The Spider Truces

by Tim Connolly

  “It’s not quite like that.”

  Ellis floated into class. Nothing could better the end of the school year. Two months of summer in the village beckoned and, after it, the deal he and his dad had struck would finally come of age, meaning that the next time he came to school he would do so independently, cycling to Hildenborough station on his own and taking the train to Orpington and arriving at school under his own steam. By then, he’d be two months from turning thirteen. He’d be grown up and free. On the way home each day, he’d freewheel down Philpotts Lane with his hands outstretched and his head thrown back and his eyes showered by sunlight breaking through the trees, the way people cycled in films.

  Ellis and two of his friends had decided that they would try alcohol for the first time. When they met in the park under the appointed tree at the start of lunch break, Ellis and Andre Heart immediately suspected that their commitment to alcoholic experimentation did not match Justin Dearly’s. For, whilst they came bearing two cans each of Top Deck shandy and ten B&H between them, Justin arrived armed with a Benylin bottle into which he had mixed cognac, Scotch, port and vodka from his dad’s drinks cabinet. Although the cocktail was given a comforting aftertaste by the residue cough mixture, one sip was more than enough for Ellis and Andre, who returned to supping their shandy with manful intent.

  In the slow, forward-shuffling line that entered the school hall that afternoon, Ellis and Andre Heart became aware that Justin Dearly could no longer support his own bodyweight. The obese and unpopular Reverend Mr Fullah wheezed his way through an opening prayer and then the headmaster motioned for his pupils and staff to sit. As Justin Dearly lowered himself unsteadily towards the moving target that seemed to be his chair, he took the chewing gum from his mouth and placed it carefully on the seat in front of him, moments before Roddy Stockton placed his backside on it. As the headmaster spoke, Justin leant forward in his seat and whispered repeatedly into Roddy Stockton’s ear, “It was me, it was me, it was me …”

  Irritation got the better of Roddy. “What was you?” he hissed.

  “It was me.”

  “What was?”

  “If you ask yourself later ‘Who did that?’, it was me.”

  “Prick!”

  Speeches dragged on and the need to rid himself of the shandy in his bladder was almost more than Ellis could bear. Just as he dared to hope that the service was ending, Mr Fullah hauled himself back up to the microphone.

  Ellis cursed Fullah and thought to himself, I don’t believe in fat vicars, not when there’s people starving in the world.

  “It is with great sadness,” Fullah said, “that I must inform you all of the unexpected death of one of the most long-serving figures in our school. Mr Marshall, who has been caretaker here for thirty-five years, died suddenly the night before last after a massive stroke.”

  The hall fell into polite silence.

  “Mr Marshall will be buried on Friday,” the chaplain added gravely.

  “GOOD! THE MISERABLE OLD BASTARD!”

  It was Justin’s voice that had reverberated across the hall, bearing a telltale slur. The standing masses turned and found Ellis O’Rourke bent double holding his crotch and Andre Heart urinating into Dylan Foster’s packed-lunch box. In between them, Justin Dearly slumped back on to his chair. Two members of staff wove their way towards the culprits. Then, as six hundred boys and girls sat down, Justin Dearly stood up. And moments after he stood up, he threw up, on Roddy Stockton. And as he was dragged away he smiled at Roddy Stockton and said, “That was me too.”

  “Sit down, Ellis,” Mr Teague said.

  He was a good headmaster. Everyone thought so, including Ellis. He limped a little and carried a large bundle of keys in his front trouser pocket and the net result was that you knew when he was approaching from quite a way off. When Ellis had been reported to him for singing “Friggin’ in the riggin’” at the top of his voice whilst walking to class, Mr Teague had quickly recognised that Ellis had no idea what the words meant and dealt with him kindly. That was two years ago and Ellis still didn’t know what the words meant.

  Mr Teague pulled up a chair next to Ellis.

  “Are you going to expel me?” Ellis asked.

  Mr Teague shook his head ruefully. “Quite the opposite,” he said. He delivered a mild warning on the perils of alcohol, then patted Ellis’s shoulder and told him to enjoy his summer holiday.

  “Do I have to do lines?”

  “No, you don’t. You just have to have a good summer.”

  “Oh. Ace! See you in September, sir. I’ll be coming by train, on my own. How great is that!” Ellis beamed, smelling freedom.

  And then, without a shadow of a doubt, Ellis saw the headmaster’s bottom lip tremble, as if he was going to cry.

  “I want you to take care of yourself, young man,” Mr Teague said, and ushered Ellis out hurriedly.

  Ellis wandered off to find Andre Heart, confused by the leniency shown him and trying to figure out what would be the opposite of being expelled.

  6

  Unlike most boys of his age, when Ellis decided to blank his dad completely, he could actually carry it off. Indefinitely. And this is what he did when Denny O’Rourke told him that he was going to a new school.

  “But you can still cycle to school, Ellis, like we agreed,” Denny offered. “From time to time, when the weather’s nice, I mean. You can cycle to your heart’s content when the conditions are safe, but not in winter.”

  “That’s not the point! And it doesn’t matter if it’s raining or snowing, I’m going to cycle on my own every day, every single day! I will never want a lift from you. You promised me I could catch the train alone to school in Orpington when I was thirteen. You promised and you’re a liar. I am never going to talk to you again because there’s no point because you’re a liar.”

  Denny expected Mafi to understand.

  “When I made that agreement with him, I meant it. But it’s come round too fast. He’s too young. He’s not ready.”

  “You mean you’re not,” she said.

  Chrissie was indignant on Ellis’s behalf and looked for an opportunity to make her point. She found it in the pages of the spider book.

  “This is interesting,” she announced over dinner. “Baby spiders go ballooning! It’s on page one hundred and fifty-four.” She looked her dad in the eye. “It’s how they leave home.”

  “Don’t read at the table,” Denny muttered.

  She ignored him and read aloud: “‘Dispersal of many spiderlings involves simply wandering off, or finding the nearest unoccupied space which will support a web. However, for moving quickly to a completely new area, spiderlings go by air. This aerial dispersal – known as “ballooning” – is most effectively carried out when warm days follow a cold spell and air currents are rising. The spider moves to a relatively high point, points the abdomen skywards, and lets out strands of silk from the spinners. Success comes when they are carried upwards.’”

  Denny snatched the book away. “I’ve read that bit too.” He read aloud. “‘The down side to ballooning,’” he repeated the words with emphasis, “the down side … is being eaten alive by swallows, caught in the webs of other spiders, frozen several thousand metres up, drowned in the sea or lakes or landing in other unfavourable environments.’”

  “Wow,” said Mafi, missing the point, “isn’t that amazing and wonderful, Ellis?”

  “No!” Denny snapped. “It’s dangerous, that’s the point. Lots of these spiders die when they leave the nest.”

  “What nest, Dad?” Chrissie taunted him. “We weren’t talking about birds …”

  “Oh, belt up for once, Chrissie!”

  The venom in Denny’s voice was foreign and excessive.

  “That book suits you when it suits you, doesn’t it?” Chrissie said.

  Denny gritted his teeth. His face reddened. “I’m just trying to protect you both and all you’ve got is smart-alec comments,” he muttered.

  “Prot
ect us from what? Look at us! We’re so bloody safe it aches. We don’t do anything or go anywhere!”

  “That’s exactly what—” Denny stopped himself.

  He stared at the tablecloth. Then he marched across the room and rammed the spider book into the waste bin and walked out.

  Ellis placed the book under a stack of Chrissie’s LPs, to flatten it out. He woke next morning curled up under the bed sheet and drenched in sweat. He could feel the weight of thousands of tiny spiders on top of the sheet. Determined not to break his vow of silence by calling out for his dad, he lay motionless until Mafi found his small, coiled shape in the bottom corner of the bed and realised that he had visitors. She climbed in under the sheet and lay alongside him.

  “They’ve gone,” she whispered.

  Together they looked through the cotton sheet at the bedroom window framing squares of sunlight. Ellis cuddled against his great-aunt and fell asleep for a few more minutes. When he woke, the sheet was away from them and it was a beautiful summer’s day. He smiled at Mafi and whispered, “Thanks.”

  But to his father, he remained mute, until Reardon’s arrival, ten days later.

  “I was thinking,” Reardon said, “he might like to spend time on the farm. Maybe it’ll help him forget his worries.”

  I don’t have worries! Ellis protested. He was spying from the top of the stairs.

  “What about spiders on the farm?” Mafi asked.

  “I’m confident he’ll be distracted by bigger creatures,” Reardon replied, his face lit by a compassionate smile. “He must come! It’ll do him the world of good. We’ll work him to the bone, of course! That’s what this is about, child labour!”

  The vitality in Reardon that Denny O’Rourke admired was precisely what scared Ellis. Nevertheless, he wanted to go to the farm. He wanted it so much he was willing to say so.

  When he stepped on to the track that led to Longspring Farm for the first time, Ellis felt that a new life was beginning.

  He passed the head herdsman’s house at the entrance gate and walked through an avenue of lime trees. White-painted cast-iron railings ran at a slant between the track and the farmhouse. Dried orange lichen peppered the Wealden brickwork and moss clung to the peg tiles. The farmhouse was old and perfectly square, with a large lawn to one side which ran down to a pond, and an oast roundel and cooling barn to the other side, where the sweet smell of honeysuckle laced the afternoon.

  Ellis glimpsed movement behind the hay barn and headed up there, having no better idea of where he was meant to go. Tractor wrecks waited obediently in the stone pens of the old cowshed. Next to it, the machinery and piping of the modern milking shed hummed and clanked. Ellis waited a while in the foldyard, hoping to be seen. The plinths and crumbling walls of an old granary jutted out from a manure heap, like bones from a burial mound. A dragonfly darted back and forth above crusts of manure. Beyond it, in the pasture, there were dozens of butterflies, mostly Common Blue. The remnants of last year’s hay lay low in the barn. A pitchfork stabbed into a bale had a child’s T-shirt draped over it. Ellis breathed in the musty smell of dried cow dung. He shut his eyes. A breeze drifted towards his ear and curled itself into a weightless seashell bearing sounds of cattle in the yards and tractors in the fields. He stood in rapture. When he opened his eyes dizzy speckles of light danced in front of him and dissipated to reveal blue sky above. This was heaven and he knew, he knew with twelve-year-old certainty, that he wanted to be here for ever.

  “Poof.”

  Ellis looked round. A boy emerged from behind a large steel milk tank. The boy was similar in age to Ellis. Similar, too, in height, build and hair colour. He had wellington boots on and jeans but no shirt. He was skinny but muscular. His hands were grubby and most of his fingers had plasters on them. His arms and face and neck were tanned but his torso was pale in the sun. He made sure Ellis was watching and lifted open the lid of the tank. He ladled out a small pool of milk and nodded to himself expertly. He checked the dials on the side of the tank, furrowed his brow knowingly, and wandered off.

  “Come on,” he said, with a swagger.

  Ellis ran a few paces to get alongside the boy.

  “You’re not really a poof,” the boy said.

  “I know I’m not,” Ellis replied firmly.

  They sat in the hay barn on the low bank of bales.

  “When the hay is in and stacked up the sides,” the boy said, “we’ll cross the girder, all the way across the barn.” The boy sized Ellis up. “You’ll be strong enough, no problem.”

  Ellis gazed upwards. A steel girder ran across the width of the barn in the apex of the roof, fifty feet above them.

  “You’ll be fine,” the boy repeated.

  Ellis was not convinced.

  “If not,” the boy muttered, “well …” and he slapped one hand flat on the ground and made a squelching sound.

  The boy stretched his legs out and took a small rusty tin from his front pocket. Inside were loose tobacco and some papers. Ellis looked out across the fields, framed by the walls of the yawning hay barn, but he kept one eye on the boy to see how he was making the cigarette. The boy rolled it expertly, put it between his lips and handed Ellis the tin.

  “I don’t know how to,” Ellis said.

  The boy took the cigarette from his mouth and handed it to Ellis. Ellis placed it between his lips and watched, openly this time, as the boy rolled another. They rested back on the bales and Ellis copied the boy’s nonchalant exhalation of smoke.

  The fields nearest to them were flat and gave way to layers of hillside, which stacked up towards Ide Hill. There were cottages dotted amongst these rolling fields and, in the distance, a dilapidated barn at Reardon’s boundary. Ellis felt dizzy and his mouth was dry but he liked the look of the cigarette between his fingers.

  “Tim,” the boy said.

  Ellis copied the boy’s detached tone. “Ellis.”

  A bull raised its head above the half-door of the oast roundel. The boys watched it as they smoked. Ellis wanted to ask Tim if the bull had a name, but he couldn’t decide if this would be a mistake. It wasn’t a pet, after all. Then again, if it did have a name, Ellis ought to know it.

  “Let’s go,” Tim said, and headed purposefully out of the barn. Ellis took off his T-shirt and hung it on the same pitchfork as Tim’s, then ran to catch him up.

  “Never ever leave a gate open,” Tim said, without breaking stride. “Reardon will kill you.”

  “I never do,” Ellis boasted. “Has the bull got a name?”

  “Yeah,” Tim said earnestly. “He’s called Bob.”

  I knew it would have, Ellis congratulated himself.

  “And all the cows are called Daisy, you prat,” Tim added. “Of course the bull hasn’t got a name.”

  They reached a large bell that hung from a piece of rope on a gate. Tim took the bell and led Ellis up to a plateau of rich pasture where Jersey cattle grazed above a ribbon of small hills not visible from the farmyard. Tim rang the bell, the boys wafted their arms and the docile herd wandered obediently down to the farm.

  Reardon was in the yard with Michael Finsey, his herdsman. The men saw the herd into the milking shed. Tim led Ellis through a metal door into a narrow, raised concrete alleyway where a wall of metal bars separated them from the cattle.

  “You don’t want to get squashed between these ugly fuckers!” Tim shouted, above the roar of the milking machines. “That’s why we have to stand here.”

  Reardon and Michael Finsey pushed and punched the cattle into their bays and attached the pumps, using their shoulders to prise the cows apart. When he wasn’t using it to prod the beasts, Reardon wedged his stick into his wellies to free up both hands.

  Later, the farmer walked the herd with the boys. The heifers grazed the fields furthest from the farm and the dairy herd were kept on the pasture nearest to the milking sheds.

  “A beast cannot graze if its feet and teeth are no good. If they seem bony, check the feet and teeth. If they h
ang back when you herd them in, check their udders for a thing called mastitis because they can get sore from the milking. A healthy cow has a straight back and a large udder.”

  Then he was gone, marching back towards the farmhouse as if prolonged exposure to children would bring him out in a rash.

  I will never leave my dad, Ellis told himself, as he watched Reardon go. If my dad was left all alone, he’d become like that. I will never leave his side.

  The boys put their T-shirts on and sat again in the hay barn. Ellis looked proudly at the grazes on his arms and the grime on his hands. His skin smelled of cattle. They drank fresh milk and ate bread and jam. The black cherry jam was cold from Reardon’s fridge and it was sweet and spread thick on crusty white bread. Food had never tasted so good to Ellis in his life.

  Tim Wickham’s parents lived in a former tied cottage on the northern edge of Reardon’s land. The steep slopes of the garden were covered in black knapweed and wild dog roses tumbled to a fast-flowing brook. The grass was lush and long, especially in the shade of the apple trees, where a hammock was slung. The ground about the brook was never dry, not even in summer. The only flat piece of garden was alongside the lane where an unkempt medlar tree stooped towards croquet hoops lost in the grass.

  Mr Wickham was a teacher and he always wore the same brown wool blazer and light green shirt, whatever the season. He was always nice but rarely laughed. Tim’s mum was gregarious and loving. She deliberately embarrassed her son by kissing him on the lips in front of Ellis. Tim called her “mad” when she did this and they both laughed about it. Ellis watched in awe.

  Ellis liked Mrs Wickham a great deal but thought it strange that she never offered him anything to eat or drink. There were no biscuits or cake or bread or fruit for them when they got in from the farm. Ellis would have noticed this anyway, but was all the more aware of it because since going to the farm he had been perpetually hungry. At least, it was either working on the farm or staring inertly at the naked women in the Encyclopaedia Britannica. One of these was giving him an appetite.