— Get upstairs. Now, Billy.
Dad’s voice is like car doors slamming in the quiet but I still can’t help what happens next, which is this: I burst out laughing and hold the throw-blanket tighter still over my head. It’s shaking because I’m giggling and I wish I could stop but I can’t.
— NOW! roars Dad, and suddenly the covers aren’t there anymore because he’s ripped them right off. And he’s very upset. I can tell because he’s got me by the wrist and he’s dragging me up off the sofa. Mum and Grandma Lynne appear in the doorway behind him. — Just do as you’re bloody well told, he hisses.
— Ow, I say. — You’re hurting my arm.
— Jim! yells Mum.
And Dad lets go very quickly, his hand spread wide, as if my wrist has suddenly turned cold enough to freeze his fingerbones, which it hasn’t, because when I rub it the feel of it is only a cross between tingly warm and normal. Still, I burst into tears, because it’s all gone horrible.
Next to Mum I see Grandma Lynne saying nothing. She can’t really; she’s too busy pressing her hand to her mouth. Then Mum steps into the gap between me and Dad and gathers me up and Dad un-freezes and backs away muttering, — Get him upstairs and into bed now. I’m going out.
— Where? asks Mum.
— Just out.
Do you like toothpaste? I do. The spicy grown-up type is actually my favorite now, but when I was very little and Mum or Dad put their extra-minty paste on my brush by accident it made my tongue feel too cold and too hot at the same time. I used to cry. But I’m much more coping now, and I’ve even got a buzzy brush like Dad. It’s invigilating.
Also when I was little and Dad was doing my teeth for me he gave them names and called them out as he brushed each one: — Arthur, Ben, Charlie, Dave, Eddie, Freddie, George; Harry, Ian, Jimmy, Keith, Larry, Marcus, Nigel; Otto, Peter, Quentin, Robert, Simon, Terry, Unwin; Victor, Walter; Xander; Yuri, and Zac. It took quite a long time, particularly with the ones at the back of my mouth, which he always got to last . . . and . . . had . . . to . . . think . . . about. XYZ. An alpha bite. When my first baby tooth went wobbly and I told Dad he stopped in the middle of Tesco and looked at me for quite a long time.
I asked him what the matter was.
— Nothing, he said. — I’ll glue it back in tonight when you’re asleep.
Some people are scared of the dark, but I’m not.
I don’t like funny noises at night, though; they bother me, so after I say good night to Mum I lie there listening for the normal noises instead. The most normal noise is the television but it’s not on tonight: if it was I’d be able to hear some we’re-so-happy laughing or screechy tires or dun-dun-dun music or HEY, IT’S GONE LOUDER NOW, BECAUSE IT’S AN ADVERT noise! None of that for now. Instead there are one or two cars slushing along the road outside and a dog barking and the voices downstairs: Mum and Grandma Lynne. I listen hard but can’t hear the words, just the sound of them: a few very usual little bits together with some less normal this-is-the-news speeches from Grandma Lynne. It is all quite reassuring I suppose, but I wish I could hear Dad’s voice as well. I can’t, though: he’s still just out. Just out isn’t so bad. It’s the opposite of totally out, which means a long way away. He’s probably sitting on the wall outside, or maybe the front step. I do some yawning because it can actually make you feel sleepy as well as the other way around, but it doesn’t work, so I listen hard again and hear the boiler creaking. Fine. Not as interesting as a helicopter or siren. Those things show that society is doing its thing, Son, and all is as it should be. You can try counting sheep if you want. Or shepherding counts. German shepherd is another name for Alsatian. Old-fashioned shepherds had crooks and policemen use Alsatians to catch them. Stop, thief! Go on boy, on you lope! Alsatians are one of the wolfest types of dogs. Breeds. Breathe. There goes the radiator, pinging softly. Underwater sounds. I roll over and push an arm into the underpillow coolness . . . and . . . ping . . . the pipe . . . hush . . . steps . . . cat . . . purr . . . tar . . . mac . . .
— Billy?
It’s Grandma Lynne. I roll back over and sit up to say hello.
— You’re still awake, she whispers, pushing me back down.
— Yes.
She bends over and kisses me on the forehead. Lovely smell, plus wine.
— I just came to see if . . . she trails off, says nothing for a while.
— Do you like Alsatians? I ask eventually.
— Listen, Billy. I’m worried about you.
— I’m fine. They keep German sheep.
— Yes, but Billy. If you need somebody to talk to . . . little Billy . . . Grandma Lynne is always here. You know that, don’t you?
— I’m not that little.
— Of course you’re not. I didn’t mean that.
— I’m six.
— You can tell me anything you like.
— Okay, I say. — Can you get Dad in off the step please?
— Good night, Billy.
— Good night.
After that I fall asleep. And guess what, I have a dream! I’m not going to tell you about it though, because, Son, other people’s dreams are boring.
The next not-boring thing to happen is a loud slam-bang noise that wakes me up in the middle of the night. I jerk up, very what’s-going-on? It’s darkish on the landing and I am distorted. Then another stumping noise comes up from the dark downstairs and I do some big gulps. I could cry out but that would attract attention like an idiot. And I realize very sadly that it is too late for other tactics because they’re already inside, so there’s no point; I couldn’t reach my defensive banister even if I tried. If prey can’t fight then flight is the other option but . . . I go for camouflaged hiding instead. Dark on the landing, dark under my duvet. Go!
But there’s a problem with that because how will I know? The robbers could turn my bedroom light on and see me bulging, and I wouldn’t be able to see them because it would be dark inside my bulgy bit. Look, there’s a kid inside a duvet. Let’s steal him, too. All right then, why not. And I can’t even breathe properly because I’ve curled up into a ball and it’s made everything prickling hot, the backs of my legs where they’re pressing the other bit, and the underneath part of my chin which is rubbing up against my neck. I can’t hear either! I’m breathing too loudly and the duvet is a scratchy bugger which you shouldn’t say at school so I stop breathing for as long as I can and . . .
— I’m sorry.
It’s Dad. He’s on the stairs. Creak, creak.
— So sorry.
I peep out from under the covers. The landing light clicks yellow. — Shh, says Mum.
— Tessa, says Dad. — I’m . . .
— Shh, she says again. — Jesus. Look at you.
— So, so, so . . .
— Shh! You’ll wake—
— Sorry, Dad goes on in a huge whisper. — It’s all my fault.
— Shh.
There’s more foot-padding noises on the carpet. Then Dad does a famous racehorse wee and after that the toilet flushes. Mum and Dad’s door snips shut again. I lie there panting and wondering why I haven’t called out and I think about doing it now but decide not to, no, and I don’t know why. I don’t know what he was sorry about, either. Sometimes you do have to say sorry, though, even if it was an accident, like when Jindal knocked his water-pot over on my arctic tern painting, only Jindal refused to say it then because he said Beth jogged his arm anyway. Jogging is like loping and Beth’s dad is a fireman; he probably never makes mistakes. The house goes deep-black quiet again, nearly. There’s just the sound of Grandma Lynne laying back down on her bed next door: squeakety-squeak.
Once Casey told me Fuck in the playground so I gave him some advice and it worked. Do you know what my advice was? I said Fuck wasn’t allowed and that Casey should tell a teacher he had said it before a teacher found out.
— They won’t find out, Casey said.
I laughed even though it was serious and said, — Yes they will
. They are teachers. Teachers find things out.
Casey was trying to do something else but he still looked a bit worried.
— I’ll come with you, I said.
It’s easier to own up if you have somebody with you. The easiest is when it’s Mum but we were at school so actually neither of our mums were there. Casey didn’t really want to come but I helped him. He’s quite weak. I used battle of wills and person veering.
We walked up to Miss Hart. I went first and Casey came afterward. — Miss Hart, I said. — Miss Hart, Casey said something bad.
Miss Hart has tiny lips like on a fish. She pressed them together into a funny little smile. A fish smile is an unusual thing because they are very inexpressing creatures unlike prime apes.
— Really. Well I’m sure he won’t say it again, will you Casey?
I couldn’t see what Casey said to that because he was still behind me, but it didn’t seem right yet. He hadn’t told her what he’d said.
Miss Hart was turning away.
— Fuck, I said.
Miss Hart turned back round again very fast like a diamond-back rattlesnake, and I looked for Casey so that he could explain, but he had run away like a gopher into the long grass.
It was all right in the end. Miss Hart gave me a biscuit.
Dad stays in bed until late the next morning but Mum and Grandma Lynne are both sadly already downstairs when I wake up, so I don’t get to have hot chocolate in the spare bed. When I realize this I’m nearly angry; my feet feel hot and ready to stamp. But luckily I stop them because Grandma Lynne jumps up with a watermelon smile when I walk into the kitchen and says how about some pancakes then?
— Pancakes!
Mum says, — What a great idea, I’ll help.
— We’ll all help! says Grandma Lynne.
And Mum starts diving around in the cupboards like a dog retrieving birds from bushes, Alan’s spaniel perhaps, though he mostly retrieves socks, and anyway he never gives them back, and she’s talking as she does so, saying — Here’s a wooden spoon, and a nice plastic bowl, and some flour, and eggs, and milk, let’s have some milk, too, and butter, a new pat, and the scales . . .
It is called a running comment tree and is not like her at all.
I nearly shout Hey Mum I know you know where everything is; you put it there, remember! But I don’t.
At least she’s incredibly cheerful, which must be why Grandma Lynne is as well, or perhaps it’s the other way around. Anyway I don’t care. I just help, too, like Grandma Lynne suggested. I do some of the mixing and nobody notices two things. First, that I am still in my pajamas, and second, that occasionally some of the mix spills out of the bowl, which is normal, but normally it makes somebody say Hey watch out, you’re spilling it. Nobody says that at all today. So I just push my pajama sleeves up my arms and stick the wooden spoon straight in! And for a second it looks like that’s too much, because Grandma Lynne reaches into the bowl and lifts my hand out; but it’s not to say Hold on, Billy, you’re making a mess. No. Instead she just turns my arm over gently above the bowl and looks at a small red mark on the white bit, there.
— Does that hurt? she asks, pressing it.
— No. It’s normal.
The scales aren’t normal ones, though. They’re excellently interesting, much thinner than the ones in the bathroom. Measure, measure, measure, scale, scale, scale: Spider-Man scales things in a different way and fish have them for other purposes, too, including waterproof swimming.
We make pancakes. Lots of them. Here you go, Grandma Lynne, have another with some lemon and a slurp of maple stirrups, fantastic, and I’ll have another one, too, and Mum, because there’s more mix, so let’s keep them coming, Mum, keep at it, even though I’m quite full up, but never mind because we’re having a really pancake brilliant time!
Then the kitchen door swings open and even the pan spattering on the cooker goes shhh. Hello Dad. His hair is up in blades and he’s got gray skin to go with the iron filings sprinkled up his throat and round his bunchy jaw. He stops in the doorway and sways there a second and blinks at Grandma Lynne like he’s forgotten who she is.
— Morning, he mutters. — I need—
— Pancakes! I shout.
— No, Son. His teeth bite down. — Not just now—
— But there’s loads of mixture left. I’ve had three and Grandma Lynne has had four at least.
— Great. But I’ll start with a coffee.
His mouth is having a good go at smiling but his eyes are dandelion roots again, or better still, radishes, radishes somebody cross has stamped into the mud.
— We were just making Billy some cheer-up pancakes, says Grandma Lynne.
Dad’s smile twitches wider. — So I see.
— Why don’t you go back to bed? says Mum.
Dad shakes his head a tiny bit and moves into coffee mode, unscrewing this and washing out that and tapping the black stuff out of this into that after filling the other bit with water and screwing it all back into one piece with the flame going and setting it down on top. Normal. He sloshes some milk in a mug. Pauses. Then he looks like he’s remembered a birthday and says, — Anyone else like a cup?
— Yes please, replies Grandma Lynne unusually quickly.
— I’m all right, says Mum at exactly the same time.
And after that there’s just Dad fiddling super slowly with mugs and milk on the suddenly noisy kitchen worktop in the long-lasting otherwise silence.
Being quiet is tricky. Even when you want to be silent, somehow noises happen. Either your foot slips out from under you and hits the table leg or you say something like, — What about broken promises you never told anybody about, do they still count? . . . The words just come straight out before you’ve even thought them. In class Miss Hart often makes us all sit still quietly just to have a think about what we’ve learned and even when that happens it’s hard not to say Hey I’ve learned this or that or whatever it is. Leo is worse at silence than me because he has a special teacher called Mrs. Cassidy just to help him with it. But I don’t have her and if it wasn’t for Leo I’d definitely be the worst! Leo hates oranges and is allergic to sand, crayons, and PE, too.
And did you know another thing, about bells?
It’s obvious: they’re normally noisy.
We have them at school to tell everybody what to do next, only they don’t really work. When the bell goes off I know it’s time to stop what I’m doing so that something else can happen, but I always have to say Hey, there’s the bell, what’s happening next?
Dad likes bells.
Actually that’s not true.
He likes a song about bells, though, bells you have to ring unless you don’t do it because you’ve forgotten your perfect offering.
I don’t know what that means, but it rhymes.
And so does the next bit in the song, the important bit about there being a crack in everything.
Which isn’t really true.
Don’t worry though, because it’s only a song. And songs are like stories, Son. They may not be factually true, but it doesn’t matter because something inside them is probably truer.
Shall I tell you what’s inside?
Okay I will. Light!
That’s what the song says, anyway. The cracks in all the bells and songs and stories are there for a reason, to let the light get in. So we can see how everything broken is excellent.
Dad explained it. He said — Everything falls apart, Son. And that’s okay, that’s how it’s supposed to be. We’re all imperfect. You included, and even, believe it or not, me! But don’t worry. Our faults make us who we are. The cracks are illuminating.
And I understood that, I actually did. Because it made sense. Once I even had a Lego cat figure with ears that swivelled until I dropped it and one of them chipped off, making it non-symmetrical and therefore rubbish. We couldn’t even glue it. Don’t worry, it’s just flawed, Son: that makes it more realistic. I wasn’t allowed to throw it away. Instead
I still had to like it because Dad told me I had to, so I tried, and it worked, sort of. And that’s what the song about cracked bells means: if you drop things, including bells and Lego cats, they will break, because most of them have cracks anyway, because that’s just the way things are. It all makes perfect sense. Sort of.
Anyway, it is quiet in the kitchen for a long time. We don’t have anymore pancakes because Mum turns the knob down on the cooker. Gas lives in the gas pipe and oxygen is a gas that lives in pipes, too: windpipes. If broccoli goes down the wrong pipe it can be fatal, even though broccoli looks like lungs. It also looks like trees. Brocco-lung, brocco-tree. Leaves do quivering in the wind and Dad’s good hand is quivering when he picks up the spoon to stir his coffee. He could use that spoon to dig out his dandelion-root radish eyes, but of course he doesn’t. It would hurt.
— Why not take that back to bed, Jim, Mum says.
The quiet gets louder.
— You might as well just sleep it off.
Dad smiles hard enough to show off the pointy yellowish teeth at the sides of his mouth when Mum says that. He shakes his head and says nothing more loudly still.
— What shall we do today, anyway? Grandma Lynne asks me. — How about a trip to the Zoo?
This is excellent news, so excellent I sadly can’t help what happens next. But it happens. I sort of throw my arms backward and push out with my legs to signal yes I’m excited and my chair tips swiftly up onto two legs. Too swiftly. It goes past the edge of balance utterly. One minute I’m there sitting at the table, the next I’m on the tiles incredibly noisily.
Everybody panics.
Me because I’ve hit my shoulder and elbow on the floor impressively loudly, and Mum because she’s my mum and emergency go-go-go she needs to get across the kitchen to help-help-help, and Grandma Lynne because she’s Grandma Lynne and she wants to be involving, too. Dad snaps upright as well. I see him there at the edge jerking back from the kitchen surface with coffee all over his shirt. And I’m rolling onto my side and Mum is there above me and Grandma Lynne is behind her with her crow’s-wings hair flapping, but Dad is already between them bending over me, his eyes as red as the plaster cast, a hand under my back, hauling me up.
What I Did Page 12