There must be some sensible explanation. He would have to tackle Dad, and that needed courage. Dad hated to be asked questions and generally managed not to answer them. Stephen considered. He tried all sorts of explanations of what had happened, but they all seemed ridiculous and impossible, until the great idea suddenly struck him. This would account for everything, even Dad’s attitude. That evening he waited until the meal was over, but before Dad could get interested in any of the television programmes or start reading the paper again, Stephen said, ‘Dad! I want to ask you something.’
His dad pushed his chair back from the table and said, ‘Go on, then.’
‘Did you adopt me?’
He saw at once that the answer would be ‘No’. His dad’s face expressed utter astonishment. He said, ‘What on earth put that idea into your head?’
‘I told you about the old man who thought he knew me?’
‘You haven’t seen him again?’
‘No. But I met some other people, and they thought they knew me, too.’
‘What sort of people?’
‘I don’t know. A lot of women.’
‘What did they tell you?’ Dad asked.
‘They didn’t tell me anything. They just seemed to think I knew them. So I thought perhaps you’d adopted me and there was someone from wherever I came from who looked just like me. Like a twin.’
‘I did not adopt you and you never had a twin,’ Dad said.
‘It’s funny, then. I don’t mean that sort of funny. I don’t like it.’
Dad was silent for a time. Then he said, ‘When you say they seemed to know you, what did they say?’
‘They talked as if I’d been invited to the party.’
‘What party? You didn’t say a party.’
‘A birthday party. For the little boy.’
‘You didn’t say a little boy, either.’
‘He was called Chris. They seemed to think I knew all about them.’
Dad thought. ‘Was that man there? The one you said started talking to you.’
‘Ages ago, you mean? No, he wasn’t.’
‘These other people. What did they look like?’
Difficult. He hadn’t really looked at them carefully. He said, ‘Ordinary. But they knew my name. What it used to be.’
‘What d’you mean, “used to be”?’
‘They said Deedie. One of the women said she’d known me since I was a baby. But I don’t know her. I’ve never seen her before in my life. Not that I can remember, anyway.’
Dad’s face was serious, even severe. He did not speak.
‘Who are they, Dad? You know, don’t you?’
Dad seemed to be having difficulty speaking. He swallowed once or twice. Then he said, ‘Show me where this happened.’
Stephen did not want to have to admit that he had opened a door into a private garden. But with Dad looking like that, he had no chance of refusing. He said, ‘All right. When d’you want . . . ?’
‘Now,’ his dad said, in a voice like a hammer blow. Dad got up and reached for his stick. That was odd. He very seldom walked with his stick. He didn’t speak again, but made for the front door. Stephen, unwilling, followed.
Out in the street he had to take the lead. He walked as slowly as he thought Dad would bear. He was not looking forward to going back into that garden and seeing all the people who thought they knew him, but who were strangers. Especially with his dad in this savage mood. Several times Dad said, ‘Get a move on, can’t you?’, and even once or twice pushed him to try to hurry him up. At last they reached the square with the elegant houses. Dad looked around, surprised. ‘Here?’ he said, and Stephen said, ‘Yes, here.’
‘Which house?’ Dad asked.
‘It wasn’t in a house. It was a garden. There,’ Stephen said, pointing to the door in the brick wall.
‘How’d you get in? There’s no bell here,’ Dad said.
‘I had a key that worked,’ Stephen said.
‘And you just walked in? Like that?’
‘I didn’t think the key would fit. I just wanted to try it,’ Stephen said.
‘Got the key now?’
He wished he hadn’t. Why hadn’t he thought of leaving it at home? The affair was becoming too embarrassing. But he said that, yes, he had got the key.
‘Go on, then. Let’s see,’ Dad said.
Stephen produced the Yale key. He put it in the door. It did not turn.
‘Sure it was this door?’
He was quite sure.
‘Let me try that key,’ Dad said. But the key in his hand did not turn in the lock when he tried it, any more than it had in Stephen’s. ‘Can’t have been this door. Must be one of the others,’ he said, standing back from the wall and looking up and down the road. ‘There’s plenty of other doors like this one,’ he said.
Stephen didn’t know whether to insist that it had been this one and no other. He saw that Dad didn’t mean to give up, so he said, ‘All right. Let’s try the others.’
Altogether there were fifteen doors of the same kind, set into the brick walls beside the house fronts. There were seven on one side of the square and eight on the other. They couldn’t try them all, because many hadn’t got Yale locks. But they did try Stephen’s key in about half of them and it did not fit any one. By the end of the exertion, Stephen was red with embarrassment, and his dad was angry.
‘You sure it was this road?’ he asked.
‘Certain.’
‘We’ll go back and try that first one again,’ Dad said. But the key still didn’t turn in the lock. ‘Sure you’ve brought the same key with you?’ Dad asked.
‘I haven’t got another one anything like it,’ Stephen said.
‘Then we’ll have to ask at the door,’ Dad said. Stephen had no idea what he meant, till he saw his dad walk up to the front door of the house next to the garden wall. He cried out, ‘No! Don’t!’ but it was too late. Dad had already rung the bell.
Stephen waited for the door to open and for his dad to try to explain. He would have liked to walk away but he knew Dad wouldn’t stand for that. He expected someone from inside that elegant house to shout that no one was allowed into the private garden and that it must be nonsense that he could have a key that fitted. Now that the key no longer turned in the lock, he had no evidence to prove his story. Perhaps the house owner would call the police and then what would Dad say?
He need not have worried. The front door did not open. Dad rang the bell again. A woman came out of the next door house, with a pushchair containing a large, solemn baby. She let it carefully down the front three steps, and when she was on the pavement, she said to Dad, ‘Did you want to speak to Mrs . . . ?’ Stephen didn’t catch the name. ‘I’m afraid she’s not there. There’s nobody there. The family left in the spring and the house has been on the market ever since.’
Stephen heard his dad say, ‘Left last spring?’
‘That’s right. The agents can’t sell it. They say the price is way too high. It’s the gardens. They’re very big for this part of the town. They’re wonderful for children.’ As she spoke, she looked down into the pushchair, as if she were reminded that this was what her garden was for. She smiled, and Stephen saw the baby’s fat serious face crinkle up into an answering, toothless grin. He looked away. He was disturbed. If he had been able to put his feelings into words, he would have asked a question. ‘Is that how babies feel about their mothers? Is that how mothers feel about their babies?’
‘So there wouldn’t have been anyone here this afternoon?’ Dad asked.
‘Not unless it was the agents showing someone round.’
Dad said, ‘Thanks for telling me.’ Then he said, ‘Which garden belongs to which house here? That one over there, does it go with this house?’ He pointed to the brick wall with the door Stephen had gone through.
‘That’s right. All the gardens this side of the square are on the right hand side of the houses they go with. This is ours,’ she said, nodding her head
towards the wall behind her.
Dad was saying, ‘Thanks’, and then, impatiently, to Stephen, ‘Come on. Let’s get back.’ He had already started walking away. Stephen followed him. He wondered how Dad was going to explain away this last piece of information.
As they walked, Dad said, ‘Can’t have been that garden. You must have got the street wrong.’
Stephen said nothing. He couldn’t explain what he thought had happened. There was no point in arguing. If Dad could be convinced that the whole thing had been a mistake, that was the best he could hope for. Nothing more was said between them until they were back inside their own front door.
8
Stephen had known before they had reached home that his dad wasn’t going to leave things there. He was sure there had to be more questions and more demands for an explanation to come, and he wanted some of the explanations for himself. Dad was not to be the only person who asked questions. Dad began.
‘I want to get this clear, Stephen. The people you say you saw in that garden—never mind where it is exactly— what did they say? What did they tell you?’
‘I’ve said already, they didn’t tell me anything. They thought they knew me, that’s all.’
‘They called you Deedie?’
‘One of them did.’
‘Did they say any other names?’
‘The boy was called Chris. I told you that.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘One of them said something about Rose.’
Stephen saw that this startled Dad. He sat up straight and his voice was different when he said, ‘Rose? You sure?’
‘They thought I knew her,’ Stephen said.
‘They didn’t talk about anyone else?’
‘No. And I don’t think they believed me when I said I didn’t know anyone called Rose.’
Dad took a long deep breath. Stephen thought he might be going to say something more, but he didn’t. He just sat there, looking down at the table without speaking.
The silence grew uncomfortable. Stephen said, ‘I wish you’d tell me what it’s all about.’
‘What what’s all about?’
‘You know who they are, don’t you? Like the time I saw that old man, and you said not to have anything to do with him. Why don’t you tell me who he is and what’s happening.’
Dad did not reply at once. After another long pause he said, ‘From what you say, I think they’re a family I used to know. But I don’t now. And I don’t want to, and I don’t want you to know them either.’
‘Why not?’ Stephen asked.
‘Never mind why not. I just don’t think they’d be any good for you, that’s all.’
‘Are they something to do with my mum?’ Stephen asked. This would explain why Dad seemed so upset, he thought. It was a brave question. He had hardly ever asked Dad direct questions about his mother. He knew that Dad didn’t like those questions he had asked in the past and he was risking an outburst of anger now.
‘Your mum knew them, if they’re who I think they are,’ Dad said.
‘You mean they were friends of hers? Of her family?’
‘Sort of,’ Dad said.
‘What’s happened to her family?’
‘What do you mean, what’s happened?’
‘Why don’t we ever see them? I mean, we see your mum and Aunt Alice, but I’ve never seen my mum’s mum. Or any one.’
‘That’s because they don’t live in this country.’
‘Where are they, then?’ Stephen asked. He could feel that his dad was edgy. Probably wouldn’t answer many more questions.
‘They’re the other side of the world,’ Stephen’s dad said in the voice that meant ‘and that’s the end of this conversation.’
But he persisted. ‘Did my mum come from wherever that is?’
‘No, she didn’t. Stephen, I’ve told you, I don’t want to talk about her.’
‘I only want—’
He was interrupted. His dad said, ‘And I don’t want. If you’ve finished your supper, I suggest you get on with your homework.’
‘I haven’t got any. It’s half term.’
‘You can help clear the table, then. And then you can go and read something, or watch the telly. Don’t come plaguing me with questions.’
Stephen helped clear the table and wash the dishes. He saw his dad immerse himself in the evening paper and he turned on the television. For a time he watched a quiz programme which didn’t much interest him, because he didn’t know the answers to any of the questions. He saw his dad put down the paper and watch too. The quiz programme was followed by the news, which Stephen found equally boring.
He sat in front of the television screen, his eyes open but without attending to a word. He was trying to summon up enough courage to risk his dad’s anger. Before this he had always stopped questioning when he was told to, but this time he wouldn’t. He waited until the next day’s weather had been forecast, and then said, ‘Dad?’
‘What?’
‘I know you don’t like me asking, but I think it’s time I knew. About my mum.’
‘I told you, I don’t want to talk about her.’
‘I’ve a right to know. Whatever it is you don’t want to talk about.’
‘You’re old enough to understand that when I say I’m not going to tell you any more, that’s it.’
‘You can’t tell me more than nothing. You’ve never told me anything.’
‘And that’s how it’s going to be.’
‘For always? You mean, when I’m grown up, you’re still not going to tell me anything I’ve a right to know?’
‘When you’re properly grown up, I may. For now all you need to know is that you haven’t got a mum now. You’ve got me.’
It was difficult after this, to say any more. But Stephen knew that there was a lot more he wanted to know. He said, ‘I wish you’d tell me straight out what happened. Did my mum die? Or did she go off somewhere?’
There was a long silence. Then his dad said, ‘I’m not going to say any more.’
‘It’s not fair! You’re treating me as if I was a baby! Why do you have to keep secrets like this? Whatever happened to her, I want to know!’
‘Can’t you trust me to know what’s best for you?’ his dad asked.
Stephen cried out, ‘No! I can’t! She was my mum. Everyone else has a mum, why don’t I?’
‘You’ll understand when you’re older,’ his dad said.
It was the sort of remark that always made Stephen see red. He stood up. ‘That’s how you always are. “You’ll understand when you’re older.” You’ve been saying that all my life. I’m sick of being told I’m not old enough to understand. Why don’t you try me?’ He was standing over his dad now. He wanted to hit him, to take him by the shoulders and shake the answers out of him. He must have looked threatening, because his dad stood up too. He spoke very quietly.
‘There’s no point in screaming at me and behaving like a spoiled child. I have told you that you haven’t got a mother any more. That’s enough, Stephen. Please try to control yourself.’ After which, his dad walked out of the room.
Stephen stayed where he was. He could have cried with frustration. He was furious with his dad and he was furious with himself. It was true. He had behaved like a child. He might have known that this sort of confrontation was never going to get him anywhere with his dad. He’d seen it before, with other people mostly, that the more someone shouted and raved, the quieter Dad became. It was as if he was saying, though not in words, ‘Look at you, losing control like that! You can’t make me do anything I don’t want to, because I am always master of my feelings. I never give anything away.’ Hot angry tears forced themselves out of Stephen’s eyes. He wiped them away quickly. His dad must never see him cry. That would only make him even more sure that Stephen was still too young to be trusted with a secret.
9
It was a long time before Stephen had calmed down enough to begin to think in bed that night. He was s
till too angry to sleep, and he lay on his back, trying to sort out what he knew and what he didn’t about his mother.
He couldn’t remember her. He had a vague idea that he could recall once being very small, so small that he knew the underside of the kitchen table better than heknew its top, and being coaxed out from behind the same table by a woman. She had called him Deedie, the baby name which he had rejected before he was five years old. She had been tall—but that proved nothing, he was so much smaller that she could have been any height—and she had worn something red. She could have been his mother. But so could she have been any other woman. He was sure she hadn’t been his gran, because she never wore skirts that short. It could have been his Aunt Alice, but he didn’t think it was. So that was as far as his own memory went, and it didn’t help at all.
He tried to think back to his babyhood, but he couldn’t remember anything except for a few pictures which didn’t hang together and told him nothing. There was a room full of other children. Babies too, and a woman carrying a huge teddy bear, which had somehow frightened him. It was too big. Someone playing a piano very loud and knowing that he was supposed to be joining in a song. A plate of something horrible that he didn’t want to eat. He had been sat in front of that plate for what seemed like hours, and then his dad had somehow appeared and rescued him.
After this the pictures became clearer and began to make more sense. There was Gran sitting in a chair. She seemed always to be sitting in a chair, while Aunt Alice moved around and did things. What did she do? Laid the table and poured out tea. Gran drank her tea with long sucking sips. He remembered Gran saying to his dad, ‘Who gets your meals?’ and his dad saying I do. Why should ‘I want anyone coming in and interfering?’ He had been impressed by the way his dad had spoken, as if he was angry.
Something he couldn’t forget was the first time he’d refused to kiss Gran and Aunt Alice goodbye. Aunt Alice hadn’t said anything, but Gran had burst out with, ‘Tell him it’s his duty to show love for his gran. The only one he’s got.’ And his dad had said, calmly, like he almost always spoke, ‘You can tell him that. I shan’t. If he doesn’t want to kiss you, he doesn’t have to. There wasn’t much kissing going on when I was his age.’ And they had left without his going through the kissing business, which he’d always hated. Aunt Alice was hairy round the mouth and chin, and Gran smelt. Not exactly horrible, but a stuffy, sweet sort of smell that he didn’t like. After that he’d never kissed either of them again. Now, thinking about it, he realized that his dad wasn’t any fonder of Gran, even if she was his own mother, than he, Stephen, was.
The If Game Page 4