Dishonour (8 page)

‘Yes. Yes Izzy, I do.’

Arnold ran as fast as he could back to the house to get the sandwiches he’d forgotten. The grass made him feel as if he was springing along as he bounded down the hill towards the isolated house. The River Coquet ran alongside and though it looked particularly turbulent today, hungrily sweeping along broken branches and leaves, many a summer had been spent paddling in the shallow part of the river, followed by a desperate attempt to dry out their clothes before returning back home.

As he ran he thought about Izzy. He hated it when she was angry with him. Hopefully when he got back she would cheer up and be his friend again. As long as he had Izzy he didn’t need anyone else and hopefully neither did she.

Approaching the house, Arnold was cautious to check his clothing, making certain no stray piece of mud or grass had surreptitiously got onto his trousers.

The large wooden front door creaked open. Standing in the entrance hall, Arnold contemplated going straight into the kitchen to pick up the lunch he’d left on the side and hoped his father hadn’t heard the door. But then it would mean breaking rules and he was loath to do that; even for Izzy.

The mahogany stairs leading up to his father’s office were highly polished, as was the rest of the house; pristine, with nothing out of place. Pictures of unknown relatives stared out from their gilded frames and the gold ornate wallpaper gave a feeling of formality to the high-ceilinged hall.

The mock-crystal candelabra with the glass droplets was in the exact same place, turned the exact same way it always was and Arnold was careful not to go anywhere near it as he passed, recollecting what had happened last year.

It was a simple mistake. An unintentional one when he’d run past the decorative candelabra, trying to get to his room before his father had finished counting to ten, being warned but not knowing what would happen if he didn’t make it to his bedroom by the end of the countdown.

He’d been aware of knocking it slightly, but he hadn’t thought anything else about it, until his father had come into his room in the middle of the night. Waking him up, suppressed rage in his voice, sweat dripping down his forehead, wanting to know who’d smashed the light. His father had dragged him out of bed and along the corridor to look at the candelabra.

‘Look at that Arnold, look at it. I didn’t know I lived with vandals.’ Arnold had looked, but hadn’t seen anything different. The candelabra still stood in centre place on the carved red wood table and the glass droplets gleamed as much as they always did.

His father had leaned into his face, punctuating each of his words as he spoke. ‘It’s. Been. Moved. Arnold.’ The fear Arnold had experienced only allowed him to mutter two words before he’d wet himself.

‘Sorry Papa.’

‘Well Arnold, you know what happens to boys who destroy people’s things. They have their own things destroyed.’

His father had then spent the next two hours quietly breaking all of Arnold’s treasured possessions which, in the absence of any toys, were made out of things Arnold had collected and found in the woods for him and Izzy to play with. The origami birds he’d made which Izzy loved. The pictures he’d painted at school and the stories he’d written for her to read up in the woods were cut up with a shiny pair of scissors, along with anything else Arnold held as valuable.

Clearing his thoughts of that night, Arnold stood outside his father’s office, hoping his Father would open the door straight away and let him get the sandwiches to take back to Izzy. He was aware his hand was shaking as he knocked lightly on the panelled door. A voice came from inside.

‘Yes?’

‘Papa, it’s Arnold.’

‘I thought I told you to go to the woods son.’ Pushing himself further against the thick door, Arnold spoke again, hoping his father wouldn’t think he was shouting, but at the same time needing to be close enough to hear him, as his father never repeated anything twice.

‘We did go to the woods but I forgot the sandwiches Papa.’ The long silent pause was exaggerated by the solemn ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall below. Eventually the door was opened and Arnold jumped back, standing up straight with his hands firmly by his side.

It was only his head his father put round the door but curiously, Arnold could see his shirt was without a tie with the top two buttons undone. The normally immaculate black hair was ruffled and a slight red flush sat on his cheeks. A strong sweet smell hit Arnold’s senses. His father glared and Arnold wanted to be sick.

‘Forgotten your lunch? Then what does that make you Arnold?’ Arnold put his head down and muttered inaudibly.

‘I can’t hear you Arnold.’

‘I’m stupid Papa. I’m just a stupid ignorant boy.’

‘And what else Arnold?’

Arnold stood in silence before his father promoted a reply. ‘Say it. I want to hear it boy.’

‘Izzy … Izzy doesn’t love me. She only loves you and not me.’

‘That’s right, and don’t you forget it. Run along now Arnold and get those sandwiches.’ As Arnold turned to go, his father’s words stopped him. ‘Shouldn’t you say something to me Arnold?’

‘Yes Papa. I love you more than life itself.’

Arnold was singing now. Singing a number song he’d made up about Izzy. He didn’t know why and he certainly wouldn’t tell Izzy this, but numbers made him nearly as happy as she did. Wherever he looked he would count and see numbers. It was almost as if the world was made up of them; rushing into his mind as if they were trying to tell him something. If he looked at the trees within a matter of minutes he could count the leaves. If he looked in the sky he could see how many clouds there were. If he saw numbers written down he could add them up, take them away, his brain making constant patterns with them.

It was his secret comfort, and in the back of his mind he had a memory of a lady who’d sung a number song to him as he lay curled up in bed when he was small. Singing to him; making him feel safe. He’d often wondered if it’d been his mother, though he had no one to ask. His father had always warned him never to ask about her – ‘You know what happens to boys that ask about her.’ Arnie didn’t, but all the same, he didn’t ask.

The tree he’d left Izzy by was the tallest in the woods, flourishing with branches which intertwined with the surrounding trees. He’d carved Izzy’s name on the base of the trunk two years ago and much to her delight, it was still clearly visible.

The vibrant green grass growing around it was like sitting on a mattress; soft and comfy. When they lay on the ground they’d watch the clouds go by, promising each other when they were older they’d always be together. It was their special place, but looking around now, he couldn’t see Izzy.

‘Izzy. Please come out. Izzy, I’m sorry I made you cross.’ The trees in the warm wind blew gently, caressing the air with their scents. Arnold sighed and hoped the whole afternoon wouldn’t be spent searching for Izzy as she watched him, laughing and looking on from a hiding place she’d found.

He started heading up towards the river; it was the only way she would’ve gone. He knew she wouldn’t venture deeper into the woods, she was afraid of the chattering branches and whispering leaves.

‘Izzy? Izzy?’ His feet were beginning to throb in the tight brown lace-up shoes he was wearing. They weren’t really suitable for walking or for the summer months but his father insisted on them being smart, even if it was only to go out and play.

Sitting down on the grass in the clearing, Arnold took off his shoes and rubbed his right foot; he could see a blister forming and if he put his shoes back on it’d only get worse.

The dancing sunbeams on top of the flowing river were mesmerising, making the water look like crystal glass waves, bubbling and breaking against the edges of the steep bank. As he watched the birds dive in and out of the water, Arnold noticed a large black bundle which looked like a bag on the side of the bank near the disused watermill. Getting up and shielding his eyes from the sun to see it more clearly, he realised that it wasn’t a bag at all; it looked more like a heap of material.

Leaving his shoes and enjoying the sensation of the grass between his toes, Arnold walked round the arch of the river towards the heap. He stopped dead. His heart banged in his chest and his breathing became shallow, then his legs started to run as his mind screamed. It wasn’t a piece of material. It was Izzy’s jacket and he could see it moving. He could see something struggling. It was Izzy.

The river gushed over her face as she fought to keep her head above the water level, clinging onto the side of the broken submerged limestone wall of the mill. The river careering towards the weir a few feet along.

‘Izzy!’ Arnold threw himself down on the ground, leaning his body over and hoping to reach his sister.

‘Help me Arnie. Help me; I fell.’

‘Hang on Izzy, I can’t reach you, I’ll get a branch.’ There were twigs, ivy and broken pieces of brushwood but nothing that would do. Arnold tried to pull on a hanging branch, hoping to break it off, whilst all the time calling encouraging words to Izzy, but the branch simply bowed, holding on solidly to the body of the tree.

Running back to the river empty handed, Arnold leaned over the side again, pushing himself further forward than last time.

‘Izzy, you’ve got to try to reach up and hold my hand.’

‘I can’t Arnie, I can’t let go.’

She was right. It was impossible for her to let go of the wall with one hand and stop herself from being swept along into the weir.

‘I’m going to go and get help Izzy.’

‘No, Arnie, no; don’t leave me.’

Arnold looked into his sister’s eyes, wanting to stay but knowing he needed to get help.

‘Izzy I have to go. Promise me you’ll hold on until I come back. Promise me Izzy even if you don’t think you can any more; I need you to hold on. Don’t leave me.’

‘I promise I won’t let go; I won’t leave you. Come back Arnie, come straight back.’

‘I will. I’ll never leave you but you’ve got to be strong.’

Running faster than he ever thought he could, Arnold darted back through the woods towards the house, calling his father as he ran. ‘Papa! Papa!’ Arnold opened the door wide, running into the hallway and shouting to his father. ‘Papa, please come quickly.’

The thunderous sound of his father running down the stairs and the wrath he saw on his face didn’t stop Arnold from screaming. ‘Papa, it’s Izzy.’ His father grabbed him, shaking him in frenzied anger. Arnold felt his head jolting back and forth as he swallowed the words he was trying to say.

‘Where are your shoes Arnold? Why are you covered in dirt?’

‘It’s Izzy, Pappy; please there isn’t much time, she’s in trouble.’

‘Answer me boy. Where are your shoes?’

Arnold looked at his father, then at his feet. Almost immediately, a different kind of fear hit him; he’d forgotten to put his shoes back on. He didn’t bother looking up, but was well aware of his father’s rage towering above him as he continued to speak. ‘Rules, Arnold. Rules are here to be adhered to and not to be broken. Haven’t I told you not to shout? Haven’t I told you never to get dirty? I’ve told you about the rules haven’t I?’

‘Yes Papa.’

‘Then why would you come running in here covered in dirt with no shoes on?’

Terrified, Arnold answered. ‘I left them up by the river Papa.’

The clump of hair being pulled from his head made him yelp out as he was dragged silently by his father into the quiet of the front parlour.

His father threw him towards the dark oak chair which was already placed in the middle of the room.

‘Sit down Arnold.’

He couldn’t sit down. He needed to be brave for Izzy. She was relying on him. He had to get his father to understand Izzy was in danger. ‘No, Papa.’

Arnold watched as his father gave a bemused smile and squinted his eyes, reminding Arnold of the monsters he’d read about in the storybooks at school.

His father’s footsteps sounded on the wooden floor as he unhurriedly crossed the room. Arnold trembled and imagined that every pore of him was beating.

He continued to look straight ahead; his view out of the far window blocked by the looming figure of his father centimetres away from him. The view of his father’s chest became the view of his father’s face as he crouched down to Arnold’s eye level.

‘What did you say boy?’ Arnold thought he was going to be sick; he could feel his knees tapping together and his body felt like his spine was no longer supporting him. His tears interfered with his speech as he clenched his fists desperately wanting to find strength. ‘It’s Izzy Papa, she needs our help.’

‘Sit down Arnold and listen to me. I’m going to go back to my office now. I’m going to leave the door open and give you the choice of staying here as I told you to, or break my rules by leaving this house without permission. Think carefully Arnold; the choice is yours.’

His father swivelled on his heels, creating a squeaking sound on the highly polished floor as he went to leave. He stopped in the doorway, not bothering to turn to look at his son, only to give him a warning. ‘As I say son, it’s entirely down to you, but remember; bad things happen to boys who break the rules.’

The room seemed to be spinning round as Arnold sat on the chair. He tucked his hands under his seat as his legs spasmodically shook. He needed to get to Izzy, he’d promised her he’d come back with help. If his father wouldn’t help, then he’d have to do it all on his own. He looked across at the open parlour door. It was only a few feet away, but for some reason Arnold couldn’t move.