by Anne Fine
He slumped back. “Yes, she told me that. But, Ian …” (That put me on my toes. He never calls me Ian. In my whole life, I don't believe he's called me Ian more than a dozen times. In fact, I've gone whole months convinced that Mr. Oliver's forgotten my name.) “Ian, have you the remotest idea what can have happened?”
“No,” I said. “I suppose he was being stupid. I suppose he fell.”
“Fell? Out the top-floor window?”
He looked as unconvinced as that suspicious lady had before.
“Well, maybe—”
But I couldn't think of anything even halfway sensible, so I shut up.
Mr. Oliver shot out of his chair and started pacing up and down. He might have been in court. “Why would a boy in Stol's position do that? What was he doing up in the old nanny's room anyway? You only have to stand by that window to see the drop.” The blood drained from his face and he sat down.
“Well, that's the thing about Stol. He's like that, isn't he?”
“Like what?”
Whose word to choose? I did a silent test run. As I have said, the teachers use “eccentric” if they're feeling positive (and, if they're not, they say “damn nuisance”). Mrs. Fraser calls him “mercurial.” My dad says “bats,” or “touched with the feather of madness.” Some kids say “weird.” Mum says he's “his own person.”
None of them seemed quite the thing.
“Well,” I said. “Stol is famous for doing really stupid things.”
He had the nerve to speak as if this came as news. “Really?”
I felt obliged to defend myself. “Yes. I mean, what about that time he made a raft for his gerbils?”
“Well, that was pretty daft, I do admit.”
“And the way he always tidies the queue at the bus stop.”
“Yes, a few of the locals have taken the time to pop by and mention they find that a shade irritating.”
“And when he swore that he would eat only enchiladas and gingersnaps, yea, unto death.”
“I never heard about that one.”
“It didn't last long.” I thought some more. “And when he started building his own private Wailing Wall.”
Mr. Oliver sprang to his feet again. “Well,” he said brightly, “I really do think I had better have one more quick word with the doctors.” He couldn't get out of the ward into the corridor fast enough. I parked myself on his warm patch and wondered if he had any more lunch goodies tucked away. But it's probably illegal to root in a Queen's Counsel's briefcase in hopes of finding a chocolate chip cookie. So, since I'd clearly appointed myself Stol's official biographer, I picked up the clipboard and got back to my writing.
dreamy sleepwear for sleepy dreamers
Mum hurried in, glancing back nervously over her shoulder.
“Is someone following you?”
“I was just looking for Franklin.”
“He'll be back,” I said. “He's left his briefcase. He went off to look for a doctor.”
“Yes. We bumped into each other in the corridor. I listened in, and they told him exactly what they just told us.”
She paused. I waited.
In the end, I prompted, “And … ?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that. All Franklin did was stand there quietly, listening to what they said. He didn't pick holes. He didn't even demand any extra explanations. He didn't start to argue. He just stood there, listening.”
“Blimey,” I said. “No wonder you're worried.”
He came back shortly after that. Mum glanced at his defeated face, and then at me. Then she went for the tactic she uses with toddlers.
Distraction.
“Franklin, I really think you ought to slip along to your chambers, at least for a little while. Just in case anyone's needing to talk to you before the court starts up again after lunch.”
“I don't know. He looks so—”
We all filled that one in. I thought, So different, just as Mum said, “So vulnerable,” and Franklin said, “So young.”
He was still looking forlornly at Stolly when he said, “You'll hold the fort, then, Sue? Till I get back? And keep trying to get through to Esme?”
Mum made a noise that wasn't quite a yes, and when he'd gone, I said accusingly, “You didn't sound too sure of yourself. Which bit were you fudging?”
“Esme,” she admitted. “Oh, I feel terrible.” She sprang to her feet and leaned over Stolly just as the nurse had, but without daring to lay her hand on his shoulder. “I certainly hope he's as firmly on track as everyone keeps telling us, because I rather think I might have fobbed off his mother.”
“Fobbed off Esme? You mean you actually got through to her? And told her not to come home?”
“Not exactly. I mean, I did get through. In the end. And I did manage to explain that Stol was in hospital. But, frankly, Esme sounded so panicked that instead of explaining exactly what had happened, I went on a bit too quickly to tell her the doctors were insisting he'd be fine. And at the moment she asked, ‘Should I come home, Sue?' the line was crackling so badly I could barely make out what she was saying. I'd just started to tell her, ‘No, this is no good, Esme. I can't hear you properly,' when the line went dead.”
“Just like that?”
The guilty look was back in force. “Yes. Just after I said the word ‘No.' And now I can't get through again. I keep getting some recording.”
“But she'll think it's just Stol being Stolly—sprained wrist, cracked shin or something—and you were telling her not to bother?”
Mum nodded.
“Well,” I said cheerfully. “You'll be in awful trouble if things go wrong. She'll have to sit on Franklin to stop him serving you a writ. But, on the other hand, if she stays safely away in Nicaragua …”
I didn't have to finish. We were remembering the times Esme had been told off in this very hospital for rearranging chairs in waiting rooms and bothering senior nurses with suggestions about the uniforms. (“The problem is, pure white's so draining. Only the best complexions can handle it. Now, if you were to switch to some more subtle shade of cream or pale oatmeal …”)
And when Stol wasn't truly ill—simply off-color— she was the worst nurse in the world.
Mum's mind was clearly working in the same way. “Remember when poor Stol had food poisoning?”
Do I remember? It was unforgettable. He was sent home from school for looking flushed and feeling queasy, and when next day I told Mum that he hadn't been in class, she dragged me round to his house carrying a new pack of felt pens and an emperor penguin facecloth with huge flapping yellow sponge feet.
And Stolly wasn't there. The only person in the house was his last nanny. I was quite pleased. (Thought I might get to keep the facecloth.) But Mum was horrified, fearing the worst as usual. “Where have they gone?”
Poor Anna Maddalena pointed to a phone number on the list pinned to the wall. Mum ran her finger to the other side.
“The Exhibition Centre?” She was baffled. “Why, when she has you to look after him, would Esme take a child who's sick to the Exhibition Centre?”
“Mrs. Oliver say he ‘pairfect.' ”
“Perfect?”
Five minutes later, we were on a bus. The banners strung across the building's wide steps proclaimed: NEW DESIGNS FOR A NEW AGE. Mum rather grudgingly paid for both of us, then dragged me past the displays. Some were just trestle tables piled with strangely shaped cups and kettles and lemon squeezers, or snazzy fabrics draped on rows of rails. Others were big square spaces done up as glossy space-age kitchens or living rooms with bold wallpapers, with weird painted cityscapes on their pretend windows.
We found Stol in a mock-up of a nursery, under a sign: THE WORLD OF ESME: DREAMY SLEEPWEAR FOR SLEEPY DREAMERS. A bunny frieze ran round three sides. The lights were shaped like angels peering down on him, wings softly glowing. The nursery table was shaped like a fourleaved clover, and toys were artfully tossed around.
As soon as she noticed us, Esme leaped out from behind her pile of catalogs. “Don't you think he's divine?”
“Esme!” Mum scolded. “For heaven's sake! The boy's got chicken pox!”
“Nonsense,” said Esme. “Ottoline painted them on with her number six rouge stick. And doesn't he look darling! He simply makes it. Such a talking point! We've had journalists, photographers! Honestly, bouquets have practically been thumping at my feet all day. Everyone drags round these dreary nothing-going-on-in-them mock-up rooms, then suddenly they're standing in front of mine, and their eyes light up.”
“I'm not surprised,” said Mum. “But what about Stolly? Is he warm enough? Are you making sure he has plenty of fluids?”
“Are you kidding?” Esme winked. “I'm always checking on him. Each time he wakes up, we gather an enormous crowd. He's getting far better care here than I'd ever give him at home.”
Mum didn't argue with that. We stood around awhile, and then Stol stirred and sat up in the top-of-the-range bright blue Russian-style pajamas with blouson sleeve and frilled neckline that he'd refused to wear at home, or bring to our house.
I snitched to Mum. “She must be paying him.”
Mum turned to Esme, shocked. “You're not, are you?”
Esme said, “Listen, Sue. I'm just a can-do girl. If I enjoy an endless summer, it's of my own making. And we've been a roaring success.”
Stol took his chance. “Can I go home with Sue and Ian now, please?”
Esme glanced at her watch. “Well, most everyone must have been all the way round now. And they are closing shortly… .”
“I can't take him back with me,” Mum said. “He isn't well, poor lamb. And we came on the bus.”
“Bus?” Esme's eyes widened. “My heavens, Sue. I thought I had a stripped-down aesthetic, but—”
Mum scorched her with a look and she changed tack. “I'll find someone to fetch my car around. You can take that. Then I can take the chance to chat with Cristal about our new Teen Queen pregnancy smock range.” Taking Mum's arm, she dropped her voice and told her confidentially, “Cristal's still all for big-eyed waifs on soiled mattresses. You know—the same old sooty palette! But I feel a brand-new trend gathering in the ether. I'm thinking High-Society Rockettes. Steel mesh skirts. Glittery ankle socks—”
“Stol,” Mum said. “Were you wearing those pajamas when you arrived here?”
“God, no!” said Stolly.
And in the flurry of Mum telling Stol off for language, and Esme sending for the car, we all got away without very much more sniggering.
lights On
One of the nurses just came round again on one of her checks. She looked at her watch.
“Right, Stuart,” she muttered. “Time to prove to me that you're still in there somewhere.”
She bent over and said loudly and firmly, “Stuart? Stuart? Wake up, please. Be a good boy for me. Wake up for a moment.”
Nothing.
“Stuart! Please try and wake up. Open your eyes for me. Just for a moment, then I'll let you sleep.”
Still nothing.
“Stuart!”
“Most people call him Stolly,” Mum explained.
“Oh, right.” She turned back. “Stolly! Stolly! Can you wake up, please? Just for a moment. Come along, dear!”
It can't be easy, trying to brush somebody off when half of you is trussed up in plaster and the rest is in splints. But Stol seemed to be making a stab at it. His eyes didn't open. If anything, he was scrunching them tighter. But he did mumble, “Go away. Leave me alone. It hurts.”
A tear seeped out between his eyelids and down his cheek.
The nurse stood up again, satisfied. “Excellent!” she said, ticking off one of her little boxes. “Lights on up top. All systems go.”
Mum burst into tears again and rushed off to phone Franklin.
seven out of sixteen
As Mum flew out, the sheets of paper I'd dumped on the swing tray of the next-door bed wafted to the floor. I picked them up again. The top one was headed A Young Person's Depression Checklist, and since, flat out, Stol wasn't at his chirpiest, and I was still in official mode, I went through it and ticked off his life for him, in boxes.
Problems with concentrating? Yes. See Mrs. Fraser's last big telling off, the maths test Mr. Harper socked him round the head with, and Stol's strange way of walking past his own front gate.
Hard to make simple decisions? Yes. Look no further than the school lunch queue. Some of us have grown beards down to our feet, waiting for Stol to decide what he's eating.
Sleeping too much or too little? Yes. Both. Whichever.
Loss of interest in food? Overeating? No, neither. Stol does eat strangely. (After the enchiladas and gingersnaps, we had his sausages-and-hotmilk craze.) But the amounts are sensible.
Oversensitivity? Not half. When he imagined his imaginary girlfriend, Tabitha, had chucked him, he sobbed his socks off for hours. Mum was so irritated, she sent him home, even though it was obvious that Esme didn't want him.
Drinking and smoking excessively? No. Not unless you count that weird new fizzy stuff, Bilberry Brew, that he gets from the shop on the corner.
A feeling life is pointless? No. He does go on a bit about how he and I have obviously been given entirely the wrong life, forced as we are to eke out our precious early years beached up here in Nowhere-on-Sea. “Oh, when will things get going?” he wails to Mum. But she ignores him, saying that existential angst is only justified in those who've already made their beds and helped tidy the kitchen, and would he like her to find him a little job to distract him?
Avoiding family and friends? Well, family. I'll give him half a point.
Thoughts of suicide? Daily. “If you were going to kill yourself,” he asks me practically every few hours, “how would you do it?” with the result that we have an ever-lengthening list of methods. Poisons rank highly. So does driving off a cliff in his uncle Lionel's Maserati. We once designed a sort of self-operating guillotine to cut our own heads off, and we've spent hours padding round his house and mine, deciding exactly which of the hooks and beams would take our weight best if we were hanging ourselves. (The old nanny's room features quite highly in that one, I will admit, because of its rafters. But then again, so does our garage. And his utility room. And Stol has always thought a body hanging down their stairwell would look quite stunning.) I'm only going to give him half.
A negative attitude? Unable to enjoy anything? Stol? Do me a favor!
Self-harm? Well, look at him.
A loss of sex drive? Fat chance for either of us, but I'll say no more.
Loss of self-confidence? Ha!
Anxiety? Yes, quite a lot. And with good reason when his homework's due, or the mad aunts invite him, or it's Practical Workshop.
Feeling guilty about past mistakes? No. No rearview mirror in the Wagon of Stol.
Irritability? No. (Though it shows up in some of those living around him.)
Leaving out number twelve (the loss of sex drive), Stol totaled seven. Personally, I'd have thought that was a definite fail. (No. Sorry. Not depressed enough.) But at the bottom of the page it said, “More than three? See your doctor.” I thought, “Well, Stol has done that, hasn't he?” and went on to score for myself. I bagged an even fatter ten, and if I hadn't been feeling fine before hearing about Stolly, I might have been worried.
I tried my mum next. She did rather well. Two. Hardly depressed at all. Dad came out with the best score, actually getting Nil. (Perhaps he's brain-dead.) And Grandpa got Full House, because, though I didn't even want to think about his sex drive, I gave him double marks for irritability, his negative attitude, and avoiding friends and family.
excellent witness
Franklin came rushing back to pick up his briefcase. “Can't stop. Got to get back to court. Afternoon session.” It was clear from the spring in his step that the good news had reached him
. But just to be certain, I did a quick spot check.
“Mum told you that he spoke?”
What I could only take to be a cross-examiner's glint sprang to his eye.
“So you were sitting here, were you? Within earshot?”
“Yes.”
“And you did hear?”
“Yes.”
“Clearly?”
“Yes.”
“Without any possibility of error?”
I wouldn't care to face the man in court, I can tell you. I suddenly felt quite nervous. “I think so.”
“Think so?”
“Know so. Yes. Know so. Definitely.”
“Very well.” A terrifying pause. Then, “What did you hear?”
(Note that? The barrister's touch. Not “What did he say?” like anybody normal. But “What did you hear?”
He cannot frighten me. I've seen the truss he had to wear for seven weeks when he had a hernia—worn the thing on my head every time we played Earthlings!
“Stol's exact words were ‘Go away. Leave me alone. It hurts.' ”
He beamed. I couldn't tell if he was pleased because Stol's brain was working properly, because my tale meshed in with Mum's, or because I had been an excellent witness.
Nobody understands Franklin.
Off he went.
stol's not-so-secret life
Mum came back looking puzzled. “There's this weird woman in the corridor. She kept me for ages, droning on and on about some leaflets she claims to have left me.”
I slid the Young Person's Depression Checklist out of sight under what I was writing. “Oh, yes?”
“She says that Stolly might be leading a secret life.”
“What, like a spy?”
“Don't be daft. Hidden feelings.”