by James Clarke
Merry Christmas Slap Head
“Merry Christmas yourself,” Lawrence muttered, scrunching the note up and sweeping it to the floor.
After the demonstration the class busied themselves. Lawrence had asked for cookery money but his mam had insisted on getting the ingredients in herself, providing him with a wrap of mutton, most of a turnip and a can of haricot beans instead of lamb, carrots and peas. A pot of Smash instead of real potatoes.
Lawrence smuggled his meagre lot onto the counter and hid it under a tea towel. Some other items were also missing, of course, so he put his hand up to summon Miss Potts, who grabbed the nearest pupil, Ryan Fenton, and asked him if he could share his ingredients. All Lawrence needed was the stock and garlic.
Fenton duly disappeared, eventually returning with two miniscule cloves of garlic and a mighty blob of orange powder, poorly wrapped in foil. The stock was damp for some reason and smelled bizarre, but Lawrence set it by his other ingredients and set to work.
When the time came, the class stood waiting for Miss Potts to emerge from the store cupboard. She had a habit of lingering in front of a symmetry mirror she’d taken from the maths department and blu-tacked to the wall in there. Lawrence listened to her blasting hairspray all over her head as he secured the tea towel across what remained of his cheapo ingredients. He knew he’d used too much water in his pie, so had added cornflour as an afterthought to thicken the sauce. The turnip meanwhile had been diced so thickly that it had been just about all he could fit on the tines of his fork.
Miss Potts appeared with a dessert spoon and a clipboard with a pen on a string sellotaped to it. She patrolled the rush of cooling ovens, tasting and grading each crackling pie until she came to Lawrence’s steaming creation. Hands guarded by oven-gloves, she lifted the Pyrex dish from the worktop, nose hovering above the puttering grey bubbles, then, like an oar delving into a shifting swamp, slid her worn metal spoon beneath the pie’s crust.
The spoon lasted perhaps five seconds in the teacher’s mouth. Miss Potts began to gag, retching, until, overcome, she hunched over the worktop and coughed out a brown gobbet of pie that shuddered and caught the glare from the striplights in the polystyrene-tiled ceiling.
Nervous laughter began to concuss the room. Everyone was looking as Miss Potts hurried to the sink, filled a glass of water, drank it in one, re-filled it and then drank some more.
“How much spice was in that concoction?” she said to Lawrence after she’d collected herself.
“Spice, Miss?”
“You heard me.”
“I don’t know.”
Miss Potts stared.
“Honest, Miss, I don’t know!”
There was no time for a reply. Ryan Fenton lunged forward, reaching over Lawrence’s station and tearing the towel from what was left of his ingredients. “Antwerp’s been on the rations,” Fenton cried, presenting the empty stock wrapper to the rest of the class. “An’ they stink of fuckin’ chilli!”
The whole room erupted. Fenton began to prance about, declaring that Antwerp’s Spicy Smash and Mutton Pie should be served in the canteen. He had the Smash tube and began waving it in Lawrence’s face, so Lawrence leapt for it, accidentally colliding with Miss Potts and sending her stumbling against the worktop, where she knocked his pie onto the floor. The precise shatter of the Pyrex dish finally silenced the room.
Miss Potts made to seize Lawrence but in her haste stepped in the mess and slipped, her foot crunching sideways in the broken glass. She wailed, prone on her back, her lovely hair draped in pie muck. The shock in her eyes was terrible. Lawrence took one look at the bloody spur of bone jutting free of her ankle and pelted from the room, his loose sole slapping the corridor tiles until he’d reached the main doors and, past them, streets of safety. He could see in his mind the Litten Path. It was a steep finger of stones leading to the moor.
No one would find him in Barnes’ Wood, the forest adjacent to Litten Hill. Lawrence crossed the road, skipping between a minibus and several cars packed with men who were probably on their way to a picket somewhere.
Down the scuffed trail, into the forest. Visible through the rafter of branches was the hill, home of the maple Lawrence had helped plant, which should have bedded in by now, its flimsy leaves riddled by the wind’s sough, its root-work probing the soil’s depths. The family tree had been a nice enough idea but something about the more forceful of Lawrence’s parents not giving the gift her backing had made him shrink into himself. He’d left Arthur hanging.
Course he hadn’t explained why. Since that terrible surrender at Threndle House, he and his father had hardly spoken. Arthur just tended to sit now, smelling of carbolic soap and stale smoke, often falling asleep on the settee. He never wanted to go over it all again, grazed knuckles lifting as he toked another cigarette in the yard, falling again as he reached down to ease the rolled-up newspapers from the legs of his jeans. Shin-kickers, Mam explained, placed there to protect a man from the policemens’ truncheons because the officers hit the picketers low, partly so the cameras wouldn’t see.
The ground set damp into Lawrence’s damaged shoe. This route was silent, broken only by his footsteps, by a wood pigeon startled amid the greenery. He arrived at the River Ogden, a weak tributary coursing under a scratched metal bridge that had once been painted red. Lawrence climbed the short path to the bridge and paused to look at his reflection in what remained of the river. The woods’ tapering branches were mirrored in the water, which had a musty smell. It looked as if there were rips in the liquid, in the sky.
Lawrence picked up a lolly stick and pushed it through the railings into the torn river, where it span gently before catching against the stony bank. He was a veteran of this place. With no friends, a mother glad to have him out from under her feet and a father who never asked questions, this wood was a refuge, a warren of dens within rhododendrons and bogs to sink rocks in; whole patches of puff fungus to kick about and wasps’ nests within ruins to provoke. He came to this latticed glade to climb trees. He came here to vandalise things, to swim when the Ogden was high enough and spy on passers-by.
There was no time for any of that now. With the day fast escaping, Lawrence stepped from the bridge, opting for the slope rather than the path, but the incline was too steep and he lost his footing.
He slid downhill, coming to a sharp halt at the bottom. Shoes sunk in the mud, trousers shit-covered and cuffs wet, he lay awhile watching the leaves twist. It would be simple to let this day and all that had come with it slide away. You could do that in a place like this, at least until nightfall. You could probably do it until tomorrow, come to think of it, given that this was an area Lawrence knew well, never mind how long it had been since his last visit.
Two years? Three? There was a forgotten path over the way: a corridor of wild garlic and native bluebell, a ginnel of promise bordering upon the secret. The vernal trail led to a sanctuary Lawrence long thought he’d outgrown; a tree cave formed in the space beneath a cavernous old elm. He got to his feet and headed towards it, a curious excitement flourishing within him. It was as if something neglected was at long last being attended to.
He quickly reached the den and sensed its magic. Spreading its boughs in the clearing’s centre was the magnificent tree. It had grown so unimpeded by any obstruction that its crown now resembled a giant brain. The elm’s trunk had a split in it wide enough for a man to hide in; fat limbs veered towards the ground like tentacles, dividing here and there, creating crevices to perch in, while afternoon light filtered through the canopy, shading everything by turns a vibrant and sombre green.
Lawrence trailed his hand along the tree’s bark, stopping to hang from a branch and lift his legs. The den was surprisingly neat and well-ordered and the fallen log he’d once used as a bench was still here, too.
But someone else had visited. There were the traces of a spent fire and past the ring of dumped blo
cks surrounding that broad scab of char, a second tree had been painted in pink and blue stripes. Scraps of ribbon and tattered bunting were strung from this tree, linking to the huge elm. Girls must have been here: interfering strangers.
Lawrence dropped to the ground and brushed the gunk off his hands. Now he could see empty beer cans and a takeaway box, the remains of what looked like a glass pipe, the transparent bowl stained black. A basic shelter had also been erected. He went over to investigate.
It turned out to be a wrinkled tarp hanging from the trees by a thin cord. Underneath it was a plastic chair, orange, the kind with easily-bent metal legs that you found in factories or warehouse offices. Next to the chair was a blanket with a book on it, face-down, resembling a miniature paper tent. Cigarette butts, too: fag ends everywhere. A ball of cling-film lay next to the book, together with a half-eaten packet of crisps.
Lawrence picked up the crisps. He hadn’t eaten all day and cheese and onion were his favourite flavour. He took the book and read the first lines it opened at.
You don’t need to tell me what’s right and what ain’t right. Whatever I do is right, and what people do to me is right. And what I do to you is right, as well. Get that into your big ’ead.
He was about to set the book down without losing his place when a voice made him jump. He dropped it.
“Something funny?”
Beyond the decorated tree stood a girl. She was thin and had green eyelids. A twitch of her mouth told Lawrence that losing her page had not gone unnoticed.
“Taste good, do they?
“No.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Yeah, I mean I like them.”
“I suppose you weren’t laughing either.”
Lawrence shook his head.
“You were smiling.”
“That’s.” Lawrence hesitated. “That’s not the same as laughing.”
She was about his age. She had bare shoulders and a flat midriff, shoulder-length auburn hair with a fringe and a strikingly angular face. She was attractive in the way that a mantelpiece is attractive; the kind of face you had to try not to find haughty.
“I were just looking,” Lawrence said.
“And eating the last of my lunch,” replied the girl, sitting on the blanket and returning to her novel.
That accent – it had to be the Swarsby girl. She was a very different prospect up close. The other night she’d been graceful. Now Lawrence could see a shaving rash speckling her shins and thigh bruises that could have been made by someone’s thumbs. She was a lot like him: bone pale, bug-eyed and spindly.
“You’re hovering,” she said.
“Oh. Sorry.”
Lawrence didn’t move. He wondered what the girl would say if she knew he’d been in her garden the other night, that he’d seen her glowing.
“Some people might interpret hostility as a sign to leave.”
Lawrence laughed as good-naturedly as he could. “This is my den you’re in.”
The girl rested her book against her knee. “Own it, do you?”
“Well, no . . .”
“Does it say property of scrawny oik somewhere? I must have missed the sign.”
“There’s no sign.”
“No shit.”
“I didn’t mean . . .”
“What?”
“Oh, nowt.”
“Nowt,” the girl muttered, aiming her green eyelids at her book.
“Made a friend?” said a second voice. It was a boy, aged maybe a year or two younger than the girl. He was watching Lawrence with a tremendously open expression. He was more conventionally attractive than his sister, but he had a similar lofty bearing.
“Don’t mind Evie. She’s down on everyone,” he said.
“Everything,” said Evie.
“It’s a great spot.”
“Den I found a bit ago,” said Lawrence.
“Yes,” agreed the boy, making such a sincere kind of eye contact with Lawrence that he felt uncomfortable. It was like gazing into the eyes of those Jehovah’s Witnesses that had come to the door that time.
“How old are you?” the girl asked.
“Sixteen.”
“And still you’re calling it a den.”
Lawrence didn’t know what else you’d call it. Evie plunged a hand into her brown leather bag, the strap of which was slung over one shoulder.
“Seb,” she said. “Tell me you’ve got some.”
A pack of cigarettes sailed through the air and landed in her lap.
“Don’t call me Seb,” the boy said.
They both lit cigarettes.
“You know it suits you.”
“It’s not my name,” the boy explained to Lawrence, who could feel the spring warmth of this daydream on his neck.
“Duncan’s all wrong,” said Evie, “It’s too Scottish. Too matter of fact.”
“And Seb?” replied Duncan, shaking his head.
“Is way more you.”
Duncan began to smoke. He seemed to enjoy being talked about. By contrast, Lawrence felt conscious of his muddy uniform and bald head. It was that first encounter feeling: never making the impression that you wanted to make.
“There’s two things you should spend money on,” said Evie to Lawrence. “Beds and shoes. Because if you’re not in one you’re in the other.”
She nodded at his feet.
He tucked them beneath himself. “I expect you want me to say summat clever to that.”
“It might be nice.”
“Well I won’t dignify you.”
“I’ll dignify myself, thanks. Maybe we can start with something easier, if your filthy shoes have stumped you. What’s your name, Mr Den? Mr-I’m-not-in-school-when-I’m-supposed-to-be?”
Antwerp.
Lawrence almost said it, and realising this must have made his face change, because the girl seemed to think he was laughing with her.
“My name . . .” he said, trailing off.
Fucking tongue-tied again.
“Where have we moved to, Seb,” said Evie, “That the locals don’t even know their own names.”
Lawrence could feel an excruciating heat flushing up his neck. “Lawrence,” he said. “I’m Lawrence.”
“Duncan.” The boy pointed at himself.
“You said.”
“All right, clever clogs,” said Evie. “Why aren’t you in school?”
She had raggedy hair that somehow managed to shine: Lawrence had never seen hair like it. “I can’t be bothered with it, can I,” he said.
Evie grinned.
“I’m at the grammar,” Lawrence continued, sure his windpipe was thickening. “Top sets. Too many rules, though. Place is full of wankers.”
“And you live nearby?” Duncan asked.
“Kind of.”
“We’re on the edge of town.”
“Bleak fucking House,” said Evie.
“I suppose you mean Threndle,” Lawrence said.
“Place is practically derelict.”
Was that the trace of an apology in her voice?
Evie went on. “There’s like three rooms with things in them. The rest of our stuff’s in storage.”
“Still a mansion.”
Lawrence began to scuff a circle in the ground with his finger.
“It’s our Uncle Bram’s place,” said Duncan.
“He’s not our uncle, Seb.”
Duncan gazed coldly at his sister, then turned to Lawrence, “He hasn’t lived there for years. It was supposed to be renovated before we came, only the builders are local. They found out who Dad is and downed tools.” He rolled his eyes. “Honestly.”
“How come?” It was tiring having to ask questions you knew the answers to.
Evie began fashio
ning a triangle from the crisp packet. “You’re rather nosey, Lawrence.”
“Dad’s an MP,” Duncan said. “Or at least he’s trying to be. And not for the party of these parts.” He made a curious face, earnest yet somehow staged, as if he’d copied it from someone and was trying to perfect it. “What does your father do?”
“Oh . . . He’s a businessman.”
“Same as Clive,” said Evie.
“Dad’s not in business,” said Duncan.
“The business of numero uno,” Evie said, then to Duncan, “Oh, shut up.”
“Why do you call him Clive? You two not?”
“What?” Evie blew a smoke ring. She had a biggity look in her eye.
“Brother and sister?”
“What gives you that idea?”
“Dunno. You talk same,” said Lawrence. “Hold yourselves same. Open like.”
“Errrpen,” Evie mimicked. “What’s errrpen?”
“Just similar.” Lawrence blushed for the second time. “I thought—”
“For your information Seb and I met on holiday and now I’ve come to live with him. He’s a serious fuck.”
“Serious?”
“Oh, yes. He likes to take me from behind. You like doing it from behind, don’t you, Seb?”
“You think you’re so hilarious,” said Duncan.
“No, I don’t . . .” Lawrence began, anxious not to lose ground.
“Nerrr,” Evie went.
“I’m talking to her,” said Duncan. “We’re brother and sister. The only way I’d put up with her is if I had no choice.”
“Right. Sorry. I knew it . . . like I were saying, I guessed, but you can never be sure when you’ve just met someone, can you,” said Lawrence. “If they’re who they seem to be.”
“And not just when you’ve first met them,” agreed Evie, placing her hand on Lawrence’s knee. “I still don’t know who my parents are and I’ve known them my whole life.”
Lawrence was elated. He was not someone girls spoke to. He was not someone girls touched.