Everlasting Lane

by Andrew Lovett

  I could see now that, in his arms, the soldier held the body of a girl or woman, her flesh shiny like the white skin of a hard-boiled egg; hair matted against her cheek; blood: some crusty, some moist and jelly. The whole image is printed in my mind like a photograph on silver plate.

  The soldier had turned his head quickly to see who had spoken, and, as he did so, I stared. You see, it was my daddy. Not as I remember him at home but like he looked in that photograph on the telly: young and handsome. He looked at us with pleading in his eyes.

  ‘Oh, Peter,’ he said, his voice hoarse like gravel, ‘you’ll be the death of me.’ And then, ‘Anyway, do you want your cake now,’ he said, ‘or will you save it for later?’

  ‘This isn’t any fun,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I know,’ said Tommie as we trudged back towards the lane, ‘we could be Americans. We could parachute into occupied France.’

  ‘No.’ It was stupid being on the same side.

  ‘All right. You can be the Jerry and I’ll be the British.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to be a Jerry.’ I felt close to tears and not like playing anything. I walked off down the lane, tossing my branch into the trees. Tommie ran after me, still carrying his own stick like a rifle.

  ‘Well, be a Jap, then,’ he panted, drawing level. ‘I’m never the Jap. My dad says the Japs were worse than the Germans.’

  ‘Anna-Marie’s right. I don’t want to play your stupid games.’

  Tommie’s mouth twitched with fury. ‘They’re not stupid,’ he said. He pushed my arm. ‘They’re not stupid: you’re stupid.’ I shrugged him off and carried on walking. He tried to trip me from behind but missed. ‘You’re an imbecile,’ said Tommie. ‘Anna-Marie says it. You’re always staring at her like a retard.’

  I stopped, blushing with embarrassment. ‘Well, you’re a bog brush! Anna-Marie says so.’

  We paused a moment devising new insults. ‘You’re a birdbrain,’ spat Tommie, ‘and your mother’s a loony. That’s what my mum says.’

  ‘Well, your mother’s a fat, old trout!’ I shouted. ‘Anna-Marie says so.’ The tears that were threatening to come were as much from rage as from hurt. ‘And you’re always talking about your dad but he never even comes to see you or anything.’

  Blood flooded Tommie’s face and he flew at me with chubby pink fists. The list of rude names grew longer but I was too busy defending myself from his wild punches to take much notice.

  Tommie was a better fighter than me. Much better. He was chunky and determined. He kept bending one of his legs round one of mine so as to pull me into the dirt. I held onto him and found myself hopping and jumping to avoid his stocky leg. At the same time he delivered dozens of tiny punches to my tummy. I fell backwards and bruised my bottom. I tried to get back to my feet but my knees scraped on gravel as Tommie kicked me. I grabbed his T-shirt. It tore loudly. His glasses flew from his face, somersaulting through the air. Tommie loomed over me, his lip quivering, his nose running.

  He helped me up.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He punched me in the stomach.

  And then everything went dizzy. My head kind of throbbed, flashing hot and cold. Black clouds clustered around me and the world splintered like the red vase. I watched from behind the trees as I threw myself at Tommie, my arms twirling like a broken windmill. He backed away, his stupid fat face bubbling blindly with surprise. I saw myself step towards him, seizing his gun and wrestling it from his hands. The cracked bark blistered my palms as his grip weakened. I pulled and tugged, grunting and screaming until his fingers failed and his fists split open. I took his rifle and pushed it into his tubby guts. From a distance I watched as his legs surrendered and he fell backwards, dust and gravel flying up around him as he landed on the road.

  He couldn’t fight me. He couldn’t defeat me. I was like the Incredible Hulk.

  I felt my hands rising above my head, and then when I looked down I saw my own reflection fall across his discarded glasses: stick raised, face quivering in anger.

  ‘No.’

  I dropped the stick with a clatter.

  I breathed hard until my head stopped being so swimmy and the trees stopped swaying and the ground felt and looked like ground rather than, well, porridge.

  I retrieved Tommie’s glasses and checked the lenses for scratches before placing them lopsidedly on his ears. ‘Why can’t you leave me alone?’ I said, sitting down beside him and wrapping my arms about my head. ‘You wouldn’t fight if Anna-Marie was here.’

  The afternoon had moved on since I’d last been aware of it. The sun had begun its slow descent and the air was a little cooler. I studied my knees. They didn’t look as bad as they felt. I glanced around at Tommie. He was looking at me, his glasses as stable as Mr Merridew’s cottage. His T-shirt was torn to the bellybutton and his face, arms and legs were covered with small scratches. His hair, wild and untidy, was just like normal.

  ‘Do you want to go back by the river?’ he said.

  I sniffed. ‘Okay,’ and we helped each other to our feet.

  We didn’t talk as we walked back along the riverbank. Only when we approached the trees that backed onto Kat’s garden did Tommie say: ‘Let’s sit down for a while.’

  We removed our shoes and socks and dangled our feet in the river. It was cold.

  ‘As cold as the Russian front,’ said Private Winslow.

  I splashed water on my wounded knees. Tommie picked up a stone and tossed it into the river. It made a satisfying plonk.

  ‘What do you think of Anna-Marie?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s all right,’ I said carefully. ‘Why? What do you think of her?’

  ‘She’s all right.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘She’s okay.’

  The sun eased itself down, an inch closer to the horizon, just brushing the tops of the trees.

  ‘I mean,’ said Tommie, ‘she goes on a bit.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I agreed. ‘But she’s okay.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s okay,’ said Tommie, ‘for a girl.’

  Another stone—another plonk.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Girls are wet,’ said Tommie.

  ‘Yeah, they’re wet,’ I agreed, though neither of us believed it.

  We hung our feet in the river and the cool water refreshed our toes.

  ‘Anna-Marie’s nice though, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, and our hearts melted.

  21

  ‘I would like to speak to you both about a recent … incident.’

  Mrs Carpenter placed her elbows on the edge of her desk and rested her chin in the nest of her fingers. Behind her glasses thick eyelids rolled back and forth over ice-cold eyes. Her tongue moistened her thin lips. She swallowed and a shudder slid down her throat. The clock on the wall behind me ticked. And then ticked again.

  Anna-Marie and I were stood wilting beneath the skylight, beneath the glare of the headmistress’ eyes. My own eyes avoided hers only to meet themselves in the polished surface of the desk. Anna-Marie’s gaze was fixed on her own reflection in the gleaming glass of the trophy cabinet, a tooth digging into her lower lip. The face and hands of the clock were reflected in a gallery of old photos hung on the wall.

  Mrs Carpenter hissed, her fingers uncoiling. Sitting beside her, the Reverend Potter, pink and plump, looked us up and down whilst his handkerchief dabbed the skin of sweat that glistened on his smooth, shiny head and rosy cheeks.

  ‘I am surprised,’ said Mrs Carpenter, sliding open a drawer, ‘that anyone—even you, Anna-Marie—could take this matter so lightly.’ From the drawer she took a leather strap. ‘Even you cannot have imagined that Peter could get away with this.’ She laid and then straightened the strap on the desk. ‘I don’t think you fully appreciate the magnitude of his actions.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘Explain yourself. Justify yourself. Answer me.’

  The vicar sneezed, his nose buried deep in his hankie.

  ‘But it was an accident,’ said Anna-Marie
, her voice all funny. ‘We didn’t do anything wrong. I mean, yes, Peter’s careless—’

  ‘Careless? Do you imagine the family of the deceased will forgive him quite so easily?’

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘Then answer the question,’ muttered the vicar, ‘for God’s sake, child. Have you no idea of the example you set this boy, trampling through a graveyard—a holy place, mind—as if it’s your own personal playground?’ He waggled his finger in Anna-Marie’s face. ‘No regard for the dead. No … No respect for God. What on earth did you—?’

  ‘So, that’s it,’ cried Mrs Carpenter. ‘Of course.’ She picked up the strap and slapped it against the desk-top. We all jumped. The vicar’s jowls wobbled. ‘We’ve been here before, I think,’ she scowled. ‘I dare say, Robert, that you remember Anna-Marie’s little … outburst during Christmas assembly. No Father Christmas, indeed! It’s hard to know which is worse: corrupting minors, desecrating graveyards or denigrating the name of the Lord.’ Her voice trembled. ‘Now, Anna-Marie, right now, in front of Peter, take back your foul lies.’

  ‘But … What lies?’

  ‘If I may interject, Sybil,’ said the Reverend Potter, ‘this is my, ah, chosen specialist subject, so to speak. And an easy one at that.’ He leant forward and fixed me in the eye. ‘Peter,’ he said, ‘we—Mrs Carpenter and I—are well aware of this girl’s opinions. And believe me, whatever she has been telling you, there is a God.’

  And he leant back. Satisfied.

  ‘But I didn’t—’

  ‘So, Peter,’ said Mrs Carpenter with a slithery smile, ‘that must put your mind at rest. You mustn’t let,’ she waved her hand casually, ‘someone else tell you what to think. You have a choice to make, Peter, but be sure you make the right one.’

  My shirt had begun to stick to my back; my hair to my forehead.

  Anna-Marie sparkled with sweat. The heavy heat rising from the vicar mixed with the stink of fresh polish making it hard to breathe. Only Mrs Carpenter seemed comfortable. My head ached as I tried to turn the backwards clock into a time I could tell. If only I had a watch. It was the day of Melanie’s party and if this went on much longer—

  ‘So tell me, Peter—no, don’t look at her—reassure me that your faith is intact. Tell me now.’

  ‘You can’t …’ started Anna-Marie, and Mrs Carpenter raised her eyebrows. ‘I mean,’ she mumbled, ‘you can’t just make Peter say what you want.’

  ‘But I dare say,’ said Mrs Carpenter, ‘that it’s fine for you to do the same. Isn’t that just typical. You know, I really did think that after last Christmas’… debacle we had seen the end of these silly games.’

  ‘I don’t play games,’ whispered Anna-Marie.

  ‘Neither,’ said Mrs Carpenter, ‘do I.’

  Anna-Marie didn’t say anything for a moment. In the reflection I could see that her eyelids were closed but that behind them her eyeballs were spinning like dirty laundry. ‘You always,’ she started softly, opening her eyes, ‘and the teachers too, in assembly, I mean, you talk about God and Jesus but you never,’ she took a deep breath, ‘I mean you never prove it. We, I mean I, well, we’re supposed to just believe it and, well, if we’re not sure we’re not supposed to say or we’ll get told off or something.’ She looked from the vicar to Mrs Carpenter and back again.

  ‘Well,’ smiled the reverend Potter, ‘if you have some doubts, my dear, perhaps this is the perfect opportunity to address them. If it’s proof you want …’ He chuckled and leant towards the book sat on the edge of Mrs Carpenter’s desk. ‘The Bible tells us.’ He patted the book like a puppy. ‘It’s all the proof a Christian needs.’

  ‘But, well, for instance,’ said Anna-Marie, ‘the Bible says God made the universe in six days, doesn’t it, and the teachers, well, most of them, say, it took millions of years.’

  ‘Oh.’ The vicar chuckled again. ‘Is that what this is all about? Well, my dear, the Bible is an allegory. An all-e-gory is a story that’s a bit made up but …’ He caught the frown that flickered across Anna-Marie’s forehead and cleared his throat. ‘Well, the Bible is an allegory about how people came to be here and our relationship with God. It’s not meant to be taken literally. Literally means …’ but he coughed and changed his mind.

  ‘Well,’ said Anna-Marie, ‘Mrs Carpenter always says the Bible’s the word of God.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Yes, indeed, but God didn’t sit down and write it like,’ the vicar mimed God with a God-sized pencil, ‘ “In the beginning was the word and the word was …” No, no. The Bible was written by men … simple men. God inspired them to write the Bible. A God of infinite love filled their hearts with—’

  ‘But people thought it was true, didn’t they? In the olden days.’

  ‘Well, of course it’s true, girl!’ snapped Mrs Carpenter.

  But, ‘You’re right,’ agreed the vicar. ‘Before Charles Darwin and men of that ilk, many people thought it was literally—’

  ‘But then they were wrong, all those people, weren’t they? I mean literally.’

  Anna-Marie’s frown now flickered across the vicar’s brow. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you see,’ plucking at the creases in his trousers, ‘the people in olden days didn’t know as much about the world and the universe as we do today. They didn’t understand telephones or televisions or anything like that. The Bible was written in a way that they would understand.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Anna-Marie, ‘so the word of God isn’t supposed to be taken literally?’

  ‘What? No, no. I mean it’s, it’s …’ The vicar slid a finger between the frayed edge of his dog collar and his pale throat. And then he sneezed getting his hankie in place just in time. ‘I can see,’ he said once he’d recovered, ‘that you are a dreadfully confused—’

  ‘And what about blind people or mad people?’ insisted Anna-Marie. ‘And why does God take someone’s dad? A child’s dad, say? And what about all those miracle things? And what about all those children with the little arms and legs?’

  ‘How dare you!’ barked Mrs Carpenter. ‘Is this the kind of thing you say to Peter?’ They all turned to look at me as if they’d forgotten I was there. I’d nearly forgotten I was there myself. ‘Anyway,’ snapped Mrs Carpenter, ‘Peter can’t avoid the consequences of his actions,’ and then she smiled, ‘any more, my dear, than you can avoid the repercussions of your own.

  ‘Go on, Robert,’ sighed Mrs Carpenter, her voice uncurling its coils. ‘Put an end to this nonsense.’

  ‘Erm …’ The vicar’s fingers drummed on the desktop like a nervous typist. ‘What do you …?’

  ‘Tell her!’

  ‘Now, Sybil, it’s very hard—’

  ‘Go on, go on.’

  ‘Well, Anna-Marie, the Bible does tell us that the only way to … to …’ The vicar sneezed again, his nose exploding into his hankie. ‘… the only way to Heaven is through Jesus. But you can change,’ he said quickly. ‘God has given you that power: free will.’

  ‘But what about my dad? Will he be in Heaven?’

  ‘Well, erm, if he believes in Jesus, then yes.’

  ‘And I’ll be in Hell.’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘But … But won’t my dad mind?’

  ‘Won’t …?’ The vicar’s fingers knotted and unknotted as he considered, his left eye twitching. ‘Well, I’m not sure—’

  ‘I mean whilst he’s all happy with Jesus and God.’

  ‘Well, I … I suppose God will probably make him forget about you or something.’

  ‘But isn’t that horrible? You said about infinite love.’

  The room went deadly quiet. Do you remember when I told you about Mr Merridew’s funny little cottage and how it looked like it might collapse at any minute? Well, that’s just what the vicar looked like: like all his foundations had crumbled away and the next gust of wind would reduce him to a big, fleshy pile of bricks.

  Mrs Carpenter was staring at him, her mouth open. Anna-Marie could see it too. She stepped forward. ‘
Isn’t it like you’ve only got one foot in the real world?’ she said, placing the tips of her fingers on Mrs Carpenter’s knuckle. ‘Isn’t it like somebody who thinks they’re awake when, really, they’re dreaming? But if you never wake up,’ her blue eyes shone, ‘you’ll never know you were sleeping.’

  Mrs Carpenter slowly withdrew her hand from Anna-Marie’s touch.

  ‘How dare you!’ she hissed. ‘How … dare … you!’ The sun splashed light upon the lenses of her glasses, her eyes filling with fire. ‘Your destination is not in doubt. I am confident,’ she spluttered, fingering the crisp stitching of the leather strap, ‘that Lucifer is already sharpening his pitchfork.’

  ‘Now, Sybil …’

  ‘But I’m … I’m not a bad person,’ said Anna-Marie.

  ‘Ha!’ cried Mrs Carpenter. ‘God may not be so magnanimous.’

  ‘Well,’ said the vicar, ‘I’d say that you’re clearly a very compassionate—though very confused—little girl.’ Mrs Carpenter snorted like a pig. ‘Young lady,’ he sighed, ‘anyone so strongly opposed to our faith has a faith just as strong and yet yours is sorely misplaced. You might as well have faith in God as in nothing.

  ‘I know Jesus is true and that God is real. For me, if I suffer, I know there’s a reason even if the reason is a mystery. For you there’s no mystery, no reason, but still you suffer and your suffering is meaningless.’

  ‘How can you live, child?’ spluttered Mrs Carpenter. ‘How can you bear a life so … devoid of meaning?’

  ‘Look at the world,’ pleaded the Reverend Potter. ‘Jesus lived nearly two thousand years ago and never travelled more than a few miles from where he was born. And yet, here we are talking about Him today. Do you really think He was made up? How could that possibly be true?’

  ‘Nonetheless,’ muttered Mrs Carpenter, ‘I am afraid we have listened to this infernal drivel long enough. I have never in all my years been spoken to in such a hateful manner. It’s amusing how you … atheists,’ dabbing her lips with the word as if it were a dirty dishcloth, ‘are so consumed by hatred of God considering how adamantly you insist He does not exist.’