by Rhian Ivory
Dog got to his feet and stuck his snout in her hand, sniffing the purse. She rested her hand on his head. He sat back down at her feet, looking up at her hopefully.
I don’t know if it was Dog’s eyes or the way he started licking her hand from the top to bottom as if he were cleaning her, but something made her start crying. She didn’t make a sound, it wasn’t dramatic; it was silent and steady. Her tears fell straight off her face onto Dog’s head, but he didn’t stop. Dog put his large jaw in her hand and she held him there.
She put the purse in my hand. It was soft on the outside and hard in the middle. She wrapped both of her cold hands around mine and said, ‘I hope this will do you some good.’
It wasn’t heavy but there was something inside it, an odd shape, one I hadn’t felt before. It was round, like a circle. And then she kissed me briefly on my cheek before stepping over Dog, who was blocking the open doorway as if he didn’t want her to leave yet.
We watched her make her way up the garden path, past the fence, heading back into the village, back to work. Dog stood in the doorway watching her, never taking his eyes off her until she’d gone out of sight. I wished I could have shown her something better, drawn her something kinder.
But I cannot tell a lie. I cannot tell a lie. I cannot tell a lie.
CHAPTER 11
NOAH
‘What you looking for?’ I ask her and take a swig of lukewarm juice. Beth has stopped in the middle of the river path and is searching in the depths of her bag. She pauses, passes me her water bottle to hold and carries on rummaging.
‘My keys. I can’t find my house keys and Mum and Dad will still be in surgery. I thought I’d put my key ring in the zippy bit, I usually do. Oh God, Mum’s going to kill me. Look, my key ring’s bust.’ She attempts a smile but looks fed up with herself as she throws the broken key ring back into her bag.
‘I’m already on my third set of house keys this year.’ She puts everything else back in her bag then slings it over her shoulder. I pass her water back and we carry on walking along the river path, searching for the coolness of the shade made by the trees.
‘So … what do you want to do now then? We could go back to mine if you want?’ I stop in front of a bench. She sits down, dropping her bag on the ground again. I don’t really want to sit down. The sun is making me feel tired. I want to keep going, keep moving and talking and walking.
‘No, it’s too hot to stay out and we’ve got to sort our photos out for the History project. It’s next week, you know, and I haven’t even seen your photos yet. I hope they are better than my kingfisher nests! Hey, I meant to say earlier … it’s film night tonight, you know. Mum’s cooking, which you definitely don’t want to miss out on. She always makes way too much, so you can stay if you like?’ she asks, not looking at me.
‘Sure!’ I answer far too quickly, all thoughts of an evening run with my dad taking a backseat.
‘Anyway, we can still get in. We can walk through the field and see if the gate’s unlocked, or climb over the fence. There’s a spare key in the garage. Oh man, I feel like I’m having a sauna out here. Can we sit, just for a bit?’ Beth points at me and gestures to the bench.
I throw my rucksack down next to her bag but I haven’t done it up properly so half the stuff falls out. She reaches down to help me, handing me my text books, pencil case, my folder full of photos of her fish and the churchyard and empty crisp packets. She picks up my homework diary, which is already falling apart. She pulls at a page that is sticking out, hanging on by a thread. It is covered in green lines and shapes and symbols. She unfolds it and looks at it closely.
‘What’s this?’ She holds the diary out to me and the honest answer is: I don’t know. I don’t remember drawing anything in my homework diary. I don’t remember drawing anything in green pen either. I don’t even have a green pen. I take it from her, feeling sick and unsure. Her face is straight and unsmiling.
I run my eyes over the drawing quickly, checking for anything dark and dangerous, anything of the usual sort. The relief nearly knocks me off my feet. I had been ready to run, ready to jump up and apologise or deny, dismiss, whatever it took to make things right. But it was just a drawing of her garden, of the summer-house with the open door and the tall daisies and chamomile. It was pretty good too.
‘It’s your garden. Not bad, hey? You can have it if you want,’ I joke but she doesn’t laugh. I feel cold all over. Prickles run up and down my arm like adrenalin but instead of a surge I feel the sharpness of something about to go sour.
‘Why did you draw it? When did you draw it?’ Her words come out clipped and crisp.
‘Um, I don’t know.’ I look at my homework diary and can clearly see the drawing was on Monday, my first day of school, before I’d gone to her house.
‘But how could you have drawn this on your first day if you hadn’t even seen my garden? You hadn’t even been back to my house yet. I don’t understand.’ She rubs her hand over her forehead as if to uncover something in her memory.
I don’t know what to say. I run through my usual list of excuses. I list reasonable explanations for things that are totally unreasonable, but none of them fit.
I don’t want to lie, not to her, but there’s no way I can tell her the truth either. She’d run a mile and I wouldn’t blame her. I don’t want her to leave me, I want her to stay. But there are some things I just can’t tell anyone.
‘So?’ she prompts, arms folded, as she sits on the bench waiting, expecting some explanation that I just don’t have. Where should I start? I knew it would come out sooner rather than later. It always did. I just wasn’t sure how and when and that made me feel uncomfortable and out of control.
‘Beth, did you ever play that game when you were little, a let’s pretend game?’ I begin, totally unsure where I am going with this question.
‘Huh? What are you on about, Noah? What about the drawing?’ She looks confused.
I close my homework diary and put it back in my rucksack. I stand up and kick it under the bench, out of sight.
‘OK, so you’re sitting in the back of the car, going on a trip somewhere, doesn’t matter where, and you let your mind wander. You pretend What if? What if your parents are really someone else? Did you ever play that game?’
I perch on the edge of the bench, waiting for her reaction, hoping to get away with this random stream of thought.
‘No. I don’t get it. Can you stop going on about a stupid game and explain how you knew what my garden looked like? Noah?’ Beth squints at me in the sunshine. This isn’t going well but I’ll have to carry on now.
‘OK, basically I had a dream, not about you, nothing creepy like that, but I dreamt about your house, your back garden, and that’s what I drew. It was just a dream, you know, déjà vu or something like that. I’d probably seen your house from Google maps or something when Mum was house-hunting. She made me look at stacks of Sible Hedingham properties on the internet. So you know, it went into my subconscious and then I had a dream about it. Pretty cool when you think about it?’
She’s nodding, taking it in. I’m going to have to stop talking soon or I’ll go too far and ruin it.
‘Anyway, this game, right, you pretend that your mum and dad aren’t who they say they are. They’ve lied to you all these years. They’re criminals on the run, maybe bank robbers. Or they could be mass murderers for all you know. Now everything changes – your name could be fake, your whole life is up in the air. Everything you thought you knew is no more.’
She looks uncertain, both her eyes are open staring at me. And then she starts laughing, lovely and light and loud.
‘You’re weird, Noah. Anyone ever tell you that? You’re really weird, but you know what – I like it. I like you.’
She shuts her mouth, as if she’s said too much, and waves her hand at me to continue my silly story. She smiles, closes her eyes and leans back into the bench to enjoy the sun and let me entertain her with my strangeness. She has no idea.<
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‘Now you have to decide if you are going to jump out of the car and run away from them and tell the police. Or are you going to stay with them, cos they’re your mum and dad, right? They might be bad but they’re all you know, these complete strangers. Can you trust them? After all they’ve done and said and lied about, is there any way you can trust them?’ I ask her, testing the water waiting to see which way she’ll jump. Whether I’ll sink or swim.
‘No idea, never played that game. My parents are GPs, Noah, so I’m pretty sure if they were up to something, leading secret double lives, I’d know about it. There’s not much you can hide in a village, you know, you’d better get used to that!’ She laughs easily at me, leaving the game behind like a casualty.
She didn’t get it. I am not who I say I am. She didn’t suspect a thing and why would she? Why should she, it’s not like I’m ever going to tell her.
I played the stupid game every time we left another place, rewriting my past. I saw whatever town we left behind disintegrating in the rear-view mirror and I’d catch my mum’s eye and I’d ask myself, ‘Who the hell are you?’ and more frighteningly, ‘Who the hell am I?’
When we get to the fence the gate is locked. I cup my hands out and give her a leg up. She swings over the fence easily.
‘There’s a key in the garage, wait here till I get it? I’ll go in through the back door and give you a shout when it’s open.’ She dumps her bag at my feet, walking off down the long garden towards the garage.
I stop at the edge of the hut finding a bit of shade from the roof. I can still smell mint in the air from where I fell earlier. The door is open again. I wonder if it might be cooler inside or like a greenhouse. I collapse onto one of the rickety chairs, but jump straight back up. I hear something moving, rustling behind me, a sound like an echo. I look down at the chair and see something small and gold shining in the sunlight. It is sharp – that’s what I sat on. As I pick it up, a wind blows the door open.
‘Noah! I’ve been calling you for ages, what are you doing? What’s that?’ She is out of breath. ‘Didn’t you hear me shouting?’
I shake my head. I hadn’t heard her at all. I hadn’t heard anything but whispering and the wind. I look down at my hand. I am holding a small gold key. Beth looks up at me with a question on her face and then back at my hand.
‘That’s my key. That’s my front door key. Where did you find it?’ Her questions are quick and fast and her voice sounds sharp.
‘It was on the chair. I just sat on it!’ I try to make a joke, not sure why the room is full of tension and secrets and not enough air.
‘Really? Well, how did it get in here? I mean, how did you find it?’ She keeps asking the same question as she takes the key from me.
‘I just told you. It was on the chair. I came in here to get out of the sun.’ I repeat myself, sticking to the facts.
‘OK.’ The tiny word falls out of her mouth, as if she doesn’t trust it, herself or me. We stand in silence not looking at each other. Eventually she speaks.
‘Well, cheers for finding it, I guess. Maybe I should get a new key ring, clearly this one is battered, key’s always falling off. Did you bring your photos of the fish? We need to put our stuff together before we write our talk.’ Her voice babbles on like a brook, just like normal, and all the volume returns to the room.
‘I brought some of my photos but they’re not that good. Your fish move so quickly it’s hard to get a decent shot that’s not blurred. I’ve started my bit of the talk too.’ I copy her, speaking as quickly and loudly as I can, wanting to drown out my own voice trapped in my head.
‘OK, let’s go and get a drink and something to eat first and then we can put it all together. And after that I’ll show you my Tim Burton film collection. It’s not going to be as impressive as yours by the sounds of it, but at least I have a copy of Big Fish!’ She shoves my chest with her hot hands and then pulls me out of the hut. I let go of one of her hands but keep the other one for myself, as we walk slowly down her long garden to the house.
When I get home later that evening, I make myself a peanut butter sandwich with the thick ends of the loaf and sit down at the table opposite Mum and Dad. Mum quizzes me about my night straight away.
‘Did you have a good time? What film did you watch?’ She fiddles with the base of her wine glass as Dad tops it up.
‘Big Fish,’ I reply between mouthfuls.
‘Sounds good. I haven’t seen that one though, who’s in that?’ Dad asks, taking a small sip of his drink. He has red wine-stained lips and looks very chilled out.
‘Um, don’t know.’ I answer. I’m not bothered by celebrities or actors, just the story.
‘What are Beth’s parents like? What kind of house have they got?’ Mum asks, unable to stop herself. Dad and I start laughing at the same time.
‘What? What? I’m just showing an interest.’ She looks a bit cross so we both stop laughing.
‘They’re nice, you know, normal. They live in the Manor House. Umm … they’re both GPs and run the surgery together, he’s called Simon and she’s called Rebecca. Beth looks just like her mum.’ I struggle to think of anymore to say about them. Parents are just parents.
‘Right. I’ve not met either of them yet. I should go and register us with the surgery, shouldn’t I.’ She gives my dad a challenging look. He carries on sipping his wine.
‘Did you get your History homework done, mate, or were you too busy with other things?’ Dad changes the subject before Mum’s next question can follow, winking at me.
‘Yes, Dad, we got our homework done. We’ve got enough photos now. I’m going to paste them onto the boards tomorrow. The talk’s on Wednesday so I need to practise,’ I mumble, crumbs falling out of my mouth.
I point at his wine. ‘No run tonight then, Dad? Thought we might get a late one in now its finally cooled down?’
‘Sorry, mate, I was ready earlier but you were out on your date! Just kidding, just kidding. But seriously I’m wiped out now. How about an early morning one? I’ve got nothing on tomorrow or Sunday so I’m all yours, mate.’ He spreads his massive arms wide, nearly wacking Mum in the back of her head.
‘Right, well, let’s see how your head is first before you go making him any promises about crack of dawn runs, Daniel.’ Mum laughs as she moves the nearly empty bottle of red away from Dad. There’s garlic bread in a bowl in the middle of the table. I grab a slice before pushing my chair back.
‘I’ll leave you to it. I’m going to go do my English homework,’ I tell them.
‘Have you started rereading it yet, the Dickens? I know you’ve read it before but I think you should read it again, you’ve probably forgotten a lot of it,’ Mum suggests softly.
‘I’ve read a few chapters. I’ll go up and read some more now.’ I walk towards the door.
‘Noah, I’ll be ready at 7 for a run, I promise. You up for it, ready to take on the pacemaker?’ Dad asks pointing at me.
‘Sure.’
‘Night, mate.’ Dad raises his glass to me and takes a sip. Mum smiles and blows me a kiss. I can hear them chatting as I climb the stairs and shut my bedroom door.
I take out my book, lie on my bed and try to fill my head full with Dickens’s words about Pip, Estella, Miss Havisham and Magwitch, so there won’t be any room for my own and it works for a little bit. But when Mrs Joe Gargery describes Pip as trouble and goes on to list all the things Pip has been guilty of and ‘all the high places he had tumbled from and tumbled into and all the times she had wished him [Pip] in his grave,’ it feels way too close to me. I throw the book across the room. I will my brain to hide my own guilt, but it is already on autopilot, playing another scene that I can’t delete.
It had been my first parents’ evening and I was proud and shiny in my new uniform, my jumper hiding the pen mark I’d got on my white top that afternoon.
‘Sit down please, Mr and Mrs Saunders, Noah.’ Mrs Games gestured to the chairs in front of her desk. My dad fo
lded himself down and tried to perch on the edge of the chair. I thought he might fall off and had to squash down a giggle. Mrs Games had some exercise books set out in front of her. She started talking to my parents. I tuned her voice out as I looked around the room that was familiar but strange, empty of my friends and the noise and chatter that filled it up during the day. When I turned back around, Mrs Games had stopped talking and Mum and Dad sat in silence. My exercise books had been pushed to one side and on the table were two large drawings. I knew they were mine because I’d written my name proudly in big letters at the bottom, next to a shaky number 5. It had been my birthday the day before and I was practising writing my new number everywhere.
‘Noah, what is this?’ my dad asked, his voice low and quiet. I looked at the first picture and saw a beautiful mermaid underwater, her long white hair trailing after her. We’d read The Little Mermaid by a man with a long name and I’d tried to get the sea to be cornflower blue, but it had gone over the mermaid’s face, which was annoying because it looked as if the water was squashing her face down. I had to draw her eyes closed because I couldn’t do open ones yet.
Dad didn’t look very impressed. Mum picked up the next picture and asked, ‘Did you draw this one too, Noah?’ I looked at it and nodded. I’d spilled my red paint pot over the rocks I’d been drawing and it was really messy. My red fingerprints had gone all over the page, looking like I had cut myself, splashing drops of blood. The picture looked like a splodgy battle scene. I thought I’d stuffed both of them in the bin but Mrs Games must have taken them out. She was holding them out to my parents with her cross look and when she started speaking she used her indoor voice.
‘As you can see, these are quite disturbing. I notice that Noah did try to throw them away, but I was emptying the bin and all the red caught my eye. You can see why we are concerned,’ Mrs Games was saying, as if she enjoyed telling tales on me. My parents were nodding and thanking her. I didn’t understand what for, she was showing them bad drawings. Why wasn’t she showing them all the good ones I did of the starfish at the bottom of the sea or the pretty island I drew for the mermaid to live on? She had put those up on the display wall and stuck a gold star on them. I didn’t like Mrs Games anymore, she was mean, but it didn’t matter because that was my last parents’ evening with Mrs Games.