That must have been when he was seven or eight. So he had known then that there wasn’t another gran. He hadn’t realized at that age that it was usual to have two grandmothers. He had just accepted that he had only one, and that there wasn’t a grandad because Dad’s dad had died years ago, when Dad, his son, had been quite a young man. He had been a highly prized printer in a big firm, in the days before everything had been automated. He had wanted Stephen’s dad to follow in the same line, but when he’d died and left practically no money, the family couldn’t afford the apprenticeship. Stephen’s dad had had to take whatever job he could get. Aunt Alice had had a job too, but what she earned wasn’t enough for the three of them.
Stephen had asked once, ‘What was my grandad like?’ and his dad had answered, ‘I wish you’d known him.’ So Stephen knew that his dad had really liked his father. Perhaps Aunt Alice had liked him too? Poor old thing, she didn’t seem to have enough character to like anyone much. She hardly spoke when she was with the others. When she came into a room, she opened the door as little as possible and sort of sidled in, as if she was pretending not to be there at all. Her mother bullied her. It was, ‘Alice’ll do that,’ whenever there was a disagreeable job to be done, but Gran took all the credit. When Stephen and his dad were there for a meal, Gran always claimed that she had provided the food, though they all knew that it was Alice who did the shopping and it was Alice who cooked. Not very well, but at least she tried. Gran didn’t do anything but sit in her special chair and criticize. Stephen wondered now if he could get Aunt Alice to talk about his mum. He reckoned probably not, but he could at least have a try.
He fell asleep at last without having come to any conclusion, except that next time he and Dad went to visit his gran, he would see if he could get anything out of Aunt Alice.
He had to wait for nearly a month before he could act on this decision. He and Dad went to visit Gran nearly every other Sunday in the winter, but in the summer their visits depended on all sorts of different things. Dad’s job, which sometimes demanded his presence on a Sunday; on the weather, on other engagements. Stephen had long suspected that some of the things Dad thought up for them to do, like driving out to watch a village cricket match, or sitting by a stream with rod and lines (generally not catching anything), or trudging up hills to where Dad thought there’d be a good view, were really excuses not to have to go to visit Gran. He didn’t mind; he would rather do almost anything than have to go to spend two hours in that small, stuffy house, where there was nothing to do. No books that he wanted to read, indifferent food, and Gran’s conversation, which was all about herself and was loaded with complaints about the neighbours, the Government, the weather, and often about Dad himself. Sometimes he was allowed to watch telly, but on Sunday afternoons there usually wasn’t much that interested him.
So it was late June when Stephen and his dad parked in the narrow street outside Gran’s house. Looking at it with loathing, Stephen noted the lace curtains drawn closely across the windows, the uncared for front garden, which had no flowers, only laurels with dark spotted leaves hedging the faded front door. He did not want to go inside. And yet he did want to get Aunt Alice to tell him what his dad wouldn’t. He dragged his feet as he followed his dad into the narrow hallway and smelt the familiar smell of overcooked vegetables, dust, and old age.
The visit followed the familiar pattern. Exchange of news—only there wasn’t any. Enquiries about his progress at school, which he fielded with long-learnt expertise. Enquiries about health, followed by a long recitation of Gran’s ailments and accounts of the lack of caring in all the doctors and nurses she had met. Then tea. Occasionally Aunt Alice had not had time to make a cake and had had to buy provisions, and when this happened, tea was the high spot of the afternoon. But not today. Stephen saw with dismay that the usual paste sandwiches, which he loathed, were accompanied by Alice’s standard cake. This was called a Victoria sponge, and was hard and dry, with the merest smear of jam in the middle. Stephen ate it. He couldn’t afford to hurt Aunt Alice’s feelings by refusing a slice. He wanted her to be in a good temper and to like him better than usual.
After tea, feeling mean, he offered to help her wash up, and felt meaner still when he saw her look of pleasure as she accepted. He and Alice carried two trays into the back kitchen and began to unload the remains of the meal.
‘I’ll wash and you can dry. There’s a towel hanging by the door,’ she said, running hot water into the bowl in the sink.
For several minutes, Stephen received knives and forks and then cups and saucers from her and dried them in silence. He didn’t know how to begin. Then Aunt Alice started talking, asking him questions about what he was doing at school, what games he played, when he would be taking exams. Did he have friends? What were their names? How old were they? He didn’t believe she was really interested. He wasn’t sure she was even listening to the answers. She kept on saying, That’s good,’ or That’s nice,’ to everything he said. And they were getting to the end of the dishes. In another two minutes they would have finished their work and would have to go back into the living room. He was getting desperate. At last, he cut into a question she was asking about what he was going to do in the holidays, and said, ‘Aunt Alice, I want to ask you something.’
He could tell she was surprised by the way she turned right round to face him. Not giving himself time to panic, Stephen said, ‘I want to know about my mum.’
She turned back to the sink and she went very quiet. He could see her hand shake as she gave a last rub round the washing-up bowl. She didn’t answer, but said, as if she hadn’t heard him, with forced cheerfulness, ‘There! That’s all done!’
Stephen said, ‘Please! About my mum?’
Again as if he hadn’t spoken, she said, ‘Thank you so much for helping. You’re very kind to your old auntie.’
‘Please, Aunt Alice! There isn’t anyone I can ask except you.’
She walked over to the door and dried her hands on the roller towel hanging there. She said, ‘Let’s go back to see Gran and your dad again, shall we?’
Stephen said, ‘I don’t want to. I want you to tell me what happened to my mum. I’ve asked Dad and he won’t tell me.’
‘If your dad doesn’t want you to know, you can’t expect me to say anything,’ she said.
‘But he doesn’t explain. He hasn’t really told me if she’s dead or what!’
She looked at him, and he saw terror in her look.
‘Is she dead?’ Stephen cried out.
‘Sh . . . sh . . . sh! They’ll hear in there,’ his aunt said.
‘I don’t care.’ But he did. His next question came in a lower voice.
‘Did she die? When did she die? What happened?’ he asked.
‘I can’t tell you anything. It’s your dad should tell you. Not me.’ She escaped past him into the passage and opened the living room door. ‘Finished washing the dishes. Stephen helped a lot,’ he heard her announce in a voice that tried to be normal and bright, but which sounded to him so false that he was surprised that his dad or Gran didn’t immediately start up and say, ‘What’s the matter?’ But they didn’t and the rest of their visit followed the usual pattern of unmeaning talk about nothing, the early evening news on the telly, then leave-takings, with Gran’s reminder that they should come again soon, and his dad’s comment once they were outside the front door. There! That’s it for another few weeks, thank God.’
Stephen wouldn’t have been surprised if his dad had asked him if he’d upset his Aunt Alice in any way. But on the way home, Dad seemed no different from usual, and Stephen couldn’t summon up the courage to start questioning him again.
But he wanted to. Aunt Alice hadn’t told him anything, but what she had said, had suggested that there was something that was being kept from him. Why had she said, ‘Your dad should tell you,’ if there was nothing to tell?
In bed that night, he went over in his mind all the possible stories there could be about his m
um. Perhaps she really was dead. But if so, why didn’t they say so? Plenty of kids lost their parents, and though it was sad, it was no disgrace. Perhaps she had killed herself? That would account for the silences, but it still wasn’t something to be concealed like a crime. Possibly she had run away with another man. Stephen considered that this was much the most likely of all the possibilities he could think up. It would account for his dad’s refusal to speak of her. It would have been a terrible blow to his pride. He would also probably have felt that her going off and leaving him behind would be so hurtful to Stephen that he should not know of it. ‘But I’m growing up. They can’t not ever tell me. Whatever it is I ought to know,’ Stephen said to himself, and turned uneasily on his hot bed. If she’s alive, I want to know. I want to see her and find out what really happened, he thought and his busy imagination kept him awake and tormented him until the night cooled down and at last he slept. But even then, he dreamed, and his dreams were uneasy.
10
It was July and hot. Everything seemed to be winding down like the school term, where the pupils were bored and unruly and the teachers were tired and cross.
‘Are we going away this holidays?’ Stephen asked his dad.
‘I haven’t made any plans,’ his dad said.
‘Aren’t you due for some time off?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Then can’t we go somewhere? I’d like to go to the sea.’
‘It’s late to arrange anything.’
Stephen thought, but didn’t quite say, Then why didn’t you think of arranging something before now? But he didn’t. There was no point in annoying Dad when he was trying to get something out of him.
‘Couldn’t we go for a bit? We could camp,’ he said.
‘Camp in what? We haven’t got a tent or anything.’
‘I could borrow a tent,’ Stephen said, not at all sure if he could or couldn’t. But he knew that Mike’s dad had a tent. He had taken Mike camping in it the summer before last. If Mike’s family didn’t need their tent this summer, they might lend it to Stephen for a short time.
‘Camping’s not that simple. You have to find somewhere they let you put the tent up.’
‘Have you ever gone camping, Dad?’ Stephen asked.
‘A long time ago. Rained most of the time.’ But his dad laughed as if, in spite of the rain, he might have enjoyed the experience.
‘Dad! If I can borrow a tent, can we go?’
‘I’ll think about it when you’ve got your tent,’ Dad said, and Stephen had the sense not to go on with the subject. He knew how Dad worked.
The next day, he tackled Mike. ‘You going away this holidays?’ he asked.
‘We’re going on a package. Spain. Sea’ll be warm. I can’t wait,’ Mike said.
‘You going camping there?’
‘No, stupid. I said it was a package. We’re flying there and it’ll be a hotel. This year my mum said, “No more cooking over a camping stove and sleeping on the ground.” She wants a proper holiday, where she doesn’t have to do all the work. She bullied Himself till he agreed. I can’t wait,’ Mike said again. Himself was Mike’s dad. That was how his mum generally referred to her husband.
Stephen was terribly envious. He’d have loved to fly to Spain and stay in a proper hotel, something he’d never done. But the news was good for him. He said, ‘You won’t be using your tent, then?’
‘I said we’re going to a hotel, didn’t I? What would we want to take a tent for? On the aeroplane and all,’ Mike said.
‘Could I borrow it?’ Stephen asked.
‘The aeroplane? Or the hotel?’
‘No, the tent.’
Mike looked serious. ‘Dunno. It’s my dad’s, see? I don’t know what he’d say.’
‘I’d be careful. Extra careful. Really.’
‘You know how to put a tent up?’
‘My dad does. He’s done it before.’
‘You mean you and your dad are going away?’
‘We might. If we can have a lend of a tent.’
‘Where’d you go?’
‘We haven’t thought yet. Not far. Because my dad can’t take much time off. Somewhere by the sea, I’d like.’
‘Your dad’s a careful sort of bloke, isn’t he? I’ve seen him. He looks as if he’d be careful.’
‘He’s careful. He’s extra careful,’ Stephen said, thinking that this was hardly strong enough for the sort of careful his dad was.
‘I’ll ask,’ Mike said.
‘Thanks. Thanks a lot.’
The next day, Mike met him with, ‘It’s all right. My dad says, you’re welcome. And if you come round Sunday, he’ll show you how it goes up.’
Stephen reported this at home. ‘Mike’s dad’s going to lend us his tent. And he’ll show us how to put it up if we go there on Sunday.’
‘I know how to put up a tent,’ Stephen’s dad said.
‘Are they all the same? I mean, if you know how to do one, can you do them all?’
‘It’s like driving a car. You can work it out, once you know one.’
But he did go with Stephen on Sunday. He said it would be only right. Stephen was anxious. His dad was not a talker and generally found it difficult to get on with people. But Mike’s dad was so different, so easy and so friendly, without seeming to notice that his friendliness wasn’t immediately returned, that the two dads got on surprisingly well. And Mike’s dad was better than his word. He not only lent them his tent, but he added most of the equipment they would need. A ground sheet, two sleeping bags, a camping stove, insect-proof boxes to keep food in, a roof rack, canvas bags for extra clothes.
‘It’s chilly in the night. You’d better take all the sweaters you’ve got. And take something to keep the bugs off you while you sleep. First time I went camping, the mosquitoes or something like them made a meal of me. My face swelled right up so that Dolly said she wouldn’t have known me.’ Dolly was Mike’s mum.
‘He’s all right, isn’t he?’ Stephen asked his dad as they drove home.
‘Talks too much,’ his dad replied.
‘But it was good he’s let us have all this.’
‘It’s a bit much.’
‘But we’ll need all the things he’s given us. Won’t we?’
‘We’ll see. Anyway, it’s lent, not given.’
‘I meant lent. So where’ll we go, Dad?’
‘Have to think. Not too far.’
‘The sea?’ Stephen prompted.
‘We’ll see about that.’
Unsatisfactory. But at least he had got past the first step.
The long school term ended. At first it was wonderful enough not to have to get up in the mornings, not to have homework every evening. Then it became less wonderful. Mike was off on his package holiday, Dan was sometimes free, but more often not. He had cousins staying who took up most of his time. Stephen did not know how to fill up the day. He hung around his dad’s garage until Ray and Sandy who worked there got fed up with him and told him to go off. Even when he offered to help, they didn’t want him there.
He tried cooking, thinking that his dad might be pleased to come home and find a meal ready waiting. But after he had burned one saucepan beyond repair and wasted three eggs and nearly half a pound of butter in a cake that didn’t rise in the oven and wouldn’t stay together when taken out of its tin, he decided to give up experiments in the kitchen, except for the fry-up which he knew couldn’t go wrong. He looked at the garden and meant to have a real go at it and make it as flowery and scented as Mrs Nelson’s, where her son-in-law came every weekend and worked for hours at a time. But Stephen got discouraged after half an hour of pulling up weeds. The sweet peas he had sown months ago had come up all right, but for want of watering had not flowered successfully and had produced only a few small, unsatisfactory pods.
He went to the High Street and bought enough milk chocolate to make himself feel uncomfortably sick. He walked round the shop that hired out videos and had computer games a
nd longed for them. But he hadn’t got a computer and with Mike away there was no chance of seeing a video or playing any of the games. He almost wished it was term time again.
That Saturday, his dad suddenly said, I’m taking a few days off next week. You’d better get packed.’
Unexpected. Stephen said, ‘Dad! When are we going?’
‘Could go tomorrow if you’re ready.’
‘I’ll be ready.’
‘We’ll start early. Less traffic.’
‘What time?’
‘Seven. Got your alarm?’
He had. ‘Where’ll we go, Dad?’
‘Somewhere on the coast. We’ll have to look around to find where we’re allowed to put the tent.’
‘Cornwall? Wales?’ He had seen pictures of long beaches and high cliffs.
‘Too far. We’ll try the south coast.’
He spent that day in a fever of excitement and indecision. Packed the kitbag lent by Mike’s father twenty times and twenty times took everything out and re-packed. Couldn’t decide what book to take in case there’d be time to read, which pullover would be warmest, whether it should be shorts or long jeans as spares, trainers or flip-flops. Kept on finding he’d left out something he knew he had to have, then filling the bag so full it wouldn’t close. Wondering all the time where they’d be this time tomorrow, what sleeping on the ground would be like, whether it would be proper sea with big waves and an empty beach, whether he’d be able to swim, what the weather would be like. He hoped the beach wouldn’t be like some he’d seen on television, so packed with deck chairs and bodies that you couldn’t see the sand. Thought, uneasily, how he’d get through whole days spent with Dad alone. If you have a father who doesn’t talk except when he has to, you don’t count much on him for company.
The If Game Page 5