Moon Pie

by Simon Mason

  They still hadn’t talked properly about what had happened, and Dad couldn’t remember. Early Sunday morning, more than a week after his collapse, Tug and Martha sat on his bed and finally told him what they had done when they found him. Martha was shy about it. It seemed easier for Tug.

  ‘We rolled you,’ he said. ‘And washed you. And rolled you again. Martha helped me, didn’t you, Martha?’

  She nodded.

  ‘You’d wee’d in your pyjamas,’ Tug added. ‘And you’d sicked yourself. But I was still quiet.’

  Dad lay back on the pillows holding their hands, listening. Generally he was silent; occasionally he groaned. He looked very different now. His face was thinner and greyish, his eyes were quiet but anxious. The wild-eyed, shiny-faced Stranger had gone, and, miraculously, Dad was back again, paler and weaker, but Dad nonetheless.

  ‘I nearly wrecked everything,’ he said. He squeezed Martha’s hand. ‘You saved me. I didn’t deserve it. Now, I promise you, things really are going to be different.’

  Every morning the following week he got up early and made breakfast for them all. After showering, he would put on one of his smart suits and spend the rest of the morning on the telephone, talking to old colleagues in the television industry and making plans for meetings. In the afternoons they went out together, to play in the park, or to the shops, or for a walk along the canal. Twice they had picnics, and three times Martha cooked pie.

  In the evenings, after Tug had gone to bed, Dad and Martha often sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea, talking. Dad was calm and careful. He said he was happy too, though every so often a look of sadness came over his face. Once or twice he talked about Mum, something he had never done before.

  ‘Do you miss her very much?’ Martha asked.

  Their eyes met and he looked away, and nodded.

  Martha thought. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Is that why you drank?’

  None of the books or brochures she had read explained why people drank.

  Now Dad thought. He frowned. ‘No,’ he said at last.

  ‘Then why? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  After a while he said, ‘Do you remember that time in the diving pool?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was like that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I didn’t want to hit the water, but I couldn’t get out of the way in time.’

  For a while he was quiet. ‘It’s over now,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve been to a terrible place, and I’m never going back there. Thanks to you, we’re going to be all right. Really all right. I promise. Now we can begin again.’

  They had a meeting over tea. Dad hosted it, but Martha cooked the food, and Tug said he was in charge.

  Dad had a pad of paper. He said, ‘The purpose of this meeting is to decide the future. Because in the future things are going to be different. It’s very simple. We each say what we want. I’ll write it down. Then we try to make it happen. Tug, you go first. What do you want?’

  It was odd how such a simple question could appear so hard.

  ‘I’ll help you,’ Dad said, after a while. ‘Think of little things first. Like … pies.’

  ‘What pies?’ Tug said at once.

  ‘Whatever pies you like.’

  Tug thought hard for several minutes.

  ‘Come on, Tug.’

  ‘I can’t decide,’ he said at last, getting upset. ‘Steak and kidney is my favourite. But I like mince and onion.’

  ‘Yes, but you can have both.’

  Tug considered this. ‘I might be sick. Can’t I have half of each?’

  Dad tried to explain again. ‘I’m just going to write down Pies, Tug. That means that in the future you want a pie for tea from time to time. OK?’

  ‘But when?’ he said.

  ‘Martha will explain later. Let’s move on. Martha?’

  ‘How about going on holiday?’

  ‘Good.’ Dad wrote it down. ‘Very important.’

  ‘How about going on more picnics?’ Tug said.

  Dad wrote it down. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’

  Dad’s list started to grow.

  After a while, Dad said, ‘OK. That’s all good. Now what about things that take longer to happen?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well. This house is a bit small.’

  ‘A bigger house?’ Martha said.

  ‘Why not? If that’s what you want. Once I get a new job we’ll be able to afford it.’

  ‘With a play den?’ Tug asked. ‘I didn’t know we could ask for play dens.’

  The list grew longer.

  ‘What about you, Dad?’ Martha asked. ‘You haven’t said anything yet.’

  ‘This isn’t about me.’

  ‘But you said we should all choose something.’

  Dad thought for a moment. ‘All right. This is what I want. I want to get up early enough to take you both to school again after the summer holidays.’

  They all thought about that.

  ‘Is that it?’ Tug said.

  Martha said, ‘I like it.’

  ‘But will you shave and put proper clothes on?’ Tug asked.

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘All right then. You can write it down.’

  In this way the list got very long, and when they had finished it, Dad pinned it up in the kitchen, next to the calendar, so they could all see it.

  Over the next few days Martha often stopped to look at the list. She was very pleased with it. It was so much happier than the lists she was used to writing herself, and real too, like the future just waiting to happen. At the same time, somehow, it made her feel sad too, she didn’t know why.

  Several days went by before she realized that it described almost exactly what their life was like before Mum died.

  29

  July ended and August began in a blaze of sunshine. Now that it was the holiday season everything slowed down. People wore shorts or sundresses and sauntered along the streets as if they had nothing better to do, or strolled into the park and lay on the grass, and fell asleep in the middle of the afternoon with newspapers over their faces. The café put its tables and chairs outside so people could sit in the sun, and on Friday nights there was an open-air film on a screen set up among the trees. A fun fair arrived on the waste ground by the canal, and for three days everything smelled of candy floss.

  Laura went on holiday for a fortnight, Marcus went to do work experience at a fashion magazine called Catwalk Crazy! and Tug played football every day at a soccer school. Martha and Dad spent a lot of time with each other. If he was working at home, they had lunch together. If he went into town for a meeting, she went with him so that they could go to a café afterwards. Although he still hadn’t got a full-time job, he had taken on some short-term projects and was hopeful of getting a proper job soon.

  He was hopeful in general. Cheerful too. He met Dr Woodley for a consultation and was given the contact details for a number of agencies in case he needed help in the future. He also telephoned the Social Services, to explain things. One afternoon he even went to talk to Grandma and Grandpa. They were unfriendly, he reported, but at least they acknowledged the change he had made, and he hoped that later they might all be able to get on together.

  By the middle of the summer holidays he was making jokes about the ‘dark days’ of the past. Remembering what he had looked like when he lay on the carpet in his dirty dressing gown, or when he snatched up the mug and threw it against the kitchen wall, Martha could hardly believe he was the same person, he had changed so much.

  In the evenings she no longer stood at the window looking out at the moon. She closed the curtains and went to bed and read her new library books, I Capture the Castle and We Didn’t Mean to Go to Sea. And after Dad had turned her light off and kissed her good night, for a while she lay there quietly in the pale summer darkness, listening to the faint rasp of Tu
g snoring peacefully down the landing and the last songs of small sleepy birds from the bushes outside. Somehow, in the end, Dad had been right. They were all right. They were even tremendous.

  In the middle of August the Costumes Club held its annual Summer Exhibition, and Martha was excited to find that her trench coat was being displayed in the ‘Movie Classics’ section. Marcus, who felt a strong sense of ownership in the coat, was excited too. On the opening night they met to see it. It was convenient because Dad and Tug were going out that evening to the cinema.

  At five thirty Dad dropped her off at the Community Centre, promising to pick her up again at nine, and she went inside to find Marcus.

  The Community Centre was a gloomy Victorian building with a winding stone staircase going up to a dull hall. The hall windows were small and dusty, the walls were flaking and the little stage at the end was full of props. The Costumes Club people had done their best to make it more cheerful with last year’s Christmas decorations, but the bunting was faded, the pendants were creased and the displays of costumes on an assortment of racks and hangers gave the event the sad air of a jumble sale.

  Marcus was wearing evening dress, a white silk scarf and a top hat.

  ‘Martha, my love, I’m distressed. I thought it was a fashion show. Where’s the catwalk? Where are the models?’

  Martha explained.

  He wondered out loud: ‘Is this the right sort of exposure for our trench coat?’

  Before they looked round they sat on stackable plastic chairs at the back of the hall with a free cup of tea and two biscuits each.

  ‘I’m sorry you don’t like the show, Marcus. You look nice in your evening dress.’

  ‘Thank you. It’s my father’s. How odd to think he would have such a thing. I had to make alterations. The two-tone cuffs, you see, and the suede kipper lapels.’

  ‘Did you do them yourself?’

  ‘I did. As I get older, I realize how interested I am in fashion.’

  They sat watching people.

  After a while Marcus said, ‘Everyone here is very old, have you noticed? It’s all parents and grandparents. Where are the members of the club?’

  Martha laughed. ‘These are them.’

  ‘Isn’t the Costumes Club for people our age?’

  ‘No. It’s for adults. Most of them are quite elderly.’

  Marcus stared at her. ‘Aren’t there any other young people?’

  ‘Only me. What’s the matter?’

  ‘Martha!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re extraordinary! After all these years, I still don’t know you. Every Friday evening you come and sit in a dingy hall with a lot of old-age pensioners? I had no idea.’

  Martha asked him to keep his voice down. But he continued to be flabbergasted.

  ‘You’re the opposite of Laura. I’ve only just met Laura, and I already know everything about her. But you! You’re still a complete mystery.’

  Martha felt embarrassed. ‘Shall we look round now?’

  But Marcus would not shut up. ‘Take this business with your father, for instance. Anybody else in your position would be hysterical. But you’re so calm, so sensible. Nothing upsets you.’

  ‘Let’s go and find the trench coat.’

  ‘Then there’s the business with your mother.’

  ‘What about my mother?’

  ‘Don’t be snappish. We both know that if you wanted to you could be a wonderful actress, like her. But you mysteriously refuse.’

  ‘The truth is, I can’t act.’

  ‘Nonsense. You’re acting all the time. I can see through you. The truth is, Martha, my dear, you’re strange.’

  Martha gasped. ‘Me, strange?’

  Marcus smiled to himself. ‘A woman of mystery,’ he murmured. ‘By the way,’ he added, ‘how is your father?’

  Martha thought carefully before she answered. ‘I think he’s getting better.’

  ‘Martha, that’s wonderful. Take credit. Your beautiful calm has cured him.’

  Briefly he held her hand, and they smiled at one another.

  ‘Strange girl,’ he added.

  Then they went round the show. The trench coat had been much admired and had received a special commendation from the judges. Marcus offered to model it on the stage to music which he had brought with him, but the organizers did not think it appropriate.

  At nine o’clock he went home and Martha waited outside for Dad.

  Dad was late. At first Martha waited by the roadside, then, as it grew dark, by the entrance to the Community Centre. She phoned Dad several times, but he never answered.

  The street lights came on. It was a quiet part of the city and there were few people about, but every so often someone walked past, and looked at Martha standing alone in the doorway, and went on again, and she listened to their footsteps fade away into the quietness. The sky darkened quickly and the street filled with shadows.

  As she waited, Martha thought about what Marcus had said. She couldn’t understand it at all. Marcus was the one who was strange, everyone knew that.

  I am the most ordinary eleven-year-old I know, she thought, and to reassure herself she made a list in her mind of the things she did outside school:

  Cooked.

  Sewed.

  Looked after Tug.

  Looked after Dad.

  There was nothing strange about any of these things.

  Still Dad didn’t come.

  At a quarter to ten she decided to catch the bus, but just as she began to walk down the street towards the bus stop he arrived in the car with a squeal of brakes.

  ‘Very sorry! Got stuck in traffic on the way back from the Odeon.’

  She got in the back and they set off.

  The problem with Marcus, she thought, must be that he doesn’t like old people. Otherwise, why would he keep talking about the people at Costumes Club? She liked old people herself, except perhaps Grandma and Grandpa. But that was different.

  ‘What did you say, Dad?’

  But Dad didn’t answer, he just squinted at her in the rear-view mirror and carried on driving. After a moment she heard him muttering again.

  ‘Are you talking to yourself?’

  He shook his head and carried on muttering.

  At once she had a feeling that something wasn’t quite right.

  ‘Dad, aren’t you driving a bit fast?’

  He didn’t say anything.

  ‘Dad? Where’s Tug? I thought he’d be with you.’

  ‘Fast asleep. Couldn’t wake him.’

  ‘But I thought you went to a film together. Dad?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Didn’t you and Tug go to see a film?’

  ‘No. Couldn’t wake him. Too tired.’

  She felt her heart start to race.

  ‘But you just said you were coming back from the Odeon.’

  Dad didn’t say anything.

  ‘Dad!’ she cried.

  He didn’t say a word, just glared at her over his shoulder, and she saw then that his eyes were glazed.

  ‘Dad!’

  They went round the next bend too fast. There was a van coming the other way and they swerved to avoid it. Spinning out of control, they hit a bollard, skidded back across the road and crashed head-on into the wall on the far side. It only took a few seconds. There was a wild swirl of lights and the deafening roar of the engine and tyres screaming and someone shouting.

  Then nothing.

  30

  Later, when Martha tried to remember what had happened, it was all confused.

  Of the actual crash she retained only a vague impression of being flung from side to side. What came next was clear in bits, but disorganized: she remembered an ambulance, and three or four doctors all asking her the same questions at different times, and sitting on the pavement watching Dad stand in the road to stop the traffic, and a man in green overalls talking to someone she couldn’t see, and Dad being breathalysed by a policeman; but she couldn’t p
ut these memories in the right order. Things were clearer when she woke up the next morning in a hospital bed. After that, she remembered things in their proper place.

  To her surprise, she was glad to be in hospital. She was tired all the time. As soon as she started to think about something bad, she would fall asleep. A nurse said it was the medicine.

  It was different for Dad. Although he escaped the crash with hardly any injuries, afterwards he went to pieces.

  31

  The lady from the Social Services arrived on the same day that Martha came home. Her name was Alison. She had straight blonde hair held back with a slide, and wore a knee-length tweed skirt and boots.

  The Social Services had fast-tracked Dad’s ‘assessment’ as soon as the police informed them about the accident. There were a number of issues to consider, Alison said, not only the crash itself, caused by Dad’s drunkenness, but the fact that Tug had been left in the house on his own, and the previous reports, received from their grandparents, detailing various other items of persistent neglect dating back several months.

  By the time Martha saw her, Alison had already interviewed Dad, and when Martha was called into the front room he stayed in the kitchen with Tug, as requested.

  Limping slightly, Martha went across the room, slowly lowered herself into the easy chair and sat upright. She looked different. While she was in hospital a nurse who’d felt sorry for her had plaited her hair, and it hung now in two thick braids, like copper rope. She was pale, and pinched, and when she pointed her nose towards Alison, her whole face looked fragile.

  ‘How are you managing?’ Alison asked. ‘Is it awkward?’

  It was awkward. With her arm in a sling, Martha had to do everything one-handed, which made the simplest movements, like opening doors and even sitting down, unexpectedly difficult. If she forgot to keep the arm still, she felt a stabbing pain in her shoulder, and there was a grinding feeling under the splint where the collarbone was broken.

  ‘How long do you have to keep it on?’

  ‘Six weeks.’

  ‘And how long were you in hospital?’

  ‘Four days.’

  They had kept her in for observation, because of the concussion.

  Alison had a tape recorder with her, and she set it up on the coffee table and started recording.