We Used to Be Kings

by Stewart Foster

  The train looks like a toy.

  It’s so small that we could pick it up and put it on another line. It reminds us of the last time we went to the beach, when we went by train because Dad couldn’t drive. He kept tapping his feet.

  He was trying to make the train go faster.

  Mum put her hand on his knee, said it was too noisy, that people were watching. Dad looked at us and laughed. He pretended to cut a hole in the floor and started to pedal.

  And so did we.

  —

  Like the Flintstones.

  —

  The yellow train starts to slow, stops at a platform next to a power station where smoke blows from white towers.

  I feel happy.

  I feel sad.

  Are we happy and sad?

  Yes.

  Like it’s rainy and sunny?

  Yes, like it’s rainy and sunny at the same time.

  ‘Oi!’ A finger jabs us in the ribs. We turn around. Harriet has one hand on the steering wheel and the other in the air, finger pointed ready to jab us again. ‘What about this one?’

  We rub our side and listen to the radio.

  Do we know this one?

  —

  A man sings a song about a season in the sun.

  Do we?

  No.

  —

  —

  Do you think she’s got The Jungle Book?

  I doubt it.

  I’ll ask.

  D—

  Have you got The Jungle Book?

  !

  ‘What?’

  Have you got The Jungle Book?

  Harriet laughs. We laugh, rest our back against the door and watch her drive. Sometimes she sings.

  Sometimes she smiles.

  Sometimes she just stares at the road.

  The van starts to go uphill, she presses the clutch down, puts her hand on the gearstick. The sound of metal crashing grates through the van. She pulls her hand away like she’s just been stung.

  ‘You’re putting me off,’ she says.

  We’re only watching.

  I was only watching.

  We look out the side window. Harriet puts her hand on our knee.

  We jump.

  ‘It’s OK.’ She smiles. ‘I was only joking.’

  She takes her hand away and even though it has gone we feel a tingle in the spot she touched.

  We smile, look back at her. She starts to rock backwards and forwards.

  !

  !

  ‘Oh no!’

  !

  Sorry.

  ‘No, it’s not you.’ She presses the accelerator flat to the floor and points at the dashboard. ‘It’s the radiator.’

  We lean over. A needle creeps from cold to hot on the temperature gauge.

  !

  Is it bad?

  ‘Yes, it’s bad.’ She glances in the side mirror and for the first time we see she is worried. We look behind, see clouds of smoke billowing out the side of the van, leaving a trail back down the hill.

  It’s going to explode!

  —

  Harriet rocks backwards and forwards, tries to make us go faster.

  ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Fucking come on.’

  She shouldn’t—

  Don’t . . .

  ‘Sorry.’

  The engine rattles, the exhaust starts to growl. Harriet bangs her hand on the steering wheel, stares straight ahead at the road as it keeps climbing until it disappears like a cliff edge into the sky.

  ‘Not here. Not here.’

  The van goes slower, starts to vibrate through our body. We crawl past hedges and trees and the smoke is now so thick it’s like we’re stuck in a cloud.

  We think that we might have to get out.

  But—

  We think we might have to get out and push.

  ‘Yes!’ Harriet leans back, blows out her cheeks as the van crests the top of the hill. ‘Made it.’

  We all smile and breathe out as the van starts to quicken and we roll down the other side.

  Harriet flicks the indicator on when we reach the bottom.

  What are we doing?

  I don’t know.

  What are we doing?

  —

  Harriet points at the temperature gauge.

  ‘We’ve got to stop for water to help cool it down,’ she says.

  But we’re still going to the beach?

  !

  Harriet shakes her head and laughs. ‘You’re funny,’ she says.

  The van starts to turn, lurches down into a dip. We all bounce up and down in the seat as the tyres search for grip over tractor tracks. We fall forward and our bag slides off the seat as Harriet jams on the brakes. The smoke circles around us. Harriet turns off the engine.

  —

  —

  ‘Don’t look so worried,’ she says. ‘It does it all the time.’ She looks over her shoulder into the back of the van. ‘I just need to check we’ve got water.’

  She climbs between the seats. We look out the window, watch the smoke clear away and look over a gate into a field. The van starts to rock. We hear the sound of a muffled voice coming from a cupboard and look over our shoulder. Harriet leans out, her face is red and her fringe has flopped over her eyes.

  ‘My dad’s filled it to the top. Can you help me?’

  We climb into the back. Harriet points at a yellow water container. We try to reach it but there is not enough space for us all between the cupboard and the cooker. She smiles.

  ‘I think I’d better get out of the way,’ she says. She squeezes past. We feel her breath on our face and the warmth of her body as it presses against ours. We feel ourself turn red. Harriet opens the side door and steps out onto the grass.

  We stand alone in the van, see a blue sleeping bag rolled up on a seat, see a pair of red pyjamas folded by the side—

  And a little bag.

  We bend down and pick up a book with NHS written across the top and a picture of a nurse underneath. A car rushes by and rocks the van.

  —

  —

  We look out the door, see patches of Harriet’s yellow dress between the green of the hedge.

  Is she looking?

  I think she’s peeing.

  ?

  We open the book.

  This book is the property of Harriet Jones.

  I don’t think we should be doing this.

  We have to.

  ?

  It’ll give us something to talk about.

  Oh.

  We flip over the page, see scratches of blue ink, Harriet’s tiny spidery writing scrawled across a diagram of the human heart.

  ‘Tom!’ Harriet’s voice sounds loud, like she’s used a microphone in the wind.

  We turn around and see her standing with her elbows resting on a gate.

  ‘It’s boring stuff,’ she says.

  We flip the book shut.

  Sorry.

  Sorry.

  ‘It’s OK.’

  The book slips off the seat onto the floor. We bend down and pick it up. Our blood thuds in our head.

  Because we’ve been caught?

  Because we’ve seen a little piece of her.

  We stand in the van not knowing where to look or go.

  Harriet laughs. ‘I said it’s OK . . . It’s just work, it’s not like you’ve sniffed my knickers.’

  !

  !

  We look down at the container.

  ‘Leave it in the shade,’ she says. We lift it out onto the grass then pick up our bag. Harriet grins, turns away and we wish there was a breeze to cool our face down. We climb over the gate and follow her through the footprints of cows. In the middle of the field she stops, turns in a circle and looks up at the sky.

  ‘It takes ages.’

  ?

  ?

  ‘The radiator – my dad says I have to leave it an hour to cool down.’

  She should use nitrogen.

  —

>   She should use nitrogen.

  You should use nitrogen.

  That’s what I said.

  ‘Ha! What are you, a scientist?’

  —

  Not really.

  She bends down, taps her hand on the ground, then sits on the grass. We slip our bag off our shoulder and sit down opposite her. She laughs.

  ‘You look like you’re in school assembly.’

  ?

  Oh.

  We uncross our legs. Harriet puts her hands behind her head. Her dress creeps up over her knees as she closes her eyes and lies back on the grass.

  The wind rustles the hedges, blows around our head. In the distance we hear the sound of lorry crawling up the hill.

  —

  —

  —

  —

  This is a bit boring.

  —

  —

  We watch Harriet breathe.

  We look around the field.

  !

  —

  Can we play something?

  No.

  —

  —

  —

  We spy with our little eye—

  Not We spy again.

  Harriet opens her eyes and looks at us. ‘Why don’t you lie down?’ she says. ‘You’re twitching like a rabbit.’

  Sorry.

  Sorry.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Playing ‘We spy’.

  ‘I spy’!

  ‘I spy.’

  She looks at us like she doesn’t understand.

  You can play too.

  She doesn’t want to.

  She does.

  ‘OK.’

  Told you.

  !

  I’ll go first.

  !

  I spy . . . I spy with our little eye—

  Camper van.

  That’s not fair.

  ‘Hurry up,’ says Harriet.

  I spy with our little eye something beginning with s—

  Sky.

  Harriet looks back to the gate, follows the hedge around the field.

  ‘S,’ she says. ‘S . . .’

  It’s sky.

  It’s not.

  It is.

  Harriet bites her bottom lip.

  ‘S . . . S . . . Stethoscope!’

  Yes.

  What? Where?

  —

  I’m not playing any more.

  Harriet laughs and lies back down again.

  —

  —

  —

  !

  ?

  Hangman?

  No.

  —

  —

  We could go and explore.

  We could just sit here.

  —

  —

  We stand up, look across the field to where it gently slopes away until the edge is out of sight. We walk down the slope, hear the sound of running water. A stream flows down the hill over stones and boulders. We sit down and take off our socks and trainers.

  Are we going to make a dam?

  No, we’re going to wash.

  ?

  Because we stink.

  Oh.

  We take off our T-shirt and jumper and leave them on the bank,

  So we’re going to wash.

  That’s what I said.

  . . . And then we’re going to make a dam.

  !

  Harriet sleeps in the sun. We open our bag, take out our book and our planes and put them on the grass.

  I don’t want to wear our Arsenal shirt.

  Shush!

  I don’t want to wear our Arsenal shirt.

  It’s all we’ve got.

  Can’t we just wear our jumper?

  No.

  Because it’s too hot?

  Because it itches our skin.

  We pick up our Arsenal shirt, put our arms through and pull the neck down over our wet hair.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Harriet opens her eyes and squints in the sun.

  Down to the stream.

  We reach back into our bag and put on a jumper.

  Harriet sits up and picks our book up off the grass.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asks.

  She looks at our drawing on the front. We wait for her to laugh but she just sits without speaking, running her hand over the cover. A weird feeling grows inside us, a tingle that sends a shiver up our spine.

  Because she is looking at something about us?

  Yes.

  ‘“Our Book”, by Tom and Jack Gagarin.’ She looks up, shakes her head slowly. ‘I should have known,’ she says. ‘The mysterious writer.’

  We smile then look at the ground.

  —

  —

  ‘Which one’s you?’

  That one.

  And that one.

  ‘I like the yellow hair.’

  !

  I didn’t draw it.

  ‘Who did?’

  —

  Jack.

  ‘Is that him?’

  Yes.

  ‘Are you twins?’

  Ha! See.

  No, but he was my brother.

  ‘Was?’

  —

  He died.

  !

  Harriet lifts her head. ‘Oh . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—’

  It’s OK.

  Is it?

  ‘No, I shouldn’t have—’ She goes quiet and looks at us as if she likes us more.

  —

  —

  She runs her hand over the cover one more time. ‘Here.’ She holds it out. ‘I was being nosy . . . I can’t help it. I shouldn’t have looked.’

  We reach out, hold one end of the book while she holds the other. We think that we’d like her to read it, that we’d like her to know about Mum and Dad.

  We’d like her to look at the pictures.

  We’d like her to tell us if our book is any good.

  —

  —

  You can read it if you like.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Are we?

  Yes.

  —

  Harriet puts our book on her lap and opens the cover.

  ‘Ha! I like this,’ she says.

  What’s that?

  What’s that?

  ‘This . . .’

  Ha!

  !

  She smiles, flicks over to the first chapter and starts to read.

  ‘“It was hot but I was cold the day after Jack died.”’

  Have we got to start again?

  !

  We’ve read this bit sixteen times!

  Harriet laughs.

  ‘You wrote it,’ she says.

  She rolls over onto her stomach. We roll over onto ours. Harriet shakes her head, rubs it against our shoulder.

  ‘You’re weird,’ she says.

  ?

  ?

  We flip forward to our marker. Harriet puts her fingers on the page to stop it turning in the wind.

  ‘Shall I start?’

  Yes.

  Yes.

  We lean in closer and start to read.

  Summer 1971

  The desert was grey in Kazakhstan. The Russians’ capsule lay in the sand. Three helicopters hovered in the blue sky and a voice crackled over a radio.

  Sporry wurry sputnik. Beep beep glitsch.

  That was the Russians.

  !

  Harriet looks at us then back at the page.

  I think she can read it on her own.

  OK.

  Me and Jack crawled closer to the TV. The capsule was tilted on its side. Black burn marks licked from the bottom to the door and stopped at the window. A parachute was stretched out like spilt oil on the sand. I remembered what I’d read in my encyclopaedia about Commander Komarov, how Soyuz 1’s parachute didn’t open and the spaceship kept spinning until it fell out of the sky.

  I put my arm around Jack. The Russians had landed safely this time.

  A
commentator started talking.

  ‘This is the moment the world has been waiting for,’ he said. ‘After holding our breaths for two days, the Russians are finally coming home.’

  I looked at Jack and he smiled. We’d been holding our breaths for longer than everyone else, we’d been holding ours all summer.

  An army truck with big wheels drove across the sand and stopped. Two men wearing white boiler suits jumped out and ran over to the capsule. One looked in through the window, the other reached out and tried the handle on the door. He wriggled it up and down but the door wouldn’t open. The first man tried, then they tried together, but the door still didn’t open. They looked up at the helicopters, waved their arms and tried the door again. The helicopters came down from the sky and blasted the sand into clouds that I couldn’t see through. The two men knelt down as the helicopters came in to land. I felt sweat trickle down the side of my face and my heart started to thud because after waiting twenty-eight days for them to come home it seemed like the Russians were trapped inside. I wondered if it was because they were weak, that a lunar month of eating pills had made them thin.

  ‘It could be gravity,’ said the commentator. ‘It could simply be that gravity is weighing them down.’

  There were now four men in white suits standing by the capsule. One jammed an iron bar against the door, the other three stood and watched. Then the commentator spoke again, but this time it was a whisper.

  ‘We’ve received a message from the Russians,’ he said. ‘It’s an unconfirmed report . . . a rumour.’ Then he stopped like he was taking a big breath in the middle of his sentence.

  Jack nudged me. ‘What’s a rumour?’ he asked.

  ‘It means that he’s heard something but he can’t be certain.’

  ‘This information has come to us from Moscow,’ said the commentator. ‘It’s feared that—’

  Sporry wurry sputnik. Beep. Beep. Glitsch!

  I leant forward, put my head against the speaker. My ear crackled with the sound of static.

  ‘It’s thought the cosmonauts . . . It’s thought they may have suffocated.’

  Jack pulled my arm.

  ‘What did he say?’

  I tried to answer but all my thoughts were fighting inside my head, spinning like the rotor blades. Jack screwed up his face and bit the skin on his fingers.

  ‘It’s only a rumour,’ I said. ‘It might not be true.’

  He bit harder. I didn’t want him to cry but I could see the tears growing in the corners of his eyes.

  Another man grabbed hold of the bar.

  ‘They’ll be OK,’ I said. ‘The door’s just jammed, it might have melted on re-entry, and when they open it up they’ll find Dad, Viktor and Georgi laughing inside.’

  He tried to smile but from the sad look on his face I could tell he didn’t believe what I’d said, and when I saw the men in white boiler suits shaking their heads, neither did I.