by Nicci French
But then there was the sound of a key in the lock and the door swung open.
'Hello,' Tony called cheerfully, dropping his bag on the hall floor with a thump, kicking first one shoe then the other off" his feet, so his shoes skidded over the wooden boards. He came into the room, hair damp on his forehead, cheeks reddened from the air. 'Oh, hi, Miranda. How are you?'
He bent down and kissed Laura, and she put one hand up to his cheek and smiled at him. It looked all right to me.
He was out of the door before I'd even parked the van, and running down the garden path. He couldn't wave because he had a bulging plastic bag in one hand and was holding his backpack by the other, but his pale face was shining, and he was grinning and saying something to me that I couldn't hear. He tripped over something on the path and half stumbled. His backpack swung against his legs, but he kept on smiling and mouthing words. Sometimes it is more painful to see Troy happy than to see him low.
'Hi there,' I said as he pulled open the door and clambered into the passenger seat, his bag getting tangled up with his angular body in the process. 'How's it going?'
'Fine. Good. Really good.' He wrapped the safety belt round himself and his baggage. 'I've been teaching myself to play the guitar, you know. Do you remember your old guitar? I found it in the junk room. It's a bit clapped out, but I don't suppose that matters much at the moment. Anyway, I thought I'd cook us supper tonight, all right? I brought the stuff with me. You haven't got any other plans, have you?'
'No,' I said. 'No other plans. What are we having?'
'Savoury profiteroles first of all,' he said. 'I saw them in this recipe book of Mum's and it says they're really simple. I haven't got any filling for them, but you must have something I can put in. Cheese, maybe? Or tuna fish. Even you must have a tin of tuna in a cupboard somewhere. Then kebabs. I have to marinade them first, though, so it might take a bit of time. I'll start when we get to your flat. I haven't thought about pudding. Do you actually want pudding? I thought we could just have the starter and the kebabs and that would be enough. I could make rice pudding. But hang on, we're having rice with kebabs, so it's probably not a good idea.'
'No pudding,' I said. I could already picture the chaos that lay ahead.
Every Thursday I see Troy. It's been a pretty constant arrangement for the past two years, when he was fifteen and in trouble. I collect him from Mum and Dad's after work, and I bring him back later in the evening, or else put him up for the night on my sagging sofa bed. Sometimes we go to the movies or to a concert. Occasionally he meets some of my friends. Last Thursday I took him to the pub with Laura and Tony, and a couple of others, but he was in one of his lethargic moods and simply put his head on the table after his first sip of beer and went to sleep. Sometimes he seems paralysingly shy, at other times he just doesn't bother. He'll pick up a book in the middle of a conversation, wander off when he feels like it.
Quite often we just go back to my flat and do stuff together. In the past few weeks he's become keen on cooking, with varying results. His enthusiasms flare up and then they die away again. He went through a phase of playing games of patience. He would have to complete the game before he did anything else. If he managed to get it out, it was a good omen, but he hardly ever managed it. In the summer he was fanatical about jigsaw puzzles: he brought one to my flat that was called 'The World's Most Difficult Jigsaw'. It had thousands of tiny pieces with pictures on both sides. And you didn't know what the final image was meant to look like. For weeks, I couldn't use my table because bits were scattered over it, straight sides at one end and in the middle the gradually emerging picture of a street scene. Suddenly he became bored. 'What actually is the point of doing jigsaw puzzles?' he said to me. 'You work for hours and hours, and then when you complete it you break it up and put it back in the box.' He worked for hours and hours, but he never completed it and it's now in a box under my bed.
Where did it go wrong? That's what my mother says sometimes, especially when Troy is silent and withdrawn, skulking in his bedroom, his face a sullen mask. He was always clever, sometimes bafflingly, dizzyingly clever, talking at one, reading at three, dazzling teachers with his aptitude, shown off to my parents' friends, paraded in assemblies, showered with school prizes, written about in the local paper, put into classes with children who were one, two years older than him – and two feet taller than him as well because he never seemed to grow. He was tiny, with bony knees and sticking-out ears.
He was bullied. I don't just mean pushed around in the playground or jeered at for being a swot. He was systematically tormented by a group of boys and excluded by everyone else. The bullies called him 'Troy Boy', locked him in the school toilets, tied him to a tree behind the bike shed, threw his books in the mud and stamped on them, passed notes around the classroom about him being a sissy and a gay. They punched him in the stomach, ran after him at the end of the day. He never told anyone – and by this time Kerry and I were so much older than him that we occupied entirely different worlds. He didn't complain to the teachers or to my parents, who just knew that he was quiet and 'different' from the other boys in his class. He just worked harder than ever and acquired a pedantic and slightly sarcastic manner that of course isolated him further.
Finally, when he was thirteen, my parents were summoned to the school because he'd been discovered throwing firecrackers at boys in the playground. He was wild with rage, weeping and swearing at anyone who came near him, as if the results of eight years of abuse had surfaced all at once. He was suspended for a week, during which time he broke down and 'confessed' to Mum, who stormed round to the school making a fuss. Boys were hauled in front of the head, given detentions. But how can you tell children that they have to like someone and be their friend, particularly when that someone is like my little brother: shy, scared, socially dysfunctional, crippled by his own particular brand of intelligence? And how do you undo damage that's been built into the foundations? With houses, it's easier to pull the whole thing down and start again. You can't do that with people.
I had left college by this time. I didn't understand how serious it was until Troy did his GCSEs. Maybe I didn't want to understand. He was expected to do well. He said the exams had gone fine, but he was vague about them. It turned out he hadn't done a single one. He'd sat in the park near his school, throwing bread to the ducks, staring at the litter on the banks of the pond, looking at his watch. When my parents discovered this, they were stunned. I remember being with them one afternoon when all Mum did was cry and ask him what she'd done wrong, was she such a bad mother, and Troy just sat there, not talking, but on his face an expression of triumph and shame that terrified me. The counsellor said it was his cry for help. A few months later he said that Troy 's cutting himself – dozens of shallow abrasions across his forearms – was a cry for help. And the way he sometimes didn't get out of bed in the mornings – that was a cry for help too.
He didn't go back to school. There was a private tutor and more therapy. He goes three times a week to a woman with letters after her name to talk about his problems. Every so often I ask him what goes on in these forty-five-minute sessions, but he just grins and shrugs. 'Often I just sleep,' he says. 'I lie down on the couch and close my eyes and then suddenly there's a voice telling me my session is over.'
'How's it all going?' I asked as I made us a pot of tea and he cut red peppers into strips. Already the kitchen was a mess. Rice bubbled ferociously in a pan, making its lid bump and water splash over the sides. Eggshells littered the table. Bowls and spoons stacked up in the sink. There was flour on the lino, as if there had been a light snowfall.
'Have you noticed,' he asked, 'that people always ask me how I am, in that careful, tactful kind of voice?'
'Sorry,' I said.
'I'm bored to death with talking about me. How's it going with you?'
'OK.'
'No, you're supposed to really tell me. That's the deal. I tell you, you tell me.'
'Actually, "OK" is about
the right word. There's nothing much to report.'
He nodded. 'Brendan's going to teach me to fish,' he said.
'I didn't know you liked fishing.'
'I don't. I've never done it. But he says one day we can go to the sea where a friend of his has this boat, and fish for mackerel. He says you just haul them out of the water, one after the other, and then cook them at once over a fire.'
'Sounds good.'
'He says even if it's raining, it's nice to sit in a boat waiting for a tug on the line.'
'Have you seen him much, then?'
'A couple of times.'
'And you like him?'
'Yes. Can't imagine you with him, though.'
'Why not?'
He shrugged. 'He's not your style.'
'What's my style?'
'You're more of a cat person than a dog person.'
'I don't have a clue what you're on about.'
'He's more like a dog than a cat, don't you reckon? Eager, wanting to be noticed. Cats are more independent and aloof
'Am I independent and aloof, then?'
'Not with me you're not. But with people who you don't know so well.'
'What are you, then?'
'An otter,' he said immediately.
'You've really thought about this.'
'And Mum's a kangaroo.'
'Kangaroo?!'
'And she can't quite get used to the fact we're no longer in her pouch. Except that I crawl in and out occasionally.'
'What's Dad?'
'Brendan once had a kind of breakdown as well,' said Troy. He started threading alternating chunks of lamb and pepper on to skewers.
'Did he? I didn't know that.'
'He said he never tells anyone. But he told me because he wanted me to know that pain can be like a curse and like a gift, and that it's possible to turn it into a gift.'
'He said that?'
'Yes. He's a bit of a hippy, really.'
'I'm going to have a beer, I think.'
'Dad's a duck.'
'I don't think he'd like that.'
'Ducks are all right. They're optimists.'
'And Kerry?'
'What about gazelle?'
'Has Brendan said anything to you about me?' I tried to keep my voice casual.
'He said he hurt you.'
'Ah.'
'Did he?'
'No.'
'And he said you were too proud to admit it.'
CHAPTER 5
'Are you all right?' asked Mum, as she opened the door to me.
I was all right. But the way she kept asking me, that sympathetic tone in her voice, it was like glass sandpaper being rubbed on my skin. And because she kept asking me, I had become more and more self-conscious about what to say in response. It was no longer enough just to say 'fine' because that sounded defensive. I started to think of what a person who was fine would say, what I could say that would genuinely convince my mother that there was no awkwardness because in actual fact there wasn't – on my side, at least.
'I'm absolutely fine,' I said. 'There's no problem about any of this.'
Too much. My mother was immediately sympathetic.
'You're looking lovely, Miranda,' she said.
I was looking all right, but it had been a delicate balance. There's the old cliché that when you're dumped – and of course I hadn't actually been dumped, but that was neither here nor there – you should make yourself look dazzling to show the person who has dumped you, or who people think has dumped you, what they're missing. But because it's an old cliché which everybody knows, then making a huge effort in those circumstances can end up looking slightly pathetic. On the other hand, you can't go the other way and give the impression that you've been lying in bed all day crying and drinking cooking sherry. It should have been easy, but it wasn't, and the only way I could decide what to wear was to think back to the last time I'd been out to meet someone socially (not counting Kerry and Brendan) and wear what I'd worn then. Unfortunately, that had been a hen night for an old friend and I'd worn a skimpy black dress that was completely unsuitable for a Sunday lunch at my parents'. But the time before that had been a casual night out at a bar and I'd worn jeans and a white shirt and my new denim jacket with the suede collar, and that would do fine.
'You're looking very nice,' said my mother, which made me think something must be wrong. 'Everybody's here already. Kerry is looking gorgeous. I don't mean…' She glanced at me awkwardly. 'Shall we go through?'
'Is Troy here?' I asked.
'Yes. He seems quite well. A bit less hyper than on Thursday, but on an even keel. Touch wood,' she added and thumped the door for luck.
It seemed that all was well with the Cotton family. Kerry was happy. I was looking lovely. Troy seemed all right. I was tempted to make some sort of protest, but today was a day I was going to be on my best behaviour. The sun was shining, as if in honour of the occasion, and although it was October everybody was out in the long, narrow back garden. Everybody except Troy, who was uncomfortable in groups. You'd see him there at first and then he would melt away, go upstairs somewhere and read a book or listen to music.
Even so, the small garden seemed crowded. Bill and Judy were there as well. My parents hadn't told me they were inviting my boss. So he knew as well. Know: there should be a different word for knowing something that isn't actually true. The weather was so good that Dad had lit a barbecue. I could see him at the end of the garden, standing over it, poking at the coals with – yes, there was no doubt about it – with Brendan. The two of them were talking to each other with great animation, but were too far away for me to hear anything of what they were saying. Kerry was standing with Judy. She was wearing baggy black trousers and a tight-ribbed pink top, and she looked the way she did at La Table: happy, confident.
I decided to put off any potential awkwardness for as long as possible and walked over to Bill, who seemed like the most neutral person in the garden. He gave me a friendly nod.
'Hi, Miranda,' he said. 'How are you doing?'
He handed me a bottle of beer from the table next to him.
'I don't see you here very often,' I said to him.
'Marcia was most insistent.'
I took a sip from the beer and looked up at the back of my parents' narrow terraced house, which was covered by scaffolding.
'What do you think?' I said.
'If it wasn't being redone it wouldn't be standing by next year.'
'That bad?'
'Worse. You can almost see that crack growing.'
'Miranda,' said my father, appearing suddenly from the side. 'How are you?'
I ignored the question, especially as Brendan was hovering at his elbow dressed in new, ironed jeans and a light blue sweater with the sleeves pulled up to just below the elbow, and gave my father a little hug. He patted me on the back awkwardly. He's not a great hugger, my father.
'Hi, Dad,' I said. 'Lovely to see you.'
'I've got to admit that Brendan is a master with the barbecue,' he said.
'It's all about piling up the coal,' Brendan said. 'You make the bricquettes into a pyramid and put several fire lighters underneath and then really get it all burning. You only spread them out when the flames have died down.'
'Bill and I were talking about the house,' I said.
'You should pay attention to Brendan,' Dad said. 'You might learn something.'
'I don't make many barbecues in my flat,' I said.
'You might need to one day,' said Brendan.
'I've always thought it was something men liked doing,' I said.
'We never had a barbecue, did we, Mirrie?'
I was tempted to say: 'No, Brendan. We never had a barbecue because we only went out for about nine days, so we didn't have time for that or indeed almost anything at all.' I didn't. I made myself take a deep breath. A silent, metaphorical deep breath.
'No, we didn't,' I said.
'I'm afraid that I've been boring Brendan,' Dad said. 'He's been letting
me talk shop.'
'Boxes,' said Brendan and rubbed his hands together. 'So simple, and yet imagine life without boxes.'
Bill gaped. Even my father looked a bit startled by such enthusiasm.
'Yes, well,' he said. 'I don't know about that. I'm a practical man. I like making things; I've always been interested in problem solving. Finding solutions. You can do that with the packaging business.'
'I know exactly what you mean,' said Brendan. 'On the face of it, packaging sounds obvious. But a few years ago, this man called Harry Vermont and I set up this dotcom company.'
'What company?' my father asked.
Brendan laughed ruefully.
'One of those that was going to make us all millionaires,' he said. 'But it's gone now.'
'What did it do?' said Bill.
'The point of it,' said Brendan 'was that people could order different sorts of consumer goods from the website and we would deliver them. We would be middlemen. Middlepersons, I should say. When it started, I thought it was all about technology. But once it started, I realized it was partly that but, when it came down to it, it was also about packaging and delivery. You had to get the right packaging at the right place, you had to source it and do the actual packing, and then you had to deliver it on time. It was an amazing challenge for us.'
'Who did you source it from?' asked Dad.
'Sorry?'
'Packaging in this country is quite a small world. I was wondering if you were dealing with someone I know.'
'We were only in the planning stage,' said Brendan. 'Then the dotcom collapse happened and we lost our funding. Poor old Harry never quite got over it.'
'If you're interested, Brendan, I'll show you around some time,' said my father.
'I'd love that,' said Brendan. 'Meanwhile, I reckon it's time to get the food on the barbecue.'
As it turned out, it wasn't time to put the food on the barbecue. While we had been talking, the barbecue had gone out. Brendan said that this sometimes happened when the bricquettes had been left in the shed for a long time and had become damp. My father looked pleased and said that he wouldn't have been able to bear it if there were somebody better than him at lighting barbecues in the family. His position as lord and master would have been threatened.