by Kim Slater
‘Calm down, Mr Brooks, please.’ PC Bolton holds up his palm to Dad. ‘We have every confidence we’ll apprehend the culprits, but we have a procedure to follow. Now, if we can press on with speaking to Calum?’
‘Yes, course.’ Dad’s face reddens. ‘Sorry.’
They ask me a lot of questions, most of which I’m unable to answer.
Did I see the vehicle?
No, I just heard the music.
What was the music?
I don’t know, just a heavy bass beat.
Did I see the driver or anyone at all?
No, but I heard them talking, and one of them stood next to me and I saw his trainer.
Can you describe the trainer?
No, I can’t remember any details.
How many of them were there?
I don’t know.
What did they say?
Sorry, I don’t know.
PC Bolton frowns, tucking his notepad away in his top pocket.
‘Sorry,’ I say again.
Dad looks disappointed when PC Channer hands him a card. ‘Give us a call if and when your son remembers anything, sir.’
While Dad shows them out and they talk in low voices outside the door, I stare out of the window and wish I could fly away from here.
It looks like whoever did this is going to get away with it. No witnesses – at least none who are prepared to come forward – no memory of the accident from me, and no apparent clues.
It’s like someone just committed the perfect crime.
Dr Hall is tall and thin with black slicked-back hair and pointed, shiny shoes. He looks more like a scientist who works at a top-secret government lab than an NHS doctor. He sweeps into the room surrounded by medical students in flapping white coats who frown at me briefly and then scribble stuff down on their clipboards.
‘Your leg got knocked up pretty badly,’ he says, flicking through the papers on the clipboard that is tethered with string to the end of my bed. ‘Lots of pins in there now, helping you to heal. Hope you’re not planning on going through the airport scanners any time soon.’
Him and Dad share a chuckle.
‘We’ll keep you dosed up on painkillers, but the good news is, you didn’t sustain a head injury so you can go home tomorrow. The hospital will lend you a wheelchair.’
‘A wheelchair?’
Dad opens a bag of crisps and shovels a handful into his mouth.
‘It won’t be forever,’ the doctor chides me, replacing the clipboard. ‘Just for a couple of days, most likely, then you’ll be fine on crutches for short distances. You’ve been lucky this time.’
‘Thanks, Doc,’ Dad says gravely.
‘The whole summer?’
‘Oh, look who’s here.’ Dad stands up and wipes his greasy hands down the front of his jeans. ‘We’ve got visitors, Calum.’
I turn my aching head gingerly towards the door and watch as Angie and Sergei move aside to let the doctor and his entourage out, then step fully into the room themselves.
Angie bends her knees, pulls a cartoon face and wiggles her fingers at me in a silly wave.
‘How is our little soldier feeling?’ she says in her heavy, flat accent. ‘I hear you will be at home all summer. We can bake and read, and Sergei will take you to the park in your wheelchair.’
I close my eyes and count to five in the hope I’m hallucinating and have just created this nightmare scenario in my head. But when I open my eyes, Sergei is standing right next to me, and now my skull, as well as everything else, is throbbing.
‘We can build my models all summer,’ he says. ‘And I can play you all of Chopin’s Nocturnes.’
‘Hear that, Calum?’ Dad claps a hand on to Sergei’s shoulder and looks at me hopefully. ‘You two lads are going to have a brilliant time together.’
The three of them stand grinning at me as if me being knocked over is the best thing that could have happened.
‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ I croak, and Dad grabs a cardboard dish and holds it under my chin.
When Angie and Sergei have gone to the cafe, I push the dish away. Dad passes me a cup of water and I take a tiny sip.
‘When are they going back to Poland?’ I croak. ‘They might have to go back, when Brexit goes through.’
Dad squints at me like the sun is shining straight into his eyes.
‘Nah, that won’t happen,’ he says after a pause. ‘I’m not interested in all that political rubbish anyway.’
He wafts my comment away with a flick of his fingers and I know the subject is closed.
‘I liked it when it was just us two at home,’ I say. ‘I miss it.’
‘I know things have changed, but that’s not so bad, is it?’ Dad tries to reason.
I shrug. I can tell I’m on to a loser; I might as well stay quiet.
‘Angie’s already fond of you, and Sergei’s a great lad, isn’t he?’
He’s stopped squinting now but the corners of his mouth are drooping.
‘I don’t want you to grow up like me, Calum; I want different for you. Family matters – it gives you a solid base, you know?’
‘We already are a solid base . . .’ I bite my lip. ‘You and me.’
Dad sighs and looks down. ‘I’ve failed you a bit, lad, I think. Working away so much.’
‘It’s never bothered you before.’ I feel a stab of annoyance inside. ‘How come you’re suddenly so concerned?’
Dad looks at me in a way that makes me immediately feel sorry for being so blunt.
‘I don’t blame you for being hacked off with me, lad; it’s no more than I deserve.’ Dad looks out of the window. ‘It’s Angie, you see. She was shocked when I told her you’d had to fend for yourself during the week.’
‘’S’all right.’ I shrug, feeling like a little kid. ‘I cope OK.’
Dad shakes his head.
‘There’s no two ways about it. You spent far too much time on your own in that flat. You need to be around people. Family and friends.’
Like Angie and Sergei? I don’t think so.
‘And I’ve made a bit of a decision.’ Dad puffs his chest out. ‘I’ve decided I’m going to make a real effort to be around a bit more over the summer.’
I look at him.
‘I mean it, Calum. I’m going to turn down work abroad, if I have to. Now this has happened –’ he nods to my shattered leg under the blanket – ‘it’s time for me to buck my ideas up and be a proper father to you.’
I’ve heard Dad’s promises before and they’ve never come to much so far.
Suddenly I feel so tired I could sleep for a week. My eyelids seem to be made of lead and it’s hard to keep them open. After a few seconds, I give in and close them.
I don’t realize I’ve drifted off into sleep until I hear Dad’s trainers squeak on the floor as he creeps out of the room. He closes the door behind him.
He’ll have gone to the cafe to be with them.
My legs are throbbing worse now. I need my next lot of painkillers, but Dad’s gone and I’ve nobody else here to look after me.
My nose feels blocked; maybe I’m getting a bad cold. I feel a warm trickle at the side of my face as a tear escapes and traces its way down towards my ear. I turn my head to the small window so the pillow soaks up the moisture and I squeeze my eyes tight to seal the other tears in.
Outside I see Dad, Angie and Sergei walking across the car park, talking and laughing together. They look like a proper family just as they are, without me.
I’ve always been all right on my own. I learned a long time ago how to avoid other people finding out I’m by myself a lot in the flat. Now, I wish I had people around me. People who care. Being a loner only works when you don’t feel down. But Angie and Sergei aren’t the people I want.
I try to swallow down the sour taste in my mouth.
Why am I suddenly thinking about how different things would be if Mum was still here?
On Sunday morning, everyone turns up at the
hospital to take me home.
‘There was no need for you all to come,’ I say, frowning, when they appear at the door. I wish Dad had just come on his own.
‘We are here to support you, Calum,’ Angie says. ‘That is what family and friends do, yes?’
But Angie and Sergei aren’t family, and I don’t really know them enough to call them friends. But I know they mean well.
Dad pulls in a wheelchair from the corridor and unfolds it. I push the bedclothes to one side and swing my legs round.
A searing pain shoots from my toes into my hip and I cry out. Dad reaches forward as if to grab me.
‘Pete, wait. Perhaps the nurse should be here.’ Angie ducks out of the door and I’m grateful when she returns ten seconds later with a male nurse. Dad’s trying his best to help, but he’s got no sense at times.
‘No aerobics classes for a few weeks, young man,’ the nurse quips as he ducks under my armpit and takes my weight on to his shoulder. ‘And no more wrestling classes for at least a year, OK?’
Dad, Angie and Sergei all laugh and so I feel under pressure to give him a tiny smile, but really I’d like to give him the finger.
With a bit more twisting and turning I manage to sink down into the chair.
I press the back of my hand to my upper lip and a damp smear rubs off. I have never experienced pain that is so bad it makes you properly sweat. Until now.
Shame it’s impossible to transfer pain to someone else. At one time I’d have passed it on to Sergei in a heartbeat. But now he’s here and trying his best to help me, I’m not so sure.
Dad parks up outside our flat.
‘Hey, look who is there.’ Sergei taps me on the shoulder and whispers from the back of the van where he and Angie are sitting uncomfortably. He nods to a figure that has just dodged behind a parked car. ‘It is Linford.’
I keep watching as Linford emerges and crosses the street.
‘Is that your mate?’ Dad points, but I shrug and look the other way.
My face is burning when Dad insists on unfolding the wheelchair and we go through the same tortured palaver to get me into it.
I glance across the road and find, to my horror, that Linford is standing there, watching us. His brow is furrowed and he digs his hands deeper into his pockets as I struggle to get in the chair. I expect him to laugh at my struggle or to shout something before running off, but if anything, he looks really worried.
‘Just ignore him, Calum,’ Sergei says in my ear.
A couple of younger kids who live at the end of the street lean back on a wall across the road and stare like it’s free entertainment. They break eye-contact to whisper to each other and share a snigger.
As Linford walks past them, his head snaps up and he says something. The kids stop laughing and shuffle off without looking back.
‘Are you feeling comfortable in your chair, Calum?’ Sergei asks.
‘Yeah, I’m fine, thanks.’ I look back but Linford has disappeared. I bite the inside of my lip and look down at my lap. I thought he’d come to make fun of me but that doesn’t seem to be the case.
Dad drapes his arm around Angie’s shoulders and they watch as Sergei steps forward. He fusses around the wheelchair, checking the wheels are sturdy and the armrests steady, before grabbing the handles and steering me slowly towards the gate. He’s being really helpful but I can’t help thinking he’s relishing the thought of being the one in charge.
‘Let Dad do it,’ I tell him. ‘He’ll be quicker than you.’
‘I am managing fine. I am helping my friend,’ he replies.
‘Sergei is doing just fine there, Cal,’ Dad remarks. ‘Stop worrying.’
The logistics of getting into the flat prove to be another humiliating challenge.
The wheelchair is too wide for the front door, so I’m forced to get out and lean on Angie while Dad folds it up again. Sergei and Dad take an arm each and half drag, half carry me inside while my injured leg hangs uselessly like an overgrown puppet’s.
‘Do you need to visit the bathroom before you sit down?’ Angie asks as we move past her.
‘No,’ I snap. As if I’d ask her to take me anyway.
The smile slides from her face and she steps away from me. I open my mouth to apologize, but then Dad and Sergei offload me into a comfortable chair and the moment passes.
Dad turns on the news and sits down to read the paper. I try to get on with reading A Kestrel for a Knave, but Sergei and Angie are busy in the kitchen, clattering pots and pans, and I find it hard to concentrate.
They are talking and laughing in Polish, most likely poking fun at my expense.
After a short time, their voices drop lower and I can hear urgent whispers between them. Whatever it is they’re talking about sounds important. And secret.
I wish I could sneak over to the door and listen, see if they say anything in English, but I’ve no chance of moving from this chair on my own.
I feel my eyelids growing heavier, and after trying to fight it for a few minutes I eventually close my eyes, snapping awake twenty minutes later.
Dad is dozing on the settee, but half his newspaper has slid on to the floor and his mouth is lolling open. It’s the sort of thing that would usually make me laugh. I might have even snapped a pic on my phone to tease him later. Today, it just makes my head ache more.
The most delicious smell permeates the flat. Despite having had no appetite in the hospital, my mouth begins to water. It is quieter now in the kitchen. The whispering has stopped and there is just the odd clink of cutlery, then Angie appears at the door with a tray, and coughs.
Dad wakes up with a start.
‘Sorry . . .’ He rubs his eyes and smooths back tufts of unruly hair. ‘Must’ve dropped off.’
‘Dinner is ready,’ Angie announces grandly, walking towards me. ‘I thought we would all eat in here so Calum is not dining alone.’
Me and Dad always eat on trays in front of the TV; you don’t have much choice in a tiny flat like this. Angie talks as if there’s a posh dining room with white tablecloths and solid-silver cutlery going spare somewhere down the hall. She places the tray down in front of me and I look down into the wide, flat dish that rests there.
The food smells amazing but it looks . . . gross.
I pick up the fork and poke at the dark brown mess. Seared chunks of lumpy meat nestle among something that looks like grey cabbage, tangled and unpleasant.
I lay the fork back down on the tray next to a hunk of weird-looking brown bread that looks as if it has been mixed with a load of grit before going in the oven.
‘I made bigos for you,’ Angie beams, undeterred.
Dad and Sergei have their trays now too and are already wolfing down the food.
‘What’s in it?’
‘Bigos is a stew for hunters,’ Sergei answers with his mouth full, although I wasn’t talking to him. ‘It is a Polish national dish.’
‘Delicious,’ Dad grunts, his head down.
‘Yes, it is a – I think you would say here – a hearty stew made with kielbasa sausage, bacon and sauerkraut, among many more ingredients,’ Angie explains, as if I’m actually interested. ‘But here in Nottingham I find no kielbasa sausage, so I have to use only British sausage.’
I glance at the gritty bread.
‘Oh, and I bake razowy bread for you also, of course.’ She nods eagerly at the tray. ‘It is a traditional Polish rye bread baked with many sorts of seeds.’
A few moments of silence pass while I wait for her to go away again. I’ll push the food around the dish a bit, make it look as if I’ve eaten some.
‘Thank you, Angie,’ Dad says, looking pointedly at me. ‘We really appreciate you going to so much trouble.’
‘Yeah, thanks,’ I mumble, wishing I could just have a dish of instant noodles instead.
‘Try it, Calum,’ Sergei urges, breaking off another chunk of bread and dunking it into his stew.
Angie tries to smile at me but doesn’t quit
e make it. She turns round and heads back to the kitchen slowly, like some of her sparkle just seeped away.
I look down at the tray again.
The food does smell delicious, and although it looks pretty weird, Angie has just confirmed there’s nothing dodgy in it – like wild hedgehog or squirrels or whatever it is that I imagined Polish people might eat.
That, and the fact that I haven’t eaten in a couple of days, decides it. I pick up the fork and spear a small piece of sausage. I eye the stringy stuff that has also found its way on to the fork.
‘Sauerkraut.’ Angie is back in the room and sitting down next to Dad with her tray of food. ‘It is sort of a fermented, fine-cut cabbage.’
Fermented?
I’m about to put my fork down again when I catch one of Dad’s legendary ‘This Is Your First and Final Warning’ looks.
Before I can overthink it any more, I slide the food into my mouth and chew.
I swallow, dig my fork in and take another, bigger mouthful. The moreish meat mixes with the sweetness of the sauerkraut and tomatoes.
It. Is. Delicious.
I watch everyone, even Dad, breaking bread and dipping it into the stew to soak up the gravy. I do the same. When I look up, Sergei is grinning.
‘You like, yes, Calum?’ he asks.
‘’S’all right,’ I mumble, and Dad looks up sharply from his food. ‘I mean, it’s really nice – thanks, Angie.’
‘You are most welcome, Calum.’ She beams as if me liking her food somehow matters to her. ‘How lovely we are sitting here in our new English home, eating Polish food together.’
She looks at Dad and they smile at each other.
I wonder if I’d ever have tried Polish food if it wasn’t for Angie coming here. And the people who cook our Chinese takeaways and the posh Indian restaurant in town that me and Dad went to last year . . . would we have that choice if someone in the owners’ families hadn’t decided to come over here?
Calum grins at me and I take another big spoonful of bigos and smile back.
Monday. First proper day of the summer holidays.
I should be wolfing down my breakfast and then scooting down to the field to play footie all day with the lads. But of course, I’m not. I am more concerned with swallowing my painkillers on time.