What I Did (9 page)

And I realized peregrine fast that I had done an idiot thing. I'm not talking about losing Vince. I'm talking about asking Mum not to tell Dad I lost him. Because Dad would find out anyway. And when he did find out he'd be crosser than if I'd told him.

That's what he says and it's true! He's always saying it.

— The worst thing is a lie, Son. I don't care what you've done, I just care if you don't tell me.

 

Now Dad comes into the front room and quietly sits down next to me to watch the last of the
Meat Eaters
. This sofa is quite old. The springs aren't really excellent anymore. When Dad leans back next to me the seat cushions sort of dip down and gravity means I go that way, too, and his arm is on the high bit of the back, so I end up leaning on him with one ear against his chest. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub. Sweatshirts don't have buttons which is good because buttons dig into your ears. Mum must have found a way to get rid of Butterfly in the end, so everything must be okay again, and that must be why Dad is happy to sit back and watch David Attenborough with me without saying anything right up until the end: yawning lion, swelly music, flying words. He watches in silence with me until the BBC yo-yo comes to a stop. Then he reaches for the mote control and . . . off.

Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub.

— What did you tell her, Son?

— Who? I ask, sitting up.

— You know who. The woman who came to speak to us.

I shut one eye and line the blurry tip of my nose up with the edge of the curtain, and one leg sticks itself out straight as the other one wriggles back up under my bum. Then the legs swap over so I shut the other eye and move my head so that the curtain-nose-line works the other way around. I'm not sure what the right answer is anyway.

— Stop wriggling about and tell me. Whatever you said, it's okay.

— No, I say quietly. — It's probably not.

— If I say it's okay, it's okay. Do I look like I'm about to be cross?

— No.

— Then tell me.

— I'm sorry I said it, I say.

— Said what?

— Will you really not be cross?

— I'm nothing if not a man of my word. And I say there's nothing you could have told her that wouldn't be fine by me.

— Okay then, but . . . I'm sorry.

— Spit it out, Billy.

— I told her that I wanted her to go away. But I didn't mean it nastily. I hadn't even got to the gray wolves because the cheetah cub was stuck, and she kept asking me questions. Go away just sort of came out.

Dad's red arm drops down round my shoulder and he pulls my head into his chest again. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub. Eventually he says, — Don't worry about it. I told her much the same thing.

This makes me feel immediately good, like going past the top bit of the hill on my bike. Freewheel! The top bit of our hill is called its summit, and freewheeling means you can control everything with the brakes. Take a rest, tricky pedals, I'm on the brakes now.

— Did you chat about anything else with her, though? Before you asked her to leave.

— Not really.

— She must have asked you some questions.

— She did but they were boring.

— I see. Still, can you remember what they were?

— I had to explain food chains, I think. Some grown-ups don't know very much.

— That's true. Food chains, eh. Anything else?

— Would you like a game of chess?

— Not just yet, Son.

— She didn't even know that it hurts if you fall off a wall. She was quite kind with my trousers, though. I said thank you before I said go away and then I said sorry. That's really everything I can remember. Would you like a game of chess now?

Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub.

— Okay. Fetch the board.

 

Back when the house was a cat's pupil because Dad had come home I knew I had to be truthful straightaway so I went into the hall while he was still taking off his coat. Some hooks on the rack are too high for me but I use the toolbox. Tooling is very human and prime-apes have been known to use basic tools as well. I ran up trying to tell him about Vince immediately because then it would be over and out and said, but Mum got there first and said to Dad, but really to me, about Dad, — Here he is, hunter of elk, trapper of furs, fisher of . . . fish. Dad! Good day?

And a lot was waiting in the air before he turned around from hanging up his coat with the burn in the sleeve from the bonfire, and the funny thing was that it wasn't just a lot waiting in the air for me. Mum had a face which was a little bit too happy and a little bit too stuck on. And Dad turned round and noticed.

— Ah the weather girl, he said. — Don't you worry, low dispersing, clear skies ahead.

Mum gave him a hug after that and even put her chin on his shoulder for a second. Then she saw me standing behind them, and winked.

But that made it even worse! Because then it was all down to me and my news about Vince the Tiddlo, which would make everything . . . worse! So I half didn't say it but I had to be truthful so it half came out anyway.

— Dad sorry I wish I was more careful, not an idiot, Vince . . .

— What's that, Son?

— I didn't mean to, it was an accident and . . .

— Slowly. He bounced down, squatting on his heels, bounce, bounce, bounce, and his face was second-beer friendly.

— It was an accident. Tesco. The freezer. I lost my Tiddlo. I lost Vince.

Dad looked up to Mum and shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. — What's he on about?

— Those little plastic collectibles. You know the ones, she said.

Dad turned back to me and his eyes went narrow and for a second it could have been a bad face, narrowing sharp to come up with something that might cut you. But then just there around his eyes there were creases. He put a hand up to his mouth and nodded his head with a serious I-see look, but there was definitely a smile behind the hand. Some nontoxic creatures dress themselves up like the ones that are actually venomous who they are pretending to be. More camouflage. I didn't like the smile. Sharp narrow would have been better actually. He thought I was funny.

— Son, he said. — Son.

He pulled me into his neck which smelled of outside, of leaves, raking, the mud that comes up. I wanted to pull away and go upstairs but at the same time I didn't. I could feel his chest tight with something that was holding onto itself. Was he trying not to laugh? Or was I wrong? Maybe he was trying not to cry? Human behavior is extraordinarily complex. Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub.

— Son, he said again, more softly. — I am very sorry for your loss.

 

We play chess quite often and I know how the knight moves. Over there, that's right, and up one. And while you're at it fetch your mate. He can do the same thing in that direction. Along two and up a square. Pincer movement! Dog legs! We play for a bit because Mum has gone back to bed. When I was vertically four Dad instructed me on how to set the board up and what all the pieces are called and which squares they're allowed to move to and I made a very idiot mistake involving seafood.

— Pawns, son, P . . . A . . . W . . . N . . . S: noble foot-soldiers. Never to be confused with the scavengers of the ocean.

He generally likes to hear that mistake again and occasionally when we play I make a joke about it to keep him hugely amused but I don't say it today because I can tell he's not in the mood. Sadly I can also tell that he isn't really concentrating on our game. Shall I tell you how I know? Okay. It's because he wins it too quickly and then he wins the next game fast as well. It's not particularly fair and normally I would say something like hey that's not fair, my brain is not fully developed, but I don't today because he's not in the mood for that either, I can tell. After the third game in which he really easily captivates me before I've even got my pawns in a wedge he checks his watch and then jumps up and says, — Christ I nearly forgot.

— Forgot what? I ask. It rhymes.

— We're supposed to be having tea with Cicely and Lizzie. He pulls out his phone and says, — Find your shoes and coat.

I put them on and stand by the door, very quickly.

 

And off we go round to visit Cicely and Lizzie. They live in a house you can walk to which is useful. Conkers also have something useful called a spiked shell for defense. Echidnas are rarer than hedgehogs. Cicely and Lizzie's house is quite like our house because it has a front door and a kitchen, and even some cupboards that connect to each other which are brilliant for hiding in because you can go in one door and come out of another one, but we don't have anything like that in our house, and the other thing that is different is that their house isn't a house at all! It's flat, instead. Flat like a slice. Another way you can look at it is to say hey, look, this is only a part of a house, it's not meant to be a whole one, which creates the word apartment to use instead of flat, whichever you prefer. Both words make brilliant sense. So I don't understand why Dad and Mum always say let's go to Cicely and Lizzie's
house
, which doesn't make any sense at all, but that's still what they almost always do say.

Mostly Dad, actually, because it's normally me and him who go visiting.

Which is sad for Mum because Cicely is her sister. But that's the way it goes: Mum simply has to work too tirelessly to go round and visit people like her sister Cicely as much as Dad and me do.

Normally we go there at lunch or dinner because Cicely is a fantastic cook. There's a fox who is fantastic in a story with no tail. He is called Fantastic Mr. Fox.

Can you count to a hundred in tens? I can. It's easy, and here's how: ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety, one hundred.

Six is one more than half of ten.

But Lizzie, who belongs to Cicely, because everyone in a family belongs to the other people in it, well Lizzie isn't even three! Which means she's got to carry on living for five times all the days she's lived already before she'll even get to ten years old, and it will take ten of those ten years to make a hundred. You have ages to go, Lizzie! Neons!

The first thing I do after Cicely opens the door and says, — Hello Billy, is say — Hello, back. But the first interesting thing that I do is run in to the main room to look at the fish. — Hi fish, I say. The fish open and shut their mouths. This is because they are sucking in water to pump through their gills and get the bubbles out of it to breathe with, and not because they are trying to speak. Only an idiot would think that a fish could speak. They can't. Neither can Lizzie. She is too young to say anything yet, and she can't suck the bubbles out of water either. Still, Son, you were rabbiting on for England when you were her age.

 

Rabbits can't speak either except in
Watership Down
which is actually quite a frightening film. There is a snare which Bigwig puts his head into, and Hazel nearly dies of bullets in a log. The sky turns red and runs down into a field. I watched it with Dad near Christmas when I was still five and kept seeing the bloody field when I woke up. Actually it was when I was asleep, and it woke me up, so Mum came to settle me back down again. — Jesus, Jim, what were you thinking?

 

Lizzie doesn't have a dad.

She must have had one once because babies don't just arrive on doorsteps. The stories about stalks aren't true. You need a father and a mother, which equals a male and a female, who must do some mating with sperms and an egg. It is truly miraculous. — When you popped out, Son, that's the closest I've ever come to believing in God. Four weeks in and I was reviewing my thoughts on hell, too. That's a joke.

In fact it wasn't God who made me, but Dad and Mum, and I think Mum did most of the work in her room. Cicely did most of the work making Lizzie, too, and now she's doing it all because Lizzie's dad doesn't exist.

Still, Lizzie has a tank of topical fish. I open my mouth and shut my mouth in time with the big one and see Lizzie's reflection in the glass of the fish tank coming up behind me. She is carrying her drill in one hand and a circular saw in the other, and she is wearing her little yellow work helmet. She gives me the circular saw. I follow her into the little hall place where she has a small workbench thing next to the shoe rack, and I press the trigger a few times to whiz the little thing inside which makes the buzzing noise. We do some pretend making for a bit and as we do it I give Lizzie a running comment tree.

Shall I tell you why?

Okay, I will, but it is a secret, and the secret is this: it may sound stupid talking to somebody who never says anything back because what's the point of that, but I still say words to Lizzie even though she cannot speak yet because I'm doing it on purpose! It's a project. I am going to be the first person Lizzie says a word to. I know I am, because I am the one mostly filling her up with the speaking ingredients.

— What do you think, Lizzie? I say. — Shall we make it long or short, like this or this, with this hook thing here called a hook, or a screw which is twisty and a screw? It's up to you. Do you like sawing? I like sawing, with a saw. This saw is circular because this is a round bit called a circle, with teeth, which makes it a saw.

Lizzie smiles at me and says nothing back. Then she immediately decides she wants the circular saw. But instead of saying Hey, can I have a go on the circular saw now, Billy, please, she just bursts into tears and drops her drill and slumps down in a heap and her head goes back and her face crumples up like a crisp packet if you hold it over some flames. Never play with fire, Son: it's addictive as well as dangerous. After her face crumples up Lizzie's mouth carries on being a crisp packet: the hottest bit in the crumply middle melts into a hole you can look into or scream out of.

Lizzie screams.