Blueeyedboy (19 page)

‘No,’ said Mr White. ‘I’m not.’

For a moment the words seemed to make no sense.
Blueeyedboy
had been so sure. But Mr White was telling the truth; he could see it in his blue eyes. But then – why had he given money to Ma? And why had he done it in secret?

And then it fell into place in his mind like the moving parts of a Mouse Trap game. He supposed it had been obvious. Ma was blackmailing Mr White –
blackmail
, a sinister word; the Black and White Minstrels under their paint. Mr White had transgressed, and Ma had somehow found out about it. That would explain the whisperings; the way Mrs White looked at Ma; Mr White’s anger, and now his contempt. This man was not his father, he thought. This man had never cared for him.

And now
blueeyedboy
could feel the tears beginning to prick at his eyelids. Terrible, helpless, childish tears of disappointment and of shame.
Please, not in front of Mr White
, he begged of the Almighty, but God, like Ma, was implacable. Like Ma, Our Father sometimes needs that gesture of contrition.

‘Are you OK?’ said Mr White, reluctantly putting a hand on his arm.

‘Fine, thanks,’ said
blueeyedboy
, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

‘I don’t know how you got the idea that—-’

‘Forget it. Really. I’m fine,’ he said, and very calmly walked away, keeping his spine as straight as he could, although he was a mess inside, although it felt like dying.

It’s my birthday
, he told himself.
Today, I deserve to be special. Whatever it takes, whatever it costs, whatever punishment God or Ma can possibly inflict on me –

And that’s how, fifteen minutes later, he found himself, not back at school, but at the end of Millionaires’ Row, looking towards the Mansion.

*

It was the first time that
blueeyedboy
had been to the Mansion unsupervised. His visits with his brothers and Ma were always strictly controlled, and he knew that if Ma found out what he’d done, she’d make him sorry he’d ever been born. But today he wasn’t afraid of Ma. Today, a breath of rebellion seemed to have taken hold of him. Today, for once,
blueeyedboy
was in the mood for a spot of trespass.

The garden was shielded from the road by a set of cast-iron railings. At the far end there was a stone wall, and all around, a blackthorn hedge. On the whole, it didn’t look promising. But
blueeyedboy
was determined. He found a space through which to crawl, mindful of the twigs and thorns that snagged at his hair and stuck through his T-shirt, and emerged on the other side of the hedge into the grounds of the Mansion.

Ma always called it ‘the grounds’. Dr Peacock called it ‘the garden’, although there was over four acres of it, orchard and kitchen garden and lawns, plus the walled rose garden in which Dr Peacock took so much pride, the pond and the old conservatory, where pots and gardening tools were kept. Most of it was trees, though, which suited
blueeyedboy
just fine, with alleys of rhododendrons that flared brief glory in springtime and in late summer grew skeletal, encroaching darkly across the path, the perfect cover for anyone wishing to visit the garden unseen –

Blueeyedboy
did not question the impulse that had driven him to the Mansion. He couldn’t go back to St Oswald’s, though, not now, after what had happened. He dared not go back home, of course, and at school he’d be punished for being late. But the Mansion was quiet, and secret, and safe. Simply to be there was enough; to dive into the undergrowth; to hear the summery sounds of the bees high up in the leafy canopy, and to feel the beating of his heart slow down to its natural cadence. He was still so immersed in his agitated thoughts that, walking along an alley of trees, he almost ran into Dr Peacock, who was standing, secateurs in hand, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, at the entrance to the rose garden.

‘And what brings
you
here this morning?’

For a moment
blueeyedboy
was quite unable to answer. Then he looked past Dr Peacock and saw: the newly dug grave; the mound of earth, the rolled square of turf laid aside on the ground –

Dr Peacock smiled at him. It was a rather complex smile; sad and complicit at the same time. ‘I’m afraid you’ve caught me in the act,’ he said, indicating the fresh grave. ‘I know how this may look to you, but as we grow older our capacity for sentiment expands to an exponential degree. To you it may look like senility—’

Blueeyedboy
stared at him with a perfect lack of comprehension.

‘What I mean is,’ Dr Peacock said, ‘I was just bidding a last goodbye to a very loyal old friend.’

For a moment
blueeyedboy
was still unsure of what he’d meant. Then he remembered Dr Peacock’s Jack Russell, over which the old man always made such a fuss.
Blueeyedboy
didn’t like dogs. Too eager; too unpredictable.

He shivered, feeling vaguely sick. He tried to remember the name of the dog, but all he could think of was
Malcolm
, the name of his would-have-been-sibling, and his eyes filled with tears for no reason, and his head began to ache –

Dr Peacock put a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t be upset, son. He had a good life. Are you all right? You’re shivering.’

‘I don’t feel so w-well,’ said
blueeyedboy
.

‘Really? Well, then, we’d better get you in the house, hadn’t we? I’ll get you something cool to drink. And then perhaps I should call your mother—’

‘No! Please!’ said
blueeyedboy
.

Dr Peacock gave him a look. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I understand. You don’t want to alarm her. A fine woman in many ways, but somewhat over-protective. And besides—’ His eyes creased in a mischievous smile. ‘Am I correct in assuming that on this bright summer morning, the delights of the school curriculum were not enough to keep you indoors when all of Nature’s syllabus demanded your urgent attention?’

Blueeyedboy
took this to mean that his truancy had been noted. ‘Please, sir. Don’t tell Ma.’

Dr Peacock shook his head. ‘I see no reason to tell her,’ he said. ‘I was a boy myself, once. Slugs and snails and puppy-dogs’ tails. Fishing in the river. Are you fond of fishing, young man?’

Blueeyedboy
nodded, even though he’d never tried it; never would. ‘Excellent pastime. Gets you outdoors. Of course, I have my gardening—’ He glanced over his shoulder at the mound of earth and the open grave. ‘Give me a moment, will you?’ he said. ‘Then I’ll fix us both a drink.’

Blueeyedboy
watched in silence as Dr Peacock filled in the grave. He didn’t really want to look, but he found that he couldn’t look away. His chest was tight, his lips were numb, his head was spinning dizzily. Was he really ill, he thought? Or was it the sound of digging, he thought; the tinny rasp of the spade as it bit, the sour-vegetable scent, the crazy thump as each packet of earth clattered into the open grave?

At last Dr Peacock put down the spade, but he did not turn immediately. Instead he stood by the burial mound, hands in pockets, head bowed, for such a long time that
blueeyedboy
wondered if he had been forgotten.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ he said at last.

At his voice, Dr Peacock turned. He had taken off his gardening hat, and without it the sunlight made him squint. ‘How sentimental you must find me,’ he said. ‘All this ceremony over a dog. Have you ever kept a dog?’

Blueeyedboy
shook his head.

‘Too bad. Every boy should have one. Still, you’ve got your brothers,’ he said. ‘Bet that’s lot of fun, eh?’

For a moment,
blueeyedboy
tried to imagine the world as Dr Peacock saw it: a world where brothers were lots of fun; where boys went fishing, kept dogs; played cricket on the green –

‘It’s my birthday today,’ he said.

‘Is that so? Today?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Dr Peacock smiled. ‘Ah. I remember birthdays. Jelly and ice cream and birthday cake. Not that I tend to celebrate nowadays. August the twenty-fourth, isn’t it? Mine was on the twenty-third. I’d forgotten until you reminded me.’ Now he looked thoughtfully at the boy. ‘I think we should mark the occasion,’ he said. ‘I can’t claim to offer much in the way of refreshments, but I do have tea, and some iced buns, and anyway—’ At this he grinned, suddenly looking mischievous, like a young boy wearing a false beard and a very convincing old-man’s disguise: ‘We Virgos should stick together.’

It doesn’t sound much, does it? A cup of Earl Grey, an iced bun and the stub of a candle burning on top. But to
blueeyedboy
that day stands out in memory like a gilded minaret against a barren landscape. He remembers every detail now with perfect, heightened precision: the little blue roses on the cup; the sound of spoon against china; the amber colour and scent of the tea; the angle of the sunlight. Little things, but their poignancy is like a reminder of innocence. Not that he ever
was
innocent; but on that day he approached it; and looking back, he understands that this was the last of his childhood, slipping like sand through his fingers –

Post comment
:

ClairDeLune
: I
’m glad to see you exploring this theme in more detail,
blueeyedboy
.
Your central character often appears as cold and emotionless, and I like the way you hint at his hidden vulnerability. I’m sending you a reading-list of books you may find useful. Perhaps you’d like to make a few notes before our next meeting. Hope to see you back here soon!

chrysalisbaby
:
wish i could be there too (cries)

13

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blueeyedboy
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Posted at
:
01.45 on Tuesday, February 5

Status
:
public

Mood
:
predatory

Listening to
:
Nirvana
: ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’

After that, Dr Peacock became a kind of hero to
blueeyedboy
. It would have been surprising had he not: Dr Peacock was everything he admired. Dazzled by his personality, hungry for his approval, he lived for those brief interludes, his visits to the Mansion; hanging on to every word Dr Peacock addressed to him –

All
blueeyedboy
remembers now are fragments of benevolence. A walk through the rose garden; a cup of Earl Grey; a word exchanged in passing. His need had not yet turned to greed, or his affection to jealousy. And Dr Peacock had the gift of making them
all
feel special – not just Ben, but his brothers, too; even Ma, who was hard as nails, was not beyond the reach of his charm.

Then came the year of the entrance exam. Benjamin was ten years old. Three and a half years had passed since his first visit to the Mansion. Over that time, many things had changed. He was no longer bullied at school (since the compass incident, the others had learnt to leave him alone), but he was unhappy, nevertheless. He had acquired the reputation of being
stuck-up
– a cardinal sin in Malbry – which, added to his early status as a freak and a queer, amounted to social suicide.

It didn’t help that, thanks to Ma, word of his gift had got around. As a result, even the teachers had come to think of him differently – some of them with resentment. A different child is a difficult child, or so thought the teachers at Abbey Road, and, far from being curious, many were suspicious, some openly sarcastic, as if his Ma’s expectations and his own inability to conform to the mediocrity of the place were somehow an attack on
them
.

Ma, and her expectations. Grown stronger than ever, of course, now that the gift was official, now that there was a name for it – an
official
name, a syndrome, that smelt of sickness and sanctity, with its furry dark-grey sibilants and its fruity Catholic undertint.

Not that it mattered, he told himself. Another year and he would be free. Free to attend St Oswald’s, which Ma had painted in such attractive colours for him that he was almost taken in, and of which Dr Peacock spoke with such affection that he had put his fears aside and thrown himself into the task of becoming what Dr Peacock expected of him: to be the son he’d never had,
a chip
, as he said,
off the old block
–

Sometimes Benjamin wondered what would happen if he failed the entrance exam. But since Ma had long ago come to believe that the exam was merely a formality, a series of documents to sign before he entered the hallowed gates, he knew that his worries were best left unvoiced.

His brothers were both at Sunnybank Park.
Sunnybanker. Rhymes with wanker
, as he used to say to them, which made Brendan laugh but infuriated Nigel, who – when he could catch him – would sometimes pin him between his knees and punch him till he cried, shouting –
Fuck you, you little freak!
– until at last he’d exhausted himself, or Ma heard and came running –

Nigel was fifteen, and hated him. He’d hated him from the very first, but by then his hatred had blossomed. Perhaps he was jealous of the attention his brother received; perhaps it was merely testosterone. In any case, the more he grew, the more he turned his whole being towards making his brother suffer, regardless of the consequences.

Ben was skinny and undersized. Nigel was already big for his age, sheathed in adolescent muscle, and he had all kinds of virtually untraceable ways of inflicting pain – Chinese burns, nips and pinches, sly shin-kicks under the table – though when he got angry, he forgot discretion and, without any fear of retribution, laid into his brother with fists and feet –

Telling tales only made it worse. Nigel seemed oblivious to punishment: it simply fed his resentment. Beatings made him worse. If he was sent to bed hungry, he would force-feed his brothers toothpaste, or dirt, or spiders, carefully harvested in the attic and put aside for just such an eventuality.