by Rob Stevens
The look on his face told me he was serious and that’s when I stopped laughing.
Arnold continued, ‘You invited me to stay. You said you wanted me to provide a balanced viewpoint on a whole range of safety issues.’
‘I know I said that, Arnold …’ I desperately racked my brain for a suitable excuse. ‘And it would be really cool for you to come and stay but unfortunately we haven’t asked your mum’s permission. She’ll want to meet my parents and talk through all the arrangements …’
‘I don’t see my mum very much,’ said Arnold bluntly. ‘She’s not well enough to look after me.’
‘Oh … I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘What about your dad though? He won’t want you to go and stay at a stranger’s house just like that, will he?’
‘He died when I was nine.’
‘Gosh I really am sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise – I shouldn’t think it was your fault,’ Arnold replied.
‘No, you’re right,’ I said shaking my head sincerely.
‘Why are you wearing that fluorescent tabard?’
I looked down at my day-glow vest, grateful for the change of subject. ‘My mum says I have to wear it for safety,’ I said. ‘So I don’t get run over or anything.’
Arnold looked around. The nearest road was about half a kilometre away. ‘Not many cars round here,’ he said.
I shrugged. ‘You can never be too careful.’
‘Shall we go then?’ asked Arnold. ‘I’ll tell your mum what I think about the tabard.’
He was so eager I almost wanted to take him home. But I hadn’t so much as had a friend to tea since Lenny’s accident. I wasn’t sure how my parents would react to having another boy in the house instead of Lenny. I wasn’t sure how I’d react.
‘So who looks after you then?’ I asked quickly.
‘I’m with a foster family.’
‘That’s nice,’ I said brightly.
‘It’s OK.’ Arnold nodded. ‘My foster parents had to rush off to Scotland on a family emergency – my foster mum’s dad, who is really old, had a nasty fall last week.’
‘They left you at home all on your own?’
‘Well, Barry’s looking after me. He’s my foster brother. He’s seventeen.’
Immediately I saw my chance to put Arnold off the idea of staying at my house. ‘But he’d miss you, wouldn’t he? And I’m sure he wouldn’t be comfortable about you staying the weekend with some kid from school you hardly know – he’d be worried sick.’ I gave Arnold a disappointed smile. ‘Bummer.’
Arnold’s expression didn’t change. In fact, I was coming to realise his expression never seemed to change. It was like his face was frozen in this blank mask.
‘Barry told his parents he wanted to stay home to study for exams but really he was hoping to have the house to himself so he could have his girlfriend round. My foster parents agreed because they think he’s perfect. He was really pleased with himself until they asked him to look after me to save me travelling to Scotland to see an old man in hospital. So Barry’s gone to stay with his girlfriend instead. He said I was old enough to look after myself and that he wished he’d had the house to himself when he was thirteen.’
‘He just left you?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘On your own?’
Arnold nodded. ‘Yup.’
I knew that this was the time to be firm. I had to explain that I’d been joking when I’d said he could stay with me for the weekend. He’d probably be a bit embarrassed for getting the wrong end of the stick – maybe a little hurt. But in my heart I knew there was no way my mum would agree to him staying so there was no point in allowing this to go on.
And yet there was something about his blank expression that really got to me. It might have been his small pouting mouth or his big, sad eyes – brown and shiny like an abandoned polar bear. Something about his face gave me the overwhelming urge to help him. Besides, I was feeling lonely myself – thinking about all my friends playing the big rugby match without me. And without Lenny. And in a strange way I was enjoying Arnold’s company – even if he was slightly odd.
So, ignoring the tiny issue of how I was going to break the news to my mum, I said, ‘Well, you’d better come home with me then.’
‘So, do you like rugby?’ I asked as Arnold and I ambled home.
‘Sure.’
‘You look like you’d make a good forward. I bet you could kick a few butts in the front row.’
Arnold stopped and turned to me. ‘You’re not allowed to kick someone’s butt in rugby. That would be a penalty.’
I ignored him. ‘My house is just up here,’ I said as we turned into my road.
‘The houses here are massive,’ Arnold said. ‘They must be worth a fortune.’
‘I guess so.’
‘How much is yours worth?’
‘I don’t know,’ I laughed.
‘More than a million?’
‘Maybe, I’m not sure.’
‘More than two?’
‘Possibly, I don’t really …’
‘How much does your dad earn?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Money. How much does he get paid per year for doing his job?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never asked.’
‘Aren’t you interested? Curious?’
‘I suppose, but it’s none of my business.’
‘I’ll ask him for you if you like.’
‘You’re all right. Thanks.’
Mum’s car was on our driveway. This was a problem I hadn’t expected because I’d assumed she’d be out at her road-safety meeting. I hadn’t quite worked out how I was going to break it to her that I’d brought Arnold home – to stay for the weekend.
It would have been a tricky enough conversation if he’d been one of my best friends – someone my mum knew and trusted. Mum always approved of my friends if they had ‘nice parents’ or came from a ‘nice family’. I never understood why grown-ups judged kids by what their parents were like. Roscoe James was the undisputed winner of ‘The most unpleasant child in our year’ award and his parents were both magistrates. On the other hand, Keira Richardson, whose dad was in prison for stealing a car, was the kindest girl you could ever wish to meet.
Anyway, I needed time to think about how I was going to mention to my mum that I’d brought home a strange boy (meaning both that he was unfamiliar to me and slightly peculiar). Especially as he came from what she would refer to as a ‘troubled background’.
‘Come and have a look at our summer house,’ I said, leading Arnold down the path at the side of the house and into the back garden. ‘It’s wicked.’
When I didn’t hear a reply, I turned round to see Arnold standing by the side door.
I could see Mum in the utility room – just a couple of yards from Arnold. If she opened the door to empty the recycling or something they would be face-to-face. She’d assume he was a burglar and call the police, which would make the whole ‘Can my new friend stay for the weekend?’ conversation all the trickier.
‘Come on,’ I said urgently.
‘Aren’t we going in?’ Arnold asked.
‘Later,’ I said sharply. ‘Just come and look at the summer house will you.’
As I marched down the garden I could hear footsteps hurrying behind me.
‘Why aren’t we going in the house?’
‘I said later.’ I didn’t especially like my tone but I was really panicking that my mum was going to see us.
‘But it’s autumn.’ Arnold was next to me now. He was about six inches taller than me and rock solid.
‘So what?’ I opened the wooden door and we went inside.
‘Why are we going to the summer house in autumn?’
‘It’s just a name. It doesn’t literally mean you only use it in the summer. You can use it all year round.’ Peering through one of the windows I could see my mum come out of our house.
‘Why call it a summer house then?’ Arnol
d wondered. ‘Why not call it a garden house or an all-year house?’
I turned to see Arnold sitting on top of a stack of garden chairs, legs swinging like a toddler. ‘I don’t know why I’m calling it the summer house anyway. That’s what Mum always calls it but I normally call it the shed. I do it to annoy her.’
‘Why?’ Arnold asked.
Mum was striding down the garden towards us. Her arms were folded which meant either she was cross or she was cold.
‘Get down!’ I barked, ducking from view.
Arnold immediately leaped from his perch and hit the floor, flat on his stomach with his cheek resting on the floorboards.
‘What is it?’ he asked. His voice was flat calm, like it was perfectly normal to dive for cover in someone’s garden shed.
‘My mum’s coming.’
‘Why are we hiding?’
I thought for a moment. ‘I don’t want to scare her. She might get a fright if she sees us here.’
Arnold nodded like this made perfect sense and I felt guilty for lying to him.
‘Is she coming this way?’ he whispered.
I held my breath and rose onto my haunches to peer into the garden. Mum strode across the lawn to within ten yards of me and I was sure she must have seen us sneaking down the garden. I was still trying to think how I would explain the sturdy boy lying face down on the floor if she came into the summer house when she stopped. Bending next to her herb garden, she picked a few leaves, straightened up and headed back to the house.
‘She’s going,’ I said, exhaling. ‘That was a close shave.’
Arnold clambered to his feet and blinked at me. ‘Your mum was having a shave?’
I took a couple of garden chairs off the stack and gestured for Arnold to sit in one.
‘Are you hungry?’ I asked.
Arnold shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’
‘I could murder some biscuits.’
Arnold looked shocked.
‘I mean I’d really enjoy a few biscuits.’
‘Me too,’ he said eagerly.
‘OK. Wait here. I’ll be right back.’
Mum was studying her laptop at the kitchen table, which was strewn with box files. The spines of the files were labelled with things like ‘Harrington Road speed bumps’, or ‘St Matthew’s School zebra crossing’.
‘Hi, darling,’ she said, peering briefly at me over her glasses. ‘Looking forward to the weekend?’
‘I suppose,’ I said. ‘You know …’ I wasn’t sure what you know meant so I’m pretty sure Mum didn’t either but she nodded anyway. Maybe she thought asking what you know was supposed to mean might lead to a row, or maybe she wasn’t really listening.
‘I thought you’d be out at your residents’ meeting,’ I said, picking a couple of apples from the fruit bowl.
‘I was just about to leave when I got a message to say the council have agreed to our demand for speed bumps so there was no need for a strategy meeting.’ Mum did a quiet cheer and made a fist.
‘You should be out celebrating,’ I said hopefully.
‘No time for that.’ Mum gestured at the files on the table. ‘Plenty more for me to be getting on with. How was today anyway?’
‘Good.’
‘That’s good. I mean that is good.’
Sometimes talking to Mum was like talking to a stranger.
‘Anything exciting happen?’
‘No. Nothing. Just a normal day.’
‘You got to school OK? And home again?’
‘Obviously. Ha ha.’
Opening various cupboards, I stacked crisps, biscuits and cans of lemonade onto a tray, whilst trying to shield it from my mum.
‘It’s a shame I’ve got so much on. I’ve even got meetings on most of this weekend.’
‘That’s OK.’
‘We could have hung out together,’ Mum murmured, almost to herself. ‘Had one of our movie nights or something.’
We used to spend a lot of time together, but Mum and I hadn’t done anything with each other since Lenny was killed. To start with I was way too upset to even think about anything fun. Eventually, after months, that sort of all-consuming hopeless grief lifted. Much later I’d occasionally realise I was having fun and feel guilty. I never wanted to suggest doing something fun in case it seemed disrespectful. It’d been so long now that it was like we’d given up on the idea. We just had this sort of routine where every now and then Mum would say how nice it would be if only we could do something fun. It was like if she said out loud that she was too busy to do stuff together then she’d done all she can. She was the same with exercise. If she wasn’t so busy she’d be a champion triathlete or a cross-channel swimmer.
I never suggested doing anything together. If I did, it might put her in the awkward position of turning me down. I’d ask why not and she’d be forced to admit that she didn’t want to spend time with me any more. Not after what happened.
‘Mum?’ I said, sliding my tray out of sight.
‘Hmm?’
‘Do you think I could have someone over?’
Mum looked up at me. ‘Here?’ she asked. Her tone was not encouraging.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I always used to have friends over …’
Mum clasped her hands together. ‘I don’t know, Leon. Who do you have in mind?’ Her voice was tight – fearful.
‘This weird kid that started at our school today,’ was not an answer that would have calmed my mum’s nerves. Instead I said, ‘One of my school friends.’
‘Who?’
‘Not sure. He won’t be a Kestrels fan though.’ I laughed hopefully. Mum didn’t. I made a mental note to save the rugby banter for Dad.
‘I need to know who.’
‘What difference does it make?’
‘It makes a huge difference. I need to know that it’s someone who is sensible, responsible, trustworthy. I need to be able to communicate with his parents to establish ground rules and boundaries.’
‘Why does it have to be such a big deal?’ I said, rolling my eyes.
‘Listen to me, young man,’ she said in an icy whisper. ‘Our house is the one place I know you are safe. If you bring other boys into the equation then your behaviour will change. You’re more likely to misbehave and take risks and that’s when accidents happen.’
‘We’d only play on the Xbox or something. It’s not like we’d be abseiling off the roof.’
‘Well, you never know.’
‘I’ll take that as a “No” then.’
Mum sighed. ‘Take it as a “Tell me who you want to invite and I’ll think about it”.’
‘Great,’ I mumbled. ‘I must be the only kid in school who has to submit a risk assessment before having a mate round for tea.’
‘That’s not what I’m saying.’
‘That’s what it sounds like,’ I said.
Based on the conversation so far I judged it wasn’t a good time to tell Mum about Arnold waiting in the summer house for the OK to come and stay in our house for the weekend.
Deciding on another course of action for Arnold, I lifted my tray and tiptoed towards the side door.
With every step I expected Mum to question why I was sneaking into the garden with a tray laden with enough snacks for a fortnight.
‘Feeding the five thousand are we?’ That’s what she used to say when Lenny and I came home from school and grabbed some food to take upstairs to play Xbox.
‘Uh – Leon?’ she said. Busted. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Just out. To the summer house. It’s nice in there – peaceful.’ Mum looked suspicious. To ward off any more questions I sneered, ‘Don’t worry. I won’t burn it down or anything.’
It was like a shadow passed over Mum’s face, then she went back to her work. I closed the side door behind me and traipsed down the garden to the summer house.
Arnold and I munched and slurped our way through the junk-food feast then sat back in our garden chairs holding our bellies.
‘
That was nice,’ he said.
‘I am so stuffed,’ I said. As I spoke a massive burp rose through my chest and forced its way out of my mouth, blowing my lips apart as it escaped. It made a satisfying belchy sound. Nothing earth shattering but certainly louder than average. About five on the Richter scale.
I glanced at Arnold and gave him a proud nod, expecting him to indicate his approval in a similar way. A burp like that deserved respect.
But Arnold’s face didn’t display silent admiration. His eyes ballooned and his mouth popped open like a little kid who’d heard the F word for the first time. Then he fell about laughing. Literally fell about. His head went back and he flung himself into his chair, making a noise like an asthmatic donkey. Then he slid forward off his chair and onto his knees before slumping onto the floor clutching his ribs. He rolled about for such a long time that I started to laugh too. Not crazy hysterical laughing like Arnold, just normal. But that seemed to tickle him even more so he went on rolling around for ages.
Eventually he sat up, wheezing and wiping tears from his eyes.
‘That was funny,’ he groaned.
I liked the fact that my burp seemed to have broken the ice between us. It was the first time we’d both let go since we’d met and it felt good. I wanted to prolong that connection so I said, ‘I just wanted to get that off my chest.’ I started laughing and it was a good few seconds before I realised this time I was on my own. Arnold’s face showed no sign of amusement. Nothing.
‘What?’ he said.
‘Sorry?’ I wheezed.
‘What did you want to get off your chest?’
‘I mean, I’m glad I brought it up,’ I giggled.
‘Brought what up?’ he frowned.
‘It’s a joke,’ I said, beginning to wish I hadn’t bothered. ‘When you bring something up you mention it in conversation.’
‘So?’
‘But you can also bring up a burp. From your guts.’ I swept my hand upwards from my stomach to illustrate what I was saying. ‘It’s a double meaning.’
‘So what’s the joke?’
I fumbled for the words to explain what was a pretty feeble pun in the first place. In the end I retorted with, ‘Well, what’s so funny about a burp?’