Stones

by Polly Johnson

  ‘Leave her,’ Banks says.

  Alec halts, then steps forward again like a dog barely under control. ‘She owes me,’ he says. ‘I gave him one and he didn’t come back. I did what she wanted to do, didn’t I, girl?’

  He looks me in the eye and grins and then he growls ‘Stoner Sam. I gave him one and you should say thank you!’

  A thrill runs through me. What does he mean? I glance at Banks but he’s looking down at his feet and saying nothing. I turn from them both and walk away, my mind closing round Alec’s words like a fist.

  The path down is a long gullet of darkness and I’m glad when I reach the promenade. There’s a low, heavy moon hanging over the water, circled by an icy ring. I watch it as I walk, while in my mind a new plan forms. I concentrate on it, perhaps to avoid thinking about anything else. It’s a crazy idea, but I think I’ll do it.

  24.

  Thought Diary: ‘It takes as much energy to wish as it does to plan.’ Eleanor Roosevelt.

  I tell Joe about it next day. Not about what Alec said, because I still can’t think about that. Instead I tell him about my plan for giving Banks the Christmas he deserves, which can’t happen without some help.

  We meet in one of our favourite shops. It sells all this funny stuff that’s no use to anyone really, like rabbit-shaped bottle openers, magnetic dartboards and cartoon T-shirts. I find Joe by a display of grow-your-own-boyfriends and hope I won’t be getting one for Christmas.

  His face is sad. He’s chewing his lip, and his pale skin and bleached hair make him look like an angel. I creep up close, blow on the back of his neck and make him jump.

  ‘Hey, Coo,’ he grins. ‘You startled me.’

  ‘Who’d you think it was?’

  ‘No one,’ he says.

  We wander round the shops and I slowly relax. I buy Joe a T-shirt with a strip across the front that lights up, and he buys one for me that looks blank except under ultraviolet light.

  ‘You’ll have to come out with me one night,’ he says. ‘Just to see what’s on it.’

  By the time we’re done, the darkness is coming down. The shops are open late, still full of people, and the air is high and cold, thick with the smell of doughnuts and winter candyfloss. There’ll be a mist over the sea before long.

  As we wander out into a square, I hear music and there’s the little group of men and women again in their dark uniforms. People are walking past as if the musicians are ghosts that no one but I can see, although sometimes a lone shopper will drop a coin into their collecting tin.

  The brass instruments have a lonely sound; a note in them that makes you think of things you’ve missed or no longer have, until they strike up a brighter tune and then it makes you smile. Joe has walked on, not realising I have stopped, and he’s come back to find me. ‘What are you doing with this lot?’ he asks. ‘Let’s go…’

  ‘I like it, Joe. It’s nice.’

  ‘I’ll meet you at the cash point then,’ he says, and strides away as if he can’t bear to be near them.

  One of the women smiles at me. They’ve stopped playing and are packing away their instruments. I give the woman my last pound, and then ask her.

  ‘You take in homeless people, don’t you? You know – at Christmas.’

  She puts her tambourine in a cloth bag and looks up at the sky a moment.

  ‘We do that all year round,’ she says. ‘But especially at Christmas, yes. Did you have something in mind?’

  I stare at her. I remember one Christmas, one terrible year, when these people looked after Sam when he was so bad we couldn’t have him at home. That was the worst ever. We sat round the table with paper hats on, pretending everything was normal – that one of us wasn’t out in the cold somewhere, being looked after by strangers. I feel my cheeks burning as if I should still be ashamed, but I wasn’t then. I was just glad to sleep in peace.

  She’s still looking at me, waiting, so I go on. ‘Do you ever play along the seafront?’ I ask. ‘Right along where the train stops – where no one goes? Up top I mean – along the road.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she says, smiling. ‘Should we?’

  I think for a moment. Joe comes back and stops some way off, waiting for me. I lean in and whisper to the woman and she listens and nods, as if what I’m asking is the most normal thing in the world.

  25.

  Thought Diary: ‘The origins of the mince pie lie in the medieval chewet (also spelled chewette), which was a fried or baked pastry containing chopped liver or other meat mixed with boiled egg yolks, dried fruit, and spices. By the 16C it had become a Christmas favourite.’ Courtesy of Wikipedia. Gross.

  Mum and I make mince pies. It’s all part of my plan. When I asked about making them she seemed so pleased that I felt guilty, but it’s okay now because I’m enjoying it. We turn the radio on, get all the stuff out of the cupboards and wash our hands while the air warms and covers the windows with steam.

  ‘This is lovely,’ Mum says. ‘It’s been so long since we did this.’

  The kitchen is warm and sticky, with flour dusting the work surfaces like a light snow. Hot and spicy smells from the mincemeat and the warm oven fill my nostrils. We open the back door a crack to let the cool air in and Mum smiles and fans her face. She has a glass of wine on the go and she’s sticking cloves into oranges, sucking her fingers every now and again and singing to the radio when a party song comes on. Her face is relaxed and her mouth is curved upwards; for this short time, she’s forgotten.

  When the mince pies are done and cooling on the table, Dad comes in and raises his eyebrows at us. ‘Hello my girls,’ he says, and snatches a pie. I watch him sort his mail out in the hall, loosening his tie and humming quietly. I wonder if he and Mum still kiss, or dance together like I remember they used to when I was small. I turn the pies round and move them apart so they don’t stick. There are two trays altogether. One for us here at home, and one I persuaded mum to let me have, along with some other bits and pieces. I told her they were for the Salvation Army, which in a way they are.

  It’s a really cold night, and I’m beginning to wonder if this is such a good idea. Ben and Matt have parked at the top of the steps along from The Mansion and I can tell they aren’t at all sure about letting us go down alone. When I first told them what I was planning, they just sat there staring at me, then at each other. ‘We can’t let you do that,’ Ben said. ‘What if something happened?’

  ‘It’s… charity,’ I said. ‘Mum would never let me, and I knew you’d help.’

  Matt snorted. ‘Charity? This is about your tramp, isn’t it? But I suppose if we don’t help, you’ll do it anyway, right?’

  I looked at his worried face, and at Ben – always one step behind him, a little older, a little more responsible. I felt a bit guilty then, but only for a moment. And now, here we are.

  I’d like them to come down with us, but just knowing they’re there makes me feel better. Matt is loading Joe up with the big silver tray that no one would know is only made of plastic, and I have three big bags packed with everything else. Ben’s dark, long features are puzzled, but he looks warm and comfortable in his expensive coat and trendy scarf. Matt, in comparison, looks cold. He’s wearing short sleeves like he always does, and he’s fiddling with his eyebrow ring, which means he’s nervous.

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ I assure them, anxious to get on with it. ‘Really fine. If the worst comes to the worst we’ll just go home, no worries. You’ve been really great, honest.’

  ‘We’ll be back in an hour,’ Ben says. ‘No arguments.’

  Joe is standing awkwardly, balancing the tray and a big flask. He’s still grumpy about being persuaded to do this, but he’s doing it anyway and that’s all that counts. I wouldn’t dare do it alone. He tips his head towards the stairway and we go, waving to Ben and Matt as well as we can before we disappear from view – swallowed up by darkness. It’s hard to see where my feet are going, and I suddenly realise something. ‘Joe!’ I whisper, halti
ng in mid-step. ‘I’m not so sure about this…’

  Joe sighs behind me. ‘Too bloody late!’ he hisses. ‘Now move it before I drop all this.’

  When we reach the ground, it’s even darker. We’re on the woody path that runs along the bottom of the wall and there’s nothing to do but keep walking. We pass the alcove with Banks’ seat in it and it looks so much like a hollow mouth that my heart starts beating faster. Anyone could be in there, or anything.

  We stumble out of the bushes at last and find ourselves on the wide concrete sweep in front of The Mansion. The spiky green plants look like they’re made of wax and we can hear the sea sing its windy song somewhere to the right. Far above our heads, a gull keens on the edge of hearing.

  ‘It’s very quiet,’ Joe whispers, and he’s right. I hadn’t thought of this. I hadn’t considered for a moment that they might not be here.

  ‘I did tell him,’ I say to Joe. ‘I said I’d be here. Maybe he expected me earlier. I didn’t tell him why. What do we do now?’

  Joe puts down the stuff and moves towards the dark slots of the vacant doorways. I hear him go in, then the sound of his voice before he comes out.

  ‘There’s a candle,’ he says, ‘and this old man sleeping… maybe we should just go?’

  We stand like visitors at a hospital, unaware that someone has died and not knowing what the delay is. Then suddenly we hear voices, and Banks appears, pushing a huge metal drum like a giant’s empty bean can. There’s a strange man with him, but no Alec. Maybe it’s going to be okay.

  The big drum used to hold oil apparently, but now Banks is filling it with rubbish. Bits of wood and paper, cartons and broken boxes; anything he can drag from some store they have. Finally it’s full and they pour what smells like petrol onto it and light a match, dropping it in so it bursts into flame and floods the area with a surge of devilish light.

  The old man comes staggering out, attracted by the commotion, and I smile at him. ‘Happy Christmas you lot,’ I tell them. ‘I’ve brought you an early Christmas Day.’

  It’s the oddest time I’ve ever had. There are six of us sitting on boxes before the oil drum, and in front of us is a big cloth with all the things we brought spread out on it. There are the mince pies and a chocolate log, a plate of turkey sandwiches and what’s left of a box of crackers from last year. I also managed to get some pickled onions and orange juice from the cupboard at home, and two pots of gravy from a kebab shop on the way down. The gravy’s cold now, but no one seems to mind.

  Joe has his wind-up radio on, and the old man is singing. He looks quite insane in a green paper hat, squinting desperately at the little slip of paper he’s pulled from his cracker, trying to read the joke. Everything is going well until we start to eat, when Alec suddenly appears. He hovers nearby, staring and swiping at his face as though he can’t believe what’s in front of him. The cold I feel is more about fear now than the icy wind. He comes closer, peering round at us. His eyes linger on me and his mouth opens as if to speak, but Banks interrupts him. ‘Mate,’ he says. ‘Have some food.’

  Alec wrenches his eyes from my face to the sandwich in Banks’ hand, and it’s like a switch has tipped in his head. He turns, drags a broken box across to the circle and sits down, miraculously silent. He holds his hands out to the flames, eyes closed, rocking. Joe meets my eyes and he mouths a silent ‘pheeeew’.

  We sit in our weird circle: the old man in a paper hat, Banks eating cake with a pair of plastic earrings dangling, and the man who came with him – who smells a bit but is friendly enough – trying to heat a bit of turkey over the flames.

  It’s so cold out that my back is prickly with goosebumps, even while my face burns in the glow from the oil drum. The radio bursts out with ‘So Here it is, Merry Christmas’ and the old man, who Joe is trying to talk to, begins to sing in a high pitched voice. Joe leans forward into the light, his lips still moving as he reads a cracker joke above the wailing song, and the old man falls silent. He rocks to and fro, white beard tucked into his dirty collar, the broken fly of his trousers flashing a bit of white thigh. I look across at Banks, to find he’s already looking at me.

  By the time we finish the food, a hard bright moon is hanging over the ocean, and the air is so cold we make frost clouds with our breath. We huddle round the oil drum and stamp our feet, watching the old man as he moves on the edge of the darkness. The radio is playing slow stuff, and his small figure dances in and out of the firelight. Every moment it looks like he might trip over, but he doesn’t – just turns and twirls, hands out and resting on the shoulders of someone only he can see.

  Alec, however, is getting agitated. He keeps trying to go over and join in, then darting back and muttering. I think it’s time to pack up.

  Joe must have the same idea, because he’s already gathering up the remains: the plastic dishes, the knives and forks. Banks takes my arm and steers me into the dark, up the narrow path to the landing above, where we stand looking down at the fleeting figure of the old man and the path of moonlight across the water.

  Banks smiles at me, and though he’s drunk, tonight he doesn’t smell of it.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘Thanks. You’re some girl.’

  Just at this moment we hear music. I look up towards the road, my heart jumping in my chest. I can’t believe they’ve really come! There’s someone playing a trumpet! Banks is staring up, his teeth white in the moonlight, his eyes wide. The shape of a Salvation Army bonnet appears over the edge of the wall, and a hand waves down.

  ‘Happy Christmas,’ she calls. ‘And don’t forget where we are on Christmas Day.’

  Banks starts to laugh, but it turns into a horrible cough. Soon he’s doubled over, tearing out his lungs, and down below Alec starts screaming. ‘Shut up! Shut up! The Devil will hear you.’

  A moment later, Joe’s voice comes from the darkness nearby. ‘Coo,’ he says, ‘we need to go. It’s getting late.’

  Banks is sitting on the bench, head hanging, and when I start to speak he just waves me away. I leave him to it and follow Joe, dragging him to a halt.

  ‘We can’t just go…’ I say, but Joe pushes me in the back.

  ‘Get on. It’s way too late. You did what you wanted and it was good. Now let’s go.’

  He seems nervous and when I look behind him, there’s Alec. He’s almost on us; a black shadow moving silently. He sees me and stops.

  ‘Move,’ says Joe.

  Up on the promenade, Matt and Ben are there with the car, just as they promised. They’re standing on the concrete looking over the parapet, and when we come up I hear Matt sigh with relief. Joe bundles everything into the boot and we get in quickly. The car is a warm island of safety and we sink into the seats gratefully.

  ‘Everything go all right?’ Matt asks. Joe nods, then leans forward, talking in a low voice. I hope it’s not about Banks, but I can’t seem to hear. It’s like I’ve gone deaf or something, or I’m underwater.

  26.

  Thought Diary: ‘Nothing is ever as perfect as you want it to be.’ Brian Patten. Poem we did in English. True.

  Christmas comes and goes in the same strange way as the evening at The Mansion. The whole thing is like a game. We haven’t got used to being this new Family-Without-Sam yet, and even though Christmases with him in them were never good, now he’s gone it’s worse, but we manage. We sit together on the sofa, with Mum leaning back against Dad, who keeps turning his head to look at me and draw me in. His glance is like a break of sunlight when spring is coming and the patches of ice begin to melt and flow whether they want to or not. After a time they can’t help themselves and run freely – down through the earth and onward to the sea.

  I see Joe and Raven a couple of times. One night we sit freezing on a bench by the sea and drink cider until we all feel pukey. Tonight we’ve gone to a pub that’s so full of people I can lift both feet off the floor and still stay upright. Often, when I look up, Joe’s eyes are distant, staring far away, somewhere in his own head.
Raven squeezes my hand and smiles, and we leave him alone, glad he’s at least there physically. I concentrate on our warmth and closeness and try not to think where Banks might be. I hope he’s in the warm somewhere like he promised, sitting with the other alkies and dossers over dinner, getting a present to take away afterwards. I have an image of him sitting with a lot of broken old men in paper hats, mumbling over carols and the afternoon film. Then I stop thinking altogether. After all, he’s not really like them – he’s only young; he won’t be like this for ever. I turn into a bear, hibernating in my room until spring; waiting for time to turn things green again.

  At last, the holidays end; Dad goes back to work and Mum opens the shop door to pick up any passing trade while she cleans the place out. Cold air floods in through the French windows and she hauls bits of furniture and glass lamps out onto the terrace. I could help her clean them but I don’t. Instead I go out, flipping up the hood of my coat and texting Joe to see if he’s free. When he doesn’t answer, I ring him.

  ‘Hey, Coo … how’s it been?’

  ‘Oh, you know. How’s it been with your dad and that?’

  ‘Not good. Being trapped in the house with him and all… look, I can’t really talk.’

  ‘Oh? Okay then. I was just wondering if—’

  ‘Actually I’m with someone – gotta go.’ And just like that he’s gone. I snap the phone shut, feeling angry. That’s what people are like. As long as they have nothing better to do, they’re all over you. As soon as something better comes along, they don’t want to know.

  I walk quickly past houses full of people, then make my way through the crush of shoppers and buy a pasty. I carry it against me like a pot of warm coals, walking as fast as I can along the dingy rails of the Volks Railway. By the time I get down to the bottom, the pasty’s stopped steaming but is still warm inside. I’m so glad to see Banks up ahead that I’d run if I didn’t think I’d look too keen.