No Goodbye (6 page)

Gran is on the phone when I get in from school. I don’t mean to listen, but I know she’s really annoyed. It must be Mum she’s talking to.

‘Well, Vanessa!’ I hear her say, ‘things are sort of all right here. But it’s been three weeks now, you know! Naturally, there have been upsets,’ she lowers her voice and stares at me, ‘but Christopher is handling the situation as best he can.’

I get a glass of water from the tap.

‘Yes, thank you. I am doing my best, but I’m afraid I had plans …’ Her voice is getting more edgy and sharp. I sip the water and hope she’ll forget about me. ‘No! No, Vanessa, Grace has gone across the road to play, only Conor is here beside me.’

I try to get past her, but Gran shoves the phone into my hand.

‘Conor, pet! Is that you?’ the voice is kind, caring and the same.

‘Yes, Mum!’

‘How are you, Conor? How’s school going?’

School! Why does it always come down to school?

‘Fine,’ I lie. No point in telling her I only got six out of twenty right in my last spelling test and that I’m two chapters behind in my reading book and in my workbook.

‘Where are you, Mum?’

‘I’m still in London, Conor. I’ve started a computer course. Your Aunt Mary is being very good to me, letting me stay and all that. This is a huge city – millions of people rushing around the place. I’m almost afraid to put a foot in the Underground during rush hour. You know, you could get lost in a place like this. But there are hundreds of museums and galleries and places to visit. Some day, I’ll bring you over here so you can see for yourself.’

‘That’s nice!’ I try to sound interested. ‘Is it sunny?’

‘Actually it rained all this morning. At the moment it’s grey and drizzly, even a bit misty – I suppose a bit like home.’ I can hear the choke in her voice. She’s homesick. Good!

‘Mum! How long are you going to stay there? How long is this separation thing going to last? When are you coming home?’

She gives a little cough. ‘I’m not sure yet, pet.’
Then she changes the subject. ‘Are you helping your Dad and your Gran?’

‘Yep!’

‘Are you all eating okay?’

‘Yep!’

‘Are you sleeping okay?’

‘Yep!’

‘Conor, don’t say “yep”. Say “yes, Mum”! As if you
mean
it, Conor!’ she pleads.

‘Yes, Mum! I really miss you.’

She takes in a big breath. ‘I miss you too, Conor, you know.’ It sounds a bit like she’s crying. Triumph tickles the tips of my fingers. I wrap the phone cord around my thumb. She is hurting too. I can tell. It’s in her voice.

‘Conor! Will you tell the others I phoned? I don’t want you to worry about any of this. I will get sorted out! I promise! I’ll be in touch again soon. Bye, bye, love!’

‘Goodbye, Mum!’

I’ve got to get out of the house and away from Gran. She wants me to repeat word-for-word everything Mum said. I tell her I’m not a tape-recorder.

‘It’s important,’ she says.

The minute she turns her back I escape.

It takes exactly six minutes to get to John’s house. His road is long and winding, and all the houses have driveways that are cobbled. Each house has a name on its gate or pillar instead of just a number. His is called ‘Byways’. The paint on the gate is bright and shiny white and his lawn is as green and as neat as can be. His Dad is a surgeon, so a man comes to do the garden. His Dad is always busy, and has no time for gardening or ordinary things. Sometimes he even forgets about John. His Mum opens the door.

‘Round the back, Conor! That’s where they’ve gone!’ She points to the side passageway.

I go as quietly as I can. Down beyond the giant lilac tree, I can see the shed. The windows are all steamed up. I tiptoe towards it. There’s talk going on inside. That means the club is on. I cough and make noise – better to give them some warning in case they’re talking about me. I half-push and half-knock on the wooden door.

When I go inside they all ignore me. John just sort of nods and points to an old box near him. I lower myself down on it and hope there are no nails
sticking up out of it.

John is busy writing: THE RULES OF OUR CLUB on a large piece of white paper. ‘Code names?’ he asks and sucks on the lid of his pen.

‘We have to think of a special name for all seven of us,’ Alan explains. He’s a year older than the rest of us and goes to a different school, but he lives across the road. His face is long and thin and he is a right know-it-all. His Dad is a professor in the university.

‘Brains!’ says Ian. ‘That can be your name.’

Alan considers for a second, then nods. He likes the name. It suits him.

Brian is sitting on the edge of the box with me, his long, lanky legs and big, overgrown feet sprawled out in front of him. I can tell he’s thinking about what awful name they’ll give him. Theo stares at him, looking at every fault. Brian is fidgeting and nervous.

‘What about “The Rocket” for Brian?’ suggests Alan.

A shudder of relief goes through the slats of the wooden box and Brian shoots up, nearly sending me flying.

‘Yeah! That’s great – I’m The Rocket,’ Brian shouts, delighted with himself.

Soon it will be my turn. I’m not the tallest or the smallest, I’m not fat, and I’m not the skinniest My hair is mousey and ordinary. There’s nothing special about me!

Everyone else is staring at Mark. He’s a big kid and usually sits at the back of the class. In school they call him Fatso, or Big Boy. He’s always last to do everything and never seems to rush himself. Ian is looking at him, thinking of names, and, I guess, working out which name will be the worst. He is going to say …

‘The Giant.’ I can’t believe I said it. ‘Mark should be The Giant.’

Brian and Alan agree with me and I can see John is thinking about it. Mark just sits there and nods his big, smiling face.

‘Giant,’ he repeats. ‘Yep! That’s me!’

John writes it down on the list. ‘What about my own name?’ he asks. ‘I think … because I own the clubhouse …’

‘You’re not the leader,’ insists Ian.

‘But it
is
my house and my garden.’

Ian looks up from under his eyelids, narrowing his eyes.

‘What about Keymaster?’ volunteers John.

We all look at Ian, trying to decipher his reaction. He takes ages and ages considering and making John squirm, then, finally, he agrees, and suddenly turns around and points at Ciaran. ‘Well, he’ll be Speccy or Blind Bat!’

Ciaran’s skin is getting pinker and redder, and his thick glasses have become steamed up. He takes them off and rubs them on a hanky, staring at them intently. Blinking, he whispers ‘Batman’ half hopefully.

‘Blind Bat,’ Ian and John announce in unison, smirking at each other.

They keep passing over me. What will I do if they call me ‘Nobody’? I reckon it’s better to think of something myself before they land a name on me. I rattle my brains trying to think of something. Time is running out.

‘I’ll be The Dolphin,’ I say. They all just stare at me, already bored. I know it’s not very original. I grab a spare piece of paper and draw a strange-looking fish – a dolphin. ‘That’s my signature,’ I state.

Ian simply shrugs his shoulders and John says, ‘The Dolphin. Not bad.’ They lift up my drawing and stare
at it. ‘Good idea!’

A few seconds later everyone in the club is drawing their own symbol – to be used and known only by us club members!

We’re almost an hour waiting in casualty. Lots of old people and mothers with children are in the queue ahead of us. I hate hospitals, even the smell of them is enough to make me feel like throwing up. It must be the stuff they use to wash the floors and walls with. Such bad luck! Why did I bother trying to tackle Barry like that? I know why – last match of the season and I was trying to show how good I was. He was ready for me, and even though he’s smaller, he’s much stronger. That damn disinfectant stuff! In a second I’m going to be sick. My eyes feel as if someone has squirted something sticky in them, and
it’s a hell of a job to keep them open, and my head, it’s so heavy I don’t think my neck will hold it up much longer.

Coach is like a crazy man, walking up and down, looking for attention. I just want to curl up on the waiting bench and sleep. Strange arms are half-pulling me and forcing me to wake and get on my feet. All the pensioners turn their sad eyes to me as I try to concentrate on standing and letting Coach and the nurse lead me to one of the funny little cubicles.

My stomach gives an almighty heave, and the nurse gets the white plastic bowl there just in the nick of time. Coach jumps out of the way, then he pulls back the curtain and is shouting and looking for a doctor. The bed in casualty is so narrow that I am in danger of falling out of it. I have to try and remember where I am.

A doctor has come over, and Coach is shouting at her now. The doctor tells him if he doesn’t quieten down he will have to wait outside. My head is muzzy and my mouth is dry.

‘Nurse, may I have a drink of water, please?’ I beg.

She ignores me and disappears out through the yellow-and-white-striped curtains.

‘Greg! You’ll be fine,’ Coach tries to reassure me.

The doctor pushes by him, and shoves a little torch thing in my eyes. My head is throbbing and spinning.

‘It was only a bad knock, a rugby tackle,’ Coach rambles on. I can tell by the way the doctor reacts that she is not a rugby fan. ‘Should I phone the boy’s mother?’ Coach asks.

The doctor nods. I want to tell him.

‘I’ll be back in a minute, Greg, I’m just going to use the phone.’

Coach Hudson exits from the cubicle before I get a chance to say a word.

I close my eyes. The doctor and two nurses are talking. I feel too tired to listen. I just hear a low mumble and see faint blurs of white.

A nurse wipes my face and eyebrow. It stings.

‘Greg, you need a few stitches.’ The doctor’s voice is distant.

They can do what they want with me, I don’t car e! Suddenly I feel so cold, and the nurse puts a warm blanket on me.

It is almost dark when I wake up. At first I can’t
remember where I am. White walls and that smell.

Coach is sitting by my bed. He’s reading the evening newspaper – wouldn’t you know it, the sports section.

‘Coach?’

He shoots up with fright. ‘Ah! You’re awake, Greg, that’s good!’

‘Where am I?’

You’re in Saint Gabriel’s, the hospital. They’re keeping you in for observation; it’s standard procedure. You got a bad knock on the head.’ He pats me on the hand. ‘How’re you feeling?’

‘Sore!’

‘Only to be expected.’

‘Sore all over.’ Even as I say it, I realise how true it is. I put my hand up to my face and head. Then I notice two of my fingers are in a splint and my face is all swollen.

‘Take it easy, Greg! You have a few stitches.’ A grey-faced old man in the next bed starts a racking cough. Coach looks uncomfortable, and turns his chair the other way. ‘Old and sick – comes to us all,’ he mutters under his breath.

From outside in the corridor I hear heavy, familiar
footsteps, and a voice asking directions. Dad!

‘Greg!’ He’s suddenly standing at the bed. He bends down and hugs me close, smelling of sweat and garlic salami and home.

‘I got here as quick as I could.’ Dad looks me up and down and only then seems to notice Coach.

‘Mr Hudson, isn’t it?’

‘Nice to meet you again, Mr Dolphin. We met briefly last term at the Matthews match.’

‘Christopher, please.’

‘I brought the boy here straight away, and I’ve stayed with him since. He’s coming round.’

‘I appreciate it, Mr Hudson.’

‘I tried to phone your home and get in touch with your wife, and so did the school secretary,’ Coach says. ‘But no luck.’

‘I know, I’m sorry.’ Dad doesn’t bother to offer an explanation.

‘Greg will be okay. It’s all part of rugby. They all get knocks, but generally they bounce back,’ Mr Hudson says, then adds, ‘Look, I’d better leave the two of you. I have to get home.’

Dad nods, and Mr Hudson after a few minutes says goodbye, then finally disappears, his bulky figure
ambling out the door of the ward.

My Dad sits in silence, staring at me, then hugs me again. ‘Thank God you’re all right, Greg! You can’t imagine what it’s been like driving here.’

He holds me so close to him that I can hear his heartbeat. When I was small, I used to sit on his lap and we would watch the sport on the television. He’d turn the sound down low and I would listen to the bump, bump, bump of his heartbeat. He moves, embarrassed, and releases me.

‘Gran is at home now, minding the others.’

I don’t actually care about the rest of them or home at the moment. I feel it is just Dad and me, back in those long-ago days and I want to hear that bump, bump, bump again.

‘Look, Greg! Is that your doctor?’

I nod my sore, heavy head.

‘I want to talk to her. I’ll be back in a minute.’

Doctor Scully is talking to a large, middle-aged man who is wearing a big blue-green bow-tie. He must be another doctor. Spotting my Dad, they both turn to talk to him.

Dad is all anxious and excited. I can tell by the way he’s standing and rubbing the back of his neck.

Every few minutes they glance in my direction. Nice to know they remember that I’m still here. At last Dad shakes hands with both of them as if they had performed some kind of miracle. Finally, Dad comes back to me.

‘Well, Greg! Dr Scully and the consultant say a few more tests in the morning and, all being well, you might be let home tomorrow. Bad concussion – better to be safe than sorry!’

‘Yeah, Dad! That must be a relief – you won’t have to waste any more time off work.’ Like a spear I shove the words in, and then roll over on my side. Never look at the victim’s face. I read that in some kind of army training manual. ‘I’m tired, Dad, I want to sleep,’ I drawl and pretend to yawn. I know I’m being really mean and unfair, but I just don’t care right now.

‘Sure you do, son! I understand. You sleep and I’ll just sit here and keep you company for a while.’

When I wake up it’s about half-ten. Dad is gone. The nurse is going around with a trolley of mugs of tea and coffee. She passes me a mug of boiling hot tea and I sip it slowly, letting the heat burn my lips and tongue slightly. The numbness in my face has worn off. I can feel again.