Inchworm (12 page)

Daddy phones the girlfriend and I can’t help overhearing, even though he gets up and walks around. He’s telling her to cool it, and be reasonable. I think she might be jealous. ‘
Ciao
,’ he says and puts his mobile phone in his pocket. I wish he wouldn’t say ‘
Ciao
’. It sounds so… so false. He’s not Italian.

‘Daddy, are you going to look for the box of stuff?’

‘I suppose so. It might be in the cupboard under the stairs.’

It is: a dusty cobwebby cardboard box. He hauls it out, wipes it with a damp cloth and we sit on the floor to open it. It’s like Christmas.

Something big and bulky in cotton cloth. Daddy unwraps a large camera – a Rolleiflex.

‘A twin lens reflex, Guss, see – two lenses. Invented in
1928
– German.’

‘Is this what your grandfather used?’

‘I suppose it must be. Don’t remember my old man doing any photography.’

‘So, it’s the famous Amos Hartley Stevens’ camera?’

‘Yep, could be.’

‘Does it still work? Can you still get film for it?’

‘I think so. There’s a whizz-kid at the archive. I’ll ask him to check it over.’

We rummage deeper and find a pile of square card boxes, tied with string. Inside each one is a pile of film negatives
2
¼ x
2
¼ inches, separated by brown tissue paper. Holding them up to the light, we see black and white negative images of St Ives harbour and the town, boats and gulls and people.

‘I had no idea,’ says Daddy, shaking his head. ‘This is quite a find.’

‘What will you do with them?’

‘Get them printed. We’ll see how good they are then.’

He parcels them up carefully back in the boxes, which are dated –
1928
,
1929
,
1930
,
1931
,
1932
. Five years’ work by a famous Cornish photographer, hidden in Daddy’s cupboard (the work, not the photographer).

Daddy’s brought his laptop with him. It’s so amazing. I watch him type.

‘Daddy, could you give me a lesson in computers please?’

‘Sure. Not now, though. I have some catching up to do.’

Brett has a computer and I’m sure he’ll help me when I get home.

In the evening after a snack supper and my drugs regime we walk to the Royal Free Hospital. It’s only around the corner. We have a bag of stuff for Mum – soap, face cream, toothbrush, toothpaste, moisturiser, dressing gown.

‘Oh, I didn’t bring flowers!’ I say, and then remember that flowers aren’t allowed in hospital wards any more. The flower seller outside has lost his main customers. Mum would have loved some sunflowers. They’re her favourites after cornflowers, sweet peas and marigolds.

Mum is lying in bed wearing a hospital gown. She looks pale and not at all pretty, not even interesting and memorable. She gives me a weak smile and I kiss her cheek. Daddy does too.

‘Mummy, I thought you were going to die.’

She looks too frail to hug. I am crying again.

‘Oh Gussie, darling, you were so wonderful. Don’t cry now. I’m much better than I was last night,’ she says, ‘and about a stone lighter.’

‘Have you got a big scar?’

‘Not as big as yours.’

‘That’s all right then. We’ll compare them later.’ I say, wiping my face with my sleeve, and she smiles.

‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,’ she says. Then to Daddy, ‘It’s good of you to come.’

‘Not at all, not at all.’

‘You realise I’m not allowed to lift anything heavier than a half-full kettle for six weeks. Won’t be able to drive, can’t hoover, can’t hang up the washing. Can’t do a bloody thing.’

She’s upset. Mum hates being dependent, she prefers to be in charge. Daddy says she’s a control freak.

‘I’ll cope, Mum,’ I tell her. ‘When can you come home?’

‘Don’t be silly Guss,
I’ll
cope,’ says Daddy.

I feel proud of him. He’s come to our rescue in our time of need. Mum looks lovingly at him. Maybe they will get back together. Perhaps I should put off Alistair? Daddy will look after both of us. I feel suddenly hopeful that everything will be all right in the end. Our family
will
have a happy ending. I tell Mum about the hoard of hidden treasure we found.

‘I didn’t know you’d kept anything,’ she accused him. ‘You said you wanted nothing to do with anyone dead.’

‘You don’t know everything.’

‘Yes, well, you always were good at hiding things.’

‘Daddy, you like old movies and they’re full of dead people. Isn’t Jeanne Moreau dead?’

‘Gussie, shut up.’

‘But she’s your favourite actor.’ I’m trying hard to defuse the scene. It seems they can’t spend more than five minutes together without falling out. I should never have mentioned the camera. They were getting on fine before that.

‘Mum, I couldn’t find pyjamas or a nightie for you.’

‘I don’t have any, Gussie. I can’t sleep if I’m wearing something. I get tangled up in the night.’ She giggles. ‘You’ll never be able to stick me in an old people’s home. The staff would be traumatised seeing me naked every morning.

‘Jackson,’ she says to Daddy, ‘will you bring in my other glasses, please? My spare reading specs – the green ones, and I better have the red ones too if you can find them.’

‘What movie do you want to watch, Guss?’ Daddy is the best person in the world to watch a favourite movie with. We always speak the dialogue together. I don’t fancy anything serious like Truffaut, and I don’t really want to watch a Bollywood. Not
Fantasia
– boring
.
Not Busby Berkeley. Not
Kes
, too sad. Maybe an Indiana Jones movie, or
Waterworld?
Yes,
Waterworld
. I’ve only seen it three times. Hopefully it’s not a prophetic story. The world is flooded and survivors have made islands from old tankers and docks. The baddies are thugs on jet skis and they are called Smokers. They kidnap a child who has the tattoo of a map of where to find dry land on her back. It’s almost as exciting as an
Indiana Jones
movie but with interesting low-tech inventions, like a hot-air balloon made of animal skins and the hero’s boat, which has a sail made from cloth and skins.

I go to bed early, thankful that Daddy is the next room. I have daydreams of him always being there with me, watching old movies and showing me how to make photographs. Perhaps he could be my manager or agent and get me loads of important projects for glossy magazines. He could be my mentor, my guide; maybe I could even make movies if he would show me how.

Daddy watches me take my drugs and writes down the times and amounts on Mum’s chart. He takes me to the pet shop for mealworms and birdseed. I think he likes the birdfeeders in his garden, even though Alistair bought them. I feed Mr Robin some mealworms and get him to photograph me.

‘Very impressive. I’ll forget to feed the birds when you go home, you know that, don’t you?’

‘Of course you won’t. You couldn’t forget Mr Robin. He’ll remind you with a song. Wouldn’t you like a pet, Daddy? Don’t you miss the cats?’

‘No I don’t. Damned hair everywhere. Can you imagine that all over my suede sofas?’ He laughs and strokes my hair, attempting to flatten the spikes.

‘You don’t really prefer furniture to cats?’

‘You talking to me?’ he asks in a Robert de Niro voice, moving around like de Niro did to watch himself in the mirror. ‘You talking to me?’

I smile. He does it so well.

‘Yes, actually. Gussie, I know it’s sad but I do prefer well-designed, comfortable and beautiful furniture to cats.’ He smiles ruefully. Ruefully means that he wishes he didn’t feel that but he does. Poor Daddy, what a sad life. You can’t talk to sofas or cuddle them. He’s happy now the man with a machine has cleaned the carpet.

No chance to learn a new word today. I’m very tired.

I AM LOOKING
into an open grave where my mother is wrapped in a bloody shroud. I’m falling…

‘Shh, shh, it’s okay, honeybun, you’re having a bad dream.’

‘Oh Daddy, Daddy…’ I weep onto his shoulder. The towelling dressing gown, rough on my cheek, soaks up my tears.

MRS THOMAS! I
had completely forgotten about her eye operation. I phone and she’s at home. She’s got her cat, Shandy to keep her company and she’s feeling all right, but a bit sore. She’s not surprised about Mum being in hospital, she says: ‘I saw it coming.’

I phone Claire to see how my cats are. Gabriel answers.

‘Your cats are silly. They’re scared of ducks and rabbits. The cockerel hates them – chases them whenever he sees them. Charlie sits in my tree-house with me.’

‘How are they getting on with the puppy?’

‘Zennor? She’s frightened of them. Puts her tail between her legs and runs and hides.’

‘She doesn’t? How sweet!’

‘When are you coming home, Gussie?’

‘I don’t know, not as soon as I thought. Mum will have to recover from her operation first. I’ll let you know. Is your mum there?’

‘I’ll get her. Gussie, I have a new pet.’

‘Have you? What is it?’

‘You won’t tell Claire will you? It’s a secret pet.’

‘Tell me, Gabriel. What is it?’

‘It’s a spider.’

I imagine he means a house spider that he has put in a shoe-box or something. I’m reminded of a terrible thing I did once, when I was very little. I found a crab on the beach at Shoeburyness and wanted to keep it, but was told I couldn’t. I smuggled it home with me and I hid it in a box under my bed. It died, of course. The smell was so bad, Mum found out. She gave me such a hard time. Poor crab.

‘I like spiders,’ I say.

‘It’s a humungous spider, Gussie, Billy gave it to me. I swapped him a grass snake.’

‘I’ve never seen a grass snake.’

‘I’ll find you one when you come home. My spider’s a red-kneed tarantula. I call him Terry the Terrible. He was called Ivan the Terrible but he looks more like a Terry.’

‘A real tarantula? Wow! Is it a free-range spider?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Does it hunt for its own food?’

‘No, he’s in a terrarium under my bed.’

‘What does it eat, Gabriel?’

‘Whatever I catch. I have to go now. Don’t tell Claire about Terry. She doesn’t like spiders. Claire! Claire, it’s Gussie for you.’

I wonder what Claire will think next time she cleans under his bed. And what does a large spider eat? Large insects? Small birds? Mice? Must look it up.

‘Gussie, hello darling, how are you? How’s your mother? Is your father with you?’

‘Yes, he is.’

‘That’s good. Let me know if you need me. I can come any time.’

She says it’s all right for our cats to stay there for as long as they need to. That’s one problem solved. My cats are fine, anyway. They’re happy.

When we visit Mum, I take a bottle of elderflower cordial.

‘No whisky?’ she says.

‘Sorry.’

‘You could have disguised it in the elderflower bottle,’ she says.

‘Nah, don’t think so.’

I lean over and she kisses me and strokes my cheek.

‘Thank you for rescuing me,’ she says. ‘What would I do without you?’

I feel proud and sad, and my eyes smart. I tell her Claire sends her love.

‘Yes, Jackson, you really should meet your relations – such nice people, surprisingly so in fact.’

‘Mum!’ I say, threateningly.

We open our mail, which has been sent on by Mrs Thomas, including my copy of
Bird Magazine
. Mum suggests I send them photos of me feeding Mr Robin mealworms from my hand. What a good idea. It might be the breakthrough I need to make me a famous wildlife photographer, except that Daddy would have taken the picture.

‘Are you taking your medicines? Filling in the charts? How do you feel Gussie? My poor baby.’ She cries on my arm and makes my sleeve wet. ‘I’m sorry this happened, darling.’ Her nose is red. Mum-Nose Pink – another colour chart name.

‘I’m fine, really. When can you leave hospital, Mum?’

‘Wednesday, if I’m good.’

But she isn’t good. Wednesday comes and when Daddy goes to collect her she is in tears. Her temperature is up and she has an infection. She’s in a room on her own and I am not allowed to go in to see her.

Alistair will not be here tomorrow. He’s stuck in Bulgaria by an air controllers’ strike. Bad luck always seems to come in threes. Sure enough – when I get back, on the patio step, there’s Mr Robin – dead. He has been chewed and his breast is bloody. A cat attack, probably. I have seen a mangy, pregnant female skulking in the bushes.