Breaking Light (7 page)

‘My dad never said so …' Michael insisted, but stepped into the shadow just the same, so that they were standing, hidden, a few feet apart when they saw the man who was Michael's father hand over a thick envelope to Uncle Gerry, who took it – but uncertainly.

‘What's that?' Gabriel hissed.

‘No idea. Do you think they've met before?'

He did not reply, but stared in wonder at the two adults as they shook hands and smiled at each other before parting. The two boys watched in silence as Michael's father strolled casually along the lane towards the main road. The sun shone off the brilliantine in his dark hair and, as he walked, he loosened the knot in his tie.

‘Perhaps Dad came to offer to help Uncle Gerry repair the old shed – he's very strong, you know,' Michael said, thoughtfully, and added, ‘Honest – he is.'

Gabriel believed it and suddenly he hated his friend. Michael's father was no longer the absent Mr Bradley but this
dad
who had come between them. The hedge stank of rank sweat, he noticed, and he started to itch where a nettle had stung his shin the previous day. It was hateful. ‘I don't think he could build a shed,' he lied. ‘His hands don't look big enough.' A weevil was crossing a patch of sunlight at his feet and he crushed it with his plimsoll.
It made him feel better – but only briefly. His despair had not crumpled.

‘But they are!' Michael protested desperately. ‘They're as big as a bull's hooves.'

‘Bulls' hooves are sometimes quite small,' he said brutally and laughed.

The other boy looked at him incredulously. ‘You're just being mean. Anyway, you don't know what my dad's hands are like – only I know that,' he said, sulking.

This was true, of course, and it only made it worse. ‘And you're just stupid!' he flared, to shield himself.

Michael looked at him with dark eyes – and went away.

‘Yeah, just go away!'

Gabriel remained for a moment, but trembled as a bumblebee bounced off a cluster of violets.

*

The shadows were longer and flies had gathered around the crushed beetle when Gabriel dared to venture out from under the shadow of the hedge. Michael was drawing on a piece of paper at Uncle Gerry's oak table when he entered the cottage. He could see that Michael had been crying – there were dirty streaks on his cheeks – and this made him cautious, as if he had just entered a room where somebody lay sick in bed. Michael did not look up but continued to push his crayons hard into the paper, the grain of the oak showing up in the drawing where the boy had coloured in. Gabriel went over to the sideboard and fiddled with some fossils that were displayed there. Just then, Uncle Gerry entered from the yard.

‘All right, boys, let's try to make up, shall we?'

Neither boy looked up but Michael stabbed his drawing with a red crayon.

‘Come on, you two; I'm sure this is just a misunderstanding. Tell me what happened.'

Still they kept their silence.

Uncle Gerry sighed. ‘Well, whatever it is, you'd better get over it now. I need your help staking up the old shed for the chickens.'

This offered a welcome distraction for the two boys, in whose minds the cause of the argument was already beginning to fade. But the hurt on the one part and the shame on the other lingered a little longer as they helped to dig supporting poles into the ground at the back of the shed. Until Michael suddenly remembered: ‘But wasn't my dad going to help you build a new shed, Mr Askew?'

‘Mr Bradley? Whatever gave you that idea?' He sounded genuinely perplexed.

‘Well …' He hesitated. ‘It's just that we saw you talk and shake hands.'

Uncle Gerry laughed briefly but composed himself. ‘Two men shaking hands does not necessarily indicate that they will build a shed together.'

‘But why—?'

‘Your father was just out for a walk and greeted me in passing.' The tone of his voice seemed to be closing the subject.

This sounded logical enough and the boys dared to glance sidelong at each other. After all, they did not yet know what it takes to build a shed. But then Gabriel remembered: ‘But what was in the envelope?'

‘What envelope?' This time he sounded less casual.

‘The envelope Mr Bradley gave you!'

‘He did not give me an envelope – you're imagining things.'

Gabriel stared in disbelief. ‘But I saw it. He did. He
did
!' He was close to tears; everyone seemed to be against him today.

‘It's true! I saw it too.' Michael was just as agitated.

Gabriel took a step closer to his friend and was rewarded with the sand smell of his skin.

Uncle Gerry looked at them in a strange way. ‘Ah, bugger it,' he swore and kicked at one of the poles. ‘All this secrecy – it's ridiculous – idiotic!'

The boys were silent and wide-eyed as the man put an arm over each of their shoulders and led them back into the house. He poured himself a drink from the Bell's bottle and took a sip before clearing his throat. ‘Mr Bradley has very generously decided to fund an operation.' There: it was said.

‘An operation? Are you sick, Uncle?' Gabriel was suddenly scared.

‘No, Gabe, I'm fine …' He took another sip. ‘Listen, my lad; ever since you were a little boy, your mother and I have been wanting … hoping … to mend your face. But it has not been easy; there was the war … We both lost a lot in the war and it has taken a while for us to get back on our feet. Your mother has been working very hard but there's never enough to put aside … and I … I have been rather useless lately. Not particularly reliable.' He laughed coarsely and drained his glass.

Michael took Gabriel's hand in his and the warmth of their palms protected them.

The man would not look at them as he poured another drink. ‘Anyway, that's of no consequence now that Mr Bradley has
come back.' He seemed to snarl the name, but Gabriel only noticed the last bit.

‘Come back? Has he been here before?'

But Uncle Gerry ignored this question and continued: ‘The long and the short of it is that Mr Bradley has offered to pay for your operation. He came here to discuss the details … You will be taken to the hospital in Exeter at the end of the summer – and your face will be as good as new by Christmas.'

‘But why would my dad organise the operation? He has never even met Gabe.'

‘Your father is a rich man, Michael – and that explains a lot. He can afford that which we fail to offer.'

But Gabriel, on his part, was not surprised. Hadn't he always known that he was not in charge of his own life? That things relating to him could be passed around in brown envelopes? That he was the wrong one that needed mending? Even Michael's dad knew it. And so Gabriel gravely accepted this telling of an operation, which he understood was offered as a form of kindness. And yet, at this hour of sunset, when the obscure light that fell through the window of the cottage was further dulled by the rose that climbed outside, Gabriel realised that there was another mystery to his life. Because, although his intuition told him that he was quite alone in the adult world, he knew that in a parallel existence, where he was expected to have a purpose, there
were
things that could be relied upon – insubstantial things, perhaps, but still reliable: the song of the river and the rustle of the trees, for instance, and the smoke of blossom through the hawthorn, the broken shadow of the standing stone and the watching eye of the red kite. And there was that other part which would make him whole. There was Michael.

*

Mr Askew found himself in Rowden's, lost amongst bird feeders, scented Hello Kitty stickers and Barbour oilskins. The hardware store catered for the gentleman farmer, burnt-out banker and staycation tourist alike. With a rising sense of panic, he slogged past stacks of purple-glazed pottery, sheepskin slippers and New Age calendars, only to bump his foot on a sit-on lawnmower, conveniently parked at the end of an aisle. He whimpered damply but soldiered on until he reached the homeware section where he was faced with a dizzying array of cleaning products. Their names seemed negatively correlated to their chemical content, so that, on reading the label, one would realise that ‘Spring Fresh' was slightly more poisonous than ‘Fields of Lavender', whereas ‘Footprint' was not quite as filthy as it sounded. There was even a washing-up liquid dispenser shaped like a toy gun, called ‘Sani-girl'. Mr Askew looked anxiously along the shelves until, at last, he found the ‘Mr Muscle' section. Quickly, he grabbed a few bright coloured bottles and looked around for some rubber gloves and sponges. Thus fully armed, he started the retreat towards the till. Apologising profusely, he squeezed past a couple of equestrian-looking women – who stepped aside, as if to let pass the great unwashed – and a Japanese tourist studying a doorstopper in the shape of a skimpily-dressed fairy bending over unnecessarily to smell a flower at her feet.

The shop assistant had not yet grown out of her puppy fat, and her breasts bulged alarmingly out of a tight top, which read, ‘
BRAIN FIRST, BODY SECOND
'.

‘You get one of these half price with any purchase over ten quid,' she said, as her text-trained fingers stamped the figures into an old-fashioned till.

‘I beg your pardon?'

She looked up at him then, but without interest, and gestured towards a rack of neon-coloured plastic key holders to one side. ‘You get to choose one of them with your name on it.'

‘Oh.'

‘Only half price – it's a bargain – and they glow in the dark.'

He looked in despair at the names on the plastic rectangles. Gabriel did not appear amongst the Beverleys, Olivias, Alfies, Mohammeds and Dylans. ‘That is –' he hesitated – ‘most kind, but no thank you.'

‘Are you sure?' She looked unaffectedly perplexed, one of her acrylic nails hovering uncertainly over the
enter
button.

‘Yes, yes, quite sure.'

‘Ah, well, you're really missing a bargain.' She was good at her job, and disappointed in him.

*

It had started to rain by the time he got out into the street and a mound of horse manure was disintegrating into the cobbles at his feet. He took a deep breath, holding the bag with his shopping tightly against his chest. He could no longer face going to the allotment today, and yet he could not stay at home – the new cleaning lady was expected at noon. How he wished that he had not let himself be inconvenienced in this manner. But this, he realised, like so many other things, was something that he would just have to endure. He started shuffling along Market Street, his mac flapping around his calves and his downturned gaze recognising every pebble, curb and dent along the worn-out route.

Outside Wilkinson's, something colourful stirred in the corner of his eye and he looked up to see the woman from the allotment holding a box of root vegetables in her arms. He was surprised, almost shocked, to see her there, out of their common
element. Suddenly he was aware of the sour smell from under his pullover and held his arms closer to his body. She had spotted him and smiled as if about to say something. Just then a young man opened the door of the shop and exclaimed, ‘Wow, look at that. Thanks so much – that's an amazing crop for this time of year.'

‘Yes,' she laughed, ‘I'll say it is.'

He saw that her wrists were too thin inside a cuff of gold bangles and wished he could have helped her carry the box. But the young man had already taken it from her and was turning back into the shop, gesturing for her to follow. He walked on then, but heard them behind him: ‘Who was that? A friend of yours?'

‘He lives up at Oakstone, I believe.'

‘Ah, the famous
professor
.'

‘I didn't know he was a professor.'

‘Nah, he doesn't look it, does he?'

‘Look it?'

‘You know … clever.'

‘No?'

‘Don't get me wrong, he's a nice-looking geezer, but he seems a bit … well, peculiar – as if he needs looking after.'

‘Don't we all.' She laughed.

‘Well, now, you see!'

The door closed behind their gay voices and Mr Askew trotted on along the wet street, once again safely out of reach.

*

He had barely got into the house when she rang the bell; the floor was still wet where his mac had dripped. ‘Oh dear,' he moaned. ‘I'm not ready yet.' But there was no going back and there she was when he opened the door. She was peering out
from under a clear umbrella dotted with hectic-looking ladybirds. Her blue eyes were the kind that would scan a room and not miss anything – and yet not quite
see
. He noticed that her face at that moment looked quite callous. He smiled at her and she looked appalled.

‘Afternoon, Mr Askew. It's me, Doris Ludgate, come to clean the house.'

‘How do you do?' He didn't quite catch her name, but politeness was always a form of protection.

‘Can I come in, then?'

‘Yes, yes, of course.' He stepped aside to let her pass. She was wearing a pair of wellingtons, but fished out the same white trainers from a plastic bag and put them down on the checked tiles in the hall. She kicked off the rubber boots with surprising agility and bent over to put on the trainers, her behind bulging dangerously and forcing him to take a step back until he was pressed against the wall.

She stood to face him. ‘There. That's better. Now, where shall I start?'

This too was something he had failed to contemplate. Somewhere in a far corner of his mind, he heard his mother's voice: ‘Don't you dare come in here and mess up my kitchen!' And just then, he remembered Michael's mum dropping the pancake spatula by the old Aga – and the greasy skid mark on the floor tiles. For a moment, he could smell her beauty in the room – the perfume on her skin – something sweet intermingled with the woodiness of iris. She knew all along and she did nothing. And yet I can't hold it against her. It was the first time I was persuaded by beauty in a person.