What I Did (17 page)

— We don't have a teapot here, I say. — Just bags and mugs.

Butterfly laughs very enthusiastically, like I've told a no-eyed-deer joke or something.

— It's true, I say.

— Of course, she nods. — A mug of tea would be lovely.

— I'm afraid now's not the time for tea, says Dad.

Giraffe shifts about on her hooves looking this way and that for lions in the tall grass and Butterfly's straight-line smile zips shut again.

Dad goes on: — Just get to the point.

— Yes, well, says Butterfly. — The point is this. Having examined and talked with Billy, Dr. Adebayo has some further concerns for his welfare. And the doctor's concerns . . . I don't want to be alarmist, but you should realize the seriousness of the situation . . . require us to take further steps to make sure he's all right.

— What further steps? asks Mum.

Giraffe leans forward now. They have incredibly soft mouths, like horses, and similar big yellow teeth. — Under Section 47 of the Children Act, if our initial investigation has concluded that Billy is at risk we have a duty to proceed to a Child Protection Case Conference. This will be attended by Dr. Adebayo, ourselves and other representatives from ChildSafe, Billy's schoolteacher, and any other interested professionals. You are encouraged to attend, too. It is recognized that parents have an important part to play in the decision-making process . . .

— You
recognize
we have a part to play? says Dad. — That's fucking priceless.

— Jim,
please
, says Mum.

He ignores her. — But what if we don't
recognize
you? What if I don't think you've any right to interfere with me, with my family,
at all
?

— Of course we recognize . . . Mum starts.

— No. We. Don't.

Giraffe's lips peel back. She pauses before speaking. Acacia trees protect themselves using their most vicious thorns, but despite having velvety-soft lips giraffes aren't bothered. They eat the leaves up all the same. — If a Section 47 Inquiry is obstructed, Giraffe says slowly, — and Billy is considered at risk, the Act envisages it may be necessary to apply for an Emergency Protection Order under Section 44.

— What does that mean? Mum asks.

— It might mean removing Billy from the perceived threat so as to ensure his safety. Giraffe says these words like she's telling Mum one of her Tiddlo's will go up the Hoover if she doesn't tidy them up. Butterfly still wants to be Mum's friend, though, because she does very reassuring smile-nodding at her as she goes on, — Which is precisely why you're so right to want to cooperate fully with the process.

Mum is nodding hopelessly, still very caught in the headlights, while Grandma Lynne's fingers are still gripping at each other so tight, tight, tight that her rings look like they're about to pop off. Rattle-scrape-rattle goes the wooden tabletop. And just next to my ear I'm sure I can hear Dad's teeth grinching as he clamp-bites them together. We have a salt grinder that makes the same squeaking noise because it's got a rubbish plastic mechanism, Son.

— And if we do as you say, Dad spells out super slow, — if we come along to your kangaroo court, and listen to you chatting about what some anonymous stranger in a park has to say about us, and what the doctor thinks he knows as a result of a ten-minute chat with Billy, and sit there while you come to the same ridiculous conclusion that he's at risk . . . what can we expect you to decide for us then?

— We can't prejudge that, says Giraffe with a kinder face. — And in any case—

— No, no. I bet you can't, Dad interrupts. — But surely you have a
duty
to inform us of the likely eventualities?

Giraffe does one of her nervous-but-not-that-nervous headshakes and says, — A child protection plan might follow, to ensure Billy's well-being. His progress would be monitored, as would the family's.

Dad shifts beneath me. I squiggle sideways on his lap and see what I already knew: he's gone deadly pale. Stand back, stand back!

— What else? he asks. — What would this protection plan mean?

— There's no point in us second-guessing eventualities here and now, says Giraffe. — Let's take it one step at a time.

— But I want to hear you guess it. Go on. Do your
duty
.

— Please remember, we have Billy's best interests at heart, Mr. Wright. Giraffe spreads her long arms in a sweeping circle. — We really do.

— Enough platitudes. I want facts.

— Well, if the continuing risk is deemed serious, that is, if it is thought that Billy is likely to suffer significant harm, then of course we will have to take action to safeguard him, as I say.

Dad once hit his thumb with a hammer. We were in the garden because it was sunny and there was a stake for a new tree to knock into a hole. He used the big claw hammer and I kept out of the way because he told me to keep out of the way, and it was all all right. In went the pointy stick stake, bang, bang, bang. Then I helped put the root end of the tree in the hole next to the stake and we filled in around both with special mud called compost. It's nutritious. New tree slush. Watch out, worms. We stamped the mud down with our Wellington boots, only Dad didn't have any so he used his worst trainers. And that was fine, too. But then Dad had to knock a nail through a strap into the post so that we could tie the baby tree up straight like a prisoner about to be shot, Son. That was when it happened: the post didn't like being jabbed with a nail. It became a tricky customer, wobbly as hell. — Get in there you . . . said Dad, and sadly walloped his thumb incredibly hard with the big hammer by accident. I was right there. I saw his fist fold his thumb down and the redness spill out between his shut fingers, and I saw Dad's eyes go squinty as he bent over to hold himself superbly still, pressing it, a statue, pressing it, and pressing it harder, until he couldn't press it anymore and went — Fuck, fuck, cunting fuck! instead. Then he kicked the stake and tree so hard they both bent over and he hurled the hammer smack-straight through the wooden slut fence.

When Giraffe says the bit about
safeguarding
, Dad's eyes do the slitty hard-staring thing. He holds me. He holds me. Then very slowly he lifts me from his lap, using his good and bad arms, straight onto the kitchen table beside his chair and stands up.

— Which means . . . Dad growls louder.

— We're getting way ahead of ourselves, here, says Butterfly in a very cheerful twittery blackbird voice. She takes a step backward. — With Billy present, in particular, Mr. Wright, it's not appropriate to—

— To what? shouts Dad. — To what? To tell him the truth? That you're going to try to take him away from us? That's what this is about, isn't it? That's where it leads. I've read about you. You interfering fucking useless—

— JIM! yells Mum. — Shut up! Please, shut up!

— NO! This is my house. I'll say what I want. I have a
duty
to say it.

There are sharp red triangles in Mum's cheeks, and the corners of them have somehow jabbed tears into my eyes, and there's a gulp-sob fighting up in my chest. I try to wipe the tears away and push the sob back down but it's useless. Even if I could feel some force I couldn't use it: I'm too powerless to resist. And Mum has spotted what's coming, and she quicksteps around Dad who is swaying toward Giraffe, not as tall as her but two thicknesses wider and a hammer-split-thumb crosser, and everyone's talking high and loud and fast:

— Get out of here. Get out!

— This will only exacerbate—

— I don't fucking care—

Grandma Lynne: — Jim, please. He's unwell, stressed.

— I am not sick. I'm the only sane—

Mum, to me: — Come here, darling, shh.

And the sob comes, and Dad evolves on his heel and grabs hold of me, shouting at the women, — Look what you've done to him! Is this what you want? This is what you do!

— Leave him, Jim! pleads Mum, her fingers pecking at Dad's. I saw some ducks trying to jab through some ice once but they didn't manage it quickly enough and I had to go home before they did, if they did. — Just calm down. Let me take him upstairs. Calm down—

— He's not leaving! They're leaving! You two. Out! Get the fuck out!

Grandma Lynne: — He'll see reason. We'll do what's needed. I'll make sure that we —

— IT'S NOT UP TO YOU!

Butterfly's eyelashes are flapping above her “O” mouth as Giraffe grows taller all the time, advancing across the kitchen-tiled savannah toward us. Watch out for those hooves! Mum's peckety-peck fingers have less and less point because the sobs are still coming like bubbles swelling up through porridge, glup, glup, glup, and with each one Dad's grip tightens. It's like beer cans. Not the can bit itself but the plastic O, O, O thing that holds them all together before you throw it into the sea afterward so that it can strangle penguins or otters. There's something similar in
Watership Down
. Bigwig puts his head into it and they have to dig out the peg because the harder he struggles the tighter it gets.

I'm not struggling.

Dad stands up with me clutched to his chest. Mum stretches out her arms, very zombie, but Dad doesn't hand me over because Butterfly is saying something soothing about listening to Grandma and how this really isn't the way forward and Giraffe is all tilty-headed silent, looking down her nose at us out of one big brown unimpressed eye.

— Just get out, Dad says.

— No, no, don't, pleads Mum. — Stay!

Dad glares at her. — In which case, he says, and he barges us toward the open door, making Mum step back and Giraffe shy sideways and Butterfly flutter out of the way, too. Then we're through the gap in a very impressive instant and Dad even clips the door shut with his heel as he turns for the stairs. Up we go, three at a time. Explosive! Where now? His study-bedroom, of course, because we're Batmen, or a wounded animal, seeking the comfort of our lair!

Dad slumps down on the foot end of the bed, both of us breathing hard, then slower, lub-dub-lub-dub-lub-dub. Over his shoulder I can see his table with work papers all over the place. Very messy. And there's his computer screen glowing at me, too. The black and whites, eight by eight. He's been playing chess! I stare at the glowing squares and pieces trying to figure out who won and saying nothing.

 

I've already told you that I know exactly how to play chess and it's true, I do: I know how all of the pieces move, and I know about castling, and I even know the en passant pawn thing, which means I know all the rules, and that's an achievement in itself, Son; you should be proud. And I am! But sometimes the rules are annoying. Why can a pawn only do that and nobody but a knight jump and a queen do everything else? So from time to time I forget all about the rules and make up my own instead. Hey you, bishop! You can slide over there if you want. Go ahead, it's fine. Jump if you like! Why should knights have all the up-down fun? And you, pawn! Ever thought about going in a long curve instead of little plodding steps? No problem. Have a go at it. I've changed the rules!

Dad once saw me playing a game like that against myself. — What are you up to? he asked.

— Playing chess against myself.

— But you know as well as I do. Pawns can't do that.

— They can in this game. I've made up new rules.

Dad's bottom lip pushed out a little to go with his nodding. — New rules, he said. Then he scratched his head and the nodding turned to shaking. — But without the proper rules it's not chess.

— Yes it is.

— No it's not. It's just fiddling with the pieces. I mean, carry on, have fun with it, by all means, if that's what you want. But surely you see that without the rules you've got nothing. Just a pointless . . . can of worms!

— It's not pointless, I said.

He ruffled my head annoyingly so I went on:

— And neither are worms. Mr. Sparks put some into the school compost last week. He was wearing yellow rubber gloves because he didn't like the touch of them. But he said they were an important part of it because—

— Whoa, Billy. Back up a bit. School compost heap? What's that all about?

— It's where we put the scraps. From lunches without meat in them and from mowing the grassy bit. No biscuits or chocolate. One of us is allowed to do the putting-in every day.

— Then what? You stand around watching the worms and discussing the circle of life?

— No. Just the putting-in bit.

The nodding came back then and Dad's eyes went gentle black. — Fair enough, he said. — I expect it beats Latin.

 

We can hear them talking downstairs but because the door is shut it's impossible to tell exactly what they're saying. Gradually Dad's grip on me goes softer; if he was a python now would be the time to swallow me whole. He doesn't do that, though, no, of course not, because he has to answer his phone instead. It's in his pocket. He slides me off him and up toward the pillow end and fishes the phone out and smoothes down my hair with his bad hand, clunk, clunk, and answers it.

It's a work call.

I lie on my back and check the old ceiling crack. It's still there, streaky lightning, a bit longer than before perhaps. When I was a baby it was smaller because I was as well. Snakes have forked tongues. It makes them impossible to understand. I listen to Dad on the phone overcoming obstacles and finding new ways to push things forward but what he's saying doesn't really make sense either.

Yes, communication is extremely hard, and Dad does whole projects of it almost by himself, because it's his job, which is impressive. Quite often, though, I realize I don't really know what a communications project is, and that's fair enough because they're so difficult. But my brain is developing at a fantastic rate so every now and then I ask Dad to explain his job again just in case my powers have caught up. And when I ask, two things happen. First, whatever he says always makes sense. And second, it always sounds quite exciting. Actually, I was wrong about two things, because in fact there are three. The third is this: once Dad finishes explaining, the sensible bit stops making sense again very quickly, or rather, I realize it isn't actually true!

And to prove it, here are some of the answers Dad has given me when I've asked him — Hey, Dad, what are you actually doing? I've put the answers in groups because I've noticed that's where they belong; whatever communications projects involve it normally has to do with something else: either farming or building or sailing or cooking or sport or craft or party games or breaking laws or religion or fighting.

— I'm making hay while the sun shines, Son; I'm harvesting what I sowed; I'm counting my chickens before they've hatched; I'm trying to see the wood for the trees; I'm shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted; I'm casting pearls before swine . . .

— I'm building bridges; I'm reinventing wheels, Son; I'm mixing cement with a toothpick; I'm trying to build Rome in a day . . .

— I'm setting the sails; I'm keeping things shipshape; I'm sailing into a headwind; I'm trying to bail us out with a teaspoon . . .

— I'm cooking without gas, Son; I've got my head in the oven; I'm reheating the books . . .

— I'm keeping the ball rolling; I'm playing with ten men; I'm caught in the offside trap; I'm trying to keep my eye on the ball . . .

— I'm watching paint dry; I'm trying to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear . . .

— I'm pinning tails on moving donkeys; I'm playing musical chairs; I'm jumping through hoops, Son; I'm pushing a rope uphill; I'm running to stand still . . .

— I'm driving with the headlights off; I'm mugging old ladies; I'm doing thirty in the fast lane; I'm robbing Peter to pay Paul . . .

— I'm trying to walk on water; I'm dancing to the devil's tune; I'm feeding the five thousand without a fish; I'm going to hell in a handcart . . .

— I'm taking on allcomers; I'm fighting with one arm tied behind my back; I'm winning battles but losing the war; I could tell you but I'd have to kill you . . .

Dad has moved over to his desk while I've been remembering this list for you, talking on his phone the whole long time. And I've been watching him. His head is a silhouette because his computer screen is glowing round its cut-out edges. Once at school we made biscuits. Now Dad puts the phone down and his cookie-cutter head drops forward and his hands change the outline by making themselves into earmuffs. Who knows, maybe my brain has developed enough to understand what he means better now. There's only one way to find out.

— Dad?

— Yes, Son.

— What are you doing?

His shoulders shift and the earmuffs shrink to match his smaller voice: — I don't know, Billy. I really don't know.

 

We sit in the quiet after that, Dad at his table, me on the bed. Crocodiles do the same thing with their mouths open. It's fine, but slightly boring.

 

Eventually the voices are louder again in the hall. Good bye yes good bye, we'll be in touch. Then the front door raps shut. Dad pushes back from his desk. He squats down by the end of the bed and says, — Would you do me a drawing?

— Okay. What of?

— You decide. Something with teeth, perhaps. Just put lots of detail in it.

— Can I use a piece of paper from your dream?

— Ream, Son; it comes in reams. Of course. And you can work at my table. There you go: desk lamp on. Here's a pencil. Use as many sheets of this as you want. I'll be back up for an inspection a little later. Stay put until I do. Okay?

— Okay.

And off he goes, underwater slowly. It's a long way to the bottom of the ocean, Dad! Look out for the anglerfish; they'll help you see what's what.

 

Anglerfish have lots of teeth and a lightbulb on a stick sticking out of their nose. It acts as a lure. Come here, smaller fish, I'm luring you, luring you, luring . . . you don't know what's going on here, do you? Whap! I start drawing one. But I get it wrong, because halfway through drawing the mouth I remember that anglerfish have bigger teeth on the bottom than the top. Or at least their bottom teeth stick out farthest. It's called an under-bite and Raphael at school has one but you shouldn't point it out because Miss Hart will tell you not to. He wants to be a human, you see, not a deep-sea fish.

I do something very clever next: instead of allowing my crossness at the mistake to send prickles across my head, making me go downstairs to say I've done it wrong and need to start again, I use my memory and take another piece of paper because he said I could.

Ream, not dream.

The second drawing goes better. In fact, it is excellent. I do a fantastic underbite and incredibly sharp backward-pointing teeth, totally barbed, and I get the light-lure in the right place and even do some cross-patching on the belly where it joins the fins to make him look like he has three dimensions. It's an allusion and you don't even need cinema glasses to see it. But sadly, when I realize this I think about the film and see that my anglerfish isn't quite as excellently dimensional as the blue and red dragons, and before I can stop myself I go downstairs to show it to Dad because he'll probably make me feel slightly better by saying my anglerfish is actually better because there's a crack in everything.

It's nearly a disaster of tremendous portions!

I make it halfway down the stairs before realizing that I'm not supposed to be going down the stairs at all. The anglerfish has lured me into dangerous waters. I freeze. They're talking.

— I don't care what you think, says Dad. — They can stick their conference up . . .

— Just slow down for a second, Mum pleads. — Think of the consequences.

— I have nothing to hide. We've done nothing wrong.

— You have to help us prove that, Jim, says Grandma Lynne.

— No, they need the evidence, and there is none.

— These sorts of cases are different. They're—

— I'm still innocent until proven guilty.

— You're being naive. If they think a child is at risk they—

— Nobody's at risk! They can confer all they like.

Mum, very tired: — It's not as simple as that.

— You go, then. If that's what you think.
I'm having no part of it.

Something bangs down hard on something else then, and there's mumbling and — oh no — footsteps. Before they make it to the door I run back up the stairs. Mink sometimes do the same thing when they hear hounds, and foxes have been known to flee up trees as well, because although they're mostly dog not many people know that they can in fact be the opposite of cheetahs, using their claws which are . . . retractable!

He comes thumping up the stairs. I've made it to the study-bedroom doorway. Before he can say anything I show him my drawing. He looks at it for a long time.

— Brilliant. Toothy.

He gives it back and leans two-fisted on his table staring at everything on it in turn, very disappointed. There's a gorilla at the Zoo that looks exactly the same quite often before it eats whole cabbages leaf by leaf. They should give it something more interesting to eat. Eventually Dad pushes himself upright, puffs out his gorilla cheeks, and claps his hands softly.

— Sod this lot for now.

— Can I help sod it? I ask.

He smiles. — It's half-term, isn't it?

— Yes.

— Fetch your trunks, then. I'll take you for a swim.

— Yes, yes, yes!

I sprint into my bedroom and grab my one-directional shark trunks and my green goggles which live in the same drawer under my pants and sprint back to Dad who is holding his bag open like a grouper's mouth. He stuffs a couple of towels in on top. Try saying something now, grouper-bag! It can't. Dad zips it up and off we go downstairs into the hall for shoes and coats. It's normal. But then, as I'm putting mine on, something funny happens. Mum hears us, leans out of the kitchen door, and catches sight of the bag in Dad's hand. That's not particularly funny I know. But her face is: it looks like somebody has taken a photo of her when she wasn't expecting it, only faces like that normally disappear immediately in real life, and hers doesn't: it stays fixed like it would in a photo, very fright-surprised, as if the bag probably contains an incredibly venomous funnel-web spider.

— Jim? Where are you going?

Dad doesn't answer. He looks at her and shakes his head and sort of laughs and says, — Unbelievable.

— Swimming, I say. — We're going swimming.

Mum's face blinks itself normal but only just. She puts a hand on my shoulder and says, — Lovely. When shall I make lunch?

Dad puts a hand on my other arm and speaks to Mum like he did to the man who came to mend the dishwasher. He was from Pole land. North Pole land, I expect, since nobody lives in Antarctica except emperor penguins, leopard seals, and, occasionally, David Attenborough, wearing a huge fur-hooded coat, because it's so in hospital there.

— I'm not sure, he says. We may have something while we're out. But don't you worry, we'll be back in time for tea.

 

We go swimming. Like normal it's great, only it's even better this time because Dad's red arm goes in a special plastic elastic sleeve thing. I'm not allowed to tug it. Have you ever played paper rock scissors? It's quite a good game to play on land if you're bored, and better still to play in the pool even if you're having a good time. We play underwater because you only need one hand. First Dad and I take deep breaths in our goggles and then Dad says, — Right: one, two, three, and on three we do submerging. Down we go, right down, until we're sitting on the black line, with Dad pressing one of his legs onto one of mine so I don't float off. Then we clench one fist each and knock them together: one, two, three; paper, rock, scissors; which is it going to be? Dad's scissors cut my paper in the first game but I'm not disappointed. We go up to the surface and he says it before me:

— Best of three.

Down we go again and I win this time because on three my rock blunts his scissors totally.

Up for a breath, and down again. Look at his hair waving about like Blue Planet seaweed. One, two, three. No, no, no. My rock is folded up by his huge paper hand and I feel desperate. We go up to the surface and as soon as I've breathed I ask if we can make it best of more than three but he laughs and swims off on his back, so I attack him viciously because I'm cunning, and ever since the lifeguard with the soggy trainers told us off I know Dad is in fact powerless to retaliate. Eventually he decides to listen to me.