Cryers Hill (21 page)

T
HERE IS A
photograph of a man in Mrs Roys' house. It stands on the table in a metal frame among a small crowd of other faces in similar frames. This man does not appear offended, as some of the faces do, at the sight of an untidy boy in their midst, but seems instead to be amused and enquiring and youthfully alert. Sean sees the man is staring directly at him, unlike some of the subjects, who present their profiles to the camera as they gaze contemplatively away. The man is wearing uniform. A soldier?
My darling Mary. I shall have to close.
Sean touches the edge of the metal frame; it is smooth and cold. He has been listening to Mrs Roys in the kitchen, pouring the lime-fizzed drink that probably isn't poisoned. Now she is here, unsure momentarily where to set down the tray, each banana slipper pointing in a different direction, while she smiles apologetically.

'Oh yes,' she says, on seeing the frame repositioned, Sean's fingers at its corner. 'Do you like soldiers?'

'No,' Sean replies.

'Oh.'

'I like astronauts.'

'I see. Yes, of course. Shall we have our drinks?'

Sean and Mrs Roys sit in companionable silence while the shrubs wobble in the breeze outside. Sean tries not to slurp. Ann will believe him eventually:
Her name is Mrs Roys, she has banana feet, she gives me tingly drinks, she has photographs, I have to do important jobs.

'What do you think of the moon landings?'

Mrs Roys' question surprises all the objects in the room. Sean's ice cube crashes inside his glass. He sees the fireplace gawping in disbelief. No one has asked him this question before. This is his starter for ten, his heart's desire. Sentences line up in his mouth: about Neil, about Buzz, about
Eagle
and the lunar module and the Sea of Tranquillity.

''S'all right.'

Sean wonders why she is so interested. If he was a detective he would know. What could an old woman want with the moon? Godnose. He slurps his ice cube. It was hard to think straight in someone else's house. Think, you spaz.

'I was born in 1913. If you'd talked about men on the moon in those days you would be assumed to be pretty queer.'

Sean says nothing. He is not in a position to agree or disagree. She has said numbers. It is a date when you say numbers, like 1942. A flaming flipping date.

'Turns out we had rather poor imaginations, don't you think? I mean, you have only got to look at television now, haven't you? Petroleum changed everything. And of course the war. And industry, not forgetting that.'

Sean wonders what the bludyell she's saying. He recognises some of it. Television. War. Is he supposed to talk now? Sean glances at her.

'Of course you're far too young to understand. Silly me. What do you know of it all?'

There, she agrees that you are a spaz. She knows you know nothing. Daft bat. He knows plenty. He has the number to ring. He knows stuff she doesn't know. Stuff that would blow her out of her bananas. Well, must be off. Why won't he say it? Just say it. He speaks, finally.

'Nineteen forty-two.'

'What's that?'

Sean gets up to leave. Mustbeoff mustbeoff. He turns to look at the photograph and the face of the soldier gazes genially back. He wishes he could have that picture in its cool metal frame. At home they don't have photographs in frames. He can hear Mrs Roys speaking.

'That man's name is Walter Brown.'

I know I know I know I know.

'He was born here too. They lived on Valley Road, he and his mother. What was her name? Nice man. He loved the woods. He used to catch rabbits, he and his bowler-hatted chum. And he loved the dewponds.'

Sean feels his mouth filling up with things to say.

'Poor man,' Mrs Roys sighs.

None of the things in Sean's mouth have made it out yet. He looks at her.

'Poor Walter,' she says.

Sean nods as though he knows what she means. mista waltr. The man who has written the blue letters which Sean is nearly-reading. mista waltr. If the soldier man is mista waltr then Mrs Roys must be mary hat. There, he has left no stone unturned.
For your information,
this is what Ann says. Well,
for your information
he is a detective, almost. Wur.

'Poor Walter.'

She has drifted away in her face, gone off. Sean glances at the limp bananas on the end of her legs. He feels ashamed of himself, embarrassed for her. He shouldn't be here. You are not allowed to talk to strangers. You are not supposed to water their pots or sit on their settees or make them sad or steal their things. He will be in big trouble.

'Walter couldn't swim a stroke,' Mrs Roys pipes suddenly. 'Although he loved a girl who could.' And now her sadness is gone, just like that. Mrs Roys is too quick for him, Sean decides. She looks at him brightly and winks.

'Are you mary hat?'

Mrs Roys doesn't move or blink or speak, even after the question has completely dissolved in the air and there is nothing left to fill the space between them. Sean wonders whether he will have to wait here until he grows taller before he gets an answer. Or whether Mrs Roys is bewitched or has turned to stone.

His mother told him once that if something really awful happened and he needed help, he should call 999. He can't recall seeing a telephone here at Mrs Roys' house.

He wonders if he should ask the mary hat question again, or just go home, or call 999. He wonders if he should say, Get
back in the wagon, woman.
Or what.

'No,' she says at last. 'I'm Isabel.'

The world is mad, Sean can see that now. He is not prepared for a person called 'is a bell'. He has no plan now, or sensible reply.

'I am Isabel Hatt. My sister's name is Mary Hatt.'

Sean would like to kill himself, or at least run away. What is he supposed to do? Nobody mentioned a sister. What is he doing in Mary Hatt's sister's house? He is a thief and a spaz and a weirdo.

'How do you know my sister's name?'

Wur.

'Do you know something about my sister? Did your parents, your grandparents know her? Have your family lived here a long time?'

Wur. Wur. Wur.

'You're a funny one, aren't you?'

'I've got to go home now.' Spaz spaz spaz. Say it properly, I
must be off.

'Yes. Off you go. Good boy. Do you like puzzles?'

'No.'

The sunlight is there on the front step again, waiting. It hurls itself over them as the door swings open and they are dazzled momentarily by the brightness.

'Ta-ta, then.'

Sean is not altogether used to being hugged. He doesn't much like it. Mrs Roys hugs him now. She seems to like it. Being hugged by an elderly person is not as nice as you're supposed to pretend it is. You are closer to death in those arms. When they squeeze tight you suspect they may take you with them, off to the place the dead people go. You must resist and you do. And then you are petitioned for a kiss.

'Your leaflets!' she remembers. And the bananas march her out. He had completely forgotten about the leaflets. Fete. That's what the leaflets said. That was why he was here.

Sean runs. Here he is again in the place where he lives, running. Not running, sprinting. He pumps his arms. Executive strides; rhythmical: Weirdo. Murderer. Madman. Spaz. Weirdo. Murderer. Madman. Spaz.

9th February 1943, M.E.F.

Dearest Mary,

It's been a while since your last letter. I hope you are well and not working too hard. I hope John and Ida are in good spirits, and Isabel too over there in Kingshill. Any news of Clem? Or Joseph?

Well, Mary, in Tripoli I saw Monty take the salute at the march past – a moving experience. The cathedral and promenade there are lovely. The shops were mostly closed, but I enjoyed the change. Arthur's ear is troubling him again. At night the sky is vivid red, shading to the palest salmon pink. I saw a film in Castle Benito, though the light came through the shrapnel holes and faded the picture somewhat. Jerry still raids constantly, lighting up the night sky until it is bright as day. Churchill is in Tripoli tomorrow. This means we now have to salute when we are there and we cannot go into the town if there are stains on our suits. Am entirely fed up with army biscuits. What we would give for some bread!

Later.

Arthur has been touching the top of the tent with his head and now rain is coming in. However, we found a tin of Australian peaches and one of corned beef – we ate the lot. I bought you a book of views in Tripoli as Arthur and I went around the Arab and Turkish quarters. And I now have two school exercise books that I obtained in town, which I am using for letter-writing as I can now fill several sides! I bought a fountain pen too. I hope I am allowed to send them to you.

Later:

Arthur has to go into hospital in Tripoli. He is worried about it of course. One hundred per cent bullshit here, if you will pardon the expression, though now we're allowed to wear shorts without woollen hose. I have eaten a tin of sardines. On the move again.

Later:

Tripoli has just been bombed and the lovely promenade was hit slap-bang in the centre. All the hospitals are being emptied and Arthur has been moved. We have passed through Zavia, Sabrate – wooded country – and you can see the blue Mediterranean. We camped on sandhills among blue flowers like primroses. Now we are in Tunisia after going through Bengardane. Rooney is a very greedy fellow over rations. I cannot understand him.

Beneath this sand there is heavy chalk rock. It's the very devil digging in and we have had plenty of action call-outs. While we were laughing over something at the Command Post, a squadron leader was killed – shot in the head. Typhus has broken out in places.

Apparently people at home think we are having marvellous food. Please, Mary, tell them not to be so silly. At most we have 15 biscuits a day and teas are thin. Yes, we had turkey and pork for Christmas, true, but under what conditions? And it was only part-cooked.

Later.

Today I saw a bird drawn backwards by the dropping of a Jerry bomb, then hurled forward by our guns. Odd, what you notice. We have a night guard of 15 instead of 6 now and different passwords each day.

Later:

We have moved on. We are now near the American and South African armies – there are double guards everywhere. No vegetation here at all – just sand and beetles. I watched a most beautiful caterpillar yesterday as our tanks were broken through and we hurriedly moved a mine back (being bombed 3 times as we did so). A major and 2 men were killed. The raids are sharp and quick. I called your name as I lay in the dirt. On 7th March Gunner Douglas Smith was killed with Harry Mills, Jack Davies and 8 others. A bomb hit 30 yards from me. We have made a wooden cross for Doug's grave. All the dead men have correspondence that has just arrived. We prayed a bit at Doug's grave.

Later:

We have been badly strafed and Stuka-bombed. It was deafening and would have sorted out Arthur's other ear if he had been with us. Gunner John Butler died in hospital and Bdr Gray is still shell-shocked – really stunned he is, only half here. We had a march today and were inspected of all things! Hard to believe while men are dying all around.

1700 hrs:

We are arrived at a fort in a range of hills. So much action we can't dig in till morning. Hard stone beneath, so you can only go in about one foot. You have to hold hard against the terrific attack barrage, otherwise it begins to get to you, easy to feel demoralised. It is hot and I have had no proper sleep for a week. Bert Jones has had his arm off.

Our shadows on the sand in the moonlight look grotesque. Guns and Bofors pop. I found a dead snake and we heard some news on the wireless. Terribly low Kitty Hawks overhead. Please let there be a letter from you tomorrow. Do you care for me, Mary? God knows I care for you. Sweet dreams.

Yours, Walter xx

*

A cat has been cemented on Lilac Drive, at the top of the estate, where the new, more expensive houses gloat condescendingly down on the others. Everybody is asking, what cat? Is it dead? A woman with a tissue up her sleeve said, 'Was it done deliberately?' She said it accusingly, with her chin tilted, as if she suspected it was. Sean knows it was done deliberately, only a spaz would think otherwise. What kind of self-regarding cat would have an accident involving cement. And besides, there was concrete evidence. That's what Gor said. He said it over and over until he'd spoken it to every single person on the estate. 'Concrete evidence,' tipping his head back and groaning with laughter, while everyone looked at his fillings. The rumour is that a cat fell asleep in the sun on drying concrete and awoke to discover itself stuck fast. Adam swears it is true. One of the parents said, 'Pity it wasn't one of the bloody kids,' and got a big laugh. This, surely, proved that dogs were cleverer than cats. The dogs didn't have a problem with wet cement. They ran straight over it, pockmarking its surface with every imaginable style of print. Likewise the kids knew you had to ride your bike over it quickly, trailing rattlesnake patterns across people's nearly-patios for all time.

The cement-cat episode drew kids up to Lilac Drive. They hung about and stared at the windows, hoping for a glimpse of something, anything: policemen, grief, fur. A few of them peered into a sun-filled, roofless house. It was unpainted inside and sweet with the smell of split wood. It was hard not to be impressed, upstairs and down. These had an extra small bedroom and, mysteriously, an extra toilet in the hall; perhaps in case two people needed to go at exactly the same time. There were doors at the back that opened onto a little patio, as well as a mud patch waiting for turf. They had creosote fencing instead of chicken wire. Charlie wrote a phonetic obscenity on the window frame and biro'd a huge pair of tits on the wall. Dean did a crap in an unplumbed toilet he found waiting outside on the path.

The houses at the top were the land developer's stroke of genius. They sold quickly and the new occupants named them after unspoilt moors in the Chilterns on pieces of varnished wood. From the carefully appointed windows they could observe the cheaper houses below, descending in their wildflower cul-de-sacs.