Glasshopper

by Isabel Ashdown

  There’s nothing from Matthew.

  “Right then, Birthday Boy,” says Mum, after she’s watched me open my cards. “We’ve got to get ourselves up, dressed and ready. We’ve got lots to do today.”

  I frown at her. “Like what? It’s my birthday. I thought we were just hanging around here today?”

  She smiles, collecting up my dirty clothes as she talks. “Your dad will be here in an hour. We’re going out for the day.” She’s standing in the doorway, looking at me and Andy with our bed hair and matching stripy pyjamas, sprawled out on the tangle of covers.

  “Together?” asks Andy.

  “Yes,” says Mum, picking up one last sock that’s got wedged behind the door. “Together. And if you pull your fingers out, we might even get there today.”

  “Skill!” says Andy, doing the air punch.

  I can’t let him get away with that, even if it is my birthday, so I give him a dead-leg and he limps from the room shaking his fist at me.

  “Why, I oughta …” he drawls in a crappy John Wayne accent.

  I pretend to go for him again and he runs off down the hall and slams his bedroom door behind him. I grab my jeans and my black George sweatshirt and start to get dressed.

  The train to Brighton takes over an hour, but it goes all the way without us having to change. At each stop, Andy presses his face against the window, trying to spot the sign that tells us where we are.

  “Is that a real castle?” asks Andy, with his hands flat to the glass.

  A castle rises up in the distance, surrounded by a valley of mist. Cows graze in the fields nearby, and it seems we’ve suddenly gone back in time.

  “Arundel,” says Dad. “Goes back to William the Conquerer if I remember my history. Went there on a school trip about thirty years ago.” He grins at me sitting opposite.

  “So, would there have been real battles then?” Andy goes on.

  “Of course. It’s been rebuilt a few times over the years. That would’ve been a bugger of a job, lugging all that stone into place without any machinery. And they wouldn’t have had a spirit level then, either. Bet it was cheap labour, though. Just a bunch of peasants and slaves, probably.”

  The castle disappears from view, and the train stops to pick up a single passenger on Arundel station. She’s about a hundred and she walks at a snail’s pace, getting into one of the carriages further down. She’s just the kind of person you’d expect to live in a place like Arundel, with her little knitted hat and knobbly walking stick. I wonder where a little old lady like that would be going on her own. Maybe she’s going to Brighton too.

  As we get further away from home, the place names get softer sounding, more seasidey. Goring-by-Sea; West Worthing; Worthing; Shoreham-by-Sea; Portslade-by-Sea; Hove. Somehow, the light of the sky looks different too; wider, brighter, and more of it.

  “OK, put your coats on,” says Mum at Hove. “We’ll be in Brighton in a couple of minutes.” She’s already got her jacket buttoned up, bag held on her lap, perched to jump off the train as soon as we stop.

  Dad’s just wearing a T-shirt, with a sweatshirt in his hand. He’s smiling at Mum, who’s sitting next to me, looking out the window. We slow down to a final stop in Brighton, pulling into this huge, domed Victorian station, with pigeons flying about in the rafters and hundreds of people milling about on the many platforms.

  “OK, got your tickets? Andy? Jake?” Mum’s eyebrows are knitted in a frown.

  We wave them at her.

  “Stick together until we get out of the station,” she says. “It’s busy, we don’t want to get separated.”

  Dad winks at me with a smile, and Mum takes Andy’s hand and leads the way, marching ahead briskly. Andy looks over his shoulder at us, and I pull a disgusted face at the hand-holding, and he drops Mum’s hand like a hot rock. She pinches a piece of his jacket and holds on to that instead. Before we get out of the station, Dad insists that we all get our photos taken in the little booth near the exit. He says we have to do two serious faces, and then two daft ones if we want. I ask him what he wants them for, and he says, “Never you mind.” We emerge from the station, into startling light, and the air is filled with the sounds of buses and seagulls. I’m used to seagulls down our way, but this is something else. This is deafening, and constant. It even smells like you’d expect Brighton to smell. Like sea foam and vinegar.

  We walk down the Queen’s Road, heading straight for the sea. As you get further down the sloping road, the buildings seem to open out, revealing the horizon ahead. The smell of fish and chips is mouth-watering, and the gulls get louder and louder, the closer we get to the beach.

  “I can’t believe we’ve never been here before,” I say, eyeing up the amusement arcades that flash and chime as we pass.

  “You have,” replies Mum. “When you were tiny.”

  “And me?” asks Andy.

  “No, I was expecting you at the time.”

  “What did we do when we came here before?” I ask, looking at Dad.

  “Dunno, son,” he answers. “I wasn’t with you. So! Brighton seafront! Whaddya wanna do first?”

  Andy’s already climbing on the railings along the front, spinning himself over and back again. There are two piers, one to the left that’s alive and buzzing with people and lights, and one to the right which sits quietly on the water, crumbling and deserted.

  “That’s the West Pier,” says Mum. “You can’t go on it now, but we used to when we were kids. Before it disintegrated – became a danger, I suppose. It’s a shame; such a beautiful thing, left to decay like that.”

  It’s still a beautiful thing, from here, proudly rising out of the calm water. It seems to be the opposite of the other pier, the Palace Pier, with its flashing lights and crowds of holidaymakers.

  But still, I can’t wait to get on to the Palace Pier and poke about. Near the pier entrance, Dad stops to buy four portions of fish and chips, and we drown them in salt and vinegar, before heading down to the beach to eat them in the sunshine.

  “We’ll go on to the pier to get pudding,” he says, mopping up some salt with a chubby chip.

  “Mmmm, pudding!” says Andy, in one of his stupid voices.

  “Oh, I know what pudding your dad’s talking about,” laughs Mum, as she sits beside him on the mound of rolled pebbles, facing the sea. “I guess I can forget my figure for a day.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your figure, you minx,” says Dad, making a grab for her waist.

  Mum squeals, catching her chips, stopping them from tumbling from her lap. She gives him one of her looks.

  “Urghh,” I say, looking at Dad, “not when I’m eating. You’ll put me off.”

  Dad laughs and carries on with his chips.

  “Look at that!” says Andy, holding up one of his chips. “That has to be the biggest chip I’ve ever seen. Look! Jake! It’s massive!” It looks like a saveloy, it’s that big.

  He rolls his head back, and dangles it over his mouth, folding it in slowly, until it’s all gone. His cheeks bulge as he chews it with difficulty, smirking all the time.

  “’licious,” he says halfway through, his cheeks red with the effort.

  We all laugh, as he struggles to swallow the monster chip. A scruffy-looking man and his dog are walking along the water’s edge. We’re all sitting here, watching the dog bounce in and out of the water, and Andy’s still chewing away with his fat cheeks, when the dog bounds up the stones, sticks his nose straight into Andy’s chip paper, and grabs what’s left of the fish before making a run for it. He runs way off down the beach, before his owner even sees what’s happened, then stoops down to enjoy his unexpected feast.

  Andy’s mouth is hanging open like a cartoon. He looks down at his chips, back up towards the dog down by the water, then over to us. Our eyes meet and suddenly we’re all laughing – me, Andy, Mum, Dad, rolling about on the stones with tears running down our faces.

  “Le chien, il a faim,” says Dad, as we all calm down again
.

  “Zut alors!” I blurt out. I just learnt it at school.

  Mum and Dad turn and look at me, and we’re all laughing again, what’s left of our chips lying abandoned beside us, the paper fluttering in the breeze.

  After we dump our chip wrappers in the bin, we go back up the beach and climb the stone steps towards the pier. There are people everywhere, of every nationality, wandering about with ice creams and sun hats. You can tell the people who live here, because they carry on walking, uninterested in the flashing lights of the pier entrance, dressed in everyday clothes with no backpacks. I guess we must seem to be somewhere in between.

  Dad heads straight for the hot doughnut stand, where he hands over one pound for ten doughnuts. The doughnut man cooks them right there in front of us, plopping the dough mix straight into the fat, already in the shape of a ring. They fry quickly in turn, fizzle sizzle, and he whips them out, tossing them in sugar and into a paper bag. The smell is unique, of battered sugar and heat. We reach the end of the pier, eating our hot doughnuts and leaning on the rail gazing out to sea. No one talks as we enjoy the sweet doughiness of our pudding. There are a few small boats out on the water, and the sunlight bobs over the ripples.

  Dad hands me an envelope.

  “It’s from both of us,” he says. “From your mum and me.”

  I rip it open. The card isn’t one of those “son” cards or the ones with your age on, but a tasteful one, with a picture of a boy running across the countryside with his dog. If Dad had chosen it, it would’ve been a football picture or a racing car. Inside there are two tenners, and the writing says, “Towards your record player.”

  “I hope you don’t mind that it’s money, Jakey,” says Mum, leaning out over the railings to see past Dad. “I didn’t want to choose the wrong thing, and I know you’re saving. You must have nearly enough by now?”

  I nod, thinking about the day I found my money box cleaned out. I smile back at Mum, and squeeze her hand as she reaches it across.

  “It’s brilliant, just what I wanted. I want a really good midi system, so I’ll save a bit longer. But this really helps.”

  For a while, there’s no need to talk, and we look across the water as the seagulls screech about overhead. Dad turns round, leaning his back against the railings. Mum looks up at him and he nods, taking her hand in his.

  “So, boys,” he says in a cautious voice.

  We turn to face him. Andy looks terrified.

  “How’d you like me to move back home?” The pair of them stand there waiting for us to answer.

  Andy bursts into tears and buries his head in Mum’s chest to hide his face. She rocks him, kissing the top of his head. I feel slightly queasy from all the doughnuts.

  “Jake?” says Dad.

  “That’s brilliant, Dad,” I say, trying not to show just how pleased I am. “Brilliant.” I can’t help it, and a big smile breaks through.

  Dad grabs me in a bear hug, taking my breath away, engulfing me in his strong arms. I can smell the clean sweat of his chest mixed with chips and doughnuts and sea spray, and my heart thumps in my own chest as Mum smiles over Andy’s head.

  “Happy birthday, Jakey,” she says, and I swallow hard to dislodge the lump that’s risen in my throat. I’m fourteen for God’s sake. I swipe away the wet of my eyes, and break away from Dad.

  “OK,” says Dad, fumbling about in his pocket. “We’ve got a pound each.” He counts out the coins into our open palms. “Whoever wins the most off the slot machines gets to buy the ice creams on the way home!”

  Andy runs off towards the blinking lights and thumping sounds of the arcade. Mum and Dad wander along hand in hand, looking into each other’s faces from time to time. Mum looks quiet and happy; Dad looks tall and proud. I run after Andy to hear one of the arcade men at the entrance telling him he can’t go in there on his own.

  “It’s alright,” I say, pulling myself up to my tallest height, putting my arm round Andy’s shoulders. “I’m fourteen.”

  The arcade man steps aside, nodding for us to go in.

  When I pick up Griffin after our day out, Mr Horrocks asks me to come up to his flat for a minute. I’ve never been up there before, and I’m intrigued to see what it’s like.

  At the top of the stairs I can see how tiny it is; there seems to be a little kitchen, bathroom and bedroom all off the landing, with a sitting room at the front. Mr Horrocks leads me straight into the front room. It’s just how you’d expect, with two of those upright armchairs in a flowery print, and a dark brown display cabinet and coffee table. There’s a fake fireplace, and the TV sits on a shelf built into the wall. Griffin runs circles around my feet, begging to be picked up.

  “Sit down, son,” Mr Horrocks says, reaching for a big book that’s lying on the coffee table. “Now, I know it’s your birthday, and you’re into all sorts of modern stuff that fourteen-year-old boys want, but I thought you might quite like this.”

  The book is large and old, with a dark green cover and faded gold edging. The bold lettering of the title is intertwined with curling vine leaves and dark grapes. Greek Mythology for Boys.

  “I thought I might have a son one day, but it never happened. Mrs Horrocks and I weren’t blessed that way. And I always loved the Greek stories. I’ve heard you talk about your Classics lessons, son, so I thought you’d like it.”

  He hands the book over to me, and I hold it on my lap for a moment, feeling the weight of it. As I turn the pages, beautiful full page illustrations leap out at me, with scripted descriptions beneath them: Odysseus meets the Cyclops; The Wooden Horse of Troy; Atalanta and the Golden Apples. It’s the best book I’ve ever seen.

  “To borrow?” I ask.

  “To keep, Jake. As a birthday present.”

  I close the cover, stroking my finger along the gold lettering, imagining it on my bookshelf at home.

  “Mr Horrocks, I …”

  He puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes it. “Mrs Horrocks kept telling me I should let you have it. And your birthday seems as good a time as any, son. So it’s from both of us really.” He stands from his armchair. “Right then, let’s find Griffin’s lead, shall we? You’d better take some dog food while you’re at it. Your mum’ll wonder where you’ve got to.”

  At the shop door, I try to thank Mr Horrocks for the book again, but he shakes his head and pats me on the back.

  “Happy birthday, son. So, we’ll see you next Saturday for your first day in the shop?”

  I nod and wave him goodbye as he locks up the shop behind me. It’s dark now, and as I walk through the quiet streets with Griffin by my side and Mr Horrocks’ book under my arm, I think about home. The home where me and my mum and my dad and my brother all live. Together.

  Mary, September 1978

  9.10 a.m. The house is so still. This morning, as I walked away from the school gates, little Andy looked over his shoulder at me and waved. So confident; so unlike the other two on their first day. His legs looked tiny, still hanging on to a ghost of toddler chub, rounding at the calves, pinched in by short grey socks. There was still a hint of summer in the morning sky, and the sun caught his darkening hair like a halo. Matthew and Jake didn’t even look back today; they just marched into their classrooms in line, already slaves to the routine.

  The breakfast pots pile beside the sink, and now I have all this spare time to be more efficient around the house. I could clean, uninterrupted for hours, and still have time for a cup of tea and a magazine. If I wanted. But to reach for the taps, to fill the sink, to wash up seems impossible, and I stare into the spaces, battling with the options. I’d feel better if I just got on with it. If I just do it now, I can relax later. The boys would love a home-cooked meal after school. But I know I’ll give them cheese on toast. Or burgers in a bun. If Jake wasn’t so fussy … but they all want something different. At least I know they’ll all eat cheese on toast. I try to imagine what Rachel’s kids might eat when they get home from school. Casseroles and roasts and vegeta
bles and fruit pies and pavlovas. Sandwiches and scones at high tea. The pain of her absence doubles me over and I blink at the peeling corner of kitchen lino as I clutch my chest, feeling the heart inside pumping too fast. I sob for my Rachel, who took me into her bed when I dreamed of the creature inside the light bulb, Rachel who discreetly took me to the nurse for dry knickers on my first day of school, Rachel who understood the world, and left before I understood it too. Eight years. The lino is maddening. That corner pokes up at the edges of my vision, and I try to ignore it, but it’s always there. I tug at it, and it lifts easily, like a heavy label from a plastic bottle. A colony of silverfish swarm and scatter, blown this way and that by the brightness of light. I have to back out of the room now, just to keep pulling, hearing the edges pop out from under the kitchen units. But the last corner just won’t come. I’m sweating now, yanking and cursing at it, but the heavy weight of the fridge holds it captive. As I let go, it coils away, slapping back against the concrete floor like a dropped snake.

  In the boys’ room, I smell Andy’s earthy softness as I curl up on his bed. His cuggy-bear pokes an ear out of the unmade bedclothes. I rub the ear between my forefinger and thumb, in the way that Andy does when he’s dropping off, and I recognise the rhythmic pleasure of the action. The silky edges run into the balding rough centre of the ear, rough then smooth, rough then smooth. It’s soothing and unsettling, all at once. Jake’s bed is opposite, the bedclothes pulled straight, smoothed down at the edges, the pillow plumped. Who showed him that? Perhaps it was me. But he’s only seven. His soft toys have all been put to bed, each little head visible above the neatly folded sheet top. Monkey, Big Ted, Donkey, Alberto, Blanky. Matthew teases Jake that Blanky is just an old rag, but Jake calls it “he” and “him” as if it has a life of its own.

  The ring of the phone shocks me, and I’m caught, lying here, not doing the things that a mother at home should do. I leap off the bed and dash down the stairs to catch the phone on the fifth ring.