How the Trouble Started (4 page)

‘You think she’ll be here tonight?’ he asked.

‘Saturday nights she’s 
always
 about and she’s always the loudest then,’ I told him. ‘Saturday nights her husband met his friends in town and they drank till they were silly, so she always took the opportunity to meet the other man. She cries the loudest on Saturday nights.’

‘Maybe we should come back tonight then,’ he said, and I had to laugh at that. Even I didn’t want to be creeping around the quarry house in the dark. We walked back in the direction of his house, his pace not as fast now there were no haunted houses at the end of the walk.

‘Do you not go out anywhere on Saturday afternoons Jake?’ I asked him.

He shook his head.

‘Won’t your mum have noticed you’ve been gone so long?’

‘Steve comes round and they like to be alone, so I have to play out till teatime. Can we go back to the haunted house?’

‘Next Saturday?’

He nodded.

‘We can if you want.’

‘Maybe we’ll see her next week,’ he said.

We agreed to meet at the playground and I walked him back to the end of Fox Road, and stood and watched until he walked through his front door.

There was nothing left for me to do other than go home and I set off feeling flat after the fun we’d had that afternoon. All I had to look forward to for the rest of the day was Mum and her moods. I walked up our street, the house came into view and I slowed – I could sniff trouble on the air. Sometimes just by looking at our house you can see that you’ll be walking into a fight. I stopped fifty yards off and had a think. I thought about not going in at all, but I knew that was just kicking trouble and running away when you had to come back down the same road later. The sooner it’s done the better, like throwing up – get it out of the way, clean your teeth and move on. I shut the front door behind me, careful not to be too quiet like I was sneaking, careful not to slam and set her on edge. Noise was coming from the kitchen and I followed the sound. She was at the sink, shoulders up round her ears, scrubbing at a pan like it was a bad dog that’d rolled in muck. She didn’t turn round.

‘You’ve got a fine. For a book about fishing communities in Scotland or some nonsense. They say it’s important you bring it back, they got it you from 
Oxford 
or somewhere and they need to send it back now.’

 She carried on rubbing that pan raw and I saw the letter and the torn envelope on the kitchen table.

‘They shouldn’t bother with your silly requests.’

As I watched her tight back, her strong arms, jutting in and out, rubbing away, words came into my head and I told myself not to risk it. I told myself to run up to my bedroom and everything would be fine.

‘You shouldn’t open my mail. It’s illegal to open somebody else’s mail.’

That did it. She spun round and was upon me. Suds were flying as she waved her white candyfloss arms in the air. Her eyes were bright and clear with the certainty of the mad. She ranted about a mother’s eternal right to know every thought and action of any child she bore.

‘Particularly with you Donald, though, yes? With what you’ve put this family through? You can’t blame me at all for wanting to know the details of what
you’ve
been up to, can you?’ I started edging my way to the door and towards the sanctuary of my bedroom. I already wished I hadn’t provoked her. I didn’t want hysterics and anger. I wanted to be safe and quiet in my bedroom, thinking about the fun I’d had with Jake at the haunted house. That was all.

Kindness is important. I learnt that at an early age and I’ve always tried to keep it in mind. The first real act of kindness I remember was back in Clifton when I was eight years old, a few months before the trouble. Things were still good then and I remember being a happy little boy. Happy except for Wednesday nights and Thursday mornings. Wednesday nights I cried myself to sleep because Thursday morning was swimming. We’d started lessons that year and everyone else in the class was excited, piling onto the coach like we were on our way to a party, but they all had nothing to fear because they could swim already. I’d only just learnt to ride a bike, had never been near a swimming pool in my life and had to make a special trip to buy a pair of trunks for the first lesson of term. Six weeks into the term I was the only kid still in the shallow end, Mr Bowering, our teacher from school, watching over me as I refused to do anything that involved putting my head under water. I could see the rest of the class splashing around in the deep water, not a care in the world, and I wondered how they were all so brave. I didn’t tell anyone how scared I was, I couldn’t articulate the terror, but on Wednesday nights I imagined myself drowning over and over again, the water covering my head, rushing up my nose, flooding through my ears, filling my insides, making me heavy until I sank like a dying ship. Every week I was afraid that I would be made to join the others in the deep end and I was sure that there, amongst all the splashing and noise and confusion, I would sink to the bottom and drown without anyone noticing.

We would come out of the dressing room and line up, waiting for instructions, a row of nearly naked primary school kids, all shapes and sizes, the water shimmering in front of us, silent and menacing, as terrifying as a shark. Mrs Hesketh, the swimming instructor, would be there already waiting to tell us the activity for the week, and it was always something that confirmed my fear, something that involved your head going under the water. But every week, when she was splitting us into groups, Mr Bowering would quietly steal me away and walk me to the shallow end, and I’d be so relieved tears would prickle my eyes. Each week he would try and help me along, try and get me more confident, but each week I became more scared and he would let me out of the pool and into the changing rooms earlier and earlier. He 
never
 became impatient, never lost his temper. At some point he must have spoken to my mum because after one lesson he came to find me in the empty changing rooms. He sat with me and told me that I was to wait for him outside the staff room after school, that we were coming back to the pool. ‘We’re going to crack this phobia, me and you,’ he said, patting me on the shoulder. ‘Swimming is supposed to be fun.’

After the last lesson of the day, terrified, feeling like I was on death row, I waited outside the brown staff room door for him. He drove me to the pool, paid us in and came into the changing rooms with me. But this time, instead of coming out from his cubicle in shorts, T-shirt and flip-flops, he appeared in nothing but a pair of blue trunks. He was a big, curly-haired man, and the thick dark curls on his head covered his arms and chest too. Hair on his front ran in a heavy dark line up from his trunks, over his belly, spreading out like a pair of hairy wings across his chest. As he walked ahead of me I noticed two patches of finer hair on his back, one above, one below his shoulder blades; like little pads of hair sewn into the skin. It was strange to see a teacher so naked, and I didn’t know where to put my eyes, but I made sure I didn’t stare at the heavy bulge that strained the front of his trunks, pushing them out in a way that didn’t happen with any of the lads in my class.

There was hardly anyone else in the pool that afternoon, just a couple of old people swimming breaststroke slowly up and down the far lane. When Mr Bowering started to climb down the steps into the deep end, my panic increased. I eyed the safe, shallow water desperately, but he caught me looking and said, ‘Not today Donald. Today we make progress.’
This is it, this is when I drown
, I thought.
Clifton Baths, 4.30, Thursday afternoon.
Once he was in the pool he let himself sink down and stayed under for a few seconds before he erupted out of the water. He pulled himself to the side and shook the water clear from his head. ‘See Donald, it’s easy.’ I wanted nothing to do with it.

Climbing into the deep end felt like climbing into death, but as soon as the water reached my chest I sensed Mr Bowering behind me, ready to hold me up if needed. Still, I clung to the side of the pool until my fingers hurt. We started slowly with treading 
water
 and when I had mastered that we moved on to doggy paddling. I wasn’t happy with any of it, but with Mr Bowering in the water next to me I felt less convinced I was about to drown, and slowly I started to make progress. Each week he pushed me more than I was happy to be pushed, but with each session I grew in confidence. For six weeks he taught me outside of school time and by the end of the sixth week I was swimming widths in the deep end, happy to jump into the pool and let the water swallow me whole. In one lesson, in front of the whole class, Mr Bowering asked me to dive into the deep end from the diving board. When I broke the surface the whole class cheered, it was like I was a star in a film, and best of all, my fear had dissolved. That was how I learnt about kindness. I learnt that sometimes it’s important to give yourself and your time to someone, that it really can make a difference to someone’s life if you make the effort.

I didn’t see Jake during the week. Mum got it into her head that the backyard needed an overhaul and I had to be on hand to dig up paving stones, empty the wheelbarrow, creosote the fence and spring-clean the shed. She wanted me home straight after school and to refuse would be more bother than keeping quiet and getting it done. I didn’t mind much anyway. Hard work stopped me from thinking too much, wore me out and helped me sleep. But by the time Saturday came round again I was looking forward to seeing him. I woke up almost happy, pleased to have something to look forward to, and I set off to the playground a good half an hour before I expected to see him. But I didn’t see him at all. Two hours I sat there. And it wasn’t the weather for it like it had been the week before, all sunny and gentle. The wind had an edge that aimed itself at my neck and the threat of rain was never far away. There I was, sat on a bench in a playground, at the wrong side of town, with a bag full of little boys’ ghost stories I’d picked from the library shelves. I felt stupid. When I realised that he wasn’t about to turn up I walked up and down Fox Street a couple of times and glanced at the house, but there was nothing to tell me whether anyone was home or not. Then I was struck by another thought. Maybe he’d forgotten what we’d said and gone straight to the haunted house. I headed over there right away but the place was deserted, no sign of anyone at all. When I finally gave up and trudged home I stopped being annoyed and started to worry. What if something had happened? He could have been flattened by one of the massive Raithswaite Chemical lorries that roar through the town faster than they should. He could have had a row with his mum and run off and been picked up by a pervert. I thought of all the terrible trouble he could be in and got myself into a state. It’s something that’s happened since Clifton and the little boy. I can’t control my thinking and it runs away with itself and I manage to convince myself that terrible tragedies are happening everywhere and nothing can be done to stop any of them. And even though I know I’m being irrational, I can’t control it, I can’t drag myself away from the thoughts. By the end of Sunday I’d had him dead six different times in six different ways.

As soon as the lunch bell sounded on Monday I was up and off, straight to Gillygate Primary. I could tell from halfway round the cricket pitch that my weekend concern had been misplaced. There were two familiar figures over in the corner by the tree and as I got closer it became clear that one was bright-haired Harry, the other skinny Jake. It was a warm blanket of relief to see him there. I didn’t go close; I hung back, just near enough to check that everything was fine. I watched them for a couple of minutes and then a whistle blew and they all charged towards the red doors.

The next Saturday at the library he came over to me as happy as Larry. ‘Hi Donald.’

I put my book down.

‘You all right Jake?’

He nodded that he was.

‘Where were you last Saturday?’

He racked his brains. He dragged the memory back from somewhere.

‘Harry’s.’

‘I thought we were going to the haunted house?’

‘I had to go to Harry’s.’

‘Did you have a good time?’

He shook his head.

‘His house smells funny and his mum made pasta.’

‘Don’t you like pasta?’

‘Makes me puke.’

He bent over and did an impression of someone throwing up their tea. He stopped mid-gag when something more pressing entered his head.

‘Shall we go to the haunted house now?’ he asked.

‘Is that what you want to do? We can do something else.’

But it was definitely the haunted house he was after. He took his new books up to the counter to get them stamped and we set off. On the way we stopped at a corner shop and I bought us a couple of cans and some chocolate for a treat.

After a brief wander looking for ghosts and rats we ended up in the room where Mrs Lorriemore was shot dead. I told him the best place to read a ghost story was in a haunted house and I handed him one of the books, but he wanted me to read, so we sat down against the wall, he chose which book he wanted to hear and I started. When he’d finished with his drink and chocolate he moved himself closer so he could follow the words as I read. After a page or two he dropped his head against my arm and it was good to have his warm body tucked next to mine, comfortable and relaxed. I read the stories to him as best I could. I tried out some voices and he didn’t laugh at my attempts and he huddled in close. After we’d worked through a couple of the books he wanted to know if I’d heard the ghost woman and her wailing since the last time we were at the house together.

‘That very night,’ I told him. He pulled himself away at this news and looked to me for more information.

‘Do you remember that it was a warm day? Well that night I went to bed with the window open to let in some air, but I had to shut it because the wailing was so bad. The worst I’ve ever heard.’

‘Like wolves?’ he said.

‘Like starving wolves,’ I told him.

‘And the police didn’t dare come?’

‘Nobody left their houses.’

‘But we’re here now and we aren’t scared.’

‘We must be braver than most.’

‘Yeah, they’re all a bunch of chickens,’ he said and flapped his arms and shook his head. He carried on this way for a while. What a great little lad. I got him to choose another story after he’d quietened down and we raced through that one before heading back outside.

We mucked about in the garden for a while before I took him home. Or rather Jake mucked around and I supervised. He was chasing about, pretending to be an aeroplane, making all sorts of engine noises and having a good time. I was keeping a close eye on him, aware of the danger posed by the pond in the far corner, but he surprised me – it wasn’t the pond he went for, it was the tall tree in the opposite corner. He clocked it on one of his sweeps of the garden. He stopped by the trunk and looked up at the branches with his hands on his hips. Before I had chance to warn him he’d swung and scrambled his way up into the lower branches. I ran from the far side of the garden and shouted at him to be careful, to come down, but he was having too much fun up there to listen to me. I didn’t like it at all – him up there at risk and me not being able to do anything. I thought about climbing the tree myself, to try and get him to come down, but I could see that might cause him to lose concentration and fall. Eventually I managed to talk him down, but it took a while. When I got him back to ground level I crouched down and held his shoulders and looked into his eyes and tried to explain how dangerous it was, what he’d done, how he needed to be more careful, but he could only hear nagging and didn’t understand the truth of my words.

‘I climb all the time,’ he said. ‘I like it.’

‘You wouldn’t like it if you fell and smashed your back up and couldn’t move from the neck down, would you?’ I said. But he was charging off before I got to the end of the sentence, an aeroplane again, dive-bombing imaginary towns. It’s true what they say, you have to watch them every second. They’re drawn to danger.