It was Alina this time. ‘I’m sorry, Alina, I’ve explained this once to Ivor.’
‘It’s very, very unprofessional.’
‘Well, I’m not a professional, so …’
‘Hm.’ I heard her exhale down the phone. ‘George is no good.’
‘George is great!’
‘You’re right, he’s technically a much better actor than you, but he’s no good in this role. He’s too distinctive. You, Charlie, you have a faceless, milk-and-water quality that is just perfect.’
‘Thank you, Alina.’
‘No offence, but the character needs someone neutral.’
‘Well, I’m sorry.’
‘The cast aren’t happy, Charlie.’
‘Like I said—’
‘None of us are happy. It can’t be allowed. Not when you’ve worked so hard.’ There was a crackle on the line, a secret cigarette. ‘Charlie, many of the young people I work with, they know they’re good, they’re told they’re good and they will continue to be good. Good, competent and able. Well, bravo to them but really, what’s the point in that? To be no good and then to get so much better – that’s why we do it. You are why we do it. Without you – what’s the point?’
Some time passed.
‘I’ve got to go,’ I said. ‘Alina – I’m sorry.’
I hung up the phone.
My father was awake now but still not ready to sit upright. I brought him tea and he groaned as I opened the curtains. I closed them again.
‘Why does the phone keep ringing? And who was at the door?’
‘Just friends.’
‘You’re popular.’
I laughed. ‘I am!’
Some time passed.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t get up yet.’
‘That’s all right.’
‘My head.’
‘No, you sleep.’
‘Have you been to the school?’
‘No. No point.’
He went to speak, then hesitated. ‘Worth checking though.’
‘Maybe.’
And there was more silence, time that had the quality of a missed cue. I searched for the line, and …
‘I don’t think you should drink if you’re taking anti-depressants.’
He frowned. ‘No, I know.’
‘They don’t work if you do. There’s side effects. And I worry. We all do. That’s one of the side effects, us worrying. It’s not fair.’
‘I know.’
‘What happened anyway?’
‘It … got out of hand. That’s all.’
‘Do we need to, do you want to … talk about it?’
‘No.’
‘Because I can’t be putting you in the bath again, Dad, it’s really gross.’
He smiled. ‘Well, you too. I can’t be picking you up off the street.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Let’s both stop that. Giving each other baths.’
He laughed. ‘Okay.’
‘Good.’
‘But no need to tell your mother or sister. Or anyone really.’
‘I won’t.’
‘I’m going back to sleep now, then I’m going to get up.’
‘Okay. I’ll go to school. See you.’
I went out and closed the door. It was a conversation of sorts, I suppose, and it meant that I could leave the house. I wouldn’t be long.
For the sake of speed, I hauled Mum’s rusting, turquoise shopping bike out from the back yard and set off, the basket rattling all the way. Out of term time, the school had the sad, abandoned air of a closed-down factory. All the kids who’d wanted to know their results had been and gone long before. Only Mr Hepburn, Geography, remained, standing at reception, unshaven and tanned in civilian clothes, with the curious glamour of a teacher out of term time. ‘Mr Charlie Lewis! Returning to the scene of the crime!’
‘Hello, Mr Hepburn.’
‘You’re the last one! You know where to go. Have a look.’
For months, I’d had a joke prepared. I’d look at my results and say ‘F, F, F, F, U, U, U, U; it’s like I’ve got a stammer!’ It wasn’t much of a joke, or consolation either, but it might see me through. The actual results didn’t allow for such a neat line, and instead there was a mess of ‘D’s, ‘E’s and ‘F’s and yes, a ‘U’ or two. The work I’d submitted earlier in the year, before my flip-out, had saved me from utter humiliation, but it was still a jumbled, unimpressive haul. I made a quick note of some other marks: a string of ‘A’s for Lucy, the same for Helen. ‘A, A, A, A, A, A, A – like a scream’; that was Fran’s line. In contrast, I had …
‘A good hand at Scrabble.’ Mr Hepburn was standing at my shoulder. ‘I’ve seen worse.’
And in one vital respect, Harper had been wrong. The two ‘B’s he’d mentioned were in fact a ‘B’ and an ‘A’, in Computer Science and Art. ‘You see that?’ said Mr Hepburn, tapping the ‘A’ with his finger. ‘That’s what makes it a good hand.’
‘Must be a typo.’
‘Pack it in, Lewis. These others’ – he scratched at the ‘D’s and ‘E’s and ‘F’s with his thumbnail – ‘these either don’t matter or we can fix them. I promise you, they can be remedied.’
‘I’m all right, thanks, Mr Hepburn.’
‘Are you ever going to call me Adam?’
‘No, never.’
‘Come back if you want to—’
‘Maybe.’
‘Okay, Charlie. Off you go. Good luck. And you know where to find me.’
‘Yes, thanks Mr Hepburn,’ I said, and left school for the last time, for the second time.
A deep sadness overtook me that day, like the first stage of an illness. Not just the sadness of failure confirmed, but the deeper ache of the loss of Fran. We’d not broken up, not yet, but surely that was imminent. The person she’d loved – she’d said the words, just days ago – had gone, the mysterious qualities she’d talked about revealed as stupidity, dishonesty and mediocrity. The phone rang, the doorbell sounded, and each time I wondered – is this it? ‘Charlie, we need to talk …’
Instead came Mum and Billie, holding out a supermarket cake. ‘Yay!’ they shouted. ‘Well Done!’ insisted the writing on the cake, though even the icing seemed to lack conviction. Dad was up and dressed by then, and the four of us perched on stools at the breakfast bar and ate slices in an atmosphere of forced civility.
‘“A” for Art!’ exclaimed Mum every few minutes, clinging to it like a tree trunk in a flood. ‘Imagine. An “A”.’
‘Yeah, think of all those jobs in the art section of the paper.’
‘That’s not the point, Charlie.’
‘“Artist required, immediate start—”’
‘Why aren’t you at rehearsals?’ said Billie, hoping to change the subject.
‘I’m not doing that any more.’
‘No!’
‘What?’
‘Oh, that’s a shame.’
‘But we were coming to see it!’ said Billie.
‘You can still see it. I’m just not in it.’
‘You can’t drop out now!’
‘Mum, it was a boring part. I didn’t do much.’
‘But we bought tickets!’
‘Me too,’ said Dad.
‘So go!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Mum, ‘we’re not going to go to a play if we don’t have to.’
‘Fine! Leave it then!’ Some time passed. ‘But you should still go. It’ll be good.’
More time passed. ‘An “A” and a “B”. Also, a “D” is technically a pass.’
‘Mum, for Christ’s sake …’
She reached across the bar, took my hand and rubbed at my wrist with her thumb. ‘Charlie, just take the praise, will you? Take the praise.’
After they’d gone, Dad and I stood at the sink and washed up, eyes fixed on the back yard. ‘I don’t think we did our job, did we?’ he said. ‘Your mum and me.’
I shrugged. ‘You had other things on your mind.’<
br />
‘Bad timing, though.’
‘It was a bit.’
‘Still. I am proud of you.’
‘For one “A” and a “B”?’
‘Not for that. For other things.’ He placed one hand lightly on my shoulder for a moment and then we put away the dishes.
And still they came, on the Tuesday too, so many guests and visitors.
Next was Mike, my ex-boss. Dad opened the door and I saw him falter, torn between deference to the wronged party and loyalty to me. A conference was needed and, somewhat uneasily, we sat in a row on the sofa, too baggy and informal for such a solemn discussion.
‘So there’ll be no legal proceedings. That’s a sledgehammer approach, and it was never our intention. As you know, Charlie here was employed on a, how shall we say, casual basis, as an apprentice.’
‘Illegally,’ said Dad, straining for lawyerly fire.
‘Informally, Mr Lewis, and it’s in no one’s interests to take it further. We could if we chose, there’s plenty of evidence: video footage of accomplices, discrepancies in accounts, but – well, it’s the principle really. We’re just disappointed.’ The sofa was sucking him down, and he had to plant his knuckles firmly and hoist himself up from its depths. ‘We won’t be expecting Charlie to return to work and there’ll be no employer’s reference, either good or bad. There is the matter of financial recompense …’
‘Oh. Really?’ said Dad, the old fear returning. ‘How much?’
‘Well, frankly, Mr Lewis, it’s hard to put a figure on it. It seems that all the staff were at it one way or another, and of course everyone’s denying it …’
‘I’ve got a hundred pounds,’ I said suddenly. ‘In my room.’
I could see Dad wince. ‘You shouldn’t have to do—’
‘No, it’s fine. I want to.’
‘One hundred should do it.’
I clambered out and ran upstairs to retrieve my escape fund, the roll of notes hidden in the bunk-bed tubing. One hundred and five pounds – in one last criminal flourish, I’d lied about the amount, and though the fiver wouldn’t get me far, I peeled this off and ran back down.
Even so, I hoped that Mike might tell me to keep the cash. He did not. Instead, he hauled himself from the sofa’s maw, tucked the roll into his pocket, money to blow in the golf-club bar, and held out his hand. ‘Well, Charlie, no hard feelings. You’re a good lad.’
‘He is,’ said Dad.
One last caress of his moustache. ‘I wish you all the best. You too, Mr Lewis,’ he said and we stood on the front step and watched him go.
‘I’d have offered him a drink,’ said Dad, ‘but all our glasses are nicked.’
I laughed. ‘Doesn’t matter now.’
‘A hundred quid though …’
‘It’s worth it.’
‘Exactly. Clean slate.’
‘I’ll start looking for a job tomorrow.’
‘Okay,’ said Dad. ‘Me too.’
And we would be fine. We would find a way to fill the days and the evenings would close in and wrap around us, and there was the TV, and films to watch from the library, and we’d settle back into our strange domesticity, Dad and me.
But first there would be one more visit, later that night.
Swings and Slides
I heard the car horn before I saw them. Dad had just gone to bed and so I rushed to the window and saw Miles’ old VW Golf pulling up into the cul-de-sac, the doors opening and too many people tumbling out: Helen, then George, Alex, Colin, Lucy, Miles himself, then Fran, laughing and stretching out twisted shoulders and cramped legs, one, no, two open bottles between them.
I stepped back from the window. If I pretended to be out they’d ring the bell and keep ringing but God, I was a mess, barefoot in a stained T-shirt, a souvenir from Portugal four years ago, the word ‘Algarve’ across the chest, my deodorant far out of reach. I could see their shadows at the door.
‘Is this the one?’
‘Yep, this is it.’
I could tell them to go away. Open the door on the chain, like some old hermit. Demand they leave me alone.
‘Okay, everyone ready? One, two, three …’
‘God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay—’
I threw the door open. ‘Shhhhh!’
‘For Jesus Christ our saviour was born on—’
‘Be quiet! Dad’s asleep.’
‘Sorry!’ said George. ‘Sorry!’
‘We know what you’re thinking,’ said Helen. ‘You’re thinking, who is this rag-tag bunch of gypsies?’
‘We need to see you, Charlie,’ said Miles.
‘It’s urgent,’ said Lucy.
‘Why aren’t you rehearsing?’
‘We have been!’ said Miles. ‘We’ve just done the technical run.’
‘It was a disaster!’ said Alex, swigging from a bottle of wine.
‘That’s why we need to see you,’ said Miles.
‘Are you all pissed?’
‘I’m not,’ said Miles. ‘I’m driving.’
‘But yes,’ said George. ‘We’ve been drowning our sorrows to a certain degree.’
‘So are you going to let us in, or what?’ said Helen.
‘No.’
‘Bit rude,’ she said.
‘Okay, you’ve got to come out then,’ said Colin.
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘There’s no point.’
‘Charlie,’ said Alex, ‘we’ve gone to all this trouble to stage an intervention. It is extremely dramatic and emotional, and the least you can do is hear us out.’
‘Please?’ said Fran. ‘Ten minutes.’ She stood at the back, just one of the group, and now I wondered, could I close the door on her?
‘Away in a manger,’ sang Alex, the others joining in, ‘no crib for a bed …’
‘All right! All right, there’s a park down the road. Give me a sec. I’ll put some shoes on.’
The sun was low, televisions babbling through open windows as we walked in the middle of the empty road towards the recreation ground.
‘Is this the one that they call Dog Shit Park?’ said Alex, his voice too loud.
‘It is!’ said Helen. ‘There’s another Dog Shit Park on the east side—’
‘The “East Side”!’
‘—but this is the original.’
‘The original,’ said George, ‘and still, I think, the best.’
‘Dog Shit Park West.’
‘The playground, yeah?’ said Helen.
In the evenings, the tarmacked zone became a kind of shared conference room for local youth and we checked it wasn’t booked, moved the empty cans and bottles and arranged ourselves on see-saw, roundabout, slide and swings, where I found myself between Alex and Helen.
‘The thing is,’ said Helen, ‘Charlie, we want you back.’
‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’
‘No one else can do the part,’ said Alex.
‘Oh, they can,’ I said.
‘But not like you.’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘Poor old George here is exhausted,’ said Alex. ‘Aren’t you, George?’
George passed by on the roundabout. ‘The doubling doesn’t work. I can learn the lines, but Miles here and I have zero chemistry …’
‘It’s true, Charlie,’ said Miles from the top of the slide. ‘He’s terrible.’
‘Problem is,’ said George, ‘it’s like trying to act with a gifted chimpanzee.’
‘George’s not versatile,’ said Miles. ‘The audience will think he’s the same character in a different hat.’
‘That’s true,’ said George. ‘Like Miles, all my performances are essentially the same,’ and Miles ran down the slide to pull George from the roundabout.
‘And Ivor’s desperate for you,’ said Helen.
‘He’s not angry,’ said Alex.
‘Alina is angry.’
‘Ivor’s just desperate.’
; ‘I couldn’t do it anyway,’ I said. ‘There’s … too much going on.’
‘And we know about all of that,’ said Alex.
‘The grades – who gives a fuck?’
‘Only wankers care about GCSEs.’
‘Wankers and employers,’ I said.
‘Fine, so retake or do something else,’ said Helen. ‘The play’s not going to stop you.’
‘And as for the scam thing …’ said Alex, in a low voice.
‘Big deal.’
‘I think it’s cool if anything.’
‘Sticking it to the man.’
‘We’ve all done worse.’
‘Believe me, much worse.’
‘There are other things,’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ said Helen, ‘we know.’
‘We don’t though,’ said Fran from the swings. ‘Not all of it.’
‘Okay. No. Maybe not, but—’
‘I’ve got to look after my dad.’
‘Fine,’ said Alex, ‘but you can leave the house.’
‘He’d want you to, surely.’
‘Four more days.’
‘I can’t,’ I said, ‘he’s not in a fit state to—’
‘But if you tell him.’
‘Talk to him.’
‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to be there.’
And everyone was silent for a while. ‘Fine,’ said Alex. ‘Fine.’
‘But you’ll think about it,’ said Helen.
‘It’s no fun without you, Charlie,’ shouted George from underneath Miles. ‘No fun at all.’
We walked back to the car in and out of the pools of street light, the rest of the group contriving to melt away until Fran and I were side by side, just like in the early days, except now we walked in silence.
‘I’m sorry about the fête,’ she said eventually.
‘That’s fine.’
‘No, I wasn’t very kind – I’d had Polly shouting at me, then Mum and Dad. Even Bernard gave me a harsh look. If I’d known what had happened – but I thought you’d just run off and left me.’
‘I wouldn’t do that.’
‘I know! I should have listened—’
‘It’s fine.’
‘Charlie, you have to stop saying things are fine when they’re not fine. It doesn’t help anyone.’
We walked on. After a while she took my hand.
‘Nothing’s changed. Not for me.’
‘No, me neither.’
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