a meeting right this minute, emailing under the desk ;-) more anon. love Adam xx Give D my love too, ok?
The evenings by the fire are no more. The logs are used up and I haven’t the strength to chop more and bring them in, and naturally Theo doesn’t offer. It means I retire earlier and earlier, even though it’s cold upstairs. I slip into Adam’s old bedroom, lie down under the covers, and wait for the moment when Theo comes through the door. Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn’t. No matter; the privacy of waiting for him in the dark is enough. The waiting’s more necessary to me than the moment itself, and that’s what I look forward to all day; his arrival, if it comes, is all the more thrilling for it. I do not feel guilty, although I never put on a light. By and by I get up and go to my own room across the quiet hall, my movements loose and easy. I can relax. Well, not relax.
It’s too strange for that. And so unexpected, when I am so much older than he is, and looked upon his presence here as filling the place of a son, not a lover. I had no inkling that was what I would allow him to become. Is that what he is? I do not feel I am in any way betraying Howard. I’m not hiding from him anything more than I hide from myself. I have hidden much from myself. Theo understands I’ve had to, over the years.
But now that Howard’s back from Jocelyn Lodge, the practicalities take over. I’m swamped with things to do—I didn’t use the time he was away to get on top of the jobs at all, so I’m a little overwhelmed—and Theo is keeping his distance. I get hardly a glimpse of him or a word all day, especially as Nurse Jenny keeps coming by to check that Howard is settling back in all right. I see her eyeing the house for signs of mismanagement. She leaves a sheet called “Dietary Guidelines for Mobility Impaired Patients” and a leaflet about getting help with your shopping. She asks if I’ve had time to stock up, because Howard’s really found his appetite again. Howard’s very chirpy and agrees, in whole words. He even gets up and sees her to the door. I think he winks at me on his way, slow but unaided, back to his chair in front of the television, but it could be accidental. I find myself smiling, anyway. Something to tell Theo later.
But with all this commotion going on, I grow afraid. Usually it’s only in spells of tranquillity that Theo will emerge at all, and he only speaks in an atmosphere of perfect safety.
But, to my relief, he is back, and now there’s a new side to him. He’s playful.
Bread-making, for instance. It’s
fun now in a way it never used to be, although I still make terrible bread. I don’t eat it (nor does Theo). It’s for Howard. He likes it, or he should, since I am making it to his old requirements. At least more or less: that’s where the fun comes in.
When he was away, I went through some of the junk upstairs looking for stuff to burn in the stove now that the logs are used up, and I came across his “Bread Is Life” poster with the list of Rules. It’s vital that the Bed and Breakfast guests understand the philosophy here, was what he said, quite defensively if I remember right, when I questioned the wisdom of putting it up in the dining room. I showed it to Theo. He says it’s nuts, and he says it in a tone of voice I maybe should have used to Howard in the first place.
It’s not just the bread. Theo now admits he has never even heard of most of the things Howard considers important (or considered—it’s anybody’s guess what matters to him now). He asks what Howard thinks he’s trying to prove, and I do find that a little shocking. My loyalties are divided. Well, I tell him, Howard would say it’s about living modestly and naturally and responsibly, he would say that Adam and his generation should be grateful to people like us. “For what, exactly?” I hear Theo ask. I see the friendly bewilderment on his face.
For the way we tried to live, I repeat. For what we tried to be. Frugal. Responsible.
Theo has nothing to say to that. Then I feel sad and angry, thinking of all the self-sacrificial years I let Howard persuade me I was making a difference for my successors on this greedy planet, and it turns out, guess what, all the while the planet was filling up with Theos, millions upon millions of them, a whole generation of unblemished souls who don’t want a shred of sacrifice from me after all, not a single thing, not so much as a passing thought. With or without my sacrifices Theo reckons things might get patched up all right, planet-wise (he does use such phrases). Not perfectly, obviously, but when was the world perfect? It’s a little patronizing of people Howard’s age, Theo murmurs, to suggest the world might not go on turning if it was left up to people his age.
Anyway, he finds Howard’s Bread Is Life rules hilarious. He has taped the poster up on the kitchen wall under the shelf where I keep the scales and mixing bowls. Just putting it there turns the whole idea of bread-making into a joke. I shouldn’t laugh. But the kitchen is now full of fun.
DEAR STONEYRIDGE GUESTS
BREAD IS LIFE
1 All our flour is organic and whole grain. We sometimes add seeds and nuts to the Bread mix but we DO NOT sprinkle them over the top. Bread is Life, and it is Beautiful. It needs no decoration. Does a sunrise need diamonds?
2 All our Bread is made by hand. No machines are used. We believe kneading is a beautiful act. It is an act of love that transfers part of the World’s ENERGY, through the person kneading, to the Bread, from which it is passed on to those who eat it. None of the World’s Energy belongs to us, we are only the channels through which it passes.
3 Yeast is alive. We use only new fresh Yeast, which is strong. Old Yeast, even if it is fresh, has no vigor. WE NEVER USE DRIED YEAST, which is dead. BREAD IS LIFE!
4 To make the Dough we use only the Rainwater of recently fallen Rain, which comes to us fresh from the Sky, still holding some of the Sky’s Energy. If fresh Rainwater is not available we use freshly drawn Spring Water, which holds some Energy from the Earth. WE NEVER USE TAP WATER.
5 Dough is alive. We use only wooden bowls, boards, and spoons for Bread-making, which are made from a living material. No lifeless materials such as metal or pottery are allowed to touch the Dough before it is baked into Bread.
6 All our loaves and rolls are shaped by hand and baked in rounded natural forms which reflect the shapes we see all around us in the Hills and Rocks and Fruits of the Earth.
We have kneaded and baked this Bread as a gift for you. Pass on its Goodness in the form of your Gifts to others. We are together in the Oneness of Energy. Use it well!!!
No sooner is the poster on the wall than a line appears through the h of Dough in Rule 5.
Theo says, “Who’s Doug, anyway?”
And I say I have no idea, but at least he’s alive.
It’s just a silly joke, but it sticks. Now we have this banter going all the time.
Is Doug still in bed? No, he’s just risen.
What’s Doug trying to prove? Maybe just that he’s alive?
Soon enough, all these exchanges appear scribbled on the margins of the poster along with little naked podgy cartoon figures—Doug the Dough. They make me laugh every time I look at them. It’s just a bit of harmless fun.
I rinse my hands at the tap and shake my wet fingertips at Theo, who’s watching from the big kitchen chair. Drops of water glint on the floor. We use only wooden bowls, boards, and spoons, I sing, setting the cold weight of a stoneware dish on the counter. No lifeless materials such as metal or pottery are allowed. I tip the flour into the enamel scales and add extra bran (Howard’s bowels being a law unto themselves), and with a teaspoon I measure out the dried yeast from its packet. It’s good and dead; it runs into the spoon like pulverized bone, and smells of meat. No machines are used, I say, fixing the dough hook into the electric mixer.
In the past, when the bread took me half a day and tired me out and still failed to rise, Howard would ask me why I ever expected it to be easy. Bread called for the labor of fingers and hands, and wouldn’t I have to admit that what I felt was a good kind of tired out? Well, all I do now is flick the switch. “And you know what, Howard?” I say aloud over the noise of the mixer, answering his question at long last, “this feels better.” There’s an uncertain laugh, and I make out Theo’s voice, talking to me from the big chair.
He’s always asking me about my life. Anything can come up.
The hens, for instance. “What’s the point of keeping them? We don’t get more than a couple of eggs a week now. Why not?”
I go through the reasons. It’s getting dark earlier, and hens need daylight to lay. Or maybe the feed’s not quite right; they only get scraps, after all. But probably they’re just old, I tell Theo. They’re all old ladies now.
“Get some new ones, then,” Theo says.
I’m surprised at how definite he is about this. I can’t, I say. I can’t bring new birds in without upsetting the old ones. It upsets the pecking order. Anyway, there’s only room for about six.
“Then let’s get rid of the old ones,” Theo says. “Eat them. Make room for new ones.”
I decide not to take this seriously. Besides, I don’t want lots more eggs, I say. There’s no passing trade for them in the winter.
“Are you fond of cats, would you like to have a cat?” he asks next. His voice is drowsy, and hard to make out under the drone of the mixer.
A cat might get in and kill the hens, I say back, as I watch the dough forming. And, I go on, even if it didn’t, we couldn’t let a strange animal anywhere near them—then they wouldn’t lay at all. They could die of fright. Anyway, Howard’s allergic.
“Too stupid to live, then,” Theo says, “as well as useless.”
You’re in a funny mood today, I tell him. Quite often, he’s in a funny mood. It’s as if he doesn’t know his own mind, comes out with one thing, then the opposite. The mixer is whipping the dough up into a fizzing swamp of lumps and farty gray blisters, the beater hurls and thumps it against the side of the bowl. I smile; this is how it’s done. There’s a crazy, necessary violence in it.
“Maybe we’d get a dog, then?” Theo says, ignoring what I just told him about bringing strange animals into the yard.
I don’t like dogs.
Theo goes on as if I haven’t said a word. “A dog trained up, that’d be useful. I could shoot rabbits, easy, with a dog. You need a dog, the right sort of dog that’ll fetch them off the moor in his mouth and drop them at your feet, not a tooth mark on them, just a clean hole through the head.”
I hate dogs. And Howard hates guns, I tell him. He won’t allow a gun on the place.
“Oh, won’t he, indeed?”
Digger gave an old shotgun to Adam once and Howard took it away from him, and Adam ran away. He went to Exeter. I was so angry with Howard I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t say anything to him for weeks. Months.
My eyes fill with tears, remembering. This could be the first time I’ve said this aloud. I stop the mixer and lift the dough hook. I scrape the bowl’s contents into the loaf tins, spoon in the next batch of flour, add the yeast and water. There’s a long silence now, as if Theo is taking in what I’ve said and weighing it for truth.
Howard told me to return the gun to Digger but I didn’t, I kept it. I went behind Howard’s back. I thought it might bring Adam home. I hid it upstairs and I got Digger to show me how to keep it clean and oiled, just in case. I wrote to Adam that if he came back, somehow I’d talk his father into letting him keep it.
“Then what happened?”
I lower the dough hook and switch the mixer on again.
I needn’t have bothered. It wasn’t really about the gun, you see. Adam wanted to go to school. He wanted to get away from us. He never really came back here to live.
I let all these disclosures float and flow around me as the food mixer churns. It amazes me that such dangerous words can come up out of nowhere, proving they were sayable, after all, and fill up the place with not just sound but, if I close my eyes, with restless lines of light or movement. I find myself thinking of Howard’s half-world blindness and wonder if he sees them, too, these freshly agitated, peripheral little specters of so many awkward truths and unburied grievances.