“How am I, grandad?”
“I’ve been doing some sums of my own. I can tell you what the month adds up to so far.” When nobody asked for the answer Summers felt not much better than distrusted, but he’d repeated the amount to himself all the way to the house. “One hundred and eighty-one,” he said with some defiance.
Adam squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “No it isn’t, grandad.”
“I’m sure it is, you know.” On the way to growing desperate Summers said “Hang on, I’ve left today out, haven’t I?”
“That’s not it, grandad. One hundred and ninety, you should have said.”
“I don’t think that can be right,” Summers said to the boy’s parents as well. “That’s ten times whatever it’s ten times, nineteen, isn’t it, of course.”
“I should have thought the last thing you’d want to do,” Tina said, “is undermine his confidence.”
“He’s undermining mine,” Summers complained, but not aloud. He was silent while he tried to make the days add up to Adam’s total. They either fell short or overshot it, and the need to carry on some sort of conversation didn’t help, any more than the drinks during and after the meal did.
The streets were full of numbers—on the doors of houses and the gates, on the front and back of every car and, if they were for sale, in their windows too. There were just three digits to each registration plate, and he tried to add up each group as it came in sight. He was absurdly grateful to reach home, although the orange lights on the balcony had turned his door and its neighbours identically black. “Nine,” he repeated, “nine, nine,” and felt as if he were calling for aid by the time he managed to identify the door.
The Advent calendar was still lying on its numbers, and he hoped that would keep them out of his head—but they were only waiting for him to try to sleep, and started awake whenever he did. They got out of bed with him in the morning and followed him into the bath. Couldn’t he just add today to Adam’s total? That seemed too much like copying an answer in an examination, and in any case he wanted to learn how Adam had arrived at the result. When it continued to elude him he floundered out of the bath.
He did his best to linger over dressing, then listed all the numbers on a new sheet of the pad, pronouncing them aloud to make certain he missed none. Today’s date could be added once he’d written down the total. He poked each number with the ballpoint as the amount swelled in his head, only for the pen to hover above the space beneath the line he’d drawn at the foot of the column. He went down the list of figures again and again, jabbing at them until they looked as though they’d contracted a disease. He announced every amount on the way to the total—he might almost have been uttering some kind of Sunday prayer—but none of this was much use. One hundred and seventy-nine, one hundred and ninety-three, one hundred and eighty-seven… He hadn’t hit upon the same amount twice, let alone the one Adam had told him, when somebody rang the raucous doorbell.
He thought they might have come to complain about his noise, especially once he noticed it was dark. He couldn’t leave the table until the sum was done. “One hundred and ninety,” he said, but that wasn’t the whole of the total. “Seven,” he yelled in a rage, “one hundred and ninety-seven,” and shoved back his chair to tramp along the hall.
He was preparing to apologise, if hardly to explain, but Tina was outside. “Well, this is a surprise,” he said. “Come in.”
“I won’t, thanks, Teddy. I just came to tell you—” With a frown that Summers felt was aimed to some extent at him, she turned to say “Adam, I told you to wait in the car.”
“I wanted to say goodbye to grandad.”
“Why,” Summers said in bewilderment, “where’s anybody going?”
“Adam will be going home with a friend next week.” Apparently in recompense, Tina added “You’ll still be coming to us for Christmas.”
“You mean I’m not wanted for picking up Adam from school.”
“I’ve explained the situation.”
As Summers managed not to retort that he suspected the opposite, Adam said “Grandad, did you go to school when you were a baby?”
“I wasn’t quite that young. Why do you ask?”
“Grandma said you were a baby when Mr Smart had you at school.”
Elaine had been in the same class—Summers used to thank their schooldays for bringing them together. Now he was almost too enraged to ask “What else did she say about me?”
“We won’t talk about it now if you don’t mind,” Tina said, “and I hope it won’t spoil Christmas either. Just say goodbye to your grandfather till then, Adam.”
“Bye, grandad,” the boy said. “You got something nice from Mr Smart, didn’t you? All the chocolates.”
“I won’t argue,” Summers said and watched Tina shoo Adam back to the car. When he returned to the kitchen the clamour of numbers and emotions in his head robbed him of the ability to think. Turning the calendar over didn’t help, especially since every open door had been flattened shut. He stared at however many identical idiotically grinning faces there were, and the pad swarming with diseased amounts, and all at once his mind seemed to clear. Had Tina freed him? Now that he wouldn’t be associated with Adam, surely he could deal with the teacher.
He didn’t feel beset by numbers once he went to bed. He slept, and in the morning he was able to ignore the calculations on the pad. He listened to symphonies on the radio until it was time to head for Park Junior, and was in a shelter with a view of the school several minutes before the last bell. When the children streamed out under the grey sky, the explosion of colours and chatter felt like a promise of spring. He was cut off from it, skulking in a corner so that Adam wouldn’t notice him. Soon he saw his grandson with another boy, and they set about kicking a ball as they followed a young woman into the park.
As Summers turned his face to the wall to make sure he wasn’t recognised, he felt like a schoolboy sent to stand in the corner. Surely Adam hadn’t looked happier than he did when his grandfather met him. As soon as the thumps of the football passed the shelter Summers peered towards the school. Suppose the teacher had sneaked away unobserved? Summers hurried to the railings opposite the school but could see nobody he knew. The doors let out some teachers and then even more he didn’t recognise, and he was clenching his shaky fists in frustration by the time a man emerged into the deserted schoolyard.
He was thin and bent, and as grey as the sky—his suit, his thinning hair, the smoke of the cigarette he lit before stalking to the gates. For a moment Summers wondered if the teacher was too old to bother with—even old enough to be given some grudging respect - and then he saw that Smart had become the vicious old man he’d resembled forty years ago. Any hesitation felt too much like fear, and he barely managed to unclench his fists as he strode out of the park. “Mr Smart,” he said in triumph. “Can I ask you a question?”
The teacher stared at him with no more interest than emotion. “Are you a parent?”
“That and a lot more.” Summers was determined to relish the confrontation. “Can you tell me what December adds up to so far?” he said.
“Are you asking for one of my pupils?”
“No, I’m speaking for myself. I’ve learned to do that.” Summers struggled to contain his rage as he enquired “Can you do it in your head?”
“Quite obviously I can.” Smart took a measured puff at the cigarette and exhaled smoke, disturbing a stained hair in his left nostril. “It’s two hundred and thirty-one,” he said, “if that’s of any consequence to you.”
“Not so sure of yourself for a bit there, were you? That’s a taste of what it feels like.”
“I fear you have the advantage of me,” Smart said and made to step around him.
“You bet I have. It’s taken long enough but it was worth the wait.” Summers sidestepped to block his way. “Don’t you know me yet?” he demanded. “Tortured so many youngsters you’ve lost count, have you?”
“What on earth d
o you imagine you’re referring to?” Smart narrowed his already pinched eyes at a clatter of cans in the park, where Summers had seen teenagers drinking lager on the swings. “That’s what comes of undermining discipline in school,” Smart said. “They’d never behave like that if we were still allowed to touch them.”
“It’s your sort who undermined it. Made everyone who suffered from the likes of you want to make sure nobody ever does again. It’s your fault it’s so hard to keep discipline now. It’s swine like you that lost teachers their respect.”
Smart lifted the cigarette towards his face but seemed uncertain where his mouth was. “Did I have you at school?”
“Recognised one of your victims at last, have you? One of the ones you could touch. Do you dream about touching children, you filthy shit? I’ve often thought that’s what your sort wanted to get up to. You took out on children because they made you want to fiddle with them. I bet having them at your mercy worked you up as well.” Was Smart’s face turning grey just with the winter twilight? “Just remember I know where you are now,” Summers murmured. “If I even think you’re mistreating anyone I’ll make it my business to lose you your job. What are you going to do with your fag? Thinking of using it on me, are you? Just try and I’ll stick it somewhere that’ll make you scream.”
Smart’s mouth had begun to work soundlessly, and Summers was reminded of a masticating animal. The cigarette looked close to dropping from the man’s fingers, which were shaking the ash loose. Had Summers gone too far? Not unless Smart could identify him, and surely the man would have done so aloud. “Have the Christmas you deserve,” Summers told him and turned away from him.
When he glanced back from the park he saw the teacher standing just where he’d left him. Smart raised his hand as though bidding him some kind of farewell, but he was finding his mouth with the cigarette. “Who’s the baby now?” Summers muttered. “Go on, suck your dummy. Suck yourself to death.”
He felt exhilarated as a schoolboy who’d got away with a prank. He might almost have boasted to the teenage drinkers on the swings. If he had any doubts about how he’d spoken to the teacher, they left him as soon as he saw his old house. It was Smart’s fault that he wasn’t trusted to bring Adam home, and when he reached the apartment block he might have thought the teacher had played another trick. The glare of the declining sun showed him that both doors flanking his had turned green, so that every door on the balcony was the same colour.
“It’s nine, you swine,” he said, he hoped not too loud, and let himself in once he was sure of the number on the door. Smart couldn’t undermine his confidence any longer, and so he tore the calculations off the pad and flung the spotty wad of paper in the bin. The calendar was a trophy, all the more so since Smart didn’t know he had it. He microwaved a cottage pie and a packet of vegetables, and gobbled the lot like a growing boy. He could have thought he was growing up at last, having dealt with the teacher.
How many doors had he already opened on the calendar? He wasn’t going to reopen them; taking chocolates at random was one more way to taunt the teacher. “Unlucky for you,” he mumbled as he crunched the thirteenth sweet, and “That’s how old you like them, is it?” on prising open the tenth door. He might have finished all the chocolates except for not wanting to make himself sick. The best celebration would be a good night’s sleep.
At first he didn’t understand why it kept being interrupted. Whenever he jerked awake he felt as if he’d heard a sound, unless he’d had a thought. He stayed in bed late; he couldn’t be seen with Adam at the school in case Smart took some revenge. What if he’d simply made the teacher even more vindictive? Suppose Smart had recognised him after all and meant to take it out on Adam? A sour stale taste urged Summers to the bathroom. Water didn’t rid him of the taste, and he stumbled to the kitchen, only to falter in the doorway. More compartments than he’d opened on the calendar last night stood open now—six doors, no, seven. Those that had reopened were the five he’d previously emptied. With its upright tabs the calendar resembled a miniature graveyard.
“I wish it was yours, you swine,” Summers muttered. He was growing more anxious, and once he was dressed he headed for Park Junior. Soon he saw Adam, though not soon enough for his nerves. The boy was chasing other boys in the schoolyard and being chased, and looked entirely carefree, but had he encountered Smart yet? For a moment Summers had the irrational notion that the teacher was not merely hiding like himself but skulking at his back. There was nothing in the corner of the shelter except a scattering of cigarette butts on the floor and on the end of the bench.
Once the schoolyard was deserted Summers lingered in the shelter, listening for Smart’s cold high voice—straining his ears so hard that he thought he heard it amid the scrape of windblown leaves on gravel. The idea that Smart was still at large in the school made him want to storm into the school and report the swine to the headmistress—to say whatever would get rid of him. To overcome the compulsion he had to retreat out of sight of the school. Long before the final bell he was back in the shelter. He hadn’t counted the cigarette ends, and so he couldn’t tell if they’d multiplied or even whether they’d been rearranged like an aid to a child’s arithmetic. He spied on the schoolyard until he saw Adam, who looked happier than ever. Summers hid his face in the corner while the boys and their football clamoured past, and then he turned back to the school. He watched until the doors finished swinging at last, but there was no sign of Smart in the secretive dusk.
Had he been moved to another school? “So long as you’re safe, Adam,” Summers murmured, but the comment seemed to sum up how little he’d achieved. He was so preoccupied that he nearly tried to let himself into the wrong flat. Of course the number on the door was upside down. He shut his door and tramped along the hall to stare at the advent calendar as if it might inspire him. The shadows of the cardboard markers appeared to deepen the empty compartments, and he was seeing them as trenches when the doorbell rang.
Paul’s expression was oddly constrained. “Well, you’ll be pleased,” he said.
“You’re trusting me with Adam again.”
Paul took a breath but didn’t speak at once. “The teacher you had trouble with,” he said, “you can forget about him.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“He’s no longer with us.” Since Summers didn’t react Paul added “He’s dead.”
“Good heavens,” Summers said, although he hoped those weren’t involved. “When did that come about?”
“He had some kind of stroke when he was driving home yesterday. People saw him lose control and his car went into the front of a bus.”
“That’s unexpected.” Summers did his best to control his face but thought it prudent to admit “I can’t say I’m too distressed.”
“I wasn’t expecting you to be.”
“So I’ll be collecting Adam from school tomorrow, yes?”
Paul made another breath apparent on the way to saying “Let’s leave it for this week, shall we? We’ll sort it out after Christmas.”
“Is it you who doesn’t want me looking after him?” When Paul was silent Summers said “I didn’t know I’d raised you not to stand up for yourself.”
His son paused but said “Mum makes it sound as if you didn’t for yourself at school.”
“Then she’d better know I’ve changed. Just hope you never find out how much, like—” Summers’ rage was close to robbing him of discretion. “Go home to your family. I’ll leave you all alone till Christmas,” he said and shut the door.
Any qualms he might have suffered over causing Smart’s demise were swallowed by his fury with Elaine and Tina and, yes, Paul. He stalked into the kitchen to bare his teeth at the calendar. “I wish I’d been there,” he said in a voice that wasn’t far from Smart’s. “Did you count the seconds when you saw what was coming? It’d just about sum you up.” Talking wasn’t enough, and he poked a door open at random. “Revenge is sweet, don’t you think? Revenge is a
sweet,” he said and shoved the pair of digits he’d uncovered into his mouth.
Perhaps it was too sweet, the chocolate plaque bulging with numbers. He didn’t much care for the taste that filled his mouth once the unexpectedly brittle object crumbled like a lump of ash. As the sweetness immediately grew stale he had the impression that it masked a less palatable flavour. He grabbed a bottle of brandy still half full from last Christmas and poured some into the Greatest Granddad mug Adam had given him. A mouthful seared away part of the tastes, and another did more of the job, but he still felt as if some unpleasant sensation lay in wait for him. Perhaps he was exhausted, both emotionally and by insomnia. He could celebrate the end of Smart with a good night’s sleep.
His nerves didn’t let him. He kept thinking he’d heard a sound, unless he was about to hear one, or was it too stealthy to be audible? He didn’t know how often he’d opened his aching eyes to confront the cluttered darkness before he saw a pair of red eyes staring back at him. They were two of the digits on the bedside clock until one pinched into a single line. It was a minute after midnight, and a day closer to Christmas.
The thought sent him out of bed. While he wouldn’t be putting any of the contents of the calendar anywhere near his mouth, perhaps he could relax once he’d located the date and opened the door. As the fluorescent tube jittered alight he could have imagined he glimpsed a flap staggering upright on the calendar. He peered at the swarm of identically mirthful faces in search of the date. How many of the doors were open? Seven, or there should be, and he prodded them while counting them aloud. However often he added them up there was one more, and it was today’s.
Could he have opened the door and forgotten? Was that a blurred fingerprint on the chocolate? He grabbed the calendar and shook the sweet into the bin. He was tempted to stuff the calendar in as well, if that wouldn’t have felt too much like continuing to fear the teacher. “Do your worst,” he mumbled, still not entirely awake. Throwing the calendar on the table, he sat down to watch.
Holes for Faces Page 21