Everyone was giggling now.
‘What you doing, Tris, you mad sod?’ shouted someone.
A muffled voice came from the humped bed. ‘Looking for me Smarties.’
‘What they doing down there, Tris?’
‘Put them in me bedsocks to hatch.’ The bed leaped up and down. ‘Christ, they hatched. They’re biting!’
‘Biting where, Tris?’
‘Never you bloody mind!’ screamed Tris in a shrill falsetto. He gave an agonised shriek and came flailing down the room, wrapped tightly in his blankets.
‘Oh, shut up, you stupid idiot,’ said Bowdon crossly, his game with Harris ruined. But nobody listened to Bowdon, once Tris bust loose. Everybody was falling about; even Harris.
‘Ay’m the Sheikh of Araby, and up your oil well I’ll creep,’ yodelled Tris. Somehow the blankets had become a flowing burnous. Then he went into his Mad Monk routine, intoning Pythagoras Theorem with all the sanctity of High Mass. He had just reached ‘Quod Erat Demonstrandum’ and the dorm replied ‘Amen’, when Prothie burst in again. Once Prothie realised he only had Tris to deal with, and not Bowdon, Prothie really played the Big Hero. As a result of which, Tris would be up in front of the Head in the morning.
When Prothie went, Bowdon tried to start on Harris again. But the dorm had laughed too much, and they were angry about Tris being in trouble.
‘Aah, shut your face, Bowdon,’ muttered a brave soul, far down the room.
‘Who was that?’ asked Bowdon nastily.
‘Everybody,’ said everybody; and, yawning, slept.
TWO
Simon lay on his neatly-made bed, reading Watership Down. Always Watership Down when he felt jumpy. Practically knew it by heart.
Sun shone through the windows, scouring away the filth and dreams of the night. There were curtains at the windows, but they hung in rigid folds. It was a tradition that the senior dorm never drew them; drawn curtains reminded you of the softness of home. Drawing your curtains would have made you different from the others. Different was dangerous. Matron took down the curtains to wash them every summer holiday. Between times, spiders spun tiny webs inside the stiff folds.
Bowdon, and everybody else whose parents weren’t coming, had gone down to the gates, to have a good laugh at other people’s parents driving in. People whose parents were coming hung around the dorm, restless. Waiting for a word; keeping as far from Bowdon as possible.
Simon had his father on his bedside locker. In an unspectacular black frame, ten inches by eight. Father looked thirty years old and very alive. He would never get any older.
Father looked hard, a horseman. Handsome, except that his skull, under Brylcreemed hair, was rather too narrow. And his dark eyes were set a little too close together. That is how Father would have seemed to an outsider.
Simon never thought like that. He remembered his father as huge, towering. Lifting Simon up on his shoulder and spinning him till the ceiling whirled. Then putting Simon down and laughing, while Simon tottered, dizzy, on short legs from chair to table, clinging on desperately.
Father was a shining man; kept shining by a Cockney soldier called Corporal Briggs. Simon could clearly remember Corporal Briggs; cropped hair and the constant smell of Brasso and singeing khaki cloth. Oh, and he could talk with a cigarette in his mouth, because he could make the cigarette stick to his lower lip. The cigarette wagged up and down, while Corporal Briggs told Simon of a magic place called the Western Desert, and a wizard called Old Rommel who could make tanks and men suddenly appear out of nowhere. Sometimes the cigarette stuck to Corporal Briggs’ lip a bit too well, and he would have to pull it off by force, and a bit of his lip would come off with it.
Corporal Briggs polished Father’s car as well. So that you could see your own face all moony and dark, peering out at you from the green paint; or all bendy and wobbly in the silver headlights. The car was vintage and had a big leather strap to fasten down the bonnet. When the engine was running, you couldn’t hear it, but if you put your hand on the bonnet you could feel it buzzing inside like a huge bee, and the edge of the windscreen shivered into a blur. Once, Father took him out alone in the car and kept shouting, ‘Shall we go faster, Simon?’ and Simon kept yelling, ‘Faster, faster!’ and every time he yelled ‘Faster’, Father got more pleased, and the road beyond the car door flew past, so close that Simon could have put out his hand and touched it. And the seats smelled all leather, like Corporal Briggs polishing Father’s shoes till they shone like new conkers.
Father was all shiny leather and brass, and when he picked you up and hugged you, the brass bits stuck into you, but you didn’t mind. And you could undo the button on his leather belt and there was a revolver, dark blue and smelling of oil.
Father was always appearing in the funniest places. Once, Mum said, ‘Let’s go and see him,’ and they went to a big field, full of people who blocked out the sky till Mum picked him up; but there was no sign of Father. All the people were licking ice-creams and playing radios, and there were big trumpets up on sticks and a loud voice coming through them that echoed, echoed, echoed. But there was still no sign of Father, and Simon could not see how Father could possibly get through the crowd because it was now so thick. Aeroplanes kept flying very low, and the crowd kept screaming, but Simon could tell they were enjoying themselves really, because they didn’t run away. And the echoing voice kept going on about the clouds overhead which were thick and moving fast in the wind.
Then suddenly there was a blue gap in the clouds, and a plane with two engines, and the sky was full of red and white roses, blossoming mysteriously behind the plane. And Mum said, ‘There’s Daddy now, at the front because he has to make sure all the other men jump before he does.’ Simon didn’t believe that Father was up in the sky with the rose, because the rose was so small. But it got bigger and bigger, then vanished behind the crowd; and suddenly there was Father laughing and kissing Mum, even though he had his arms full of red stuff in a great bundle, and a red helmet on his head, so he seemed more like a monster on the telly.
‘Ey,’ said Tris la Chard, standing at the foot of Simon’s bed with a towel round his neck. ‘Your mum’s here.’
There was something in Tris’s voice Simon didn’t like. Not spite; Tris was never spiteful. But it could have been concern, and that was more scaring. He looked at Tris carefully. Tris didn’t look back, but began strangling himself with the towel. Only Tris could hold his hands and twist his face so that you could swear there was somebody standing behind him, strangling him.
‘What do you mean, my mum’s here?’
Tris had a bean-shaped face and a bean-shaped nose, and black hair that stuck out all over the place. He kept his eyes down now, hiding them behind his hair.
‘She came with a guy in a white Range Rover. New. A beaut.’
Terror seized Simon, but he kept his voice calm and said, ‘You mean she’s talking to a guy in a white Range Rover?’
‘No. She came inside it. Bowdon . . .’
Silence. But Tris went on hanging around trying to strangle himself. Finally he said, sorrowfully. ‘The guy’s not . . . the guy’s a . . .’
‘A yob,’ said Simon, closing his eyes. He heard Tris go on down the form, kicking the legs of the beds. The devils whispered softly in his ears. He watched himself put one foot to the floor after the other. Walked downstairs, ice-cold.
The white Range Rover was parked under the trees beside the coach-house, with all the other cars. Lots of parents standing around talking, waiting for the Head to appear and the money-screwing to begin. Boys with parents there were standing on the bumpers of new cars, or thumping their kid sisters. All very normal, except there was a gap in the middle around the Range Rover, Mum and a man. The other parents had sort of turned their backs and were talking and laughing so hard you would think they were being paid by the word. And giving sly glances over their shoulders at the Range Rover and Mum and the man.
He was a yob. No tie. Wide sloping shoulde
rs like a navvy. Huge hands and a beer-paunch. Not a very big paunch; he was really all slabby muscle like Slogger. But Slogger kept himself pulled-in, and this guy let it all hang out like he was pregnant and didn’t care who knew it. Wearing white trousers and a white safari-jacket and a dark blue shirt. His nose was big and had spots on it and hair growing inside his nostrils. Thick lips and balding, with a big black beard.
‘The guy’s head’s on upside-down,’ observed Bowdon, from the fringes of the crowd. All Bowdon’s mates sniggered. So did some parents, though very quietly.
Mum was worried, glancing round, biting her lip; she knew she’d dropped one. But the yob couldn’t care less. He was staring around with a smirk; eyes slightly narrowed. Finding the school and the parents just as funny as they were finding him, as if he had a right to be there, and they hadn’t. He pointed to something high on the coach-house, and Mum laughed suddenly and looked better. Simon looked where they were looking. The mellow old Georgian walls of the coach-house were topped by cheap plastic guttering. It did look peculiar, but the school couldn’t afford better.
The yob was laughing at the school; making Mum laugh.
Simon nearly walked away there and then. But Mum had seen him. She caught his eye and silently commanded him to walk over. There was no arguing with her in that mood, so he went. Feeling Bowdon’s eyes, everybody’s eyes, on the back of his neck.
‘Hallo,’ said Mum, blue eyes full of don’t-you-dare. ‘This is Joe Moreton. He drove me down.’
Simon shook hands. Moreton’s hand was warm and dry and he didn’t try the old crushing-technique. But Simon couldn’t get his own hand away quick enough.
‘Where’s the Morris?’ asked Simon, too loud.
‘A gasket went. I’d just called in at the gallery. Mr Moreton was there. He very kindly offered to drive me, or I wouldn’t be here.’
Then disastrously, there was nothing more to say. Simon could tell Mum was trying to think of something, but she wasn’t going to manage it.
‘Is there a gents?’ asked Joe Moreton suddenly. ‘Before I die?’
Stammering, Simon pointed it out. Everybody had heard Joe Moreton ask . . .
Joe ambled off.
‘Who is he?’ asked Simon, in a screeching whisper.
‘Stop flapping. Just an artist from the gallery. I hardly know him. I was just going to ring the school to say I couldn’t make it, when he offered. Show some manners, Simon. If it wasn’t for him I shouldn’t be here.’
Simon nearly said he wished she wasn’t.
Joe Moreton ambled back, surveying everything with an artistic eye. Especially the younger mothers. They gave him frosty looks, but he just leered.
Again, there was nothing to say.
But now old Protheroe was hovering nearer and nearer, with a beatific smile like he’d seen God and lived. He paused at two yards’ range and waved his hands as if he was conducting an invisible fairy orchestra. Kept grinning fatuously and trying to catch somebody’s eye. Bowdon and co. were having their best time since the cricket pavilion burnt down.
‘Yes, Mr Protheroe?’ said Mum, with a worse edge to her voice than Prothie normally got.
Protheroe really did look like he’d reached Nirvana. Simon decided it was all a bad dream; he’d wake up in a minute.
‘It is Joe Moreton, isn’t it? The Observer? Private Eye?’ asked Prothie.
‘It is,’ said Joe Moreton gently.
Prothie took his hand and wouldn’t put it down. Kept shaking it vaguely. ‘I do so admire your work, sir. Tradition of the great English cartoonists . . . Hogarth . . . Gilray . . . Rowlandson . . .’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’
‘I never miss a thing you do. That one of the Chancellor . . .’
Joe Moreton smiled sickly, and regained possession of his own hand by main force.
‘So nice. Such a privilege . . .’ Prothie wandered off through the crowd, telling complete strangers all about his great privilege.
Bowdon was in danger of doing himself a permanent injury. All Bowdon’s mob were mouthing, ‘So nice . . . such a privilege.’
But the parents weren’t laughing. They were starting to turn and give Joe Moreton the same daffy looks as Protheroe. As if Protheroe was spreading a mental Black Death or something. The parents closed in. Mr Montgomery shook Joe Moreton’s hand and began telling him how he used to play for Gloucester and did Joe come from those parts? Another man introduced his wife like she was the Crown Jewels, and the wife put her hand on Moreton’s arm and said he must come over to Blackheath for dinner one day.
And then, to crown the madness, there was the Head, welcoming the well-known Joe Moreton among us, and would he consider judging the art exhibition as there were small prizes for first and second? (From the look on Prothie’s face, it was news to him, because the Head was normally so stingy about art that there was never even enough paper.) And perhaps one day Mr Moreton would consider doing a little picture for the school?
Simon felt like throwing up.
But Joe Moreton just stood smiling; though you could tell he was laughing at them all inside. Then he held up a hand, saying, ‘Headmaster, your word is my command! Just stay exactly where you are.’
And the Head stood exactly where he was, one hand on the wing of the white Range Rover; the cold wind blowing his scant grey hair across his bald patch and pressing his gown and trousers hard against his ridiculously spindly legs. Stood with a fixed smirk on his face until he was shivering with cold.
Joe Moreton reached through the window of his car and produced a Biro and a large spiral-backed sketchbook. It was then that Simon saw for the first time the strange and hateful talent of Joe Moreton. The Biro seemed to move of its own accord, rolled, stippled, slashed. A horrible mess of lines. Pure rubbish, thought Simon. Now they’ll find him out, the yob.
But slowly, out of the slashed scribbles, an image of the Head emerged. Bald head, spindle shanks, paunchy turn under its grey waistcoat. The drawing made him look tiny, like an aggressive robin. So real you had to laugh. Except Moreton showed more than was there: the tension in the clenched hand on the wing of the car; the Head’s desperation under the politeness he always showed to rude bullying parents. Moreton stripped the Head naked. And the Head stood there smirking, loving every minute.
The parents loved it too; craning their necks and pushing for a view. Giving little gasps of wonder, like tots at a Punch and Judy show. When Moreton finished, there was a round of applause, as if someone had scored a century. Couldn’t they see how cruel it was? Couldn’t they see that underneath, Moreton was mocking them all?
The rest of the day passed in a horrible blur. Simon played scrum-half for the school against Riverside College. Played savagely, to forget. But every time he put the ball into the scrum, he wondered if Joe Moreton was watching, turning him into a ridiculous figure with his bottom stuck in the air and hands clenched too tight on the ball.
Simon scored two tries, and was twice spoken-to for dangerous play. Later, the drawing of the Head was auctioned for the Science Lab. Fund. Mr Montgomery made the top bid – a hundred pounds.
It was just sick.
THREE
Simon sat watching the telly in a paroxysm of hatred and boredom. He loathed the smarmy crinkle-haired good looks of the quiz-master; the pretty, permanently-grinning girls; and the ageing couples willing to strip their lives naked for thirty pounds and the inevitable silver clock. Simon had the telly sound down, because Mum was going out again. He could hear her footsteps overhead in her bedroom, moving in quick bursts from wardrobe to dressing-table. She was singing too. Happy.
Not that he didn’t want her to be happy. Happy with him and Jane. But she was too happy these days, and it was about something else. Two days a week she was up early, before he got up; getting ready to go to work at the gallery. She would come in to say goodbye, checking that she had her watch and her car-keys and her purse, and looking at herself in the mirror over his bed, her mind already mile
s away. And she’d bought a lot of new clothes. Frilly blouses and frilly skirts that she wore over leather boots.
And four times in three weeks she’d gone out in the evening; and the house was thick with old programmes for weird-looking plays at the Roundhouse, and concerts with names like Monteverdi and Albinoni. And there were the hour-long phone calls, almost nightly, when she closed the door of the study and emerged all shining and pink and was in a good humour for the rest of the evening. But she was a bit snarly on the nights the phone call didn’t come.
He didn’t mind staying home in the day and looking after Jane and doing her bangers-and-beans for lunch. There’d never been anybody much to knock around with in the holidays anyway, unless Tris came to stay. But Mum used to take him and Jane out. To Battersea Park, or the Science Museum. Mind you, she still did. But she was always wanting to try new places now, even the pratting Tate Gallery once. And her mind was never quite on it.
He would almost be glad to get back to school.
And Jane, when she wasn’t playing in the garden with her little council-school mates, or bossing her tatty dolls in the wendy-house, or chucking slime out of the goldfish-pond, would sometimes mention a character called Uncle Bear. Jane was very keen on Uncle Bear. Uncle Bear had taken her to the zoo and lifted her on his shoulders so she could see the giraffes properly. Only, when he asked who Uncle Bear was, she got sly and changed the subject. Simon had a growing terror that Uncle Bear might be Joe Moreton. On the other hand, he could be her teacher at school or anything . . . Simon couldn’t quite bring himself to pry deeper. Spying on Mum through Jane was not on; and Jane’s eyes were too knowing.
Mum came downstairs, pulling on gloves. ‘All right, dear? Shan’t be late. There’s yoghurts in the fridge. Try to get Jane in bed by eight. And don’t let her get dirty after her bath.’ Mum looked all lit-up again. ‘Mrs Logan will look in, in case you need anything.’
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