by Laura Beatty
Not that she looked for him, because she didn’t, but she looked out, in case she were to see him, flicking past, fidgeting. His movement was what she liked best about him, after his colouring. She thought a lot about that, about how he moved, how he fitted the wood, hopping and darting unconscious, not lumbering and careful like her.
Tidy up, that’s what. Change. Anne took trouble now, because an interest like that gave you something to work for. She felt she had a purpose again. She got her garden in trim. Things were coming up fast now and she kept it right up to the mark, weed-free, mulched, the rows of sturdy little plants pricked out and watered, in case he came. She had conversations with him in her head as she worked. Have a carrot, Peter Parker. Would he be impressed by that? Did you grow it yourself? I certainly did. Have a wild strawberry, a raspberry, a currant. She could give him a picnic, if he ever came back again.
Rankness though, that was something that bothered her. She stood in the doorway smelling the smell that had always so pleased her. Was it a bad thing, a smell? In the end, on a fine day, she took off the top layer of her clothes, pounded them with water mint on one of the stones in her pool and laid them out to dry in the sun. They dried stiff and smelling of leaves and water. In the dark of her hut she changed them for the ones she’d left on, like sloughing a skin. She felt like the trees, new-dressed. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? After that she washed her clothes all the time.
She finished Ranger’s hurdles, and he fetched them, grumbling at her and raising his eyebrows – took your time, didn’t you? what did you do, grow the trees yourself? – although she’d worked with extra care and they were well made, because of Peter Parker. Three more by next Thursday, he said as he threw them into the back of the truck. Got to justify your existence now. I don’t know what Mr Stallard would say if he knew. I’m soft in the head, that’s what.
He went round past the veggies and peered over. They’re coming on, they are. And, talking of soft in the head, seen that little mate of yours?
Anne started.
Which one?
As though she didn’t know.
Spider-Man. He’s been a right pest this week. Buzzing round my truck on their bikes every time I pull up. Ranger put on a squeaky voice, opening the door and swinging into the driver’s seat. Give us a ride then. Give us a ride, mister. You tell him, if he comes round here again – Ranger had his elbow out of the window now like always, and Anne bent awkwardly to meet his gaze – you tell him I’m the Forest Ranger, not a one-man amusement park.
Anne nodded.
I’ll take some eggs if you’ve got any.
♦
She found the bomb hole by accident. Coming back from digging up some wild gooseberry seedlings at the far end of the wood, she heard shouts in a place where no one used to go and she followed, out of curiosity and because they were children’s voices and she thought – maybe – you never knew. The noise was coming from the dell, off the track that led away to the new housing – not the cow field, but two away, on Smarty’s old land, where Steve and Barry had taken her rabbit shooting.
The wood was fenced now, on that side, with posts and wire netting, but they’d bent the fencing over to climb in, lifting their bikes probably. When Anne had known it, before, it had been quiet, steep-sided, ash and sycamore saplings, straight-boled down to the bottom. Now the sides were mud tracks, cans and bottles in the bottom among the wood sorrel, sweet wrappers like gaudy blossom at the foot of the trees, caught in the crook of a dock or a nettle.
A puffy boy with orange hair was eating crisps at the top, wiping his fingers on his trousers, spouting crumbs out of a full mouth every time he shouted. Three seconds is the time to beat. Three seconds, you guys.
Four or five others were standing round or pushing bikes back up the hill. Peter Parker was at the top, standing on one leg, scratching his calf, shaking the hair back from his eyes in that way Anne remembered. She sucked her breath in.
Be a tree. Stand still among the other trunks and no one sees you.
They took it in turns, haul up, bomb down, shouting. At the top they pushed around, straddling their bikes, lifting up the front wheels, boasting. Did you see my jump? I did this massive jump. I like flicked it over. They talked over the top of each other. I was heading straight for that tree and I didn’t notice. I just had to slam my brakes and turn it. You should try going as fast as I did. That was wicked. But some of them looked scared going down, putting on the brakes, knuckles gripped, eyes round, juddering over the roots. The puffy boy was timing them, on his wristwatch, between mouthfuls. When he’d finished he let the empty packet drift from his fingers without glancing down. Another giant blossom.
Five seconds. Gay.
No way. I was faster than that. Come on, that was fast.
Another boy, halfway up the slope, looked over his shoulder, Yeah, you put your brakes on. You’ve got to bomb it, man.
Peter Parker’s bike was muddiest. He just floated down, standing on the pedals, jumped the bike when he hit the roots. At the bottom he swung it round in a skid to stop, looked up for his time. It was amazing how the sun found him out, even in the shade, lit him up gold.
Woh, two seconds! They clapped right hands with him at head height. Yess. Give me five.
He was the king. He looked like he didn’t even care.
♦
Anne found herself drawn to the bomb hole after that. She went often, when she should have been doing other things, not just to admire Peter Parker, but to listen to the foreign country of childhood that he lived in. The jostling for position, the occasional punishments, as if the herd of bucks she saw at different times in the wood had suddenly learnt her language, or she theirs. They fought once, two of them she didn’t know, kicking each other first and then rolling in the dirt at the top of the dell, not for long. Then the smaller one limped off, tear-stained and filthy, flicking V-signs, pulling his bike beside him and wiping his eyes on his sleeve. Fucker. Brendan fucking Higham. He went a little way, limping still, and then turned and shouted back through his tears and flicked some more, balled his fist in the crook of his small arm. Fucking mother fucker. She saw him hoick his bike over the fencing and climb over after it. It was hard not to feel sorry. She watched him grow small on the track back to the estate.
Meanwhile, the other boys had gone quiet, gathered round the winner in an anxious knot. Uhoh trouble now. Sniff, look down, scuff the ground, flex their hands on the brakes or lift the front wheel, look up. They moved mostly because they couldn’t stand still, Anne noticed, but they weren’t conscious of what they did. They looked up, constantly referring to the one boy in the middle while making little unconscious movements with their bodies. From time to time, they spat, small gobs of white froth that held themselves proud of the dirt.
He asked for it.
Loser.
But they didn’t sound like they were sure. A little boy leaning forward to get in on it said, Just say it weren’t you.
Oh yeah, that was genius, that was. Like they’d believe that, Callum dickbrain.
But the little boy was cocky. He shrugged. It was just an idea.
One day they brought cigarettes. It was the puffy boy who produced them out of the big pockets on the side of his trousers. Who’s up for it? Ten pee a fag. One or two of them shook their heads. No way. They didn’t call Peter Parker, Peter. They called him Simon. That was confusing at first, although Anne still called him Peter in her head.
Simon, you having one?
Not bothered.
The puffy boy leant forward wheezing, the cigarette held between two fingers.
Peter Parker looked at it. I’m not paying you for it. He flicked out a hand and had the cigarette before the boy had time to withdraw it.
Alright, Simon doesn’t have to pay, since he still has the fastest time.
No way. That was no fair.
There might have been another fight, only the cigarettes were too new. It took solidarity to smoke a cigarette, th
at much was obvious. And they all had one in the end, sitting on the ground by their bikes, glancing at each other and bragging, quietly, for once, so you could hear the woodland sounds and the occasional horn on the road to the estate, a motorbike, an aeroplane. Then the puffy boy was sick.
That brought them back to themselves. Everyone looked. Someone pushed someone else into it. Rank. They held their noses. Ugh, man. I can see a Dorito.
Where?
Puffy raised his head. I never had no Doritos.
Yes you did. There. That’s Doritos. Isn’t that Doritos?
They all looked again, leaning on each other’s shoulders while the Doritos were pointed out with a stick.
Gross.
Totally. One of them retched loudly in pretence and the boy he was leaning on whipped round. Get lost. Inordinate laughter. Retard. Then they all pretended to be sick on each other. Then they biked again. They went home early.
♦
It must have been that day they saw Anne. Probably she had got careless. She couldn’t remember moving but her leg might have cramped and she might have made a sound. She couldn’t remember. But she did notice them looking in her direction once. She saw them huddle against her. She saw Peter Parker glance over, heard them talk in low voices, but then they went back to what they were doing. So maybe it hadn’t been that day after all. Or maybe they didn’t mind being watched. She couldn’t tell.
♦
Sometimes they weren’t there. Once she sat down, at the top of the dell, and looked over. She picked up a crisp packet and fingered it, shook the few damp crumbs that were left, along with the ants that had found them, into her mouth, and watched the dell be empty. But she didn’t linger in case they came and found her sitting there.
Then there were days when she felt uneasy. She saw things, or she thought she did. She heard laughter sometimes and running. Or was she imagining it? She looked round when she was working in the garden. What was that now? A fat pigeon startled from its roost, falling away through the wood. Anyone there? Once when she’d gone down the path to her latrine and was squatting and straining in the undergrowth she heard scuffling, a series of snorts that were not animal. She didn’t like to shout out. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself. But it was only for a while. It wasn’t all the time. So she forgot.
♦
She’d been out collecting early. It must have been midday because the sun was squinting straight down through the canopy and the wood was filling up with dinner-time walkers. She had two bags of rubbish banging against her legs, fullish, and it was getting warm. She heard them as she came along Steve’s path – that’s what she called it, the path past the milking field. Shouts. Her animal sense pricked her into panic. Freeze, in the spotted sunlight, on the old track with the new sounds all wrong. It must just be kids on the bike path. No one came this far over. There had never been anyone this side before. That’s what she tried to think but her heart was banging in her chest and, now she was going again, she had never walked so fast. Rounding the last bend tripping and stumbling in her haste, till she broke into the end of the clearing almost at a run. Her place all laid out before her, the pool that should have been so still, and the hut beyond. They were everywhere, or so it seemed at first, like ants crawling under and over. How many of them, in the pool, kicking up the water, their backs to her, taunting someone beyond. It was a game of catch. A dark boy leaping out onto one of the stones, doing a rude little dance.
Mrs Shit-in-the-Woods. Hands up by his ears, palms open, jiggling. Mrs Shit-in-the-Woods. Catch me, Mrs Shit-in-the-Woods. Throwing himself sideways and twisting away, as a boy with fair hair lunged for him and missed. Peter Parker?
She didn’t know she was doing it, although halfway across the clearing she heard her voice, as though it was someone else’s, the strange noise that hurt and anger make.
At the door of her hut, she remembered later, the puffy boy, his hair foxy in the sun and flat to his head, and his look of amazement giving way to fear. Then they were running, all of them, though they didn’t know which way to go, some of them doubling back to find the path again, past Anne with their eyes wide. Shit man fucking get out of here. She hated their filthy little mouths. Which of them screamed? She couldn’t remember but she swung out with her bags full of bottles and cans, caught at least one of them. Whack. Round the side of the head and one on the back as he ran. Their high little screams and one or two laughing from the safety of the path.
She’d frightened them.
♦
Anne was taking in the damage they had done to her garden, the mess of the pool, muddied and the stones dislodged, so she didn’t see Ranger, bumping over the ruts in his truck, how he nearly ran two of the boys over. Peter Parker, jumping to the driver’s side, banged his small fist on the bonnet. Jesus fuckinell man you nearly had me.
And Ranger flicking out his arm, to its full extent, grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, but not too hard because he had a boy of his own.
Oi! Don’t you go banging your hands on no one’s truck, you understand.
♦
There were things turned over and broken in Anne’s hut. Where she lived. Where she’d made it nice. Not even Ranger went in her hut when she wasn’t there, or she didn’t think he did. She was standing inside now, so she never saw how the boys lost their vinegar all of a sudden, with Ranger cross, how four of them slunk off, and the rest stood dumb, while Peter Parker and another, darker boy, stammered and wriggled.
We weren’t doing nothing.
It was that mad lady, she tried to kill us.
She was like raging out of control. She was out of order. Peter Parker looked up, gathering momentum with his story, nearly himself again. Don’t go down there I’m telling you. She’ll have you and all.
But Ranger wasn’t having none of it. He’d had just about enough of Peter Parker and his little lot. If you’ve done nothing, then you’ve nothing to be afraid of, have you? So get in and we’ll go and get this sorted.
And the boys didn’t want to go and several of them talked at once. It wasn’t my idea. I never. We was just like going along. I never knew. I wouldn’t of.
Ranger got out of the truck. He was taller than he looked inside it. He was big and he was all dressed in khaki like he was in the army and his truck had this badge on the side like a coat of arms and it said Forest Ranger like he was official. He had his hands on his hips and he was mad.
Silenced.
Right, you and you, in the truck now, pointing at Peter Parker and the dark boy. The rest of you, F off home and don’t come back. Get it?
Gone.
But Peter Parker wasn’t finished yet. He had a high voice and he talked quick. This is public anyway, he said. This wood. It’s public, you can go where you like in this, if it’s public. You can’t do us for that.
Cocky little so-and-so, aren’t you? Ranger looked over his shoulder as he started up the truck. Just because it’s public access doesn’t mean it’s open to every little hooligan that wants to come and make a nuisance of himself. This is triple S I, if you don’t mind.
They bumped into the clearing in silence. Anne was looking wild, the bags of rubbish lying where they’d dropped, spilling their contents out of shocked mouths. She didn’t say anything as the Ranger pushed the boys ahead of him. She didn’t say anything because her mind was running round and round in her head like her chickens unsettled in their pen. When she put her hand up to touch the down on her face, in a gesture of bafflement and loss, her hand was shaking.
There were things in her clearing that didn’t belong there. Violence for a start, her own as well as theirs. There were footprints where there shouldn’t have been. There were things interrupted, things broken and disturbed. Anne opened her other hand in a gesture towards the pool and the garden, to herself almost, and let it fall.
Everything alright, Anne? Although it obviously wasn’t. Ranger still had his hands on the boys’ shoulders. Found these two troublemakers making
a run for it.
He was looking round as he spoke, taking it all in, the mess and jumble of what they’d left.
You little buggers. He said it almost under his breath, to himself, sucking his breath in through his teeth. You made a right job of it, didn’t you?
And Anne held her shaking hand to her face and said, as if to persuade herself of its truth, Been in my hut. They been in my garden, on my plants. They’ve broke my plants. To think she’d put her garden in order in case Peter Parker came back. She felt a fool as well. And when he had come, he hadn’t noticed. Its order had been invisible to him. He knew nothing, and she looked at him for a moment and felt scorn.
Peter Parker didn’t like being looked at. It’s only plants, he said, his eyes on his feet. You can grow another one. They was only small.
He knew nothing. See. That was a precious month’s growth. That was early rain and stored sun that might not come again. That was her food, real food like you got in a house, not wild stuff that you scrabbled and chanced for. Grow another one. And where did he think she’d get seeds from? she asked him. That was last year’s seed saved and kept dry through the winter. That meant less to eat this summer and less to store for next year. He knew nothing.
Ranger walked round while she spoke, looked at the damage for himself and came back round the side. He was surprisingly angry. What a bloody mess. Don’t you lot never think? He looked from one to the other. Hey? They wanted their heads banging together, that’s what. Tell you what, he said, if you were mine I’d give you a bloody good hiding. No respect. And an apology was in order. Go on. What you going to say then?
Sorry. Barely audible.
Yih, Peter Parker said, sorry.
And that wasn’t all. They had a choice. They could go back and he’d talk to their parents and let them know they weren’t coming down the wood again, right? Or they’d say nothing for now and they could both come back and make themselves useful to Anne, sort out some of this mess.
What about the others, Peter Parker wanted to know, how come they didn’t have to do nothing? That was no way fair.