Seeing Red

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘To dry your feet with. I don’t imagine you’re carrying a towel around with you in that bag.’

  She seems genuinely astonished.

  ‘You’re quite a gentleman, Holden. Thanks.’

  I watch her as she carefully dries the water from her toes with my handkerchief.

  ‘You know something. While we’re on the subject of names, I don’t actually know yours.’

  She stops dabbing at her toes for a moment and looks up.

  ‘Really? But we’ve been going to the same school for years.’

  ‘I’ve seen you around from time to time, but that’s all.’

  I don’t know whether or not she’s hurt by this. It’s hard to tell. I don’t feel comfortable enough to tell her that I’ve fancied her for a long time and kept it all to myself.

  ‘Sylvia. You can call me whatever you like.’

  The mood has definitely grown a tad heavier.

  ‘Sylvia is good. It’s lovely.’

  And if you want to know, I truly think that it is. It has the ring of tiny glass bells to it when you say it. They’re barely audible drifting on a background breeze. That’s how it feels to me.

  ‘No wonder you feel happy here. This is your environment isn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She’s handing back my handkerchief but she’s looking directly into my eyes. Her question isn’t a challenge; it’s a genuine request for knowledge.

  I squeeze the handkerchief gently in my hand for a moment, feeling it damp and soft, and for some crazy reason valuing it more because it has touched her feet.

  ‘Well we’re here, in this woodland, and Sylvia comes from the Latin word Silva, which means woodland. That’s what I meant.’

  Now she smiles.

  ‘Yes it does. I bet there’s only you and me at that whole goddam school who would know that, wouldn’t you say?’

  I’m not going to rise to that.

  ‘Maybe. But listen, just in case you ever feel like using it, my name’s…’

  ‘Tom. Yes I know.’

  I must look surprised. I am surprised.

  ‘Oh, come on. Look at yourself. Everybody knows Tom Hathaway. It’s not like you go out of your way to blend in, is it?’

  I have to admit this. To myself, if not to her. I must say, though, that I truly had no idea that I was some kind of school celebretard.

  ‘I’m still going to call you Holden though.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  I’m getting used to the idea now. And what I like is that I’m getting the feeling that Sylvia and I are going to see more of each other, and I’m really going to like that.

  We’re walking through the trees now and it’s late in the afternoon. She’s tucked her shoes into her bag and she’s walking barefoot.

  ‘Do you hate the movies as much as Holden Caulfield hates them?’

  ‘No.’

  And it’s true, I don’t. I quite like them actually. Not all of them of course.

  ‘So would you like to go with me sometime?’

  Would I?

  ‘Sure. That sounds nice.’

  She seems genuinely pleased and that pleases me.

  ‘Would you like my telephone number? You could call me…’

  She’s sounding a little hesitant now, as though she’s put herself out on the line and she’s not sure what my response will be. It’s kind of touching, actually, since this is the first time in the whole day that I haven’t felt that she’s one step ahead of me.

  I take the phone from my pocket and offer it to her.

  ‘Here, put your number in this.’

  She reaches out to take it with her left hand and that cute embroidered cuff rides up a tad and I can’t help but stare. She notices and pulls her hand back but it’s too late because I’ve seen. On the inside of her wrist and extending up her arm farther than I can see there are scars. Some of them look old and some of them look newer. But they are all from deep cuts and that is for certain. I’ve never seen anything like it, I swear to God.

  She’s turned away from me and I’m standing, holding out the phone. What can I say? Should I say anything? I don’t want to talk to the back of her head. And do you know what? I think she’s started to cry. I really do. And it damn near breaks your heart, doesn’t it, to see a girl like that crying?

  ‘Hey, don’t cry.’

  She’s not sobbing or anything, but there are tears rolling from her eyes as she turns to me.

  ‘Let’s just go home and forget that today ever happened.’

  That’s not what I want.

  ‘There’s no need for that. And anyway, I thought we were going to the movies sometime.’

  Even I’m smart enough to realise that it’s the wrong time to ask about those scars.

  The tears are still trickling down her face and I am glad for her sake that she is not wearing make-up, because she’d be looking like Alice Cooper right about now if she was.

  ‘You’d still want to go? Even now?’

  ‘Sure I would. Why wouldn’t I?’

  She’s pretty vulnerable now, not the confident happy girl who led me into this place earlier. I want to hold her, but I daren’t, not just yet.

  ‘You’ve seen. And you still want to go to see a movie with me?’

  ‘Of course I do. Nothing’s changed.’

  And it hasn’t. I really do want to go out with her, no matter what.

  ‘Then I want you to see.’

  She begins to unbutton that cute little embroidered cuff.

  ‘There’s no need…’

  ‘No, really, I want you to see. I don’t want you to think that I’ve got anything to hide.’

  Still the tears are running down her pale cheeks as she rolls up her sleeve. I reach out with my handkerchief, still a little damp from drying her feet, and gently wipe them away. The goddam handkerchief will take on the aura of a holy relic before the day is through at this rate.

  God but it’s a terrible sight to see. It really is. There are criss-crossing scars all the way up to the inside of her elbow. And some of the scars are like letters and they spell out a word that you can read as plain as anything. And I swear to God that the word that they spell out is Tom.

  CHAPTER 5

  What moms can be

  Mom’s car is sitting in the driveway, so she’s home. I’ve been in a great mood right up to this very moment, what with spending the day with Sylvia and all. Now I’m nervous seeing Mom’s car. She’s never normally home at this time and I wonder if it’s anything to do with me.

  All kinds of thoughts race through my mind and I bet you know how that is for yourself. Has the school called her to ask where I am? Has she got it into her head that I’m being bullied at school and called them? You know the kind of crap I mean. Fact is, it’s probably nothing to do with me at all, but I can really be self-centred like that.

  The worst thing about this, as I fumble in my pocket to retrieve my door key, is that it’s steered my thoughts away from Sylvia. All the way home I’ve been thinking about Sylvia and now the goddam BMW 525 sits midnight blue and polished in the driveway and Sylvia just dissolves away. Just like that.

  My key slides into the lock and the door opens and I’m in. I think about trying to sneak upstairs to my room. I want to change out of this suit and into something more casual to lounge about in while I mull over the day with Sylvia again.

  But I don’t sneak up the stairs. I’m standing in the hallway holding my briefcase when Mom steps out of the kitchen. She has the goddam phone glued to her ear. She’s not speaking but she’s sure as hell listening and she’s not going to break off to speak to me. She’s not going to let me sneak off either though; she’s beckoning me into the kitchen. At least she doesn’t seem upset about anything, but who can tell?

  So I follow her through into the sterile capsule of marble, tiles and polished chrome and I plonk myself on a stool at the breakfast bar, waiting while she finishes he
r call. I’m watching her as she wanders slowly around the kitchen. Her feet almost slide across the tiles and every now and then she does this sort of pirouette, where she lifts herself up on her toes and spins around, still talking and listening. It’s as cute as hell, really, but right now I don’t find anything to smile about as I sit and await her pleasure.

  I hate the way that people live for their phones. It’s as if they simply have to be in constant and instant communication with everyone they know. They’re talking or texting just about constantly. It’s a wonder that anything ever gets done. And okay, I have a phone myself, as you know, and I carry it with me, as you are aware. Not that I get a lot of calls, and I rarely make them. And I sure as hell haven’t got caught up in the text mania. I haven’t sent a goddam text in my life and I never will, I swear to God. I hate it, just walking down the street and seeing just about everyone with a phone glued to their ear, or walking in a slow-motion daze composing inane text messages to send to their vacuous friends. Kids are the worst, I admit it. If you added it up, I’d hate to think how many hours of each day kids waste sending stupid messages. But it’s not just kids.

  Hello? Hello? It’s me… I SAID IT’S ME… I’m on the train/bus/tram/ferry – substitute whatever you like, but I’ll bet that that’s a conversation you’ve heard more than once. And just what the hell is the point of a conversation like that? For the sake of the Lord, can’t you imagine that the person at the other end couldn’t have worked it out in most cases?

  And you know, Britain built an empire that spanned the world when there were just sailing ships and written letters. And you’d have to say that America became a superpower without everyone wearing their thumbs out banging out texts to each other about the colour of shoes or something stupid. I guess they just had more time on their hands to get things done back then – probably because they didn’t waste half their lives sending goddam texts or making goddam vacuous phone calls.

  That’s something else I really like about Sylvia; she doesn’t have a phone. Can you imagine that? She doesn’t have a phone, I swear to God. She’s an independent spirit, Sylvia. She doesn’t run with the crowd. I love it when girls are independent like that. When they don’t belong to a herd of their friends who have to like the same things and say the same things. Girls are like that, mostly. Boys are too, I think, but not to the same extent that girls are. You get a gang of girls together, and while they’d never say it, you just know that they’re all scared to hell that the wrong thing might just slip out. It’s a clever trick that girls can pull, really, looking carefree together and giggling and laughing and having fun, while all the time they are subconsciously monitoring every word that emerges as inane chatter from their sweet little mouths. How girls can do that I’ll never know, I swear to God.

  Sylvia says that people who carry phones around with them are slaves to them. Actually, she says that they are slaves to anyone who happens to have their number, but I understand what she is getting at. At any rate, Sylvia likes to talk to people. Really talk, face to face, where you can look into someone’s eyes and assess their body language.

  I know exactly where Sylvia is coming from when she says that. She says that she loves intelligent conversation more than anything. Actually, so do I, and it’s something that we very much have in common. There is something intimate about real conversation. Something about the sharing of ideas and the process of perhaps learning from someone else’s ideas that is incredibly sensual. Most people just wouldn’t get that. But Sylvia gets it; I see it in her eyes when we sit and talk together. And I certainly get it. I really do.

  So Mom’s put the phone down and she’s turned to the counter and she’s filling the electric jug with water and she’s taken a jar of coffee from a cupboard. And she hasn’t said a word to me, like she’s forgotten I’m here.

  ‘Mom… What did you want?’

  She turns and she almost seems startled.

  ‘I wanted to make sure that you were okay.’

  She’s using her concerned-mom voice. I don’t mean to say that I think she’s insincere, because that’s the opposite of what I think. But she does have different voices that she uses for different reasons. I doubt that she knows she has them, these voices. But I know. And I always notice when she lapses into one of them. Like now.

  ‘That’s why I’m home early.’

  She walks over to the counter where I’m sitting and all the while she’s inspecting my face. She reaches up like she wants to touch it, but I turn sharply away and her hand half drops.

  ‘Your face is a little red. Looks like you’ve caught the sun. Have you had lessons outside today?’

  Now you could be too sharp here and wonder if she’s trying to catch you out with a statement like that. It might panic you into wondering if she knows that you’ve not been at school. But I know Mom, and she just could not be that disingenuous with me. She really couldn’t. So I just shake my head.

  ‘No, just sitting out at break time, reading.’

  ‘Well, it looks like that swelling has gone down.’

  There’s more she wants to say, I can tell. But I’m not going to help her; she’s just going to have to come out and say it.

  ‘I was talking to Jaqui today. At the office.’

  Here it comes.

  ‘You know Jaqui? Jaqui Reynolds?’

  Of course I know her. She’s been to the house often enough. She’s a partner at Mom’s goddam firm, for God’s sake. Early forties but with great skin and fabulous blonde hair and dress sense to match. The kind of woman you’d just love to just run your hands all over, to use Eddie’s parlance.

  ‘Yeah Mom, I know Jaqui – if it’s the same Jaqui who’s been here a gazillion times. If it’s the same Jaqui who’s a partner at your firm. If it’s the same…’

  ‘Okay smart-ass.’

  That might sound harsh. But Mom is never harsh really. She’s just letting me know that she’s got the message. I have yanked her chain though. I always know how to do that. It cracks me up to see her react. I get a buzz out of it. I really do.

  ‘Anyway, Jaqui says that if you are being bullied at school…’

  ‘Christ, Mom. I’m not being bullied!’

  I love my mom, but she does have a habit of doing this; sharing personal stuff with outsiders, and I hate her for it.

  ‘You’ve no business talking about me to anyone, Mom. Jeez.’

  ‘Jaqui’s not just anyone. She’s known you since you were a baby. And anyway, I was worried.’

  ‘Well there’s no need to worry. I’m not being bullied.’

  She looks at me for a moment. It’s almost like she’s wondering whether or not to believe me. It’s ridiculous really, when I think of all the lies and half-truths that I have got past her over the years. I’m telling the truth here and she’s questioning it. I’ll never work Mom out fully, I swear to God.

  Her expression softens and I know she’s not going to push it.

  ‘Anyway, Jaqui says that if you are being bullied…’

  Her raised hand pre-empts my reaction.

  ‘…that I should go to see someone at the school right away.’

  ‘You’d better not do that, Mom…’

  ‘Well, if you say you’re not being bullied, then I won’t. But you would tell me, wouldn’t you? You wouldn’t bottle it up inside?’

  I sometimes think she’s watched too many movies, too much television, when she comes out with crap like that. It’s easiest to indulge her though. And she does mean well. She really does.

  ‘Look, Mom, I’m fine, really I am. Don’t do anything stupid like going to the school.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll leave it for now. Since you say you’re fine. But Jaqui was telling me about Westlands – you know, that school where she sends Eleanor.’

  ‘I’m not going to Westlands, Mom.’

  I’ve got to nip this idea in the bud.

  ‘Eleanor really likes it there. And she’s doing ever so well. She’s a year younger than you.�
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  This is why I’ve got to nip this idea in the bud.

  ‘I thought you were against private education.’

  An appeal to her sense of political morality.

  ‘I am against it. But not to the point where I’d let it jeopardise your safety and well-being.’

  Okay, so now I know that Mom doesn’t really have a sense of political morality. But then, very few people do. It’s enough to make you puke, just looking at politicians for example. I hate politicians. Liars. I wouldn’t believe politicians if they were telling me that day follows night. I really wouldn’t. But this is Mom and I guess I love her so I’ll try not to hold it against her. Like I say, she means well.

  ‘Mom, I’m happy where I am. I’m doing okay and this is where my friends are.’

  ‘You do have friends then?’

  ‘Of course I have friends.’

  Where the hell did that come from? The thing is, like I think I told you earlier, I don’t really have friends. Unless I can count Sylvia. I wonder if I can. I’ve only known her for a few hours. But it feels like – and yes, get your sick-bag ready – we’re on the same wavelength.

  ‘At Westlands you’d already know Eleanor. I’m sure she’d soon introduce you to her crowd.’

  I’m stunned at this. I really am. Eleanor is okay and everything. I’ve met her at parties and barbeques over the years and I guess we get on. But what the hell is Mom thinking? Well I know the answer to that, of course; Mom and Jaqui are always trying to throw old Eleanor and me together. But it’s never going to happen. Do they really dream of some sort of dynastic coming together? Oh doesn’t that just make you want to puke? And I have to say, it’s out of character for Mom. For Jaqui – well, I wouldn’t like to say.

  And is it really so long since either of them were at school themselves? Since when did school kids ever start mixing with kids from the year below? If Mom wanted to see me being bullied, she couldn’t engineer anything more guaranteed to do it than this. Like I said, old Eleanor is not a bad kid. And she’s good looking too. And at social functions, sure we get on well enough. But at school? She’s a year behind and therefore social poison. You know it. I know it. What the hell are you thinking, Mom? I should say something.