On the Far Side, There's a Boy

by Coston, Paula

  ‘How’s your family? I never forget about them, or about you.

  Martine’

  ‘Dear Miss Martine

  You must get the right boy. It is not shopping. If he is not healthy and laughing and cannot mend things, he will not make you happier. If he cannot write, he will not write to me and make me happier, then you will be upset. If he is a Buddhist that might help.

  ‘It was the Nehru Cup. England beat us.

  ‘We have much older aqueducts. We made them before the British, Dutch and Portuguese. Also we have tanks. They hold the rains. They are older engineering than the ancient Egyptians’ engineering. They are made of stone and earth. Some not here have sluice gates letting the water onto the fields. If you do not believe me, here is a drawing.

  ‘I am going to build [boy’s writing incomplete]

  ‘About the family.

  ‘Jayamal is in the cricket under-15s. He is top in nearly all subjects (not English). He and his friends start swearing and look for me and my friends and [boy’s writing incomplete]

  ‘Tatta is often [boy’s writing incomplete] Sometimes Nalin helps me find him and then we carry him from [boy’s writing incom-plete]

  ‘Anupama used to borrow books from Shashika. Now he does not come.

  ‘Upeksha visits Kamani and Geetha our cousins. She has many sarees and jeans. She never cooks here.

  ‘I am trying for the under-12s.

  ‘P.S. The writing about the family is because you asked. They might not like some of it at In…[boy’s writing incomplete]

  ‘P.P.S. I told Nalin there was virtual reality. Also you can make the computer look like handwriting.’

  ‘Dear Mohan

  I’m sitting in bright sun beside a swimming pool in Florida (America). My mother and I are on holiday. The plane on the stamp might carry our letters one day. They call it hypersonic.

  ‘I picked it because of this holiday. We hire a plane nearly every day – a Piper Archer PA28-181, 180 horsepower, Mum says to tell you – and fly over a wide green waterway called Indian River. I was nervous at first, but now I just enjoy her skill. Down below are lagoons and swamp and stretches of sand and out beyond, the dark blue ocean. They remind me of your aqueducts and tanks. We’ve seen a dolphin and lots of alligators. I think you have those too.

  ‘There’s something on your mind about computers and my writing. Do you doubt I’m real? It isn’t easy to reassure you. Scientists wonder whether, from reading written answers, someone could tell which was a woman out of a real woman and a computer imitating one. A computer mightn’t be as clever as a woman but it could pretend successfully to be one. Sorry, it’s complicated and you may not understand this.

  ‘Would I be this honest if I were a computer? And computers don’t peel from not wearing enough sun cream.

  ‘I found a boy called Kieran. He was eight and healthy – and could write, I expect; but I don’t know about the other things you’re keen on (although I must warn you, there aren’t many Buddhists in England). The people who had to agree whether I could adopt him decided I couldn’t. I never met him. This was hard, which is why Mum insisted on this holiday.

  ‘How’s school? I hope things are much better.

  ‘I’ve asked about another boy. Bobby is six with curly fair hair and a crooked smile. He has a sister. Wish me luck.

  Martine’

  21 The object

  Thursday 14 February 2013

  Dietrich’s method of making friends seems to be boasting.

  Yesterday he told the object, ‘My stepfather invented 3D printers,’ which is patently untrue.

  He’s also crowed over the weeks about his unicycling prowess, his sixth toe, his latest Playstation, the designer brand of his luggage, the new go-kart that he’s been promised and latterly, about the place where he’s staying from tomorrow, over half-term: a big house in the country with a large family, three cats and several llamas.

  As opposed to a half-term with Martine Haslett, who seems to live alone. Hearing lists of Dietrich’s successes and acquisitions doesn’t help with the apprehension that from tomorrow, for a week, they’ll both feel like commodities: parcels, bundled off for convenience somewhere else.

  Since his pellet flicking in the classroom, Dietrich has popped up four times to surprise the object when no one else was about: by the lockers, in the empty dorms, on the deserted sports field, at the end of the school drive, which had seemed a safe enough place to suck on a smuggled cigarette and contemplate release. This time he’s materialised in the school vegetable garden where, behind the greenhouse, there’s a bench. It’s a cold evening, but the crafty fag helps you to forget that; the open iPad with its Dongle warms the knees.

  Dietrich sits down uninvited, fingers poking out the corners of his pockets, his brow ceaselessly crinkling. ‘Gonna be an astronaut. Although I could be a fencing champion, probably make it to the Olympics if I wanted. But no, it’s an astronaut. Because there’s gonna be a new push on exploration…’

  He burbles on, and it has to be tolerated, because although he’s probably ADHD or autistic or whatever, they’re connected, because they both find friendships hard.

  In his defence, he can also shut up.

  ‘What are you into?’ he attempts, and then the shutting up happens, Dietrich with his mouth clamped, like a cap over a drain.

  ‘Um. Acting.’

  Dietrich’s blonde eyebrow rises, but he stops short of speaking. Through their staccato conversations he’s already heard about Sister Number One, aka Creepy, who does everything that’s asked of her, and Sister Number Two, who’s cooler, a co-conspirator; even in broad outline, without the melodrama of his disappearance, BS Shit. Dietrich’s own family naturally is great in every way.

  Martine’s visitor-to-be mumbles on about acting. ‘Back home I try out for the cool parts. Demons, thieves. The kid that no one likes.’ The last without irony. Another pause, and, ‘Want to go to drama school, but doubt my folks will let me. Bastards.’

  It may be taboo to tell strangers about BS’s disappearance, but somehow it’s OK suddenly, here with Dietrich, to reveal something of the paranoia at home, the early curfews, the ban on sleepovers at friends’ houses, the rules and regulations since the BS went.

  The chatting lurches onwards for a while. They even exchange email and Skype addresses.

  Dietrich insists, ‘We can talk over half-term,’ pointing out that then he too can rejoin the living on the internet.

  He leaves, and it feels good to be alone.

  On the iPad, there are more instructions from home.

  ‘1. Make sure you’ve got the cash to pay Miss Haslett for any extras. 2. Don’t ask her to help you with too much laundry. 3. Take your best clothes. 4. Don’t forget to take a present. 5. Offer to help with things like the washing up. 6. Do whatever she tells or asks you to. 7. And, again, please don’t go out without her.’

  Sailor Moon will block out these parental tyannies. At the press of a few buttons an early episode races across the screen, the Sailors trying to overcome the evil Falion. Falion blocks Sailor Venus’s crescent beam, blasting Sailors Venus, Mars and Mercury. Sailor Moon dodges Falion’s onslaught, and mysteri- ously, from somewhere, a white rose hits the ground. In a tree above, the Moonlight Knight appears, destroying Falion’s energy wheel. He vows extravagantly that he’ll meet Sailor Moon again.

  * * *

  Martine’s boats

  1990

  By January 1990, adopting Kieran hadn’t worked out, so Martine was set on Bobby, the boy who had a sister. As ever, Mohan had his point of view.

  ‘Dear Miss Martine

  Kieran would be better. A bent smile would not be nice. You must not adopt a boy with a girl. About Bobby’s hair. Is he white- skinned? Why no for Kieran? I do not [boy’s writing incomplete]

  ‘Tell the people that you are working less now and have a big enough flat and know about boys who are 8 because I have been 8. Do not forget, he must play cricket.

 
; ‘About school. I am still mostly interested in cricket. Here is a report in English.

  [School name deleted]: a magnificent one-day match

  On the 18th of December the under-12s of [deletion] played the under-12 reserves. The reserves won the toss and went to bat. Nalin Jamasinghe opened. He scored a delicious 95 from 110 balls. Then he hit the ball for a six. It was magnificent. Asela Kudararalage was third man and he was near the boundary. He ran, fell and stood up. He jumped and flyed and caught the ball. It was magnificent. Nalin was out. Next Mohan Liyanage batted. He batted carefully and sometimes he batted fiercely, and he got 25 runs from 40 balls. He scored two sixes. By the end we had 150 runs from 150 balls!

  ‘The reserves took a magnificent three wickets in 45 balls at first. (The under-12s scored only 28!) But then the under-12s scored 83 more. We dropped two catches and made many no balls. The under-12 batsmen tried and tried. Our fielders did not try enough. Mohan Liyanage was not fine leg but bad leg. He missed an easy catch. At the last Nalin caught the batsman out, but it was a no ball. So the match was a draw.

  ‘This was a real match. About this draw and our draw in the First Test against Australia in December. Which would you choose?

  ‘I will look hard at your answer. Computers are clever.

  Mohan’

  ‘Dear Mohan

  Yes, Bobby was white. It’s been decided that no one can adopt him. His sister will still go to a family. That makes me feel much more for him than for myself.

  ‘Anyway, here are Tate’s details and picture. He’s nearly eight and loves football. Is that a teenage mutant hero turtle on the grass?!

  ‘I’ve told the people who arrange these things about the size of my flat and my lessened workload and you – even what you’d like in a boy. But I’m afraid it isn’t simple. Over here, not so many boys like cricket. You and I may have to convert him.

  ‘Your cricket report was magnificent and delicious. Your question about the two draws is obviously a test. Before you look at my answer, ask someone else who cares for you the same question.

  ‘(Here’s a pause. Imagine me waiting.)

  ‘Now here goes. I’d choose the match you played in – like anyone who cares for you, I expect (wouldn’t a computer choose the more skilful, exciting game?). I hope you’re happy with my answer. If not, please don’t stop writing – or decide I’m a cunning computer.

  ‘Warm wishes to your family as ever.

  Martine

  ‘P.S. Another good reason: getting to your match would be half the distance of Brisbane. (Only joking. But here’s a point: can computers joke?)

  ‘P.P.S. People say they must separate Bobby from his sister because of the hard life they’d had together. And by the way, white English “parents” mostly adopt white children: the people in charge here feel that white people wouldn’t appreciate a dark child’s background, and that a family’s colours should match. Some of us think we notice colour too much. How about you?’

  Martine might have had fractured memories of her fortieth birthday, but Saturday 31 March she knew she would recall.

  The moon was new, keeping its distance. It was 9:30, and near Stockwell, in Kennington Park, crowds were gathering to march against the poll tax. Friends were going; she’d thought about joining them. But she was a single householder, ambivalent about the issues. Anyway it was a fine spring day with other possibilities, other reasons to be out there.

  The day before, Norwich had rung her. Fiona, the woman she’d been dealing with, had said that with Tate, they could ‘proceed to the next stage’, which was showing him a photo album and a video about her. This wasn’t the same as it had been with Kieran, or with Bobby. Martine had sat about for them, head on her home desk or the kitchen counter or between her legs on a deckchair by that Florida pool letting out obstructed grunts, hearing how ridiculous they sounded and admitting defeat: that she couldn’t force a boy to come, couldn’t even force tears. Mohan’s letters of opinionated support were pegged to a wire along her study wall, now seeming almost like prayer scripts she could turn to. With Mohan behind her and the Norwich news of Tate, something really felt promised.

  With the college videocam, she bowled from home with a slew of ideas for her film. For the muddy-kneed boy who, according to the snaps they’d sent, could land a ball in a net she shot the sun-drenched opening to Stockwell tube. For his hopes to do it again in front of someone caring, she panned round the double platform, the posters and waiting travellers. For him she took off her hat, fiddled with her hair, then couldn’t find somewhere to rest the camera to film herself. She recorded her hello to him unseen.

  ‘We’re going to travel under the River Thames. I hear you’re keen on trains.’

  She merrily ignored other people’s glances. She explained that the station was hers, then corrected that it could be Tate’s and hers. She found herself describing her father’s old job, managing the Metropolitan and Bakerloo stock at Neasden. Tate’s dad hadn’t managed anything, including drink or drugs. Both men are lost to us, she thought.

  There was a shake and a violent rattle and, like an emblem of her future, a train shuddered, unretractable, out of the black hole of the tunnel. She filmed its squeal to a stop and swung into a seat.

  She popped a couple of Feminax for the grinding menstrual pain. Thousands were mustering overground, crossing the water over bridges, and still the train was almost full. The later Saturday workers, shoppers and stray protesters with placards and banners, jolting from time to time under the white light of the carriage.

  A black woman reading the Bible threw back her head and beamed at Martine as if she radiated something.

  Nodding at the camera in her lap, a youth addressed her, breaking tube etiquette. ‘You coming?’

  ‘Nah.’ She smiled.

  Reflections of faces turned to her, stretching in the window opposite, their elongated eyes seeming to take particular meaning from the pork pie hat and petticoat dress with its carnival citrus fruit and flowers: surely she’d got to be going somewhere. She romanticised, And I am: to my own demonstration, a demonstration of the new page I blathered squiffily to Mum about; I’m going to fold it, shape it, make something magical of it.

  From her bag she flipped through the morning’s post: a resubscription notice, a card from Matthias in Rome and a letter with a London postmark. InterRelate. Mohan’s spurts of script showed through the envelope. Why diverted through London? she wondered. An official scolding again?

  She tackled Mohan’s letter first.

  ‘Dear Miss Martine

  Brothers and sisters should stay together. How could that life be too hard? I do not [boy’s writing incomplete]

  ‘About white people having dark children. Nalin and I found tatta as usual. Tatta said to senior father, “Pieter’s white nearly parents have stolen him from Sinhalese people who could have had him.” Pieter doesn’t talk to us any more.

  ‘Tatta said, “The Dutch and the British will always patronise us. They still think they need to rescue us from ourselves.”

  ‘I do not [boy’s writing deleted] know some of the words.

  ‘Senior father sometimes says “unhygienic ugly swarthy people”. He does not mean the Dutch or British.

  ‘Tatta says, “They’re [expletive deleted] no such thing. They shouldn’t harm us, we shouldn’t [expletive deleted] harm them, deprive them or even insult them. One nation should stick together.”

  ‘Also he says the Indian soldiers are taking something from us. I do not [boy’s writing incomplete] It is confusing.

  ‘You can adopt a white boy. What a pity Tate is not 8. In the picture he is scoring a goal. He might make a good batsman.

  ‘I am going out to [boy’s writing incomplete]

  ‘About your answer, the two matches. Nalin says think about it, a computer would say Miss Martine prefers not to travel to the sea and America and other places or get an English boy. It would say you prefer to come and sleep on our veranda. So you are probably not a c
omputer.

  ‘Tell those people your boy must write to me soon. He must come soon.

  ‘I am going to practise my [boy’s writing incomplete]

  Mohan’

  Martine’s grin hardly shifted reading the formal letter attached. She thought, With Tate on the horizon everything’s OK: nothing can puncture me – not official words, not anything.

  She roused herself. Most passengers were leaving, and confusingly she was on the Northern line, not the Victoria line she needed for Tate’s video. She’d been autopiloting towards work when she wasn’t going to work, and now they’d stopped at Oval, and she registered the human swarm bearing placards away towards the surface, making for the park, the rallying point for the protest. Out on the platform, in the scrum of marchers, she laughed at herself and re-thought: if she went up too, she could walk the rest of the way.

  At street level, through the drumming of tin cans and the din of practice chants, someone shouted, ‘Martine! Over here!’

  She spotted Claire. Her workmate was in the sun-filled entrance craning over the mob, waving a balloon printed with the words, ‘Blow up the poll tax.’ Some of Martine’s co-passengers called out to Claire, elbowing past. There was a knot with Claire already, hyped-up for marching. Claire called out to Martine, assuming she would join them.

  Martine shuffled to her as the mob channelled round them. Over the road, against the budding trees of Kennington Park, humanity seethed. Home-made flags, jugglers on stilts, costumes, one wild trumpet. Martine shouted in Claire’s ear the reason she couldn’t march that day, that her plan was to go shooting the Tate for Tate.

  Claire looked at her beadily, so Martine thought she’d understood, but then she grabbed her arm. ‘Come on!’

  Claire hustled her with husband Rollo and their sheepdog and her gang across the road. Rollo and she were extolling the protest to the dog: Their doggy child substitute, Martine smiled. She felt weird, as if she was in two parties at the same venue: the crowd’s excitement wasn’t hers.

  She shook off Claire’s grip. ‘I have to make this film.’