The Story of Us

by Barbara Elsborg

  When Caspian’s stomach rumbled, he tugged out their earpieces and sat up. “I’m going to go and get us something to eat. What do you want?”

  Zed rolled onto his side. “From your house?”

  Caspian nodded.

  “Whatever you’re having would be great. Thanks. Er…as long as it’s not on a bone.”

  “Peanut butter sandwich and I’ll take the bones?”

  “Great.”

  As Caspian made his way home, he wondered if Zed would be there when he got back. Or his MP3 player.

  Both were exactly where he’d left them and Zed looked so pleased to see him, Caspian felt a pang of guilt for distrusting him, followed by a pleasurable quiver in his groin. Do not get a boner. He’d made the sandwiches himself, not asked Betsy, their housekeeper, and grabbed packets of crisps, bottles of water and a couple of chocolate biscuits without anyone seeing him. He should have gone for a haircut with Lachlan at two, but stuff that.

  Caspian and Zed sat on the mattress to eat.

  “Thanks for feeding me,” Zed said.

  “What were you intending to eat? That piece of bread?” He started to laugh then stopped when he realised that was exactly what Zed had been going to eat.

  “I could have gone home for something.”

  Caspian heard the defensive tone in Zed’s voice and knew he’d offended him.

  “My house is nearer. You can get us both something next time.” Is there going to be a next time?

  “Okay.”

  Please mean that. “What hours does your father work?”

  “He leaves at around eight and doesn’t get back most days until at least six-thirty. Sometimes later if he’s the dispensing chemist. He does the occasional night shift and Saturdays are shared between him and three others.”

  “So you’re home alone for the whole summer? What are you going to do?”

  “Unless that course in Canterbury is going to be about hotwiring cars, probably nothing exciting.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  Zed stared at him a moment, then grinned. “Got any suggestions?”

  None that Caspian thought Zed was quite ready to hear, but he had plenty of others.

  Chapter Three

  Zed was relieved to be home before his father. Mostly because he didn’t want to be caught red-handed with the book Caspian had lent him, but also because it was Zed’s turn to cook. He doubted he was going to get away with having sneaked off this morning after his father had expected him to go with him to work, then to the mosque. Another beating seemed possible. He could try to convince his father he’d forgotten. One advantage of having no phone.

  Though now he wished he did have one. He hadn’t cared much when the only people likely to call him were his brother and father, but today, that had changed.

  I made a friend!

  He hid the book under his shoes at the bottom of his wardrobe and hurried down again. Since he’d forgotten to take anything from the freezer, he decided on a cheese omelette and salad for dinner. Once the salad was prepared, he tidied up, made beds, wiped down work surfaces, hoovered, cleaned the kitchen floor, started a load of laundry, made the house look as neat and smart as he could, and sprayed a lot of polish so everything smelt of lemons. While he did all that, he reran the day because it had been the best of his life for as long as he could remember, so good he’d stopped thinking about how much he ached, so good it was worth the beating he might get.

  That sounded wet, but it was true. Everything had been perfect. Building the den. The treehouse. The music. Talking. Laughing. He really liked Caspian with his untidy jet-black hair and his crooked smile. Zed couldn’t remember ever smiling so much. And he’d made Caspian laugh. The pleasure in that brought a lump to his throat. Had Caspian noticed how often he’d looked at him? Zed had found it hard to drag his gaze away, and sometimes, he’d caught Caspian staring at him too.

  Maybe he’d discovered the secret to making friends. One to one. No one else around. A physical project to work on. No distractions. No school. It gave them chance to get to know one another without interference. Whatever Caspian came up with that was fun to do, Zed was going to do it. Being good hadn’t made him happy. He wasn’t going to back off from an opportunity to have fun, regardless of the consequences.

  When Caspian had gone to get them lunch, Zed had looked at his books and drawings. There were some wacky ideas, but a lot of them sounded as though they could be developed into something. Pencils, pencil case and a school bag all made from recycled materials. Edible dinosaur eggs with a dinosaur inside made from vegetables. Lego men made of melted crayons. Themed craft kits for kids of different ages. Snowflakes made of pieces of jigsaw glued together and sprayed silver.

  Caspian wasn’t short of ideas. His drawings were really good though his spelling and handwriting were terrible. Zed was okay at spelling and his handwriting was probably the best in his class, but he couldn’t draw at all. Well, not for anyone to recognise what he’d drawn.

  This was the happiest he’d been since his mother had died. His life had spiralled down after her death. No more treats brought home for him. No more jam doughnuts or iced buns. He’d used to make her a cup of tea every afternoon. It was the first thing she wanted when she got back from work. He missed her so much.

  The front door slammed and Zed flinched. His father came into the kitchen carrying an Amazon package, headed straight for him, and it was all Zed could do not to back away.

  “Cheese omelette and salad for dinner,” Zed blurted. “Is that okay? Shall I start the omelette now?”

  “Where were you today?”

  “I went for a walk.”

  “You were supposed to come to Maidstone with me and go to the mosque.”

  “I forgot.” Oh shit, what a lie. “I’m sorry.” Another lie.

  “I called the house several times. Who were you out with?”

  “No one.”

  “A girl?”

  “No one.” Zed met his father’s gaze. The less that came out of Zed’s mouth the better. It was so easy to talk himself into trouble. “If you’d have reminded me about going with you…” Why did I even say that? Shut up.

  His father narrowed his eyes. “You’re saying it’s my fault? A good Muslim does not forget about Friday prayers.”

  Zed shuffled his feet.

  “What were you doing all day?”

  “Walking, exploring. I wasn’t out all day. I’ve cleaned and tidied. I washed the floor.”

  His father looked around the room. “Make the omelette.”

  Zed put a knob of butter into the pan and turned on the heat. His father opened the package and placed two thick workbooks on the work surface.

  “Maths and physics. You’ll do a section of each every day.” He pulled a knife from the block, turned to the back of the maths book and sliced out the answers, then did the same with the physics book. “What do you say?”

  “Thank you, father.” Which wasn’t what he wanted to say.

  Zed tipped the cheese and egg mixture into the pan then set the table.

  “Tamaz called to say there is a place on the course in Canterbury. He’ll collect you on Monday night and bring you back on Wednesday evening.”

  I’m not saying thank you for that.

  But the blow to the back of his head changed his mind. Ouch! “Thank you, father.”

  “He has a sleeping bag you can use. Don’t expect him to share his bed. You can manage on the floor. You will behave perfectly in front of strangers. I do not want to hear you don’t mix well with others or that you’ve not volunteered or tried your hardest. Since you’ve not been attending a madrasa for the past four years, you’ll have to work hard to catch up on your study of the Quran and the history of Islam. They also give tuition in Arabic writing. Sign up for that.”

  That sounds like fun. “Yes, father.”

  When his father took the foil-wrapped plate from the fridge, Zed’s heart and stomach sank in unison. “You will eat this
. I’ll have the omelette.”

  He scraped it onto Zed’s plate and carried it to the table.

  I’m going to run away now. Not this minute because I wouldn’t get out of the house, but this summer. I’m not waiting two years. I can’t live like this. Zed swallowed his sob, turned the perfect, fluffy omelette out onto his father’s plate and put it in front of him.

  He tried not to look at the congealed mess on his own plate. There was barely room for salad without the zaban contaminating it. He ought to have eaten before his father came home and then he wouldn’t be going to bed hungry.

  After prayers, his father started to eat. “Are we going to have the same problem tonight?”

  “I can’t eat it.”

  “Won’t or can’t?”

  “I can’t. I’ll throw up if I try.”

  “Then get out of my sight.”

  Zed pushed back from the table and fled upstairs. It was too early to go to bed, but it wasn’t as if there was anything else he could do. He heard the sound of the TV and hoped his father became absorbed in watching it. Zed got ready for bed and cleaned his teeth but instead of getting into bed, he sat at his desk. He took a sheet of plain paper from his drawer and cut it into a square. He wanted to make an origami flamingo but with no pattern to follow, it wasn’t going to be easy.

  When the piece of paper he was working with became too creased from being folded, unfolded and refolded, he threw it away and started another. Forty minutes later, he had something that really did look like a flamingo and he smiled. He gave it yellow eyes and a half-black beak, then coloured it pink before hiding it at the bottom of his wardrobe with Caspian’s book.

  The book was too tempting. Northern Lights by Philip Pullman. Zed wasn’t tired. He wanted to read it now. He figured he’d hear his father coming up the stairs and would have time to shove it under his pillow. There was no need to put on his bedside lamp. It would be light for ages outside.

  He took the book to bed and curled up under the covers. He’d told Caspian he’d see him tomorrow, and that might be the last time if he ran. He sighed. He was already back to if. But he wasn’t stupid. He was a kid. His chances of disappearing into any place good were small. Maybe he ought to talk to Tamaz on Monday. Zed knew he couldn’t live with his brother, but he might have some advice. Then again, Tamaz might just tell their father. It hadn’t escaped Zed’s attention that Tamaz had become more religious lately. The two of them used to laugh about some Islamic extremes but that had stopped. He couldn’t count on Tamaz being on his side.

  Zed pulled a sheet up over the book so it would be easier to hide and began to read. He quickly became enthralled by the story of Lyra and her daemon. So enthralled, he missed the sound of his father’s footsteps on the stairs and only reacted when the door opened. Zed pushed the book down the bed and sat up.

  “You didn’t do any work today.” His father threw the maths and physics books onto the place the other book was hidden. “Do a section of each tonight or do double tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m working tomorrow and I’ll be back late. Make sure the door is locked before you go to bed.”

  Zed nodded, then breathed a silent sigh of relief when his father left the room. That had been close.

  He didn’t feel like doing maths or physics but if he wanted to spend the day with Caspian, he ought to do two sections of each book tonight not one. Hopefully, they wouldn’t be too difficult. Once he’d hidden Caspian’s novel in the wardrobe, he sat at his desk and started with maths. When he realised it was all new stuff he had no idea how to do, he groaned.

  It took him so long to work through two sections that his father had come to bed before he’d finished. He’d opened the door of Zed’s room, seen him working, huffed and closed the door again.

  As soon as Zed thought his father must be asleep, he sneaked downstairs and helped himself to a chunk of cheese from the fridge and some crackers from the box in the cupboard, crept back to his room and ate while he worked. Tomorrow he’d have to be out of the house early in case his father stopped him. He hadn’t told him he couldn’t go out, but Zed wasn’t going to risk it.

  Caspian sat at the dinner table with his family and thought how much he’d enjoyed eating a simple lunch with Zed compared to this torture. The Terrible Twins sat either side of him kicking his legs. His brother and mother sat opposite and his father was at the head of the table. They didn’t always have formal meals like this because his father often stayed overnight in London, but when he was home, family dinner was compulsory.

  “I thought you were getting a haircut today,” his father said to him. “Did I pay a fortune for a millimetre of hair to be removed?”

  “I forgot,” Caspian said.

  “Why? What were you doing?” his mother asked.

  “Working on something.” Someone.

  “And I suppose it’s a secret.” His mother raised her perfectly manicured eyebrows.

  “For the time being.”

  “There’ll be no more of that nonsense when you’re at Blackstones. You won’t have time.” His father topped up his wine glass and passed the bottle to Lachlan. “You’ll be up at six thirty. The school day starts at eight in the morning, ends at nine in the evening and they have lessons on Saturday morning too.”

  Caspian didn’t even try to keep the horror from his face. “But not on Saturday afternoon and Sunday as well? That’s so disappointing.”

  His father gave him one of his looks. “After lunch on Saturday there are team games and organised activities. Church attendance is compulsory on Sundays, morning and evening, as is participation in the Combined Cadet Force.”

  This was sounding worse and worse.

  “You can choose between the Army, Royal Navy or Air Force.”

  Fucking great.

  “Don’t pull a face like that. You’ll learn to be adventurous and team-spirited.”

  I am adventurous and no one wants me on their team. “Do I get to fire a gun?” Caspian snapped.

  “Don’t take that tone, either. Yes, you will. Learning marksmanship skills requires concentration, focus, determination and self-discipline. All of which you lack.”

  “Training me to be a killer. Great.”

  Lachlan let out a quiet snigger which earned him a glare from his father.

  “You will behave, Caspian. This school does not tolerate disobedience. Break the rules and the punishment is some form of physical activity. Long hikes whether it’s raining or not. Digging in the school garden. Collecting litter.”

  “Fuck,” Caspian muttered.

  “What was that?” his father snapped.

  “I said just my luck,” Caspian mumbled.

  “Caspian said a bad word.” Araminta widened her eyes.

  His father let out an exasperated sigh. “Don’t think you’ll get yourself expelled. That’s not going to happen. The school has a no-expulsion policy with special measures to deal with disruptive influences.”

  “Special measures?” Caspian asked.

  “Let’s hope you don’t find out what they are.”

  Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  “Did you hear me, Caspian? You will not get expelled from this school.”

  Don’t bet on it. “Not even if I set fire to the science lab?”

  His father glared. “That stunt cost me a lot of money. Don’t do it again. Don’t let me down. Don’t let the family down. Don’t let yourself down.”

  Don’t, don’t, don’t. Fuck off.

  “I do hope we have to wear shorts whatever the season, sleep on hard bunks in huge unheated dormitories and lick the senior boys’… shoes clean.”

  Oh God. He’d nearly said something different then.

  “Don’t be facetious,” his father snapped.

  “What does that mean, Daddy?” Cressida asked.

  “Caspian is being silly.” His father smiled at her.

  “Caspian’s always silly,” chimed in Araminta. “I’m better at reading than him,
aren’t I, Mummy.”

  “Don’t be unkind. You know Caspian suffers from dyslexia.” His mother sent him a patronising smile.

  Caspian concentrated on his food. His mother said it like it was a disease, though the suffering bit was right. For years he’d struggled with reading, writing and remembering facts unless it was something that fascinated him. He had poor organisational skills and the concentration of a fruit fly, which was worse than a goldfish, according to the internet.

  His father thought he was lazy but no matter how hard Caspian tried, there were some things he just couldn’t grasp. Tests were a nightmare. Exams enough to cause depression. Even if he worked hard, he came close to the bottom in almost every subject, so he’d stopped trying. There was no point stressing about schoolwork when the result would be the same whether he worked hard or not. He still got stressed.

  “Does dyslexia mean he’s stupid?” Cressida asked.

  Lachlan laughed. “No, he’s stupid anyway.”

  “That’s enough.” His father rapped on the table.

  Caspian’s school had brought in a psychologist who’d put him through a barrage of tests and to Caspian’s horror, he hadn’t even been able to remember five numbers in the right order, let alone repeat them in reverse. The lady testing him was kind but as he kept getting things wrong, he pulled his real self deep inside him and turned into a joker. She’d seen through him. The first one ever to do that.

  But the dyslexic label had at least stopped most of his teachers thinking he was stupid or not trying, though it hadn’t stopped the bullying or mocking. Caspian read very slowly, finger under each word, and if he had to read out loud, he sounded terrible—like a five-year-old or a robot. He still fooled around more than he should and made jokes, so at least he felt the laughter was not all at his expense.

  “Are you listening?” his father barked.

  “Sorry?” Caspian looked up.

  “I’ve engaged a tutor to help you catch up. He’s starting on Monday. Nine to five. Four days a week.”