Glasshopper

by Isabel Ashdown

  “What a lovely film,” says Mum as the credits roll up at the end. She blows her nose into a tissue and goes over to draw back the curtains. “So sad.”

  Andy’s staring vacantly at the TV screen.

  “Oi, poofter,” I say to him, rubbing my eyes with my fists and pulling a boo-hoo face.

  Andy snaps out of his trance, makes a rifle with his hands, and pretends to shoot Griffin. I lunge at him, knocking Griffin off my lap, but Andy’s too quick.

  “You can run, but you can’t hide,” I shout up the stairs after him.

  Griffin’s standing by the door expectantly, obviously thinking that all this activity means he’s getting a walk. He hasn’t been out today, apart from the back yard, so I pick up his lead to take him for a good walk around the park. After all that slushy stuff I need some fresh air.

  When I come in at five, Dad’s still not back. He’s been gone three hours, not the hour he said he’d be.

  Mum’s up in the loft, and she calls for me when she hears the front door go.

  “Jake – can you take these boxes when I pass them down? Andy was meant to help, but Ronny called for him. Some of them are a bit heavy, so be careful.”

  She lowers down three large cardboard boxes, covered in dust. The first is a Peek Freans biscuit box. I remember having Peek Freans Petit Beurre biscuits at a friend’s house, years ago, and thinking they must be rich. The other two boxes are plain cardboard, and sealed with packing tape.

  Mum climbs back down the ladder and fixes the hatch back in place. She dusts herself off, and we carry the boxes down from the landing.

  Mum starts opening up the boxes. “My old collection.”

  The boxes are crammed full of records. There must be fifty or sixty albums here, and in the Peek Freans box, hundreds of singles. It would cost you a fortune to buy this lot from scratch. I begin flicking through them rapidly, taking in the band names and the record sleeves, not knowing where to start.

  “They won’t all be to your taste,” says Mum, carefully pulling out a bunch of LPs, “but there are some classics in these boxes. Here – oh, I loved this, Breakfast in America – and, look, Bob Dylan. Saw him live at the Isle of Wight festival. Incredible.”

  I can’t believe that this treasure trove of music has been up in our loft all these years. Even more I can’t believe that it belongs to my mum.

  “When was that?” I ask.

  “What – the festival? 1970. It was an amazing line-up – I ended up collecting the albums of most the bands I saw there. Look – I’ve bunched them all together here – Jimi Hendrix, Joni Mitchell, the Moody Blues …”

  Mum’s eyes are sparkling, and she looks younger as she picks through the album covers, turning them over in her hands.

  “Oh God! Look at this one – you must have heard of The Doors – I had the biggest crush on Jim Morrison when I was at art college. I was going to marry him. Then your dad came along,” she says with a little laugh. “The 1970 festival is the most famous of the lot. It was Jimi Hendrix’s last gig, before he died.” She shakes her head, as if remembering someone she actually knew. “What a waste.”

  “You’d have had Matthew by then. Was he there?” I feel a twinge of jealousy that he might have been part of the adventure, even before I was born.

  “No, no. He was with your dad, back here in Portsmouth.”

  “Who’d you go with then?”

  “Gypsy,” she answers, her eyes still scanning the back of The Doors album. She lays it down carefully. “Anyway, they’re yours if you want them, Jake. Now you’ve got a record player of your own.”

  Mum goes into the kitchen and puts the kettle on. My eyes run over the boxes of music. I wonder why she never gave them to Matthew. I start to pack the records back into the boxes, ready to carry them up to my room.

  “Can I phone George, Mum? Tell him about the music?”

  “If you’re quick,” she calls from the sink. “Don’t stay on too long though – it’s expensive, Jake. You can always write him a letter, to tell him more about it.”

  I decide to skip the phone call, and go up to my room to start working my way through the albums.

  Mum’s still up when I go to bed, waiting for Dad. I’m just drifting off, when the click-clack of the kitchen cupboard disturbs me. There’s a pause, and I know she’s found the cupboard empty. I checked it earlier, like I do every morning. She closes it again, click-clack. I stare at the crack of light under the door, until my eyes can’t stay open any more.

  Mary, July 1982

  I’m somewhere between sleep and waking when I hear the phone ringing downstairs. It rings and rings and rings. Bright sunlight pushes at the closed curtains, stabbing white lines across the wood-chipped wall opposite. The red numbers of the digital clock read 9.46 a.m. The ringing stops. I reach for the glass of water on my bedside cabinet. It tastes stale in my mouth, but my thirst makes me swallow it to the bottom. As I flop back against my clammy pillow, the phone starts to ring again. I feel suddenly nauseous as the water hits my stomach, so I curl up on my side, cupping my ears with my hands, willing the ringing phone to stop. After a few minutes it does stop, and I slowly ease my legs out of bed, feeling for slippers with my numb toes. I’m halfway along the landing when the phone starts again, jolting me to a stop. I listen. It’s so persistent. Perhaps it’s Billy. More likely it’s some salesman. Or a wrong number. Maybe it’s one of the boys. I stumble down the stairs, righting my balance, and pick up the receiver clumsily.

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs Andrews?”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Mr Hall here. From the high school. Can we talk?”

  I don’t like the tone of his voice. Arrogant.

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “It’s Matthew, Mrs Andrews. He hasn’t registered this morning. Did he leave for school alright?”

  I pause, trying to remember if I saw the boys before they left the house. I don’t remember.

  “Yes. Yes, he went off as normal.”

  Mr Hall clears his throat. “Well I’m not entirely sure what normal is for Matthew. In the past four weeks, he’s been absent nine times in total. That level of absenteeism doesn’t strike me as entirely normal.”

  There’s an awkward silence as Mr Hall waits for my response. I can’t give him one.

  “Mrs Andrews, may I ask – is everything alright at home with Matthew? He’s clearly a very bright boy, but if he doesn’t buckle down soon, he’ll be leaving school with no qualifications and not much hope for a career.”

  My mind is whirring through the past few weeks, trying to remember if Matthew has been acting differently or not.

  “How many times did you say he’s been off school? Because you know, he did have that terrible chest infection just after Christmas.” I pull back the nets and watch Mrs Horrocks from the corner shop walk past with her little white dog. It’s a beautiful day. No wonder Matthew doesn’t want to be in school.

  “Mrs Andrews, he’s been off nine times in the past month! You do understand, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Obviously, there’s Matthew’s welfare to think about. He’s a fourteen-year-old boy. So, once you locate him today, I’d like you to ring back and let me know he’s safe and well. And then I’d like you to arrange to come in and meet me, with Mr Andrews too if possible, so that we can discuss ways forward. Mrs Andrews?”

  My heart’s pounding. He wants to see us. “I’ll call you as soon as I find him, Mr Hall. Thank you.”

  I replace the receiver and stand rooted to the dreary patterned carpet.

  Billy knows where Matthew’s gone straight away. “He’ll be at his gran’s house,” he says.

  “You can go and get him, then,” I tell him, twisting the phone cord round my thumb.

  Billy sighs, then talks to me patiently, like I’m an imbecile. “I’m working, Mary. Just give her a call and go and get him. It won’t kill you. Just be polite.”

  By the time I get to Jean�
�s house, it’s nearly lunchtime. I missed the first bus and had to wait half an hour for the next one. As I approach the terraced house the curtains twitch and the front door opens before I can knock.

  “Mary,” Jean says coldly, standing flat against the wall to let me pass.

  “Hello, Jean. How are you?” I manage a smile.

  “Well, I’d be a whole lot better if I knew what was going on with you and your son,” she says, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “He’s not a very happy boy.”

  I frown at her, and walk ahead into the front room. Matthew’s in there with his shoes off, watching TV and eating biscuits. He’s got a split lip and a dirty face. He glances at me briefly, then returns his gaze to the screen.

  “Mr Hall’s been on the phone, Matthew. He says this isn’t the first time you’ve skipped school. Well, I knew that, but I had no idea just how many days you’d actually missed. Matthew! Are you listening to me?”

  Jean tuts from the doorway. “Answer your mother, boy.”

  Matthew looks at Jean and rolls his eyes. “She’s not my mother, Gran.” He’s slurring his words. “She’s an old cow. A pissed old cow.”

  I see victory in Jean’s eyes. She shrugs at me as if to say, over to you, Mary, if you’re so clever. She scuttles into the kitchen, where she’ll still be within earshot.

  As I sit next to Matthew on the sofa I fight the tears stinging behind my eyes. I place my hand lightly on his leg. He brushes it off, still staring angrily at the TV.

  “Matthew. Why would you say something like that in front of your gran?”

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” His eyes are on me now, hard and black.

  “Of course it’s not true! All grown-ups have a drink or two. It doesn’t make me a drunk, for God’s sake!” I’m shaking inside. “So, is your dad a drunk then?”

  “No. Dad gets up at six every day and goes to work. Dad doesn’t embarrass me in front of my mates. Dad doesn’t hide his empty bottles at the bottom of the bin.”

  I stand, blocking Matthew’s view of the TV. “How would you know if I’d embarrass you? I’m not even sure you’ve got any friends. You never bring your mates back home!”

  “That’s because you’re a pisshead! How could I bring them back home, when you’re like that? Remember when I brought Tony Sadler home that one time, and you’d been drinking whisky? You left the bottle on the table next to the ketchup and he kept pointing at it and laughing. Next day, he went round the school telling everyone my mum’s name was Scotch Mary. Get it? Scotch Mary, for fuck’s sake!”

  Jean’s back in the doorway, shaking her head.

  “Matthew’s got it all wrong, Jean. He’s the one who’s been drinking. I can smell it on his breath!”

  Jean shakes her head again.

  “Look at me! Do I look pissed to you, Jean?” I stand up with my arms outstretched, smiling with incredulity. “Do I? Jean? Do I look like a pisshead to you?”

  Jean walks from the doorway across the green swirl carpet, until we’re a foot apart. With a sharp, bird-like movement she sniffs the air between us. “No. But you smell like one,” she says, and she starts to lay out the little table for her lunch.

  Matthew hangs his head over his lap, now appearing so young and alone.

  “Matthew. We’re going. Put your shoes on. Now!”

  Matthew jumps to attention, and in half a minute we’re on the street, marching along the pavement, back towards the bus stop. As we round the corner, I stop him and hold his shoulders in my hands, pressing him up against the red brick wall of the builders’ merchants. I pin his eyes with mine.

  “Matthew. We need some rules, darling. And the most important one is about loyalty. We’re a family, and we do not, ever, go around telling lies about each other. To anyone. What you said to Gran back there – it was a lie. You know it, and so do I. But what must Gran think now? She’ll think, that explains why he’s skipping school, if his mother’s a drunk. But it’s not true. So, I want you to promise me that you’ll never say anything like this again. OK? OK, Matthew?”

  Matthew’s been trying to look away all the time I’ve been speaking, and I realise that I’ve been shaking him, punctuating my words with each judder. His eyes are now filled with tears and his face is a picture of terror. I release my grip.

  “I’m sorry, Mum,” he sobs, slumping against me and scrunching his hands into my T-shirt. “I’m so sorry.”

  Part Three

  Jake, July 1985

  My last lesson of term is Classics with Miss Terry. After class I hang back to show her my Greek mythology book.

  “My friend Mr Horrocks gave it to me for my birthday,” I tell her.

  Miss Terry takes it from me and places it on her desk like it’s a precious antique.

  “What a beautiful book, Jake,” she says, carefully turning the pages to look at the colour illustrations. “This is a very special gift. And quite old. Mr Horrocks must think a lot of you.”

  Some of my own drawings slip from the back of the book. The one on top is of Aphrodite handing arrows to Eros.

  “Are these yours, Jake?” she says, studying my sketches closely. “You’re very good, you know.”

  My stupid cheeks flush red again. “Look, I’ll show you Pan,” I say, flicking ahead to the page. I know which page number it’s on, because I checked this morning.

  There’s a picture of Pan standing on a dry mountainside, with his flute raised to his lips. All over the rockface, there are goats and sheep grazing on tufts of grass and flowers.

  “You’re not Pan, Jake,” Miss Terry says. “I knew I’d have to change it. Some kids are so easy to place, but you’ve been the trickiest this year.” She smiles and rubs my shoulder, before turning the book to the index and searching through the pages. “Ah, there we go,” she finally says, “Perseus! I was thinking about it last night. You’re Perseus the Gorgon slayer. Perseus the rescuer of Andromeda. And when you were slain in brave battle, Zeus set you amongst the stars as one of his particular favourites. So, how about that? Much more fitting than Pan!”

  And then she does the most amazing thing. She picks up the book, hugs it to her chest, and kisses me on the cheek.

  “You’ve been a pleasure to teach, Jake. My star pupil. Just stick with it. OK?” She looks at me seriously, and hands me the book. “Have a good summer, Perseus,” are her last words, then she turns to wipe the blackboard and never looks back.

  It’s over a week since we broke up for the summer holidays, and it’s a scorcher. After a couple of days off, I started work with Mr Horrocks, and at times I’m glad to be in the cool of his dark shop. Mr Horrocks usually works with me in the shop and stockroom each morning, then takes a couple of hours upstairs after I’ve had my lunch break. On Saturdays he gives me a pound at around ten o’clock, to go to the bakery and buy two Chelsea buns for our tea break. They’re usually slightly warm, and the bready texture gets more and more doughy as you unravel the bun towards its curranty centre. It takes me the best part of my fifteen minute break to unroll it and eat it chunk by chunk, chewing on the dough, crunching on the rock sugar.

  When it’s quiet, we usually take different areas to work on. Mr Horrocks will stack in the stockroom, while I fill a shelf at the front of the shop, or he’ll bring out a new line of biscuits, while I make a space on the shelf. Every now and then we’ll stop and chat about this and that. It’s good and calm. Today’s a Friday, when we usually get the shop stocked up for the busy Saturday.

  “It’s going to be a hot one,” Mr Horrocks says as he tears the tape from a carton of Tunnock’s caramel wafers. “They say it could be the hottest in years. Could even lead to a hosepipe ban.”

  “We haven’t got a garden as such, so it wouldn’t bother us really,” I say.

  “Us neither,” he says, pausing to put his hands on his hips. “Except Marcie’s window boxes. She’d be mad if she thought I’d neglected her window boxes.”

  I think about the day that I saw her up in her window. The wind
ow boxes were old and wintry and dead then. I guess Mr Horrocks must’ve planted them up since she died.

  “Mind you,” he says, “they never get it right, do they? The weather. We’ll see.”

  I pull the cloth out of my apron pocket and dust down the shelf before Mr Horrocks stacks the chocolate biscuits in neat rows.

  “The book’s good,” I tell him. “The mythology book. I’m just reading the bit with Achilles and the golden arrow. I never realised that’s where it came from – Achilles’ heel. Makes sense, doesn’t it.”

  “Achilles’ heel.” Mr Horrocks looks thoughtful, like he’s just saying it out loud to see what it sounds like.

  Griffin plods in from the stockroom, panting with his tongue hanging out. He looks like he’s just woken up, hot and tired. He wanders across the shop, and out through the front door to the bowl of water we leave there for passing dogs. He plonks himself down in the middle of the doorway, facing outwards, watching the sunny street. After a few minutes, he gives up and moves into a shady corner beneath the toilet rolls. Mr Horrocks tells me he’s off for his afternoon break, and he disappears upstairs with a newspaper. The sunlight pours through the front door, making the inside of the shop seem darker than usual. Every time a car drives by, the motes of dust dance crazily in the sunshine stream, disturbed by the sudden breeze.

  After an hour of shelf cleaning, I stand in the doorway, letting the sun fall on my face. The road’s quiet today, and I guess most people are either at work or on the beach. Or away on holiday. I wonder what George’s up to on the Isle of Wight; maybe there’ll be a letter waiting for me when I get home.